Article,Summary
"What is the plot of the story? </s>    Raiders of the Second Moon     By GENE ELLERMAN     A strange destiny had erased Noork's memory,     and had brought him to this tiny world—to     write an end to his first existence.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Summer 1945.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Beyond earth swings that airless pocked mass of fused rock and grayvolcanic dust that we know as Luna. Of this our naked eyes assure us.But of the smaller satellite, hidden forever from the mundane view byLuna's bulk, we know little.     Small is Sekk, that second moon, less than five hundred miles indiameter, but the period of its revolution is thirty two hours, and itsmeaner mass retains a breathable atmosphere. There is life on Sekk,life that centers around the sunken star-shaped cavity where an ovallake gleams softly in the depths. And the eleven radiating tips of thestarry abyss are valleys green with jungle growth.     In one of those green valleys the white savage that the Vasads calledNoork squatted in the ample crotch of a jungle giant and watched thetrail forty feet below. For down there moved alertly a golden skinnedgirl, her only weapons a puny polished bow of yellow wood and asheathed dagger.     Sight of the girl's flowing brown hair and the graceful femininecontours of her smooth-limbed body beneath its skin-halter and theinsignificant breech-clout, made his brow wrinkle with concentration.Not forever had he lived in this jungle world of valleys and raggedcliffs. Since he had learned the tongue of the hairy Vasads of forest,and the tongue of their gold-skinned leader, Gurn, the renegade, he hadconfirmed that belief.     For a huge gleaming bird had carried him in its talons to the top ofthe cliff above their valley and from the rock fire had risen to devourthe great bird. Somehow he had been flung clear and escaped the deathof the mysterious bird-thing. And in his delirium he had babbled thewords that caused the apish Vasads to name him Noork. Now he repeatedthem aloud.     New York, he said, good ol' New York.     The girl heard. She looked upward fearfully, her rounded bare arm goingback to the bow slung across her shoulder. Swiftly she fitted an arrowand stepped back against the friendly bole of a shaggy barked junglegiant. Noork grinned.     Tako, woman, he greeted her.     Tako, she replied fearfully. Who speaks to Tholon Sarna? Be youhunter or escaped slave?     A friend, said Noork simply. It was I who killed the spotted      narl     last night when it attacked you.     Doubtfully the girl put away her bow. Her fingers, however, were neverfar from the hilt of her hunting dagger.     Noork swung outward from his perch, and then downward along the ladderof limbs to her side. The girl exclaimed at his brown skin.     Your hair is the color of the sun! she said. Your garb is Vasad, yetyou speak the language of the true men. Her violet oddly slanting eyesopened yet wider. Who are you?     I am Noork, the man told her. For many days have I dwelt among thewild Vasads of the jungle with their golden-skinned chief, Gurn, formy friend.     The girl impulsively took a step nearer. Gurn! she cried. Is he talland strong? Has he a bracelet of golden discs linked together withhuman hair? Does he talk with his own shadow when he thinks?     That is Gurn, admitted Noork shortly. He is also an exile from thewalled city of Grath. The city rulers call him a traitor. He has toldme the reason. Perhaps you know it as well?     Indeed I do, cried Sarna. My brother said that we should no longermake slaves of the captured Zurans from the other valleys.     Noork smiled. I am glad he is your brother, he said simply.  The girl's eyes fell before his admiring gaze and warm blood floodedinto her rounded neck and lovely cheeks.     Brown-skinned one! she cried with a stamp of her shapely littlesandalled foot. I am displeased with the noises of your tongue. I willlisten to it no more.     But her eyes gave the provocative lie to her words. This brown-skinnedgiant with the sunlit hair was very attractive....     The girl was still talking much later, as they walked together alongthe game-trail. When my captors were but one day's march from theirfoul city of Bis the warriors of the city of Konto, through whosefertile valley we had journeyed by night, fell upon the slavers.     And in the confusion of the attack five of us escaped. We returnedtoward the valley of Grath, but to avoid the intervening valley whereour enemies, the men of Konto, lived, we swung close to the Lake ofUzdon. And the Misty Ones from the Temple of the Skull trailed us. Ialone escaped.     Noork lifted the short, broad-bladed sword that swung in its sheathat his belt and let it drop back into place with a satisfying whisperof flexible leather on steel. He looked toward the east where lay themysterious long lake of the Misty Ones.     Some day, he said reflectively, I am going to visit the island ofthe unseen evil beings who stole away your friends. Perhaps after Ihave taken you to your brother's hidden village, and from there toyour city of Grath.... He smiled.     The girl did not answer. His keen ears, now that he was no longerspeaking, caught the scuffing of feet into the jungle behind him. Heturned quickly to find the girl had vanished, and with an instinctivereflex of motion he flung himself to one side into the dense wall ofthe jungle. As it was the unseen club thudded down along his right arm,numbing it so he felt nothing for some time.     One armed as he was temporarily, and with an unseen foe to reckon with,Noork awkwardly swung up into the comparative safety of the trees. Oncethere, perched in the crotch of a mighty jungle monarch, he peered downat the apparently empty stretch of sunken trail beneath.      Noork      At first he saw nothing out of the ordinary. Apparently there was nostir of life along that leaf-shadowed way. And then he caught a glimpseof blurring shadowy shapes, blotches of cottony mist that blended alltoo well with the foliage. One of the things from the island in theLake of Uzdon moved, and he saw briefly the bottom of a foot dirtiedwith the mud of the trail.     Noork squinted. So the Misty Ones were not entirely invisible. Painwas growing in his numbed arm now, but as it came so came strength. Heclimbed further out on the great branch to where sticky and overripefruit hung heavy. With a grin he locked his legs upon the forking ofthe great limb and filled his arms with fruit.     A barrage of the juicy fruit blanketed the misty shapes. Stains spreadand grew. Patchy outlines took on a new color and sharpness. Noorkfound that he was pelting a half-dozen hooded and robed creatures whosearms and legs numbered the same as his own, and the last remnant ofsuperstitious fear instilled in his bruised brain by the shaggy Vasadsvanished.     These Misty Ones were living breathing creatures like himself! Theywere not gods, or demons, or even the ghostly servants of demons. Hestrung his bow quickly, the short powerful bow that Gurn had given him,and rained arrows down upon the cowering robed creatures.     And the monsters fled. They fled down the trail or faded away into thejungle. All but one of them. The arrow had pierced a vital portion ofthis Misty One's body. He fell and moved no more.     A moment later Noork was ripping the stained cloak and hood from thefallen creature, curious to learn what ghastly brute-thing hid beneaththem. His lip curled at what he saw.     The Misty One was almost like himself. His skin was not so golden asthat of the other men of Zuran, and his forehead was low and retreatingin a bestial fashion. Upon his body there was more hair, and his facewas made hideous with swollen colored scars that formed an irregulardesign. He wore a sleeveless tunic of light green and his only weaponswere two long knives and a club.     So, said Noork, the men of the island prey upon their own kind. Andthe Temple of Uzdon in the lake is guarded by cowardly warriors likethis.     Noork shrugged his shoulders and set off at a mile-devouring pace downthe game trail toward the lake where the Temple of the Skull and itsunseen guardians lay. Once he stopped at a leaf-choked pool to wash thestains from the dead man's foggy robe.     The jungle was thinning out. Noork's teeth flashed as he lifted thedrying fabric of the mantle and donned it.  Ud tasted the scent of a man and sluggishly rolled his bullet head fromshoulder to shoulder as he tried to catch sight of his ages-old enemy.For between the hairy quarter-ton beast men of the jungles of Sekk andthe golden men of the valley cities who enslaved them there was eternalwar.     A growl rumbled deep in the hairy half-man's chest. He could see noenemy and yet the scent grew stronger with every breath.     You hunt too near the lake, called a voice. The demons of the waterwill trap you.     Ud's great nostrils quivered. He tasted the odor of a friend mingledwith that of a strange Zuran. He squatted.     It's Noork, he grunted. Why do I not see you?     I have stolen the skin of a demon, answered the invisible man. Go toGurn. Tell him to fear the demons no longer. Tell him the Misty Onescan be trapped and skinned.     Why you want their skins? Ud scratched his hairy gray skull.     Go to save Gurn's ... and here Noork was stumped for words. To savehis father's woman woman, he managed at last. Father's woman womancalled Sarna.     And the misty blob of nothingness was gone again, its goal now themarshy lowlands that extended upward perhaps a thousand feet from thejungle's ragged fringe to end at last in the muddy shallows of the Lakeof Uzdon.     To Noork it seemed that all the world must be like these savage junglefastnesses of the twelve valleys and their central lake. He knew thatthe giant bird had carried him from some other place that his batteredbrain could not remember, but to him it seemed incredible that mencould live elsewhere than in a jungle valley.     But Noork was wrong. The giant bird that he had ridden into the depthsof Sekk's fertile valleys had come from a far different world. And theother bird, for which Noork had been searching when he came upon thegolden-skinned girl, was from another world also.     The other bird had come from space several days before that of Noork,the Vasads had told him, and it had landed somewhere within the landof sunken valleys. Perhaps, thought Noork, the bird had come from thesame valley that had once been his home. He would find the bird andperhaps then he could remember better who he had been.     So it was, ironically enough, that Stephen Dietrich—whose memory wasgone completely—again took up the trail of Doctor Karl Von Mark, lastof the Axis criminals at large. The trail that had led the red-hairedyoung American flier from rebuilding Greece into Africa and the hiddenvalley where Doctor Von Mark worked feverishly to restore the crumbledstructure of Nazidom, and then had sent him hurtling spaceward in thesecond of the Doctor's crude space-ships was now drawing to an end.The Doctor and the young American pilot were both trapped here on thislittle blob of cosmic matter that hides beyond the Moon's cratered bulk.     The Doctor's ship had landed safely on Sekk, the wily scientistpreferring the lesser gravity of this fertile world to that of thelifeless Moon in the event that he returned again to Earth, butDietrich's spacer had crashed.     Two words linked Noork with the past, the two words that the Vasadshad slurred into his name: New York. And the battered wrist watch, itscrystal and hands gone, were all that remained of his Earthly garb.  Noork paddled the long flat dugout strongly away from the twilightshore toward the shadowy loom of the central island. Though he couldnot remember ever having held a paddle before he handled the ungainlyblade well.     After a time the clumsy prow of the craft rammed into a yieldingcushion of mud, and Noork pulled the dugout out of the water into theroofing shelter of a clump of drooping trees growing at the water'sedge.     Sword in hand he pushed inward from the shore and ended with asmothered exclamation against an unseen wall. Trees grew close up tothe wall and a moment later he had climbed out along a horizontalbranch beyond the wall's top, and was lowering his body with the aid ofa braided leather rope to the ground beyond.     He was in a cultivated field his feet and hands told him. And perhapshalf a mile away, faintly illumined by torches and red clots ofbonfires, towered a huge weathered white skull!     Secure in the knowledge that he wore the invisible robes of a MistyOne he found a solitary tree growing within the wall and climbed to acomfortable crotch. In less than a minute he was asleep.     The new slave, a rough voice cut across his slumber abruptly, is thedaughter of Tholon Dist the merchant.     Noork was fully awake now. They were speaking of Sarna. Her father'sname was Tholon Dist. It was early morning in the fields of the MistyOnes and he could see the two golden-skinned slaves who talked togetherbeneath his tree.     That matters not to the priests of Uzdon, the slighter of thetwo slaves, his hair almost white, said. If she be chosen for thesacrifice to great Uzdon her blood will stain the altar no redder thananother's.     But it is always the youngest and most beautiful, complained theyounger slave, that the priests chose. I wish to mate with a beautifulwoman. Tholon Sarna is such a one.     The old man chuckled dryly. If your wife be plain, he said, neithermaster nor fellow slave will steal her love. A slave should choose agood woman—and ugly, my son.     Some night, snarled the slave, I'm going over the wall. Even theMisty Ones will not catch me once I have crossed the lake.     Silence, hissed the white-haired man. Such talk is madness. We aresafe here from wild animals. There are no spotted narls on the islandof Manak. The priests of most holy Uzdon, and their invisible minions,are not unkind.     Get at your weeding of the field, Rold, he finished, and I willcomplete my checking of the gardens.     Noork waited until the old man was gone before he descended from thetree. He walked along the row until he reached the slave's bent back,and he knew by the sudden tightening of the man's shoulder musclesthat his presence was known. He looked down and saw that his feet madeclear-cut depressions in the soft rich soil of the field.       Continue to work, he said to the young man. Do not be too surprisedat what I am about to tell you, Rold. He paused and watched the goldenman's rather stupid face intently.     I am not a Misty One, Noork said. I killed the owner of this strangegarment I wear yesterday on the mainland. I have come to rescue thegirl, Tholon Sarna, of whom you spoke.     Rold's mouth hung open but his hard blunt fingers continued to work.The Misty Ones, then, he said slowly, are not immortal demons! Henodded his long-haired head. They are but men. They too can die.     If you will help me, Rold, said Noork, to rescue the girl and escapefrom the island I will take you along.     Rold was slow in answering. He had been born on the island and yet hispeople were from the valley city of Konto. He knew that they wouldwelcome the news that the Misty Ones were not demons. And the girl fromthe enemy city of Grath was beautiful. Perhaps she would love him forhelping to rescue her and come willingly with him to Konto.     I will help you, stranger, he agreed.     Then tell me of the Skull, and of the priests, and of the prison whereTholon Sarna is held.     The slave's fingers flew. All the young female slaves are cagedtogether in the pit beneath the Skull. When the sun is directlyoverhead the High Priest will choose one of them for sacrifice tomighty Uzdon, most potent of all gods. And with the dawning of thenext day the chosen one will be bound across the altar before greatUzdon's image and her heart torn from her living breast. The slave'smismatched eyes, one blue and the other brown, lifted from his work.     Tholon Sarna is in the pit beneath the Temple with the other femaleslaves. And the Misty Ones stand guard over the entrance to the templepits.     It is enough, said Noork. I will go to rescue her now. Be preparedto join us as we return. I will have a robe for you if all goes well.     If you are captured, cried Rold nervously, you will not tell them Italked with you?     Noork laughed. You never saw me, he told the slave.  The skull was a gigantic dome of shaped white stone. Where theeye-sockets and gaping nose-hole should have been, black squares ofrock gave the illusion of vacancy. Slitted apertures that served forwindows circled the grisly whiteness of the temple's curving walls atthree distinct levels.     Noork drifted slowly up the huge series of long bench-like stepsthat led up to the gaping jaws of the Skull. He saw red andpurple-robed priests with nodding head-dresses of painted plumes andfeathers climbing and descending the stairs. Among them moved thesquatty gnarled shapes of burdened Vasads, their shaggy bowed legsfettered together with heavy copper or bronze chains, and cringinggolden-skinned slaves slipped furtively through the press of thebrilliant-robed ones. The stale sweaty odor of the slaves and the beastmen mingled with the musky stench of the incense from the temple.     Other misty blobs, the invisible guards of the ghastly temple, werestationed at regular intervals across the great entrance into theSkull's interior, but they paid Noork no heed. To them he was anotherof their number.     He moved swiftly to cross the wide stone-slabbed entry within thejaws, and a moment later was looking down into a sunken bowl whoserocky floor was a score of feet below where he stood. Now he saw thecentral raised altar where the gleam of precious stones and cunninglyworked metal—gold, silver and brass—vied with the faded garishcolors of the draperies beneath it. And on the same dais there loomedtwo beast-headed stone images, the lion-headed god a male and thewolf-headed shape a female.     These then were the two blood hungry deities that the men of Zuraworshipped—mighty Uzdon and his mate, Lornu!     Noork joined the descending throng that walked slowly down the centralramp toward the altar. As he searched for the entrance to the lowerpits his eyes took in the stone steps that led upward into the twoupper levels. Only priests and the vague shapelessness of the MistyOnes climbed those steps. The upper levels, then, were forbidden tothe slaves and common citizens of the island.     As he circled the curving inner wall a foul dank odor reached hissensitive nostrils, and his eyes searched for its origin. He found itthere just before him, the opening that gave way to a descending flightof clammy stone steps. He darted toward the door and from nowhere twoshort swords rose to bar his way.     None are to pass save the priests, spoke a voice from nowheregruffly. The High Priest knows that we of the temple guards covet themost beautiful of the slave women, but we are not to see them until thesacrifice is chosen.     Noork moved backward a pace. He grumbled something inaudible and drewhis sword. Before him the two swords slowly drew aside.     In that instant Noork attacked. His keen sword, whetted to razorsharpness on abrasive bits of rock, bit through the hidden neck andshoulder of the guard on his right hand, and with the same forwardimpetus of attack he smashed into the body of the startled guard on hisleft.     His sword had wrenched from his hand as it jammed into the bonystructure of the decapitated Misty One's shoulder, and now both hishands sought the throat of the guard. The unseen man's cry of warninggurgled and died in his throat as Noork clamped his fingers shut uponit, and his shortened sword stabbed at Noork's back.     The struggle overbalanced them. They rolled over and over down theshadowy stair, the stone smashing at their softer flesh unmercifully.For a moment the battling men brought up with a jolt as the obstructionof the first guard's corpse arrested their downward course, and thenthey jolted and jarred onward again from blood-slippery step toblood-slippery step.     The sword clattered from the guardian Misty One's clutch and in thesame instant Noork's steel fingers snapped the neck of the other manwith a pistol-like report. The limp body beneath him struggled no more.He sprang to his feet and became aware of a torch-lighted doorway but ahalf-dozen paces further down along the descending shaft of steps.     In a moment, he thought, the fellows of this guard would come chargingout, swords in hand. They could not have failed to hear the struggleon the stairs of stone, he reasoned, for here the noise and confusionof the upper temple was muted to a murmur.     So it was that he ran quickly to the door, in his hand the sword thathad dropped from the dead man's fingers, and sprang inside, prepared tobattle there the Misty Ones, lest one escape to give the alarm.     He looked about the narrow stone-walled room with puzzled eyes. Twowarriors lay on a pallet of straw, one of them emitting hideousgurgling sounds that filled the little room with unpleasing echoes.Noork grinned.     From the floor beside the fatter of the two men, the guard who did notsnore, he took a club. Twice he struck and the gurgling sound changedto a steady deep breathing. Noork knew that now the two guards wouldnot give the alarm for several hours. Thoughtfully he looked about theroom. There were several of the hooded cloaks hanging from pegs wedgedinto the crevices of the chamber's wall, their outlines much plainerhere in the artificial light of the flickering torch.     Noork shed his own blood-stained robe quickly and donned one of theothers. The cloaks were rather bulky and so he could carry but twoothers, rolled up, beneath his own protective covering.     The matter of his disguise thus taken care of he dragged the two bodiesfrom the stairway and hid them beneath their own fouled robes in thechamber of the sleeping guards. Not until then did he hurry on down thestone steps toward the prison pit where Tholon Sarna, the golden girl,was held prisoner.  The steps opened into a dimly lit cavern. Pools of foul black waterdotted the uneven floor and reflected back faintly the light of the twosputtering torches beside the entrance. One corner of the cavern waswalled off, save for a narrow door of interlocking brass strips, andtoward this Noork made his way.     He stood beside the door. Sarna, he called softly, Tholon Sarna.     There were a score of young women, lately captured from the mainlandby the Misty Ones, sitting dejectedly upon the foul dampness of therotting grass that was their bed. Most of them were clad in the simpleskirt and brief jacket, reaching but to the lower ribs, that is themark of the golden people who dwell in the city-states of Zura'svalleys, but a few wore a simple band of cloth about their hips andconfined their breasts with a strip of well-cured leopard or antelopehide.     One of the women now came to her feet and as she neared themetal-barred entrance Noork saw that she was indeed Sarna. He examinedthe outer lock of the door and found it to be barred with a massivetimber and the timber locked in place with a metal spike slipped into aprepared cavity in the prison's rocky wall.     It is Noork, he said softly as she came closer. He saw her eyes gowide with fear and sudden hope, and then reached for the spike.     The priest, hissed the girl.     Noork had already heard the sound of approaching feet. He dropped thespike and whirled. His sword was in his hand as though by magic, as hefaced the burly priest of the Skull.     Across the forehead and upper half of the priest's face a curved shieldof transparent tinted material was fastened. Noork's eyes narrowed ashe saw the sword and shield of the gigantic holy man.     So, he said, to the priests of Uzdon we are not invisible. You donot trust your guards, then.     The priest laughed. We also have robes of invisibility, he said, andthe sacred window of Uzdon before our eyes. He snarled suddenly at thesilent figure of the white man. Down on your knees, guard, and show meyour face before I kill you!     Noork raised his sword. Take my hood off if you dare, priest, heoffered.     The burly priest's answer was a bellow of rage and a lunge forward ofhis sword arm. Their swords clicked together and slid apart with thevelvety smoothness of bronze on bronze. Noork's blade bit a chunk fromthe priest's conical shield, and in return received a slashing cut thatdrew blood from left shoulder to elbow.     The fighting grew more furious as the priest pressed the attack. Hewas a skilled swordsman and only the superior agility of the whiteman's legs kept Noork away from that darting priestly blade. Even sohis robe was slashed in a dozen places and blood reddened his bronzedbody. Once he slipped in a puddle of foul cavern water and only by theslightest of margins did he escape death by the priest's weapon.     The priest was tiring rapidly, however. The soft living of the temple,and the rich wines and over-cooked meats that served to pad his paunchso well with fat, now served to rob him of breath. He opened hismouth to bawl for assistance from the guard, although it is doubtfulwhether any sound could have penetrated up into the madhouse of themain temple's floor, and in that instant Noork flipped his sword at hisenemy.     Between the shield and the transparent bit of curving material thesword drove, and buried itself deep in the priest's thick neck. Noorkleaped forward; he snatched the tinted face shield and his sword, and amoment later he had torn the great wooden timber from its sockets.     Tholon Sarna stumbled through the door and he caught her in his arms.Hurriedly he loosed one of the two robes fastened about his waist andslipped it around her slim shivering shoulders.     Are there other priests hidden here in the pits? Noork asked tensely.     No, came the girl's low voice, I do not think so. I did not knowthat this priest was here until he appeared behind you. A slow smilecrossed Noork's hidden features. His robe must be close by, he toldthe girl. He must have been stationed here because the priests fearedthe guards might spirit away some of the prisoners.     Slowly he angled back and forth across the floor until his foot touchedthe soft material of the priest's discarded robe near the stairwayentrance. He slipped the thongs of the transparent mask, called by thepriest Uzdon's window over his hood, and then proceeded to don thenew robe.     My own robe is slit in a dozen places, he explained to the girl'scurious violet eyes—-all that was visible through the narrow visionslot of her hood. He finished adjusting the outer robe and took thegirl's hand.     Come, he said, let us escape over the wall before the alarm isgiven.  Without incident they reached the field where Rold toiled among therows of vegetables. Another slave was working in a nearby field,his crude wooden plow pulled by two sweating Vasads, but he was notwatching when Rold abruptly faded from view.     Noork was sweating with the weight of two cloaks and the airlessness ofthe vision shield as they crossed the field toward his rope, but he hadno wish to discard them yet. The tinted shield had revealed that dozensof the Misty Ones were stationed about the wall to guard against theescape of the slaves.     They came to the wall and to Noork's great joy found the rope hangingas he had left it. He climbed the wall first and then with Rold helpingfrom below, drew Sarna to his side. A moment later saw the three ofthem climbing along the limb to the bole of the tree and so to thejungle matted ground outside the wall.     Will we hide here in the trees until night? asked the girl's fullvoice.     Noork held aside a mossy creeper until the girl had passed. I thinknot, he said. The Misty Ones are continually passing from the islandto the shore. We are Misty Ones to any that watch from the wall. So wewill paddle boldly across the water.     That is good, agreed the slave, unless they see us put out from theshore. Their two landing stages are further along the beach, oppositethe Temple of Uzdon.     Then we must hug to the shore until we pass the tip of the island,said Noork thoughtfully. In that way even if they detect us we willhave put a safe distance between us.     Shortly after midday Noork felt the oozy slime of the marshy lowlandsof the mainland beneath his paddle and the dugout ran ashore in thegrassy inlet for which they had been heading. His palms were blisteredand the heavy robes he yet wore were soaked with sweat.     Once we reach the jungle, he told the girl, off come these robes. Iam broiled alive.     Suddenly Noork froze in his tracks. He thrust the girl behind him.Misty Ones! he hissed to Rold. They crouch among the reeds. Theycarry nets and clubs to trap us.     Rold turned back toward the boat with Noork and Sarna close at hisheels. But the Misty Ones were upon them and by sheer numbers they borethem to the ground. Noork's mightier muscles smashed more than onehooded face but in the end he too lay smothered beneath the nets andbodies of the enemy.     A misty shape came to stand beside these three new captives as theywere stripped of their robes. His foot nudged at Noork's head curiouslyand a guttural voice commanded the shield be removed. Then his voicechanged—thickened—as he saw the features of Noork.     So, he barked in a tongue that should have been strange to Noork butwas not, it is the trapper's turn to be trapped, eh Captain Dietrich?  A fat, square-jawed face, harsh lines paralleling the ugly blob of anose, showed through the opened robe of the leader. The face was thatof Doctor Von Mark the treacherous Nazi scientist that Stephen Dietrichhad trailed across space to Sekk! But Noork knew nothing of that chase.The man's face seemed familiar, and hateful, but that was all heremembered.     I see you have come from the island, said the Doctor. Perhaps youcan tell me the secret of this invisible material I wear. With thesecret of invisibility I, Karl Von Mark, can again conquer Earth andmake the Fatherland invincible.     I do not understand too well, said Noork hesitantly. Are we enemies?There is so much I have forgotten. He regarded the brutal facethoughtfully.     Perhaps you know from what valley the great bird brought me, he said.Or perhaps the other bird brought you here.     Von Mark's blue eyes widened and then he roared with a great noisethat was intended to be mirth. His foot slammed harder into Noork'sdefenseless ribs.     Perhaps you have forgotten, swine of an American, he roared suddenly,and in his hand was an ugly looking automatic. He flung back his robeand Noork saw the dress uniform of a general. Perhaps, the scientistrepeated, but I will take no chances. The amnesia is often but apretense.     His lip curled. This is something for you to remember, CaptainDietrich, he said as the ugly black muzzle of the gun centered onNoork's bronzed chest.     And then Doctor Von Mark cursed as the gun dropped from his nervelessfingers and his hands clawed weakly at the arrow buried in his widebelly. He stumbled backward.     Arrows rained from the mistiness that had closed in about Von Mark andhis men. The men from Wari, their faces unshielded, fell like flies.In a moment those yet alive had taken to their heels, and Noork feltinvisible fingers tearing at the nets that bound him.     As he rose to his feet the robed figure let its misty covering dropaside. A handsome golden-skinned warrior stood revealed.     Gurn! cried Noork.     A glad cry came from the throat of Tholon Sarna as she saw her brother.And then she crept closer to Noork's side as the invisible mantlesof Gurn's loyal Vasads opened to reveal the hairy beast men theyconcealed. Rold whimpered fearfully.     The message that Ud carried to me was good, laughed Gurn. The MistyOnes skin easily. We were trapping the Misty Ones as they came acrossthe lake, he looked at the dying Von Mark, as were these others. Soonwe would have come to your rescue, Noork, my friend.     Lucky I escaped first, Noork told him. The priests of Uzdon wouldhave trapped you. To them the Misty Ones are visible.     He picked up the fallen vision shield that lay beside their feet. Hischest expanded proudly.     No longer, he told Gurn, am I a man without a name. I am CaptainDietrich from a distant valley called America. I was hunting this evilman when my bird died.     He smiled and his brown arm tightened around Sarna's golden body. Theevil man is dead. My native valley is safe. Now I can live in peacewith you, Gurn, and with your sister, here in the jungle.     It is good, Noork, smiled Tholon Sarna.   ","Noork is in a tree on a moon named Sekk, watching a woman walk through the jungle.  When they speak, they learn that Noork has been living with her brother, Gurn.  With this introduction, they begin to travel together.The woman explains that she had been captured by slavers in the past but had escaped.  The escapees were then followed by the Misty Ones, and the woman was the only one who made a complete escape.  Noork states that he will visit the island where the Misty Ones live one day, but the woman does not answer. When Noork turns back to her, she has disappeared, and Noork is attacked.  He hides in the trees and spies the Misty Ones below.  He throws fruit down on them until he can easily see them by the stains the fruit makes on their clothing, then attacks with arrows.  The Misty Ones flee except for one who has been killed with an arrow.  Noork takes the robe of this one and sets off toward the Temple of the Skull, the home of the Misty Ones, to free the woman.Noork encounters Ud, his friend, near the lake, and tells him to tell Gurn that the MIsty Ones can be trapped and skinned.  He asks Ud to tell Gurn that Noork is going to save Gurn's ""father's woman woman"" called Sarna.Noork paddles across the lake and sneaks close to the Temple of the Skull.  He falls asleep in a tree and is awakened by the conversation of two slaves talking about Sarna.  After one slave leaves, he speaks with the other slave, Rold, and tells him that he is there to rescue Sarna.  Rold, realizing that the Misty Ones are only mortal men, tells Noork that Sarna is held in a pit beneath the temple with the other young women slaves.Noork finds the entrance to the pit but is blocked by two guards, whom he kills.He then proceeds to the cage where the young women are held, where he is confronted by a priest.  He fights the priest, kills him, and frees Sarna.  They go back to the field, get Rold, and the three of them flee into the jungle.  They plan to go for a boat and leave, but are caught by Misty Ones waiting to trap them.  At this time, Dr. Von Mark, a Nazi from Earth, confronts Noork, who is also Stephen Dietrich, an American pilot who has been hunting him and had tracked him through space to Sekk.  Due to Dietrich/Noork's amnesia, he remembers none of this.  Just as Von Mark is about to kill him, Gurn and other men from Wari kill the Misty Ones with arrows and Noork and the others are freed.  Noork states that he can now live in peace with Gurn and Sarna in the jungle."
"Describe the setting of the story </s>    Raiders of the Second Moon     By GENE ELLERMAN     A strange destiny had erased Noork's memory,     and had brought him to this tiny world—to     write an end to his first existence.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Summer 1945.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Beyond earth swings that airless pocked mass of fused rock and grayvolcanic dust that we know as Luna. Of this our naked eyes assure us.But of the smaller satellite, hidden forever from the mundane view byLuna's bulk, we know little.     Small is Sekk, that second moon, less than five hundred miles indiameter, but the period of its revolution is thirty two hours, and itsmeaner mass retains a breathable atmosphere. There is life on Sekk,life that centers around the sunken star-shaped cavity where an ovallake gleams softly in the depths. And the eleven radiating tips of thestarry abyss are valleys green with jungle growth.     In one of those green valleys the white savage that the Vasads calledNoork squatted in the ample crotch of a jungle giant and watched thetrail forty feet below. For down there moved alertly a golden skinnedgirl, her only weapons a puny polished bow of yellow wood and asheathed dagger.     Sight of the girl's flowing brown hair and the graceful femininecontours of her smooth-limbed body beneath its skin-halter and theinsignificant breech-clout, made his brow wrinkle with concentration.Not forever had he lived in this jungle world of valleys and raggedcliffs. Since he had learned the tongue of the hairy Vasads of forest,and the tongue of their gold-skinned leader, Gurn, the renegade, he hadconfirmed that belief.     For a huge gleaming bird had carried him in its talons to the top ofthe cliff above their valley and from the rock fire had risen to devourthe great bird. Somehow he had been flung clear and escaped the deathof the mysterious bird-thing. And in his delirium he had babbled thewords that caused the apish Vasads to name him Noork. Now he repeatedthem aloud.     New York, he said, good ol' New York.     The girl heard. She looked upward fearfully, her rounded bare arm goingback to the bow slung across her shoulder. Swiftly she fitted an arrowand stepped back against the friendly bole of a shaggy barked junglegiant. Noork grinned.     Tako, woman, he greeted her.     Tako, she replied fearfully. Who speaks to Tholon Sarna? Be youhunter or escaped slave?     A friend, said Noork simply. It was I who killed the spotted      narl     last night when it attacked you.     Doubtfully the girl put away her bow. Her fingers, however, were neverfar from the hilt of her hunting dagger.     Noork swung outward from his perch, and then downward along the ladderof limbs to her side. The girl exclaimed at his brown skin.     Your hair is the color of the sun! she said. Your garb is Vasad, yetyou speak the language of the true men. Her violet oddly slanting eyesopened yet wider. Who are you?     I am Noork, the man told her. For many days have I dwelt among thewild Vasads of the jungle with their golden-skinned chief, Gurn, formy friend.     The girl impulsively took a step nearer. Gurn! she cried. Is he talland strong? Has he a bracelet of golden discs linked together withhuman hair? Does he talk with his own shadow when he thinks?     That is Gurn, admitted Noork shortly. He is also an exile from thewalled city of Grath. The city rulers call him a traitor. He has toldme the reason. Perhaps you know it as well?     Indeed I do, cried Sarna. My brother said that we should no longermake slaves of the captured Zurans from the other valleys.     Noork smiled. I am glad he is your brother, he said simply.  The girl's eyes fell before his admiring gaze and warm blood floodedinto her rounded neck and lovely cheeks.     Brown-skinned one! she cried with a stamp of her shapely littlesandalled foot. I am displeased with the noises of your tongue. I willlisten to it no more.     But her eyes gave the provocative lie to her words. This brown-skinnedgiant with the sunlit hair was very attractive....     The girl was still talking much later, as they walked together alongthe game-trail. When my captors were but one day's march from theirfoul city of Bis the warriors of the city of Konto, through whosefertile valley we had journeyed by night, fell upon the slavers.     And in the confusion of the attack five of us escaped. We returnedtoward the valley of Grath, but to avoid the intervening valley whereour enemies, the men of Konto, lived, we swung close to the Lake ofUzdon. And the Misty Ones from the Temple of the Skull trailed us. Ialone escaped.     Noork lifted the short, broad-bladed sword that swung in its sheathat his belt and let it drop back into place with a satisfying whisperof flexible leather on steel. He looked toward the east where lay themysterious long lake of the Misty Ones.     Some day, he said reflectively, I am going to visit the island ofthe unseen evil beings who stole away your friends. Perhaps after Ihave taken you to your brother's hidden village, and from there toyour city of Grath.... He smiled.     The girl did not answer. His keen ears, now that he was no longerspeaking, caught the scuffing of feet into the jungle behind him. Heturned quickly to find the girl had vanished, and with an instinctivereflex of motion he flung himself to one side into the dense wall ofthe jungle. As it was the unseen club thudded down along his right arm,numbing it so he felt nothing for some time.     One armed as he was temporarily, and with an unseen foe to reckon with,Noork awkwardly swung up into the comparative safety of the trees. Oncethere, perched in the crotch of a mighty jungle monarch, he peered downat the apparently empty stretch of sunken trail beneath.      Noork      At first he saw nothing out of the ordinary. Apparently there was nostir of life along that leaf-shadowed way. And then he caught a glimpseof blurring shadowy shapes, blotches of cottony mist that blended alltoo well with the foliage. One of the things from the island in theLake of Uzdon moved, and he saw briefly the bottom of a foot dirtiedwith the mud of the trail.     Noork squinted. So the Misty Ones were not entirely invisible. Painwas growing in his numbed arm now, but as it came so came strength. Heclimbed further out on the great branch to where sticky and overripefruit hung heavy. With a grin he locked his legs upon the forking ofthe great limb and filled his arms with fruit.     A barrage of the juicy fruit blanketed the misty shapes. Stains spreadand grew. Patchy outlines took on a new color and sharpness. Noorkfound that he was pelting a half-dozen hooded and robed creatures whosearms and legs numbered the same as his own, and the last remnant ofsuperstitious fear instilled in his bruised brain by the shaggy Vasadsvanished.     These Misty Ones were living breathing creatures like himself! Theywere not gods, or demons, or even the ghostly servants of demons. Hestrung his bow quickly, the short powerful bow that Gurn had given him,and rained arrows down upon the cowering robed creatures.     And the monsters fled. They fled down the trail or faded away into thejungle. All but one of them. The arrow had pierced a vital portion ofthis Misty One's body. He fell and moved no more.     A moment later Noork was ripping the stained cloak and hood from thefallen creature, curious to learn what ghastly brute-thing hid beneaththem. His lip curled at what he saw.     The Misty One was almost like himself. His skin was not so golden asthat of the other men of Zuran, and his forehead was low and retreatingin a bestial fashion. Upon his body there was more hair, and his facewas made hideous with swollen colored scars that formed an irregulardesign. He wore a sleeveless tunic of light green and his only weaponswere two long knives and a club.     So, said Noork, the men of the island prey upon their own kind. Andthe Temple of Uzdon in the lake is guarded by cowardly warriors likethis.     Noork shrugged his shoulders and set off at a mile-devouring pace downthe game trail toward the lake where the Temple of the Skull and itsunseen guardians lay. Once he stopped at a leaf-choked pool to wash thestains from the dead man's foggy robe.     The jungle was thinning out. Noork's teeth flashed as he lifted thedrying fabric of the mantle and donned it.  Ud tasted the scent of a man and sluggishly rolled his bullet head fromshoulder to shoulder as he tried to catch sight of his ages-old enemy.For between the hairy quarter-ton beast men of the jungles of Sekk andthe golden men of the valley cities who enslaved them there was eternalwar.     A growl rumbled deep in the hairy half-man's chest. He could see noenemy and yet the scent grew stronger with every breath.     You hunt too near the lake, called a voice. The demons of the waterwill trap you.     Ud's great nostrils quivered. He tasted the odor of a friend mingledwith that of a strange Zuran. He squatted.     It's Noork, he grunted. Why do I not see you?     I have stolen the skin of a demon, answered the invisible man. Go toGurn. Tell him to fear the demons no longer. Tell him the Misty Onescan be trapped and skinned.     Why you want their skins? Ud scratched his hairy gray skull.     Go to save Gurn's ... and here Noork was stumped for words. To savehis father's woman woman, he managed at last. Father's woman womancalled Sarna.     And the misty blob of nothingness was gone again, its goal now themarshy lowlands that extended upward perhaps a thousand feet from thejungle's ragged fringe to end at last in the muddy shallows of the Lakeof Uzdon.     To Noork it seemed that all the world must be like these savage junglefastnesses of the twelve valleys and their central lake. He knew thatthe giant bird had carried him from some other place that his batteredbrain could not remember, but to him it seemed incredible that mencould live elsewhere than in a jungle valley.     But Noork was wrong. The giant bird that he had ridden into the depthsof Sekk's fertile valleys had come from a far different world. And theother bird, for which Noork had been searching when he came upon thegolden-skinned girl, was from another world also.     The other bird had come from space several days before that of Noork,the Vasads had told him, and it had landed somewhere within the landof sunken valleys. Perhaps, thought Noork, the bird had come from thesame valley that had once been his home. He would find the bird andperhaps then he could remember better who he had been.     So it was, ironically enough, that Stephen Dietrich—whose memory wasgone completely—again took up the trail of Doctor Karl Von Mark, lastof the Axis criminals at large. The trail that had led the red-hairedyoung American flier from rebuilding Greece into Africa and the hiddenvalley where Doctor Von Mark worked feverishly to restore the crumbledstructure of Nazidom, and then had sent him hurtling spaceward in thesecond of the Doctor's crude space-ships was now drawing to an end.The Doctor and the young American pilot were both trapped here on thislittle blob of cosmic matter that hides beyond the Moon's cratered bulk.     The Doctor's ship had landed safely on Sekk, the wily scientistpreferring the lesser gravity of this fertile world to that of thelifeless Moon in the event that he returned again to Earth, butDietrich's spacer had crashed.     Two words linked Noork with the past, the two words that the Vasadshad slurred into his name: New York. And the battered wrist watch, itscrystal and hands gone, were all that remained of his Earthly garb.  Noork paddled the long flat dugout strongly away from the twilightshore toward the shadowy loom of the central island. Though he couldnot remember ever having held a paddle before he handled the ungainlyblade well.     After a time the clumsy prow of the craft rammed into a yieldingcushion of mud, and Noork pulled the dugout out of the water into theroofing shelter of a clump of drooping trees growing at the water'sedge.     Sword in hand he pushed inward from the shore and ended with asmothered exclamation against an unseen wall. Trees grew close up tothe wall and a moment later he had climbed out along a horizontalbranch beyond the wall's top, and was lowering his body with the aid ofa braided leather rope to the ground beyond.     He was in a cultivated field his feet and hands told him. And perhapshalf a mile away, faintly illumined by torches and red clots ofbonfires, towered a huge weathered white skull!     Secure in the knowledge that he wore the invisible robes of a MistyOne he found a solitary tree growing within the wall and climbed to acomfortable crotch. In less than a minute he was asleep.     The new slave, a rough voice cut across his slumber abruptly, is thedaughter of Tholon Dist the merchant.     Noork was fully awake now. They were speaking of Sarna. Her father'sname was Tholon Dist. It was early morning in the fields of the MistyOnes and he could see the two golden-skinned slaves who talked togetherbeneath his tree.     That matters not to the priests of Uzdon, the slighter of thetwo slaves, his hair almost white, said. If she be chosen for thesacrifice to great Uzdon her blood will stain the altar no redder thananother's.     But it is always the youngest and most beautiful, complained theyounger slave, that the priests chose. I wish to mate with a beautifulwoman. Tholon Sarna is such a one.     The old man chuckled dryly. If your wife be plain, he said, neithermaster nor fellow slave will steal her love. A slave should choose agood woman—and ugly, my son.     Some night, snarled the slave, I'm going over the wall. Even theMisty Ones will not catch me once I have crossed the lake.     Silence, hissed the white-haired man. Such talk is madness. We aresafe here from wild animals. There are no spotted narls on the islandof Manak. The priests of most holy Uzdon, and their invisible minions,are not unkind.     Get at your weeding of the field, Rold, he finished, and I willcomplete my checking of the gardens.     Noork waited until the old man was gone before he descended from thetree. He walked along the row until he reached the slave's bent back,and he knew by the sudden tightening of the man's shoulder musclesthat his presence was known. He looked down and saw that his feet madeclear-cut depressions in the soft rich soil of the field.       Continue to work, he said to the young man. Do not be too surprisedat what I am about to tell you, Rold. He paused and watched the goldenman's rather stupid face intently.     I am not a Misty One, Noork said. I killed the owner of this strangegarment I wear yesterday on the mainland. I have come to rescue thegirl, Tholon Sarna, of whom you spoke.     Rold's mouth hung open but his hard blunt fingers continued to work.The Misty Ones, then, he said slowly, are not immortal demons! Henodded his long-haired head. They are but men. They too can die.     If you will help me, Rold, said Noork, to rescue the girl and escapefrom the island I will take you along.     Rold was slow in answering. He had been born on the island and yet hispeople were from the valley city of Konto. He knew that they wouldwelcome the news that the Misty Ones were not demons. And the girl fromthe enemy city of Grath was beautiful. Perhaps she would love him forhelping to rescue her and come willingly with him to Konto.     I will help you, stranger, he agreed.     Then tell me of the Skull, and of the priests, and of the prison whereTholon Sarna is held.     The slave's fingers flew. All the young female slaves are cagedtogether in the pit beneath the Skull. When the sun is directlyoverhead the High Priest will choose one of them for sacrifice tomighty Uzdon, most potent of all gods. And with the dawning of thenext day the chosen one will be bound across the altar before greatUzdon's image and her heart torn from her living breast. The slave'smismatched eyes, one blue and the other brown, lifted from his work.     Tholon Sarna is in the pit beneath the Temple with the other femaleslaves. And the Misty Ones stand guard over the entrance to the templepits.     It is enough, said Noork. I will go to rescue her now. Be preparedto join us as we return. I will have a robe for you if all goes well.     If you are captured, cried Rold nervously, you will not tell them Italked with you?     Noork laughed. You never saw me, he told the slave.  The skull was a gigantic dome of shaped white stone. Where theeye-sockets and gaping nose-hole should have been, black squares ofrock gave the illusion of vacancy. Slitted apertures that served forwindows circled the grisly whiteness of the temple's curving walls atthree distinct levels.     Noork drifted slowly up the huge series of long bench-like stepsthat led up to the gaping jaws of the Skull. He saw red andpurple-robed priests with nodding head-dresses of painted plumes andfeathers climbing and descending the stairs. Among them moved thesquatty gnarled shapes of burdened Vasads, their shaggy bowed legsfettered together with heavy copper or bronze chains, and cringinggolden-skinned slaves slipped furtively through the press of thebrilliant-robed ones. The stale sweaty odor of the slaves and the beastmen mingled with the musky stench of the incense from the temple.     Other misty blobs, the invisible guards of the ghastly temple, werestationed at regular intervals across the great entrance into theSkull's interior, but they paid Noork no heed. To them he was anotherof their number.     He moved swiftly to cross the wide stone-slabbed entry within thejaws, and a moment later was looking down into a sunken bowl whoserocky floor was a score of feet below where he stood. Now he saw thecentral raised altar where the gleam of precious stones and cunninglyworked metal—gold, silver and brass—vied with the faded garishcolors of the draperies beneath it. And on the same dais there loomedtwo beast-headed stone images, the lion-headed god a male and thewolf-headed shape a female.     These then were the two blood hungry deities that the men of Zuraworshipped—mighty Uzdon and his mate, Lornu!     Noork joined the descending throng that walked slowly down the centralramp toward the altar. As he searched for the entrance to the lowerpits his eyes took in the stone steps that led upward into the twoupper levels. Only priests and the vague shapelessness of the MistyOnes climbed those steps. The upper levels, then, were forbidden tothe slaves and common citizens of the island.     As he circled the curving inner wall a foul dank odor reached hissensitive nostrils, and his eyes searched for its origin. He found itthere just before him, the opening that gave way to a descending flightof clammy stone steps. He darted toward the door and from nowhere twoshort swords rose to bar his way.     None are to pass save the priests, spoke a voice from nowheregruffly. The High Priest knows that we of the temple guards covet themost beautiful of the slave women, but we are not to see them until thesacrifice is chosen.     Noork moved backward a pace. He grumbled something inaudible and drewhis sword. Before him the two swords slowly drew aside.     In that instant Noork attacked. His keen sword, whetted to razorsharpness on abrasive bits of rock, bit through the hidden neck andshoulder of the guard on his right hand, and with the same forwardimpetus of attack he smashed into the body of the startled guard on hisleft.     His sword had wrenched from his hand as it jammed into the bonystructure of the decapitated Misty One's shoulder, and now both hishands sought the throat of the guard. The unseen man's cry of warninggurgled and died in his throat as Noork clamped his fingers shut uponit, and his shortened sword stabbed at Noork's back.     The struggle overbalanced them. They rolled over and over down theshadowy stair, the stone smashing at their softer flesh unmercifully.For a moment the battling men brought up with a jolt as the obstructionof the first guard's corpse arrested their downward course, and thenthey jolted and jarred onward again from blood-slippery step toblood-slippery step.     The sword clattered from the guardian Misty One's clutch and in thesame instant Noork's steel fingers snapped the neck of the other manwith a pistol-like report. The limp body beneath him struggled no more.He sprang to his feet and became aware of a torch-lighted doorway but ahalf-dozen paces further down along the descending shaft of steps.     In a moment, he thought, the fellows of this guard would come chargingout, swords in hand. They could not have failed to hear the struggleon the stairs of stone, he reasoned, for here the noise and confusionof the upper temple was muted to a murmur.     So it was that he ran quickly to the door, in his hand the sword thathad dropped from the dead man's fingers, and sprang inside, prepared tobattle there the Misty Ones, lest one escape to give the alarm.     He looked about the narrow stone-walled room with puzzled eyes. Twowarriors lay on a pallet of straw, one of them emitting hideousgurgling sounds that filled the little room with unpleasing echoes.Noork grinned.     From the floor beside the fatter of the two men, the guard who did notsnore, he took a club. Twice he struck and the gurgling sound changedto a steady deep breathing. Noork knew that now the two guards wouldnot give the alarm for several hours. Thoughtfully he looked about theroom. There were several of the hooded cloaks hanging from pegs wedgedinto the crevices of the chamber's wall, their outlines much plainerhere in the artificial light of the flickering torch.     Noork shed his own blood-stained robe quickly and donned one of theothers. The cloaks were rather bulky and so he could carry but twoothers, rolled up, beneath his own protective covering.     The matter of his disguise thus taken care of he dragged the two bodiesfrom the stairway and hid them beneath their own fouled robes in thechamber of the sleeping guards. Not until then did he hurry on down thestone steps toward the prison pit where Tholon Sarna, the golden girl,was held prisoner.  The steps opened into a dimly lit cavern. Pools of foul black waterdotted the uneven floor and reflected back faintly the light of the twosputtering torches beside the entrance. One corner of the cavern waswalled off, save for a narrow door of interlocking brass strips, andtoward this Noork made his way.     He stood beside the door. Sarna, he called softly, Tholon Sarna.     There were a score of young women, lately captured from the mainlandby the Misty Ones, sitting dejectedly upon the foul dampness of therotting grass that was their bed. Most of them were clad in the simpleskirt and brief jacket, reaching but to the lower ribs, that is themark of the golden people who dwell in the city-states of Zura'svalleys, but a few wore a simple band of cloth about their hips andconfined their breasts with a strip of well-cured leopard or antelopehide.     One of the women now came to her feet and as she neared themetal-barred entrance Noork saw that she was indeed Sarna. He examinedthe outer lock of the door and found it to be barred with a massivetimber and the timber locked in place with a metal spike slipped into aprepared cavity in the prison's rocky wall.     It is Noork, he said softly as she came closer. He saw her eyes gowide with fear and sudden hope, and then reached for the spike.     The priest, hissed the girl.     Noork had already heard the sound of approaching feet. He dropped thespike and whirled. His sword was in his hand as though by magic, as hefaced the burly priest of the Skull.     Across the forehead and upper half of the priest's face a curved shieldof transparent tinted material was fastened. Noork's eyes narrowed ashe saw the sword and shield of the gigantic holy man.     So, he said, to the priests of Uzdon we are not invisible. You donot trust your guards, then.     The priest laughed. We also have robes of invisibility, he said, andthe sacred window of Uzdon before our eyes. He snarled suddenly at thesilent figure of the white man. Down on your knees, guard, and show meyour face before I kill you!     Noork raised his sword. Take my hood off if you dare, priest, heoffered.     The burly priest's answer was a bellow of rage and a lunge forward ofhis sword arm. Their swords clicked together and slid apart with thevelvety smoothness of bronze on bronze. Noork's blade bit a chunk fromthe priest's conical shield, and in return received a slashing cut thatdrew blood from left shoulder to elbow.     The fighting grew more furious as the priest pressed the attack. Hewas a skilled swordsman and only the superior agility of the whiteman's legs kept Noork away from that darting priestly blade. Even sohis robe was slashed in a dozen places and blood reddened his bronzedbody. Once he slipped in a puddle of foul cavern water and only by theslightest of margins did he escape death by the priest's weapon.     The priest was tiring rapidly, however. The soft living of the temple,and the rich wines and over-cooked meats that served to pad his paunchso well with fat, now served to rob him of breath. He opened hismouth to bawl for assistance from the guard, although it is doubtfulwhether any sound could have penetrated up into the madhouse of themain temple's floor, and in that instant Noork flipped his sword at hisenemy.     Between the shield and the transparent bit of curving material thesword drove, and buried itself deep in the priest's thick neck. Noorkleaped forward; he snatched the tinted face shield and his sword, and amoment later he had torn the great wooden timber from its sockets.     Tholon Sarna stumbled through the door and he caught her in his arms.Hurriedly he loosed one of the two robes fastened about his waist andslipped it around her slim shivering shoulders.     Are there other priests hidden here in the pits? Noork asked tensely.     No, came the girl's low voice, I do not think so. I did not knowthat this priest was here until he appeared behind you. A slow smilecrossed Noork's hidden features. His robe must be close by, he toldthe girl. He must have been stationed here because the priests fearedthe guards might spirit away some of the prisoners.     Slowly he angled back and forth across the floor until his foot touchedthe soft material of the priest's discarded robe near the stairwayentrance. He slipped the thongs of the transparent mask, called by thepriest Uzdon's window over his hood, and then proceeded to don thenew robe.     My own robe is slit in a dozen places, he explained to the girl'scurious violet eyes—-all that was visible through the narrow visionslot of her hood. He finished adjusting the outer robe and took thegirl's hand.     Come, he said, let us escape over the wall before the alarm isgiven.  Without incident they reached the field where Rold toiled among therows of vegetables. Another slave was working in a nearby field,his crude wooden plow pulled by two sweating Vasads, but he was notwatching when Rold abruptly faded from view.     Noork was sweating with the weight of two cloaks and the airlessness ofthe vision shield as they crossed the field toward his rope, but he hadno wish to discard them yet. The tinted shield had revealed that dozensof the Misty Ones were stationed about the wall to guard against theescape of the slaves.     They came to the wall and to Noork's great joy found the rope hangingas he had left it. He climbed the wall first and then with Rold helpingfrom below, drew Sarna to his side. A moment later saw the three ofthem climbing along the limb to the bole of the tree and so to thejungle matted ground outside the wall.     Will we hide here in the trees until night? asked the girl's fullvoice.     Noork held aside a mossy creeper until the girl had passed. I thinknot, he said. The Misty Ones are continually passing from the islandto the shore. We are Misty Ones to any that watch from the wall. So wewill paddle boldly across the water.     That is good, agreed the slave, unless they see us put out from theshore. Their two landing stages are further along the beach, oppositethe Temple of Uzdon.     Then we must hug to the shore until we pass the tip of the island,said Noork thoughtfully. In that way even if they detect us we willhave put a safe distance between us.     Shortly after midday Noork felt the oozy slime of the marshy lowlandsof the mainland beneath his paddle and the dugout ran ashore in thegrassy inlet for which they had been heading. His palms were blisteredand the heavy robes he yet wore were soaked with sweat.     Once we reach the jungle, he told the girl, off come these robes. Iam broiled alive.     Suddenly Noork froze in his tracks. He thrust the girl behind him.Misty Ones! he hissed to Rold. They crouch among the reeds. Theycarry nets and clubs to trap us.     Rold turned back toward the boat with Noork and Sarna close at hisheels. But the Misty Ones were upon them and by sheer numbers they borethem to the ground. Noork's mightier muscles smashed more than onehooded face but in the end he too lay smothered beneath the nets andbodies of the enemy.     A misty shape came to stand beside these three new captives as theywere stripped of their robes. His foot nudged at Noork's head curiouslyand a guttural voice commanded the shield be removed. Then his voicechanged—thickened—as he saw the features of Noork.     So, he barked in a tongue that should have been strange to Noork butwas not, it is the trapper's turn to be trapped, eh Captain Dietrich?  A fat, square-jawed face, harsh lines paralleling the ugly blob of anose, showed through the opened robe of the leader. The face was thatof Doctor Von Mark the treacherous Nazi scientist that Stephen Dietrichhad trailed across space to Sekk! But Noork knew nothing of that chase.The man's face seemed familiar, and hateful, but that was all heremembered.     I see you have come from the island, said the Doctor. Perhaps youcan tell me the secret of this invisible material I wear. With thesecret of invisibility I, Karl Von Mark, can again conquer Earth andmake the Fatherland invincible.     I do not understand too well, said Noork hesitantly. Are we enemies?There is so much I have forgotten. He regarded the brutal facethoughtfully.     Perhaps you know from what valley the great bird brought me, he said.Or perhaps the other bird brought you here.     Von Mark's blue eyes widened and then he roared with a great noisethat was intended to be mirth. His foot slammed harder into Noork'sdefenseless ribs.     Perhaps you have forgotten, swine of an American, he roared suddenly,and in his hand was an ugly looking automatic. He flung back his robeand Noork saw the dress uniform of a general. Perhaps, the scientistrepeated, but I will take no chances. The amnesia is often but apretense.     His lip curled. This is something for you to remember, CaptainDietrich, he said as the ugly black muzzle of the gun centered onNoork's bronzed chest.     And then Doctor Von Mark cursed as the gun dropped from his nervelessfingers and his hands clawed weakly at the arrow buried in his widebelly. He stumbled backward.     Arrows rained from the mistiness that had closed in about Von Mark andhis men. The men from Wari, their faces unshielded, fell like flies.In a moment those yet alive had taken to their heels, and Noork feltinvisible fingers tearing at the nets that bound him.     As he rose to his feet the robed figure let its misty covering dropaside. A handsome golden-skinned warrior stood revealed.     Gurn! cried Noork.     A glad cry came from the throat of Tholon Sarna as she saw her brother.And then she crept closer to Noork's side as the invisible mantlesof Gurn's loyal Vasads opened to reveal the hairy beast men theyconcealed. Rold whimpered fearfully.     The message that Ud carried to me was good, laughed Gurn. The MistyOnes skin easily. We were trapping the Misty Ones as they came acrossthe lake, he looked at the dying Von Mark, as were these others. Soonwe would have come to your rescue, Noork, my friend.     Lucky I escaped first, Noork told him. The priests of Uzdon wouldhave trapped you. To them the Misty Ones are visible.     He picked up the fallen vision shield that lay beside their feet. Hischest expanded proudly.     No longer, he told Gurn, am I a man without a name. I am CaptainDietrich from a distant valley called America. I was hunting this evilman when my bird died.     He smiled and his brown arm tightened around Sarna's golden body. Theevil man is dead. My native valley is safe. Now I can live in peacewith you, Gurn, and with your sister, here in the jungle.     It is good, Noork, smiled Tholon Sarna.   ","The story begins in thick jungle on Sekk, which we are told is a ""second moon"" which retains a ""breathable atmosphere"" around a lake surrounded by eleven jungled valleys.  In this way, it is implied that Sekk is a second moon of Earth.In the jungle, we meet Noork and a young woman named Sarna.  They begin traveling together through the jungle, but soon Sarna disappears and Noork is attacked.  This is our first encounter with the Misty Ones, who blend in with the jungle foliage.  Noork defeats the Misty Ones and continues toward the lake and island where they make their home.Noork briefly encounters his friend Ud near the marshy lowlands that lie between the jungled valleys on Sekk and the central Lake of Uzdon, but this area is not described.  When Noork reaches the central island in the lake, we encounter a non-jungle landscape for the first time.  Noork finds himself in a cultivated field, and sees the shape of a huge white skull about half a mile away.  After speaking with an enslaved man and learning where Sarna is being held, Noork continues toward the skull.The skull is a dome of white stone, with black stone for eye-sockets and nose-holes.  The interior contains a raised altar made of precious metals--gold, silver, and brass--and precious stones, as well as stone images of the two gods the Misty Ones worship.  Below the altar is the caged area where the young women are held; Noork detects the entrance to this area by its foul odor.  The room where the young women are kept is dimly lit by only two torches, very damp with pools of dirty water all around, and holds at least twenty young women.  They have nothing to sit on but rotten grass mats.  In contrast to the enslaved men who are out in the cultivated fields and open air, the young women are in a desperate situation indeed.  They can only sit in their foul, rotting prison and wait to be sacrificed."
"What is Gurn's role in the story? </s>    Raiders of the Second Moon     By GENE ELLERMAN     A strange destiny had erased Noork's memory,     and had brought him to this tiny world—to     write an end to his first existence.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Summer 1945.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Beyond earth swings that airless pocked mass of fused rock and grayvolcanic dust that we know as Luna. Of this our naked eyes assure us.But of the smaller satellite, hidden forever from the mundane view byLuna's bulk, we know little.     Small is Sekk, that second moon, less than five hundred miles indiameter, but the period of its revolution is thirty two hours, and itsmeaner mass retains a breathable atmosphere. There is life on Sekk,life that centers around the sunken star-shaped cavity where an ovallake gleams softly in the depths. And the eleven radiating tips of thestarry abyss are valleys green with jungle growth.     In one of those green valleys the white savage that the Vasads calledNoork squatted in the ample crotch of a jungle giant and watched thetrail forty feet below. For down there moved alertly a golden skinnedgirl, her only weapons a puny polished bow of yellow wood and asheathed dagger.     Sight of the girl's flowing brown hair and the graceful femininecontours of her smooth-limbed body beneath its skin-halter and theinsignificant breech-clout, made his brow wrinkle with concentration.Not forever had he lived in this jungle world of valleys and raggedcliffs. Since he had learned the tongue of the hairy Vasads of forest,and the tongue of their gold-skinned leader, Gurn, the renegade, he hadconfirmed that belief.     For a huge gleaming bird had carried him in its talons to the top ofthe cliff above their valley and from the rock fire had risen to devourthe great bird. Somehow he had been flung clear and escaped the deathof the mysterious bird-thing. And in his delirium he had babbled thewords that caused the apish Vasads to name him Noork. Now he repeatedthem aloud.     New York, he said, good ol' New York.     The girl heard. She looked upward fearfully, her rounded bare arm goingback to the bow slung across her shoulder. Swiftly she fitted an arrowand stepped back against the friendly bole of a shaggy barked junglegiant. Noork grinned.     Tako, woman, he greeted her.     Tako, she replied fearfully. Who speaks to Tholon Sarna? Be youhunter or escaped slave?     A friend, said Noork simply. It was I who killed the spotted      narl     last night when it attacked you.     Doubtfully the girl put away her bow. Her fingers, however, were neverfar from the hilt of her hunting dagger.     Noork swung outward from his perch, and then downward along the ladderof limbs to her side. The girl exclaimed at his brown skin.     Your hair is the color of the sun! she said. Your garb is Vasad, yetyou speak the language of the true men. Her violet oddly slanting eyesopened yet wider. Who are you?     I am Noork, the man told her. For many days have I dwelt among thewild Vasads of the jungle with their golden-skinned chief, Gurn, formy friend.     The girl impulsively took a step nearer. Gurn! she cried. Is he talland strong? Has he a bracelet of golden discs linked together withhuman hair? Does he talk with his own shadow when he thinks?     That is Gurn, admitted Noork shortly. He is also an exile from thewalled city of Grath. The city rulers call him a traitor. He has toldme the reason. Perhaps you know it as well?     Indeed I do, cried Sarna. My brother said that we should no longermake slaves of the captured Zurans from the other valleys.     Noork smiled. I am glad he is your brother, he said simply.  The girl's eyes fell before his admiring gaze and warm blood floodedinto her rounded neck and lovely cheeks.     Brown-skinned one! she cried with a stamp of her shapely littlesandalled foot. I am displeased with the noises of your tongue. I willlisten to it no more.     But her eyes gave the provocative lie to her words. This brown-skinnedgiant with the sunlit hair was very attractive....     The girl was still talking much later, as they walked together alongthe game-trail. When my captors were but one day's march from theirfoul city of Bis the warriors of the city of Konto, through whosefertile valley we had journeyed by night, fell upon the slavers.     And in the confusion of the attack five of us escaped. We returnedtoward the valley of Grath, but to avoid the intervening valley whereour enemies, the men of Konto, lived, we swung close to the Lake ofUzdon. And the Misty Ones from the Temple of the Skull trailed us. Ialone escaped.     Noork lifted the short, broad-bladed sword that swung in its sheathat his belt and let it drop back into place with a satisfying whisperof flexible leather on steel. He looked toward the east where lay themysterious long lake of the Misty Ones.     Some day, he said reflectively, I am going to visit the island ofthe unseen evil beings who stole away your friends. Perhaps after Ihave taken you to your brother's hidden village, and from there toyour city of Grath.... He smiled.     The girl did not answer. His keen ears, now that he was no longerspeaking, caught the scuffing of feet into the jungle behind him. Heturned quickly to find the girl had vanished, and with an instinctivereflex of motion he flung himself to one side into the dense wall ofthe jungle. As it was the unseen club thudded down along his right arm,numbing it so he felt nothing for some time.     One armed as he was temporarily, and with an unseen foe to reckon with,Noork awkwardly swung up into the comparative safety of the trees. Oncethere, perched in the crotch of a mighty jungle monarch, he peered downat the apparently empty stretch of sunken trail beneath.      Noork      At first he saw nothing out of the ordinary. Apparently there was nostir of life along that leaf-shadowed way. And then he caught a glimpseof blurring shadowy shapes, blotches of cottony mist that blended alltoo well with the foliage. One of the things from the island in theLake of Uzdon moved, and he saw briefly the bottom of a foot dirtiedwith the mud of the trail.     Noork squinted. So the Misty Ones were not entirely invisible. Painwas growing in his numbed arm now, but as it came so came strength. Heclimbed further out on the great branch to where sticky and overripefruit hung heavy. With a grin he locked his legs upon the forking ofthe great limb and filled his arms with fruit.     A barrage of the juicy fruit blanketed the misty shapes. Stains spreadand grew. Patchy outlines took on a new color and sharpness. Noorkfound that he was pelting a half-dozen hooded and robed creatures whosearms and legs numbered the same as his own, and the last remnant ofsuperstitious fear instilled in his bruised brain by the shaggy Vasadsvanished.     These Misty Ones were living breathing creatures like himself! Theywere not gods, or demons, or even the ghostly servants of demons. Hestrung his bow quickly, the short powerful bow that Gurn had given him,and rained arrows down upon the cowering robed creatures.     And the monsters fled. They fled down the trail or faded away into thejungle. All but one of them. The arrow had pierced a vital portion ofthis Misty One's body. He fell and moved no more.     A moment later Noork was ripping the stained cloak and hood from thefallen creature, curious to learn what ghastly brute-thing hid beneaththem. His lip curled at what he saw.     The Misty One was almost like himself. His skin was not so golden asthat of the other men of Zuran, and his forehead was low and retreatingin a bestial fashion. Upon his body there was more hair, and his facewas made hideous with swollen colored scars that formed an irregulardesign. He wore a sleeveless tunic of light green and his only weaponswere two long knives and a club.     So, said Noork, the men of the island prey upon their own kind. Andthe Temple of Uzdon in the lake is guarded by cowardly warriors likethis.     Noork shrugged his shoulders and set off at a mile-devouring pace downthe game trail toward the lake where the Temple of the Skull and itsunseen guardians lay. Once he stopped at a leaf-choked pool to wash thestains from the dead man's foggy robe.     The jungle was thinning out. Noork's teeth flashed as he lifted thedrying fabric of the mantle and donned it.  Ud tasted the scent of a man and sluggishly rolled his bullet head fromshoulder to shoulder as he tried to catch sight of his ages-old enemy.For between the hairy quarter-ton beast men of the jungles of Sekk andthe golden men of the valley cities who enslaved them there was eternalwar.     A growl rumbled deep in the hairy half-man's chest. He could see noenemy and yet the scent grew stronger with every breath.     You hunt too near the lake, called a voice. The demons of the waterwill trap you.     Ud's great nostrils quivered. He tasted the odor of a friend mingledwith that of a strange Zuran. He squatted.     It's Noork, he grunted. Why do I not see you?     I have stolen the skin of a demon, answered the invisible man. Go toGurn. Tell him to fear the demons no longer. Tell him the Misty Onescan be trapped and skinned.     Why you want their skins? Ud scratched his hairy gray skull.     Go to save Gurn's ... and here Noork was stumped for words. To savehis father's woman woman, he managed at last. Father's woman womancalled Sarna.     And the misty blob of nothingness was gone again, its goal now themarshy lowlands that extended upward perhaps a thousand feet from thejungle's ragged fringe to end at last in the muddy shallows of the Lakeof Uzdon.     To Noork it seemed that all the world must be like these savage junglefastnesses of the twelve valleys and their central lake. He knew thatthe giant bird had carried him from some other place that his batteredbrain could not remember, but to him it seemed incredible that mencould live elsewhere than in a jungle valley.     But Noork was wrong. The giant bird that he had ridden into the depthsof Sekk's fertile valleys had come from a far different world. And theother bird, for which Noork had been searching when he came upon thegolden-skinned girl, was from another world also.     The other bird had come from space several days before that of Noork,the Vasads had told him, and it had landed somewhere within the landof sunken valleys. Perhaps, thought Noork, the bird had come from thesame valley that had once been his home. He would find the bird andperhaps then he could remember better who he had been.     So it was, ironically enough, that Stephen Dietrich—whose memory wasgone completely—again took up the trail of Doctor Karl Von Mark, lastof the Axis criminals at large. The trail that had led the red-hairedyoung American flier from rebuilding Greece into Africa and the hiddenvalley where Doctor Von Mark worked feverishly to restore the crumbledstructure of Nazidom, and then had sent him hurtling spaceward in thesecond of the Doctor's crude space-ships was now drawing to an end.The Doctor and the young American pilot were both trapped here on thislittle blob of cosmic matter that hides beyond the Moon's cratered bulk.     The Doctor's ship had landed safely on Sekk, the wily scientistpreferring the lesser gravity of this fertile world to that of thelifeless Moon in the event that he returned again to Earth, butDietrich's spacer had crashed.     Two words linked Noork with the past, the two words that the Vasadshad slurred into his name: New York. And the battered wrist watch, itscrystal and hands gone, were all that remained of his Earthly garb.  Noork paddled the long flat dugout strongly away from the twilightshore toward the shadowy loom of the central island. Though he couldnot remember ever having held a paddle before he handled the ungainlyblade well.     After a time the clumsy prow of the craft rammed into a yieldingcushion of mud, and Noork pulled the dugout out of the water into theroofing shelter of a clump of drooping trees growing at the water'sedge.     Sword in hand he pushed inward from the shore and ended with asmothered exclamation against an unseen wall. Trees grew close up tothe wall and a moment later he had climbed out along a horizontalbranch beyond the wall's top, and was lowering his body with the aid ofa braided leather rope to the ground beyond.     He was in a cultivated field his feet and hands told him. And perhapshalf a mile away, faintly illumined by torches and red clots ofbonfires, towered a huge weathered white skull!     Secure in the knowledge that he wore the invisible robes of a MistyOne he found a solitary tree growing within the wall and climbed to acomfortable crotch. In less than a minute he was asleep.     The new slave, a rough voice cut across his slumber abruptly, is thedaughter of Tholon Dist the merchant.     Noork was fully awake now. They were speaking of Sarna. Her father'sname was Tholon Dist. It was early morning in the fields of the MistyOnes and he could see the two golden-skinned slaves who talked togetherbeneath his tree.     That matters not to the priests of Uzdon, the slighter of thetwo slaves, his hair almost white, said. If she be chosen for thesacrifice to great Uzdon her blood will stain the altar no redder thananother's.     But it is always the youngest and most beautiful, complained theyounger slave, that the priests chose. I wish to mate with a beautifulwoman. Tholon Sarna is such a one.     The old man chuckled dryly. If your wife be plain, he said, neithermaster nor fellow slave will steal her love. A slave should choose agood woman—and ugly, my son.     Some night, snarled the slave, I'm going over the wall. Even theMisty Ones will not catch me once I have crossed the lake.     Silence, hissed the white-haired man. Such talk is madness. We aresafe here from wild animals. There are no spotted narls on the islandof Manak. The priests of most holy Uzdon, and their invisible minions,are not unkind.     Get at your weeding of the field, Rold, he finished, and I willcomplete my checking of the gardens.     Noork waited until the old man was gone before he descended from thetree. He walked along the row until he reached the slave's bent back,and he knew by the sudden tightening of the man's shoulder musclesthat his presence was known. He looked down and saw that his feet madeclear-cut depressions in the soft rich soil of the field.       Continue to work, he said to the young man. Do not be too surprisedat what I am about to tell you, Rold. He paused and watched the goldenman's rather stupid face intently.     I am not a Misty One, Noork said. I killed the owner of this strangegarment I wear yesterday on the mainland. I have come to rescue thegirl, Tholon Sarna, of whom you spoke.     Rold's mouth hung open but his hard blunt fingers continued to work.The Misty Ones, then, he said slowly, are not immortal demons! Henodded his long-haired head. They are but men. They too can die.     If you will help me, Rold, said Noork, to rescue the girl and escapefrom the island I will take you along.     Rold was slow in answering. He had been born on the island and yet hispeople were from the valley city of Konto. He knew that they wouldwelcome the news that the Misty Ones were not demons. And the girl fromthe enemy city of Grath was beautiful. Perhaps she would love him forhelping to rescue her and come willingly with him to Konto.     I will help you, stranger, he agreed.     Then tell me of the Skull, and of the priests, and of the prison whereTholon Sarna is held.     The slave's fingers flew. All the young female slaves are cagedtogether in the pit beneath the Skull. When the sun is directlyoverhead the High Priest will choose one of them for sacrifice tomighty Uzdon, most potent of all gods. And with the dawning of thenext day the chosen one will be bound across the altar before greatUzdon's image and her heart torn from her living breast. The slave'smismatched eyes, one blue and the other brown, lifted from his work.     Tholon Sarna is in the pit beneath the Temple with the other femaleslaves. And the Misty Ones stand guard over the entrance to the templepits.     It is enough, said Noork. I will go to rescue her now. Be preparedto join us as we return. I will have a robe for you if all goes well.     If you are captured, cried Rold nervously, you will not tell them Italked with you?     Noork laughed. You never saw me, he told the slave.  The skull was a gigantic dome of shaped white stone. Where theeye-sockets and gaping nose-hole should have been, black squares ofrock gave the illusion of vacancy. Slitted apertures that served forwindows circled the grisly whiteness of the temple's curving walls atthree distinct levels.     Noork drifted slowly up the huge series of long bench-like stepsthat led up to the gaping jaws of the Skull. He saw red andpurple-robed priests with nodding head-dresses of painted plumes andfeathers climbing and descending the stairs. Among them moved thesquatty gnarled shapes of burdened Vasads, their shaggy bowed legsfettered together with heavy copper or bronze chains, and cringinggolden-skinned slaves slipped furtively through the press of thebrilliant-robed ones. The stale sweaty odor of the slaves and the beastmen mingled with the musky stench of the incense from the temple.     Other misty blobs, the invisible guards of the ghastly temple, werestationed at regular intervals across the great entrance into theSkull's interior, but they paid Noork no heed. To them he was anotherof their number.     He moved swiftly to cross the wide stone-slabbed entry within thejaws, and a moment later was looking down into a sunken bowl whoserocky floor was a score of feet below where he stood. Now he saw thecentral raised altar where the gleam of precious stones and cunninglyworked metal—gold, silver and brass—vied with the faded garishcolors of the draperies beneath it. And on the same dais there loomedtwo beast-headed stone images, the lion-headed god a male and thewolf-headed shape a female.     These then were the two blood hungry deities that the men of Zuraworshipped—mighty Uzdon and his mate, Lornu!     Noork joined the descending throng that walked slowly down the centralramp toward the altar. As he searched for the entrance to the lowerpits his eyes took in the stone steps that led upward into the twoupper levels. Only priests and the vague shapelessness of the MistyOnes climbed those steps. The upper levels, then, were forbidden tothe slaves and common citizens of the island.     As he circled the curving inner wall a foul dank odor reached hissensitive nostrils, and his eyes searched for its origin. He found itthere just before him, the opening that gave way to a descending flightof clammy stone steps. He darted toward the door and from nowhere twoshort swords rose to bar his way.     None are to pass save the priests, spoke a voice from nowheregruffly. The High Priest knows that we of the temple guards covet themost beautiful of the slave women, but we are not to see them until thesacrifice is chosen.     Noork moved backward a pace. He grumbled something inaudible and drewhis sword. Before him the two swords slowly drew aside.     In that instant Noork attacked. His keen sword, whetted to razorsharpness on abrasive bits of rock, bit through the hidden neck andshoulder of the guard on his right hand, and with the same forwardimpetus of attack he smashed into the body of the startled guard on hisleft.     His sword had wrenched from his hand as it jammed into the bonystructure of the decapitated Misty One's shoulder, and now both hishands sought the throat of the guard. The unseen man's cry of warninggurgled and died in his throat as Noork clamped his fingers shut uponit, and his shortened sword stabbed at Noork's back.     The struggle overbalanced them. They rolled over and over down theshadowy stair, the stone smashing at their softer flesh unmercifully.For a moment the battling men brought up with a jolt as the obstructionof the first guard's corpse arrested their downward course, and thenthey jolted and jarred onward again from blood-slippery step toblood-slippery step.     The sword clattered from the guardian Misty One's clutch and in thesame instant Noork's steel fingers snapped the neck of the other manwith a pistol-like report. The limp body beneath him struggled no more.He sprang to his feet and became aware of a torch-lighted doorway but ahalf-dozen paces further down along the descending shaft of steps.     In a moment, he thought, the fellows of this guard would come chargingout, swords in hand. They could not have failed to hear the struggleon the stairs of stone, he reasoned, for here the noise and confusionof the upper temple was muted to a murmur.     So it was that he ran quickly to the door, in his hand the sword thathad dropped from the dead man's fingers, and sprang inside, prepared tobattle there the Misty Ones, lest one escape to give the alarm.     He looked about the narrow stone-walled room with puzzled eyes. Twowarriors lay on a pallet of straw, one of them emitting hideousgurgling sounds that filled the little room with unpleasing echoes.Noork grinned.     From the floor beside the fatter of the two men, the guard who did notsnore, he took a club. Twice he struck and the gurgling sound changedto a steady deep breathing. Noork knew that now the two guards wouldnot give the alarm for several hours. Thoughtfully he looked about theroom. There were several of the hooded cloaks hanging from pegs wedgedinto the crevices of the chamber's wall, their outlines much plainerhere in the artificial light of the flickering torch.     Noork shed his own blood-stained robe quickly and donned one of theothers. The cloaks were rather bulky and so he could carry but twoothers, rolled up, beneath his own protective covering.     The matter of his disguise thus taken care of he dragged the two bodiesfrom the stairway and hid them beneath their own fouled robes in thechamber of the sleeping guards. Not until then did he hurry on down thestone steps toward the prison pit where Tholon Sarna, the golden girl,was held prisoner.  The steps opened into a dimly lit cavern. Pools of foul black waterdotted the uneven floor and reflected back faintly the light of the twosputtering torches beside the entrance. One corner of the cavern waswalled off, save for a narrow door of interlocking brass strips, andtoward this Noork made his way.     He stood beside the door. Sarna, he called softly, Tholon Sarna.     There were a score of young women, lately captured from the mainlandby the Misty Ones, sitting dejectedly upon the foul dampness of therotting grass that was their bed. Most of them were clad in the simpleskirt and brief jacket, reaching but to the lower ribs, that is themark of the golden people who dwell in the city-states of Zura'svalleys, but a few wore a simple band of cloth about their hips andconfined their breasts with a strip of well-cured leopard or antelopehide.     One of the women now came to her feet and as she neared themetal-barred entrance Noork saw that she was indeed Sarna. He examinedthe outer lock of the door and found it to be barred with a massivetimber and the timber locked in place with a metal spike slipped into aprepared cavity in the prison's rocky wall.     It is Noork, he said softly as she came closer. He saw her eyes gowide with fear and sudden hope, and then reached for the spike.     The priest, hissed the girl.     Noork had already heard the sound of approaching feet. He dropped thespike and whirled. His sword was in his hand as though by magic, as hefaced the burly priest of the Skull.     Across the forehead and upper half of the priest's face a curved shieldof transparent tinted material was fastened. Noork's eyes narrowed ashe saw the sword and shield of the gigantic holy man.     So, he said, to the priests of Uzdon we are not invisible. You donot trust your guards, then.     The priest laughed. We also have robes of invisibility, he said, andthe sacred window of Uzdon before our eyes. He snarled suddenly at thesilent figure of the white man. Down on your knees, guard, and show meyour face before I kill you!     Noork raised his sword. Take my hood off if you dare, priest, heoffered.     The burly priest's answer was a bellow of rage and a lunge forward ofhis sword arm. Their swords clicked together and slid apart with thevelvety smoothness of bronze on bronze. Noork's blade bit a chunk fromthe priest's conical shield, and in return received a slashing cut thatdrew blood from left shoulder to elbow.     The fighting grew more furious as the priest pressed the attack. Hewas a skilled swordsman and only the superior agility of the whiteman's legs kept Noork away from that darting priestly blade. Even sohis robe was slashed in a dozen places and blood reddened his bronzedbody. Once he slipped in a puddle of foul cavern water and only by theslightest of margins did he escape death by the priest's weapon.     The priest was tiring rapidly, however. The soft living of the temple,and the rich wines and over-cooked meats that served to pad his paunchso well with fat, now served to rob him of breath. He opened hismouth to bawl for assistance from the guard, although it is doubtfulwhether any sound could have penetrated up into the madhouse of themain temple's floor, and in that instant Noork flipped his sword at hisenemy.     Between the shield and the transparent bit of curving material thesword drove, and buried itself deep in the priest's thick neck. Noorkleaped forward; he snatched the tinted face shield and his sword, and amoment later he had torn the great wooden timber from its sockets.     Tholon Sarna stumbled through the door and he caught her in his arms.Hurriedly he loosed one of the two robes fastened about his waist andslipped it around her slim shivering shoulders.     Are there other priests hidden here in the pits? Noork asked tensely.     No, came the girl's low voice, I do not think so. I did not knowthat this priest was here until he appeared behind you. A slow smilecrossed Noork's hidden features. His robe must be close by, he toldthe girl. He must have been stationed here because the priests fearedthe guards might spirit away some of the prisoners.     Slowly he angled back and forth across the floor until his foot touchedthe soft material of the priest's discarded robe near the stairwayentrance. He slipped the thongs of the transparent mask, called by thepriest Uzdon's window over his hood, and then proceeded to don thenew robe.     My own robe is slit in a dozen places, he explained to the girl'scurious violet eyes—-all that was visible through the narrow visionslot of her hood. He finished adjusting the outer robe and took thegirl's hand.     Come, he said, let us escape over the wall before the alarm isgiven.  Without incident they reached the field where Rold toiled among therows of vegetables. Another slave was working in a nearby field,his crude wooden plow pulled by two sweating Vasads, but he was notwatching when Rold abruptly faded from view.     Noork was sweating with the weight of two cloaks and the airlessness ofthe vision shield as they crossed the field toward his rope, but he hadno wish to discard them yet. The tinted shield had revealed that dozensof the Misty Ones were stationed about the wall to guard against theescape of the slaves.     They came to the wall and to Noork's great joy found the rope hangingas he had left it. He climbed the wall first and then with Rold helpingfrom below, drew Sarna to his side. A moment later saw the three ofthem climbing along the limb to the bole of the tree and so to thejungle matted ground outside the wall.     Will we hide here in the trees until night? asked the girl's fullvoice.     Noork held aside a mossy creeper until the girl had passed. I thinknot, he said. The Misty Ones are continually passing from the islandto the shore. We are Misty Ones to any that watch from the wall. So wewill paddle boldly across the water.     That is good, agreed the slave, unless they see us put out from theshore. Their two landing stages are further along the beach, oppositethe Temple of Uzdon.     Then we must hug to the shore until we pass the tip of the island,said Noork thoughtfully. In that way even if they detect us we willhave put a safe distance between us.     Shortly after midday Noork felt the oozy slime of the marshy lowlandsof the mainland beneath his paddle and the dugout ran ashore in thegrassy inlet for which they had been heading. His palms were blisteredand the heavy robes he yet wore were soaked with sweat.     Once we reach the jungle, he told the girl, off come these robes. Iam broiled alive.     Suddenly Noork froze in his tracks. He thrust the girl behind him.Misty Ones! he hissed to Rold. They crouch among the reeds. Theycarry nets and clubs to trap us.     Rold turned back toward the boat with Noork and Sarna close at hisheels. But the Misty Ones were upon them and by sheer numbers they borethem to the ground. Noork's mightier muscles smashed more than onehooded face but in the end he too lay smothered beneath the nets andbodies of the enemy.     A misty shape came to stand beside these three new captives as theywere stripped of their robes. His foot nudged at Noork's head curiouslyand a guttural voice commanded the shield be removed. Then his voicechanged—thickened—as he saw the features of Noork.     So, he barked in a tongue that should have been strange to Noork butwas not, it is the trapper's turn to be trapped, eh Captain Dietrich?  A fat, square-jawed face, harsh lines paralleling the ugly blob of anose, showed through the opened robe of the leader. The face was thatof Doctor Von Mark the treacherous Nazi scientist that Stephen Dietrichhad trailed across space to Sekk! But Noork knew nothing of that chase.The man's face seemed familiar, and hateful, but that was all heremembered.     I see you have come from the island, said the Doctor. Perhaps youcan tell me the secret of this invisible material I wear. With thesecret of invisibility I, Karl Von Mark, can again conquer Earth andmake the Fatherland invincible.     I do not understand too well, said Noork hesitantly. Are we enemies?There is so much I have forgotten. He regarded the brutal facethoughtfully.     Perhaps you know from what valley the great bird brought me, he said.Or perhaps the other bird brought you here.     Von Mark's blue eyes widened and then he roared with a great noisethat was intended to be mirth. His foot slammed harder into Noork'sdefenseless ribs.     Perhaps you have forgotten, swine of an American, he roared suddenly,and in his hand was an ugly looking automatic. He flung back his robeand Noork saw the dress uniform of a general. Perhaps, the scientistrepeated, but I will take no chances. The amnesia is often but apretense.     His lip curled. This is something for you to remember, CaptainDietrich, he said as the ugly black muzzle of the gun centered onNoork's bronzed chest.     And then Doctor Von Mark cursed as the gun dropped from his nervelessfingers and his hands clawed weakly at the arrow buried in his widebelly. He stumbled backward.     Arrows rained from the mistiness that had closed in about Von Mark andhis men. The men from Wari, their faces unshielded, fell like flies.In a moment those yet alive had taken to their heels, and Noork feltinvisible fingers tearing at the nets that bound him.     As he rose to his feet the robed figure let its misty covering dropaside. A handsome golden-skinned warrior stood revealed.     Gurn! cried Noork.     A glad cry came from the throat of Tholon Sarna as she saw her brother.And then she crept closer to Noork's side as the invisible mantlesof Gurn's loyal Vasads opened to reveal the hairy beast men theyconcealed. Rold whimpered fearfully.     The message that Ud carried to me was good, laughed Gurn. The MistyOnes skin easily. We were trapping the Misty Ones as they came acrossthe lake, he looked at the dying Von Mark, as were these others. Soonwe would have come to your rescue, Noork, my friend.     Lucky I escaped first, Noork told him. The priests of Uzdon wouldhave trapped you. To them the Misty Ones are visible.     He picked up the fallen vision shield that lay beside their feet. Hischest expanded proudly.     No longer, he told Gurn, am I a man without a name. I am CaptainDietrich from a distant valley called America. I was hunting this evilman when my bird died.     He smiled and his brown arm tightened around Sarna's golden body. Theevil man is dead. My native valley is safe. Now I can live in peacewith you, Gurn, and with your sister, here in the jungle.     It is good, Noork, smiled Tholon Sarna.   ","We first hear Gurn's name mentioned by Noork in his initial meeting with Sarna.  He tells her that he has been living with the wild Vasads of the jungle with Gurn, his friend and their chief.  Noork goes on to say that Gurn is an exile from the walled city of Grath and asks Sarna if she knows why this is.  Sarna says that her brother says they should no longer enslave Zurans they capture from other valleys.  In this way, their relationships with Gurn build a bridge between them, allowing them to consider a relationship with one another.Gurn is next mentioned when Noork encounters his friend Ud near the central lake of Sekk, the moon they are on.  Noork asks Ud to go to their mutual friend Gurn and pass on a message.  Noork asks Ud to tell Gurn that the Misty Ones can be trapped and skinned.  When Ud wonders why anyone would want to do such a thing, Noork tells him that Noork is trying to save Gurn's ""father's woman woman"", as he describes Gurn's sister Sarna.Gurn then arrives as something between a hero and a deus ex machina at the very end of the story.  Noork, Sarna, and Rold, an enslaved man who helped Noork free Sarna, are about to be murdered by Doctor Von Mark and the Misty Ones, when Gurn and his allies arrive and shoot the enemy full of arrows, saving all their lives.  Gurn reveals that he received Ud's messages and they were trapping the Misty Ones as they came across the lake and stealing their robes so they could come to Noork's rescue.  Without Gurn, Noork and Sarna would never have traveled together in the first place, nor would they have been rescued at the end."
"What is the significance of enslavement in the story? </s>    Raiders of the Second Moon     By GENE ELLERMAN     A strange destiny had erased Noork's memory,     and had brought him to this tiny world—to     write an end to his first existence.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Summer 1945.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Beyond earth swings that airless pocked mass of fused rock and grayvolcanic dust that we know as Luna. Of this our naked eyes assure us.But of the smaller satellite, hidden forever from the mundane view byLuna's bulk, we know little.     Small is Sekk, that second moon, less than five hundred miles indiameter, but the period of its revolution is thirty two hours, and itsmeaner mass retains a breathable atmosphere. There is life on Sekk,life that centers around the sunken star-shaped cavity where an ovallake gleams softly in the depths. And the eleven radiating tips of thestarry abyss are valleys green with jungle growth.     In one of those green valleys the white savage that the Vasads calledNoork squatted in the ample crotch of a jungle giant and watched thetrail forty feet below. For down there moved alertly a golden skinnedgirl, her only weapons a puny polished bow of yellow wood and asheathed dagger.     Sight of the girl's flowing brown hair and the graceful femininecontours of her smooth-limbed body beneath its skin-halter and theinsignificant breech-clout, made his brow wrinkle with concentration.Not forever had he lived in this jungle world of valleys and raggedcliffs. Since he had learned the tongue of the hairy Vasads of forest,and the tongue of their gold-skinned leader, Gurn, the renegade, he hadconfirmed that belief.     For a huge gleaming bird had carried him in its talons to the top ofthe cliff above their valley and from the rock fire had risen to devourthe great bird. Somehow he had been flung clear and escaped the deathof the mysterious bird-thing. And in his delirium he had babbled thewords that caused the apish Vasads to name him Noork. Now he repeatedthem aloud.     New York, he said, good ol' New York.     The girl heard. She looked upward fearfully, her rounded bare arm goingback to the bow slung across her shoulder. Swiftly she fitted an arrowand stepped back against the friendly bole of a shaggy barked junglegiant. Noork grinned.     Tako, woman, he greeted her.     Tako, she replied fearfully. Who speaks to Tholon Sarna? Be youhunter or escaped slave?     A friend, said Noork simply. It was I who killed the spotted      narl     last night when it attacked you.     Doubtfully the girl put away her bow. Her fingers, however, were neverfar from the hilt of her hunting dagger.     Noork swung outward from his perch, and then downward along the ladderof limbs to her side. The girl exclaimed at his brown skin.     Your hair is the color of the sun! she said. Your garb is Vasad, yetyou speak the language of the true men. Her violet oddly slanting eyesopened yet wider. Who are you?     I am Noork, the man told her. For many days have I dwelt among thewild Vasads of the jungle with their golden-skinned chief, Gurn, formy friend.     The girl impulsively took a step nearer. Gurn! she cried. Is he talland strong? Has he a bracelet of golden discs linked together withhuman hair? Does he talk with his own shadow when he thinks?     That is Gurn, admitted Noork shortly. He is also an exile from thewalled city of Grath. The city rulers call him a traitor. He has toldme the reason. Perhaps you know it as well?     Indeed I do, cried Sarna. My brother said that we should no longermake slaves of the captured Zurans from the other valleys.     Noork smiled. I am glad he is your brother, he said simply.  The girl's eyes fell before his admiring gaze and warm blood floodedinto her rounded neck and lovely cheeks.     Brown-skinned one! she cried with a stamp of her shapely littlesandalled foot. I am displeased with the noises of your tongue. I willlisten to it no more.     But her eyes gave the provocative lie to her words. This brown-skinnedgiant with the sunlit hair was very attractive....     The girl was still talking much later, as they walked together alongthe game-trail. When my captors were but one day's march from theirfoul city of Bis the warriors of the city of Konto, through whosefertile valley we had journeyed by night, fell upon the slavers.     And in the confusion of the attack five of us escaped. We returnedtoward the valley of Grath, but to avoid the intervening valley whereour enemies, the men of Konto, lived, we swung close to the Lake ofUzdon. And the Misty Ones from the Temple of the Skull trailed us. Ialone escaped.     Noork lifted the short, broad-bladed sword that swung in its sheathat his belt and let it drop back into place with a satisfying whisperof flexible leather on steel. He looked toward the east where lay themysterious long lake of the Misty Ones.     Some day, he said reflectively, I am going to visit the island ofthe unseen evil beings who stole away your friends. Perhaps after Ihave taken you to your brother's hidden village, and from there toyour city of Grath.... He smiled.     The girl did not answer. His keen ears, now that he was no longerspeaking, caught the scuffing of feet into the jungle behind him. Heturned quickly to find the girl had vanished, and with an instinctivereflex of motion he flung himself to one side into the dense wall ofthe jungle. As it was the unseen club thudded down along his right arm,numbing it so he felt nothing for some time.     One armed as he was temporarily, and with an unseen foe to reckon with,Noork awkwardly swung up into the comparative safety of the trees. Oncethere, perched in the crotch of a mighty jungle monarch, he peered downat the apparently empty stretch of sunken trail beneath.      Noork      At first he saw nothing out of the ordinary. Apparently there was nostir of life along that leaf-shadowed way. And then he caught a glimpseof blurring shadowy shapes, blotches of cottony mist that blended alltoo well with the foliage. One of the things from the island in theLake of Uzdon moved, and he saw briefly the bottom of a foot dirtiedwith the mud of the trail.     Noork squinted. So the Misty Ones were not entirely invisible. Painwas growing in his numbed arm now, but as it came so came strength. Heclimbed further out on the great branch to where sticky and overripefruit hung heavy. With a grin he locked his legs upon the forking ofthe great limb and filled his arms with fruit.     A barrage of the juicy fruit blanketed the misty shapes. Stains spreadand grew. Patchy outlines took on a new color and sharpness. Noorkfound that he was pelting a half-dozen hooded and robed creatures whosearms and legs numbered the same as his own, and the last remnant ofsuperstitious fear instilled in his bruised brain by the shaggy Vasadsvanished.     These Misty Ones were living breathing creatures like himself! Theywere not gods, or demons, or even the ghostly servants of demons. Hestrung his bow quickly, the short powerful bow that Gurn had given him,and rained arrows down upon the cowering robed creatures.     And the monsters fled. They fled down the trail or faded away into thejungle. All but one of them. The arrow had pierced a vital portion ofthis Misty One's body. He fell and moved no more.     A moment later Noork was ripping the stained cloak and hood from thefallen creature, curious to learn what ghastly brute-thing hid beneaththem. His lip curled at what he saw.     The Misty One was almost like himself. His skin was not so golden asthat of the other men of Zuran, and his forehead was low and retreatingin a bestial fashion. Upon his body there was more hair, and his facewas made hideous with swollen colored scars that formed an irregulardesign. He wore a sleeveless tunic of light green and his only weaponswere two long knives and a club.     So, said Noork, the men of the island prey upon their own kind. Andthe Temple of Uzdon in the lake is guarded by cowardly warriors likethis.     Noork shrugged his shoulders and set off at a mile-devouring pace downthe game trail toward the lake where the Temple of the Skull and itsunseen guardians lay. Once he stopped at a leaf-choked pool to wash thestains from the dead man's foggy robe.     The jungle was thinning out. Noork's teeth flashed as he lifted thedrying fabric of the mantle and donned it.  Ud tasted the scent of a man and sluggishly rolled his bullet head fromshoulder to shoulder as he tried to catch sight of his ages-old enemy.For between the hairy quarter-ton beast men of the jungles of Sekk andthe golden men of the valley cities who enslaved them there was eternalwar.     A growl rumbled deep in the hairy half-man's chest. He could see noenemy and yet the scent grew stronger with every breath.     You hunt too near the lake, called a voice. The demons of the waterwill trap you.     Ud's great nostrils quivered. He tasted the odor of a friend mingledwith that of a strange Zuran. He squatted.     It's Noork, he grunted. Why do I not see you?     I have stolen the skin of a demon, answered the invisible man. Go toGurn. Tell him to fear the demons no longer. Tell him the Misty Onescan be trapped and skinned.     Why you want their skins? Ud scratched his hairy gray skull.     Go to save Gurn's ... and here Noork was stumped for words. To savehis father's woman woman, he managed at last. Father's woman womancalled Sarna.     And the misty blob of nothingness was gone again, its goal now themarshy lowlands that extended upward perhaps a thousand feet from thejungle's ragged fringe to end at last in the muddy shallows of the Lakeof Uzdon.     To Noork it seemed that all the world must be like these savage junglefastnesses of the twelve valleys and their central lake. He knew thatthe giant bird had carried him from some other place that his batteredbrain could not remember, but to him it seemed incredible that mencould live elsewhere than in a jungle valley.     But Noork was wrong. The giant bird that he had ridden into the depthsof Sekk's fertile valleys had come from a far different world. And theother bird, for which Noork had been searching when he came upon thegolden-skinned girl, was from another world also.     The other bird had come from space several days before that of Noork,the Vasads had told him, and it had landed somewhere within the landof sunken valleys. Perhaps, thought Noork, the bird had come from thesame valley that had once been his home. He would find the bird andperhaps then he could remember better who he had been.     So it was, ironically enough, that Stephen Dietrich—whose memory wasgone completely—again took up the trail of Doctor Karl Von Mark, lastof the Axis criminals at large. The trail that had led the red-hairedyoung American flier from rebuilding Greece into Africa and the hiddenvalley where Doctor Von Mark worked feverishly to restore the crumbledstructure of Nazidom, and then had sent him hurtling spaceward in thesecond of the Doctor's crude space-ships was now drawing to an end.The Doctor and the young American pilot were both trapped here on thislittle blob of cosmic matter that hides beyond the Moon's cratered bulk.     The Doctor's ship had landed safely on Sekk, the wily scientistpreferring the lesser gravity of this fertile world to that of thelifeless Moon in the event that he returned again to Earth, butDietrich's spacer had crashed.     Two words linked Noork with the past, the two words that the Vasadshad slurred into his name: New York. And the battered wrist watch, itscrystal and hands gone, were all that remained of his Earthly garb.  Noork paddled the long flat dugout strongly away from the twilightshore toward the shadowy loom of the central island. Though he couldnot remember ever having held a paddle before he handled the ungainlyblade well.     After a time the clumsy prow of the craft rammed into a yieldingcushion of mud, and Noork pulled the dugout out of the water into theroofing shelter of a clump of drooping trees growing at the water'sedge.     Sword in hand he pushed inward from the shore and ended with asmothered exclamation against an unseen wall. Trees grew close up tothe wall and a moment later he had climbed out along a horizontalbranch beyond the wall's top, and was lowering his body with the aid ofa braided leather rope to the ground beyond.     He was in a cultivated field his feet and hands told him. And perhapshalf a mile away, faintly illumined by torches and red clots ofbonfires, towered a huge weathered white skull!     Secure in the knowledge that he wore the invisible robes of a MistyOne he found a solitary tree growing within the wall and climbed to acomfortable crotch. In less than a minute he was asleep.     The new slave, a rough voice cut across his slumber abruptly, is thedaughter of Tholon Dist the merchant.     Noork was fully awake now. They were speaking of Sarna. Her father'sname was Tholon Dist. It was early morning in the fields of the MistyOnes and he could see the two golden-skinned slaves who talked togetherbeneath his tree.     That matters not to the priests of Uzdon, the slighter of thetwo slaves, his hair almost white, said. If she be chosen for thesacrifice to great Uzdon her blood will stain the altar no redder thananother's.     But it is always the youngest and most beautiful, complained theyounger slave, that the priests chose. I wish to mate with a beautifulwoman. Tholon Sarna is such a one.     The old man chuckled dryly. If your wife be plain, he said, neithermaster nor fellow slave will steal her love. A slave should choose agood woman—and ugly, my son.     Some night, snarled the slave, I'm going over the wall. Even theMisty Ones will not catch me once I have crossed the lake.     Silence, hissed the white-haired man. Such talk is madness. We aresafe here from wild animals. There are no spotted narls on the islandof Manak. The priests of most holy Uzdon, and their invisible minions,are not unkind.     Get at your weeding of the field, Rold, he finished, and I willcomplete my checking of the gardens.     Noork waited until the old man was gone before he descended from thetree. He walked along the row until he reached the slave's bent back,and he knew by the sudden tightening of the man's shoulder musclesthat his presence was known. He looked down and saw that his feet madeclear-cut depressions in the soft rich soil of the field.       Continue to work, he said to the young man. Do not be too surprisedat what I am about to tell you, Rold. He paused and watched the goldenman's rather stupid face intently.     I am not a Misty One, Noork said. I killed the owner of this strangegarment I wear yesterday on the mainland. I have come to rescue thegirl, Tholon Sarna, of whom you spoke.     Rold's mouth hung open but his hard blunt fingers continued to work.The Misty Ones, then, he said slowly, are not immortal demons! Henodded his long-haired head. They are but men. They too can die.     If you will help me, Rold, said Noork, to rescue the girl and escapefrom the island I will take you along.     Rold was slow in answering. He had been born on the island and yet hispeople were from the valley city of Konto. He knew that they wouldwelcome the news that the Misty Ones were not demons. And the girl fromthe enemy city of Grath was beautiful. Perhaps she would love him forhelping to rescue her and come willingly with him to Konto.     I will help you, stranger, he agreed.     Then tell me of the Skull, and of the priests, and of the prison whereTholon Sarna is held.     The slave's fingers flew. All the young female slaves are cagedtogether in the pit beneath the Skull. When the sun is directlyoverhead the High Priest will choose one of them for sacrifice tomighty Uzdon, most potent of all gods. And with the dawning of thenext day the chosen one will be bound across the altar before greatUzdon's image and her heart torn from her living breast. The slave'smismatched eyes, one blue and the other brown, lifted from his work.     Tholon Sarna is in the pit beneath the Temple with the other femaleslaves. And the Misty Ones stand guard over the entrance to the templepits.     It is enough, said Noork. I will go to rescue her now. Be preparedto join us as we return. I will have a robe for you if all goes well.     If you are captured, cried Rold nervously, you will not tell them Italked with you?     Noork laughed. You never saw me, he told the slave.  The skull was a gigantic dome of shaped white stone. Where theeye-sockets and gaping nose-hole should have been, black squares ofrock gave the illusion of vacancy. Slitted apertures that served forwindows circled the grisly whiteness of the temple's curving walls atthree distinct levels.     Noork drifted slowly up the huge series of long bench-like stepsthat led up to the gaping jaws of the Skull. He saw red andpurple-robed priests with nodding head-dresses of painted plumes andfeathers climbing and descending the stairs. Among them moved thesquatty gnarled shapes of burdened Vasads, their shaggy bowed legsfettered together with heavy copper or bronze chains, and cringinggolden-skinned slaves slipped furtively through the press of thebrilliant-robed ones. The stale sweaty odor of the slaves and the beastmen mingled with the musky stench of the incense from the temple.     Other misty blobs, the invisible guards of the ghastly temple, werestationed at regular intervals across the great entrance into theSkull's interior, but they paid Noork no heed. To them he was anotherof their number.     He moved swiftly to cross the wide stone-slabbed entry within thejaws, and a moment later was looking down into a sunken bowl whoserocky floor was a score of feet below where he stood. Now he saw thecentral raised altar where the gleam of precious stones and cunninglyworked metal—gold, silver and brass—vied with the faded garishcolors of the draperies beneath it. And on the same dais there loomedtwo beast-headed stone images, the lion-headed god a male and thewolf-headed shape a female.     These then were the two blood hungry deities that the men of Zuraworshipped—mighty Uzdon and his mate, Lornu!     Noork joined the descending throng that walked slowly down the centralramp toward the altar. As he searched for the entrance to the lowerpits his eyes took in the stone steps that led upward into the twoupper levels. Only priests and the vague shapelessness of the MistyOnes climbed those steps. The upper levels, then, were forbidden tothe slaves and common citizens of the island.     As he circled the curving inner wall a foul dank odor reached hissensitive nostrils, and his eyes searched for its origin. He found itthere just before him, the opening that gave way to a descending flightof clammy stone steps. He darted toward the door and from nowhere twoshort swords rose to bar his way.     None are to pass save the priests, spoke a voice from nowheregruffly. The High Priest knows that we of the temple guards covet themost beautiful of the slave women, but we are not to see them until thesacrifice is chosen.     Noork moved backward a pace. He grumbled something inaudible and drewhis sword. Before him the two swords slowly drew aside.     In that instant Noork attacked. His keen sword, whetted to razorsharpness on abrasive bits of rock, bit through the hidden neck andshoulder of the guard on his right hand, and with the same forwardimpetus of attack he smashed into the body of the startled guard on hisleft.     His sword had wrenched from his hand as it jammed into the bonystructure of the decapitated Misty One's shoulder, and now both hishands sought the throat of the guard. The unseen man's cry of warninggurgled and died in his throat as Noork clamped his fingers shut uponit, and his shortened sword stabbed at Noork's back.     The struggle overbalanced them. They rolled over and over down theshadowy stair, the stone smashing at their softer flesh unmercifully.For a moment the battling men brought up with a jolt as the obstructionof the first guard's corpse arrested their downward course, and thenthey jolted and jarred onward again from blood-slippery step toblood-slippery step.     The sword clattered from the guardian Misty One's clutch and in thesame instant Noork's steel fingers snapped the neck of the other manwith a pistol-like report. The limp body beneath him struggled no more.He sprang to his feet and became aware of a torch-lighted doorway but ahalf-dozen paces further down along the descending shaft of steps.     In a moment, he thought, the fellows of this guard would come chargingout, swords in hand. They could not have failed to hear the struggleon the stairs of stone, he reasoned, for here the noise and confusionof the upper temple was muted to a murmur.     So it was that he ran quickly to the door, in his hand the sword thathad dropped from the dead man's fingers, and sprang inside, prepared tobattle there the Misty Ones, lest one escape to give the alarm.     He looked about the narrow stone-walled room with puzzled eyes. Twowarriors lay on a pallet of straw, one of them emitting hideousgurgling sounds that filled the little room with unpleasing echoes.Noork grinned.     From the floor beside the fatter of the two men, the guard who did notsnore, he took a club. Twice he struck and the gurgling sound changedto a steady deep breathing. Noork knew that now the two guards wouldnot give the alarm for several hours. Thoughtfully he looked about theroom. There were several of the hooded cloaks hanging from pegs wedgedinto the crevices of the chamber's wall, their outlines much plainerhere in the artificial light of the flickering torch.     Noork shed his own blood-stained robe quickly and donned one of theothers. The cloaks were rather bulky and so he could carry but twoothers, rolled up, beneath his own protective covering.     The matter of his disguise thus taken care of he dragged the two bodiesfrom the stairway and hid them beneath their own fouled robes in thechamber of the sleeping guards. Not until then did he hurry on down thestone steps toward the prison pit where Tholon Sarna, the golden girl,was held prisoner.  The steps opened into a dimly lit cavern. Pools of foul black waterdotted the uneven floor and reflected back faintly the light of the twosputtering torches beside the entrance. One corner of the cavern waswalled off, save for a narrow door of interlocking brass strips, andtoward this Noork made his way.     He stood beside the door. Sarna, he called softly, Tholon Sarna.     There were a score of young women, lately captured from the mainlandby the Misty Ones, sitting dejectedly upon the foul dampness of therotting grass that was their bed. Most of them were clad in the simpleskirt and brief jacket, reaching but to the lower ribs, that is themark of the golden people who dwell in the city-states of Zura'svalleys, but a few wore a simple band of cloth about their hips andconfined their breasts with a strip of well-cured leopard or antelopehide.     One of the women now came to her feet and as she neared themetal-barred entrance Noork saw that she was indeed Sarna. He examinedthe outer lock of the door and found it to be barred with a massivetimber and the timber locked in place with a metal spike slipped into aprepared cavity in the prison's rocky wall.     It is Noork, he said softly as she came closer. He saw her eyes gowide with fear and sudden hope, and then reached for the spike.     The priest, hissed the girl.     Noork had already heard the sound of approaching feet. He dropped thespike and whirled. His sword was in his hand as though by magic, as hefaced the burly priest of the Skull.     Across the forehead and upper half of the priest's face a curved shieldof transparent tinted material was fastened. Noork's eyes narrowed ashe saw the sword and shield of the gigantic holy man.     So, he said, to the priests of Uzdon we are not invisible. You donot trust your guards, then.     The priest laughed. We also have robes of invisibility, he said, andthe sacred window of Uzdon before our eyes. He snarled suddenly at thesilent figure of the white man. Down on your knees, guard, and show meyour face before I kill you!     Noork raised his sword. Take my hood off if you dare, priest, heoffered.     The burly priest's answer was a bellow of rage and a lunge forward ofhis sword arm. Their swords clicked together and slid apart with thevelvety smoothness of bronze on bronze. Noork's blade bit a chunk fromthe priest's conical shield, and in return received a slashing cut thatdrew blood from left shoulder to elbow.     The fighting grew more furious as the priest pressed the attack. Hewas a skilled swordsman and only the superior agility of the whiteman's legs kept Noork away from that darting priestly blade. Even sohis robe was slashed in a dozen places and blood reddened his bronzedbody. Once he slipped in a puddle of foul cavern water and only by theslightest of margins did he escape death by the priest's weapon.     The priest was tiring rapidly, however. The soft living of the temple,and the rich wines and over-cooked meats that served to pad his paunchso well with fat, now served to rob him of breath. He opened hismouth to bawl for assistance from the guard, although it is doubtfulwhether any sound could have penetrated up into the madhouse of themain temple's floor, and in that instant Noork flipped his sword at hisenemy.     Between the shield and the transparent bit of curving material thesword drove, and buried itself deep in the priest's thick neck. Noorkleaped forward; he snatched the tinted face shield and his sword, and amoment later he had torn the great wooden timber from its sockets.     Tholon Sarna stumbled through the door and he caught her in his arms.Hurriedly he loosed one of the two robes fastened about his waist andslipped it around her slim shivering shoulders.     Are there other priests hidden here in the pits? Noork asked tensely.     No, came the girl's low voice, I do not think so. I did not knowthat this priest was here until he appeared behind you. A slow smilecrossed Noork's hidden features. His robe must be close by, he toldthe girl. He must have been stationed here because the priests fearedthe guards might spirit away some of the prisoners.     Slowly he angled back and forth across the floor until his foot touchedthe soft material of the priest's discarded robe near the stairwayentrance. He slipped the thongs of the transparent mask, called by thepriest Uzdon's window over his hood, and then proceeded to don thenew robe.     My own robe is slit in a dozen places, he explained to the girl'scurious violet eyes—-all that was visible through the narrow visionslot of her hood. He finished adjusting the outer robe and took thegirl's hand.     Come, he said, let us escape over the wall before the alarm isgiven.  Without incident they reached the field where Rold toiled among therows of vegetables. Another slave was working in a nearby field,his crude wooden plow pulled by two sweating Vasads, but he was notwatching when Rold abruptly faded from view.     Noork was sweating with the weight of two cloaks and the airlessness ofthe vision shield as they crossed the field toward his rope, but he hadno wish to discard them yet. The tinted shield had revealed that dozensof the Misty Ones were stationed about the wall to guard against theescape of the slaves.     They came to the wall and to Noork's great joy found the rope hangingas he had left it. He climbed the wall first and then with Rold helpingfrom below, drew Sarna to his side. A moment later saw the three ofthem climbing along the limb to the bole of the tree and so to thejungle matted ground outside the wall.     Will we hide here in the trees until night? asked the girl's fullvoice.     Noork held aside a mossy creeper until the girl had passed. I thinknot, he said. The Misty Ones are continually passing from the islandto the shore. We are Misty Ones to any that watch from the wall. So wewill paddle boldly across the water.     That is good, agreed the slave, unless they see us put out from theshore. Their two landing stages are further along the beach, oppositethe Temple of Uzdon.     Then we must hug to the shore until we pass the tip of the island,said Noork thoughtfully. In that way even if they detect us we willhave put a safe distance between us.     Shortly after midday Noork felt the oozy slime of the marshy lowlandsof the mainland beneath his paddle and the dugout ran ashore in thegrassy inlet for which they had been heading. His palms were blisteredand the heavy robes he yet wore were soaked with sweat.     Once we reach the jungle, he told the girl, off come these robes. Iam broiled alive.     Suddenly Noork froze in his tracks. He thrust the girl behind him.Misty Ones! he hissed to Rold. They crouch among the reeds. Theycarry nets and clubs to trap us.     Rold turned back toward the boat with Noork and Sarna close at hisheels. But the Misty Ones were upon them and by sheer numbers they borethem to the ground. Noork's mightier muscles smashed more than onehooded face but in the end he too lay smothered beneath the nets andbodies of the enemy.     A misty shape came to stand beside these three new captives as theywere stripped of their robes. His foot nudged at Noork's head curiouslyand a guttural voice commanded the shield be removed. Then his voicechanged—thickened—as he saw the features of Noork.     So, he barked in a tongue that should have been strange to Noork butwas not, it is the trapper's turn to be trapped, eh Captain Dietrich?  A fat, square-jawed face, harsh lines paralleling the ugly blob of anose, showed through the opened robe of the leader. The face was thatof Doctor Von Mark the treacherous Nazi scientist that Stephen Dietrichhad trailed across space to Sekk! But Noork knew nothing of that chase.The man's face seemed familiar, and hateful, but that was all heremembered.     I see you have come from the island, said the Doctor. Perhaps youcan tell me the secret of this invisible material I wear. With thesecret of invisibility I, Karl Von Mark, can again conquer Earth andmake the Fatherland invincible.     I do not understand too well, said Noork hesitantly. Are we enemies?There is so much I have forgotten. He regarded the brutal facethoughtfully.     Perhaps you know from what valley the great bird brought me, he said.Or perhaps the other bird brought you here.     Von Mark's blue eyes widened and then he roared with a great noisethat was intended to be mirth. His foot slammed harder into Noork'sdefenseless ribs.     Perhaps you have forgotten, swine of an American, he roared suddenly,and in his hand was an ugly looking automatic. He flung back his robeand Noork saw the dress uniform of a general. Perhaps, the scientistrepeated, but I will take no chances. The amnesia is often but apretense.     His lip curled. This is something for you to remember, CaptainDietrich, he said as the ugly black muzzle of the gun centered onNoork's bronzed chest.     And then Doctor Von Mark cursed as the gun dropped from his nervelessfingers and his hands clawed weakly at the arrow buried in his widebelly. He stumbled backward.     Arrows rained from the mistiness that had closed in about Von Mark andhis men. The men from Wari, their faces unshielded, fell like flies.In a moment those yet alive had taken to their heels, and Noork feltinvisible fingers tearing at the nets that bound him.     As he rose to his feet the robed figure let its misty covering dropaside. A handsome golden-skinned warrior stood revealed.     Gurn! cried Noork.     A glad cry came from the throat of Tholon Sarna as she saw her brother.And then she crept closer to Noork's side as the invisible mantlesof Gurn's loyal Vasads opened to reveal the hairy beast men theyconcealed. Rold whimpered fearfully.     The message that Ud carried to me was good, laughed Gurn. The MistyOnes skin easily. We were trapping the Misty Ones as they came acrossthe lake, he looked at the dying Von Mark, as were these others. Soonwe would have come to your rescue, Noork, my friend.     Lucky I escaped first, Noork told him. The priests of Uzdon wouldhave trapped you. To them the Misty Ones are visible.     He picked up the fallen vision shield that lay beside their feet. Hischest expanded proudly.     No longer, he told Gurn, am I a man without a name. I am CaptainDietrich from a distant valley called America. I was hunting this evilman when my bird died.     He smiled and his brown arm tightened around Sarna's golden body. Theevil man is dead. My native valley is safe. Now I can live in peacewith you, Gurn, and with your sister, here in the jungle.     It is good, Noork, smiled Tholon Sarna.   ","Enslavement and freedom as themes run throughout the story.  When Noork and Sarna first meet each other in the opening scene, one of the ways they decide to trust one another is because of their mutual relationships with Gurn, a third character.  Gurn has been exiled from the city of Grath because he says that his people should no longer enslave the captured Zurans from other valleys of Sekk.  In the next scene, we learn that Sarna, Gurn's sister, was kidnapped by one group of slavers, escaped them with four others, and only narrowly escaped capture by a second group of slavers, the Misty Ones from the Temple of the Skull, who captured the other four of her group.  Noork tells her that one day he will visit the island of Misty Ones who took her friends.  At this time, he realizes that Sarna has disappeared, and he is attacked by the Misty Ones, though he is able to fight them off.During Noork's travels to the island of the Misty Ones, we learn his backstory: he is American pilot Stephen Dietrich, and he arrived on the moon of Sekk by following Doctor Karl Von Mark, last of the Nazi criminals at large.  Dietrich's ship had crashed on Sekk, robbing him of his memory.  In the conflict between the Allies and Nazis, we again see the conflict between enslavement and freedom:  the Nazis forced those they considered racially ""impure"" into prison camps where they were either murdered outright or forced to engage in labor under inhumane conditions until they died; the Allied forces were a hope of freedom for these imprisoned, enslaved people.Noork spies on enslaved men in the fields outside the temple of the Misty Ones and hears them gossiping about Sarna.  The older man suggests that their life is not so bad, but the younger man protests and states that one day he plans to escape.  Noork approaches the younger man to find out where Sarna is being held and promises to take him along when he and Sarna escape.  Noork then fights off multiple guards and a priest in order to free Sarna from the pit where she is held, which is dank and full of rotting grass mats and little light.While the story touches on themes of enslavement and freedom, it does not engage with them fully.  The dungeon where the enslaved young women is held is described in foul terms, but Noork does not seem to free all the young women from their prison.  That may happen as a result of Gurn's final attack on Doctor Von Mark and the Misty Ones, but Noork escapes only with Sarna and Rold.  Rold is unhappy with being enslaved, not because he is being harmed or others are, but because he is not free to mate with attractive young women like Sarna.  While the story should not need to spell out every reason why enslavement is wrong, it takes a very superficial approach to a deeply painful issue."
"What is the significance of the Misty Ones in the story? </s>    Raiders of the Second Moon     By GENE ELLERMAN     A strange destiny had erased Noork's memory,     and had brought him to this tiny world—to     write an end to his first existence.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Summer 1945.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Beyond earth swings that airless pocked mass of fused rock and grayvolcanic dust that we know as Luna. Of this our naked eyes assure us.But of the smaller satellite, hidden forever from the mundane view byLuna's bulk, we know little.     Small is Sekk, that second moon, less than five hundred miles indiameter, but the period of its revolution is thirty two hours, and itsmeaner mass retains a breathable atmosphere. There is life on Sekk,life that centers around the sunken star-shaped cavity where an ovallake gleams softly in the depths. And the eleven radiating tips of thestarry abyss are valleys green with jungle growth.     In one of those green valleys the white savage that the Vasads calledNoork squatted in the ample crotch of a jungle giant and watched thetrail forty feet below. For down there moved alertly a golden skinnedgirl, her only weapons a puny polished bow of yellow wood and asheathed dagger.     Sight of the girl's flowing brown hair and the graceful femininecontours of her smooth-limbed body beneath its skin-halter and theinsignificant breech-clout, made his brow wrinkle with concentration.Not forever had he lived in this jungle world of valleys and raggedcliffs. Since he had learned the tongue of the hairy Vasads of forest,and the tongue of their gold-skinned leader, Gurn, the renegade, he hadconfirmed that belief.     For a huge gleaming bird had carried him in its talons to the top ofthe cliff above their valley and from the rock fire had risen to devourthe great bird. Somehow he had been flung clear and escaped the deathof the mysterious bird-thing. And in his delirium he had babbled thewords that caused the apish Vasads to name him Noork. Now he repeatedthem aloud.     New York, he said, good ol' New York.     The girl heard. She looked upward fearfully, her rounded bare arm goingback to the bow slung across her shoulder. Swiftly she fitted an arrowand stepped back against the friendly bole of a shaggy barked junglegiant. Noork grinned.     Tako, woman, he greeted her.     Tako, she replied fearfully. Who speaks to Tholon Sarna? Be youhunter or escaped slave?     A friend, said Noork simply. It was I who killed the spotted      narl     last night when it attacked you.     Doubtfully the girl put away her bow. Her fingers, however, were neverfar from the hilt of her hunting dagger.     Noork swung outward from his perch, and then downward along the ladderof limbs to her side. The girl exclaimed at his brown skin.     Your hair is the color of the sun! she said. Your garb is Vasad, yetyou speak the language of the true men. Her violet oddly slanting eyesopened yet wider. Who are you?     I am Noork, the man told her. For many days have I dwelt among thewild Vasads of the jungle with their golden-skinned chief, Gurn, formy friend.     The girl impulsively took a step nearer. Gurn! she cried. Is he talland strong? Has he a bracelet of golden discs linked together withhuman hair? Does he talk with his own shadow when he thinks?     That is Gurn, admitted Noork shortly. He is also an exile from thewalled city of Grath. The city rulers call him a traitor. He has toldme the reason. Perhaps you know it as well?     Indeed I do, cried Sarna. My brother said that we should no longermake slaves of the captured Zurans from the other valleys.     Noork smiled. I am glad he is your brother, he said simply.  The girl's eyes fell before his admiring gaze and warm blood floodedinto her rounded neck and lovely cheeks.     Brown-skinned one! she cried with a stamp of her shapely littlesandalled foot. I am displeased with the noises of your tongue. I willlisten to it no more.     But her eyes gave the provocative lie to her words. This brown-skinnedgiant with the sunlit hair was very attractive....     The girl was still talking much later, as they walked together alongthe game-trail. When my captors were but one day's march from theirfoul city of Bis the warriors of the city of Konto, through whosefertile valley we had journeyed by night, fell upon the slavers.     And in the confusion of the attack five of us escaped. We returnedtoward the valley of Grath, but to avoid the intervening valley whereour enemies, the men of Konto, lived, we swung close to the Lake ofUzdon. And the Misty Ones from the Temple of the Skull trailed us. Ialone escaped.     Noork lifted the short, broad-bladed sword that swung in its sheathat his belt and let it drop back into place with a satisfying whisperof flexible leather on steel. He looked toward the east where lay themysterious long lake of the Misty Ones.     Some day, he said reflectively, I am going to visit the island ofthe unseen evil beings who stole away your friends. Perhaps after Ihave taken you to your brother's hidden village, and from there toyour city of Grath.... He smiled.     The girl did not answer. His keen ears, now that he was no longerspeaking, caught the scuffing of feet into the jungle behind him. Heturned quickly to find the girl had vanished, and with an instinctivereflex of motion he flung himself to one side into the dense wall ofthe jungle. As it was the unseen club thudded down along his right arm,numbing it so he felt nothing for some time.     One armed as he was temporarily, and with an unseen foe to reckon with,Noork awkwardly swung up into the comparative safety of the trees. Oncethere, perched in the crotch of a mighty jungle monarch, he peered downat the apparently empty stretch of sunken trail beneath.      Noork      At first he saw nothing out of the ordinary. Apparently there was nostir of life along that leaf-shadowed way. And then he caught a glimpseof blurring shadowy shapes, blotches of cottony mist that blended alltoo well with the foliage. One of the things from the island in theLake of Uzdon moved, and he saw briefly the bottom of a foot dirtiedwith the mud of the trail.     Noork squinted. So the Misty Ones were not entirely invisible. Painwas growing in his numbed arm now, but as it came so came strength. Heclimbed further out on the great branch to where sticky and overripefruit hung heavy. With a grin he locked his legs upon the forking ofthe great limb and filled his arms with fruit.     A barrage of the juicy fruit blanketed the misty shapes. Stains spreadand grew. Patchy outlines took on a new color and sharpness. Noorkfound that he was pelting a half-dozen hooded and robed creatures whosearms and legs numbered the same as his own, and the last remnant ofsuperstitious fear instilled in his bruised brain by the shaggy Vasadsvanished.     These Misty Ones were living breathing creatures like himself! Theywere not gods, or demons, or even the ghostly servants of demons. Hestrung his bow quickly, the short powerful bow that Gurn had given him,and rained arrows down upon the cowering robed creatures.     And the monsters fled. They fled down the trail or faded away into thejungle. All but one of them. The arrow had pierced a vital portion ofthis Misty One's body. He fell and moved no more.     A moment later Noork was ripping the stained cloak and hood from thefallen creature, curious to learn what ghastly brute-thing hid beneaththem. His lip curled at what he saw.     The Misty One was almost like himself. His skin was not so golden asthat of the other men of Zuran, and his forehead was low and retreatingin a bestial fashion. Upon his body there was more hair, and his facewas made hideous with swollen colored scars that formed an irregulardesign. He wore a sleeveless tunic of light green and his only weaponswere two long knives and a club.     So, said Noork, the men of the island prey upon their own kind. Andthe Temple of Uzdon in the lake is guarded by cowardly warriors likethis.     Noork shrugged his shoulders and set off at a mile-devouring pace downthe game trail toward the lake where the Temple of the Skull and itsunseen guardians lay. Once he stopped at a leaf-choked pool to wash thestains from the dead man's foggy robe.     The jungle was thinning out. Noork's teeth flashed as he lifted thedrying fabric of the mantle and donned it.  Ud tasted the scent of a man and sluggishly rolled his bullet head fromshoulder to shoulder as he tried to catch sight of his ages-old enemy.For between the hairy quarter-ton beast men of the jungles of Sekk andthe golden men of the valley cities who enslaved them there was eternalwar.     A growl rumbled deep in the hairy half-man's chest. He could see noenemy and yet the scent grew stronger with every breath.     You hunt too near the lake, called a voice. The demons of the waterwill trap you.     Ud's great nostrils quivered. He tasted the odor of a friend mingledwith that of a strange Zuran. He squatted.     It's Noork, he grunted. Why do I not see you?     I have stolen the skin of a demon, answered the invisible man. Go toGurn. Tell him to fear the demons no longer. Tell him the Misty Onescan be trapped and skinned.     Why you want their skins? Ud scratched his hairy gray skull.     Go to save Gurn's ... and here Noork was stumped for words. To savehis father's woman woman, he managed at last. Father's woman womancalled Sarna.     And the misty blob of nothingness was gone again, its goal now themarshy lowlands that extended upward perhaps a thousand feet from thejungle's ragged fringe to end at last in the muddy shallows of the Lakeof Uzdon.     To Noork it seemed that all the world must be like these savage junglefastnesses of the twelve valleys and their central lake. He knew thatthe giant bird had carried him from some other place that his batteredbrain could not remember, but to him it seemed incredible that mencould live elsewhere than in a jungle valley.     But Noork was wrong. The giant bird that he had ridden into the depthsof Sekk's fertile valleys had come from a far different world. And theother bird, for which Noork had been searching when he came upon thegolden-skinned girl, was from another world also.     The other bird had come from space several days before that of Noork,the Vasads had told him, and it had landed somewhere within the landof sunken valleys. Perhaps, thought Noork, the bird had come from thesame valley that had once been his home. He would find the bird andperhaps then he could remember better who he had been.     So it was, ironically enough, that Stephen Dietrich—whose memory wasgone completely—again took up the trail of Doctor Karl Von Mark, lastof the Axis criminals at large. The trail that had led the red-hairedyoung American flier from rebuilding Greece into Africa and the hiddenvalley where Doctor Von Mark worked feverishly to restore the crumbledstructure of Nazidom, and then had sent him hurtling spaceward in thesecond of the Doctor's crude space-ships was now drawing to an end.The Doctor and the young American pilot were both trapped here on thislittle blob of cosmic matter that hides beyond the Moon's cratered bulk.     The Doctor's ship had landed safely on Sekk, the wily scientistpreferring the lesser gravity of this fertile world to that of thelifeless Moon in the event that he returned again to Earth, butDietrich's spacer had crashed.     Two words linked Noork with the past, the two words that the Vasadshad slurred into his name: New York. And the battered wrist watch, itscrystal and hands gone, were all that remained of his Earthly garb.  Noork paddled the long flat dugout strongly away from the twilightshore toward the shadowy loom of the central island. Though he couldnot remember ever having held a paddle before he handled the ungainlyblade well.     After a time the clumsy prow of the craft rammed into a yieldingcushion of mud, and Noork pulled the dugout out of the water into theroofing shelter of a clump of drooping trees growing at the water'sedge.     Sword in hand he pushed inward from the shore and ended with asmothered exclamation against an unseen wall. Trees grew close up tothe wall and a moment later he had climbed out along a horizontalbranch beyond the wall's top, and was lowering his body with the aid ofa braided leather rope to the ground beyond.     He was in a cultivated field his feet and hands told him. And perhapshalf a mile away, faintly illumined by torches and red clots ofbonfires, towered a huge weathered white skull!     Secure in the knowledge that he wore the invisible robes of a MistyOne he found a solitary tree growing within the wall and climbed to acomfortable crotch. In less than a minute he was asleep.     The new slave, a rough voice cut across his slumber abruptly, is thedaughter of Tholon Dist the merchant.     Noork was fully awake now. They were speaking of Sarna. Her father'sname was Tholon Dist. It was early morning in the fields of the MistyOnes and he could see the two golden-skinned slaves who talked togetherbeneath his tree.     That matters not to the priests of Uzdon, the slighter of thetwo slaves, his hair almost white, said. If she be chosen for thesacrifice to great Uzdon her blood will stain the altar no redder thananother's.     But it is always the youngest and most beautiful, complained theyounger slave, that the priests chose. I wish to mate with a beautifulwoman. Tholon Sarna is such a one.     The old man chuckled dryly. If your wife be plain, he said, neithermaster nor fellow slave will steal her love. A slave should choose agood woman—and ugly, my son.     Some night, snarled the slave, I'm going over the wall. Even theMisty Ones will not catch me once I have crossed the lake.     Silence, hissed the white-haired man. Such talk is madness. We aresafe here from wild animals. There are no spotted narls on the islandof Manak. The priests of most holy Uzdon, and their invisible minions,are not unkind.     Get at your weeding of the field, Rold, he finished, and I willcomplete my checking of the gardens.     Noork waited until the old man was gone before he descended from thetree. He walked along the row until he reached the slave's bent back,and he knew by the sudden tightening of the man's shoulder musclesthat his presence was known. He looked down and saw that his feet madeclear-cut depressions in the soft rich soil of the field.       Continue to work, he said to the young man. Do not be too surprisedat what I am about to tell you, Rold. He paused and watched the goldenman's rather stupid face intently.     I am not a Misty One, Noork said. I killed the owner of this strangegarment I wear yesterday on the mainland. I have come to rescue thegirl, Tholon Sarna, of whom you spoke.     Rold's mouth hung open but his hard blunt fingers continued to work.The Misty Ones, then, he said slowly, are not immortal demons! Henodded his long-haired head. They are but men. They too can die.     If you will help me, Rold, said Noork, to rescue the girl and escapefrom the island I will take you along.     Rold was slow in answering. He had been born on the island and yet hispeople were from the valley city of Konto. He knew that they wouldwelcome the news that the Misty Ones were not demons. And the girl fromthe enemy city of Grath was beautiful. Perhaps she would love him forhelping to rescue her and come willingly with him to Konto.     I will help you, stranger, he agreed.     Then tell me of the Skull, and of the priests, and of the prison whereTholon Sarna is held.     The slave's fingers flew. All the young female slaves are cagedtogether in the pit beneath the Skull. When the sun is directlyoverhead the High Priest will choose one of them for sacrifice tomighty Uzdon, most potent of all gods. And with the dawning of thenext day the chosen one will be bound across the altar before greatUzdon's image and her heart torn from her living breast. The slave'smismatched eyes, one blue and the other brown, lifted from his work.     Tholon Sarna is in the pit beneath the Temple with the other femaleslaves. And the Misty Ones stand guard over the entrance to the templepits.     It is enough, said Noork. I will go to rescue her now. Be preparedto join us as we return. I will have a robe for you if all goes well.     If you are captured, cried Rold nervously, you will not tell them Italked with you?     Noork laughed. You never saw me, he told the slave.  The skull was a gigantic dome of shaped white stone. Where theeye-sockets and gaping nose-hole should have been, black squares ofrock gave the illusion of vacancy. Slitted apertures that served forwindows circled the grisly whiteness of the temple's curving walls atthree distinct levels.     Noork drifted slowly up the huge series of long bench-like stepsthat led up to the gaping jaws of the Skull. He saw red andpurple-robed priests with nodding head-dresses of painted plumes andfeathers climbing and descending the stairs. Among them moved thesquatty gnarled shapes of burdened Vasads, their shaggy bowed legsfettered together with heavy copper or bronze chains, and cringinggolden-skinned slaves slipped furtively through the press of thebrilliant-robed ones. The stale sweaty odor of the slaves and the beastmen mingled with the musky stench of the incense from the temple.     Other misty blobs, the invisible guards of the ghastly temple, werestationed at regular intervals across the great entrance into theSkull's interior, but they paid Noork no heed. To them he was anotherof their number.     He moved swiftly to cross the wide stone-slabbed entry within thejaws, and a moment later was looking down into a sunken bowl whoserocky floor was a score of feet below where he stood. Now he saw thecentral raised altar where the gleam of precious stones and cunninglyworked metal—gold, silver and brass—vied with the faded garishcolors of the draperies beneath it. And on the same dais there loomedtwo beast-headed stone images, the lion-headed god a male and thewolf-headed shape a female.     These then were the two blood hungry deities that the men of Zuraworshipped—mighty Uzdon and his mate, Lornu!     Noork joined the descending throng that walked slowly down the centralramp toward the altar. As he searched for the entrance to the lowerpits his eyes took in the stone steps that led upward into the twoupper levels. Only priests and the vague shapelessness of the MistyOnes climbed those steps. The upper levels, then, were forbidden tothe slaves and common citizens of the island.     As he circled the curving inner wall a foul dank odor reached hissensitive nostrils, and his eyes searched for its origin. He found itthere just before him, the opening that gave way to a descending flightof clammy stone steps. He darted toward the door and from nowhere twoshort swords rose to bar his way.     None are to pass save the priests, spoke a voice from nowheregruffly. The High Priest knows that we of the temple guards covet themost beautiful of the slave women, but we are not to see them until thesacrifice is chosen.     Noork moved backward a pace. He grumbled something inaudible and drewhis sword. Before him the two swords slowly drew aside.     In that instant Noork attacked. His keen sword, whetted to razorsharpness on abrasive bits of rock, bit through the hidden neck andshoulder of the guard on his right hand, and with the same forwardimpetus of attack he smashed into the body of the startled guard on hisleft.     His sword had wrenched from his hand as it jammed into the bonystructure of the decapitated Misty One's shoulder, and now both hishands sought the throat of the guard. The unseen man's cry of warninggurgled and died in his throat as Noork clamped his fingers shut uponit, and his shortened sword stabbed at Noork's back.     The struggle overbalanced them. They rolled over and over down theshadowy stair, the stone smashing at their softer flesh unmercifully.For a moment the battling men brought up with a jolt as the obstructionof the first guard's corpse arrested their downward course, and thenthey jolted and jarred onward again from blood-slippery step toblood-slippery step.     The sword clattered from the guardian Misty One's clutch and in thesame instant Noork's steel fingers snapped the neck of the other manwith a pistol-like report. The limp body beneath him struggled no more.He sprang to his feet and became aware of a torch-lighted doorway but ahalf-dozen paces further down along the descending shaft of steps.     In a moment, he thought, the fellows of this guard would come chargingout, swords in hand. They could not have failed to hear the struggleon the stairs of stone, he reasoned, for here the noise and confusionof the upper temple was muted to a murmur.     So it was that he ran quickly to the door, in his hand the sword thathad dropped from the dead man's fingers, and sprang inside, prepared tobattle there the Misty Ones, lest one escape to give the alarm.     He looked about the narrow stone-walled room with puzzled eyes. Twowarriors lay on a pallet of straw, one of them emitting hideousgurgling sounds that filled the little room with unpleasing echoes.Noork grinned.     From the floor beside the fatter of the two men, the guard who did notsnore, he took a club. Twice he struck and the gurgling sound changedto a steady deep breathing. Noork knew that now the two guards wouldnot give the alarm for several hours. Thoughtfully he looked about theroom. There were several of the hooded cloaks hanging from pegs wedgedinto the crevices of the chamber's wall, their outlines much plainerhere in the artificial light of the flickering torch.     Noork shed his own blood-stained robe quickly and donned one of theothers. The cloaks were rather bulky and so he could carry but twoothers, rolled up, beneath his own protective covering.     The matter of his disguise thus taken care of he dragged the two bodiesfrom the stairway and hid them beneath their own fouled robes in thechamber of the sleeping guards. Not until then did he hurry on down thestone steps toward the prison pit where Tholon Sarna, the golden girl,was held prisoner.  The steps opened into a dimly lit cavern. Pools of foul black waterdotted the uneven floor and reflected back faintly the light of the twosputtering torches beside the entrance. One corner of the cavern waswalled off, save for a narrow door of interlocking brass strips, andtoward this Noork made his way.     He stood beside the door. Sarna, he called softly, Tholon Sarna.     There were a score of young women, lately captured from the mainlandby the Misty Ones, sitting dejectedly upon the foul dampness of therotting grass that was their bed. Most of them were clad in the simpleskirt and brief jacket, reaching but to the lower ribs, that is themark of the golden people who dwell in the city-states of Zura'svalleys, but a few wore a simple band of cloth about their hips andconfined their breasts with a strip of well-cured leopard or antelopehide.     One of the women now came to her feet and as she neared themetal-barred entrance Noork saw that she was indeed Sarna. He examinedthe outer lock of the door and found it to be barred with a massivetimber and the timber locked in place with a metal spike slipped into aprepared cavity in the prison's rocky wall.     It is Noork, he said softly as she came closer. He saw her eyes gowide with fear and sudden hope, and then reached for the spike.     The priest, hissed the girl.     Noork had already heard the sound of approaching feet. He dropped thespike and whirled. His sword was in his hand as though by magic, as hefaced the burly priest of the Skull.     Across the forehead and upper half of the priest's face a curved shieldof transparent tinted material was fastened. Noork's eyes narrowed ashe saw the sword and shield of the gigantic holy man.     So, he said, to the priests of Uzdon we are not invisible. You donot trust your guards, then.     The priest laughed. We also have robes of invisibility, he said, andthe sacred window of Uzdon before our eyes. He snarled suddenly at thesilent figure of the white man. Down on your knees, guard, and show meyour face before I kill you!     Noork raised his sword. Take my hood off if you dare, priest, heoffered.     The burly priest's answer was a bellow of rage and a lunge forward ofhis sword arm. Their swords clicked together and slid apart with thevelvety smoothness of bronze on bronze. Noork's blade bit a chunk fromthe priest's conical shield, and in return received a slashing cut thatdrew blood from left shoulder to elbow.     The fighting grew more furious as the priest pressed the attack. Hewas a skilled swordsman and only the superior agility of the whiteman's legs kept Noork away from that darting priestly blade. Even sohis robe was slashed in a dozen places and blood reddened his bronzedbody. Once he slipped in a puddle of foul cavern water and only by theslightest of margins did he escape death by the priest's weapon.     The priest was tiring rapidly, however. The soft living of the temple,and the rich wines and over-cooked meats that served to pad his paunchso well with fat, now served to rob him of breath. He opened hismouth to bawl for assistance from the guard, although it is doubtfulwhether any sound could have penetrated up into the madhouse of themain temple's floor, and in that instant Noork flipped his sword at hisenemy.     Between the shield and the transparent bit of curving material thesword drove, and buried itself deep in the priest's thick neck. Noorkleaped forward; he snatched the tinted face shield and his sword, and amoment later he had torn the great wooden timber from its sockets.     Tholon Sarna stumbled through the door and he caught her in his arms.Hurriedly he loosed one of the two robes fastened about his waist andslipped it around her slim shivering shoulders.     Are there other priests hidden here in the pits? Noork asked tensely.     No, came the girl's low voice, I do not think so. I did not knowthat this priest was here until he appeared behind you. A slow smilecrossed Noork's hidden features. His robe must be close by, he toldthe girl. He must have been stationed here because the priests fearedthe guards might spirit away some of the prisoners.     Slowly he angled back and forth across the floor until his foot touchedthe soft material of the priest's discarded robe near the stairwayentrance. He slipped the thongs of the transparent mask, called by thepriest Uzdon's window over his hood, and then proceeded to don thenew robe.     My own robe is slit in a dozen places, he explained to the girl'scurious violet eyes—-all that was visible through the narrow visionslot of her hood. He finished adjusting the outer robe and took thegirl's hand.     Come, he said, let us escape over the wall before the alarm isgiven.  Without incident they reached the field where Rold toiled among therows of vegetables. Another slave was working in a nearby field,his crude wooden plow pulled by two sweating Vasads, but he was notwatching when Rold abruptly faded from view.     Noork was sweating with the weight of two cloaks and the airlessness ofthe vision shield as they crossed the field toward his rope, but he hadno wish to discard them yet. The tinted shield had revealed that dozensof the Misty Ones were stationed about the wall to guard against theescape of the slaves.     They came to the wall and to Noork's great joy found the rope hangingas he had left it. He climbed the wall first and then with Rold helpingfrom below, drew Sarna to his side. A moment later saw the three ofthem climbing along the limb to the bole of the tree and so to thejungle matted ground outside the wall.     Will we hide here in the trees until night? asked the girl's fullvoice.     Noork held aside a mossy creeper until the girl had passed. I thinknot, he said. The Misty Ones are continually passing from the islandto the shore. We are Misty Ones to any that watch from the wall. So wewill paddle boldly across the water.     That is good, agreed the slave, unless they see us put out from theshore. Their two landing stages are further along the beach, oppositethe Temple of Uzdon.     Then we must hug to the shore until we pass the tip of the island,said Noork thoughtfully. In that way even if they detect us we willhave put a safe distance between us.     Shortly after midday Noork felt the oozy slime of the marshy lowlandsof the mainland beneath his paddle and the dugout ran ashore in thegrassy inlet for which they had been heading. His palms were blisteredand the heavy robes he yet wore were soaked with sweat.     Once we reach the jungle, he told the girl, off come these robes. Iam broiled alive.     Suddenly Noork froze in his tracks. He thrust the girl behind him.Misty Ones! he hissed to Rold. They crouch among the reeds. Theycarry nets and clubs to trap us.     Rold turned back toward the boat with Noork and Sarna close at hisheels. But the Misty Ones were upon them and by sheer numbers they borethem to the ground. Noork's mightier muscles smashed more than onehooded face but in the end he too lay smothered beneath the nets andbodies of the enemy.     A misty shape came to stand beside these three new captives as theywere stripped of their robes. His foot nudged at Noork's head curiouslyand a guttural voice commanded the shield be removed. Then his voicechanged—thickened—as he saw the features of Noork.     So, he barked in a tongue that should have been strange to Noork butwas not, it is the trapper's turn to be trapped, eh Captain Dietrich?  A fat, square-jawed face, harsh lines paralleling the ugly blob of anose, showed through the opened robe of the leader. The face was thatof Doctor Von Mark the treacherous Nazi scientist that Stephen Dietrichhad trailed across space to Sekk! But Noork knew nothing of that chase.The man's face seemed familiar, and hateful, but that was all heremembered.     I see you have come from the island, said the Doctor. Perhaps youcan tell me the secret of this invisible material I wear. With thesecret of invisibility I, Karl Von Mark, can again conquer Earth andmake the Fatherland invincible.     I do not understand too well, said Noork hesitantly. Are we enemies?There is so much I have forgotten. He regarded the brutal facethoughtfully.     Perhaps you know from what valley the great bird brought me, he said.Or perhaps the other bird brought you here.     Von Mark's blue eyes widened and then he roared with a great noisethat was intended to be mirth. His foot slammed harder into Noork'sdefenseless ribs.     Perhaps you have forgotten, swine of an American, he roared suddenly,and in his hand was an ugly looking automatic. He flung back his robeand Noork saw the dress uniform of a general. Perhaps, the scientistrepeated, but I will take no chances. The amnesia is often but apretense.     His lip curled. This is something for you to remember, CaptainDietrich, he said as the ugly black muzzle of the gun centered onNoork's bronzed chest.     And then Doctor Von Mark cursed as the gun dropped from his nervelessfingers and his hands clawed weakly at the arrow buried in his widebelly. He stumbled backward.     Arrows rained from the mistiness that had closed in about Von Mark andhis men. The men from Wari, their faces unshielded, fell like flies.In a moment those yet alive had taken to their heels, and Noork feltinvisible fingers tearing at the nets that bound him.     As he rose to his feet the robed figure let its misty covering dropaside. A handsome golden-skinned warrior stood revealed.     Gurn! cried Noork.     A glad cry came from the throat of Tholon Sarna as she saw her brother.And then she crept closer to Noork's side as the invisible mantlesof Gurn's loyal Vasads opened to reveal the hairy beast men theyconcealed. Rold whimpered fearfully.     The message that Ud carried to me was good, laughed Gurn. The MistyOnes skin easily. We were trapping the Misty Ones as they came acrossthe lake, he looked at the dying Von Mark, as were these others. Soonwe would have come to your rescue, Noork, my friend.     Lucky I escaped first, Noork told him. The priests of Uzdon wouldhave trapped you. To them the Misty Ones are visible.     He picked up the fallen vision shield that lay beside their feet. Hischest expanded proudly.     No longer, he told Gurn, am I a man without a name. I am CaptainDietrich from a distant valley called America. I was hunting this evilman when my bird died.     He smiled and his brown arm tightened around Sarna's golden body. Theevil man is dead. My native valley is safe. Now I can live in peacewith you, Gurn, and with your sister, here in the jungle.     It is good, Noork, smiled Tholon Sarna.   ","The Misty Ones are a group of highly feared beings, thought to be supernatural in some way at the beginning of the story because of their ability to remain unseen.  Noork, however, is able to catch a glimpse of the bottom of one of their feet from his vantage point high in a tree and begins to pelt the area where he believes they are with fruit.  After this, he can see their outlines and that they are wearing robes with hoods, and he ceases to be afraid and attacks with arrows, killing one of the Misty Ones.  He disrobes this man, who is described as heavily scarred on his face, having a low forehead, with more hair on his body and less golden skin than other men of Zuran.  Once Noork is sure that the Misty Ones are not supernatural, he decides to pursue them in an attempt to rescue Sarna, sister of his friend Gurn, who has been kidnapped by them.Noork spreads the word to his friend Ud that the Misty Ones are not demons and can be trapped and skinned and lets Ud know of his rescue mission for Sarna.  He also tells Rold, an enslaved man on the island of the Misty Ones and the priests of Uzdon (the god who demands sacrifice of young women).  Rold decides he will help Noork with his rescue mission in exchange for Noork's promise to rescue him as well--realizing that he is imprisoned by men and not demons has allowed him to dream that he can kill his captors and be free.When Noork fights a priest of Uzdon in order to free Sarna, he learns that the priests not only have the robes of concealment the Misty Ones have, they also have transparent masks that allow them to see through that concealment.  It allows him to anticipate their ambush at the end of the story, though not quite soon enough to stop it.  Gurn, though, has received his message and acted on it.  He has been capturing and ""skinning"" Misty Ones who have crossed the lake and he and his warriors ambush the Misty Ones and priests in return, freeing Noork and his friends.  With the realization that the Misty Ones are men with special cloaks rather than demons with supernatural powers, their mystique evaporates and everyone they have terrorized is willing to attack them.  Characters unwilling to battle demons are unafraid to attack men."
"What is the plot of the story? </s>     GALACTIC GHOST     By WALTER KUBILIUS     The Flying Dutchman of space was a harbinger     of death. But Willard wasn't superstitions.     He had seen the phantom—and lived.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Winter 1942.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      The only friend in space Willard had ever known was dying. Dobbin'slips were parched and his breath came spasmodically. The tips of hisfingers that had so many times caressed the control board of the      MaryLou     were now black as meteor dust.     We'll never see Earth again, he whispered feebly, plucked weakly atthe cover.     Nonsense! Willard broke in hurriedly, hoping that the dying manwould not see through the lie. We've got the sun's gravity helpingus drift back to Earth! We'll be there soon! You'll get well soon andwe'll start to work again on a new idea of mine.... His voice trailedhelplessly away and the words were lost. It was no use.     The sick man did not hear him. Two tears rolled down his cheeks. Hisface contorted as he tried to withhold a sob.     To see Earth again! he said weakly. To walk on solid ground oncemore!     Four years! Willard echoed faintly. He knew how his space mate felt.No man can spend four years away from his home planet, and fail to beanguished. A man could live without friends, without fortune, but noman could live without Earth. He was like Anteus, for only the feel ofthe solid ground under his feet could give him courage to go among thestars.     Willard also knew what he dared not admit to himself. He, too, likeDobbin, would never see Earth again. Perhaps, some thousand years fromnow, some lonely wanderers would find their battered hulk of a ship inspace and bring them home again.     Dobbin motioned to him and, in answer to a last request, Willard liftedhim so he faced the port window for a final look at the panorama of thestars.     Dobbin's eyes, dimming and half closed, took in the vast play of theheavens and in his mind he relived the days when in a frail craft hefirst crossed interstellar space. But for Earth-loneliness Dobbin woulddie a happy man, knowing that he had lived as much and as deeply as anyman could.     Silently the two men watched. Dobbin's eyes opened suddenly and atremor seized his body. He turned painfully and looked at Willard.     I saw it! his voice cracked, trembling.     Saw what?     It's true! It's true! It comes whenever a space man dies! It's there!     In heaven's name, Dobbin, Willard demanded, What do you see? What isit?     Dobbin lifted his dark bony arm and pointed out into star-studdedspace.     The Ghost Ship!     Something clicked in Willard's memory. He had heard it spoken of inwhispers by drunken space men and professional tellers of fairy tales.But he had never put any stock in them. In some forgotten corner ofDobbin's mind the legend of the Ghost Ship must have lain, to come upin this time of delirium.     There's nothing there, he said firmly.     It's come—for me! Dobbin cried. He turned his head slowly towardWillard, tried to say something and then fell back upon the pillow. Hismouth was open and his eyes stared unseeing ahead. Dobbin was now onewith the vanished pioneers of yesterday. Willard was alone.     For two days, reckoned in Earth time, Willard kept vigil over the bodyof his friend and space mate. When the time was up he did what wasnecessary and nothing remained of Harry Dobbin, the best friend he hadever had. The atoms of his body were now pure energy stored away in theuseless motors of the      Mary Lou     .  The weeks that followed were like a blur in Willard's mind. Though theship was utterly incapable of motion, the chance meteor that damagedit had spared the convertors and assimilators. Through constant careand attention the frail balance that meant life or death could be kept.The substance of waste and refuse was torn down and rebuilt as preciousfood and air. It was even possible to create more than was needed.     When this was done, Willard immediately regretted it. For it would bethen that the days and the weeks would roll by endlessly. Sometimeshe thought he would go mad when, sitting at the useless controlboard, which was his habit, he would stare for hours and hours inthe direction of the Sun where he knew the Earth would be. A greatloneliness would then seize upon him and an agony that no man had everknown would tear at his heart. He would then turn away, full of despairand hopeless pain.     Two years after Dobbin's death a strange thing happened. Willard wassitting at his accustomed place facing the unmoving vista of the stars.A chance glance at Orion's belt froze him still. A star had flickered!Distinctly, as if a light veil had been placed over it and then lifted,it dimmed and turned bright again. What strange phenomena was this? Hewatched and then another star faded momentarily in the exact fashion.And then a third! And a fourth! And a fifth!     Willard's heart gave a leap and the lethargy of two years vanishedinstantly. Here, at last, was something to do. It might be only a fewminutes before he would understand what it was, but those few minuteswould help while away the maddening long hours. Perhaps it was a massof fine meteorites or a pocket of gas that did not disperse, or even amoving warp of space-light. Whatever it was, it was a phenomena worthinvestigating and Willard seized upon it as a dying man seizes upon thelast flashing seconds of life.     Willard traced its course by the flickering stars and gradually plottedits semi-circular course. It was not from the solar system but,instead, headed toward it. A rapid check-up on his calculations causedhis heart to beat in ever quickening excitement. Whatever it was, itwould reach the      Mary Lou     .     Again he looked out the port. Unquestionably the faint mass was nearinghis ship. It was round in shape and almost invisible. The stars,though dimmed, could still be seen through it. There was somethingabout its form that reminded him of an old-fashioned rocket ship. Itresembled one of those that had done pioneer service in the lanes fortyyears ago or more. Resembled one? It was one! Unquestionably, thoughhalf-invisible and like a piece of glass immersed in water, it was arocket ship.     But the instruments on the control board could not lie. The presence ofany material body within a hundred thousand miles would be revealed.But the needle on the gauge did not quiver. Nothing indicated thepresence of a ship. But the evidence of his eyes was incontestable.     Or was it? Doubt gripped him. Did the loneliness of all these yearsin space twist his mind till he was imagining the appearance of faintghost-like rocket ships?     The thought shot through his mind like a thunder bolt. Ghost Ship!Was this the thing that Dobbin had seen before he died? But that wasimpossible. Ghost Ships existed nowhere but in legends and tall talestold by men drunk with the liquors of Mars.     There is no ship there. There is no ship there, Willard told himselfover and over again as he looked at the vague outline of the ship, nowmotionless a few hundred miles away.     Deep within him a faint voice cried,       It's come—for me!      but Willardstilled it. This was no fantasy. There was a scientific reason for it.There must be! Or should there be? Throughout all Earth history therehad been Ghost Ships sailing the Seven Seas—ships doomed to roamforever because their crew broke some unbreakable law. If this was truefor the ships of the seas, why not for the ships of empty space?     He looked again at the strange ship. It was motionless. At least it wasnot nearing him. Willard could see nothing but its vague outline. Amoment later he could discern a faint motion. It was turning! The GhostShip was turning back! Unconsciously Willard reached out with his handas if to hold it back, for when it was gone he would be alone again.     But the Ghost Ship went on. Its outline became smaller and smaller,fainter and fainter.     Trembling, Willard turned away from the window as he saw the rocketrecede and vanish into the emptiness of space. Once more the dreadedloneliness of the stars descended upon him.  Seven years passed and back on Earth in a small newspaper that Willardwould never see there was published a small item:           Arden, Rocketport     —Thirteen years ago the Space Ship      Mary Lou     under John Willard and Larry Dobbin left the Rocket Port for theexploration of an alleged planetoid beyond Pluto. The ship has not beenseen or heard from since. J. Willard, II, son of the lost explorer, isplanning the manufacture of a super-size exploration ship to be called      Mary Lou II     , in memory of his father.     Memories die hard. A man who is alone in space with nothing but thecold friendship of star-light looks back upon memories as the onlythings both dear and precious to him.     Willard, master and lone survivor of the      Mary Lou     , knew this well forhe had tried to rip the memories of Earth out of his heart to ease theanguish of solitude within him. But it was a thing that could not bedone.     And so it was that each night—for Willard did not give up theEarth-habit of keeping time—Willard dreamed of the days he had knownon Earth.     In his mind's eye, he saw himself walking the streets of Arden andfeeling the crunch of snow or the soft slap of rainwater under hisfeet. He heard again, in his mind, the voices of friends he knew.How beautiful and perfect was each voice! How filled with warmth andfriendship! There was the voice of his beautiful wife whom he wouldnever see again. There were the gruff and deep voices of his co-workersand scientists.     Above all there were the voices of the cities, and the fields and theshops where he had worked. All these had their individual voices. Oddthat he had never realized it before, but things become clearer to aman who is alone.     Clearer? Perhaps not. Perhaps they become more clouded. How could he,for example, explain the phenomena of the Ghost Ship? Was it reallyonly a product of his imagination? What of all the others who hadseen it? Was it possible for many different men under many differentsituations to have the same exact illusion? Reason denied that. Butperhaps space itself denies reason.     Grimly he retraced the legend of the Ghost Ship. A chance phrase hereand a story there put together all that he knew:     Doomed for all eternity to wander in the empty star-lanes, the GhostShip haunts the Solar System that gave it birth. And this is itstragedy, for it is the home of spacemen who can never go home again.When your last measure of fuel is burnt and your ship becomes alifeless hulk—the Ghost will come—for you!     And this is all there was to the legend. Merely a tale of some fairyship told to amuse and to while away the days of a star-voyage.Bitterly, Willard dismissed it from his mind.     Another year of loneliness passed. And still another. Willard losttrack of the days. It was difficult to keep time for to what purposecould time be kept. Here in space there was no time, nor was therereason for clocks and records. Days and months and years becamemeaningless words for things that once may have had meaning. Aboutthree years must have passed since his last record in the log bookof the      Mary Lou     . At that time, he remembered, he suffered anothergreat disappointment. On the port side there suddenly appeared afull-sized rocket ship. For many minutes Willard was half-mad withjoy thinking that a passing ship was ready to rescue him. But the joywas short-lived, for the rocket ship abruptly turned away and slowlydisappeared. As Willard watched it go away he saw the light of adistant star      through     the space ship. A heart-breaking agony fell uponhim. It was not a ship from Earth. It was the Ghost Ship, mocking him.     Since then Willard did not look out the window of his craft. A vaguefear troubled him that perhaps the Ghost Ship might be here, waitingand watching, and that he would go mad if he saw it.     How many years passed he could not tell. But this he knew. He was nolonger a young man. Perhaps fifteen years has disappeared into nothing.Perhaps twenty. He did not know and he did not care.  Willard awoke from a deep sleep and prepared his bed. He did it, notbecause it was necessary, but because it was a habit that had long beeningrained in him through the years.     He checked and rechecked every part of the still functioning mechanismof the ship. The radio, even though there was no one to call, was inperfect order. The speed-recording dials, even though there was nospeed to record, were in perfect order. And so with every machine. Allwas in perfect order. Perfect useless order, he thought bitterly, whenthere was no way whatever to get sufficient power to get back to Earth,long forgotten Earth.     He was leaning back in his chair when a vague uneasiness seized him.He arose and slowly walked over to the window, his age already beingmarked in the ache of his bones. Looking out into the silent theater ofthe stars, he suddenly froze.     There was a ship, coming toward him!     For a moment the reason in his mind tottered on a balance. Doubtassailed him. Was this the Ghost Ship come to torment him again? But nophantom this! It was a life and blood rocket ship from Earth! Starlightshone on it and not through it! Its lines, window, vents were all solidand had none of the ghost-like quality he remembered seeing in theGhost Ship in his youth.       For another split second he thought that perhaps he, too, like Dobbin,had gone mad and that the ship would vanish just as it approached him.     The tapping of the space-telegrapher reassured him.     CALLING SPACE SHIP MARY LOU, the message rapped out, CALLING SPACESHIP MARY LOU.     With trembling fingers that he could scarcely control, old Willard sentthe answering message.     SPACE SHIP MARY LOU REPLYING. RECEIVED MESSAGE. THANK GOD!     He broke off, unable to continue. His heart was ready to burst withinhim and the tears of joy were already welling in his eyes. He listenedto the happiest message he had ever heard:     NOTICE THAT SPACE SHIP MARY LOU IS DISABLED AND NOT SPACE WORTHY. YOUARE INVITED TO COME ABOARD. HAVE YOU SPACE SUIT AND—ARE YOU ABLE TOCOME?     Willard, already sobbing with joy, could send only two words.     YES! COMING!     The years of waiting were over. At last he was free of the      Mary Lou     .In a dream like trance, he dressed in his space suit, patheticallyglad that he had already checked every detail of it a short time ago.He realized suddenly that everything about the      Mary Lou     was hateful tohim. It was here that his best friend died, and it was here that twentyyears of his life were wasted completely in solitude and despair.     He took one last look and stepped into the air-lock.     The Earth-ship, he did not see its name, was only a hundred yards awayand a man was already at the air-lock waiting to help him. A rope wastossed to him. He reached for it and made his way to the ship, leavingthe      Mary Lou     behind him forever.     Suddenly the world dropped away from him. Willard could neither see norsay anything. His heart was choked with emotion.     It's all right, a kindly voice assured him, You're safe now.     He had the sensation of being carried by several men and then placed inbed. The quiet of deep sleep descended upon him.  He woke many times in the following days, but the privations of thepassing years had drained his strength and his mind, had made him somuch of a hermit that the presence of other men frightened him to thepoint of gibbering insanity.     He knew that the food and drink were drugged, for after eating henever remembered seeing the men enter the room to care for him and toremove the dirty dishes. But there was enough sanity in his mind toalso realize that, without the gradual reawakening of his senses to thevalue of human companionship, he might not be able to stand the mentalshock of moving about among his people back on Earth.     During those passing days, he savored each new impression, comparingit with what he remembered from that age-long past when he and hisfriends had walked on Earth's great plains and ridden on the oceans'sleek ships or flown with the wings of birds over the mountain ranges.And each impression was doubly enjoyable, for his memory was hazy andconfused.     Gradually, though, his mind cleared; he remembered the past, and he nolonger was afraid of the men who visited him from time to time. Butthere was a strangeness about the men that he could not fathom; theyrefused to talk about anything, any subject, other than the actualrunning of the great ship. Always, when he asked his eager questions,they mumbled and drifted away.     And then in his third week on the rescue ship, he went to sleep onenight while peering from the port hole at the blue ball of Earthswimming in the blackness of space. He slept and he dreamed of theyears he had spent by himself in the drifting, lifeless hulk of the      Mary Lou     . His dreams were vivid, peopled with men and women he hadonce known, and were horrible with the fantasies of terror that yearsof solitary brooding had implanted deep in his mind.  He awoke with a start and a cry of alarm ran through him as he thoughtthat perhaps he might still be in the      Mary Lou     . The warm, smiling faceof a man quickly reassured him.     I'll call the captain, the space man said. He said to let him knowwhen you came to.     Willard could only nod in weak and grateful acceptance. It was true! Hepressed his head back against the bed's pillows. How soft! How warm! Heyawned and stretched his arms as a thrill of happiness shot through hisentire body.     He would see Earth again! That single thought ran over and over in hismind without stopping. He would see Earth again! Perhaps not this yearand perhaps not the next—for the ship might be on some extra-Plutonianexpedition. But even if it would take years before it returned to homebase Willard knew that those years would fly quickly if Earth was atthe end of the trail.     Though he had aged, he still had many years before him. And thoseyears, he vowed, would be spent on Earth and nowhere else.     The captain, a pleasant old fellow, came into the room as Willard stoodup and tried to walk. The gravity here was a bit different from that ofhis ship, but he would manage.     How do you feel, Space Man Willard?     Oh, you know me? Willard looked at him in surprise, and then smiled,Of course, you looked through the log book of the      Mary Lou     .     The captain nodded and Willard noticed with surprise that he was a veryold man.     You don't know how much I suffered there, Willard said slowly,measuring each word. Years in space—all alone! It's a horrible thing!     Yes? the old captain said.     Many times I thought I would go completely mad. It was only thethought and hope that some day, somehow, an Earth-ship would find meand help me get back to Earth. If it was not for that, I would havedied. I could think of nothing but of Earth, of blue green water, ofvast open spaces and the good brown earth. How beautiful it must benow!     A note of sadness, matched only by that of Willard's, entered thecaptain's eyes.     I want to walk on Earth just once—then I can die.     Willard stopped. A happy dreamy smile touched his lips.     When will we go to Earth? he asked.     The Captain did not answer. Willard waited and a strange memory tuggedat him.     You don't know, the Captain said. It was not a question or astatement. The Captain found it hard to say it. His lips moved slowly.     Willard stepped back and before the Captain told him,      he knew     .     Matter is relative, he said, the existent under one condition isnon-existent under another. The real here is the non-real there. Allthings that wander alone in space are gradually drained of their massand energy until nothing is left but mere shells. That is what happenedto the      Mary Lou     . Your ship was real when we passed by twenty yearsago. It is now like ours, a vague outline in space. We cannot feelthe change ourselves, for change is relative. That is why we becamemore and more solid to you, as you became more and more faint to anyEarth-ship that might have passed. We are real—to ourselves. But tosome ship from Earth which has not been in space for more than fifteenyears—to that ship, to all intents and purposes, we do not exist.     Then this ship, Willard said, stunned, you and I and everything onit...     ... are doomed, the Captain said. We cannot go to Earth for thesimple reason that we would go      through     it!     The vision of Earth and green trees faded. He would never see Earthagain. He would never feel the crunch of ground under feet as hewalked. Never would listen to the voices of friends and the songs ofbirds. Never. Never. Never....     Then this is the Ghost Ship and we are the Ghosts!     Yes.   ","John Willard and Larry Dobbin are astronauts who have been in space for four years on the rocket Mary Lou, and as Dobbin is dying, he regrets that he will not see Earth again. Willard assures him that they will make it back, but he knows that they will never make it back because their ship was damaged by a meteor. Although the ship can still carry out functions to support life, it is not navigable. After Willard helps Dobbin look at the stars one more time, Dobbin cries out that it’s true—when an astronaut is dying, the Ghost Ship comes for him. Willard recycles Dobbin’s body but feels regretful about it. He longs to see the Earth again and walk on it, but he knows this will never happen and feels intensely lonely. After two years, a strange thing happens. Willard is looking at the stars, and it seems that they are winking at him. Something seems to be moving toward him, and it turns out to be an ancient ship. Willard’s gauges do not register the ship’s presence although he sees it with his own eyes, and Willard realizes that it is the Ghost Ship coming for him. Strangely enough, however, the ship turns away and moves away from him.Seven years later, a newspaper on Earth publishes a story that Willard’s son, J. Willard II, plans to build a larger version of his father’s ship, the Mary Lou II, in memory of his father, but Willard Sr. is unaware of this. He continues to experience excruciating loneliness and dreams about his life on Earth—the people he knew, the sounds, and the cities. One day a giant rocket ship comes alongside the Mary Lou, and Willard is thrilled that he has been discovered. But the vessel turns away and leaves. Willard notices that he can see starlight through the ship and realizes it is the Ghost Ship. One day he sees another ship and, at first, fears the Ghost Ship has returned. The new ship looks solid, though, and it contacts him, addressing the Mary Lou by name. Willard believes that this ship will take him back to Earth and eagerly boards it. Willard is kept drugged for a while but eventually is alert enough to speak with the captain. When Willard asks when they will return to Earth, the captain explains that they cannot return because matter in space loses its mass and energy until nothing is left. If they tried to return to Earth, they would pass through it. Willard then realizes he is on the Ghost Ship, and he is one of its Ghosts.  "
"What is the significance of memories in the story? </s>     GALACTIC GHOST     By WALTER KUBILIUS     The Flying Dutchman of space was a harbinger     of death. But Willard wasn't superstitions.     He had seen the phantom—and lived.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Winter 1942.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      The only friend in space Willard had ever known was dying. Dobbin'slips were parched and his breath came spasmodically. The tips of hisfingers that had so many times caressed the control board of the      MaryLou     were now black as meteor dust.     We'll never see Earth again, he whispered feebly, plucked weakly atthe cover.     Nonsense! Willard broke in hurriedly, hoping that the dying manwould not see through the lie. We've got the sun's gravity helpingus drift back to Earth! We'll be there soon! You'll get well soon andwe'll start to work again on a new idea of mine.... His voice trailedhelplessly away and the words were lost. It was no use.     The sick man did not hear him. Two tears rolled down his cheeks. Hisface contorted as he tried to withhold a sob.     To see Earth again! he said weakly. To walk on solid ground oncemore!     Four years! Willard echoed faintly. He knew how his space mate felt.No man can spend four years away from his home planet, and fail to beanguished. A man could live without friends, without fortune, but noman could live without Earth. He was like Anteus, for only the feel ofthe solid ground under his feet could give him courage to go among thestars.     Willard also knew what he dared not admit to himself. He, too, likeDobbin, would never see Earth again. Perhaps, some thousand years fromnow, some lonely wanderers would find their battered hulk of a ship inspace and bring them home again.     Dobbin motioned to him and, in answer to a last request, Willard liftedhim so he faced the port window for a final look at the panorama of thestars.     Dobbin's eyes, dimming and half closed, took in the vast play of theheavens and in his mind he relived the days when in a frail craft hefirst crossed interstellar space. But for Earth-loneliness Dobbin woulddie a happy man, knowing that he had lived as much and as deeply as anyman could.     Silently the two men watched. Dobbin's eyes opened suddenly and atremor seized his body. He turned painfully and looked at Willard.     I saw it! his voice cracked, trembling.     Saw what?     It's true! It's true! It comes whenever a space man dies! It's there!     In heaven's name, Dobbin, Willard demanded, What do you see? What isit?     Dobbin lifted his dark bony arm and pointed out into star-studdedspace.     The Ghost Ship!     Something clicked in Willard's memory. He had heard it spoken of inwhispers by drunken space men and professional tellers of fairy tales.But he had never put any stock in them. In some forgotten corner ofDobbin's mind the legend of the Ghost Ship must have lain, to come upin this time of delirium.     There's nothing there, he said firmly.     It's come—for me! Dobbin cried. He turned his head slowly towardWillard, tried to say something and then fell back upon the pillow. Hismouth was open and his eyes stared unseeing ahead. Dobbin was now onewith the vanished pioneers of yesterday. Willard was alone.     For two days, reckoned in Earth time, Willard kept vigil over the bodyof his friend and space mate. When the time was up he did what wasnecessary and nothing remained of Harry Dobbin, the best friend he hadever had. The atoms of his body were now pure energy stored away in theuseless motors of the      Mary Lou     .  The weeks that followed were like a blur in Willard's mind. Though theship was utterly incapable of motion, the chance meteor that damagedit had spared the convertors and assimilators. Through constant careand attention the frail balance that meant life or death could be kept.The substance of waste and refuse was torn down and rebuilt as preciousfood and air. It was even possible to create more than was needed.     When this was done, Willard immediately regretted it. For it would bethen that the days and the weeks would roll by endlessly. Sometimeshe thought he would go mad when, sitting at the useless controlboard, which was his habit, he would stare for hours and hours inthe direction of the Sun where he knew the Earth would be. A greatloneliness would then seize upon him and an agony that no man had everknown would tear at his heart. He would then turn away, full of despairand hopeless pain.     Two years after Dobbin's death a strange thing happened. Willard wassitting at his accustomed place facing the unmoving vista of the stars.A chance glance at Orion's belt froze him still. A star had flickered!Distinctly, as if a light veil had been placed over it and then lifted,it dimmed and turned bright again. What strange phenomena was this? Hewatched and then another star faded momentarily in the exact fashion.And then a third! And a fourth! And a fifth!     Willard's heart gave a leap and the lethargy of two years vanishedinstantly. Here, at last, was something to do. It might be only a fewminutes before he would understand what it was, but those few minuteswould help while away the maddening long hours. Perhaps it was a massof fine meteorites or a pocket of gas that did not disperse, or even amoving warp of space-light. Whatever it was, it was a phenomena worthinvestigating and Willard seized upon it as a dying man seizes upon thelast flashing seconds of life.     Willard traced its course by the flickering stars and gradually plottedits semi-circular course. It was not from the solar system but,instead, headed toward it. A rapid check-up on his calculations causedhis heart to beat in ever quickening excitement. Whatever it was, itwould reach the      Mary Lou     .     Again he looked out the port. Unquestionably the faint mass was nearinghis ship. It was round in shape and almost invisible. The stars,though dimmed, could still be seen through it. There was somethingabout its form that reminded him of an old-fashioned rocket ship. Itresembled one of those that had done pioneer service in the lanes fortyyears ago or more. Resembled one? It was one! Unquestionably, thoughhalf-invisible and like a piece of glass immersed in water, it was arocket ship.     But the instruments on the control board could not lie. The presence ofany material body within a hundred thousand miles would be revealed.But the needle on the gauge did not quiver. Nothing indicated thepresence of a ship. But the evidence of his eyes was incontestable.     Or was it? Doubt gripped him. Did the loneliness of all these yearsin space twist his mind till he was imagining the appearance of faintghost-like rocket ships?     The thought shot through his mind like a thunder bolt. Ghost Ship!Was this the thing that Dobbin had seen before he died? But that wasimpossible. Ghost Ships existed nowhere but in legends and tall talestold by men drunk with the liquors of Mars.     There is no ship there. There is no ship there, Willard told himselfover and over again as he looked at the vague outline of the ship, nowmotionless a few hundred miles away.     Deep within him a faint voice cried,       It's come—for me!      but Willardstilled it. This was no fantasy. There was a scientific reason for it.There must be! Or should there be? Throughout all Earth history therehad been Ghost Ships sailing the Seven Seas—ships doomed to roamforever because their crew broke some unbreakable law. If this was truefor the ships of the seas, why not for the ships of empty space?     He looked again at the strange ship. It was motionless. At least it wasnot nearing him. Willard could see nothing but its vague outline. Amoment later he could discern a faint motion. It was turning! The GhostShip was turning back! Unconsciously Willard reached out with his handas if to hold it back, for when it was gone he would be alone again.     But the Ghost Ship went on. Its outline became smaller and smaller,fainter and fainter.     Trembling, Willard turned away from the window as he saw the rocketrecede and vanish into the emptiness of space. Once more the dreadedloneliness of the stars descended upon him.  Seven years passed and back on Earth in a small newspaper that Willardwould never see there was published a small item:           Arden, Rocketport     —Thirteen years ago the Space Ship      Mary Lou     under John Willard and Larry Dobbin left the Rocket Port for theexploration of an alleged planetoid beyond Pluto. The ship has not beenseen or heard from since. J. Willard, II, son of the lost explorer, isplanning the manufacture of a super-size exploration ship to be called      Mary Lou II     , in memory of his father.     Memories die hard. A man who is alone in space with nothing but thecold friendship of star-light looks back upon memories as the onlythings both dear and precious to him.     Willard, master and lone survivor of the      Mary Lou     , knew this well forhe had tried to rip the memories of Earth out of his heart to ease theanguish of solitude within him. But it was a thing that could not bedone.     And so it was that each night—for Willard did not give up theEarth-habit of keeping time—Willard dreamed of the days he had knownon Earth.     In his mind's eye, he saw himself walking the streets of Arden andfeeling the crunch of snow or the soft slap of rainwater under hisfeet. He heard again, in his mind, the voices of friends he knew.How beautiful and perfect was each voice! How filled with warmth andfriendship! There was the voice of his beautiful wife whom he wouldnever see again. There were the gruff and deep voices of his co-workersand scientists.     Above all there were the voices of the cities, and the fields and theshops where he had worked. All these had their individual voices. Oddthat he had never realized it before, but things become clearer to aman who is alone.     Clearer? Perhaps not. Perhaps they become more clouded. How could he,for example, explain the phenomena of the Ghost Ship? Was it reallyonly a product of his imagination? What of all the others who hadseen it? Was it possible for many different men under many differentsituations to have the same exact illusion? Reason denied that. Butperhaps space itself denies reason.     Grimly he retraced the legend of the Ghost Ship. A chance phrase hereand a story there put together all that he knew:     Doomed for all eternity to wander in the empty star-lanes, the GhostShip haunts the Solar System that gave it birth. And this is itstragedy, for it is the home of spacemen who can never go home again.When your last measure of fuel is burnt and your ship becomes alifeless hulk—the Ghost will come—for you!     And this is all there was to the legend. Merely a tale of some fairyship told to amuse and to while away the days of a star-voyage.Bitterly, Willard dismissed it from his mind.     Another year of loneliness passed. And still another. Willard losttrack of the days. It was difficult to keep time for to what purposecould time be kept. Here in space there was no time, nor was therereason for clocks and records. Days and months and years becamemeaningless words for things that once may have had meaning. Aboutthree years must have passed since his last record in the log bookof the      Mary Lou     . At that time, he remembered, he suffered anothergreat disappointment. On the port side there suddenly appeared afull-sized rocket ship. For many minutes Willard was half-mad withjoy thinking that a passing ship was ready to rescue him. But the joywas short-lived, for the rocket ship abruptly turned away and slowlydisappeared. As Willard watched it go away he saw the light of adistant star      through     the space ship. A heart-breaking agony fell uponhim. It was not a ship from Earth. It was the Ghost Ship, mocking him.     Since then Willard did not look out the window of his craft. A vaguefear troubled him that perhaps the Ghost Ship might be here, waitingand watching, and that he would go mad if he saw it.     How many years passed he could not tell. But this he knew. He was nolonger a young man. Perhaps fifteen years has disappeared into nothing.Perhaps twenty. He did not know and he did not care.  Willard awoke from a deep sleep and prepared his bed. He did it, notbecause it was necessary, but because it was a habit that had long beeningrained in him through the years.     He checked and rechecked every part of the still functioning mechanismof the ship. The radio, even though there was no one to call, was inperfect order. The speed-recording dials, even though there was nospeed to record, were in perfect order. And so with every machine. Allwas in perfect order. Perfect useless order, he thought bitterly, whenthere was no way whatever to get sufficient power to get back to Earth,long forgotten Earth.     He was leaning back in his chair when a vague uneasiness seized him.He arose and slowly walked over to the window, his age already beingmarked in the ache of his bones. Looking out into the silent theater ofthe stars, he suddenly froze.     There was a ship, coming toward him!     For a moment the reason in his mind tottered on a balance. Doubtassailed him. Was this the Ghost Ship come to torment him again? But nophantom this! It was a life and blood rocket ship from Earth! Starlightshone on it and not through it! Its lines, window, vents were all solidand had none of the ghost-like quality he remembered seeing in theGhost Ship in his youth.       For another split second he thought that perhaps he, too, like Dobbin,had gone mad and that the ship would vanish just as it approached him.     The tapping of the space-telegrapher reassured him.     CALLING SPACE SHIP MARY LOU, the message rapped out, CALLING SPACESHIP MARY LOU.     With trembling fingers that he could scarcely control, old Willard sentthe answering message.     SPACE SHIP MARY LOU REPLYING. RECEIVED MESSAGE. THANK GOD!     He broke off, unable to continue. His heart was ready to burst withinhim and the tears of joy were already welling in his eyes. He listenedto the happiest message he had ever heard:     NOTICE THAT SPACE SHIP MARY LOU IS DISABLED AND NOT SPACE WORTHY. YOUARE INVITED TO COME ABOARD. HAVE YOU SPACE SUIT AND—ARE YOU ABLE TOCOME?     Willard, already sobbing with joy, could send only two words.     YES! COMING!     The years of waiting were over. At last he was free of the      Mary Lou     .In a dream like trance, he dressed in his space suit, patheticallyglad that he had already checked every detail of it a short time ago.He realized suddenly that everything about the      Mary Lou     was hateful tohim. It was here that his best friend died, and it was here that twentyyears of his life were wasted completely in solitude and despair.     He took one last look and stepped into the air-lock.     The Earth-ship, he did not see its name, was only a hundred yards awayand a man was already at the air-lock waiting to help him. A rope wastossed to him. He reached for it and made his way to the ship, leavingthe      Mary Lou     behind him forever.     Suddenly the world dropped away from him. Willard could neither see norsay anything. His heart was choked with emotion.     It's all right, a kindly voice assured him, You're safe now.     He had the sensation of being carried by several men and then placed inbed. The quiet of deep sleep descended upon him.  He woke many times in the following days, but the privations of thepassing years had drained his strength and his mind, had made him somuch of a hermit that the presence of other men frightened him to thepoint of gibbering insanity.     He knew that the food and drink were drugged, for after eating henever remembered seeing the men enter the room to care for him and toremove the dirty dishes. But there was enough sanity in his mind toalso realize that, without the gradual reawakening of his senses to thevalue of human companionship, he might not be able to stand the mentalshock of moving about among his people back on Earth.     During those passing days, he savored each new impression, comparingit with what he remembered from that age-long past when he and hisfriends had walked on Earth's great plains and ridden on the oceans'sleek ships or flown with the wings of birds over the mountain ranges.And each impression was doubly enjoyable, for his memory was hazy andconfused.     Gradually, though, his mind cleared; he remembered the past, and he nolonger was afraid of the men who visited him from time to time. Butthere was a strangeness about the men that he could not fathom; theyrefused to talk about anything, any subject, other than the actualrunning of the great ship. Always, when he asked his eager questions,they mumbled and drifted away.     And then in his third week on the rescue ship, he went to sleep onenight while peering from the port hole at the blue ball of Earthswimming in the blackness of space. He slept and he dreamed of theyears he had spent by himself in the drifting, lifeless hulk of the      Mary Lou     . His dreams were vivid, peopled with men and women he hadonce known, and were horrible with the fantasies of terror that yearsof solitary brooding had implanted deep in his mind.  He awoke with a start and a cry of alarm ran through him as he thoughtthat perhaps he might still be in the      Mary Lou     . The warm, smiling faceof a man quickly reassured him.     I'll call the captain, the space man said. He said to let him knowwhen you came to.     Willard could only nod in weak and grateful acceptance. It was true! Hepressed his head back against the bed's pillows. How soft! How warm! Heyawned and stretched his arms as a thrill of happiness shot through hisentire body.     He would see Earth again! That single thought ran over and over in hismind without stopping. He would see Earth again! Perhaps not this yearand perhaps not the next—for the ship might be on some extra-Plutonianexpedition. But even if it would take years before it returned to homebase Willard knew that those years would fly quickly if Earth was atthe end of the trail.     Though he had aged, he still had many years before him. And thoseyears, he vowed, would be spent on Earth and nowhere else.     The captain, a pleasant old fellow, came into the room as Willard stoodup and tried to walk. The gravity here was a bit different from that ofhis ship, but he would manage.     How do you feel, Space Man Willard?     Oh, you know me? Willard looked at him in surprise, and then smiled,Of course, you looked through the log book of the      Mary Lou     .     The captain nodded and Willard noticed with surprise that he was a veryold man.     You don't know how much I suffered there, Willard said slowly,measuring each word. Years in space—all alone! It's a horrible thing!     Yes? the old captain said.     Many times I thought I would go completely mad. It was only thethought and hope that some day, somehow, an Earth-ship would find meand help me get back to Earth. If it was not for that, I would havedied. I could think of nothing but of Earth, of blue green water, ofvast open spaces and the good brown earth. How beautiful it must benow!     A note of sadness, matched only by that of Willard's, entered thecaptain's eyes.     I want to walk on Earth just once—then I can die.     Willard stopped. A happy dreamy smile touched his lips.     When will we go to Earth? he asked.     The Captain did not answer. Willard waited and a strange memory tuggedat him.     You don't know, the Captain said. It was not a question or astatement. The Captain found it hard to say it. His lips moved slowly.     Willard stepped back and before the Captain told him,      he knew     .     Matter is relative, he said, the existent under one condition isnon-existent under another. The real here is the non-real there. Allthings that wander alone in space are gradually drained of their massand energy until nothing is left but mere shells. That is what happenedto the      Mary Lou     . Your ship was real when we passed by twenty yearsago. It is now like ours, a vague outline in space. We cannot feelthe change ourselves, for change is relative. That is why we becamemore and more solid to you, as you became more and more faint to anyEarth-ship that might have passed. We are real—to ourselves. But tosome ship from Earth which has not been in space for more than fifteenyears—to that ship, to all intents and purposes, we do not exist.     Then this ship, Willard said, stunned, you and I and everything onit...     ... are doomed, the Captain said. We cannot go to Earth for thesimple reason that we would go      through     it!     The vision of Earth and green trees faded. He would never see Earthagain. He would never feel the crunch of ground under feet as hewalked. Never would listen to the voices of friends and the songs ofbirds. Never. Never. Never....     Then this is the Ghost Ship and we are the Ghosts!     Yes.   ","Both Dobbin and Willard have memories of Earth that sadden them and make them lonely. As Dobbin is dying, he remembers his life on Earth, and his greatest regret is that he will never see it again. Dobbin is satisfied with his life and experiences, but his Earth-loneliness prevents him from dying a happy man. Willard is also pained by his memories of Earth and what he has lost and will never have again. Alone in space, Willard considers his memories the only things of value to him. Because his memories cause him so much pain, Willard tries to ignore them or remove them, but they return in his dreams. His memories in his dreams are full of sensory details and other details that he did not notice when he was on Earth. However, when Willard is drugged and sleeping on the Ghost Ship, his dreams are of memories from the years he spent on the Mary Lou, and his dreams about people that he knew are unpleasant. Willard believes that if he could walk on Earth one more time, he would die a happy man."
"Who is Larry Dobbin, and what happens to him? </s>     GALACTIC GHOST     By WALTER KUBILIUS     The Flying Dutchman of space was a harbinger     of death. But Willard wasn't superstitions.     He had seen the phantom—and lived.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Winter 1942.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      The only friend in space Willard had ever known was dying. Dobbin'slips were parched and his breath came spasmodically. The tips of hisfingers that had so many times caressed the control board of the      MaryLou     were now black as meteor dust.     We'll never see Earth again, he whispered feebly, plucked weakly atthe cover.     Nonsense! Willard broke in hurriedly, hoping that the dying manwould not see through the lie. We've got the sun's gravity helpingus drift back to Earth! We'll be there soon! You'll get well soon andwe'll start to work again on a new idea of mine.... His voice trailedhelplessly away and the words were lost. It was no use.     The sick man did not hear him. Two tears rolled down his cheeks. Hisface contorted as he tried to withhold a sob.     To see Earth again! he said weakly. To walk on solid ground oncemore!     Four years! Willard echoed faintly. He knew how his space mate felt.No man can spend four years away from his home planet, and fail to beanguished. A man could live without friends, without fortune, but noman could live without Earth. He was like Anteus, for only the feel ofthe solid ground under his feet could give him courage to go among thestars.     Willard also knew what he dared not admit to himself. He, too, likeDobbin, would never see Earth again. Perhaps, some thousand years fromnow, some lonely wanderers would find their battered hulk of a ship inspace and bring them home again.     Dobbin motioned to him and, in answer to a last request, Willard liftedhim so he faced the port window for a final look at the panorama of thestars.     Dobbin's eyes, dimming and half closed, took in the vast play of theheavens and in his mind he relived the days when in a frail craft hefirst crossed interstellar space. But for Earth-loneliness Dobbin woulddie a happy man, knowing that he had lived as much and as deeply as anyman could.     Silently the two men watched. Dobbin's eyes opened suddenly and atremor seized his body. He turned painfully and looked at Willard.     I saw it! his voice cracked, trembling.     Saw what?     It's true! It's true! It comes whenever a space man dies! It's there!     In heaven's name, Dobbin, Willard demanded, What do you see? What isit?     Dobbin lifted his dark bony arm and pointed out into star-studdedspace.     The Ghost Ship!     Something clicked in Willard's memory. He had heard it spoken of inwhispers by drunken space men and professional tellers of fairy tales.But he had never put any stock in them. In some forgotten corner ofDobbin's mind the legend of the Ghost Ship must have lain, to come upin this time of delirium.     There's nothing there, he said firmly.     It's come—for me! Dobbin cried. He turned his head slowly towardWillard, tried to say something and then fell back upon the pillow. Hismouth was open and his eyes stared unseeing ahead. Dobbin was now onewith the vanished pioneers of yesterday. Willard was alone.     For two days, reckoned in Earth time, Willard kept vigil over the bodyof his friend and space mate. When the time was up he did what wasnecessary and nothing remained of Harry Dobbin, the best friend he hadever had. The atoms of his body were now pure energy stored away in theuseless motors of the      Mary Lou     .  The weeks that followed were like a blur in Willard's mind. Though theship was utterly incapable of motion, the chance meteor that damagedit had spared the convertors and assimilators. Through constant careand attention the frail balance that meant life or death could be kept.The substance of waste and refuse was torn down and rebuilt as preciousfood and air. It was even possible to create more than was needed.     When this was done, Willard immediately regretted it. For it would bethen that the days and the weeks would roll by endlessly. Sometimeshe thought he would go mad when, sitting at the useless controlboard, which was his habit, he would stare for hours and hours inthe direction of the Sun where he knew the Earth would be. A greatloneliness would then seize upon him and an agony that no man had everknown would tear at his heart. He would then turn away, full of despairand hopeless pain.     Two years after Dobbin's death a strange thing happened. Willard wassitting at his accustomed place facing the unmoving vista of the stars.A chance glance at Orion's belt froze him still. A star had flickered!Distinctly, as if a light veil had been placed over it and then lifted,it dimmed and turned bright again. What strange phenomena was this? Hewatched and then another star faded momentarily in the exact fashion.And then a third! And a fourth! And a fifth!     Willard's heart gave a leap and the lethargy of two years vanishedinstantly. Here, at last, was something to do. It might be only a fewminutes before he would understand what it was, but those few minuteswould help while away the maddening long hours. Perhaps it was a massof fine meteorites or a pocket of gas that did not disperse, or even amoving warp of space-light. Whatever it was, it was a phenomena worthinvestigating and Willard seized upon it as a dying man seizes upon thelast flashing seconds of life.     Willard traced its course by the flickering stars and gradually plottedits semi-circular course. It was not from the solar system but,instead, headed toward it. A rapid check-up on his calculations causedhis heart to beat in ever quickening excitement. Whatever it was, itwould reach the      Mary Lou     .     Again he looked out the port. Unquestionably the faint mass was nearinghis ship. It was round in shape and almost invisible. The stars,though dimmed, could still be seen through it. There was somethingabout its form that reminded him of an old-fashioned rocket ship. Itresembled one of those that had done pioneer service in the lanes fortyyears ago or more. Resembled one? It was one! Unquestionably, thoughhalf-invisible and like a piece of glass immersed in water, it was arocket ship.     But the instruments on the control board could not lie. The presence ofany material body within a hundred thousand miles would be revealed.But the needle on the gauge did not quiver. Nothing indicated thepresence of a ship. But the evidence of his eyes was incontestable.     Or was it? Doubt gripped him. Did the loneliness of all these yearsin space twist his mind till he was imagining the appearance of faintghost-like rocket ships?     The thought shot through his mind like a thunder bolt. Ghost Ship!Was this the thing that Dobbin had seen before he died? But that wasimpossible. Ghost Ships existed nowhere but in legends and tall talestold by men drunk with the liquors of Mars.     There is no ship there. There is no ship there, Willard told himselfover and over again as he looked at the vague outline of the ship, nowmotionless a few hundred miles away.     Deep within him a faint voice cried,       It's come—for me!      but Willardstilled it. This was no fantasy. There was a scientific reason for it.There must be! Or should there be? Throughout all Earth history therehad been Ghost Ships sailing the Seven Seas—ships doomed to roamforever because their crew broke some unbreakable law. If this was truefor the ships of the seas, why not for the ships of empty space?     He looked again at the strange ship. It was motionless. At least it wasnot nearing him. Willard could see nothing but its vague outline. Amoment later he could discern a faint motion. It was turning! The GhostShip was turning back! Unconsciously Willard reached out with his handas if to hold it back, for when it was gone he would be alone again.     But the Ghost Ship went on. Its outline became smaller and smaller,fainter and fainter.     Trembling, Willard turned away from the window as he saw the rocketrecede and vanish into the emptiness of space. Once more the dreadedloneliness of the stars descended upon him.  Seven years passed and back on Earth in a small newspaper that Willardwould never see there was published a small item:           Arden, Rocketport     —Thirteen years ago the Space Ship      Mary Lou     under John Willard and Larry Dobbin left the Rocket Port for theexploration of an alleged planetoid beyond Pluto. The ship has not beenseen or heard from since. J. Willard, II, son of the lost explorer, isplanning the manufacture of a super-size exploration ship to be called      Mary Lou II     , in memory of his father.     Memories die hard. A man who is alone in space with nothing but thecold friendship of star-light looks back upon memories as the onlythings both dear and precious to him.     Willard, master and lone survivor of the      Mary Lou     , knew this well forhe had tried to rip the memories of Earth out of his heart to ease theanguish of solitude within him. But it was a thing that could not bedone.     And so it was that each night—for Willard did not give up theEarth-habit of keeping time—Willard dreamed of the days he had knownon Earth.     In his mind's eye, he saw himself walking the streets of Arden andfeeling the crunch of snow or the soft slap of rainwater under hisfeet. He heard again, in his mind, the voices of friends he knew.How beautiful and perfect was each voice! How filled with warmth andfriendship! There was the voice of his beautiful wife whom he wouldnever see again. There were the gruff and deep voices of his co-workersand scientists.     Above all there were the voices of the cities, and the fields and theshops where he had worked. All these had their individual voices. Oddthat he had never realized it before, but things become clearer to aman who is alone.     Clearer? Perhaps not. Perhaps they become more clouded. How could he,for example, explain the phenomena of the Ghost Ship? Was it reallyonly a product of his imagination? What of all the others who hadseen it? Was it possible for many different men under many differentsituations to have the same exact illusion? Reason denied that. Butperhaps space itself denies reason.     Grimly he retraced the legend of the Ghost Ship. A chance phrase hereand a story there put together all that he knew:     Doomed for all eternity to wander in the empty star-lanes, the GhostShip haunts the Solar System that gave it birth. And this is itstragedy, for it is the home of spacemen who can never go home again.When your last measure of fuel is burnt and your ship becomes alifeless hulk—the Ghost will come—for you!     And this is all there was to the legend. Merely a tale of some fairyship told to amuse and to while away the days of a star-voyage.Bitterly, Willard dismissed it from his mind.     Another year of loneliness passed. And still another. Willard losttrack of the days. It was difficult to keep time for to what purposecould time be kept. Here in space there was no time, nor was therereason for clocks and records. Days and months and years becamemeaningless words for things that once may have had meaning. Aboutthree years must have passed since his last record in the log bookof the      Mary Lou     . At that time, he remembered, he suffered anothergreat disappointment. On the port side there suddenly appeared afull-sized rocket ship. For many minutes Willard was half-mad withjoy thinking that a passing ship was ready to rescue him. But the joywas short-lived, for the rocket ship abruptly turned away and slowlydisappeared. As Willard watched it go away he saw the light of adistant star      through     the space ship. A heart-breaking agony fell uponhim. It was not a ship from Earth. It was the Ghost Ship, mocking him.     Since then Willard did not look out the window of his craft. A vaguefear troubled him that perhaps the Ghost Ship might be here, waitingand watching, and that he would go mad if he saw it.     How many years passed he could not tell. But this he knew. He was nolonger a young man. Perhaps fifteen years has disappeared into nothing.Perhaps twenty. He did not know and he did not care.  Willard awoke from a deep sleep and prepared his bed. He did it, notbecause it was necessary, but because it was a habit that had long beeningrained in him through the years.     He checked and rechecked every part of the still functioning mechanismof the ship. The radio, even though there was no one to call, was inperfect order. The speed-recording dials, even though there was nospeed to record, were in perfect order. And so with every machine. Allwas in perfect order. Perfect useless order, he thought bitterly, whenthere was no way whatever to get sufficient power to get back to Earth,long forgotten Earth.     He was leaning back in his chair when a vague uneasiness seized him.He arose and slowly walked over to the window, his age already beingmarked in the ache of his bones. Looking out into the silent theater ofthe stars, he suddenly froze.     There was a ship, coming toward him!     For a moment the reason in his mind tottered on a balance. Doubtassailed him. Was this the Ghost Ship come to torment him again? But nophantom this! It was a life and blood rocket ship from Earth! Starlightshone on it and not through it! Its lines, window, vents were all solidand had none of the ghost-like quality he remembered seeing in theGhost Ship in his youth.       For another split second he thought that perhaps he, too, like Dobbin,had gone mad and that the ship would vanish just as it approached him.     The tapping of the space-telegrapher reassured him.     CALLING SPACE SHIP MARY LOU, the message rapped out, CALLING SPACESHIP MARY LOU.     With trembling fingers that he could scarcely control, old Willard sentthe answering message.     SPACE SHIP MARY LOU REPLYING. RECEIVED MESSAGE. THANK GOD!     He broke off, unable to continue. His heart was ready to burst withinhim and the tears of joy were already welling in his eyes. He listenedto the happiest message he had ever heard:     NOTICE THAT SPACE SHIP MARY LOU IS DISABLED AND NOT SPACE WORTHY. YOUARE INVITED TO COME ABOARD. HAVE YOU SPACE SUIT AND—ARE YOU ABLE TOCOME?     Willard, already sobbing with joy, could send only two words.     YES! COMING!     The years of waiting were over. At last he was free of the      Mary Lou     .In a dream like trance, he dressed in his space suit, patheticallyglad that he had already checked every detail of it a short time ago.He realized suddenly that everything about the      Mary Lou     was hateful tohim. It was here that his best friend died, and it was here that twentyyears of his life were wasted completely in solitude and despair.     He took one last look and stepped into the air-lock.     The Earth-ship, he did not see its name, was only a hundred yards awayand a man was already at the air-lock waiting to help him. A rope wastossed to him. He reached for it and made his way to the ship, leavingthe      Mary Lou     behind him forever.     Suddenly the world dropped away from him. Willard could neither see norsay anything. His heart was choked with emotion.     It's all right, a kindly voice assured him, You're safe now.     He had the sensation of being carried by several men and then placed inbed. The quiet of deep sleep descended upon him.  He woke many times in the following days, but the privations of thepassing years had drained his strength and his mind, had made him somuch of a hermit that the presence of other men frightened him to thepoint of gibbering insanity.     He knew that the food and drink were drugged, for after eating henever remembered seeing the men enter the room to care for him and toremove the dirty dishes. But there was enough sanity in his mind toalso realize that, without the gradual reawakening of his senses to thevalue of human companionship, he might not be able to stand the mentalshock of moving about among his people back on Earth.     During those passing days, he savored each new impression, comparingit with what he remembered from that age-long past when he and hisfriends had walked on Earth's great plains and ridden on the oceans'sleek ships or flown with the wings of birds over the mountain ranges.And each impression was doubly enjoyable, for his memory was hazy andconfused.     Gradually, though, his mind cleared; he remembered the past, and he nolonger was afraid of the men who visited him from time to time. Butthere was a strangeness about the men that he could not fathom; theyrefused to talk about anything, any subject, other than the actualrunning of the great ship. Always, when he asked his eager questions,they mumbled and drifted away.     And then in his third week on the rescue ship, he went to sleep onenight while peering from the port hole at the blue ball of Earthswimming in the blackness of space. He slept and he dreamed of theyears he had spent by himself in the drifting, lifeless hulk of the      Mary Lou     . His dreams were vivid, peopled with men and women he hadonce known, and were horrible with the fantasies of terror that yearsof solitary brooding had implanted deep in his mind.  He awoke with a start and a cry of alarm ran through him as he thoughtthat perhaps he might still be in the      Mary Lou     . The warm, smiling faceof a man quickly reassured him.     I'll call the captain, the space man said. He said to let him knowwhen you came to.     Willard could only nod in weak and grateful acceptance. It was true! Hepressed his head back against the bed's pillows. How soft! How warm! Heyawned and stretched his arms as a thrill of happiness shot through hisentire body.     He would see Earth again! That single thought ran over and over in hismind without stopping. He would see Earth again! Perhaps not this yearand perhaps not the next—for the ship might be on some extra-Plutonianexpedition. But even if it would take years before it returned to homebase Willard knew that those years would fly quickly if Earth was atthe end of the trail.     Though he had aged, he still had many years before him. And thoseyears, he vowed, would be spent on Earth and nowhere else.     The captain, a pleasant old fellow, came into the room as Willard stoodup and tried to walk. The gravity here was a bit different from that ofhis ship, but he would manage.     How do you feel, Space Man Willard?     Oh, you know me? Willard looked at him in surprise, and then smiled,Of course, you looked through the log book of the      Mary Lou     .     The captain nodded and Willard noticed with surprise that he was a veryold man.     You don't know how much I suffered there, Willard said slowly,measuring each word. Years in space—all alone! It's a horrible thing!     Yes? the old captain said.     Many times I thought I would go completely mad. It was only thethought and hope that some day, somehow, an Earth-ship would find meand help me get back to Earth. If it was not for that, I would havedied. I could think of nothing but of Earth, of blue green water, ofvast open spaces and the good brown earth. How beautiful it must benow!     A note of sadness, matched only by that of Willard's, entered thecaptain's eyes.     I want to walk on Earth just once—then I can die.     Willard stopped. A happy dreamy smile touched his lips.     When will we go to Earth? he asked.     The Captain did not answer. Willard waited and a strange memory tuggedat him.     You don't know, the Captain said. It was not a question or astatement. The Captain found it hard to say it. His lips moved slowly.     Willard stepped back and before the Captain told him,      he knew     .     Matter is relative, he said, the existent under one condition isnon-existent under another. The real here is the non-real there. Allthings that wander alone in space are gradually drained of their massand energy until nothing is left but mere shells. That is what happenedto the      Mary Lou     . Your ship was real when we passed by twenty yearsago. It is now like ours, a vague outline in space. We cannot feelthe change ourselves, for change is relative. That is why we becamemore and more solid to you, as you became more and more faint to anyEarth-ship that might have passed. We are real—to ourselves. But tosome ship from Earth which has not been in space for more than fifteenyears—to that ship, to all intents and purposes, we do not exist.     Then this ship, Willard said, stunned, you and I and everything onit...     ... are doomed, the Captain said. We cannot go to Earth for thesimple reason that we would go      through     it!     The vision of Earth and green trees faded. He would never see Earthagain. He would never feel the crunch of ground under feet as hewalked. Never would listen to the voices of friends and the songs ofbirds. Never. Never. Never....     Then this is the Ghost Ship and we are the Ghosts!     Yes.   ","John Willard considers Larry Dobbin his best friend. They are both astronauts in a rocket ship that was on a voyage past Pluto to explore a possible planetoid. Their ship was struck by a meteor and can no longer fly, so they are drifting through space. When the story opens, Dobbin is dying. His breathing is erratic, and his fingertips are black. Dobbin has accepted his impending death, but Willard tries to convince Dobbin that he is not dying and that they will return to Earth. Dobbin longs to return to Earth and regrets that he will not see it again. He remembers his first space flight as Willard raises him to look out the port window at the stars. Before he dies, Dobbin declares that the Ghost Ship has come for him. He points to it out the window, but Willard does not see it. Willard believes that Dobbin has gone mad. Dobbin then dies. Dobbin is mentioned in a newspaper account thirteen years after the men left on their voyage when Willard’s son builds a larger version of their ship called the Mary Lou II. The article indicates they were never heard from again. "
"What is the significance of Ghost Ships in the story? </s>     GALACTIC GHOST     By WALTER KUBILIUS     The Flying Dutchman of space was a harbinger     of death. But Willard wasn't superstitions.     He had seen the phantom—and lived.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Winter 1942.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      The only friend in space Willard had ever known was dying. Dobbin'slips were parched and his breath came spasmodically. The tips of hisfingers that had so many times caressed the control board of the      MaryLou     were now black as meteor dust.     We'll never see Earth again, he whispered feebly, plucked weakly atthe cover.     Nonsense! Willard broke in hurriedly, hoping that the dying manwould not see through the lie. We've got the sun's gravity helpingus drift back to Earth! We'll be there soon! You'll get well soon andwe'll start to work again on a new idea of mine.... His voice trailedhelplessly away and the words were lost. It was no use.     The sick man did not hear him. Two tears rolled down his cheeks. Hisface contorted as he tried to withhold a sob.     To see Earth again! he said weakly. To walk on solid ground oncemore!     Four years! Willard echoed faintly. He knew how his space mate felt.No man can spend four years away from his home planet, and fail to beanguished. A man could live without friends, without fortune, but noman could live without Earth. He was like Anteus, for only the feel ofthe solid ground under his feet could give him courage to go among thestars.     Willard also knew what he dared not admit to himself. He, too, likeDobbin, would never see Earth again. Perhaps, some thousand years fromnow, some lonely wanderers would find their battered hulk of a ship inspace and bring them home again.     Dobbin motioned to him and, in answer to a last request, Willard liftedhim so he faced the port window for a final look at the panorama of thestars.     Dobbin's eyes, dimming and half closed, took in the vast play of theheavens and in his mind he relived the days when in a frail craft hefirst crossed interstellar space. But for Earth-loneliness Dobbin woulddie a happy man, knowing that he had lived as much and as deeply as anyman could.     Silently the two men watched. Dobbin's eyes opened suddenly and atremor seized his body. He turned painfully and looked at Willard.     I saw it! his voice cracked, trembling.     Saw what?     It's true! It's true! It comes whenever a space man dies! It's there!     In heaven's name, Dobbin, Willard demanded, What do you see? What isit?     Dobbin lifted his dark bony arm and pointed out into star-studdedspace.     The Ghost Ship!     Something clicked in Willard's memory. He had heard it spoken of inwhispers by drunken space men and professional tellers of fairy tales.But he had never put any stock in them. In some forgotten corner ofDobbin's mind the legend of the Ghost Ship must have lain, to come upin this time of delirium.     There's nothing there, he said firmly.     It's come—for me! Dobbin cried. He turned his head slowly towardWillard, tried to say something and then fell back upon the pillow. Hismouth was open and his eyes stared unseeing ahead. Dobbin was now onewith the vanished pioneers of yesterday. Willard was alone.     For two days, reckoned in Earth time, Willard kept vigil over the bodyof his friend and space mate. When the time was up he did what wasnecessary and nothing remained of Harry Dobbin, the best friend he hadever had. The atoms of his body were now pure energy stored away in theuseless motors of the      Mary Lou     .  The weeks that followed were like a blur in Willard's mind. Though theship was utterly incapable of motion, the chance meteor that damagedit had spared the convertors and assimilators. Through constant careand attention the frail balance that meant life or death could be kept.The substance of waste and refuse was torn down and rebuilt as preciousfood and air. It was even possible to create more than was needed.     When this was done, Willard immediately regretted it. For it would bethen that the days and the weeks would roll by endlessly. Sometimeshe thought he would go mad when, sitting at the useless controlboard, which was his habit, he would stare for hours and hours inthe direction of the Sun where he knew the Earth would be. A greatloneliness would then seize upon him and an agony that no man had everknown would tear at his heart. He would then turn away, full of despairand hopeless pain.     Two years after Dobbin's death a strange thing happened. Willard wassitting at his accustomed place facing the unmoving vista of the stars.A chance glance at Orion's belt froze him still. A star had flickered!Distinctly, as if a light veil had been placed over it and then lifted,it dimmed and turned bright again. What strange phenomena was this? Hewatched and then another star faded momentarily in the exact fashion.And then a third! And a fourth! And a fifth!     Willard's heart gave a leap and the lethargy of two years vanishedinstantly. Here, at last, was something to do. It might be only a fewminutes before he would understand what it was, but those few minuteswould help while away the maddening long hours. Perhaps it was a massof fine meteorites or a pocket of gas that did not disperse, or even amoving warp of space-light. Whatever it was, it was a phenomena worthinvestigating and Willard seized upon it as a dying man seizes upon thelast flashing seconds of life.     Willard traced its course by the flickering stars and gradually plottedits semi-circular course. It was not from the solar system but,instead, headed toward it. A rapid check-up on his calculations causedhis heart to beat in ever quickening excitement. Whatever it was, itwould reach the      Mary Lou     .     Again he looked out the port. Unquestionably the faint mass was nearinghis ship. It was round in shape and almost invisible. The stars,though dimmed, could still be seen through it. There was somethingabout its form that reminded him of an old-fashioned rocket ship. Itresembled one of those that had done pioneer service in the lanes fortyyears ago or more. Resembled one? It was one! Unquestionably, thoughhalf-invisible and like a piece of glass immersed in water, it was arocket ship.     But the instruments on the control board could not lie. The presence ofany material body within a hundred thousand miles would be revealed.But the needle on the gauge did not quiver. Nothing indicated thepresence of a ship. But the evidence of his eyes was incontestable.     Or was it? Doubt gripped him. Did the loneliness of all these yearsin space twist his mind till he was imagining the appearance of faintghost-like rocket ships?     The thought shot through his mind like a thunder bolt. Ghost Ship!Was this the thing that Dobbin had seen before he died? But that wasimpossible. Ghost Ships existed nowhere but in legends and tall talestold by men drunk with the liquors of Mars.     There is no ship there. There is no ship there, Willard told himselfover and over again as he looked at the vague outline of the ship, nowmotionless a few hundred miles away.     Deep within him a faint voice cried,       It's come—for me!      but Willardstilled it. This was no fantasy. There was a scientific reason for it.There must be! Or should there be? Throughout all Earth history therehad been Ghost Ships sailing the Seven Seas—ships doomed to roamforever because their crew broke some unbreakable law. If this was truefor the ships of the seas, why not for the ships of empty space?     He looked again at the strange ship. It was motionless. At least it wasnot nearing him. Willard could see nothing but its vague outline. Amoment later he could discern a faint motion. It was turning! The GhostShip was turning back! Unconsciously Willard reached out with his handas if to hold it back, for when it was gone he would be alone again.     But the Ghost Ship went on. Its outline became smaller and smaller,fainter and fainter.     Trembling, Willard turned away from the window as he saw the rocketrecede and vanish into the emptiness of space. Once more the dreadedloneliness of the stars descended upon him.  Seven years passed and back on Earth in a small newspaper that Willardwould never see there was published a small item:           Arden, Rocketport     —Thirteen years ago the Space Ship      Mary Lou     under John Willard and Larry Dobbin left the Rocket Port for theexploration of an alleged planetoid beyond Pluto. The ship has not beenseen or heard from since. J. Willard, II, son of the lost explorer, isplanning the manufacture of a super-size exploration ship to be called      Mary Lou II     , in memory of his father.     Memories die hard. A man who is alone in space with nothing but thecold friendship of star-light looks back upon memories as the onlythings both dear and precious to him.     Willard, master and lone survivor of the      Mary Lou     , knew this well forhe had tried to rip the memories of Earth out of his heart to ease theanguish of solitude within him. But it was a thing that could not bedone.     And so it was that each night—for Willard did not give up theEarth-habit of keeping time—Willard dreamed of the days he had knownon Earth.     In his mind's eye, he saw himself walking the streets of Arden andfeeling the crunch of snow or the soft slap of rainwater under hisfeet. He heard again, in his mind, the voices of friends he knew.How beautiful and perfect was each voice! How filled with warmth andfriendship! There was the voice of his beautiful wife whom he wouldnever see again. There were the gruff and deep voices of his co-workersand scientists.     Above all there were the voices of the cities, and the fields and theshops where he had worked. All these had their individual voices. Oddthat he had never realized it before, but things become clearer to aman who is alone.     Clearer? Perhaps not. Perhaps they become more clouded. How could he,for example, explain the phenomena of the Ghost Ship? Was it reallyonly a product of his imagination? What of all the others who hadseen it? Was it possible for many different men under many differentsituations to have the same exact illusion? Reason denied that. Butperhaps space itself denies reason.     Grimly he retraced the legend of the Ghost Ship. A chance phrase hereand a story there put together all that he knew:     Doomed for all eternity to wander in the empty star-lanes, the GhostShip haunts the Solar System that gave it birth. And this is itstragedy, for it is the home of spacemen who can never go home again.When your last measure of fuel is burnt and your ship becomes alifeless hulk—the Ghost will come—for you!     And this is all there was to the legend. Merely a tale of some fairyship told to amuse and to while away the days of a star-voyage.Bitterly, Willard dismissed it from his mind.     Another year of loneliness passed. And still another. Willard losttrack of the days. It was difficult to keep time for to what purposecould time be kept. Here in space there was no time, nor was therereason for clocks and records. Days and months and years becamemeaningless words for things that once may have had meaning. Aboutthree years must have passed since his last record in the log bookof the      Mary Lou     . At that time, he remembered, he suffered anothergreat disappointment. On the port side there suddenly appeared afull-sized rocket ship. For many minutes Willard was half-mad withjoy thinking that a passing ship was ready to rescue him. But the joywas short-lived, for the rocket ship abruptly turned away and slowlydisappeared. As Willard watched it go away he saw the light of adistant star      through     the space ship. A heart-breaking agony fell uponhim. It was not a ship from Earth. It was the Ghost Ship, mocking him.     Since then Willard did not look out the window of his craft. A vaguefear troubled him that perhaps the Ghost Ship might be here, waitingand watching, and that he would go mad if he saw it.     How many years passed he could not tell. But this he knew. He was nolonger a young man. Perhaps fifteen years has disappeared into nothing.Perhaps twenty. He did not know and he did not care.  Willard awoke from a deep sleep and prepared his bed. He did it, notbecause it was necessary, but because it was a habit that had long beeningrained in him through the years.     He checked and rechecked every part of the still functioning mechanismof the ship. The radio, even though there was no one to call, was inperfect order. The speed-recording dials, even though there was nospeed to record, were in perfect order. And so with every machine. Allwas in perfect order. Perfect useless order, he thought bitterly, whenthere was no way whatever to get sufficient power to get back to Earth,long forgotten Earth.     He was leaning back in his chair when a vague uneasiness seized him.He arose and slowly walked over to the window, his age already beingmarked in the ache of his bones. Looking out into the silent theater ofthe stars, he suddenly froze.     There was a ship, coming toward him!     For a moment the reason in his mind tottered on a balance. Doubtassailed him. Was this the Ghost Ship come to torment him again? But nophantom this! It was a life and blood rocket ship from Earth! Starlightshone on it and not through it! Its lines, window, vents were all solidand had none of the ghost-like quality he remembered seeing in theGhost Ship in his youth.       For another split second he thought that perhaps he, too, like Dobbin,had gone mad and that the ship would vanish just as it approached him.     The tapping of the space-telegrapher reassured him.     CALLING SPACE SHIP MARY LOU, the message rapped out, CALLING SPACESHIP MARY LOU.     With trembling fingers that he could scarcely control, old Willard sentthe answering message.     SPACE SHIP MARY LOU REPLYING. RECEIVED MESSAGE. THANK GOD!     He broke off, unable to continue. His heart was ready to burst withinhim and the tears of joy were already welling in his eyes. He listenedto the happiest message he had ever heard:     NOTICE THAT SPACE SHIP MARY LOU IS DISABLED AND NOT SPACE WORTHY. YOUARE INVITED TO COME ABOARD. HAVE YOU SPACE SUIT AND—ARE YOU ABLE TOCOME?     Willard, already sobbing with joy, could send only two words.     YES! COMING!     The years of waiting were over. At last he was free of the      Mary Lou     .In a dream like trance, he dressed in his space suit, patheticallyglad that he had already checked every detail of it a short time ago.He realized suddenly that everything about the      Mary Lou     was hateful tohim. It was here that his best friend died, and it was here that twentyyears of his life were wasted completely in solitude and despair.     He took one last look and stepped into the air-lock.     The Earth-ship, he did not see its name, was only a hundred yards awayand a man was already at the air-lock waiting to help him. A rope wastossed to him. He reached for it and made his way to the ship, leavingthe      Mary Lou     behind him forever.     Suddenly the world dropped away from him. Willard could neither see norsay anything. His heart was choked with emotion.     It's all right, a kindly voice assured him, You're safe now.     He had the sensation of being carried by several men and then placed inbed. The quiet of deep sleep descended upon him.  He woke many times in the following days, but the privations of thepassing years had drained his strength and his mind, had made him somuch of a hermit that the presence of other men frightened him to thepoint of gibbering insanity.     He knew that the food and drink were drugged, for after eating henever remembered seeing the men enter the room to care for him and toremove the dirty dishes. But there was enough sanity in his mind toalso realize that, without the gradual reawakening of his senses to thevalue of human companionship, he might not be able to stand the mentalshock of moving about among his people back on Earth.     During those passing days, he savored each new impression, comparingit with what he remembered from that age-long past when he and hisfriends had walked on Earth's great plains and ridden on the oceans'sleek ships or flown with the wings of birds over the mountain ranges.And each impression was doubly enjoyable, for his memory was hazy andconfused.     Gradually, though, his mind cleared; he remembered the past, and he nolonger was afraid of the men who visited him from time to time. Butthere was a strangeness about the men that he could not fathom; theyrefused to talk about anything, any subject, other than the actualrunning of the great ship. Always, when he asked his eager questions,they mumbled and drifted away.     And then in his third week on the rescue ship, he went to sleep onenight while peering from the port hole at the blue ball of Earthswimming in the blackness of space. He slept and he dreamed of theyears he had spent by himself in the drifting, lifeless hulk of the      Mary Lou     . His dreams were vivid, peopled with men and women he hadonce known, and were horrible with the fantasies of terror that yearsof solitary brooding had implanted deep in his mind.  He awoke with a start and a cry of alarm ran through him as he thoughtthat perhaps he might still be in the      Mary Lou     . The warm, smiling faceof a man quickly reassured him.     I'll call the captain, the space man said. He said to let him knowwhen you came to.     Willard could only nod in weak and grateful acceptance. It was true! Hepressed his head back against the bed's pillows. How soft! How warm! Heyawned and stretched his arms as a thrill of happiness shot through hisentire body.     He would see Earth again! That single thought ran over and over in hismind without stopping. He would see Earth again! Perhaps not this yearand perhaps not the next—for the ship might be on some extra-Plutonianexpedition. But even if it would take years before it returned to homebase Willard knew that those years would fly quickly if Earth was atthe end of the trail.     Though he had aged, he still had many years before him. And thoseyears, he vowed, would be spent on Earth and nowhere else.     The captain, a pleasant old fellow, came into the room as Willard stoodup and tried to walk. The gravity here was a bit different from that ofhis ship, but he would manage.     How do you feel, Space Man Willard?     Oh, you know me? Willard looked at him in surprise, and then smiled,Of course, you looked through the log book of the      Mary Lou     .     The captain nodded and Willard noticed with surprise that he was a veryold man.     You don't know how much I suffered there, Willard said slowly,measuring each word. Years in space—all alone! It's a horrible thing!     Yes? the old captain said.     Many times I thought I would go completely mad. It was only thethought and hope that some day, somehow, an Earth-ship would find meand help me get back to Earth. If it was not for that, I would havedied. I could think of nothing but of Earth, of blue green water, ofvast open spaces and the good brown earth. How beautiful it must benow!     A note of sadness, matched only by that of Willard's, entered thecaptain's eyes.     I want to walk on Earth just once—then I can die.     Willard stopped. A happy dreamy smile touched his lips.     When will we go to Earth? he asked.     The Captain did not answer. Willard waited and a strange memory tuggedat him.     You don't know, the Captain said. It was not a question or astatement. The Captain found it hard to say it. His lips moved slowly.     Willard stepped back and before the Captain told him,      he knew     .     Matter is relative, he said, the existent under one condition isnon-existent under another. The real here is the non-real there. Allthings that wander alone in space are gradually drained of their massand energy until nothing is left but mere shells. That is what happenedto the      Mary Lou     . Your ship was real when we passed by twenty yearsago. It is now like ours, a vague outline in space. We cannot feelthe change ourselves, for change is relative. That is why we becamemore and more solid to you, as you became more and more faint to anyEarth-ship that might have passed. We are real—to ourselves. But tosome ship from Earth which has not been in space for more than fifteenyears—to that ship, to all intents and purposes, we do not exist.     Then this ship, Willard said, stunned, you and I and everything onit...     ... are doomed, the Captain said. We cannot go to Earth for thesimple reason that we would go      through     it!     The vision of Earth and green trees faded. He would never see Earthagain. He would never feel the crunch of ground under feet as hewalked. Never would listen to the voices of friends and the songs ofbirds. Never. Never. Never....     Then this is the Ghost Ship and we are the Ghosts!     Yes.   ","There are legends and tall tales about the Ghost Ships, told mainly by drunken men and professional storytellers. Willard remembers that there are stories on Earth about Ghost Ships that sail the Seven Seas. The story goes that the crews of Ghost Ships have broken a particular law, and their punishment is to roam forever. The Ghost Ship in space is said to be the home of spacemen who could not return to Earth. When Dobbin is dying, he claims to see the Ghost Ship and that it has come for him, but when Willard looks for the ship, he does not see it. Later, when Willard sees the Ghost Ship for himself for the first time, he tries to convince himself it is not really there. He remembers the stories about oceangoing Ghost Ships and reasons that there could also be Ghost Ships in space. When the Ghost Ship turns to leave, Willard is almost sorry to see it go because he has been so lonely. When the Ghost Ship appears to Willard for the second time, it has pulled alongside the Mary Lou, and Willard thinks it is a real ship. Only when the Ghost Ship abruptly speeds away and Willard sees stars shining through it does Willard realize it was the Ghost Ship, and he believes it is mocking him. With his third sighting of the Ghost Ship, Willard immediately thinks it is the Ghost Ship but then convinces himself it is not when it messages him. After he is on the ship, he realizes it is indeed the Ghost Ship and that he is now a Ghost. "
"What is the relationship between Dobbin and Willard? </s>     GALACTIC GHOST     By WALTER KUBILIUS     The Flying Dutchman of space was a harbinger     of death. But Willard wasn't superstitions.     He had seen the phantom—and lived.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Winter 1942.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      The only friend in space Willard had ever known was dying. Dobbin'slips were parched and his breath came spasmodically. The tips of hisfingers that had so many times caressed the control board of the      MaryLou     were now black as meteor dust.     We'll never see Earth again, he whispered feebly, plucked weakly atthe cover.     Nonsense! Willard broke in hurriedly, hoping that the dying manwould not see through the lie. We've got the sun's gravity helpingus drift back to Earth! We'll be there soon! You'll get well soon andwe'll start to work again on a new idea of mine.... His voice trailedhelplessly away and the words were lost. It was no use.     The sick man did not hear him. Two tears rolled down his cheeks. Hisface contorted as he tried to withhold a sob.     To see Earth again! he said weakly. To walk on solid ground oncemore!     Four years! Willard echoed faintly. He knew how his space mate felt.No man can spend four years away from his home planet, and fail to beanguished. A man could live without friends, without fortune, but noman could live without Earth. He was like Anteus, for only the feel ofthe solid ground under his feet could give him courage to go among thestars.     Willard also knew what he dared not admit to himself. He, too, likeDobbin, would never see Earth again. Perhaps, some thousand years fromnow, some lonely wanderers would find their battered hulk of a ship inspace and bring them home again.     Dobbin motioned to him and, in answer to a last request, Willard liftedhim so he faced the port window for a final look at the panorama of thestars.     Dobbin's eyes, dimming and half closed, took in the vast play of theheavens and in his mind he relived the days when in a frail craft hefirst crossed interstellar space. But for Earth-loneliness Dobbin woulddie a happy man, knowing that he had lived as much and as deeply as anyman could.     Silently the two men watched. Dobbin's eyes opened suddenly and atremor seized his body. He turned painfully and looked at Willard.     I saw it! his voice cracked, trembling.     Saw what?     It's true! It's true! It comes whenever a space man dies! It's there!     In heaven's name, Dobbin, Willard demanded, What do you see? What isit?     Dobbin lifted his dark bony arm and pointed out into star-studdedspace.     The Ghost Ship!     Something clicked in Willard's memory. He had heard it spoken of inwhispers by drunken space men and professional tellers of fairy tales.But he had never put any stock in them. In some forgotten corner ofDobbin's mind the legend of the Ghost Ship must have lain, to come upin this time of delirium.     There's nothing there, he said firmly.     It's come—for me! Dobbin cried. He turned his head slowly towardWillard, tried to say something and then fell back upon the pillow. Hismouth was open and his eyes stared unseeing ahead. Dobbin was now onewith the vanished pioneers of yesterday. Willard was alone.     For two days, reckoned in Earth time, Willard kept vigil over the bodyof his friend and space mate. When the time was up he did what wasnecessary and nothing remained of Harry Dobbin, the best friend he hadever had. The atoms of his body were now pure energy stored away in theuseless motors of the      Mary Lou     .  The weeks that followed were like a blur in Willard's mind. Though theship was utterly incapable of motion, the chance meteor that damagedit had spared the convertors and assimilators. Through constant careand attention the frail balance that meant life or death could be kept.The substance of waste and refuse was torn down and rebuilt as preciousfood and air. It was even possible to create more than was needed.     When this was done, Willard immediately regretted it. For it would bethen that the days and the weeks would roll by endlessly. Sometimeshe thought he would go mad when, sitting at the useless controlboard, which was his habit, he would stare for hours and hours inthe direction of the Sun where he knew the Earth would be. A greatloneliness would then seize upon him and an agony that no man had everknown would tear at his heart. He would then turn away, full of despairand hopeless pain.     Two years after Dobbin's death a strange thing happened. Willard wassitting at his accustomed place facing the unmoving vista of the stars.A chance glance at Orion's belt froze him still. A star had flickered!Distinctly, as if a light veil had been placed over it and then lifted,it dimmed and turned bright again. What strange phenomena was this? Hewatched and then another star faded momentarily in the exact fashion.And then a third! And a fourth! And a fifth!     Willard's heart gave a leap and the lethargy of two years vanishedinstantly. Here, at last, was something to do. It might be only a fewminutes before he would understand what it was, but those few minuteswould help while away the maddening long hours. Perhaps it was a massof fine meteorites or a pocket of gas that did not disperse, or even amoving warp of space-light. Whatever it was, it was a phenomena worthinvestigating and Willard seized upon it as a dying man seizes upon thelast flashing seconds of life.     Willard traced its course by the flickering stars and gradually plottedits semi-circular course. It was not from the solar system but,instead, headed toward it. A rapid check-up on his calculations causedhis heart to beat in ever quickening excitement. Whatever it was, itwould reach the      Mary Lou     .     Again he looked out the port. Unquestionably the faint mass was nearinghis ship. It was round in shape and almost invisible. The stars,though dimmed, could still be seen through it. There was somethingabout its form that reminded him of an old-fashioned rocket ship. Itresembled one of those that had done pioneer service in the lanes fortyyears ago or more. Resembled one? It was one! Unquestionably, thoughhalf-invisible and like a piece of glass immersed in water, it was arocket ship.     But the instruments on the control board could not lie. The presence ofany material body within a hundred thousand miles would be revealed.But the needle on the gauge did not quiver. Nothing indicated thepresence of a ship. But the evidence of his eyes was incontestable.     Or was it? Doubt gripped him. Did the loneliness of all these yearsin space twist his mind till he was imagining the appearance of faintghost-like rocket ships?     The thought shot through his mind like a thunder bolt. Ghost Ship!Was this the thing that Dobbin had seen before he died? But that wasimpossible. Ghost Ships existed nowhere but in legends and tall talestold by men drunk with the liquors of Mars.     There is no ship there. There is no ship there, Willard told himselfover and over again as he looked at the vague outline of the ship, nowmotionless a few hundred miles away.     Deep within him a faint voice cried,       It's come—for me!      but Willardstilled it. This was no fantasy. There was a scientific reason for it.There must be! Or should there be? Throughout all Earth history therehad been Ghost Ships sailing the Seven Seas—ships doomed to roamforever because their crew broke some unbreakable law. If this was truefor the ships of the seas, why not for the ships of empty space?     He looked again at the strange ship. It was motionless. At least it wasnot nearing him. Willard could see nothing but its vague outline. Amoment later he could discern a faint motion. It was turning! The GhostShip was turning back! Unconsciously Willard reached out with his handas if to hold it back, for when it was gone he would be alone again.     But the Ghost Ship went on. Its outline became smaller and smaller,fainter and fainter.     Trembling, Willard turned away from the window as he saw the rocketrecede and vanish into the emptiness of space. Once more the dreadedloneliness of the stars descended upon him.  Seven years passed and back on Earth in a small newspaper that Willardwould never see there was published a small item:           Arden, Rocketport     —Thirteen years ago the Space Ship      Mary Lou     under John Willard and Larry Dobbin left the Rocket Port for theexploration of an alleged planetoid beyond Pluto. The ship has not beenseen or heard from since. J. Willard, II, son of the lost explorer, isplanning the manufacture of a super-size exploration ship to be called      Mary Lou II     , in memory of his father.     Memories die hard. A man who is alone in space with nothing but thecold friendship of star-light looks back upon memories as the onlythings both dear and precious to him.     Willard, master and lone survivor of the      Mary Lou     , knew this well forhe had tried to rip the memories of Earth out of his heart to ease theanguish of solitude within him. But it was a thing that could not bedone.     And so it was that each night—for Willard did not give up theEarth-habit of keeping time—Willard dreamed of the days he had knownon Earth.     In his mind's eye, he saw himself walking the streets of Arden andfeeling the crunch of snow or the soft slap of rainwater under hisfeet. He heard again, in his mind, the voices of friends he knew.How beautiful and perfect was each voice! How filled with warmth andfriendship! There was the voice of his beautiful wife whom he wouldnever see again. There were the gruff and deep voices of his co-workersand scientists.     Above all there were the voices of the cities, and the fields and theshops where he had worked. All these had their individual voices. Oddthat he had never realized it before, but things become clearer to aman who is alone.     Clearer? Perhaps not. Perhaps they become more clouded. How could he,for example, explain the phenomena of the Ghost Ship? Was it reallyonly a product of his imagination? What of all the others who hadseen it? Was it possible for many different men under many differentsituations to have the same exact illusion? Reason denied that. Butperhaps space itself denies reason.     Grimly he retraced the legend of the Ghost Ship. A chance phrase hereand a story there put together all that he knew:     Doomed for all eternity to wander in the empty star-lanes, the GhostShip haunts the Solar System that gave it birth. And this is itstragedy, for it is the home of spacemen who can never go home again.When your last measure of fuel is burnt and your ship becomes alifeless hulk—the Ghost will come—for you!     And this is all there was to the legend. Merely a tale of some fairyship told to amuse and to while away the days of a star-voyage.Bitterly, Willard dismissed it from his mind.     Another year of loneliness passed. And still another. Willard losttrack of the days. It was difficult to keep time for to what purposecould time be kept. Here in space there was no time, nor was therereason for clocks and records. Days and months and years becamemeaningless words for things that once may have had meaning. Aboutthree years must have passed since his last record in the log bookof the      Mary Lou     . At that time, he remembered, he suffered anothergreat disappointment. On the port side there suddenly appeared afull-sized rocket ship. For many minutes Willard was half-mad withjoy thinking that a passing ship was ready to rescue him. But the joywas short-lived, for the rocket ship abruptly turned away and slowlydisappeared. As Willard watched it go away he saw the light of adistant star      through     the space ship. A heart-breaking agony fell uponhim. It was not a ship from Earth. It was the Ghost Ship, mocking him.     Since then Willard did not look out the window of his craft. A vaguefear troubled him that perhaps the Ghost Ship might be here, waitingand watching, and that he would go mad if he saw it.     How many years passed he could not tell. But this he knew. He was nolonger a young man. Perhaps fifteen years has disappeared into nothing.Perhaps twenty. He did not know and he did not care.  Willard awoke from a deep sleep and prepared his bed. He did it, notbecause it was necessary, but because it was a habit that had long beeningrained in him through the years.     He checked and rechecked every part of the still functioning mechanismof the ship. The radio, even though there was no one to call, was inperfect order. The speed-recording dials, even though there was nospeed to record, were in perfect order. And so with every machine. Allwas in perfect order. Perfect useless order, he thought bitterly, whenthere was no way whatever to get sufficient power to get back to Earth,long forgotten Earth.     He was leaning back in his chair when a vague uneasiness seized him.He arose and slowly walked over to the window, his age already beingmarked in the ache of his bones. Looking out into the silent theater ofthe stars, he suddenly froze.     There was a ship, coming toward him!     For a moment the reason in his mind tottered on a balance. Doubtassailed him. Was this the Ghost Ship come to torment him again? But nophantom this! It was a life and blood rocket ship from Earth! Starlightshone on it and not through it! Its lines, window, vents were all solidand had none of the ghost-like quality he remembered seeing in theGhost Ship in his youth.       For another split second he thought that perhaps he, too, like Dobbin,had gone mad and that the ship would vanish just as it approached him.     The tapping of the space-telegrapher reassured him.     CALLING SPACE SHIP MARY LOU, the message rapped out, CALLING SPACESHIP MARY LOU.     With trembling fingers that he could scarcely control, old Willard sentthe answering message.     SPACE SHIP MARY LOU REPLYING. RECEIVED MESSAGE. THANK GOD!     He broke off, unable to continue. His heart was ready to burst withinhim and the tears of joy were already welling in his eyes. He listenedto the happiest message he had ever heard:     NOTICE THAT SPACE SHIP MARY LOU IS DISABLED AND NOT SPACE WORTHY. YOUARE INVITED TO COME ABOARD. HAVE YOU SPACE SUIT AND—ARE YOU ABLE TOCOME?     Willard, already sobbing with joy, could send only two words.     YES! COMING!     The years of waiting were over. At last he was free of the      Mary Lou     .In a dream like trance, he dressed in his space suit, patheticallyglad that he had already checked every detail of it a short time ago.He realized suddenly that everything about the      Mary Lou     was hateful tohim. It was here that his best friend died, and it was here that twentyyears of his life were wasted completely in solitude and despair.     He took one last look and stepped into the air-lock.     The Earth-ship, he did not see its name, was only a hundred yards awayand a man was already at the air-lock waiting to help him. A rope wastossed to him. He reached for it and made his way to the ship, leavingthe      Mary Lou     behind him forever.     Suddenly the world dropped away from him. Willard could neither see norsay anything. His heart was choked with emotion.     It's all right, a kindly voice assured him, You're safe now.     He had the sensation of being carried by several men and then placed inbed. The quiet of deep sleep descended upon him.  He woke many times in the following days, but the privations of thepassing years had drained his strength and his mind, had made him somuch of a hermit that the presence of other men frightened him to thepoint of gibbering insanity.     He knew that the food and drink were drugged, for after eating henever remembered seeing the men enter the room to care for him and toremove the dirty dishes. But there was enough sanity in his mind toalso realize that, without the gradual reawakening of his senses to thevalue of human companionship, he might not be able to stand the mentalshock of moving about among his people back on Earth.     During those passing days, he savored each new impression, comparingit with what he remembered from that age-long past when he and hisfriends had walked on Earth's great plains and ridden on the oceans'sleek ships or flown with the wings of birds over the mountain ranges.And each impression was doubly enjoyable, for his memory was hazy andconfused.     Gradually, though, his mind cleared; he remembered the past, and he nolonger was afraid of the men who visited him from time to time. Butthere was a strangeness about the men that he could not fathom; theyrefused to talk about anything, any subject, other than the actualrunning of the great ship. Always, when he asked his eager questions,they mumbled and drifted away.     And then in his third week on the rescue ship, he went to sleep onenight while peering from the port hole at the blue ball of Earthswimming in the blackness of space. He slept and he dreamed of theyears he had spent by himself in the drifting, lifeless hulk of the      Mary Lou     . His dreams were vivid, peopled with men and women he hadonce known, and were horrible with the fantasies of terror that yearsof solitary brooding had implanted deep in his mind.  He awoke with a start and a cry of alarm ran through him as he thoughtthat perhaps he might still be in the      Mary Lou     . The warm, smiling faceof a man quickly reassured him.     I'll call the captain, the space man said. He said to let him knowwhen you came to.     Willard could only nod in weak and grateful acceptance. It was true! Hepressed his head back against the bed's pillows. How soft! How warm! Heyawned and stretched his arms as a thrill of happiness shot through hisentire body.     He would see Earth again! That single thought ran over and over in hismind without stopping. He would see Earth again! Perhaps not this yearand perhaps not the next—for the ship might be on some extra-Plutonianexpedition. But even if it would take years before it returned to homebase Willard knew that those years would fly quickly if Earth was atthe end of the trail.     Though he had aged, he still had many years before him. And thoseyears, he vowed, would be spent on Earth and nowhere else.     The captain, a pleasant old fellow, came into the room as Willard stoodup and tried to walk. The gravity here was a bit different from that ofhis ship, but he would manage.     How do you feel, Space Man Willard?     Oh, you know me? Willard looked at him in surprise, and then smiled,Of course, you looked through the log book of the      Mary Lou     .     The captain nodded and Willard noticed with surprise that he was a veryold man.     You don't know how much I suffered there, Willard said slowly,measuring each word. Years in space—all alone! It's a horrible thing!     Yes? the old captain said.     Many times I thought I would go completely mad. It was only thethought and hope that some day, somehow, an Earth-ship would find meand help me get back to Earth. If it was not for that, I would havedied. I could think of nothing but of Earth, of blue green water, ofvast open spaces and the good brown earth. How beautiful it must benow!     A note of sadness, matched only by that of Willard's, entered thecaptain's eyes.     I want to walk on Earth just once—then I can die.     Willard stopped. A happy dreamy smile touched his lips.     When will we go to Earth? he asked.     The Captain did not answer. Willard waited and a strange memory tuggedat him.     You don't know, the Captain said. It was not a question or astatement. The Captain found it hard to say it. His lips moved slowly.     Willard stepped back and before the Captain told him,      he knew     .     Matter is relative, he said, the existent under one condition isnon-existent under another. The real here is the non-real there. Allthings that wander alone in space are gradually drained of their massand energy until nothing is left but mere shells. That is what happenedto the      Mary Lou     . Your ship was real when we passed by twenty yearsago. It is now like ours, a vague outline in space. We cannot feelthe change ourselves, for change is relative. That is why we becamemore and more solid to you, as you became more and more faint to anyEarth-ship that might have passed. We are real—to ourselves. But tosome ship from Earth which has not been in space for more than fifteenyears—to that ship, to all intents and purposes, we do not exist.     Then this ship, Willard said, stunned, you and I and everything onit...     ... are doomed, the Captain said. We cannot go to Earth for thesimple reason that we would go      through     it!     The vision of Earth and green trees faded. He would never see Earthagain. He would never feel the crunch of ground under feet as hewalked. Never would listen to the voices of friends and the songs ofbirds. Never. Never. Never....     Then this is the Ghost Ship and we are the Ghosts!     Yes.   ","Larry Dobbin and John Willard are astronauts together in space on a mission to explore a planetoid beyond Pluto. When a meteor damages their rocket, they both realize they will never return to Earth. Willard considers Dobbin the best friend he has ever had friend, and when Dobbin is dying, Willard tries to keep his spirits up by telling him that he has a new plan for a way for them to return to Earth. When Dobbin wants to see the stars one last time before he dies, Willard raises him so that he can see them out the port window. When Dobbins sees the Ghost Ship and says that it has come for him, Willard assures him that nothing is there. After Dobbin dies, Willard holds a wake for him for two days before he recycles Dobbin’s body because the ship can still break down waste and refuse to create food and air. Afterward, Willard regrets disposing of Dobbin’s body. With Dobbin gone, Willard experiences great pain and loneliness. Eventually, Willard sees the Ghost Ship and knows that his friend was right about it."
"What is the plot of the story? </s>     AIDE MEMOIRE     BY KEITH LAUMER     The Fustians looked like turtles—but     they could move fast when they chose!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, July 1962.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Across the table from Retief, Ambassador Magnan rustled a stiff sheetof parchment and looked grave.     This aide memoire, he said, was just handed to me by the CulturalAttache. It's the third on the subject this week. It refers to thematter of sponsorship of Youth groups—     Some youths, Retief said. Average age, seventy-five.     The Fustians are a long-lived people, Magnan snapped. These mattersare relative. At seventy-five, a male Fustian is at a trying age—     That's right. He'll try anything—in the hope it will maim somebody.     Precisely the problem, Magnan said. But the Youth Movement isthe important news in today's political situation here on Fust. Andsponsorship of Youth groups is a shrewd stroke on the part of theTerrestrial Embassy. At my suggestion, well nigh every member of themission has leaped at the opportunity to score a few p—that is, cementrelations with this emergent power group—the leaders of the future.You, Retief, as Councillor, are the outstanding exception.     I'm not convinced these hoodlums need my help in organizing theirrumbles, Retief said. Now, if you have a proposal for a pest controlgroup—     To the Fustians this is no jesting matter, Magnan cut in. Thisgroup— he glanced at the paper—known as the Sexual, Cultural, andAthletic Recreational Society, or SCARS for short, has been awaitingsponsorship for a matter of weeks now.     Meaning they want someone to buy them a clubhouse, uniforms, equipmentand anything else they need to complete their sexual, cultural andathletic development, Retief said.     If we don't act promptly, Magnan said, the Groaci Embassy may wellanticipate us. They're very active here.     That's an idea, said Retief. Let 'em. After awhile they'll go brokeinstead of us.     Nonsense. The group requires a sponsor. I can't actually order you tostep forward. However.... Magnan let the sentence hang in the air.Retief raised one eyebrow.     For a minute there, he said, I thought you were going to make apositive statement.  Magnan leaned back, lacing his fingers over his stomach. I don't thinkyou'll find a diplomat of my experience doing anything so naive, hesaid.     I like the adult Fustians, said Retief. Too bad they have to lughalf a ton of horn around on their backs. I wonder if surgery wouldhelp.     Great heavens, Retief, Magnan sputtered. I'm amazed that even youwould bring up a matter of such delicacy. A race's unfortunate physicalcharacteristics are hardly a fit matter for Terrestrial curiosity.     Well, of course your experience of the Fustian mentality is greaterthan mine. I've only been here a month. But it's been my experience,Mr. Ambassador, that few races are above improving on nature. Otherwiseyou, for example, would be tripping over your beard.     Magnan shuddered. Please—never mention the idea to a Fustian.     Retief stood. My own program for the day includes going over to thedockyards. There are some features of this new passenger liner theFustians are putting together that I want to look into. With yourpermission, Mr. Ambassador...?     Magnan snorted. Your pre-occupation with the trivial disturbs me,Retief. More interest in substantive matters—such as working withYouth groups—would create a far better impression.     Before getting too involved with these groups, it might be a good ideato find out a little more about them, said Retief. Who organizesthem? There are three strong political parties here on Fust. What's thealignment of this SCARS organization?     You forget, these are merely teenagers, so to speak, Magnan said.Politics mean nothing to them ... yet.     Then there are the Groaci. Why their passionate interest in atwo-horse world like Fust? Normally they're concerned with nothing butbusiness. But what has Fust got that they could use?     You may rule out the commercial aspect in this instance, said Magnan.Fust possesses a vigorous steel-age manufacturing economy. The Groaciare barely ahead of them.     Barely, said Retief. Just over the line into crude atomics ... likefission bombs.     Magnan shook his head, turned back to his papers. What market existsfor such devices on a world at peace? I suggest you address yourattention to the less spectacular but more rewarding work of studyingthe social patterns of the local youth.     I've studied them, said Retief. And before I meet any of the localyouth socially I want to get myself a good blackjack.      II     Retief left the sprawling bungalow-type building that housed thechancery of the Terrestrial Embassy, swung aboard a passing flat-carand leaned back against the wooden guard rail as the heavy vehicletrundled through the city toward the looming gantries of the shipyards.     It was a cool morning. A light breeze carried the fishy odor of Fustydwellings across the broad cobbled avenue. A few mature Fustianslumbered heavily along in the shade of the low buildings, audiblywheezing under the burden of their immense carapaces. Among them,shell-less youths trotted briskly on scaly stub legs. The driver of theflat-car, a labor-caste Fustian with his guild colors emblazoned on hisback, heaved at the tiller, swung the unwieldy conveyance through theshipyard gates, creaked to a halt.     Thus I come to the shipyard with frightful speed, he said in Fustian.Well I know the way of the naked-backs, who move always in haste.     Retief climbed down, handed him a coin. You should take upprofessional racing, he said. Daredevil.     He crossed the littered yard and tapped at the door of a rambling shed.Boards creaked inside. Then the door swung back.     A gnarled ancient with tarnished facial scales and a weathered carapacepeered out at Retief.     Long-may-you-sleep, said Retief. I'd like to take a look around, ifyou don't mind. I understand you're laying the bedplate for your newliner today.       May-you-dream-of-the-deeps, the old fellow mumbled. He waved a stumpyarm toward a group of shell-less Fustians standing by a massive hoist.The youths know more of bedplates than do I, who but tend the place ofpapers.     I know how you feel, old-timer, said Retief. That sounds like thestory of my life. Among your papers do you have a set of plans for thevessel? I understand it's to be a passenger liner.     The oldster nodded. He shuffled to a drawing file, rummaged, pulled outa sheaf of curled prints and spread them on the table. Retief stoodsilently, running a finger over the uppermost drawing, tracing lines....     What does the naked-back here? barked a deep voice behind Retief. Heturned. A heavy-faced Fustian youth, wrapped in a mantle, stood at theopen door. Beady yellow eyes set among fine scales bored into Retief.     I came to take a look at your new liner, said Retief.     We need no prying foreigners here, the youth snapped. His eye fell onthe drawings. He hissed in sudden anger.     Doddering hulk! he snapped at the ancient. May you toss innightmares! Put by the plans!     My mistake, Retief said. I didn't know this was a secret project.  The youth hesitated. It is not a secret project, he muttered. Whyshould it be secret?     You tell me.     The youth worked his jaws and rocked his head from side to side in theFusty gesture of uncertainty. There is nothing to conceal, he said.We merely construct a passenger liner.     Then you don't mind if I look over the drawings, said Retief. Whoknows? Maybe some day I'll want to reserve a suite for the trip out.     The youth turned and disappeared. Retief grinned at the oldster. Wentfor his big brother, I guess, he said. I have a feeling I won't getto study these in peace here. Mind if I copy them?     Willingly, light-footed one, said the old Fustian. And mine is theshame for the discourtesy of youth.     Retief took out a tiny camera, flipped a copying lens in place, leafedthrough the drawings, clicking the shutter.     A plague on these youths, said the oldster, who grow more virulentday by day.     Why don't you elders clamp down?     Agile are they and we are slow of foot. And this unrest is new.Unknown in my youth was such insolence.     The police—     Bah! the ancient rumbled. None have we worthy of the name, nor havewe needed ought ere now.     What's behind it?     They have found leaders. The spiv, Slock, is one. And I fear they plotmischief. He pointed to the window. They come, and a Soft One withthem.     Retief pocketed the camera, glanced out the window. A pale-featuredGroaci with an ornately decorated crest stood with the youths, who eyedthe hut, then started toward it.     That's the military attache of the Groaci Embassy, Retief said. Iwonder what he and the boys are cooking up together?     Naught that augurs well for the dignity of Fust, the oldster rumbled.Flee, agile one, while I engage their attentions.     I was just leaving, Retief said. Which way out?     The rear door, the Fustian gestured with a stubby member. Rest well,stranger on these shores. He moved to the entrance.     Same to you, pop, said Retief. And thanks.     He eased through the narrow back entrance, waited until voices wereraised at the front of the shed, then strolled off toward the gate.  The second dark of the third cycle was lightening when Retief left theEmbassy technical library and crossed the corridor to his office. Heflipped on a light. A note was tucked under a paperweight:     Retief—I shall expect your attendance at the IAS dinner at firstdark of the fourth cycle. There will be a brief but, I hope, impressiveSponsorship ceremony for the SCARS group, with full press coverage,arrangements for which I have managed to complete in spite of yourintransigence.     Retief snorted and glanced at his watch. Less than three hours. Justtime to creep home by flat-car, dress in ceremonial uniform and creepback.     Outside he flagged a lumbering bus. He stationed himself in a cornerand watched the yellow sun, Beta, rise rapidly above the low skyline.The nearby sea was at high tide now, under the pull of the major sunand the three moons, and the stiff breeze carried a mist of salt spray.     Retief turned up his collar against the dampness. In half an hour hewould be perspiring under the vertical rays of a third-noon sun, butthe thought failed to keep the chill off.     Two Youths clambered up on the platform, moving purposefully towardRetief. He moved off the rail, watching them, weight balanced.     That's close enough, kids, he said. Plenty of room on this scow. Noneed to crowd up.     There are certain films, the lead Fustian muttered. His voice wasunusually deep for a Youth. He was wrapped in a heavy cloak and movedawkwardly. His adolescence was nearly at an end, Retief guessed.     I told you once, said Retief. Don't crowd me.     The two stepped close, slit mouths snapping in anger. Retief put out afoot, hooked it behind the scaly leg of the overaged juvenile and threwhis weight against the cloaked chest. The clumsy Fustian tottered, fellheavily. Retief was past him and off the flat-car before the otherYouth had completed his vain lunge toward the spot Retief had occupied.The Terrestrial waved cheerfully at the pair, hopped aboard anothervehicle, watched his would-be assailants lumber down from their car,tiny heads twisted to follow his retreating figure.     So they wanted the film? Retief reflected, thumbing a cigar alight.They were a little late. He had already filed it in the Embassy vault,after running a copy for the reference files.     And a comparison of the drawings with those of the obsolete Mark XXXVbattle cruiser used two hundred years earlier by the Concordiat NavalArm showed them to be almost identical, gun emplacements and all. Theterm obsolete was a relative one. A ship which had been outmoded inthe armories of the Galactic Powers could still be king of the walk inthe Eastern Arm.     But how had these two known of the film? There had been no one presentbut himself and the old-timer—and he was willing to bet the elderlyFustian hadn't told them anything.     At least not willingly....     Retief frowned, dropped the cigar over the side, waited until theflat-car negotiated a mud-wallow, then swung down and headed for theshipyard.  The door, hinges torn loose, had been propped loosely back in position.Retief looked around at the battered interior of the shed. The oldfellow had put up a struggle.     There were deep drag-marks in the dust behind the building. Retieffollowed them across the yard. They disappeared under the steel door ofa warehouse.     Retief glanced around. Now, at the mid-hour of the fourth cycle, theworkmen were heaped along the edge of the refreshment pond, deep intheir siesta. He took a multi-bladed tool from a pocket, tried variousfittings in the lock. It snicked open.     He eased the door aside far enough to enter.     Heaped bales loomed before him. Snapping on the tiny lamp in the handleof the combination tool, Retief looked over the pile. One stack seemedout of alignment ... and the dust had been scraped from the floorbefore it. He pocketed the light, climbed up on the bales, looked overinto a nest made by stacking the bundles around a clear spot. The agedFustian lay in it, on his back, a heavy sack tied over his head.     Retief dropped down inside the ring of bales, sawed at the tough twineand pulled the sack free.     It's me, old fellow, Retief said. The nosy stranger. Sorry I got youinto this.     The oldster threshed his gnarled legs. He rocked slightly and fellback. A curse on the cradle that rocked their infant slumbers, herumbled. But place me back on my feet and I hunt down the youth,Slock, though he flee to the bottommost muck of the Sea of Torments.     How am I going to get you out of here? Maybe I'd better get some help.     Nay. The perfidious Youths abound here, said the old Fustian. Itwould be your life.     I doubt if they'd go that far.     Would they not? The Fustian stretched his neck. Cast your lighthere. But for the toughness of my hide....     Retief put the beam of the light on the leathery neck. A great smear ofthick purplish blood welled from a ragged cut. The oldster chuckled, asound like a seal coughing.     Traitor, they called me. For long they sawed at me—in vain. Thenthey trussed me and dumped me here. They think to return with weaponsto complete the task.     Weapons? I thought it was illegal!     Their evil genius, the Soft One, said the Fustian. He would providefuel to the Devil himself.     The Groaci again, said Retief. I wonder what their angle is.     And I must confess, I told them of you, ere I knew their fullintentions. Much can I tell you of their doings. But first, I pray, theblock and tackle.     Retief found the hoist where the Fustian directed him, maneuvered itinto position, hooked onto the edge of the carapace and hauled away.The immense Fustian rose slowly, teetered ... then flopped on his chest.     Slowly he got to his feet.     My name is Whonk, fleet one, he said. My cows are yours.     Thanks. I'm Retief. I'd like to meet the girls some time. But rightnow, let's get out of here.     Whonk leaned his bulk against the ponderous stacks of baled kelp,bulldozed them aside. Slow am I to anger, he said, but implacable inmy wrath. Slock, beware!     Hold it, said Retief suddenly. He sniffed. What's that odor? Heflashed the light around, played it over a dry stain on the floor. Heknelt, sniffed at the spot.     What kind of cargo was stacked here, Whonk? And where is it now?     Whonk considered. There were drums, he said. Four of them, quitesmall, painted an evil green, the property of the Soft Ones, theGroaci. They lay here a day and a night. At full dark of the firstperiod they came with stevedores and loaded them aboard the barge      MossRock     .     The VIP boat. Who's scheduled to use it?     I know not. But what matters this? Let us discuss cargo movementsafter I have settled a score with certain Youths.     We'd better follow this up first, Whonk. There's only one substance Iknow of that's transported in drums and smells like that blot on thefloor. That's titanite: the hottest explosive this side of a uraniumpile.      III     Beta was setting as Retief, Whonk puffing at his heels, came up to thesentry box beside the gangway leading to the plush interior of theofficial luxury space barge      Moss Rock     .     A sign of the times, said Whonk, glancing inside the empty shelter.A guard should stand here, but I see him not. Doubtless he crept awayto sleep.     Let's go aboard and take a look around.     They entered the ship. Soft lights glowed in utter silence. A rough boxstood on the floor, rollers and pry-bars beside it—a discordant notein the muted luxury of the setting. Whonk rummaged in it.     Curious, he said. What means this? He held up a stained cloak oforange and green, a metal bracelet, papers.     Orange and green, mused Relief. Whose colors are those?     I know not. Whonk glanced at the arm-band. But this is lettered. Hepassed the metal band to Retief.     SCARS, Retief read. He looked at Whonk. It seems to me I've heardthe name before, he murmured. Let's get back to the Embassy—fast.     Back on the ramp Retief heard a sound ... and turned in time to duckthe charge of a hulking Fustian youth who thundered past him andfetched up against the broad chest of Whonk, who locked him in a warmembrace.     Nice catch, Whonk. Where'd he sneak out of?     The lout hid there by the storage bin, rumbled Whonk. The captiveyouth thumped fists and toes fruitlessly against the oldster's carapace.     Hang onto him, said Retief. He looks like the biting kind.     No fear. Clumsy I am, yet not without strength.     Ask him where the titanite is tucked away.     Speak, witless grub, growled Whonk, lest I tweak you in twain.     The youth gurgled.     Better let up before you make a mess of him, said Retief. Whonklifted the Youth clear of the floor, then flung him down with a thumpthat made the ground quiver. The younger Fustian glared up at theelder, mouth snapping.     This one was among those who trussed me and hid me away for thekilling, said Whonk. In his repentance he will tell all to his elder.     That's the same young squirt that tried to strike up an acquaintancewith me on the bus, Retief said. He gets around.     The youth scrambled to hands and knees, scuttled for freedom. Retiefplanted a foot on his dragging cloak; it ripped free. He stared at thebare back of the Fustian—     By the Great Egg! Whonk exclaimed, tripping the refugee as he triedto rise. This is no Youth! His carapace has been taken from him!     Retief looked at the scarred back. I thought he looked a little old.But I thought—     This is not possible, Whonk said wonderingly. The great nerve trunksare deeply involved. Not even the cleverest surgeon could excise thecarapace and leave the patient living.     It looks like somebody did the trick. But let's take this boy with usand get out of here. His folks may come home.     Too late, said Whonk. Retief turned.     Three youths came from behind the sheds.     Well, Retief said. It looks like the SCARS are out in force tonight.Where's your pal? he said to the advancing trio. The sticky littlebird with the eye-stalks? Back at his Embassy, leaving you suckersholding the bag, I'll bet.     Shelter behind me, Retief, said Whonk.     Go get 'em, old-timer. Retief stooped, picked up one of the pry-bars.I'll jump around and distract them.     Whonk let out a whistling roar and charged for the immature Fustians.They fanned out ... and one tripped, sprawled on his face. Retiefwhirled the metal bar he had thrust between the Fustian's legs, slammedit against the skull of another, who shook his head, turned onRetief ... and bounced off the steel hull of the      Moss Rock     as Whonktook him in full charge.     Retief used the bar on another head. His third blow laid the Fustianon the pavement, oozing purple. The other two club members departedhastily, seriously dented but still mobile.     Retief leaned on his club, breathing hard. Tough heads these kidshave got. I'm tempted to chase those two lads down, but I've gotanother errand to run. I don't know who the Groaci intended to blast,but I have a sneaking suspicion somebody of importance was scheduledfor a boat ride in the next few hours. And three drums of titanite isenough to vaporize this tub and everyone aboard her.     The plot is foiled, said Whonk. But what reason did they have?     The Groaci are behind it. I have an idea the SCARS didn't know aboutthis gambit.     Which of these is the leader? asked Whonk. He prodded a fallen Youthwith a horny toe. Arise, dreaming one.     Never mind him, Whonk. We'll tie these two up and leave them here. Iknow where to find the boss.  A stolid crowd filled the low-ceilinged banquet hall. Retief scannedthe tables for the pale blobs of Terrestrial faces, dwarfed by thegiant armored bodies of the Fustians. Across the room Magnan fluttereda hand. Retief headed toward him. A low-pitched vibration filled theair: the rumble of subsonic Fustian music.     Retief slid into his place beside Magnan. Sorry to be late, Mr.Ambassador.     I'm honored that you chose to appear at all, said Magnan coldly. Heturned back to the Fustian on his left.     Ah, yes, Mr. Minister, he said. Charming, most charming. So joyous.     The Fustian looked at him, beady-eyed. It is the      Lament ofHatching     , he said; our National Dirge.     Oh, said Magnan. How interesting. Such a pleasing balance ofinstruments—     It is a droon solo, said the Fustian, eyeing the TerrestrialAmbassador suspiciously.     Why don't you just admit you can't hear it, Retief whispered loudly.And if I may interrupt a moment—     Magnan cleared his throat. Now that our Mr. Retief has arrived,perhaps we could rush right along to the Sponsorship ceremonies.     This group, said Retief, leaning across Magnan, the SCARS. How muchdo you know about them, Mr. Minister?     Nothing at all, the huge Fustian elder rumbled. For my taste, allYouths should be kept penned with the livestock until they grow acarapace to tame their irresponsibility.     We mustn't lose sight of the importance of channeling youthfulenergies, said Magnan.     Labor gangs, said the minister. In my youth we were indentured tothe dredge-masters. I myself drew a muck sledge.     But in these modern times, put in Magnan, surely it's incumbent onus to make happy these golden hours.     The minister snorted. Last week I had a golden hour. They set upon meand pelted me with overripe stench-fruit.     But this was merely a manifestation of normal youthful frustrations,cried Magnan. Their essential tenderness—     You'd not find a tender spot on that lout yonder, the ministersaid, pointing with a fork at a newly arrived Youth, if you drilledboreholes and blasted.  Why, that's our guest of honor, said Magnan, a fine young fellow!Slop I believe his name is.     Slock, said Retief. Eight feet of armor-plated orneriness. And—     Magnan rose and tapped on his glass. The Fustians winced at the, tothem, supersonic vibrations. They looked at each other muttering.Magnan tapped louder. The Minister drew in his head, eyes closed. Someof the Fustians rose, tottered for the doors; the noise level rose.Magnan redoubled his efforts. The glass broke with a clatter and greenwine gushed on the tablecloth.     What in the name of the Great Egg! the Minister muttered. He blinked,breathing deeply.     Oh, forgive me, blurted Magnan, dabbing at the wine.     Too bad the glass gave out, said Retief. In another minute you'dhave cleared the hall. And then maybe I could have gotten a word insideways. There's a matter you should know about—     Your attention, please, Magnan said, rising. I see that our fineyoung guest has arrived, and I hope that the remainder of his committeewill be along in a moment. It is my pleasure to announce that our Mr.Retief has had the good fortune to win out in the keen bidding for thepleasure of sponsoring this lovely group.     Retief tugged at Magnan's sleeve. Don't introduce me yet, he said. Iwant to appear suddenly. More dramatic, you know.     Well, murmured Magnan, glancing down at Retief, I'm gratified tosee you entering into the spirit of the event at last. He turned hisattention back to the assembled guests. If our honored guest will joinme on the rostrum...? he said. The gentlemen of the press may want tocatch a few shots of the presentation.     Magnan stepped up on the low platform at the center of the wide room,took his place beside the robed Fustian youth and beamed at the cameras.     How gratifying it is to take this opportunity to express once more thegreat pleasure we have in sponsoring SCARS, he said, talking slowlyfor the benefit of the scribbling reporters. We'd like to think thatin our modest way we're to be a part of all that the SCARS achieveduring the years ahead.     Magnan paused as a huge Fustian elder heaved his bulk up the two lowsteps to the rostrum, approached the guest of honor. He watched as thenewcomer paused behind Slock, who did not see the new arrival.     Retief pushed through the crowd, stepped up to face the Fustian youth.Slock stared at him, drew back.     You know me, Slock, said Retief loudly. An old fellow named Whonktold you about me, just before you tried to saw his head off, remember?It was when I came out to take a look at that battle cruiser you'rebuilding.      IV     With a bellow Slock reached for Retief—and choked off in mid-cry asthe Fustian elder, Whonk, pinioned him from behind, lifting him clearof the floor.     Glad you reporters happened along, said Retief to the gaping newsmen.Slock here had a deal with a sharp operator from the Groaci Embassy.The Groaci were to supply the necessary hardware and Slock, as foremanat the shipyards, was to see that everything was properly installed.The next step, I assume, would have been a local take-over, followedby a little interplanetary war on Flamenco or one of the other nearbyworlds ... for which the Groaci would be glad to supply plenty of ammo.     Magnan found his tongue. Are you mad, Retief? he screeched. Thisgroup was vouched for by the Ministry of Youth!     The Ministry's overdue for a purge, snapped Retief. He turned backto Slock. I wonder if you were in on the little diversion that wasplanned for today. When the      Moss Rock     blew, a variety of clues wereto be planted where they'd be easy to find ... with SCARS written allover them. The Groaci would thus have neatly laid the whole affairsquarely at the door of the Terrestrial Embassy ... whose sponsorshipof the SCARS had received plenty of publicity.     The      Moss Rock     ? said Magnan. But that was—Retief! This is idiotic.Slock himself was scheduled to go on a cruise tomorrow!     Slock roared suddenly, twisting violently. Whonk teetered, his griploosened ... and Slock pulled free and was off the platform, buttinghis way through the milling oldsters on the dining room floor. Magnanwatched, open-mouthed.     The Groaci were playing a double game, as usual, Retief said. Theyintended to dispose of this fellow Slock, once he'd served theirpurpose.     Well, don't stand there, yelped Magnan over the uproar. If Slock isthe ring-leader of a delinquent gang...! He moved to give chase.     Retief grabbed his arm. Don't jump down there! You'd have as muchchance of getting through as a jack-rabbit through a threshing contest.     Ten minutes later the crowd had thinned slightly. We can get throughnow, Whonk called. This way. He lowered himself to the floor, bulledthrough to the exit. Flashbulbs popped. Retief and Magnan followed inWhonk's wake.     In the lounge Retief grabbed the phone, waited for the operator, gave acode letter. No reply. He tried another.     No good, he said after a full minute had passed. Wonder what'sloose? He slammed the phone back in its niche. Let's grab a cab.  In the street the blue sun, Alpha, peered like an arc light under a lowcloud layer, casting flat shadows across the mud of the avenue. Thethree mounted a passing flat-car. Whonk squatted, resting the weight ofhis immense shell on the heavy plank flooring.     Would that I too could lose this burden, as has the false youth webludgeoned aboard the      Moss Rock     , he sighed. Soon will I be forcedinto retirement. Then a mere keeper of a place of papers such as Iwill rate no more than a slab on the public strand, with once-dailyfeedings. And even for a man of high position, retirement is nopleasure. A slab in the Park of Monuments is little better. A dismaloutlook for one's next thousand years!     You two carry on to the police station, said Retief. I want to playa hunch. But don't take too long. I may be painfully right.     What—? Magnan started.     As you wish, Retief, said Whonk.     The flat-car trundled past the gate to the shipyard and Retief jumpeddown, headed at a run for the VIP boat. The guard post still stoodvacant. The two Youths whom he and Whonk had left trussed were gone.     That's the trouble with a peaceful world, Retief muttered. No policeprotection. He stepped down from the lighted entry and took up aposition behind the sentry box. Alpha rose higher, shedding a glaringblue-white light without heat. Retief shivered. Maybe he'd guessedwrong....     There was a sound in the near distance, like two elephants colliding.     Retief looked toward the gate. His giant acquaintance, Whonk, hadreappeared and was grappling with a hardly less massive opponent. Asmall figure became visible in the melee, scuttled for the gate. Headedoff by the battling titans, he turned and made for the opposite sideof the shipyard. Retief waited, jumped out and gathered in the fleeingGroaci.     Well, Yith, he said, how's tricks? You should pardon the expression.     Release me, Retief! the pale-featured alien lisped, his throatbladder pulsating in agitation. The behemoths vie for the privilege ofdismembering me out of hand!     I know how they feel. I'll see what I can do ... for a price.     I appeal to you, Yith whispered hoarsely. As a fellow diplomat, afellow alien, a fellow soft-back—     Why don't you appeal to Slock, as a fellow skunk? said Retief. Nowkeep quiet ... and you may get out of this alive.     The heavier of the two struggling Fustians threw the other to theground. There was another brief flurry, and then the smaller figure wason its back, helpless.     That's Whonk, still on his feet, said Retief. I wonder who he'scaught—and why.     Whonk came toward the      Moss Rock     dragging the supine Fustian, whokicked vainly. Retief thrust Yith down well out of sight behind thesentry box. Better sit tight, Yith. Don't try to sneak off; I canoutrun you. Stay here and I'll see what I can do. He stepped out andhailed Whonk.     Puffing like a steam engine Whonk pulled up before him. Sleep,Retief! He panted. You followed a hunch; I did the same. I sawsomething strange in this one when we passed him on the avenue. Iwatched, followed him here. Look! It is Slock, strapped into a deadcarapace! Now many things become clear.  Retief whistled. So the Youths aren't all as young as they look.Somebody's been holding out on the rest of you Fustians!     The Soft One, Whonk said. You laid him by the heels, Retief. I saw.Produce him now.     Hold on a minute, Whonk. It won't do you any good—     Whonk winked broadly. I must take my revenge! he roared. I shalltest the texture of the Soft One! His pulped remains will be scoured upby the ramp-washers and mailed home in bottles!     Retief whirled at a sound, caught up with the scuttling Yith fifty feetaway, hauled him back to Whonk.     It's up to you, Whonk, he said. I know how important ceremonialrevenge is to you Fustians. I will not interfere.     Mercy! Yith hissed, eye-stalks whipping in distress. I claimdiplomatic immunity!     No diplomat am I, rumbled Whonk. Let me see; suppose I start withone of those obscenely active eyes— He reached....     I have an idea, said Retief brightly. Do you suppose—just thisonce—you could forego the ceremonial revenge if Yith promised toarrange for a Groaci Surgical Mission to de-carapace you elders?     But, Whonk protested, those eyes! What a pleasure to pluck them, oneby one!     Yess, hissed Yith, I swear it! Our most expert surgeons ... platoonsof them, with the finest of equipment.     I have dreamed of how it would be to sit on this one, to feel himsquash beneath my bulk....     Light as a whissle feather shall you dance, Yith whispered.Shell-less shall you spring in the joy of renewed youth—     Maybe just one eye, said Whonk grudgingly. That would leave himfour.     Be a sport, said Retief.     Well.     It's a deal then, said Retief. Yith, on your word as a diplomat,an alien, a soft-back and a skunk, you'll set up the mission. Groacisurgical skill is an export that will net you more than armaments.It will be a whissle feather in your cap—if you bring it off. Andin return, Whonk won't sit on you. And I won't prefer charges ofinterference in the internal affairs of a free world.     Behind Whonk there was a movement. Slock, wriggling free of theborrowed carapace, struggled to his feet ... in time for Whonk to seizehim, lift him high and head for the entry to the      Moss Rock     .     Hey, Retief called. Where are you going?     I would not deny this one his reward, called Whonk. He hoped tocruise in luxury. So be it.     Hold on, said Retief. That tub is loaded with titanite!     Stand not in my way, Retief. For this one in truth owes me avengeance.     Retief watched as the immense Fustian bore his giant burden up the rampand disappeared within the ship.     I guess Whonk means business, he said to Yith, who hung in his grasp,all five eyes goggling. And he's a little too big for me to stop.     Whonk reappeared, alone, climbed down.     What did you do with him? said Retief. Tell him you were going to—     We had best withdraw, said Whonk. The killing radius of the drive isfifty yards.     You mean—     The controls are set for Groaci. Long-may-he-sleep.  It was quite a bang, said Retief. But I guess you saw it, too.     No, confound it, Magnan said. When I remonstrated with Hulk, orWhelk—     Whonk.     —the ruffian thrust me into an alley bound in my own cloak. I'll mostcertainly complain to the Minister.     How about the surgical mission?     A most generous offer, said Magnan. Frankly, I was astonished. Ithink perhaps we've judged the Groaci too harshly.     I hear the Ministry of Youth has had a rough morning of it, saidRetief. And a lot of rumors are flying to the effect that Youth Groupsare on the way out.     Magnan cleared his throat, shuffled papers. I—ah—have explained tothe press that last night's—ah—     Fiasco.     —affair was necessary in order to place the culprits in an untenableposition. Of course, as to the destruction of the VIP vessel and thepresumed death of, uh, Slop.     The Fustians understand, said Retief. Whonk wasn't kidding aboutceremonial vengeance.     The Groaci had been guilty of gross misuse of diplomatic privilege,said Magnan. I think that a note—or perhaps an Aide Memoire: lessformal....     The      Moss Rock     was bound for Groaci, said Retief. She was alreadyin her transit orbit when she blew. The major fragments will arrive onschedule in a month or so. It should provide quite a meteorite display.I think that should be all the      aide     the Groaci's      memoires     will needto keep their tentacles off Fust.     But diplomatic usage—     Then, too, the less that's put in writing, the less they can blame youfor, if anything goes wrong.     That's true, said Magnan, lips pursed. Now you're thinkingconstructively, Retief. We may make a diplomat of you yet. He smiledexpansively.     Maybe. But I refuse to let it depress me. Retief stood up. I'mtaking a few weeks off ... if you have no objection, Mr. Ambassador. Mypal Whonk wants to show me an island down south where the fishing isgood.     But there are some extremely important matters coming up, saidMagnan. We're planning to sponsor Senior Citizen Groups—     Count me out. All groups give me an itch.     Why, what an astonishing remark, Retief! After all, we diplomats areourselves a group.     Uh-huh, Retief said.     Magnan sat quietly, mouth open, and watched as Retief stepped into thehall and closed the door gently behind him.   ","As the story opens, Ambassador Magnan briefs Councillor Retief on the Terrestrial Embassy’s request for sponsorship of youth groups on the planet Fust.  Councillor Retief is not interested. Magnan specifically suggests that Retief sponsor the group SCARS (Sexual, Cultural and Athletic Recreational Society), and warns Retief that the rival Groaci may fill any void. Retief suggests researching the youth groups before giving them money. Magnan is dismissive. Retief is still not interested, and leaves to go look at plans for a new passenger liner being built by the Fustians. Retief takes a flat-car to the ship yard and meets Whonk, who is a shipyard clerk. He asks to see the blueprints, which he photographs. He and Whonk chat about the attitude of the youth, and Whonk blames it on their new leader, Slock, who hangs around with Yith, a member of the Groaci embassy.Later, while Retief is on his way home to dress for a dinner and press event organized by Magnan, two Fustian youths threaten him on the bus. Retief realizes that they were after his photos, which showed that the ship under construction was a battle cruiser, not a passenger liner. He also realizes that Whonk may be in danger. Retief escapes the youths and races back to the shipyard to find that Whonk has been dragged off and tied up in a warehouse. From the Fustian’s wounds, Retief realized that they had tried to kill him.Retief figures out that the Fustian youths have taken some titanite, an explosive, over to a ship called the Moss Rock, which would be full of dignitaries later. He and Whonk race over there and encounter more Fustians, and win a fight with them, effectively breaking up the Groaci-backed plot to blow up the ship. Retief arrives at the banquet a little late, and exchanges a few words with Magnan, who proceeds to make the Fustians miserable with his cultural insensitivity. A few minutes later, the SCARS leader, Slock, arrives. Retief reveals Slock’s plan: Slock, backed by the Groaci, was planning to take over Fust. The Groaci tried to frame the Terrestrial Embassy for the plot.Slock escaped. Retief went back toward the Moss Rock, where Whonk tackled Slock, and Retief accosted Yith. Whonk wanted to take revenge on Yith for attacking him earlier, but Retief instead negotiated a deal in which Yith, who had mastered removing the Fustian carapace surgically, which would be a great relief to Whonk and other elders, would agree to do so in return for not being ritually dismembered. Just as this agreement was completed, Slock tried to escape again, but Whonk dumped him on the Moss Rock, and set the autopilot for Groaci, still full of titanite. It blew up on the way there.Magnan wrested what he could, diplomatically speaking, from the wreckage of the youth sponsorship program and moved on to plans to sponsor Senior Citizens Groups."
"Summarize the Fustian life cycle and culture. </s>     AIDE MEMOIRE     BY KEITH LAUMER     The Fustians looked like turtles—but     they could move fast when they chose!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, July 1962.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Across the table from Retief, Ambassador Magnan rustled a stiff sheetof parchment and looked grave.     This aide memoire, he said, was just handed to me by the CulturalAttache. It's the third on the subject this week. It refers to thematter of sponsorship of Youth groups—     Some youths, Retief said. Average age, seventy-five.     The Fustians are a long-lived people, Magnan snapped. These mattersare relative. At seventy-five, a male Fustian is at a trying age—     That's right. He'll try anything—in the hope it will maim somebody.     Precisely the problem, Magnan said. But the Youth Movement isthe important news in today's political situation here on Fust. Andsponsorship of Youth groups is a shrewd stroke on the part of theTerrestrial Embassy. At my suggestion, well nigh every member of themission has leaped at the opportunity to score a few p—that is, cementrelations with this emergent power group—the leaders of the future.You, Retief, as Councillor, are the outstanding exception.     I'm not convinced these hoodlums need my help in organizing theirrumbles, Retief said. Now, if you have a proposal for a pest controlgroup—     To the Fustians this is no jesting matter, Magnan cut in. Thisgroup— he glanced at the paper—known as the Sexual, Cultural, andAthletic Recreational Society, or SCARS for short, has been awaitingsponsorship for a matter of weeks now.     Meaning they want someone to buy them a clubhouse, uniforms, equipmentand anything else they need to complete their sexual, cultural andathletic development, Retief said.     If we don't act promptly, Magnan said, the Groaci Embassy may wellanticipate us. They're very active here.     That's an idea, said Retief. Let 'em. After awhile they'll go brokeinstead of us.     Nonsense. The group requires a sponsor. I can't actually order you tostep forward. However.... Magnan let the sentence hang in the air.Retief raised one eyebrow.     For a minute there, he said, I thought you were going to make apositive statement.  Magnan leaned back, lacing his fingers over his stomach. I don't thinkyou'll find a diplomat of my experience doing anything so naive, hesaid.     I like the adult Fustians, said Retief. Too bad they have to lughalf a ton of horn around on their backs. I wonder if surgery wouldhelp.     Great heavens, Retief, Magnan sputtered. I'm amazed that even youwould bring up a matter of such delicacy. A race's unfortunate physicalcharacteristics are hardly a fit matter for Terrestrial curiosity.     Well, of course your experience of the Fustian mentality is greaterthan mine. I've only been here a month. But it's been my experience,Mr. Ambassador, that few races are above improving on nature. Otherwiseyou, for example, would be tripping over your beard.     Magnan shuddered. Please—never mention the idea to a Fustian.     Retief stood. My own program for the day includes going over to thedockyards. There are some features of this new passenger liner theFustians are putting together that I want to look into. With yourpermission, Mr. Ambassador...?     Magnan snorted. Your pre-occupation with the trivial disturbs me,Retief. More interest in substantive matters—such as working withYouth groups—would create a far better impression.     Before getting too involved with these groups, it might be a good ideato find out a little more about them, said Retief. Who organizesthem? There are three strong political parties here on Fust. What's thealignment of this SCARS organization?     You forget, these are merely teenagers, so to speak, Magnan said.Politics mean nothing to them ... yet.     Then there are the Groaci. Why their passionate interest in atwo-horse world like Fust? Normally they're concerned with nothing butbusiness. But what has Fust got that they could use?     You may rule out the commercial aspect in this instance, said Magnan.Fust possesses a vigorous steel-age manufacturing economy. The Groaciare barely ahead of them.     Barely, said Retief. Just over the line into crude atomics ... likefission bombs.     Magnan shook his head, turned back to his papers. What market existsfor such devices on a world at peace? I suggest you address yourattention to the less spectacular but more rewarding work of studyingthe social patterns of the local youth.     I've studied them, said Retief. And before I meet any of the localyouth socially I want to get myself a good blackjack.      II     Retief left the sprawling bungalow-type building that housed thechancery of the Terrestrial Embassy, swung aboard a passing flat-carand leaned back against the wooden guard rail as the heavy vehicletrundled through the city toward the looming gantries of the shipyards.     It was a cool morning. A light breeze carried the fishy odor of Fustydwellings across the broad cobbled avenue. A few mature Fustianslumbered heavily along in the shade of the low buildings, audiblywheezing under the burden of their immense carapaces. Among them,shell-less youths trotted briskly on scaly stub legs. The driver of theflat-car, a labor-caste Fustian with his guild colors emblazoned on hisback, heaved at the tiller, swung the unwieldy conveyance through theshipyard gates, creaked to a halt.     Thus I come to the shipyard with frightful speed, he said in Fustian.Well I know the way of the naked-backs, who move always in haste.     Retief climbed down, handed him a coin. You should take upprofessional racing, he said. Daredevil.     He crossed the littered yard and tapped at the door of a rambling shed.Boards creaked inside. Then the door swung back.     A gnarled ancient with tarnished facial scales and a weathered carapacepeered out at Retief.     Long-may-you-sleep, said Retief. I'd like to take a look around, ifyou don't mind. I understand you're laying the bedplate for your newliner today.       May-you-dream-of-the-deeps, the old fellow mumbled. He waved a stumpyarm toward a group of shell-less Fustians standing by a massive hoist.The youths know more of bedplates than do I, who but tend the place ofpapers.     I know how you feel, old-timer, said Retief. That sounds like thestory of my life. Among your papers do you have a set of plans for thevessel? I understand it's to be a passenger liner.     The oldster nodded. He shuffled to a drawing file, rummaged, pulled outa sheaf of curled prints and spread them on the table. Retief stoodsilently, running a finger over the uppermost drawing, tracing lines....     What does the naked-back here? barked a deep voice behind Retief. Heturned. A heavy-faced Fustian youth, wrapped in a mantle, stood at theopen door. Beady yellow eyes set among fine scales bored into Retief.     I came to take a look at your new liner, said Retief.     We need no prying foreigners here, the youth snapped. His eye fell onthe drawings. He hissed in sudden anger.     Doddering hulk! he snapped at the ancient. May you toss innightmares! Put by the plans!     My mistake, Retief said. I didn't know this was a secret project.  The youth hesitated. It is not a secret project, he muttered. Whyshould it be secret?     You tell me.     The youth worked his jaws and rocked his head from side to side in theFusty gesture of uncertainty. There is nothing to conceal, he said.We merely construct a passenger liner.     Then you don't mind if I look over the drawings, said Retief. Whoknows? Maybe some day I'll want to reserve a suite for the trip out.     The youth turned and disappeared. Retief grinned at the oldster. Wentfor his big brother, I guess, he said. I have a feeling I won't getto study these in peace here. Mind if I copy them?     Willingly, light-footed one, said the old Fustian. And mine is theshame for the discourtesy of youth.     Retief took out a tiny camera, flipped a copying lens in place, leafedthrough the drawings, clicking the shutter.     A plague on these youths, said the oldster, who grow more virulentday by day.     Why don't you elders clamp down?     Agile are they and we are slow of foot. And this unrest is new.Unknown in my youth was such insolence.     The police—     Bah! the ancient rumbled. None have we worthy of the name, nor havewe needed ought ere now.     What's behind it?     They have found leaders. The spiv, Slock, is one. And I fear they plotmischief. He pointed to the window. They come, and a Soft One withthem.     Retief pocketed the camera, glanced out the window. A pale-featuredGroaci with an ornately decorated crest stood with the youths, who eyedthe hut, then started toward it.     That's the military attache of the Groaci Embassy, Retief said. Iwonder what he and the boys are cooking up together?     Naught that augurs well for the dignity of Fust, the oldster rumbled.Flee, agile one, while I engage their attentions.     I was just leaving, Retief said. Which way out?     The rear door, the Fustian gestured with a stubby member. Rest well,stranger on these shores. He moved to the entrance.     Same to you, pop, said Retief. And thanks.     He eased through the narrow back entrance, waited until voices wereraised at the front of the shed, then strolled off toward the gate.  The second dark of the third cycle was lightening when Retief left theEmbassy technical library and crossed the corridor to his office. Heflipped on a light. A note was tucked under a paperweight:     Retief—I shall expect your attendance at the IAS dinner at firstdark of the fourth cycle. There will be a brief but, I hope, impressiveSponsorship ceremony for the SCARS group, with full press coverage,arrangements for which I have managed to complete in spite of yourintransigence.     Retief snorted and glanced at his watch. Less than three hours. Justtime to creep home by flat-car, dress in ceremonial uniform and creepback.     Outside he flagged a lumbering bus. He stationed himself in a cornerand watched the yellow sun, Beta, rise rapidly above the low skyline.The nearby sea was at high tide now, under the pull of the major sunand the three moons, and the stiff breeze carried a mist of salt spray.     Retief turned up his collar against the dampness. In half an hour hewould be perspiring under the vertical rays of a third-noon sun, butthe thought failed to keep the chill off.     Two Youths clambered up on the platform, moving purposefully towardRetief. He moved off the rail, watching them, weight balanced.     That's close enough, kids, he said. Plenty of room on this scow. Noneed to crowd up.     There are certain films, the lead Fustian muttered. His voice wasunusually deep for a Youth. He was wrapped in a heavy cloak and movedawkwardly. His adolescence was nearly at an end, Retief guessed.     I told you once, said Retief. Don't crowd me.     The two stepped close, slit mouths snapping in anger. Retief put out afoot, hooked it behind the scaly leg of the overaged juvenile and threwhis weight against the cloaked chest. The clumsy Fustian tottered, fellheavily. Retief was past him and off the flat-car before the otherYouth had completed his vain lunge toward the spot Retief had occupied.The Terrestrial waved cheerfully at the pair, hopped aboard anothervehicle, watched his would-be assailants lumber down from their car,tiny heads twisted to follow his retreating figure.     So they wanted the film? Retief reflected, thumbing a cigar alight.They were a little late. He had already filed it in the Embassy vault,after running a copy for the reference files.     And a comparison of the drawings with those of the obsolete Mark XXXVbattle cruiser used two hundred years earlier by the Concordiat NavalArm showed them to be almost identical, gun emplacements and all. Theterm obsolete was a relative one. A ship which had been outmoded inthe armories of the Galactic Powers could still be king of the walk inthe Eastern Arm.     But how had these two known of the film? There had been no one presentbut himself and the old-timer—and he was willing to bet the elderlyFustian hadn't told them anything.     At least not willingly....     Retief frowned, dropped the cigar over the side, waited until theflat-car negotiated a mud-wallow, then swung down and headed for theshipyard.  The door, hinges torn loose, had been propped loosely back in position.Retief looked around at the battered interior of the shed. The oldfellow had put up a struggle.     There were deep drag-marks in the dust behind the building. Retieffollowed them across the yard. They disappeared under the steel door ofa warehouse.     Retief glanced around. Now, at the mid-hour of the fourth cycle, theworkmen were heaped along the edge of the refreshment pond, deep intheir siesta. He took a multi-bladed tool from a pocket, tried variousfittings in the lock. It snicked open.     He eased the door aside far enough to enter.     Heaped bales loomed before him. Snapping on the tiny lamp in the handleof the combination tool, Retief looked over the pile. One stack seemedout of alignment ... and the dust had been scraped from the floorbefore it. He pocketed the light, climbed up on the bales, looked overinto a nest made by stacking the bundles around a clear spot. The agedFustian lay in it, on his back, a heavy sack tied over his head.     Retief dropped down inside the ring of bales, sawed at the tough twineand pulled the sack free.     It's me, old fellow, Retief said. The nosy stranger. Sorry I got youinto this.     The oldster threshed his gnarled legs. He rocked slightly and fellback. A curse on the cradle that rocked their infant slumbers, herumbled. But place me back on my feet and I hunt down the youth,Slock, though he flee to the bottommost muck of the Sea of Torments.     How am I going to get you out of here? Maybe I'd better get some help.     Nay. The perfidious Youths abound here, said the old Fustian. Itwould be your life.     I doubt if they'd go that far.     Would they not? The Fustian stretched his neck. Cast your lighthere. But for the toughness of my hide....     Retief put the beam of the light on the leathery neck. A great smear ofthick purplish blood welled from a ragged cut. The oldster chuckled, asound like a seal coughing.     Traitor, they called me. For long they sawed at me—in vain. Thenthey trussed me and dumped me here. They think to return with weaponsto complete the task.     Weapons? I thought it was illegal!     Their evil genius, the Soft One, said the Fustian. He would providefuel to the Devil himself.     The Groaci again, said Retief. I wonder what their angle is.     And I must confess, I told them of you, ere I knew their fullintentions. Much can I tell you of their doings. But first, I pray, theblock and tackle.     Retief found the hoist where the Fustian directed him, maneuvered itinto position, hooked onto the edge of the carapace and hauled away.The immense Fustian rose slowly, teetered ... then flopped on his chest.     Slowly he got to his feet.     My name is Whonk, fleet one, he said. My cows are yours.     Thanks. I'm Retief. I'd like to meet the girls some time. But rightnow, let's get out of here.     Whonk leaned his bulk against the ponderous stacks of baled kelp,bulldozed them aside. Slow am I to anger, he said, but implacable inmy wrath. Slock, beware!     Hold it, said Retief suddenly. He sniffed. What's that odor? Heflashed the light around, played it over a dry stain on the floor. Heknelt, sniffed at the spot.     What kind of cargo was stacked here, Whonk? And where is it now?     Whonk considered. There were drums, he said. Four of them, quitesmall, painted an evil green, the property of the Soft Ones, theGroaci. They lay here a day and a night. At full dark of the firstperiod they came with stevedores and loaded them aboard the barge      MossRock     .     The VIP boat. Who's scheduled to use it?     I know not. But what matters this? Let us discuss cargo movementsafter I have settled a score with certain Youths.     We'd better follow this up first, Whonk. There's only one substance Iknow of that's transported in drums and smells like that blot on thefloor. That's titanite: the hottest explosive this side of a uraniumpile.      III     Beta was setting as Retief, Whonk puffing at his heels, came up to thesentry box beside the gangway leading to the plush interior of theofficial luxury space barge      Moss Rock     .     A sign of the times, said Whonk, glancing inside the empty shelter.A guard should stand here, but I see him not. Doubtless he crept awayto sleep.     Let's go aboard and take a look around.     They entered the ship. Soft lights glowed in utter silence. A rough boxstood on the floor, rollers and pry-bars beside it—a discordant notein the muted luxury of the setting. Whonk rummaged in it.     Curious, he said. What means this? He held up a stained cloak oforange and green, a metal bracelet, papers.     Orange and green, mused Relief. Whose colors are those?     I know not. Whonk glanced at the arm-band. But this is lettered. Hepassed the metal band to Retief.     SCARS, Retief read. He looked at Whonk. It seems to me I've heardthe name before, he murmured. Let's get back to the Embassy—fast.     Back on the ramp Retief heard a sound ... and turned in time to duckthe charge of a hulking Fustian youth who thundered past him andfetched up against the broad chest of Whonk, who locked him in a warmembrace.     Nice catch, Whonk. Where'd he sneak out of?     The lout hid there by the storage bin, rumbled Whonk. The captiveyouth thumped fists and toes fruitlessly against the oldster's carapace.     Hang onto him, said Retief. He looks like the biting kind.     No fear. Clumsy I am, yet not without strength.     Ask him where the titanite is tucked away.     Speak, witless grub, growled Whonk, lest I tweak you in twain.     The youth gurgled.     Better let up before you make a mess of him, said Retief. Whonklifted the Youth clear of the floor, then flung him down with a thumpthat made the ground quiver. The younger Fustian glared up at theelder, mouth snapping.     This one was among those who trussed me and hid me away for thekilling, said Whonk. In his repentance he will tell all to his elder.     That's the same young squirt that tried to strike up an acquaintancewith me on the bus, Retief said. He gets around.     The youth scrambled to hands and knees, scuttled for freedom. Retiefplanted a foot on his dragging cloak; it ripped free. He stared at thebare back of the Fustian—     By the Great Egg! Whonk exclaimed, tripping the refugee as he triedto rise. This is no Youth! His carapace has been taken from him!     Retief looked at the scarred back. I thought he looked a little old.But I thought—     This is not possible, Whonk said wonderingly. The great nerve trunksare deeply involved. Not even the cleverest surgeon could excise thecarapace and leave the patient living.     It looks like somebody did the trick. But let's take this boy with usand get out of here. His folks may come home.     Too late, said Whonk. Retief turned.     Three youths came from behind the sheds.     Well, Retief said. It looks like the SCARS are out in force tonight.Where's your pal? he said to the advancing trio. The sticky littlebird with the eye-stalks? Back at his Embassy, leaving you suckersholding the bag, I'll bet.     Shelter behind me, Retief, said Whonk.     Go get 'em, old-timer. Retief stooped, picked up one of the pry-bars.I'll jump around and distract them.     Whonk let out a whistling roar and charged for the immature Fustians.They fanned out ... and one tripped, sprawled on his face. Retiefwhirled the metal bar he had thrust between the Fustian's legs, slammedit against the skull of another, who shook his head, turned onRetief ... and bounced off the steel hull of the      Moss Rock     as Whonktook him in full charge.     Retief used the bar on another head. His third blow laid the Fustianon the pavement, oozing purple. The other two club members departedhastily, seriously dented but still mobile.     Retief leaned on his club, breathing hard. Tough heads these kidshave got. I'm tempted to chase those two lads down, but I've gotanother errand to run. I don't know who the Groaci intended to blast,but I have a sneaking suspicion somebody of importance was scheduledfor a boat ride in the next few hours. And three drums of titanite isenough to vaporize this tub and everyone aboard her.     The plot is foiled, said Whonk. But what reason did they have?     The Groaci are behind it. I have an idea the SCARS didn't know aboutthis gambit.     Which of these is the leader? asked Whonk. He prodded a fallen Youthwith a horny toe. Arise, dreaming one.     Never mind him, Whonk. We'll tie these two up and leave them here. Iknow where to find the boss.  A stolid crowd filled the low-ceilinged banquet hall. Retief scannedthe tables for the pale blobs of Terrestrial faces, dwarfed by thegiant armored bodies of the Fustians. Across the room Magnan fluttereda hand. Retief headed toward him. A low-pitched vibration filled theair: the rumble of subsonic Fustian music.     Retief slid into his place beside Magnan. Sorry to be late, Mr.Ambassador.     I'm honored that you chose to appear at all, said Magnan coldly. Heturned back to the Fustian on his left.     Ah, yes, Mr. Minister, he said. Charming, most charming. So joyous.     The Fustian looked at him, beady-eyed. It is the      Lament ofHatching     , he said; our National Dirge.     Oh, said Magnan. How interesting. Such a pleasing balance ofinstruments—     It is a droon solo, said the Fustian, eyeing the TerrestrialAmbassador suspiciously.     Why don't you just admit you can't hear it, Retief whispered loudly.And if I may interrupt a moment—     Magnan cleared his throat. Now that our Mr. Retief has arrived,perhaps we could rush right along to the Sponsorship ceremonies.     This group, said Retief, leaning across Magnan, the SCARS. How muchdo you know about them, Mr. Minister?     Nothing at all, the huge Fustian elder rumbled. For my taste, allYouths should be kept penned with the livestock until they grow acarapace to tame their irresponsibility.     We mustn't lose sight of the importance of channeling youthfulenergies, said Magnan.     Labor gangs, said the minister. In my youth we were indentured tothe dredge-masters. I myself drew a muck sledge.     But in these modern times, put in Magnan, surely it's incumbent onus to make happy these golden hours.     The minister snorted. Last week I had a golden hour. They set upon meand pelted me with overripe stench-fruit.     But this was merely a manifestation of normal youthful frustrations,cried Magnan. Their essential tenderness—     You'd not find a tender spot on that lout yonder, the ministersaid, pointing with a fork at a newly arrived Youth, if you drilledboreholes and blasted.  Why, that's our guest of honor, said Magnan, a fine young fellow!Slop I believe his name is.     Slock, said Retief. Eight feet of armor-plated orneriness. And—     Magnan rose and tapped on his glass. The Fustians winced at the, tothem, supersonic vibrations. They looked at each other muttering.Magnan tapped louder. The Minister drew in his head, eyes closed. Someof the Fustians rose, tottered for the doors; the noise level rose.Magnan redoubled his efforts. The glass broke with a clatter and greenwine gushed on the tablecloth.     What in the name of the Great Egg! the Minister muttered. He blinked,breathing deeply.     Oh, forgive me, blurted Magnan, dabbing at the wine.     Too bad the glass gave out, said Retief. In another minute you'dhave cleared the hall. And then maybe I could have gotten a word insideways. There's a matter you should know about—     Your attention, please, Magnan said, rising. I see that our fineyoung guest has arrived, and I hope that the remainder of his committeewill be along in a moment. It is my pleasure to announce that our Mr.Retief has had the good fortune to win out in the keen bidding for thepleasure of sponsoring this lovely group.     Retief tugged at Magnan's sleeve. Don't introduce me yet, he said. Iwant to appear suddenly. More dramatic, you know.     Well, murmured Magnan, glancing down at Retief, I'm gratified tosee you entering into the spirit of the event at last. He turned hisattention back to the assembled guests. If our honored guest will joinme on the rostrum...? he said. The gentlemen of the press may want tocatch a few shots of the presentation.     Magnan stepped up on the low platform at the center of the wide room,took his place beside the robed Fustian youth and beamed at the cameras.     How gratifying it is to take this opportunity to express once more thegreat pleasure we have in sponsoring SCARS, he said, talking slowlyfor the benefit of the scribbling reporters. We'd like to think thatin our modest way we're to be a part of all that the SCARS achieveduring the years ahead.     Magnan paused as a huge Fustian elder heaved his bulk up the two lowsteps to the rostrum, approached the guest of honor. He watched as thenewcomer paused behind Slock, who did not see the new arrival.     Retief pushed through the crowd, stepped up to face the Fustian youth.Slock stared at him, drew back.     You know me, Slock, said Retief loudly. An old fellow named Whonktold you about me, just before you tried to saw his head off, remember?It was when I came out to take a look at that battle cruiser you'rebuilding.      IV     With a bellow Slock reached for Retief—and choked off in mid-cry asthe Fustian elder, Whonk, pinioned him from behind, lifting him clearof the floor.     Glad you reporters happened along, said Retief to the gaping newsmen.Slock here had a deal with a sharp operator from the Groaci Embassy.The Groaci were to supply the necessary hardware and Slock, as foremanat the shipyards, was to see that everything was properly installed.The next step, I assume, would have been a local take-over, followedby a little interplanetary war on Flamenco or one of the other nearbyworlds ... for which the Groaci would be glad to supply plenty of ammo.     Magnan found his tongue. Are you mad, Retief? he screeched. Thisgroup was vouched for by the Ministry of Youth!     The Ministry's overdue for a purge, snapped Retief. He turned backto Slock. I wonder if you were in on the little diversion that wasplanned for today. When the      Moss Rock     blew, a variety of clues wereto be planted where they'd be easy to find ... with SCARS written allover them. The Groaci would thus have neatly laid the whole affairsquarely at the door of the Terrestrial Embassy ... whose sponsorshipof the SCARS had received plenty of publicity.     The      Moss Rock     ? said Magnan. But that was—Retief! This is idiotic.Slock himself was scheduled to go on a cruise tomorrow!     Slock roared suddenly, twisting violently. Whonk teetered, his griploosened ... and Slock pulled free and was off the platform, buttinghis way through the milling oldsters on the dining room floor. Magnanwatched, open-mouthed.     The Groaci were playing a double game, as usual, Retief said. Theyintended to dispose of this fellow Slock, once he'd served theirpurpose.     Well, don't stand there, yelped Magnan over the uproar. If Slock isthe ring-leader of a delinquent gang...! He moved to give chase.     Retief grabbed his arm. Don't jump down there! You'd have as muchchance of getting through as a jack-rabbit through a threshing contest.     Ten minutes later the crowd had thinned slightly. We can get throughnow, Whonk called. This way. He lowered himself to the floor, bulledthrough to the exit. Flashbulbs popped. Retief and Magnan followed inWhonk's wake.     In the lounge Retief grabbed the phone, waited for the operator, gave acode letter. No reply. He tried another.     No good, he said after a full minute had passed. Wonder what'sloose? He slammed the phone back in its niche. Let's grab a cab.  In the street the blue sun, Alpha, peered like an arc light under a lowcloud layer, casting flat shadows across the mud of the avenue. Thethree mounted a passing flat-car. Whonk squatted, resting the weight ofhis immense shell on the heavy plank flooring.     Would that I too could lose this burden, as has the false youth webludgeoned aboard the      Moss Rock     , he sighed. Soon will I be forcedinto retirement. Then a mere keeper of a place of papers such as Iwill rate no more than a slab on the public strand, with once-dailyfeedings. And even for a man of high position, retirement is nopleasure. A slab in the Park of Monuments is little better. A dismaloutlook for one's next thousand years!     You two carry on to the police station, said Retief. I want to playa hunch. But don't take too long. I may be painfully right.     What—? Magnan started.     As you wish, Retief, said Whonk.     The flat-car trundled past the gate to the shipyard and Retief jumpeddown, headed at a run for the VIP boat. The guard post still stoodvacant. The two Youths whom he and Whonk had left trussed were gone.     That's the trouble with a peaceful world, Retief muttered. No policeprotection. He stepped down from the lighted entry and took up aposition behind the sentry box. Alpha rose higher, shedding a glaringblue-white light without heat. Retief shivered. Maybe he'd guessedwrong....     There was a sound in the near distance, like two elephants colliding.     Retief looked toward the gate. His giant acquaintance, Whonk, hadreappeared and was grappling with a hardly less massive opponent. Asmall figure became visible in the melee, scuttled for the gate. Headedoff by the battling titans, he turned and made for the opposite sideof the shipyard. Retief waited, jumped out and gathered in the fleeingGroaci.     Well, Yith, he said, how's tricks? You should pardon the expression.     Release me, Retief! the pale-featured alien lisped, his throatbladder pulsating in agitation. The behemoths vie for the privilege ofdismembering me out of hand!     I know how they feel. I'll see what I can do ... for a price.     I appeal to you, Yith whispered hoarsely. As a fellow diplomat, afellow alien, a fellow soft-back—     Why don't you appeal to Slock, as a fellow skunk? said Retief. Nowkeep quiet ... and you may get out of this alive.     The heavier of the two struggling Fustians threw the other to theground. There was another brief flurry, and then the smaller figure wason its back, helpless.     That's Whonk, still on his feet, said Retief. I wonder who he'scaught—and why.     Whonk came toward the      Moss Rock     dragging the supine Fustian, whokicked vainly. Retief thrust Yith down well out of sight behind thesentry box. Better sit tight, Yith. Don't try to sneak off; I canoutrun you. Stay here and I'll see what I can do. He stepped out andhailed Whonk.     Puffing like a steam engine Whonk pulled up before him. Sleep,Retief! He panted. You followed a hunch; I did the same. I sawsomething strange in this one when we passed him on the avenue. Iwatched, followed him here. Look! It is Slock, strapped into a deadcarapace! Now many things become clear.  Retief whistled. So the Youths aren't all as young as they look.Somebody's been holding out on the rest of you Fustians!     The Soft One, Whonk said. You laid him by the heels, Retief. I saw.Produce him now.     Hold on a minute, Whonk. It won't do you any good—     Whonk winked broadly. I must take my revenge! he roared. I shalltest the texture of the Soft One! His pulped remains will be scoured upby the ramp-washers and mailed home in bottles!     Retief whirled at a sound, caught up with the scuttling Yith fifty feetaway, hauled him back to Whonk.     It's up to you, Whonk, he said. I know how important ceremonialrevenge is to you Fustians. I will not interfere.     Mercy! Yith hissed, eye-stalks whipping in distress. I claimdiplomatic immunity!     No diplomat am I, rumbled Whonk. Let me see; suppose I start withone of those obscenely active eyes— He reached....     I have an idea, said Retief brightly. Do you suppose—just thisonce—you could forego the ceremonial revenge if Yith promised toarrange for a Groaci Surgical Mission to de-carapace you elders?     But, Whonk protested, those eyes! What a pleasure to pluck them, oneby one!     Yess, hissed Yith, I swear it! Our most expert surgeons ... platoonsof them, with the finest of equipment.     I have dreamed of how it would be to sit on this one, to feel himsquash beneath my bulk....     Light as a whissle feather shall you dance, Yith whispered.Shell-less shall you spring in the joy of renewed youth—     Maybe just one eye, said Whonk grudgingly. That would leave himfour.     Be a sport, said Retief.     Well.     It's a deal then, said Retief. Yith, on your word as a diplomat,an alien, a soft-back and a skunk, you'll set up the mission. Groacisurgical skill is an export that will net you more than armaments.It will be a whissle feather in your cap—if you bring it off. Andin return, Whonk won't sit on you. And I won't prefer charges ofinterference in the internal affairs of a free world.     Behind Whonk there was a movement. Slock, wriggling free of theborrowed carapace, struggled to his feet ... in time for Whonk to seizehim, lift him high and head for the entry to the      Moss Rock     .     Hey, Retief called. Where are you going?     I would not deny this one his reward, called Whonk. He hoped tocruise in luxury. So be it.     Hold on, said Retief. That tub is loaded with titanite!     Stand not in my way, Retief. For this one in truth owes me avengeance.     Retief watched as the immense Fustian bore his giant burden up the rampand disappeared within the ship.     I guess Whonk means business, he said to Yith, who hung in his grasp,all five eyes goggling. And he's a little too big for me to stop.     Whonk reappeared, alone, climbed down.     What did you do with him? said Retief. Tell him you were going to—     We had best withdraw, said Whonk. The killing radius of the drive isfifty yards.     You mean—     The controls are set for Groaci. Long-may-he-sleep.  It was quite a bang, said Retief. But I guess you saw it, too.     No, confound it, Magnan said. When I remonstrated with Hulk, orWhelk—     Whonk.     —the ruffian thrust me into an alley bound in my own cloak. I'll mostcertainly complain to the Minister.     How about the surgical mission?     A most generous offer, said Magnan. Frankly, I was astonished. Ithink perhaps we've judged the Groaci too harshly.     I hear the Ministry of Youth has had a rough morning of it, saidRetief. And a lot of rumors are flying to the effect that Youth Groupsare on the way out.     Magnan cleared his throat, shuffled papers. I—ah—have explained tothe press that last night's—ah—     Fiasco.     —affair was necessary in order to place the culprits in an untenableposition. Of course, as to the destruction of the VIP vessel and thepresumed death of, uh, Slop.     The Fustians understand, said Retief. Whonk wasn't kidding aboutceremonial vengeance.     The Groaci had been guilty of gross misuse of diplomatic privilege,said Magnan. I think that a note—or perhaps an Aide Memoire: lessformal....     The      Moss Rock     was bound for Groaci, said Retief. She was alreadyin her transit orbit when she blew. The major fragments will arrive onschedule in a month or so. It should provide quite a meteorite display.I think that should be all the      aide     the Groaci's      memoires     will needto keep their tentacles off Fust.     But diplomatic usage—     Then, too, the less that's put in writing, the less they can blame youfor, if anything goes wrong.     That's true, said Magnan, lips pursed. Now you're thinkingconstructively, Retief. We may make a diplomat of you yet. He smiledexpansively.     Maybe. But I refuse to let it depress me. Retief stood up. I'mtaking a few weeks off ... if you have no objection, Mr. Ambassador. Mypal Whonk wants to show me an island down south where the fishing isgood.     But there are some extremely important matters coming up, saidMagnan. We're planning to sponsor Senior Citizen Groups—     Count me out. All groups give me an itch.     Why, what an astonishing remark, Retief! After all, we diplomats areourselves a group.     Uh-huh, Retief said.     Magnan sat quietly, mouth open, and watched as Retief stepped into thehall and closed the door gently behind him.   ","Fustians somewhat resemble gigantic, intelligent snapping turtles, and like turtles, start life as eggs. During their youth and adolescence, they are relatively agile and have no shells (unlike turtles). It is notable how many Fustian elders take a dim view of adolescents, with the Minister of Fust himself saying that the Youth should be “kept penned with the livestock until they grow a carapace to tame their irresponsibility.”When Fustians mature, they develop an enormous, horny carapace which they are obliged to carry around on their backs for the rest of their lives, which last over a thousand years. The carapaces cause the adult Fustians to be slow-moving, and they take up a lot of space – hence their public transportation consists of flat-cars instead of buses with seats. Unfortunately, not much is known by off-worlders of Fustian females.Like most intelligent races, Fustians enjoy music. The frequencies at which their music is played are subsonic, and therefore not audible to the human ear. Likewise, their ears are quite sensitive to high frequencies, such as those produced by tapping on a crystal glass with a spoon. This is not just unpleasant, but painful to Fustian ears."
"Who is Magnan, and what is his role in and relevance to the story? </s>     AIDE MEMOIRE     BY KEITH LAUMER     The Fustians looked like turtles—but     they could move fast when they chose!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, July 1962.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Across the table from Retief, Ambassador Magnan rustled a stiff sheetof parchment and looked grave.     This aide memoire, he said, was just handed to me by the CulturalAttache. It's the third on the subject this week. It refers to thematter of sponsorship of Youth groups—     Some youths, Retief said. Average age, seventy-five.     The Fustians are a long-lived people, Magnan snapped. These mattersare relative. At seventy-five, a male Fustian is at a trying age—     That's right. He'll try anything—in the hope it will maim somebody.     Precisely the problem, Magnan said. But the Youth Movement isthe important news in today's political situation here on Fust. Andsponsorship of Youth groups is a shrewd stroke on the part of theTerrestrial Embassy. At my suggestion, well nigh every member of themission has leaped at the opportunity to score a few p—that is, cementrelations with this emergent power group—the leaders of the future.You, Retief, as Councillor, are the outstanding exception.     I'm not convinced these hoodlums need my help in organizing theirrumbles, Retief said. Now, if you have a proposal for a pest controlgroup—     To the Fustians this is no jesting matter, Magnan cut in. Thisgroup— he glanced at the paper—known as the Sexual, Cultural, andAthletic Recreational Society, or SCARS for short, has been awaitingsponsorship for a matter of weeks now.     Meaning they want someone to buy them a clubhouse, uniforms, equipmentand anything else they need to complete their sexual, cultural andathletic development, Retief said.     If we don't act promptly, Magnan said, the Groaci Embassy may wellanticipate us. They're very active here.     That's an idea, said Retief. Let 'em. After awhile they'll go brokeinstead of us.     Nonsense. The group requires a sponsor. I can't actually order you tostep forward. However.... Magnan let the sentence hang in the air.Retief raised one eyebrow.     For a minute there, he said, I thought you were going to make apositive statement.  Magnan leaned back, lacing his fingers over his stomach. I don't thinkyou'll find a diplomat of my experience doing anything so naive, hesaid.     I like the adult Fustians, said Retief. Too bad they have to lughalf a ton of horn around on their backs. I wonder if surgery wouldhelp.     Great heavens, Retief, Magnan sputtered. I'm amazed that even youwould bring up a matter of such delicacy. A race's unfortunate physicalcharacteristics are hardly a fit matter for Terrestrial curiosity.     Well, of course your experience of the Fustian mentality is greaterthan mine. I've only been here a month. But it's been my experience,Mr. Ambassador, that few races are above improving on nature. Otherwiseyou, for example, would be tripping over your beard.     Magnan shuddered. Please—never mention the idea to a Fustian.     Retief stood. My own program for the day includes going over to thedockyards. There are some features of this new passenger liner theFustians are putting together that I want to look into. With yourpermission, Mr. Ambassador...?     Magnan snorted. Your pre-occupation with the trivial disturbs me,Retief. More interest in substantive matters—such as working withYouth groups—would create a far better impression.     Before getting too involved with these groups, it might be a good ideato find out a little more about them, said Retief. Who organizesthem? There are three strong political parties here on Fust. What's thealignment of this SCARS organization?     You forget, these are merely teenagers, so to speak, Magnan said.Politics mean nothing to them ... yet.     Then there are the Groaci. Why their passionate interest in atwo-horse world like Fust? Normally they're concerned with nothing butbusiness. But what has Fust got that they could use?     You may rule out the commercial aspect in this instance, said Magnan.Fust possesses a vigorous steel-age manufacturing economy. The Groaciare barely ahead of them.     Barely, said Retief. Just over the line into crude atomics ... likefission bombs.     Magnan shook his head, turned back to his papers. What market existsfor such devices on a world at peace? I suggest you address yourattention to the less spectacular but more rewarding work of studyingthe social patterns of the local youth.     I've studied them, said Retief. And before I meet any of the localyouth socially I want to get myself a good blackjack.      II     Retief left the sprawling bungalow-type building that housed thechancery of the Terrestrial Embassy, swung aboard a passing flat-carand leaned back against the wooden guard rail as the heavy vehicletrundled through the city toward the looming gantries of the shipyards.     It was a cool morning. A light breeze carried the fishy odor of Fustydwellings across the broad cobbled avenue. A few mature Fustianslumbered heavily along in the shade of the low buildings, audiblywheezing under the burden of their immense carapaces. Among them,shell-less youths trotted briskly on scaly stub legs. The driver of theflat-car, a labor-caste Fustian with his guild colors emblazoned on hisback, heaved at the tiller, swung the unwieldy conveyance through theshipyard gates, creaked to a halt.     Thus I come to the shipyard with frightful speed, he said in Fustian.Well I know the way of the naked-backs, who move always in haste.     Retief climbed down, handed him a coin. You should take upprofessional racing, he said. Daredevil.     He crossed the littered yard and tapped at the door of a rambling shed.Boards creaked inside. Then the door swung back.     A gnarled ancient with tarnished facial scales and a weathered carapacepeered out at Retief.     Long-may-you-sleep, said Retief. I'd like to take a look around, ifyou don't mind. I understand you're laying the bedplate for your newliner today.       May-you-dream-of-the-deeps, the old fellow mumbled. He waved a stumpyarm toward a group of shell-less Fustians standing by a massive hoist.The youths know more of bedplates than do I, who but tend the place ofpapers.     I know how you feel, old-timer, said Retief. That sounds like thestory of my life. Among your papers do you have a set of plans for thevessel? I understand it's to be a passenger liner.     The oldster nodded. He shuffled to a drawing file, rummaged, pulled outa sheaf of curled prints and spread them on the table. Retief stoodsilently, running a finger over the uppermost drawing, tracing lines....     What does the naked-back here? barked a deep voice behind Retief. Heturned. A heavy-faced Fustian youth, wrapped in a mantle, stood at theopen door. Beady yellow eyes set among fine scales bored into Retief.     I came to take a look at your new liner, said Retief.     We need no prying foreigners here, the youth snapped. His eye fell onthe drawings. He hissed in sudden anger.     Doddering hulk! he snapped at the ancient. May you toss innightmares! Put by the plans!     My mistake, Retief said. I didn't know this was a secret project.  The youth hesitated. It is not a secret project, he muttered. Whyshould it be secret?     You tell me.     The youth worked his jaws and rocked his head from side to side in theFusty gesture of uncertainty. There is nothing to conceal, he said.We merely construct a passenger liner.     Then you don't mind if I look over the drawings, said Retief. Whoknows? Maybe some day I'll want to reserve a suite for the trip out.     The youth turned and disappeared. Retief grinned at the oldster. Wentfor his big brother, I guess, he said. I have a feeling I won't getto study these in peace here. Mind if I copy them?     Willingly, light-footed one, said the old Fustian. And mine is theshame for the discourtesy of youth.     Retief took out a tiny camera, flipped a copying lens in place, leafedthrough the drawings, clicking the shutter.     A plague on these youths, said the oldster, who grow more virulentday by day.     Why don't you elders clamp down?     Agile are they and we are slow of foot. And this unrest is new.Unknown in my youth was such insolence.     The police—     Bah! the ancient rumbled. None have we worthy of the name, nor havewe needed ought ere now.     What's behind it?     They have found leaders. The spiv, Slock, is one. And I fear they plotmischief. He pointed to the window. They come, and a Soft One withthem.     Retief pocketed the camera, glanced out the window. A pale-featuredGroaci with an ornately decorated crest stood with the youths, who eyedthe hut, then started toward it.     That's the military attache of the Groaci Embassy, Retief said. Iwonder what he and the boys are cooking up together?     Naught that augurs well for the dignity of Fust, the oldster rumbled.Flee, agile one, while I engage their attentions.     I was just leaving, Retief said. Which way out?     The rear door, the Fustian gestured with a stubby member. Rest well,stranger on these shores. He moved to the entrance.     Same to you, pop, said Retief. And thanks.     He eased through the narrow back entrance, waited until voices wereraised at the front of the shed, then strolled off toward the gate.  The second dark of the third cycle was lightening when Retief left theEmbassy technical library and crossed the corridor to his office. Heflipped on a light. A note was tucked under a paperweight:     Retief—I shall expect your attendance at the IAS dinner at firstdark of the fourth cycle. There will be a brief but, I hope, impressiveSponsorship ceremony for the SCARS group, with full press coverage,arrangements for which I have managed to complete in spite of yourintransigence.     Retief snorted and glanced at his watch. Less than three hours. Justtime to creep home by flat-car, dress in ceremonial uniform and creepback.     Outside he flagged a lumbering bus. He stationed himself in a cornerand watched the yellow sun, Beta, rise rapidly above the low skyline.The nearby sea was at high tide now, under the pull of the major sunand the three moons, and the stiff breeze carried a mist of salt spray.     Retief turned up his collar against the dampness. In half an hour hewould be perspiring under the vertical rays of a third-noon sun, butthe thought failed to keep the chill off.     Two Youths clambered up on the platform, moving purposefully towardRetief. He moved off the rail, watching them, weight balanced.     That's close enough, kids, he said. Plenty of room on this scow. Noneed to crowd up.     There are certain films, the lead Fustian muttered. His voice wasunusually deep for a Youth. He was wrapped in a heavy cloak and movedawkwardly. His adolescence was nearly at an end, Retief guessed.     I told you once, said Retief. Don't crowd me.     The two stepped close, slit mouths snapping in anger. Retief put out afoot, hooked it behind the scaly leg of the overaged juvenile and threwhis weight against the cloaked chest. The clumsy Fustian tottered, fellheavily. Retief was past him and off the flat-car before the otherYouth had completed his vain lunge toward the spot Retief had occupied.The Terrestrial waved cheerfully at the pair, hopped aboard anothervehicle, watched his would-be assailants lumber down from their car,tiny heads twisted to follow his retreating figure.     So they wanted the film? Retief reflected, thumbing a cigar alight.They were a little late. He had already filed it in the Embassy vault,after running a copy for the reference files.     And a comparison of the drawings with those of the obsolete Mark XXXVbattle cruiser used two hundred years earlier by the Concordiat NavalArm showed them to be almost identical, gun emplacements and all. Theterm obsolete was a relative one. A ship which had been outmoded inthe armories of the Galactic Powers could still be king of the walk inthe Eastern Arm.     But how had these two known of the film? There had been no one presentbut himself and the old-timer—and he was willing to bet the elderlyFustian hadn't told them anything.     At least not willingly....     Retief frowned, dropped the cigar over the side, waited until theflat-car negotiated a mud-wallow, then swung down and headed for theshipyard.  The door, hinges torn loose, had been propped loosely back in position.Retief looked around at the battered interior of the shed. The oldfellow had put up a struggle.     There were deep drag-marks in the dust behind the building. Retieffollowed them across the yard. They disappeared under the steel door ofa warehouse.     Retief glanced around. Now, at the mid-hour of the fourth cycle, theworkmen were heaped along the edge of the refreshment pond, deep intheir siesta. He took a multi-bladed tool from a pocket, tried variousfittings in the lock. It snicked open.     He eased the door aside far enough to enter.     Heaped bales loomed before him. Snapping on the tiny lamp in the handleof the combination tool, Retief looked over the pile. One stack seemedout of alignment ... and the dust had been scraped from the floorbefore it. He pocketed the light, climbed up on the bales, looked overinto a nest made by stacking the bundles around a clear spot. The agedFustian lay in it, on his back, a heavy sack tied over his head.     Retief dropped down inside the ring of bales, sawed at the tough twineand pulled the sack free.     It's me, old fellow, Retief said. The nosy stranger. Sorry I got youinto this.     The oldster threshed his gnarled legs. He rocked slightly and fellback. A curse on the cradle that rocked their infant slumbers, herumbled. But place me back on my feet and I hunt down the youth,Slock, though he flee to the bottommost muck of the Sea of Torments.     How am I going to get you out of here? Maybe I'd better get some help.     Nay. The perfidious Youths abound here, said the old Fustian. Itwould be your life.     I doubt if they'd go that far.     Would they not? The Fustian stretched his neck. Cast your lighthere. But for the toughness of my hide....     Retief put the beam of the light on the leathery neck. A great smear ofthick purplish blood welled from a ragged cut. The oldster chuckled, asound like a seal coughing.     Traitor, they called me. For long they sawed at me—in vain. Thenthey trussed me and dumped me here. They think to return with weaponsto complete the task.     Weapons? I thought it was illegal!     Their evil genius, the Soft One, said the Fustian. He would providefuel to the Devil himself.     The Groaci again, said Retief. I wonder what their angle is.     And I must confess, I told them of you, ere I knew their fullintentions. Much can I tell you of their doings. But first, I pray, theblock and tackle.     Retief found the hoist where the Fustian directed him, maneuvered itinto position, hooked onto the edge of the carapace and hauled away.The immense Fustian rose slowly, teetered ... then flopped on his chest.     Slowly he got to his feet.     My name is Whonk, fleet one, he said. My cows are yours.     Thanks. I'm Retief. I'd like to meet the girls some time. But rightnow, let's get out of here.     Whonk leaned his bulk against the ponderous stacks of baled kelp,bulldozed them aside. Slow am I to anger, he said, but implacable inmy wrath. Slock, beware!     Hold it, said Retief suddenly. He sniffed. What's that odor? Heflashed the light around, played it over a dry stain on the floor. Heknelt, sniffed at the spot.     What kind of cargo was stacked here, Whonk? And where is it now?     Whonk considered. There were drums, he said. Four of them, quitesmall, painted an evil green, the property of the Soft Ones, theGroaci. They lay here a day and a night. At full dark of the firstperiod they came with stevedores and loaded them aboard the barge      MossRock     .     The VIP boat. Who's scheduled to use it?     I know not. But what matters this? Let us discuss cargo movementsafter I have settled a score with certain Youths.     We'd better follow this up first, Whonk. There's only one substance Iknow of that's transported in drums and smells like that blot on thefloor. That's titanite: the hottest explosive this side of a uraniumpile.      III     Beta was setting as Retief, Whonk puffing at his heels, came up to thesentry box beside the gangway leading to the plush interior of theofficial luxury space barge      Moss Rock     .     A sign of the times, said Whonk, glancing inside the empty shelter.A guard should stand here, but I see him not. Doubtless he crept awayto sleep.     Let's go aboard and take a look around.     They entered the ship. Soft lights glowed in utter silence. A rough boxstood on the floor, rollers and pry-bars beside it—a discordant notein the muted luxury of the setting. Whonk rummaged in it.     Curious, he said. What means this? He held up a stained cloak oforange and green, a metal bracelet, papers.     Orange and green, mused Relief. Whose colors are those?     I know not. Whonk glanced at the arm-band. But this is lettered. Hepassed the metal band to Retief.     SCARS, Retief read. He looked at Whonk. It seems to me I've heardthe name before, he murmured. Let's get back to the Embassy—fast.     Back on the ramp Retief heard a sound ... and turned in time to duckthe charge of a hulking Fustian youth who thundered past him andfetched up against the broad chest of Whonk, who locked him in a warmembrace.     Nice catch, Whonk. Where'd he sneak out of?     The lout hid there by the storage bin, rumbled Whonk. The captiveyouth thumped fists and toes fruitlessly against the oldster's carapace.     Hang onto him, said Retief. He looks like the biting kind.     No fear. Clumsy I am, yet not without strength.     Ask him where the titanite is tucked away.     Speak, witless grub, growled Whonk, lest I tweak you in twain.     The youth gurgled.     Better let up before you make a mess of him, said Retief. Whonklifted the Youth clear of the floor, then flung him down with a thumpthat made the ground quiver. The younger Fustian glared up at theelder, mouth snapping.     This one was among those who trussed me and hid me away for thekilling, said Whonk. In his repentance he will tell all to his elder.     That's the same young squirt that tried to strike up an acquaintancewith me on the bus, Retief said. He gets around.     The youth scrambled to hands and knees, scuttled for freedom. Retiefplanted a foot on his dragging cloak; it ripped free. He stared at thebare back of the Fustian—     By the Great Egg! Whonk exclaimed, tripping the refugee as he triedto rise. This is no Youth! His carapace has been taken from him!     Retief looked at the scarred back. I thought he looked a little old.But I thought—     This is not possible, Whonk said wonderingly. The great nerve trunksare deeply involved. Not even the cleverest surgeon could excise thecarapace and leave the patient living.     It looks like somebody did the trick. But let's take this boy with usand get out of here. His folks may come home.     Too late, said Whonk. Retief turned.     Three youths came from behind the sheds.     Well, Retief said. It looks like the SCARS are out in force tonight.Where's your pal? he said to the advancing trio. The sticky littlebird with the eye-stalks? Back at his Embassy, leaving you suckersholding the bag, I'll bet.     Shelter behind me, Retief, said Whonk.     Go get 'em, old-timer. Retief stooped, picked up one of the pry-bars.I'll jump around and distract them.     Whonk let out a whistling roar and charged for the immature Fustians.They fanned out ... and one tripped, sprawled on his face. Retiefwhirled the metal bar he had thrust between the Fustian's legs, slammedit against the skull of another, who shook his head, turned onRetief ... and bounced off the steel hull of the      Moss Rock     as Whonktook him in full charge.     Retief used the bar on another head. His third blow laid the Fustianon the pavement, oozing purple. The other two club members departedhastily, seriously dented but still mobile.     Retief leaned on his club, breathing hard. Tough heads these kidshave got. I'm tempted to chase those two lads down, but I've gotanother errand to run. I don't know who the Groaci intended to blast,but I have a sneaking suspicion somebody of importance was scheduledfor a boat ride in the next few hours. And three drums of titanite isenough to vaporize this tub and everyone aboard her.     The plot is foiled, said Whonk. But what reason did they have?     The Groaci are behind it. I have an idea the SCARS didn't know aboutthis gambit.     Which of these is the leader? asked Whonk. He prodded a fallen Youthwith a horny toe. Arise, dreaming one.     Never mind him, Whonk. We'll tie these two up and leave them here. Iknow where to find the boss.  A stolid crowd filled the low-ceilinged banquet hall. Retief scannedthe tables for the pale blobs of Terrestrial faces, dwarfed by thegiant armored bodies of the Fustians. Across the room Magnan fluttereda hand. Retief headed toward him. A low-pitched vibration filled theair: the rumble of subsonic Fustian music.     Retief slid into his place beside Magnan. Sorry to be late, Mr.Ambassador.     I'm honored that you chose to appear at all, said Magnan coldly. Heturned back to the Fustian on his left.     Ah, yes, Mr. Minister, he said. Charming, most charming. So joyous.     The Fustian looked at him, beady-eyed. It is the      Lament ofHatching     , he said; our National Dirge.     Oh, said Magnan. How interesting. Such a pleasing balance ofinstruments—     It is a droon solo, said the Fustian, eyeing the TerrestrialAmbassador suspiciously.     Why don't you just admit you can't hear it, Retief whispered loudly.And if I may interrupt a moment—     Magnan cleared his throat. Now that our Mr. Retief has arrived,perhaps we could rush right along to the Sponsorship ceremonies.     This group, said Retief, leaning across Magnan, the SCARS. How muchdo you know about them, Mr. Minister?     Nothing at all, the huge Fustian elder rumbled. For my taste, allYouths should be kept penned with the livestock until they grow acarapace to tame their irresponsibility.     We mustn't lose sight of the importance of channeling youthfulenergies, said Magnan.     Labor gangs, said the minister. In my youth we were indentured tothe dredge-masters. I myself drew a muck sledge.     But in these modern times, put in Magnan, surely it's incumbent onus to make happy these golden hours.     The minister snorted. Last week I had a golden hour. They set upon meand pelted me with overripe stench-fruit.     But this was merely a manifestation of normal youthful frustrations,cried Magnan. Their essential tenderness—     You'd not find a tender spot on that lout yonder, the ministersaid, pointing with a fork at a newly arrived Youth, if you drilledboreholes and blasted.  Why, that's our guest of honor, said Magnan, a fine young fellow!Slop I believe his name is.     Slock, said Retief. Eight feet of armor-plated orneriness. And—     Magnan rose and tapped on his glass. The Fustians winced at the, tothem, supersonic vibrations. They looked at each other muttering.Magnan tapped louder. The Minister drew in his head, eyes closed. Someof the Fustians rose, tottered for the doors; the noise level rose.Magnan redoubled his efforts. The glass broke with a clatter and greenwine gushed on the tablecloth.     What in the name of the Great Egg! the Minister muttered. He blinked,breathing deeply.     Oh, forgive me, blurted Magnan, dabbing at the wine.     Too bad the glass gave out, said Retief. In another minute you'dhave cleared the hall. And then maybe I could have gotten a word insideways. There's a matter you should know about—     Your attention, please, Magnan said, rising. I see that our fineyoung guest has arrived, and I hope that the remainder of his committeewill be along in a moment. It is my pleasure to announce that our Mr.Retief has had the good fortune to win out in the keen bidding for thepleasure of sponsoring this lovely group.     Retief tugged at Magnan's sleeve. Don't introduce me yet, he said. Iwant to appear suddenly. More dramatic, you know.     Well, murmured Magnan, glancing down at Retief, I'm gratified tosee you entering into the spirit of the event at last. He turned hisattention back to the assembled guests. If our honored guest will joinme on the rostrum...? he said. The gentlemen of the press may want tocatch a few shots of the presentation.     Magnan stepped up on the low platform at the center of the wide room,took his place beside the robed Fustian youth and beamed at the cameras.     How gratifying it is to take this opportunity to express once more thegreat pleasure we have in sponsoring SCARS, he said, talking slowlyfor the benefit of the scribbling reporters. We'd like to think thatin our modest way we're to be a part of all that the SCARS achieveduring the years ahead.     Magnan paused as a huge Fustian elder heaved his bulk up the two lowsteps to the rostrum, approached the guest of honor. He watched as thenewcomer paused behind Slock, who did not see the new arrival.     Retief pushed through the crowd, stepped up to face the Fustian youth.Slock stared at him, drew back.     You know me, Slock, said Retief loudly. An old fellow named Whonktold you about me, just before you tried to saw his head off, remember?It was when I came out to take a look at that battle cruiser you'rebuilding.      IV     With a bellow Slock reached for Retief—and choked off in mid-cry asthe Fustian elder, Whonk, pinioned him from behind, lifting him clearof the floor.     Glad you reporters happened along, said Retief to the gaping newsmen.Slock here had a deal with a sharp operator from the Groaci Embassy.The Groaci were to supply the necessary hardware and Slock, as foremanat the shipyards, was to see that everything was properly installed.The next step, I assume, would have been a local take-over, followedby a little interplanetary war on Flamenco or one of the other nearbyworlds ... for which the Groaci would be glad to supply plenty of ammo.     Magnan found his tongue. Are you mad, Retief? he screeched. Thisgroup was vouched for by the Ministry of Youth!     The Ministry's overdue for a purge, snapped Retief. He turned backto Slock. I wonder if you were in on the little diversion that wasplanned for today. When the      Moss Rock     blew, a variety of clues wereto be planted where they'd be easy to find ... with SCARS written allover them. The Groaci would thus have neatly laid the whole affairsquarely at the door of the Terrestrial Embassy ... whose sponsorshipof the SCARS had received plenty of publicity.     The      Moss Rock     ? said Magnan. But that was—Retief! This is idiotic.Slock himself was scheduled to go on a cruise tomorrow!     Slock roared suddenly, twisting violently. Whonk teetered, his griploosened ... and Slock pulled free and was off the platform, buttinghis way through the milling oldsters on the dining room floor. Magnanwatched, open-mouthed.     The Groaci were playing a double game, as usual, Retief said. Theyintended to dispose of this fellow Slock, once he'd served theirpurpose.     Well, don't stand there, yelped Magnan over the uproar. If Slock isthe ring-leader of a delinquent gang...! He moved to give chase.     Retief grabbed his arm. Don't jump down there! You'd have as muchchance of getting through as a jack-rabbit through a threshing contest.     Ten minutes later the crowd had thinned slightly. We can get throughnow, Whonk called. This way. He lowered himself to the floor, bulledthrough to the exit. Flashbulbs popped. Retief and Magnan followed inWhonk's wake.     In the lounge Retief grabbed the phone, waited for the operator, gave acode letter. No reply. He tried another.     No good, he said after a full minute had passed. Wonder what'sloose? He slammed the phone back in its niche. Let's grab a cab.  In the street the blue sun, Alpha, peered like an arc light under a lowcloud layer, casting flat shadows across the mud of the avenue. Thethree mounted a passing flat-car. Whonk squatted, resting the weight ofhis immense shell on the heavy plank flooring.     Would that I too could lose this burden, as has the false youth webludgeoned aboard the      Moss Rock     , he sighed. Soon will I be forcedinto retirement. Then a mere keeper of a place of papers such as Iwill rate no more than a slab on the public strand, with once-dailyfeedings. And even for a man of high position, retirement is nopleasure. A slab in the Park of Monuments is little better. A dismaloutlook for one's next thousand years!     You two carry on to the police station, said Retief. I want to playa hunch. But don't take too long. I may be painfully right.     What—? Magnan started.     As you wish, Retief, said Whonk.     The flat-car trundled past the gate to the shipyard and Retief jumpeddown, headed at a run for the VIP boat. The guard post still stoodvacant. The two Youths whom he and Whonk had left trussed were gone.     That's the trouble with a peaceful world, Retief muttered. No policeprotection. He stepped down from the lighted entry and took up aposition behind the sentry box. Alpha rose higher, shedding a glaringblue-white light without heat. Retief shivered. Maybe he'd guessedwrong....     There was a sound in the near distance, like two elephants colliding.     Retief looked toward the gate. His giant acquaintance, Whonk, hadreappeared and was grappling with a hardly less massive opponent. Asmall figure became visible in the melee, scuttled for the gate. Headedoff by the battling titans, he turned and made for the opposite sideof the shipyard. Retief waited, jumped out and gathered in the fleeingGroaci.     Well, Yith, he said, how's tricks? You should pardon the expression.     Release me, Retief! the pale-featured alien lisped, his throatbladder pulsating in agitation. The behemoths vie for the privilege ofdismembering me out of hand!     I know how they feel. I'll see what I can do ... for a price.     I appeal to you, Yith whispered hoarsely. As a fellow diplomat, afellow alien, a fellow soft-back—     Why don't you appeal to Slock, as a fellow skunk? said Retief. Nowkeep quiet ... and you may get out of this alive.     The heavier of the two struggling Fustians threw the other to theground. There was another brief flurry, and then the smaller figure wason its back, helpless.     That's Whonk, still on his feet, said Retief. I wonder who he'scaught—and why.     Whonk came toward the      Moss Rock     dragging the supine Fustian, whokicked vainly. Retief thrust Yith down well out of sight behind thesentry box. Better sit tight, Yith. Don't try to sneak off; I canoutrun you. Stay here and I'll see what I can do. He stepped out andhailed Whonk.     Puffing like a steam engine Whonk pulled up before him. Sleep,Retief! He panted. You followed a hunch; I did the same. I sawsomething strange in this one when we passed him on the avenue. Iwatched, followed him here. Look! It is Slock, strapped into a deadcarapace! Now many things become clear.  Retief whistled. So the Youths aren't all as young as they look.Somebody's been holding out on the rest of you Fustians!     The Soft One, Whonk said. You laid him by the heels, Retief. I saw.Produce him now.     Hold on a minute, Whonk. It won't do you any good—     Whonk winked broadly. I must take my revenge! he roared. I shalltest the texture of the Soft One! His pulped remains will be scoured upby the ramp-washers and mailed home in bottles!     Retief whirled at a sound, caught up with the scuttling Yith fifty feetaway, hauled him back to Whonk.     It's up to you, Whonk, he said. I know how important ceremonialrevenge is to you Fustians. I will not interfere.     Mercy! Yith hissed, eye-stalks whipping in distress. I claimdiplomatic immunity!     No diplomat am I, rumbled Whonk. Let me see; suppose I start withone of those obscenely active eyes— He reached....     I have an idea, said Retief brightly. Do you suppose—just thisonce—you could forego the ceremonial revenge if Yith promised toarrange for a Groaci Surgical Mission to de-carapace you elders?     But, Whonk protested, those eyes! What a pleasure to pluck them, oneby one!     Yess, hissed Yith, I swear it! Our most expert surgeons ... platoonsof them, with the finest of equipment.     I have dreamed of how it would be to sit on this one, to feel himsquash beneath my bulk....     Light as a whissle feather shall you dance, Yith whispered.Shell-less shall you spring in the joy of renewed youth—     Maybe just one eye, said Whonk grudgingly. That would leave himfour.     Be a sport, said Retief.     Well.     It's a deal then, said Retief. Yith, on your word as a diplomat,an alien, a soft-back and a skunk, you'll set up the mission. Groacisurgical skill is an export that will net you more than armaments.It will be a whissle feather in your cap—if you bring it off. Andin return, Whonk won't sit on you. And I won't prefer charges ofinterference in the internal affairs of a free world.     Behind Whonk there was a movement. Slock, wriggling free of theborrowed carapace, struggled to his feet ... in time for Whonk to seizehim, lift him high and head for the entry to the      Moss Rock     .     Hey, Retief called. Where are you going?     I would not deny this one his reward, called Whonk. He hoped tocruise in luxury. So be it.     Hold on, said Retief. That tub is loaded with titanite!     Stand not in my way, Retief. For this one in truth owes me avengeance.     Retief watched as the immense Fustian bore his giant burden up the rampand disappeared within the ship.     I guess Whonk means business, he said to Yith, who hung in his grasp,all five eyes goggling. And he's a little too big for me to stop.     Whonk reappeared, alone, climbed down.     What did you do with him? said Retief. Tell him you were going to—     We had best withdraw, said Whonk. The killing radius of the drive isfifty yards.     You mean—     The controls are set for Groaci. Long-may-he-sleep.  It was quite a bang, said Retief. But I guess you saw it, too.     No, confound it, Magnan said. When I remonstrated with Hulk, orWhelk—     Whonk.     —the ruffian thrust me into an alley bound in my own cloak. I'll mostcertainly complain to the Minister.     How about the surgical mission?     A most generous offer, said Magnan. Frankly, I was astonished. Ithink perhaps we've judged the Groaci too harshly.     I hear the Ministry of Youth has had a rough morning of it, saidRetief. And a lot of rumors are flying to the effect that Youth Groupsare on the way out.     Magnan cleared his throat, shuffled papers. I—ah—have explained tothe press that last night's—ah—     Fiasco.     —affair was necessary in order to place the culprits in an untenableposition. Of course, as to the destruction of the VIP vessel and thepresumed death of, uh, Slop.     The Fustians understand, said Retief. Whonk wasn't kidding aboutceremonial vengeance.     The Groaci had been guilty of gross misuse of diplomatic privilege,said Magnan. I think that a note—or perhaps an Aide Memoire: lessformal....     The      Moss Rock     was bound for Groaci, said Retief. She was alreadyin her transit orbit when she blew. The major fragments will arrive onschedule in a month or so. It should provide quite a meteorite display.I think that should be all the      aide     the Groaci's      memoires     will needto keep their tentacles off Fust.     But diplomatic usage—     Then, too, the less that's put in writing, the less they can blame youfor, if anything goes wrong.     That's true, said Magnan, lips pursed. Now you're thinkingconstructively, Retief. We may make a diplomat of you yet. He smiledexpansively.     Maybe. But I refuse to let it depress me. Retief stood up. I'mtaking a few weeks off ... if you have no objection, Mr. Ambassador. Mypal Whonk wants to show me an island down south where the fishing isgood.     But there are some extremely important matters coming up, saidMagnan. We're planning to sponsor Senior Citizen Groups—     Count me out. All groups give me an itch.     Why, what an astonishing remark, Retief! After all, we diplomats areourselves a group.     Uh-huh, Retief said.     Magnan sat quietly, mouth open, and watched as Retief stepped into thehall and closed the door gently behind him.   ","Magnan is the Ambassador to Fust, and thus is Retief’s boss. He is also a spineless, political wind-sniffing clod. His main role, or function in the story is as a foil to the hero, Retief. Magnan’s clueless blathering sets up Retief’s dry, sarcastic remarks – remarks which, if Magnan were not so oblivious, would perhaps offend Magnan to the point of firing Retief. While Retief is running around Fust getting into fist fights and spoiling terrorists’ plots, Magnan is back at the office shuffling whatever papers came in from the Terrestrial Embassy that day, implementing the “program of the week.” Magnan is flat. Retief is three-dimensional.Magnan’s main contributions to the story are to: 1.	Ignore Retief’s advice to check out the Fustian youth organizations before sponsoring them, which leads to the potential for the Terrestrial Embassy being embarrassed by the Groaci attempts to frame SCARS for the explosion they hoped to cause aboard the Moss Rock. 2.	Set up the banquet to honor SCARS where he grossly insults his Fustian counterparts by having the hired musicians play a dirge, the “Lament of Hatching,” and then shattering their ear drums by tapping on his wine glass.3.	Whip up a meringue of obfuscation to hide the fiasco of the youth organization sponsorship program and try to make himself smell like a rose in the process4.	Start a new sponsorship program for Fustian Senior Citizens.At no point in the story does he do anything useful at all."
"Who is Whonk, and what is his relevance to the story? </s>     AIDE MEMOIRE     BY KEITH LAUMER     The Fustians looked like turtles—but     they could move fast when they chose!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, July 1962.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Across the table from Retief, Ambassador Magnan rustled a stiff sheetof parchment and looked grave.     This aide memoire, he said, was just handed to me by the CulturalAttache. It's the third on the subject this week. It refers to thematter of sponsorship of Youth groups—     Some youths, Retief said. Average age, seventy-five.     The Fustians are a long-lived people, Magnan snapped. These mattersare relative. At seventy-five, a male Fustian is at a trying age—     That's right. He'll try anything—in the hope it will maim somebody.     Precisely the problem, Magnan said. But the Youth Movement isthe important news in today's political situation here on Fust. Andsponsorship of Youth groups is a shrewd stroke on the part of theTerrestrial Embassy. At my suggestion, well nigh every member of themission has leaped at the opportunity to score a few p—that is, cementrelations with this emergent power group—the leaders of the future.You, Retief, as Councillor, are the outstanding exception.     I'm not convinced these hoodlums need my help in organizing theirrumbles, Retief said. Now, if you have a proposal for a pest controlgroup—     To the Fustians this is no jesting matter, Magnan cut in. Thisgroup— he glanced at the paper—known as the Sexual, Cultural, andAthletic Recreational Society, or SCARS for short, has been awaitingsponsorship for a matter of weeks now.     Meaning they want someone to buy them a clubhouse, uniforms, equipmentand anything else they need to complete their sexual, cultural andathletic development, Retief said.     If we don't act promptly, Magnan said, the Groaci Embassy may wellanticipate us. They're very active here.     That's an idea, said Retief. Let 'em. After awhile they'll go brokeinstead of us.     Nonsense. The group requires a sponsor. I can't actually order you tostep forward. However.... Magnan let the sentence hang in the air.Retief raised one eyebrow.     For a minute there, he said, I thought you were going to make apositive statement.  Magnan leaned back, lacing his fingers over his stomach. I don't thinkyou'll find a diplomat of my experience doing anything so naive, hesaid.     I like the adult Fustians, said Retief. Too bad they have to lughalf a ton of horn around on their backs. I wonder if surgery wouldhelp.     Great heavens, Retief, Magnan sputtered. I'm amazed that even youwould bring up a matter of such delicacy. A race's unfortunate physicalcharacteristics are hardly a fit matter for Terrestrial curiosity.     Well, of course your experience of the Fustian mentality is greaterthan mine. I've only been here a month. But it's been my experience,Mr. Ambassador, that few races are above improving on nature. Otherwiseyou, for example, would be tripping over your beard.     Magnan shuddered. Please—never mention the idea to a Fustian.     Retief stood. My own program for the day includes going over to thedockyards. There are some features of this new passenger liner theFustians are putting together that I want to look into. With yourpermission, Mr. Ambassador...?     Magnan snorted. Your pre-occupation with the trivial disturbs me,Retief. More interest in substantive matters—such as working withYouth groups—would create a far better impression.     Before getting too involved with these groups, it might be a good ideato find out a little more about them, said Retief. Who organizesthem? There are three strong political parties here on Fust. What's thealignment of this SCARS organization?     You forget, these are merely teenagers, so to speak, Magnan said.Politics mean nothing to them ... yet.     Then there are the Groaci. Why their passionate interest in atwo-horse world like Fust? Normally they're concerned with nothing butbusiness. But what has Fust got that they could use?     You may rule out the commercial aspect in this instance, said Magnan.Fust possesses a vigorous steel-age manufacturing economy. The Groaciare barely ahead of them.     Barely, said Retief. Just over the line into crude atomics ... likefission bombs.     Magnan shook his head, turned back to his papers. What market existsfor such devices on a world at peace? I suggest you address yourattention to the less spectacular but more rewarding work of studyingthe social patterns of the local youth.     I've studied them, said Retief. And before I meet any of the localyouth socially I want to get myself a good blackjack.      II     Retief left the sprawling bungalow-type building that housed thechancery of the Terrestrial Embassy, swung aboard a passing flat-carand leaned back against the wooden guard rail as the heavy vehicletrundled through the city toward the looming gantries of the shipyards.     It was a cool morning. A light breeze carried the fishy odor of Fustydwellings across the broad cobbled avenue. A few mature Fustianslumbered heavily along in the shade of the low buildings, audiblywheezing under the burden of their immense carapaces. Among them,shell-less youths trotted briskly on scaly stub legs. The driver of theflat-car, a labor-caste Fustian with his guild colors emblazoned on hisback, heaved at the tiller, swung the unwieldy conveyance through theshipyard gates, creaked to a halt.     Thus I come to the shipyard with frightful speed, he said in Fustian.Well I know the way of the naked-backs, who move always in haste.     Retief climbed down, handed him a coin. You should take upprofessional racing, he said. Daredevil.     He crossed the littered yard and tapped at the door of a rambling shed.Boards creaked inside. Then the door swung back.     A gnarled ancient with tarnished facial scales and a weathered carapacepeered out at Retief.     Long-may-you-sleep, said Retief. I'd like to take a look around, ifyou don't mind. I understand you're laying the bedplate for your newliner today.       May-you-dream-of-the-deeps, the old fellow mumbled. He waved a stumpyarm toward a group of shell-less Fustians standing by a massive hoist.The youths know more of bedplates than do I, who but tend the place ofpapers.     I know how you feel, old-timer, said Retief. That sounds like thestory of my life. Among your papers do you have a set of plans for thevessel? I understand it's to be a passenger liner.     The oldster nodded. He shuffled to a drawing file, rummaged, pulled outa sheaf of curled prints and spread them on the table. Retief stoodsilently, running a finger over the uppermost drawing, tracing lines....     What does the naked-back here? barked a deep voice behind Retief. Heturned. A heavy-faced Fustian youth, wrapped in a mantle, stood at theopen door. Beady yellow eyes set among fine scales bored into Retief.     I came to take a look at your new liner, said Retief.     We need no prying foreigners here, the youth snapped. His eye fell onthe drawings. He hissed in sudden anger.     Doddering hulk! he snapped at the ancient. May you toss innightmares! Put by the plans!     My mistake, Retief said. I didn't know this was a secret project.  The youth hesitated. It is not a secret project, he muttered. Whyshould it be secret?     You tell me.     The youth worked his jaws and rocked his head from side to side in theFusty gesture of uncertainty. There is nothing to conceal, he said.We merely construct a passenger liner.     Then you don't mind if I look over the drawings, said Retief. Whoknows? Maybe some day I'll want to reserve a suite for the trip out.     The youth turned and disappeared. Retief grinned at the oldster. Wentfor his big brother, I guess, he said. I have a feeling I won't getto study these in peace here. Mind if I copy them?     Willingly, light-footed one, said the old Fustian. And mine is theshame for the discourtesy of youth.     Retief took out a tiny camera, flipped a copying lens in place, leafedthrough the drawings, clicking the shutter.     A plague on these youths, said the oldster, who grow more virulentday by day.     Why don't you elders clamp down?     Agile are they and we are slow of foot. And this unrest is new.Unknown in my youth was such insolence.     The police—     Bah! the ancient rumbled. None have we worthy of the name, nor havewe needed ought ere now.     What's behind it?     They have found leaders. The spiv, Slock, is one. And I fear they plotmischief. He pointed to the window. They come, and a Soft One withthem.     Retief pocketed the camera, glanced out the window. A pale-featuredGroaci with an ornately decorated crest stood with the youths, who eyedthe hut, then started toward it.     That's the military attache of the Groaci Embassy, Retief said. Iwonder what he and the boys are cooking up together?     Naught that augurs well for the dignity of Fust, the oldster rumbled.Flee, agile one, while I engage their attentions.     I was just leaving, Retief said. Which way out?     The rear door, the Fustian gestured with a stubby member. Rest well,stranger on these shores. He moved to the entrance.     Same to you, pop, said Retief. And thanks.     He eased through the narrow back entrance, waited until voices wereraised at the front of the shed, then strolled off toward the gate.  The second dark of the third cycle was lightening when Retief left theEmbassy technical library and crossed the corridor to his office. Heflipped on a light. A note was tucked under a paperweight:     Retief—I shall expect your attendance at the IAS dinner at firstdark of the fourth cycle. There will be a brief but, I hope, impressiveSponsorship ceremony for the SCARS group, with full press coverage,arrangements for which I have managed to complete in spite of yourintransigence.     Retief snorted and glanced at his watch. Less than three hours. Justtime to creep home by flat-car, dress in ceremonial uniform and creepback.     Outside he flagged a lumbering bus. He stationed himself in a cornerand watched the yellow sun, Beta, rise rapidly above the low skyline.The nearby sea was at high tide now, under the pull of the major sunand the three moons, and the stiff breeze carried a mist of salt spray.     Retief turned up his collar against the dampness. In half an hour hewould be perspiring under the vertical rays of a third-noon sun, butthe thought failed to keep the chill off.     Two Youths clambered up on the platform, moving purposefully towardRetief. He moved off the rail, watching them, weight balanced.     That's close enough, kids, he said. Plenty of room on this scow. Noneed to crowd up.     There are certain films, the lead Fustian muttered. His voice wasunusually deep for a Youth. He was wrapped in a heavy cloak and movedawkwardly. His adolescence was nearly at an end, Retief guessed.     I told you once, said Retief. Don't crowd me.     The two stepped close, slit mouths snapping in anger. Retief put out afoot, hooked it behind the scaly leg of the overaged juvenile and threwhis weight against the cloaked chest. The clumsy Fustian tottered, fellheavily. Retief was past him and off the flat-car before the otherYouth had completed his vain lunge toward the spot Retief had occupied.The Terrestrial waved cheerfully at the pair, hopped aboard anothervehicle, watched his would-be assailants lumber down from their car,tiny heads twisted to follow his retreating figure.     So they wanted the film? Retief reflected, thumbing a cigar alight.They were a little late. He had already filed it in the Embassy vault,after running a copy for the reference files.     And a comparison of the drawings with those of the obsolete Mark XXXVbattle cruiser used two hundred years earlier by the Concordiat NavalArm showed them to be almost identical, gun emplacements and all. Theterm obsolete was a relative one. A ship which had been outmoded inthe armories of the Galactic Powers could still be king of the walk inthe Eastern Arm.     But how had these two known of the film? There had been no one presentbut himself and the old-timer—and he was willing to bet the elderlyFustian hadn't told them anything.     At least not willingly....     Retief frowned, dropped the cigar over the side, waited until theflat-car negotiated a mud-wallow, then swung down and headed for theshipyard.  The door, hinges torn loose, had been propped loosely back in position.Retief looked around at the battered interior of the shed. The oldfellow had put up a struggle.     There were deep drag-marks in the dust behind the building. Retieffollowed them across the yard. They disappeared under the steel door ofa warehouse.     Retief glanced around. Now, at the mid-hour of the fourth cycle, theworkmen were heaped along the edge of the refreshment pond, deep intheir siesta. He took a multi-bladed tool from a pocket, tried variousfittings in the lock. It snicked open.     He eased the door aside far enough to enter.     Heaped bales loomed before him. Snapping on the tiny lamp in the handleof the combination tool, Retief looked over the pile. One stack seemedout of alignment ... and the dust had been scraped from the floorbefore it. He pocketed the light, climbed up on the bales, looked overinto a nest made by stacking the bundles around a clear spot. The agedFustian lay in it, on his back, a heavy sack tied over his head.     Retief dropped down inside the ring of bales, sawed at the tough twineand pulled the sack free.     It's me, old fellow, Retief said. The nosy stranger. Sorry I got youinto this.     The oldster threshed his gnarled legs. He rocked slightly and fellback. A curse on the cradle that rocked their infant slumbers, herumbled. But place me back on my feet and I hunt down the youth,Slock, though he flee to the bottommost muck of the Sea of Torments.     How am I going to get you out of here? Maybe I'd better get some help.     Nay. The perfidious Youths abound here, said the old Fustian. Itwould be your life.     I doubt if they'd go that far.     Would they not? The Fustian stretched his neck. Cast your lighthere. But for the toughness of my hide....     Retief put the beam of the light on the leathery neck. A great smear ofthick purplish blood welled from a ragged cut. The oldster chuckled, asound like a seal coughing.     Traitor, they called me. For long they sawed at me—in vain. Thenthey trussed me and dumped me here. They think to return with weaponsto complete the task.     Weapons? I thought it was illegal!     Their evil genius, the Soft One, said the Fustian. He would providefuel to the Devil himself.     The Groaci again, said Retief. I wonder what their angle is.     And I must confess, I told them of you, ere I knew their fullintentions. Much can I tell you of their doings. But first, I pray, theblock and tackle.     Retief found the hoist where the Fustian directed him, maneuvered itinto position, hooked onto the edge of the carapace and hauled away.The immense Fustian rose slowly, teetered ... then flopped on his chest.     Slowly he got to his feet.     My name is Whonk, fleet one, he said. My cows are yours.     Thanks. I'm Retief. I'd like to meet the girls some time. But rightnow, let's get out of here.     Whonk leaned his bulk against the ponderous stacks of baled kelp,bulldozed them aside. Slow am I to anger, he said, but implacable inmy wrath. Slock, beware!     Hold it, said Retief suddenly. He sniffed. What's that odor? Heflashed the light around, played it over a dry stain on the floor. Heknelt, sniffed at the spot.     What kind of cargo was stacked here, Whonk? And where is it now?     Whonk considered. There were drums, he said. Four of them, quitesmall, painted an evil green, the property of the Soft Ones, theGroaci. They lay here a day and a night. At full dark of the firstperiod they came with stevedores and loaded them aboard the barge      MossRock     .     The VIP boat. Who's scheduled to use it?     I know not. But what matters this? Let us discuss cargo movementsafter I have settled a score with certain Youths.     We'd better follow this up first, Whonk. There's only one substance Iknow of that's transported in drums and smells like that blot on thefloor. That's titanite: the hottest explosive this side of a uraniumpile.      III     Beta was setting as Retief, Whonk puffing at his heels, came up to thesentry box beside the gangway leading to the plush interior of theofficial luxury space barge      Moss Rock     .     A sign of the times, said Whonk, glancing inside the empty shelter.A guard should stand here, but I see him not. Doubtless he crept awayto sleep.     Let's go aboard and take a look around.     They entered the ship. Soft lights glowed in utter silence. A rough boxstood on the floor, rollers and pry-bars beside it—a discordant notein the muted luxury of the setting. Whonk rummaged in it.     Curious, he said. What means this? He held up a stained cloak oforange and green, a metal bracelet, papers.     Orange and green, mused Relief. Whose colors are those?     I know not. Whonk glanced at the arm-band. But this is lettered. Hepassed the metal band to Retief.     SCARS, Retief read. He looked at Whonk. It seems to me I've heardthe name before, he murmured. Let's get back to the Embassy—fast.     Back on the ramp Retief heard a sound ... and turned in time to duckthe charge of a hulking Fustian youth who thundered past him andfetched up against the broad chest of Whonk, who locked him in a warmembrace.     Nice catch, Whonk. Where'd he sneak out of?     The lout hid there by the storage bin, rumbled Whonk. The captiveyouth thumped fists and toes fruitlessly against the oldster's carapace.     Hang onto him, said Retief. He looks like the biting kind.     No fear. Clumsy I am, yet not without strength.     Ask him where the titanite is tucked away.     Speak, witless grub, growled Whonk, lest I tweak you in twain.     The youth gurgled.     Better let up before you make a mess of him, said Retief. Whonklifted the Youth clear of the floor, then flung him down with a thumpthat made the ground quiver. The younger Fustian glared up at theelder, mouth snapping.     This one was among those who trussed me and hid me away for thekilling, said Whonk. In his repentance he will tell all to his elder.     That's the same young squirt that tried to strike up an acquaintancewith me on the bus, Retief said. He gets around.     The youth scrambled to hands and knees, scuttled for freedom. Retiefplanted a foot on his dragging cloak; it ripped free. He stared at thebare back of the Fustian—     By the Great Egg! Whonk exclaimed, tripping the refugee as he triedto rise. This is no Youth! His carapace has been taken from him!     Retief looked at the scarred back. I thought he looked a little old.But I thought—     This is not possible, Whonk said wonderingly. The great nerve trunksare deeply involved. Not even the cleverest surgeon could excise thecarapace and leave the patient living.     It looks like somebody did the trick. But let's take this boy with usand get out of here. His folks may come home.     Too late, said Whonk. Retief turned.     Three youths came from behind the sheds.     Well, Retief said. It looks like the SCARS are out in force tonight.Where's your pal? he said to the advancing trio. The sticky littlebird with the eye-stalks? Back at his Embassy, leaving you suckersholding the bag, I'll bet.     Shelter behind me, Retief, said Whonk.     Go get 'em, old-timer. Retief stooped, picked up one of the pry-bars.I'll jump around and distract them.     Whonk let out a whistling roar and charged for the immature Fustians.They fanned out ... and one tripped, sprawled on his face. Retiefwhirled the metal bar he had thrust between the Fustian's legs, slammedit against the skull of another, who shook his head, turned onRetief ... and bounced off the steel hull of the      Moss Rock     as Whonktook him in full charge.     Retief used the bar on another head. His third blow laid the Fustianon the pavement, oozing purple. The other two club members departedhastily, seriously dented but still mobile.     Retief leaned on his club, breathing hard. Tough heads these kidshave got. I'm tempted to chase those two lads down, but I've gotanother errand to run. I don't know who the Groaci intended to blast,but I have a sneaking suspicion somebody of importance was scheduledfor a boat ride in the next few hours. And three drums of titanite isenough to vaporize this tub and everyone aboard her.     The plot is foiled, said Whonk. But what reason did they have?     The Groaci are behind it. I have an idea the SCARS didn't know aboutthis gambit.     Which of these is the leader? asked Whonk. He prodded a fallen Youthwith a horny toe. Arise, dreaming one.     Never mind him, Whonk. We'll tie these two up and leave them here. Iknow where to find the boss.  A stolid crowd filled the low-ceilinged banquet hall. Retief scannedthe tables for the pale blobs of Terrestrial faces, dwarfed by thegiant armored bodies of the Fustians. Across the room Magnan fluttereda hand. Retief headed toward him. A low-pitched vibration filled theair: the rumble of subsonic Fustian music.     Retief slid into his place beside Magnan. Sorry to be late, Mr.Ambassador.     I'm honored that you chose to appear at all, said Magnan coldly. Heturned back to the Fustian on his left.     Ah, yes, Mr. Minister, he said. Charming, most charming. So joyous.     The Fustian looked at him, beady-eyed. It is the      Lament ofHatching     , he said; our National Dirge.     Oh, said Magnan. How interesting. Such a pleasing balance ofinstruments—     It is a droon solo, said the Fustian, eyeing the TerrestrialAmbassador suspiciously.     Why don't you just admit you can't hear it, Retief whispered loudly.And if I may interrupt a moment—     Magnan cleared his throat. Now that our Mr. Retief has arrived,perhaps we could rush right along to the Sponsorship ceremonies.     This group, said Retief, leaning across Magnan, the SCARS. How muchdo you know about them, Mr. Minister?     Nothing at all, the huge Fustian elder rumbled. For my taste, allYouths should be kept penned with the livestock until they grow acarapace to tame their irresponsibility.     We mustn't lose sight of the importance of channeling youthfulenergies, said Magnan.     Labor gangs, said the minister. In my youth we were indentured tothe dredge-masters. I myself drew a muck sledge.     But in these modern times, put in Magnan, surely it's incumbent onus to make happy these golden hours.     The minister snorted. Last week I had a golden hour. They set upon meand pelted me with overripe stench-fruit.     But this was merely a manifestation of normal youthful frustrations,cried Magnan. Their essential tenderness—     You'd not find a tender spot on that lout yonder, the ministersaid, pointing with a fork at a newly arrived Youth, if you drilledboreholes and blasted.  Why, that's our guest of honor, said Magnan, a fine young fellow!Slop I believe his name is.     Slock, said Retief. Eight feet of armor-plated orneriness. And—     Magnan rose and tapped on his glass. The Fustians winced at the, tothem, supersonic vibrations. They looked at each other muttering.Magnan tapped louder. The Minister drew in his head, eyes closed. Someof the Fustians rose, tottered for the doors; the noise level rose.Magnan redoubled his efforts. The glass broke with a clatter and greenwine gushed on the tablecloth.     What in the name of the Great Egg! the Minister muttered. He blinked,breathing deeply.     Oh, forgive me, blurted Magnan, dabbing at the wine.     Too bad the glass gave out, said Retief. In another minute you'dhave cleared the hall. And then maybe I could have gotten a word insideways. There's a matter you should know about—     Your attention, please, Magnan said, rising. I see that our fineyoung guest has arrived, and I hope that the remainder of his committeewill be along in a moment. It is my pleasure to announce that our Mr.Retief has had the good fortune to win out in the keen bidding for thepleasure of sponsoring this lovely group.     Retief tugged at Magnan's sleeve. Don't introduce me yet, he said. Iwant to appear suddenly. More dramatic, you know.     Well, murmured Magnan, glancing down at Retief, I'm gratified tosee you entering into the spirit of the event at last. He turned hisattention back to the assembled guests. If our honored guest will joinme on the rostrum...? he said. The gentlemen of the press may want tocatch a few shots of the presentation.     Magnan stepped up on the low platform at the center of the wide room,took his place beside the robed Fustian youth and beamed at the cameras.     How gratifying it is to take this opportunity to express once more thegreat pleasure we have in sponsoring SCARS, he said, talking slowlyfor the benefit of the scribbling reporters. We'd like to think thatin our modest way we're to be a part of all that the SCARS achieveduring the years ahead.     Magnan paused as a huge Fustian elder heaved his bulk up the two lowsteps to the rostrum, approached the guest of honor. He watched as thenewcomer paused behind Slock, who did not see the new arrival.     Retief pushed through the crowd, stepped up to face the Fustian youth.Slock stared at him, drew back.     You know me, Slock, said Retief loudly. An old fellow named Whonktold you about me, just before you tried to saw his head off, remember?It was when I came out to take a look at that battle cruiser you'rebuilding.      IV     With a bellow Slock reached for Retief—and choked off in mid-cry asthe Fustian elder, Whonk, pinioned him from behind, lifting him clearof the floor.     Glad you reporters happened along, said Retief to the gaping newsmen.Slock here had a deal with a sharp operator from the Groaci Embassy.The Groaci were to supply the necessary hardware and Slock, as foremanat the shipyards, was to see that everything was properly installed.The next step, I assume, would have been a local take-over, followedby a little interplanetary war on Flamenco or one of the other nearbyworlds ... for which the Groaci would be glad to supply plenty of ammo.     Magnan found his tongue. Are you mad, Retief? he screeched. Thisgroup was vouched for by the Ministry of Youth!     The Ministry's overdue for a purge, snapped Retief. He turned backto Slock. I wonder if you were in on the little diversion that wasplanned for today. When the      Moss Rock     blew, a variety of clues wereto be planted where they'd be easy to find ... with SCARS written allover them. The Groaci would thus have neatly laid the whole affairsquarely at the door of the Terrestrial Embassy ... whose sponsorshipof the SCARS had received plenty of publicity.     The      Moss Rock     ? said Magnan. But that was—Retief! This is idiotic.Slock himself was scheduled to go on a cruise tomorrow!     Slock roared suddenly, twisting violently. Whonk teetered, his griploosened ... and Slock pulled free and was off the platform, buttinghis way through the milling oldsters on the dining room floor. Magnanwatched, open-mouthed.     The Groaci were playing a double game, as usual, Retief said. Theyintended to dispose of this fellow Slock, once he'd served theirpurpose.     Well, don't stand there, yelped Magnan over the uproar. If Slock isthe ring-leader of a delinquent gang...! He moved to give chase.     Retief grabbed his arm. Don't jump down there! You'd have as muchchance of getting through as a jack-rabbit through a threshing contest.     Ten minutes later the crowd had thinned slightly. We can get throughnow, Whonk called. This way. He lowered himself to the floor, bulledthrough to the exit. Flashbulbs popped. Retief and Magnan followed inWhonk's wake.     In the lounge Retief grabbed the phone, waited for the operator, gave acode letter. No reply. He tried another.     No good, he said after a full minute had passed. Wonder what'sloose? He slammed the phone back in its niche. Let's grab a cab.  In the street the blue sun, Alpha, peered like an arc light under a lowcloud layer, casting flat shadows across the mud of the avenue. Thethree mounted a passing flat-car. Whonk squatted, resting the weight ofhis immense shell on the heavy plank flooring.     Would that I too could lose this burden, as has the false youth webludgeoned aboard the      Moss Rock     , he sighed. Soon will I be forcedinto retirement. Then a mere keeper of a place of papers such as Iwill rate no more than a slab on the public strand, with once-dailyfeedings. And even for a man of high position, retirement is nopleasure. A slab in the Park of Monuments is little better. A dismaloutlook for one's next thousand years!     You two carry on to the police station, said Retief. I want to playa hunch. But don't take too long. I may be painfully right.     What—? Magnan started.     As you wish, Retief, said Whonk.     The flat-car trundled past the gate to the shipyard and Retief jumpeddown, headed at a run for the VIP boat. The guard post still stoodvacant. The two Youths whom he and Whonk had left trussed were gone.     That's the trouble with a peaceful world, Retief muttered. No policeprotection. He stepped down from the lighted entry and took up aposition behind the sentry box. Alpha rose higher, shedding a glaringblue-white light without heat. Retief shivered. Maybe he'd guessedwrong....     There was a sound in the near distance, like two elephants colliding.     Retief looked toward the gate. His giant acquaintance, Whonk, hadreappeared and was grappling with a hardly less massive opponent. Asmall figure became visible in the melee, scuttled for the gate. Headedoff by the battling titans, he turned and made for the opposite sideof the shipyard. Retief waited, jumped out and gathered in the fleeingGroaci.     Well, Yith, he said, how's tricks? You should pardon the expression.     Release me, Retief! the pale-featured alien lisped, his throatbladder pulsating in agitation. The behemoths vie for the privilege ofdismembering me out of hand!     I know how they feel. I'll see what I can do ... for a price.     I appeal to you, Yith whispered hoarsely. As a fellow diplomat, afellow alien, a fellow soft-back—     Why don't you appeal to Slock, as a fellow skunk? said Retief. Nowkeep quiet ... and you may get out of this alive.     The heavier of the two struggling Fustians threw the other to theground. There was another brief flurry, and then the smaller figure wason its back, helpless.     That's Whonk, still on his feet, said Retief. I wonder who he'scaught—and why.     Whonk came toward the      Moss Rock     dragging the supine Fustian, whokicked vainly. Retief thrust Yith down well out of sight behind thesentry box. Better sit tight, Yith. Don't try to sneak off; I canoutrun you. Stay here and I'll see what I can do. He stepped out andhailed Whonk.     Puffing like a steam engine Whonk pulled up before him. Sleep,Retief! He panted. You followed a hunch; I did the same. I sawsomething strange in this one when we passed him on the avenue. Iwatched, followed him here. Look! It is Slock, strapped into a deadcarapace! Now many things become clear.  Retief whistled. So the Youths aren't all as young as they look.Somebody's been holding out on the rest of you Fustians!     The Soft One, Whonk said. You laid him by the heels, Retief. I saw.Produce him now.     Hold on a minute, Whonk. It won't do you any good—     Whonk winked broadly. I must take my revenge! he roared. I shalltest the texture of the Soft One! His pulped remains will be scoured upby the ramp-washers and mailed home in bottles!     Retief whirled at a sound, caught up with the scuttling Yith fifty feetaway, hauled him back to Whonk.     It's up to you, Whonk, he said. I know how important ceremonialrevenge is to you Fustians. I will not interfere.     Mercy! Yith hissed, eye-stalks whipping in distress. I claimdiplomatic immunity!     No diplomat am I, rumbled Whonk. Let me see; suppose I start withone of those obscenely active eyes— He reached....     I have an idea, said Retief brightly. Do you suppose—just thisonce—you could forego the ceremonial revenge if Yith promised toarrange for a Groaci Surgical Mission to de-carapace you elders?     But, Whonk protested, those eyes! What a pleasure to pluck them, oneby one!     Yess, hissed Yith, I swear it! Our most expert surgeons ... platoonsof them, with the finest of equipment.     I have dreamed of how it would be to sit on this one, to feel himsquash beneath my bulk....     Light as a whissle feather shall you dance, Yith whispered.Shell-less shall you spring in the joy of renewed youth—     Maybe just one eye, said Whonk grudgingly. That would leave himfour.     Be a sport, said Retief.     Well.     It's a deal then, said Retief. Yith, on your word as a diplomat,an alien, a soft-back and a skunk, you'll set up the mission. Groacisurgical skill is an export that will net you more than armaments.It will be a whissle feather in your cap—if you bring it off. Andin return, Whonk won't sit on you. And I won't prefer charges ofinterference in the internal affairs of a free world.     Behind Whonk there was a movement. Slock, wriggling free of theborrowed carapace, struggled to his feet ... in time for Whonk to seizehim, lift him high and head for the entry to the      Moss Rock     .     Hey, Retief called. Where are you going?     I would not deny this one his reward, called Whonk. He hoped tocruise in luxury. So be it.     Hold on, said Retief. That tub is loaded with titanite!     Stand not in my way, Retief. For this one in truth owes me avengeance.     Retief watched as the immense Fustian bore his giant burden up the rampand disappeared within the ship.     I guess Whonk means business, he said to Yith, who hung in his grasp,all five eyes goggling. And he's a little too big for me to stop.     Whonk reappeared, alone, climbed down.     What did you do with him? said Retief. Tell him you were going to—     We had best withdraw, said Whonk. The killing radius of the drive isfifty yards.     You mean—     The controls are set for Groaci. Long-may-he-sleep.  It was quite a bang, said Retief. But I guess you saw it, too.     No, confound it, Magnan said. When I remonstrated with Hulk, orWhelk—     Whonk.     —the ruffian thrust me into an alley bound in my own cloak. I'll mostcertainly complain to the Minister.     How about the surgical mission?     A most generous offer, said Magnan. Frankly, I was astonished. Ithink perhaps we've judged the Groaci too harshly.     I hear the Ministry of Youth has had a rough morning of it, saidRetief. And a lot of rumors are flying to the effect that Youth Groupsare on the way out.     Magnan cleared his throat, shuffled papers. I—ah—have explained tothe press that last night's—ah—     Fiasco.     —affair was necessary in order to place the culprits in an untenableposition. Of course, as to the destruction of the VIP vessel and thepresumed death of, uh, Slop.     The Fustians understand, said Retief. Whonk wasn't kidding aboutceremonial vengeance.     The Groaci had been guilty of gross misuse of diplomatic privilege,said Magnan. I think that a note—or perhaps an Aide Memoire: lessformal....     The      Moss Rock     was bound for Groaci, said Retief. She was alreadyin her transit orbit when she blew. The major fragments will arrive onschedule in a month or so. It should provide quite a meteorite display.I think that should be all the      aide     the Groaci's      memoires     will needto keep their tentacles off Fust.     But diplomatic usage—     Then, too, the less that's put in writing, the less they can blame youfor, if anything goes wrong.     That's true, said Magnan, lips pursed. Now you're thinkingconstructively, Retief. We may make a diplomat of you yet. He smiledexpansively.     Maybe. But I refuse to let it depress me. Retief stood up. I'mtaking a few weeks off ... if you have no objection, Mr. Ambassador. Mypal Whonk wants to show me an island down south where the fishing isgood.     But there are some extremely important matters coming up, saidMagnan. We're planning to sponsor Senior Citizen Groups—     Count me out. All groups give me an itch.     Why, what an astonishing remark, Retief! After all, we diplomats areourselves a group.     Uh-huh, Retief said.     Magnan sat quietly, mouth open, and watched as Retief stepped into thehall and closed the door gently behind him.   ","Whonk is a very old Fustian who works as a clerk at the shipyards. He meets Retief when Retief comes to to inquire about seeing plans for the new passenger liner. Whonk is neutral and correct, but not especially friendly. His partnership, and it seems fair to say, friendship with Retief really begins when Retief returns to the shipyard to look for Whonk and finds that the Fustian thugs who tried and failed to kill him, due to his thick, mature skin and shell, have left him tied up, in an undignified position on his back.Retief apologizes for putting him in danger, and gets the old Fustian back on his feet. Whonk is so grateful that he tells Retief, “My cows are yours,” a heartfelt, traditional Fustian expression of gratitude. Whonk is extremely angry about what the Fustian Slock and his gang have done to him, and throws in his lot with Retief. Thereafter, every time Retief is in physical danger from Fustians, Whonk is right there to help. At the end of the story, Whonk steps in again to help Retief capture Yith, a member of the Groaci diplomatic mission, and Slock the rebel adult Fustian with no carapace. His desire for vengeance against these two nearly overwhelms his good sense. He puts Slock on the Moss Rose with the titanite that Slock had intended to use against Fustian politicians, and sets the rocket to blast off to Groaci, knowing that it would below up before it got there. But Retief manages to settle him down enough not to take Yith apart piece by piece, by getting the Groaci to do something that would make Whonk’s life a lot easier and more pleasant: surgically remove his carapace. Whonk is steadfast, reliable, implacable – a good sidekick for Retief."
"What is the setting for this story? </s>     AIDE MEMOIRE     BY KEITH LAUMER     The Fustians looked like turtles—but     they could move fast when they chose!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, July 1962.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Across the table from Retief, Ambassador Magnan rustled a stiff sheetof parchment and looked grave.     This aide memoire, he said, was just handed to me by the CulturalAttache. It's the third on the subject this week. It refers to thematter of sponsorship of Youth groups—     Some youths, Retief said. Average age, seventy-five.     The Fustians are a long-lived people, Magnan snapped. These mattersare relative. At seventy-five, a male Fustian is at a trying age—     That's right. He'll try anything—in the hope it will maim somebody.     Precisely the problem, Magnan said. But the Youth Movement isthe important news in today's political situation here on Fust. Andsponsorship of Youth groups is a shrewd stroke on the part of theTerrestrial Embassy. At my suggestion, well nigh every member of themission has leaped at the opportunity to score a few p—that is, cementrelations with this emergent power group—the leaders of the future.You, Retief, as Councillor, are the outstanding exception.     I'm not convinced these hoodlums need my help in organizing theirrumbles, Retief said. Now, if you have a proposal for a pest controlgroup—     To the Fustians this is no jesting matter, Magnan cut in. Thisgroup— he glanced at the paper—known as the Sexual, Cultural, andAthletic Recreational Society, or SCARS for short, has been awaitingsponsorship for a matter of weeks now.     Meaning they want someone to buy them a clubhouse, uniforms, equipmentand anything else they need to complete their sexual, cultural andathletic development, Retief said.     If we don't act promptly, Magnan said, the Groaci Embassy may wellanticipate us. They're very active here.     That's an idea, said Retief. Let 'em. After awhile they'll go brokeinstead of us.     Nonsense. The group requires a sponsor. I can't actually order you tostep forward. However.... Magnan let the sentence hang in the air.Retief raised one eyebrow.     For a minute there, he said, I thought you were going to make apositive statement.  Magnan leaned back, lacing his fingers over his stomach. I don't thinkyou'll find a diplomat of my experience doing anything so naive, hesaid.     I like the adult Fustians, said Retief. Too bad they have to lughalf a ton of horn around on their backs. I wonder if surgery wouldhelp.     Great heavens, Retief, Magnan sputtered. I'm amazed that even youwould bring up a matter of such delicacy. A race's unfortunate physicalcharacteristics are hardly a fit matter for Terrestrial curiosity.     Well, of course your experience of the Fustian mentality is greaterthan mine. I've only been here a month. But it's been my experience,Mr. Ambassador, that few races are above improving on nature. Otherwiseyou, for example, would be tripping over your beard.     Magnan shuddered. Please—never mention the idea to a Fustian.     Retief stood. My own program for the day includes going over to thedockyards. There are some features of this new passenger liner theFustians are putting together that I want to look into. With yourpermission, Mr. Ambassador...?     Magnan snorted. Your pre-occupation with the trivial disturbs me,Retief. More interest in substantive matters—such as working withYouth groups—would create a far better impression.     Before getting too involved with these groups, it might be a good ideato find out a little more about them, said Retief. Who organizesthem? There are three strong political parties here on Fust. What's thealignment of this SCARS organization?     You forget, these are merely teenagers, so to speak, Magnan said.Politics mean nothing to them ... yet.     Then there are the Groaci. Why their passionate interest in atwo-horse world like Fust? Normally they're concerned with nothing butbusiness. But what has Fust got that they could use?     You may rule out the commercial aspect in this instance, said Magnan.Fust possesses a vigorous steel-age manufacturing economy. The Groaciare barely ahead of them.     Barely, said Retief. Just over the line into crude atomics ... likefission bombs.     Magnan shook his head, turned back to his papers. What market existsfor such devices on a world at peace? I suggest you address yourattention to the less spectacular but more rewarding work of studyingthe social patterns of the local youth.     I've studied them, said Retief. And before I meet any of the localyouth socially I want to get myself a good blackjack.      II     Retief left the sprawling bungalow-type building that housed thechancery of the Terrestrial Embassy, swung aboard a passing flat-carand leaned back against the wooden guard rail as the heavy vehicletrundled through the city toward the looming gantries of the shipyards.     It was a cool morning. A light breeze carried the fishy odor of Fustydwellings across the broad cobbled avenue. A few mature Fustianslumbered heavily along in the shade of the low buildings, audiblywheezing under the burden of their immense carapaces. Among them,shell-less youths trotted briskly on scaly stub legs. The driver of theflat-car, a labor-caste Fustian with his guild colors emblazoned on hisback, heaved at the tiller, swung the unwieldy conveyance through theshipyard gates, creaked to a halt.     Thus I come to the shipyard with frightful speed, he said in Fustian.Well I know the way of the naked-backs, who move always in haste.     Retief climbed down, handed him a coin. You should take upprofessional racing, he said. Daredevil.     He crossed the littered yard and tapped at the door of a rambling shed.Boards creaked inside. Then the door swung back.     A gnarled ancient with tarnished facial scales and a weathered carapacepeered out at Retief.     Long-may-you-sleep, said Retief. I'd like to take a look around, ifyou don't mind. I understand you're laying the bedplate for your newliner today.       May-you-dream-of-the-deeps, the old fellow mumbled. He waved a stumpyarm toward a group of shell-less Fustians standing by a massive hoist.The youths know more of bedplates than do I, who but tend the place ofpapers.     I know how you feel, old-timer, said Retief. That sounds like thestory of my life. Among your papers do you have a set of plans for thevessel? I understand it's to be a passenger liner.     The oldster nodded. He shuffled to a drawing file, rummaged, pulled outa sheaf of curled prints and spread them on the table. Retief stoodsilently, running a finger over the uppermost drawing, tracing lines....     What does the naked-back here? barked a deep voice behind Retief. Heturned. A heavy-faced Fustian youth, wrapped in a mantle, stood at theopen door. Beady yellow eyes set among fine scales bored into Retief.     I came to take a look at your new liner, said Retief.     We need no prying foreigners here, the youth snapped. His eye fell onthe drawings. He hissed in sudden anger.     Doddering hulk! he snapped at the ancient. May you toss innightmares! Put by the plans!     My mistake, Retief said. I didn't know this was a secret project.  The youth hesitated. It is not a secret project, he muttered. Whyshould it be secret?     You tell me.     The youth worked his jaws and rocked his head from side to side in theFusty gesture of uncertainty. There is nothing to conceal, he said.We merely construct a passenger liner.     Then you don't mind if I look over the drawings, said Retief. Whoknows? Maybe some day I'll want to reserve a suite for the trip out.     The youth turned and disappeared. Retief grinned at the oldster. Wentfor his big brother, I guess, he said. I have a feeling I won't getto study these in peace here. Mind if I copy them?     Willingly, light-footed one, said the old Fustian. And mine is theshame for the discourtesy of youth.     Retief took out a tiny camera, flipped a copying lens in place, leafedthrough the drawings, clicking the shutter.     A plague on these youths, said the oldster, who grow more virulentday by day.     Why don't you elders clamp down?     Agile are they and we are slow of foot. And this unrest is new.Unknown in my youth was such insolence.     The police—     Bah! the ancient rumbled. None have we worthy of the name, nor havewe needed ought ere now.     What's behind it?     They have found leaders. The spiv, Slock, is one. And I fear they plotmischief. He pointed to the window. They come, and a Soft One withthem.     Retief pocketed the camera, glanced out the window. A pale-featuredGroaci with an ornately decorated crest stood with the youths, who eyedthe hut, then started toward it.     That's the military attache of the Groaci Embassy, Retief said. Iwonder what he and the boys are cooking up together?     Naught that augurs well for the dignity of Fust, the oldster rumbled.Flee, agile one, while I engage their attentions.     I was just leaving, Retief said. Which way out?     The rear door, the Fustian gestured with a stubby member. Rest well,stranger on these shores. He moved to the entrance.     Same to you, pop, said Retief. And thanks.     He eased through the narrow back entrance, waited until voices wereraised at the front of the shed, then strolled off toward the gate.  The second dark of the third cycle was lightening when Retief left theEmbassy technical library and crossed the corridor to his office. Heflipped on a light. A note was tucked under a paperweight:     Retief—I shall expect your attendance at the IAS dinner at firstdark of the fourth cycle. There will be a brief but, I hope, impressiveSponsorship ceremony for the SCARS group, with full press coverage,arrangements for which I have managed to complete in spite of yourintransigence.     Retief snorted and glanced at his watch. Less than three hours. Justtime to creep home by flat-car, dress in ceremonial uniform and creepback.     Outside he flagged a lumbering bus. He stationed himself in a cornerand watched the yellow sun, Beta, rise rapidly above the low skyline.The nearby sea was at high tide now, under the pull of the major sunand the three moons, and the stiff breeze carried a mist of salt spray.     Retief turned up his collar against the dampness. In half an hour hewould be perspiring under the vertical rays of a third-noon sun, butthe thought failed to keep the chill off.     Two Youths clambered up on the platform, moving purposefully towardRetief. He moved off the rail, watching them, weight balanced.     That's close enough, kids, he said. Plenty of room on this scow. Noneed to crowd up.     There are certain films, the lead Fustian muttered. His voice wasunusually deep for a Youth. He was wrapped in a heavy cloak and movedawkwardly. His adolescence was nearly at an end, Retief guessed.     I told you once, said Retief. Don't crowd me.     The two stepped close, slit mouths snapping in anger. Retief put out afoot, hooked it behind the scaly leg of the overaged juvenile and threwhis weight against the cloaked chest. The clumsy Fustian tottered, fellheavily. Retief was past him and off the flat-car before the otherYouth had completed his vain lunge toward the spot Retief had occupied.The Terrestrial waved cheerfully at the pair, hopped aboard anothervehicle, watched his would-be assailants lumber down from their car,tiny heads twisted to follow his retreating figure.     So they wanted the film? Retief reflected, thumbing a cigar alight.They were a little late. He had already filed it in the Embassy vault,after running a copy for the reference files.     And a comparison of the drawings with those of the obsolete Mark XXXVbattle cruiser used two hundred years earlier by the Concordiat NavalArm showed them to be almost identical, gun emplacements and all. Theterm obsolete was a relative one. A ship which had been outmoded inthe armories of the Galactic Powers could still be king of the walk inthe Eastern Arm.     But how had these two known of the film? There had been no one presentbut himself and the old-timer—and he was willing to bet the elderlyFustian hadn't told them anything.     At least not willingly....     Retief frowned, dropped the cigar over the side, waited until theflat-car negotiated a mud-wallow, then swung down and headed for theshipyard.  The door, hinges torn loose, had been propped loosely back in position.Retief looked around at the battered interior of the shed. The oldfellow had put up a struggle.     There were deep drag-marks in the dust behind the building. Retieffollowed them across the yard. They disappeared under the steel door ofa warehouse.     Retief glanced around. Now, at the mid-hour of the fourth cycle, theworkmen were heaped along the edge of the refreshment pond, deep intheir siesta. He took a multi-bladed tool from a pocket, tried variousfittings in the lock. It snicked open.     He eased the door aside far enough to enter.     Heaped bales loomed before him. Snapping on the tiny lamp in the handleof the combination tool, Retief looked over the pile. One stack seemedout of alignment ... and the dust had been scraped from the floorbefore it. He pocketed the light, climbed up on the bales, looked overinto a nest made by stacking the bundles around a clear spot. The agedFustian lay in it, on his back, a heavy sack tied over his head.     Retief dropped down inside the ring of bales, sawed at the tough twineand pulled the sack free.     It's me, old fellow, Retief said. The nosy stranger. Sorry I got youinto this.     The oldster threshed his gnarled legs. He rocked slightly and fellback. A curse on the cradle that rocked their infant slumbers, herumbled. But place me back on my feet and I hunt down the youth,Slock, though he flee to the bottommost muck of the Sea of Torments.     How am I going to get you out of here? Maybe I'd better get some help.     Nay. The perfidious Youths abound here, said the old Fustian. Itwould be your life.     I doubt if they'd go that far.     Would they not? The Fustian stretched his neck. Cast your lighthere. But for the toughness of my hide....     Retief put the beam of the light on the leathery neck. A great smear ofthick purplish blood welled from a ragged cut. The oldster chuckled, asound like a seal coughing.     Traitor, they called me. For long they sawed at me—in vain. Thenthey trussed me and dumped me here. They think to return with weaponsto complete the task.     Weapons? I thought it was illegal!     Their evil genius, the Soft One, said the Fustian. He would providefuel to the Devil himself.     The Groaci again, said Retief. I wonder what their angle is.     And I must confess, I told them of you, ere I knew their fullintentions. Much can I tell you of their doings. But first, I pray, theblock and tackle.     Retief found the hoist where the Fustian directed him, maneuvered itinto position, hooked onto the edge of the carapace and hauled away.The immense Fustian rose slowly, teetered ... then flopped on his chest.     Slowly he got to his feet.     My name is Whonk, fleet one, he said. My cows are yours.     Thanks. I'm Retief. I'd like to meet the girls some time. But rightnow, let's get out of here.     Whonk leaned his bulk against the ponderous stacks of baled kelp,bulldozed them aside. Slow am I to anger, he said, but implacable inmy wrath. Slock, beware!     Hold it, said Retief suddenly. He sniffed. What's that odor? Heflashed the light around, played it over a dry stain on the floor. Heknelt, sniffed at the spot.     What kind of cargo was stacked here, Whonk? And where is it now?     Whonk considered. There were drums, he said. Four of them, quitesmall, painted an evil green, the property of the Soft Ones, theGroaci. They lay here a day and a night. At full dark of the firstperiod they came with stevedores and loaded them aboard the barge      MossRock     .     The VIP boat. Who's scheduled to use it?     I know not. But what matters this? Let us discuss cargo movementsafter I have settled a score with certain Youths.     We'd better follow this up first, Whonk. There's only one substance Iknow of that's transported in drums and smells like that blot on thefloor. That's titanite: the hottest explosive this side of a uraniumpile.      III     Beta was setting as Retief, Whonk puffing at his heels, came up to thesentry box beside the gangway leading to the plush interior of theofficial luxury space barge      Moss Rock     .     A sign of the times, said Whonk, glancing inside the empty shelter.A guard should stand here, but I see him not. Doubtless he crept awayto sleep.     Let's go aboard and take a look around.     They entered the ship. Soft lights glowed in utter silence. A rough boxstood on the floor, rollers and pry-bars beside it—a discordant notein the muted luxury of the setting. Whonk rummaged in it.     Curious, he said. What means this? He held up a stained cloak oforange and green, a metal bracelet, papers.     Orange and green, mused Relief. Whose colors are those?     I know not. Whonk glanced at the arm-band. But this is lettered. Hepassed the metal band to Retief.     SCARS, Retief read. He looked at Whonk. It seems to me I've heardthe name before, he murmured. Let's get back to the Embassy—fast.     Back on the ramp Retief heard a sound ... and turned in time to duckthe charge of a hulking Fustian youth who thundered past him andfetched up against the broad chest of Whonk, who locked him in a warmembrace.     Nice catch, Whonk. Where'd he sneak out of?     The lout hid there by the storage bin, rumbled Whonk. The captiveyouth thumped fists and toes fruitlessly against the oldster's carapace.     Hang onto him, said Retief. He looks like the biting kind.     No fear. Clumsy I am, yet not without strength.     Ask him where the titanite is tucked away.     Speak, witless grub, growled Whonk, lest I tweak you in twain.     The youth gurgled.     Better let up before you make a mess of him, said Retief. Whonklifted the Youth clear of the floor, then flung him down with a thumpthat made the ground quiver. The younger Fustian glared up at theelder, mouth snapping.     This one was among those who trussed me and hid me away for thekilling, said Whonk. In his repentance he will tell all to his elder.     That's the same young squirt that tried to strike up an acquaintancewith me on the bus, Retief said. He gets around.     The youth scrambled to hands and knees, scuttled for freedom. Retiefplanted a foot on his dragging cloak; it ripped free. He stared at thebare back of the Fustian—     By the Great Egg! Whonk exclaimed, tripping the refugee as he triedto rise. This is no Youth! His carapace has been taken from him!     Retief looked at the scarred back. I thought he looked a little old.But I thought—     This is not possible, Whonk said wonderingly. The great nerve trunksare deeply involved. Not even the cleverest surgeon could excise thecarapace and leave the patient living.     It looks like somebody did the trick. But let's take this boy with usand get out of here. His folks may come home.     Too late, said Whonk. Retief turned.     Three youths came from behind the sheds.     Well, Retief said. It looks like the SCARS are out in force tonight.Where's your pal? he said to the advancing trio. The sticky littlebird with the eye-stalks? Back at his Embassy, leaving you suckersholding the bag, I'll bet.     Shelter behind me, Retief, said Whonk.     Go get 'em, old-timer. Retief stooped, picked up one of the pry-bars.I'll jump around and distract them.     Whonk let out a whistling roar and charged for the immature Fustians.They fanned out ... and one tripped, sprawled on his face. Retiefwhirled the metal bar he had thrust between the Fustian's legs, slammedit against the skull of another, who shook his head, turned onRetief ... and bounced off the steel hull of the      Moss Rock     as Whonktook him in full charge.     Retief used the bar on another head. His third blow laid the Fustianon the pavement, oozing purple. The other two club members departedhastily, seriously dented but still mobile.     Retief leaned on his club, breathing hard. Tough heads these kidshave got. I'm tempted to chase those two lads down, but I've gotanother errand to run. I don't know who the Groaci intended to blast,but I have a sneaking suspicion somebody of importance was scheduledfor a boat ride in the next few hours. And three drums of titanite isenough to vaporize this tub and everyone aboard her.     The plot is foiled, said Whonk. But what reason did they have?     The Groaci are behind it. I have an idea the SCARS didn't know aboutthis gambit.     Which of these is the leader? asked Whonk. He prodded a fallen Youthwith a horny toe. Arise, dreaming one.     Never mind him, Whonk. We'll tie these two up and leave them here. Iknow where to find the boss.  A stolid crowd filled the low-ceilinged banquet hall. Retief scannedthe tables for the pale blobs of Terrestrial faces, dwarfed by thegiant armored bodies of the Fustians. Across the room Magnan fluttereda hand. Retief headed toward him. A low-pitched vibration filled theair: the rumble of subsonic Fustian music.     Retief slid into his place beside Magnan. Sorry to be late, Mr.Ambassador.     I'm honored that you chose to appear at all, said Magnan coldly. Heturned back to the Fustian on his left.     Ah, yes, Mr. Minister, he said. Charming, most charming. So joyous.     The Fustian looked at him, beady-eyed. It is the      Lament ofHatching     , he said; our National Dirge.     Oh, said Magnan. How interesting. Such a pleasing balance ofinstruments—     It is a droon solo, said the Fustian, eyeing the TerrestrialAmbassador suspiciously.     Why don't you just admit you can't hear it, Retief whispered loudly.And if I may interrupt a moment—     Magnan cleared his throat. Now that our Mr. Retief has arrived,perhaps we could rush right along to the Sponsorship ceremonies.     This group, said Retief, leaning across Magnan, the SCARS. How muchdo you know about them, Mr. Minister?     Nothing at all, the huge Fustian elder rumbled. For my taste, allYouths should be kept penned with the livestock until they grow acarapace to tame their irresponsibility.     We mustn't lose sight of the importance of channeling youthfulenergies, said Magnan.     Labor gangs, said the minister. In my youth we were indentured tothe dredge-masters. I myself drew a muck sledge.     But in these modern times, put in Magnan, surely it's incumbent onus to make happy these golden hours.     The minister snorted. Last week I had a golden hour. They set upon meand pelted me with overripe stench-fruit.     But this was merely a manifestation of normal youthful frustrations,cried Magnan. Their essential tenderness—     You'd not find a tender spot on that lout yonder, the ministersaid, pointing with a fork at a newly arrived Youth, if you drilledboreholes and blasted.  Why, that's our guest of honor, said Magnan, a fine young fellow!Slop I believe his name is.     Slock, said Retief. Eight feet of armor-plated orneriness. And—     Magnan rose and tapped on his glass. The Fustians winced at the, tothem, supersonic vibrations. They looked at each other muttering.Magnan tapped louder. The Minister drew in his head, eyes closed. Someof the Fustians rose, tottered for the doors; the noise level rose.Magnan redoubled his efforts. The glass broke with a clatter and greenwine gushed on the tablecloth.     What in the name of the Great Egg! the Minister muttered. He blinked,breathing deeply.     Oh, forgive me, blurted Magnan, dabbing at the wine.     Too bad the glass gave out, said Retief. In another minute you'dhave cleared the hall. And then maybe I could have gotten a word insideways. There's a matter you should know about—     Your attention, please, Magnan said, rising. I see that our fineyoung guest has arrived, and I hope that the remainder of his committeewill be along in a moment. It is my pleasure to announce that our Mr.Retief has had the good fortune to win out in the keen bidding for thepleasure of sponsoring this lovely group.     Retief tugged at Magnan's sleeve. Don't introduce me yet, he said. Iwant to appear suddenly. More dramatic, you know.     Well, murmured Magnan, glancing down at Retief, I'm gratified tosee you entering into the spirit of the event at last. He turned hisattention back to the assembled guests. If our honored guest will joinme on the rostrum...? he said. The gentlemen of the press may want tocatch a few shots of the presentation.     Magnan stepped up on the low platform at the center of the wide room,took his place beside the robed Fustian youth and beamed at the cameras.     How gratifying it is to take this opportunity to express once more thegreat pleasure we have in sponsoring SCARS, he said, talking slowlyfor the benefit of the scribbling reporters. We'd like to think thatin our modest way we're to be a part of all that the SCARS achieveduring the years ahead.     Magnan paused as a huge Fustian elder heaved his bulk up the two lowsteps to the rostrum, approached the guest of honor. He watched as thenewcomer paused behind Slock, who did not see the new arrival.     Retief pushed through the crowd, stepped up to face the Fustian youth.Slock stared at him, drew back.     You know me, Slock, said Retief loudly. An old fellow named Whonktold you about me, just before you tried to saw his head off, remember?It was when I came out to take a look at that battle cruiser you'rebuilding.      IV     With a bellow Slock reached for Retief—and choked off in mid-cry asthe Fustian elder, Whonk, pinioned him from behind, lifting him clearof the floor.     Glad you reporters happened along, said Retief to the gaping newsmen.Slock here had a deal with a sharp operator from the Groaci Embassy.The Groaci were to supply the necessary hardware and Slock, as foremanat the shipyards, was to see that everything was properly installed.The next step, I assume, would have been a local take-over, followedby a little interplanetary war on Flamenco or one of the other nearbyworlds ... for which the Groaci would be glad to supply plenty of ammo.     Magnan found his tongue. Are you mad, Retief? he screeched. Thisgroup was vouched for by the Ministry of Youth!     The Ministry's overdue for a purge, snapped Retief. He turned backto Slock. I wonder if you were in on the little diversion that wasplanned for today. When the      Moss Rock     blew, a variety of clues wereto be planted where they'd be easy to find ... with SCARS written allover them. The Groaci would thus have neatly laid the whole affairsquarely at the door of the Terrestrial Embassy ... whose sponsorshipof the SCARS had received plenty of publicity.     The      Moss Rock     ? said Magnan. But that was—Retief! This is idiotic.Slock himself was scheduled to go on a cruise tomorrow!     Slock roared suddenly, twisting violently. Whonk teetered, his griploosened ... and Slock pulled free and was off the platform, buttinghis way through the milling oldsters on the dining room floor. Magnanwatched, open-mouthed.     The Groaci were playing a double game, as usual, Retief said. Theyintended to dispose of this fellow Slock, once he'd served theirpurpose.     Well, don't stand there, yelped Magnan over the uproar. If Slock isthe ring-leader of a delinquent gang...! He moved to give chase.     Retief grabbed his arm. Don't jump down there! You'd have as muchchance of getting through as a jack-rabbit through a threshing contest.     Ten minutes later the crowd had thinned slightly. We can get throughnow, Whonk called. This way. He lowered himself to the floor, bulledthrough to the exit. Flashbulbs popped. Retief and Magnan followed inWhonk's wake.     In the lounge Retief grabbed the phone, waited for the operator, gave acode letter. No reply. He tried another.     No good, he said after a full minute had passed. Wonder what'sloose? He slammed the phone back in its niche. Let's grab a cab.  In the street the blue sun, Alpha, peered like an arc light under a lowcloud layer, casting flat shadows across the mud of the avenue. Thethree mounted a passing flat-car. Whonk squatted, resting the weight ofhis immense shell on the heavy plank flooring.     Would that I too could lose this burden, as has the false youth webludgeoned aboard the      Moss Rock     , he sighed. Soon will I be forcedinto retirement. Then a mere keeper of a place of papers such as Iwill rate no more than a slab on the public strand, with once-dailyfeedings. And even for a man of high position, retirement is nopleasure. A slab in the Park of Monuments is little better. A dismaloutlook for one's next thousand years!     You two carry on to the police station, said Retief. I want to playa hunch. But don't take too long. I may be painfully right.     What—? Magnan started.     As you wish, Retief, said Whonk.     The flat-car trundled past the gate to the shipyard and Retief jumpeddown, headed at a run for the VIP boat. The guard post still stoodvacant. The two Youths whom he and Whonk had left trussed were gone.     That's the trouble with a peaceful world, Retief muttered. No policeprotection. He stepped down from the lighted entry and took up aposition behind the sentry box. Alpha rose higher, shedding a glaringblue-white light without heat. Retief shivered. Maybe he'd guessedwrong....     There was a sound in the near distance, like two elephants colliding.     Retief looked toward the gate. His giant acquaintance, Whonk, hadreappeared and was grappling with a hardly less massive opponent. Asmall figure became visible in the melee, scuttled for the gate. Headedoff by the battling titans, he turned and made for the opposite sideof the shipyard. Retief waited, jumped out and gathered in the fleeingGroaci.     Well, Yith, he said, how's tricks? You should pardon the expression.     Release me, Retief! the pale-featured alien lisped, his throatbladder pulsating in agitation. The behemoths vie for the privilege ofdismembering me out of hand!     I know how they feel. I'll see what I can do ... for a price.     I appeal to you, Yith whispered hoarsely. As a fellow diplomat, afellow alien, a fellow soft-back—     Why don't you appeal to Slock, as a fellow skunk? said Retief. Nowkeep quiet ... and you may get out of this alive.     The heavier of the two struggling Fustians threw the other to theground. There was another brief flurry, and then the smaller figure wason its back, helpless.     That's Whonk, still on his feet, said Retief. I wonder who he'scaught—and why.     Whonk came toward the      Moss Rock     dragging the supine Fustian, whokicked vainly. Retief thrust Yith down well out of sight behind thesentry box. Better sit tight, Yith. Don't try to sneak off; I canoutrun you. Stay here and I'll see what I can do. He stepped out andhailed Whonk.     Puffing like a steam engine Whonk pulled up before him. Sleep,Retief! He panted. You followed a hunch; I did the same. I sawsomething strange in this one when we passed him on the avenue. Iwatched, followed him here. Look! It is Slock, strapped into a deadcarapace! Now many things become clear.  Retief whistled. So the Youths aren't all as young as they look.Somebody's been holding out on the rest of you Fustians!     The Soft One, Whonk said. You laid him by the heels, Retief. I saw.Produce him now.     Hold on a minute, Whonk. It won't do you any good—     Whonk winked broadly. I must take my revenge! he roared. I shalltest the texture of the Soft One! His pulped remains will be scoured upby the ramp-washers and mailed home in bottles!     Retief whirled at a sound, caught up with the scuttling Yith fifty feetaway, hauled him back to Whonk.     It's up to you, Whonk, he said. I know how important ceremonialrevenge is to you Fustians. I will not interfere.     Mercy! Yith hissed, eye-stalks whipping in distress. I claimdiplomatic immunity!     No diplomat am I, rumbled Whonk. Let me see; suppose I start withone of those obscenely active eyes— He reached....     I have an idea, said Retief brightly. Do you suppose—just thisonce—you could forego the ceremonial revenge if Yith promised toarrange for a Groaci Surgical Mission to de-carapace you elders?     But, Whonk protested, those eyes! What a pleasure to pluck them, oneby one!     Yess, hissed Yith, I swear it! Our most expert surgeons ... platoonsof them, with the finest of equipment.     I have dreamed of how it would be to sit on this one, to feel himsquash beneath my bulk....     Light as a whissle feather shall you dance, Yith whispered.Shell-less shall you spring in the joy of renewed youth—     Maybe just one eye, said Whonk grudgingly. That would leave himfour.     Be a sport, said Retief.     Well.     It's a deal then, said Retief. Yith, on your word as a diplomat,an alien, a soft-back and a skunk, you'll set up the mission. Groacisurgical skill is an export that will net you more than armaments.It will be a whissle feather in your cap—if you bring it off. Andin return, Whonk won't sit on you. And I won't prefer charges ofinterference in the internal affairs of a free world.     Behind Whonk there was a movement. Slock, wriggling free of theborrowed carapace, struggled to his feet ... in time for Whonk to seizehim, lift him high and head for the entry to the      Moss Rock     .     Hey, Retief called. Where are you going?     I would not deny this one his reward, called Whonk. He hoped tocruise in luxury. So be it.     Hold on, said Retief. That tub is loaded with titanite!     Stand not in my way, Retief. For this one in truth owes me avengeance.     Retief watched as the immense Fustian bore his giant burden up the rampand disappeared within the ship.     I guess Whonk means business, he said to Yith, who hung in his grasp,all five eyes goggling. And he's a little too big for me to stop.     Whonk reappeared, alone, climbed down.     What did you do with him? said Retief. Tell him you were going to—     We had best withdraw, said Whonk. The killing radius of the drive isfifty yards.     You mean—     The controls are set for Groaci. Long-may-he-sleep.  It was quite a bang, said Retief. But I guess you saw it, too.     No, confound it, Magnan said. When I remonstrated with Hulk, orWhelk—     Whonk.     —the ruffian thrust me into an alley bound in my own cloak. I'll mostcertainly complain to the Minister.     How about the surgical mission?     A most generous offer, said Magnan. Frankly, I was astonished. Ithink perhaps we've judged the Groaci too harshly.     I hear the Ministry of Youth has had a rough morning of it, saidRetief. And a lot of rumors are flying to the effect that Youth Groupsare on the way out.     Magnan cleared his throat, shuffled papers. I—ah—have explained tothe press that last night's—ah—     Fiasco.     —affair was necessary in order to place the culprits in an untenableposition. Of course, as to the destruction of the VIP vessel and thepresumed death of, uh, Slop.     The Fustians understand, said Retief. Whonk wasn't kidding aboutceremonial vengeance.     The Groaci had been guilty of gross misuse of diplomatic privilege,said Magnan. I think that a note—or perhaps an Aide Memoire: lessformal....     The      Moss Rock     was bound for Groaci, said Retief. She was alreadyin her transit orbit when she blew. The major fragments will arrive onschedule in a month or so. It should provide quite a meteorite display.I think that should be all the      aide     the Groaci's      memoires     will needto keep their tentacles off Fust.     But diplomatic usage—     Then, too, the less that's put in writing, the less they can blame youfor, if anything goes wrong.     That's true, said Magnan, lips pursed. Now you're thinkingconstructively, Retief. We may make a diplomat of you yet. He smiledexpansively.     Maybe. But I refuse to let it depress me. Retief stood up. I'mtaking a few weeks off ... if you have no objection, Mr. Ambassador. Mypal Whonk wants to show me an island down south where the fishing isgood.     But there are some extremely important matters coming up, saidMagnan. We're planning to sponsor Senior Citizen Groups—     Count me out. All groups give me an itch.     Why, what an astonishing remark, Retief! After all, we diplomats areourselves a group.     Uh-huh, Retief said.     Magnan sat quietly, mouth open, and watched as Retief stepped into thehall and closed the door gently behind him.   ","The story is set entirely on the planet Fust. The native inhabitants of Fust are described as something similar to snapping turtles that walk on their hind legs, and much of the imagery used by Fustians when speaking revolves around themes of the sea and mud. Fust is a peaceful enough world that they don’t even really have much of a police force, despite the rowdy and rebellious behavior of Fustian youths. Not much is known about the physical characteristics of the planet, such as the proportion of sea and dry land. We know there must be oceans, because the warehouse where Wonk was tied up and left was full of bales of kelp, a sea product. The city of the story is also near a sea, whose breezes make it a bit cool at certain times of day.The city where all the action takes place is an important city, perhaps the capitol. It is full of diplomatic missions from all planets, and is apparently a place of some Fustian learning and culture, given that it has musicians for hire. There is a space ship building operation right outside the city, which can be reached by public transport that consists of flat open wagons. This is practical for the unwieldy shape of the adult Fustian, if not too comfortable for a human.One of the most interesting things about Fust, and the hardest for an outsider to understand, is their assorted suns and moons. Fust is lit by a blue sun called Alpha and a yellow sun known as Beta, and three moons orbit Fust. There is also a third sun, unnamed, so that there are three “noons” on Fust."
"What is the plot of the story? </s>      THE PLAGUE         By TEDDY KELLER         Suppose a strictly one hundred per cent American plagueshowed up.... One that attacked only people within thepolitical borders of the United States!         Illustrated by Schoenherr      Sergeant Major Andrew McCloud ignored the jangling telephones and theexcited jabber of a room full of brass, and lit a cigarette. Somebodyhad to keep his head in this mess. Everybody was about to flip.     Like the telephone. Two days ago Corporal Bettijean Baker had beenanswering the rare call on the single line—in that friendly, huskyvoice that gave even generals pause—by saying, Good morning. Officeof the Civil Health and Germ Warfare Protection Co-ordinator. Nowthere was a switchboard out in the hall with a web of lines running toa dozen girls at a half dozen desks wedged into the outer office. Andnow the harried girls answered with a hasty, Germ War Protection.     All the brass hats in Washington had suddenly discovered this officedeep in the recesses of the Pentagon. And none of them could quitecomprehend what had happened. The situation might have been funny, orat least pathetic, if it hadn't been so desperate. Even so, AndyMcCloud's nerves and patience had frayed thin.     I told you, general, he snapped to the flustered brigadier, ColonelPatterson was retired ten days ago. I don't know what happened. Maybethis replacement sawbones got strangled in red tape. Anyhow, thebrand-new lieutenant hasn't showed up here. As far as I know, I'm incharge.     But this is incredible, a two-star general wailed. A mysteriousepidemic is sweeping the country, possibly an insidious germ attacktimed to precede an all-out invasion, and a noncom is sitting on topof the whole powder keg.     Andy's big hands clenched into fists and he had to wait a momentbefore he could speak safely. Doggone the freckles and the unruly mopof hair that give him such a boyish look. May I remind you, general,he said, that I've been entombed here for two years. My staff and Iknow what to do. If you'll give us some co-operation and a priority,we'll try to figure this thing out.     But good heavens, a chicken colonel moaned, this is all soirregular. A noncom! He said it like a dirty word.     Irregular, hell, the brigadier snorted, the message getting through.There're ways. Gentlemen, I suggest we clear out of here and let thesergeant get to work. He took a step toward the door, and the otherofficers, protesting and complaining, moved along after him. As theydrifted out, he turned and said, We'll clear your office for toppriority. Then dead serious, he added, Son, a whole nation couldpanic at any moment. You've got to come through.     Andy didn't waste time standing. He merely nodded to the general,snubbed out his cigarette, and buzzed the intercom. Bettijean, willyou bring me all the latest reports, please? Then he peeled out ofhis be-ribboned blouse and rolled up his sleeves. He allowed himselfone moment to enjoy the sight of the slim, black-headed corporal whoentered his office.  Bettijean crossed briskly to his desk. She gave him a motherly smileas she put down a thick sheaf of papers. You look beat, she said.Brass give you much trouble?     Not much. We're top priority now. He ran fingers through the thick,brown hair and massaged his scalp, trying to generate stimulation tohis wary and confused brain. What's new?     I've gone though some of these, she said. Tried to save you alittle time.     Thanks. Sit down.     She pulled up a chair and thumbed through the papers. So far, nofatalities. That's why there's no panic yet, I guess. But it'sspreading like ... well, like a plague. Fear flickered deep in herdark eyes.     Any water reports? Andy asked.     Wichita O.K., Indianapolis O.K., Tulsa O.K., Buffalo O.K.,—and abunch more. No indication there. Except—she fished out a one-pagereport—some little town in Tennessee. Yesterday there was a campaignfor everybody to write their congressman about some deal and todaythey were to vote on a new water system. Hardly anybody showed up atthe polls. They've all got it.     Andy shrugged. You can drink water, but don't vote for it. Oh, that'sa big help. He rummaged through the clutter on his desk and came upwith a crude chart. Any trends yet?     It's hitting everybody, Bettijean said helplessly. Not many kids sofar, thank heavens. But housewives, businessmen, office workers,teachers, preachers—rich, poor—from Florida to Alaska. Just when youcalled me in, one of the girls thought she had a trend. The isolatedmountain areas of the West and South. But reports are toofragmentary.     What is it? he cried suddenly, banging the desk. People deathlyill, but nobody dying. And doctors can't identify the poison untilthey have a fatality for an autopsy. People stricken in every part ofthe country, but the water systems are pure. How does it spread?     In food?     How? There must be hundreds of canneries and dairies and packingplants over the country. How could they all goof at the sametime—even if it was sabotage?     On the wind?     But who could accurately predict every wind over the entirecountry—even Alaska and Hawaii—without hitting Canada or Mexico? Andwhy wouldn't everybody get it in a given area?     Bettijean's smooth brow furrowed and she reached across the desk togrip his icy, sweating hands. Andy, do ... do you think it's ...well, an enemy?     I don't know, he said. I just don't know.     For a long moment he sat there, trying to draw strength from her,punishing his brain for the glimmer of an idea. Finally, shaking hishead, he pushed back into his chair and reached for the sheaf ofpapers.     We've got to find a clue—a trend—an inkling of something. Henodded toward the outer office. Stop all in-coming calls. Get thosegirls on lines to hospitals in every city and town in the country.Have them contact individual doctors in rural areas. Then line upanother relief crew, and get somebody carting in more coffee andsandwiches. And on those calls, be sure we learn the sex, age, andoccupation of the victims. You and I'll start with Washington.     Bettijean snapped to her feet, grinned her encouragement and strodefrom the room. Andy could hear her crisp instructions to the girls onthe phones. Sucking air through his teeth, he reached for his phoneand directory.     He dialed until every finger of his right hand was sore. He spoke toworried doctors and frantic hospital administrators and hystericalnurses. His firm, fine penmanship deteriorated to a barely legiblescrawl as writer's cramp knotted his hand and arm. His voice burneddown to a rasping whisper. But columns climbed up his rough chart andbroken lines pointed vaguely to trends.  It was hours later when Bettijean came back into the office withanother stack of papers. Andy hung up his phone and reached for acigarette. At that moment the door banged open. Nerves raw, Bettijeancried out. Andy's cigarette tumbled from his trembling fingers.     Sergeant, the chicken colonel barked, parading into the office.     Andy swore under his breath and eyed the two young officers whotrailed after the colonel. Emotionally exhausted, he had to clamp hisjaw against a huge laugh that struggled up in his throat. For just aninstant there, the colonel had reminded him of a movie version ofGeneral Rommel strutting up and down before his tanks. But it wasn't aswagger stick the colonel had tucked under his arm. It was a foldednewspaper. Opening it, the colonel flung it down on Andy's desk.     RED PLAGUE SWEEPS NATION, the scare headline screamed. Andy's firstglance caught such phrases as alleged Russian plot and germwarfare and authorities hopelessly baffled.     Snatching the paper, Andy balled it and hurled it from him. That'llhelp a lot, he growled hoarsely.     Well, then, Sergeant. The colonel tried to relax his square face,but tension rode every weathered wrinkle and fear glinted behind thepale gray eyes. So you finally recognize the gravity of thesituation.     Andy's head snapped up, heated words searing towards his lips.Bettijean stepped quickly around the desk and laid a steady hand onhis shoulder.     Colonel, she said levelly, you should know better than that.     A shocked young captain exploded, Corporal. Maybe you'd better reportto—     All right, Andy said sharply.     For a long moment he stared at his clenched fists. Then he exhaledslowly and, to the colonel, flatly and without apology, he said,You'll have to excuse the people in this office if they overlook someof the G.I. niceties. We've been without sleep for two days, we'resurviving on sandwiches and coffee, and we're fighting a war here thatmakes every other one look like a Sunday School picnic. He feltBettijean's hand tighten reassuringly on his shoulder and he gave hera tired smile. Then he hunched forward and picked up a report. So saywhat you came here to say and let us get back to work.     Sergeant, the captain said, as if reading from a manual,insubordination cannot be tolerated, even under emergency conditions.Your conduct here will be noted and—     Oh, good heavens! Bettijean cried, her fingers biting into Andy'sshoulder. Do you have to come in here trying to throw your weightaround when this man—     That's enough, the colonel snapped. I had hoped that you two wouldco-operate, but.... He let the sentence trail off as he swelled up abit with his own importance. I have turned Washington upside down toget these two officers from the surgeon general's office. Sergeant.Corporal. You are relieved of your duties as of this moment. You willreport to my office at once for suitable disciplinary action.     Bettijean sucked in a strained breath and her hand flew to her mouth.But you can't—     Let's go, Andy said, pushing up from his chair. Ignoring the brass,he turned to her and brushed his lips across hers. Let them sweat awhile. Let 'em have the whole stinking business. Whatever they do tous, at least we can get some sleep.     But you can't quit now, Bettijean protested. These brass hats don'tknow from—     Corporal! the colonel roared.  And from the door, an icy voice said, Yes, colonel?     The colonel and his captains wheeled, stared and saluted. Oh,general, the colonel said. I was just—     I know, the brigadier said, stepping into the room. I've beenlistening to you. And I thought I suggested that everybody leave thesergeant and his staff alone.     But, general, I—     The general showed the colonel his back and motioned Andy into hischair. He glanced to Bettijean and a smile warmed his wedge face.Corporal, were you speaking just then as a woman or as a soldier?     Crimson erupted into Bettijean's face and her tight laugh said manythings. She shrugged. Both I guess.     The general waved her to a chair and, oblivious of the colonel, pulledup a chair for himself. The last trace of humor drained from his faceas he leaned elbows on the desk. Andy, this is even worse than we hadfeared.     Andy fumbled for a cigarette and Bettijean passed him a match. Acaptain opened his mouth to speak, but the colonel shushed him.     I've just come from Intelligence, the general said. We haven't hada report—nothing from our agents, from the Diplomatic Corps, from thecivilian newspapermen—not a word from any Iron Curtain country for aday and half. Everybody's frantic. The last item we had—it was acoded message the Reds'd tried to censor—was an indication ofsomething big in the works.     A day and half ago, Andy mused. Just about the time we knew we hadan epidemic. And about the time they knew it.     It could be just propaganda, Bettijean said hopefully, proving thatthey could cripple us from within.     The general nodded. Or it could be the softening up for an all-outeffort. Every American base in the world is alerted and everyserviceman is being issued live ammunition. If we're wrong, we'vestill got an epidemic and panic that could touch it off. If we'reright ... well, we've got to know. What can you do?     Andy dropped his haggard face into his hands. His voice came throughmuffled. I can sit here and cry. For an eternity he sat there,futility piling on helplessness, aware of Bettijean's hand on his arm.He heard the colonel try to speak and sensed the general's movementthat silenced him.     Suddenly he sat upright and slapped a palm down on the desk. We'llfind your answers, sir. All we ask is co-operation.     The general gave both Andy and Bettijean a long, sober look, thenlaunched himself from the chair. Pivoting, he said, Colonel, you andyour captains will be stationed by that switchboard out there. For theduration of this emergency, you will take orders only from thesergeant and the corporal here.     But, general, the colonel wailed, a noncom? I'm assigned—     The general snorted. Insubordination cannot be tolerated—unless youfind a two-star general to outrank me. Now, as I said before, let'sget out of here and let these people work.  The brass exited wordlessly. Bettijean sighed noisily. Andy found hiscigarette dead and lit another. He fancied a tiny lever in his brainand he shifted gears to direct his thinking back into the properchannel. Abruptly his fatigue began to lift. He picked up the new pileof reports Bettijean had brought in.     She move around the desk and sat, noting the phone book he had used,studying the names he had crossed off. Did you learn anything? sheasked.     Andy coughed, trying to clear his raw throat. It's crazy, he said.From the Senate and House on down, I haven't found a singlegovernment worker sick.     I found a few, she said. Over in a Virginia hospital.     But I did find, Andy said, flipping through pages of his ownscrawl, a society matron and her social secretary, a whole flock ofoffice workers—business, not government—and new parents and newlyengaged girls and.... He shrugged.     Did you notice anything significant about those office workers?     Andy nodded. I was going to ask you the same, since I was justguessing. I hadn't had time to check it out.     Well, I checked some. Practically none of my victims came from bigoffices, either business or industry. They were all out of one andtwo-girl offices or small businesses.     That was my guess. And do you know that I didn't find a doctor,dentist or attorney?     Nor a single postal worker.     Andy tried to smile. One thing we do know. It's not a communicablething. Thank heaven for—     He broke off as a cute blonde entered and put stacks of reports beforeboth Andy and Bettijean. The girl hesitated, fidgeting, fingers to herteeth. Then, without speaking, she hurried out.     Andy stared at the top sheet and groaned. This may be something. Halfthe adult population of Aspen, Colorado, is down.     What? Bettijean frowned over the report in her hands. It's the samething—only not quite as severe—in Taos and Santa Fe, New Mexico.     Writers?     Mostly. Some artists, too, and musicians. And poets are among thehard hit.     This is insane, Andy muttered. Doctors and dentists arefine—writers and poets are sick. Make sense out of that.     Bettijean held up a paper and managed a confused smile. Here's acountry doctor in Tennessee. He doesn't even know what it's all about.Nobody's sick in his valley.     Somebody in our outer office is organized, Andy said, pulling at hiscigarette. Here're reports from a dozen military installations alllumped together.     What does it show?     Black-out. By order of somebody higher up—no medical releases. Mustmean they've got it. He scratched the growing stubble on his chin.If this were a fifth column setup, wouldn't the armed forces be thefirst hit?     Sure, Bettijean brightened, then sobered. Maybe not. The brasscould keep it secret if an epidemic hit an army camp. And they couldslap a control condition on any military area. But the panic will comefrom the general public.     Here's another batch, Andy said. Small college towns undertwenty-five thousand population. All hard hit.     Well, it's not split intellectually. Small colleges and small officesand writers get it. Doctors don't and dentists don't. But we can'ttell who's got it on the military bases.     And it's not geographical. Look, remember those two reports fromTennessee? That place where they voted on water bonds or something,everybody had it. But the country doctor in another section hadn'teven heard of it. Andy could only shake his head.     Bettijean heaved herself up from the chair and trudged back to theouter office. She returned momentarily with a tray of food. Putting apaper cup of coffee and a sandwich in front of Andy, she sat down andnibbled at her snack like an exhausted chipmunk.     Andy banged a fist at his desk again. Coffee splashed over the rim ofhis cup onto the clutter of papers. It's here, he said angrily.It's here somewhere, but we can't find it.     The answer?     Of course. What is it that girls in small offices do or eat or drinkor wear that girls in large offices don't do or eat or drink or wear?What do writers and doctors do differently? Or poets and dentists?What are we missing? What—  In the outer office a girl cried out. A body thumped against a desk,then a chair, then to the floor. Two girls screamed.     Andy bolted up from his chair. Racing to the door, he shouted back toBettijean, Get a staff doctor and a chemist from the lab.     It was the girl who had been so nervous in his office earlier. Now shelay in a pathetic little heap between her desk and chair, whimpering,shivering, eyes wide with horror. The other girls clustered at thehall door, plainly ready to stampede.     It's not contagious, Andy growled. Find some blankets or coats tocover her. And get a glass of water.     The other girls, glad for the excuse, dashed away. Andy scooped up thefallen girl and put her down gently on the close-jammed desks. He useda chair cushion for a pillow. By then the other girls were back with ablanket and the glass of water. He covered the girl, gave her a sip ofwater and heard somebody murmur, Poor Janis.     Now, Andy said brightly, how's that, Janis?     She mustered a smile, and breathed, Better. I ... I was so scared.Fever and dizzy ... symptoms like the epidemic.     Now you know there's nothing to be afraid of, Andy said, feelingsuddenly and ridiculously like a pill roller with a practiced bedsidemanner. You know you may feel pretty miserable, but nobody's conkedout with this stuff yet.     Janis breathed out and her taut body relaxed.     Don't hurry, Andy said, but I want you to tell me everything thatyou did—everything you ate or drank—in the last ... oh, twelvehours. He felt a pressure behind him and swiveled his head to seeBettijean standing there. He tried to smile.     What time is it? Janis asked weakly.     Andy glanced to a wall clock, then gave it a double take.     One of the girls said, It's three o'clock in the morning. She edgednearer Andy, obviously eager to replace Janis as the center ofattention. Andy ignored her.     I ... I've been here since ... golly, yesterday morning at nine,Janis said. I came to work as usual and....     Slowly, haltingly, she recited the routine of a routine work day, thentold about the quick snack that sufficed for supper and about stayingon her phone and typewriter for another five hours. It was abouteleven when the relief crew came in.     What did you do then? Andy asked.     I ... I took a break and.... Her ivory skin reddened, the colorspreading into the roots of her fluffy curls, and she turned her faceaway from Andy. And I had a sandwich and some coffee and got a littlenap in the ladies' lounge and ... and that's all.     And that's not all, Andy prompted. What else?     Nothing, Janis said too quickly.     Andy shook his head. Tell it all and maybe it'll help.     But ... but....     Was it something against regulations?     I ... I don't know. I think....     I'll vouch for your job in this office.     Well.... She seemed on the verge of tears and her pleading glancesought out Andy, then Bettijean, then her co-workers. Finally,resigned, she said, I ... I wrote a letter to my mother.     Andy swallowed against his groan of disappointment. And you told herabout what we were doing here.     Janis nodded, and tears welled into her wide eyes.     Did you mail it?     Y ... yes.     You didn't use a government envelope to save a stamp?     Oh, no. I always carry a few stamps with me. She choked down a sob.Did I do wrong?     No, I don't think so, Andy said, patting her shoulder. There'scertainly nothing secret about this epidemic. Now you just take iteasy and—. Oh, here's a doctor now.     The doctor, a white-headed Air Force major, bustled into the room. Alab technician in a white smock was close behind. Andy could onlyshrug and indicate the girl.     Turning away, lighting a cigarette, he tried to focus on the tangle ofthoughts that spun through his head. Doctors, writers, societymatrons, office workers—Aspen, Taos and college towns—thousands ofpeople sick—but none in that valley in Tennessee—and few governmentworkers—just one girl in his office—and she was sicker and morefrightened about a letter—and....     Hey, wait! Andy yelled.     Everyone in the room froze as Andy spun around, dashed to Bettijean'sdesk and yanked out the wide, top drawer. He pawed through it,straightened, then leaped across to the desk Janis had used. Hesnatched open drawer after drawer. In a bottom one he found her purse.Ripping it open, he dumped the contents on the desk and clawed throughthe pile until he found what he wanted. Handing it to the labtechnician, he said, Get me a report. Fast.     The technician darted out.     Andy wheeled to Bettijean. Get the brass in here. And call thegeneral first. To the doctor, he said, Give that girl the best ofeverything.     Then he ducked back to his own office and to the pile of reports. Hewas still poring over them when the general arrived. Half a dozenother brass hats, none of whom had been to bed, were close behind. Thelab technician arrived a minute later. He shook his head as he handedhis hastily scribbled report to Andy.  It was Bettijean who squeezed into the office and broke the brittlesilence. Andy, for heaven's sake, what is it? Then she moved aroundthe desk to stand behind him as he faced the officers.     Have you got something? the brigadier asked. Some girl outside wasbabbling about writers and doctors, and dentists and college students,and little secretaries and big secretaries. Have you established atrend?     Andy glanced at the lab report and his smile was as relieved as it wasweary. Our problem, he said, was in figuring out what a writer doesthat a doctor doesn't—why girls from small offices were sick—and whysenators and postal workers weren't—why college students caught thebug and people in a Tennessee community didn't.     The lab report isn't complete. They haven't had time to isolate thepoison and prescribe medication. But—he held up a four-centstamp—here's the villain, gentlemen.     The big brass stood stunned and shocked. Mouths flapped open and eyesbugged at Andy, at the stamp.     Bettijean said, Sure. College kids and engaged girls and new parentsand especially writers and artists and poets—they'd all lick lots ofstamps. Professional men have secretaries. Big offices havepostage-meter machines. And government offices have free franking.And—she threw her arms around the sergeant's neck—Andy, you'rewonderful.     The old American ingenuity, the colonel said, reaching for Andy'sphone. I knew we could lick it. Now all we have to do—     At ease, colonel, the brigadier said sharply. He waited until thecolonel had retreated, then addressed Andy. It's your show. What doyou suggest?     Get somebody—maybe even the President—on all radio and TV networks.Explain frankly about the four-centers and warn against licking anystamps. Then—     He broke off as his phone rang. Answering, he listened for a moment,then hung up and said, But before the big announcement, get somebodychecking on the security clearances at whatever plant it is where theyprint stamps. This's a big deal. Somebody may've been planted yearsago for this operation. It shouldn't be too hard.     But there's no evidence it was a plot yet. Could be pureaccident—some chemical in the stickum spoiled. Do they keep thestickum in barrels? Find out who had access. And ... oh, the phonecall. That was the lab. The antidote's simple and the cure should bequick. They can phone or broadcast the medical information to doctors.The man on the phone said they could start emptying hospitals in sixhours. And maybe we should release some propaganda. United Stateswhips mystery virus, or something like that. And we could send theKremlin a stamp collection and.... Aw, you take it, sir. I'm pooped.  The general wheeled to fire a salvo of commands. Officers poured intothe corridor. Only the brigadier remained, a puzzled frown crinklinghis granite brow.     But you said that postal workers weren't getting sick.     Andy chucked. That's right. Did you ever see a post office clerklick a stamp? They always use a sponge.     The general looked to Bettijean, to Andy, to the stamp. He grinned andthe grin became a rumbling laugh. How would you two like a thirty-dayfurlough to rest up—or to get better acquainted?     Bettijean squealed. Andy reached for her hand.     And while you're gone, the general continued, I'll see what stringsI can pull. If I can't wangle you a couple of battlefield commissions,I'll zip you both through O.C.S. so fast you won't even have time topin on the bars.     But neither Andy nor Bettijean had heard a word after the mention offurlough. Like a pair of puppy-lovers, they were sinking into thedepths of each other's eyes.     And the general was still chuckling as he picked up the lone four-centstamp in his left hand, made a gun of his right hand, and marched thestamp out of the office under guard.     THE END   ","The Plague takes place in the modern United States of America. The story follows several government workers as they navigate a sudden and mysterious epidemic. Sergeant Major Andrew McCloud, mostly referred to as Andy, works at the Office of the Civil Health and Germ Welfare Protection located in the Pentagon. Corporal Bettijean Baker, his right-hand woman and new lover, picks up the phone one day, and then chaos ensues. A switchboard is put in the hallway to help receive the hundreds of calls being made to their office. This sudden influx of calls, attention, people, and disease leave the main characters feeling overwhelmed and desperate. Since the new lieutenant had not arrived (post Colonel Patterson’s retirement), Sergeant Andy is effectively in charge as a noncom, though not everyone is happy about that. Andy pushes their worries aside, and continues working. Despite the spread, no fatalities have been reported, and infections are random. No trend has been established yet, but they are searching desperately for one. Bettijean goes through reports with Sergeant Andy, revealing all she’s uncovered. It’s affecting workers, artists, and poets, but not necessarily those who work in government, or as doctors or businessmen. The water systems are ruled out, as well as wind and food. Bettijean and Andy are left with nothing, except the possibility of biological terrorism. Finally, Andy orders Bettijean to halt all in-coming calls, and redirect their attention to all hospitals. Despite their best efforts, no conclusion can be reached. The colonel reappears in Andy’s office, followed by two officers. He throws a newspaper down on his desk, proclaiming that this epidemic was allegedly caused by the Russians, and that all the authorities are baffled. It is hinted that the Colonel commissioned this article to throw doubt on Andy’s authority. Andy defends his employees and the work they’ve been doing. The Colonel forces Andy and Bettijean out of office, and Andy lets him, kissing Bettijean on the way out. Suddenly, the general walks in and gives Andy back his job, while telling him the news from Intelligence. The Iron Curtain’s not sent word for almost two days. Only a coded message that could have been about the epidemic. Andy promises to work hard again, and the general assigns the colonel and his two men to the switchboard in the hall. After brainstorming about potential causes, Janis, another employee, enters the room and puts another stack of reports down. Small college towns, newly engaged girls, poets, all these people have been infected. Janis falls to the floor, and everyone rushes to her. She’s been infected with the disease, and they question her about her activities for the past 12 hours. It’s revealed finally that she wrote a letter to her mother, and Andy finally figures it out. The poison was in the stamps. He lets his higher-ups know, and Janis is carted off to safety. Bettijean and Andy are given a 30-day vacation to relax and explore their relationship further. "
"What happens to Sergeant Andy McCloud throughout the story? </s>      THE PLAGUE         By TEDDY KELLER         Suppose a strictly one hundred per cent American plagueshowed up.... One that attacked only people within thepolitical borders of the United States!         Illustrated by Schoenherr      Sergeant Major Andrew McCloud ignored the jangling telephones and theexcited jabber of a room full of brass, and lit a cigarette. Somebodyhad to keep his head in this mess. Everybody was about to flip.     Like the telephone. Two days ago Corporal Bettijean Baker had beenanswering the rare call on the single line—in that friendly, huskyvoice that gave even generals pause—by saying, Good morning. Officeof the Civil Health and Germ Warfare Protection Co-ordinator. Nowthere was a switchboard out in the hall with a web of lines running toa dozen girls at a half dozen desks wedged into the outer office. Andnow the harried girls answered with a hasty, Germ War Protection.     All the brass hats in Washington had suddenly discovered this officedeep in the recesses of the Pentagon. And none of them could quitecomprehend what had happened. The situation might have been funny, orat least pathetic, if it hadn't been so desperate. Even so, AndyMcCloud's nerves and patience had frayed thin.     I told you, general, he snapped to the flustered brigadier, ColonelPatterson was retired ten days ago. I don't know what happened. Maybethis replacement sawbones got strangled in red tape. Anyhow, thebrand-new lieutenant hasn't showed up here. As far as I know, I'm incharge.     But this is incredible, a two-star general wailed. A mysteriousepidemic is sweeping the country, possibly an insidious germ attacktimed to precede an all-out invasion, and a noncom is sitting on topof the whole powder keg.     Andy's big hands clenched into fists and he had to wait a momentbefore he could speak safely. Doggone the freckles and the unruly mopof hair that give him such a boyish look. May I remind you, general,he said, that I've been entombed here for two years. My staff and Iknow what to do. If you'll give us some co-operation and a priority,we'll try to figure this thing out.     But good heavens, a chicken colonel moaned, this is all soirregular. A noncom! He said it like a dirty word.     Irregular, hell, the brigadier snorted, the message getting through.There're ways. Gentlemen, I suggest we clear out of here and let thesergeant get to work. He took a step toward the door, and the otherofficers, protesting and complaining, moved along after him. As theydrifted out, he turned and said, We'll clear your office for toppriority. Then dead serious, he added, Son, a whole nation couldpanic at any moment. You've got to come through.     Andy didn't waste time standing. He merely nodded to the general,snubbed out his cigarette, and buzzed the intercom. Bettijean, willyou bring me all the latest reports, please? Then he peeled out ofhis be-ribboned blouse and rolled up his sleeves. He allowed himselfone moment to enjoy the sight of the slim, black-headed corporal whoentered his office.  Bettijean crossed briskly to his desk. She gave him a motherly smileas she put down a thick sheaf of papers. You look beat, she said.Brass give you much trouble?     Not much. We're top priority now. He ran fingers through the thick,brown hair and massaged his scalp, trying to generate stimulation tohis wary and confused brain. What's new?     I've gone though some of these, she said. Tried to save you alittle time.     Thanks. Sit down.     She pulled up a chair and thumbed through the papers. So far, nofatalities. That's why there's no panic yet, I guess. But it'sspreading like ... well, like a plague. Fear flickered deep in herdark eyes.     Any water reports? Andy asked.     Wichita O.K., Indianapolis O.K., Tulsa O.K., Buffalo O.K.,—and abunch more. No indication there. Except—she fished out a one-pagereport—some little town in Tennessee. Yesterday there was a campaignfor everybody to write their congressman about some deal and todaythey were to vote on a new water system. Hardly anybody showed up atthe polls. They've all got it.     Andy shrugged. You can drink water, but don't vote for it. Oh, that'sa big help. He rummaged through the clutter on his desk and came upwith a crude chart. Any trends yet?     It's hitting everybody, Bettijean said helplessly. Not many kids sofar, thank heavens. But housewives, businessmen, office workers,teachers, preachers—rich, poor—from Florida to Alaska. Just when youcalled me in, one of the girls thought she had a trend. The isolatedmountain areas of the West and South. But reports are toofragmentary.     What is it? he cried suddenly, banging the desk. People deathlyill, but nobody dying. And doctors can't identify the poison untilthey have a fatality for an autopsy. People stricken in every part ofthe country, but the water systems are pure. How does it spread?     In food?     How? There must be hundreds of canneries and dairies and packingplants over the country. How could they all goof at the sametime—even if it was sabotage?     On the wind?     But who could accurately predict every wind over the entirecountry—even Alaska and Hawaii—without hitting Canada or Mexico? Andwhy wouldn't everybody get it in a given area?     Bettijean's smooth brow furrowed and she reached across the desk togrip his icy, sweating hands. Andy, do ... do you think it's ...well, an enemy?     I don't know, he said. I just don't know.     For a long moment he sat there, trying to draw strength from her,punishing his brain for the glimmer of an idea. Finally, shaking hishead, he pushed back into his chair and reached for the sheaf ofpapers.     We've got to find a clue—a trend—an inkling of something. Henodded toward the outer office. Stop all in-coming calls. Get thosegirls on lines to hospitals in every city and town in the country.Have them contact individual doctors in rural areas. Then line upanother relief crew, and get somebody carting in more coffee andsandwiches. And on those calls, be sure we learn the sex, age, andoccupation of the victims. You and I'll start with Washington.     Bettijean snapped to her feet, grinned her encouragement and strodefrom the room. Andy could hear her crisp instructions to the girls onthe phones. Sucking air through his teeth, he reached for his phoneand directory.     He dialed until every finger of his right hand was sore. He spoke toworried doctors and frantic hospital administrators and hystericalnurses. His firm, fine penmanship deteriorated to a barely legiblescrawl as writer's cramp knotted his hand and arm. His voice burneddown to a rasping whisper. But columns climbed up his rough chart andbroken lines pointed vaguely to trends.  It was hours later when Bettijean came back into the office withanother stack of papers. Andy hung up his phone and reached for acigarette. At that moment the door banged open. Nerves raw, Bettijeancried out. Andy's cigarette tumbled from his trembling fingers.     Sergeant, the chicken colonel barked, parading into the office.     Andy swore under his breath and eyed the two young officers whotrailed after the colonel. Emotionally exhausted, he had to clamp hisjaw against a huge laugh that struggled up in his throat. For just aninstant there, the colonel had reminded him of a movie version ofGeneral Rommel strutting up and down before his tanks. But it wasn't aswagger stick the colonel had tucked under his arm. It was a foldednewspaper. Opening it, the colonel flung it down on Andy's desk.     RED PLAGUE SWEEPS NATION, the scare headline screamed. Andy's firstglance caught such phrases as alleged Russian plot and germwarfare and authorities hopelessly baffled.     Snatching the paper, Andy balled it and hurled it from him. That'llhelp a lot, he growled hoarsely.     Well, then, Sergeant. The colonel tried to relax his square face,but tension rode every weathered wrinkle and fear glinted behind thepale gray eyes. So you finally recognize the gravity of thesituation.     Andy's head snapped up, heated words searing towards his lips.Bettijean stepped quickly around the desk and laid a steady hand onhis shoulder.     Colonel, she said levelly, you should know better than that.     A shocked young captain exploded, Corporal. Maybe you'd better reportto—     All right, Andy said sharply.     For a long moment he stared at his clenched fists. Then he exhaledslowly and, to the colonel, flatly and without apology, he said,You'll have to excuse the people in this office if they overlook someof the G.I. niceties. We've been without sleep for two days, we'resurviving on sandwiches and coffee, and we're fighting a war here thatmakes every other one look like a Sunday School picnic. He feltBettijean's hand tighten reassuringly on his shoulder and he gave hera tired smile. Then he hunched forward and picked up a report. So saywhat you came here to say and let us get back to work.     Sergeant, the captain said, as if reading from a manual,insubordination cannot be tolerated, even under emergency conditions.Your conduct here will be noted and—     Oh, good heavens! Bettijean cried, her fingers biting into Andy'sshoulder. Do you have to come in here trying to throw your weightaround when this man—     That's enough, the colonel snapped. I had hoped that you two wouldco-operate, but.... He let the sentence trail off as he swelled up abit with his own importance. I have turned Washington upside down toget these two officers from the surgeon general's office. Sergeant.Corporal. You are relieved of your duties as of this moment. You willreport to my office at once for suitable disciplinary action.     Bettijean sucked in a strained breath and her hand flew to her mouth.But you can't—     Let's go, Andy said, pushing up from his chair. Ignoring the brass,he turned to her and brushed his lips across hers. Let them sweat awhile. Let 'em have the whole stinking business. Whatever they do tous, at least we can get some sleep.     But you can't quit now, Bettijean protested. These brass hats don'tknow from—     Corporal! the colonel roared.  And from the door, an icy voice said, Yes, colonel?     The colonel and his captains wheeled, stared and saluted. Oh,general, the colonel said. I was just—     I know, the brigadier said, stepping into the room. I've beenlistening to you. And I thought I suggested that everybody leave thesergeant and his staff alone.     But, general, I—     The general showed the colonel his back and motioned Andy into hischair. He glanced to Bettijean and a smile warmed his wedge face.Corporal, were you speaking just then as a woman or as a soldier?     Crimson erupted into Bettijean's face and her tight laugh said manythings. She shrugged. Both I guess.     The general waved her to a chair and, oblivious of the colonel, pulledup a chair for himself. The last trace of humor drained from his faceas he leaned elbows on the desk. Andy, this is even worse than we hadfeared.     Andy fumbled for a cigarette and Bettijean passed him a match. Acaptain opened his mouth to speak, but the colonel shushed him.     I've just come from Intelligence, the general said. We haven't hada report—nothing from our agents, from the Diplomatic Corps, from thecivilian newspapermen—not a word from any Iron Curtain country for aday and half. Everybody's frantic. The last item we had—it was acoded message the Reds'd tried to censor—was an indication ofsomething big in the works.     A day and half ago, Andy mused. Just about the time we knew we hadan epidemic. And about the time they knew it.     It could be just propaganda, Bettijean said hopefully, proving thatthey could cripple us from within.     The general nodded. Or it could be the softening up for an all-outeffort. Every American base in the world is alerted and everyserviceman is being issued live ammunition. If we're wrong, we'vestill got an epidemic and panic that could touch it off. If we'reright ... well, we've got to know. What can you do?     Andy dropped his haggard face into his hands. His voice came throughmuffled. I can sit here and cry. For an eternity he sat there,futility piling on helplessness, aware of Bettijean's hand on his arm.He heard the colonel try to speak and sensed the general's movementthat silenced him.     Suddenly he sat upright and slapped a palm down on the desk. We'llfind your answers, sir. All we ask is co-operation.     The general gave both Andy and Bettijean a long, sober look, thenlaunched himself from the chair. Pivoting, he said, Colonel, you andyour captains will be stationed by that switchboard out there. For theduration of this emergency, you will take orders only from thesergeant and the corporal here.     But, general, the colonel wailed, a noncom? I'm assigned—     The general snorted. Insubordination cannot be tolerated—unless youfind a two-star general to outrank me. Now, as I said before, let'sget out of here and let these people work.  The brass exited wordlessly. Bettijean sighed noisily. Andy found hiscigarette dead and lit another. He fancied a tiny lever in his brainand he shifted gears to direct his thinking back into the properchannel. Abruptly his fatigue began to lift. He picked up the new pileof reports Bettijean had brought in.     She move around the desk and sat, noting the phone book he had used,studying the names he had crossed off. Did you learn anything? sheasked.     Andy coughed, trying to clear his raw throat. It's crazy, he said.From the Senate and House on down, I haven't found a singlegovernment worker sick.     I found a few, she said. Over in a Virginia hospital.     But I did find, Andy said, flipping through pages of his ownscrawl, a society matron and her social secretary, a whole flock ofoffice workers—business, not government—and new parents and newlyengaged girls and.... He shrugged.     Did you notice anything significant about those office workers?     Andy nodded. I was going to ask you the same, since I was justguessing. I hadn't had time to check it out.     Well, I checked some. Practically none of my victims came from bigoffices, either business or industry. They were all out of one andtwo-girl offices or small businesses.     That was my guess. And do you know that I didn't find a doctor,dentist or attorney?     Nor a single postal worker.     Andy tried to smile. One thing we do know. It's not a communicablething. Thank heaven for—     He broke off as a cute blonde entered and put stacks of reports beforeboth Andy and Bettijean. The girl hesitated, fidgeting, fingers to herteeth. Then, without speaking, she hurried out.     Andy stared at the top sheet and groaned. This may be something. Halfthe adult population of Aspen, Colorado, is down.     What? Bettijean frowned over the report in her hands. It's the samething—only not quite as severe—in Taos and Santa Fe, New Mexico.     Writers?     Mostly. Some artists, too, and musicians. And poets are among thehard hit.     This is insane, Andy muttered. Doctors and dentists arefine—writers and poets are sick. Make sense out of that.     Bettijean held up a paper and managed a confused smile. Here's acountry doctor in Tennessee. He doesn't even know what it's all about.Nobody's sick in his valley.     Somebody in our outer office is organized, Andy said, pulling at hiscigarette. Here're reports from a dozen military installations alllumped together.     What does it show?     Black-out. By order of somebody higher up—no medical releases. Mustmean they've got it. He scratched the growing stubble on his chin.If this were a fifth column setup, wouldn't the armed forces be thefirst hit?     Sure, Bettijean brightened, then sobered. Maybe not. The brasscould keep it secret if an epidemic hit an army camp. And they couldslap a control condition on any military area. But the panic will comefrom the general public.     Here's another batch, Andy said. Small college towns undertwenty-five thousand population. All hard hit.     Well, it's not split intellectually. Small colleges and small officesand writers get it. Doctors don't and dentists don't. But we can'ttell who's got it on the military bases.     And it's not geographical. Look, remember those two reports fromTennessee? That place where they voted on water bonds or something,everybody had it. But the country doctor in another section hadn'teven heard of it. Andy could only shake his head.     Bettijean heaved herself up from the chair and trudged back to theouter office. She returned momentarily with a tray of food. Putting apaper cup of coffee and a sandwich in front of Andy, she sat down andnibbled at her snack like an exhausted chipmunk.     Andy banged a fist at his desk again. Coffee splashed over the rim ofhis cup onto the clutter of papers. It's here, he said angrily.It's here somewhere, but we can't find it.     The answer?     Of course. What is it that girls in small offices do or eat or drinkor wear that girls in large offices don't do or eat or drink or wear?What do writers and doctors do differently? Or poets and dentists?What are we missing? What—  In the outer office a girl cried out. A body thumped against a desk,then a chair, then to the floor. Two girls screamed.     Andy bolted up from his chair. Racing to the door, he shouted back toBettijean, Get a staff doctor and a chemist from the lab.     It was the girl who had been so nervous in his office earlier. Now shelay in a pathetic little heap between her desk and chair, whimpering,shivering, eyes wide with horror. The other girls clustered at thehall door, plainly ready to stampede.     It's not contagious, Andy growled. Find some blankets or coats tocover her. And get a glass of water.     The other girls, glad for the excuse, dashed away. Andy scooped up thefallen girl and put her down gently on the close-jammed desks. He useda chair cushion for a pillow. By then the other girls were back with ablanket and the glass of water. He covered the girl, gave her a sip ofwater and heard somebody murmur, Poor Janis.     Now, Andy said brightly, how's that, Janis?     She mustered a smile, and breathed, Better. I ... I was so scared.Fever and dizzy ... symptoms like the epidemic.     Now you know there's nothing to be afraid of, Andy said, feelingsuddenly and ridiculously like a pill roller with a practiced bedsidemanner. You know you may feel pretty miserable, but nobody's conkedout with this stuff yet.     Janis breathed out and her taut body relaxed.     Don't hurry, Andy said, but I want you to tell me everything thatyou did—everything you ate or drank—in the last ... oh, twelvehours. He felt a pressure behind him and swiveled his head to seeBettijean standing there. He tried to smile.     What time is it? Janis asked weakly.     Andy glanced to a wall clock, then gave it a double take.     One of the girls said, It's three o'clock in the morning. She edgednearer Andy, obviously eager to replace Janis as the center ofattention. Andy ignored her.     I ... I've been here since ... golly, yesterday morning at nine,Janis said. I came to work as usual and....     Slowly, haltingly, she recited the routine of a routine work day, thentold about the quick snack that sufficed for supper and about stayingon her phone and typewriter for another five hours. It was abouteleven when the relief crew came in.     What did you do then? Andy asked.     I ... I took a break and.... Her ivory skin reddened, the colorspreading into the roots of her fluffy curls, and she turned her faceaway from Andy. And I had a sandwich and some coffee and got a littlenap in the ladies' lounge and ... and that's all.     And that's not all, Andy prompted. What else?     Nothing, Janis said too quickly.     Andy shook his head. Tell it all and maybe it'll help.     But ... but....     Was it something against regulations?     I ... I don't know. I think....     I'll vouch for your job in this office.     Well.... She seemed on the verge of tears and her pleading glancesought out Andy, then Bettijean, then her co-workers. Finally,resigned, she said, I ... I wrote a letter to my mother.     Andy swallowed against his groan of disappointment. And you told herabout what we were doing here.     Janis nodded, and tears welled into her wide eyes.     Did you mail it?     Y ... yes.     You didn't use a government envelope to save a stamp?     Oh, no. I always carry a few stamps with me. She choked down a sob.Did I do wrong?     No, I don't think so, Andy said, patting her shoulder. There'scertainly nothing secret about this epidemic. Now you just take iteasy and—. Oh, here's a doctor now.     The doctor, a white-headed Air Force major, bustled into the room. Alab technician in a white smock was close behind. Andy could onlyshrug and indicate the girl.     Turning away, lighting a cigarette, he tried to focus on the tangle ofthoughts that spun through his head. Doctors, writers, societymatrons, office workers—Aspen, Taos and college towns—thousands ofpeople sick—but none in that valley in Tennessee—and few governmentworkers—just one girl in his office—and she was sicker and morefrightened about a letter—and....     Hey, wait! Andy yelled.     Everyone in the room froze as Andy spun around, dashed to Bettijean'sdesk and yanked out the wide, top drawer. He pawed through it,straightened, then leaped across to the desk Janis had used. Hesnatched open drawer after drawer. In a bottom one he found her purse.Ripping it open, he dumped the contents on the desk and clawed throughthe pile until he found what he wanted. Handing it to the labtechnician, he said, Get me a report. Fast.     The technician darted out.     Andy wheeled to Bettijean. Get the brass in here. And call thegeneral first. To the doctor, he said, Give that girl the best ofeverything.     Then he ducked back to his own office and to the pile of reports. Hewas still poring over them when the general arrived. Half a dozenother brass hats, none of whom had been to bed, were close behind. Thelab technician arrived a minute later. He shook his head as he handedhis hastily scribbled report to Andy.  It was Bettijean who squeezed into the office and broke the brittlesilence. Andy, for heaven's sake, what is it? Then she moved aroundthe desk to stand behind him as he faced the officers.     Have you got something? the brigadier asked. Some girl outside wasbabbling about writers and doctors, and dentists and college students,and little secretaries and big secretaries. Have you established atrend?     Andy glanced at the lab report and his smile was as relieved as it wasweary. Our problem, he said, was in figuring out what a writer doesthat a doctor doesn't—why girls from small offices were sick—and whysenators and postal workers weren't—why college students caught thebug and people in a Tennessee community didn't.     The lab report isn't complete. They haven't had time to isolate thepoison and prescribe medication. But—he held up a four-centstamp—here's the villain, gentlemen.     The big brass stood stunned and shocked. Mouths flapped open and eyesbugged at Andy, at the stamp.     Bettijean said, Sure. College kids and engaged girls and new parentsand especially writers and artists and poets—they'd all lick lots ofstamps. Professional men have secretaries. Big offices havepostage-meter machines. And government offices have free franking.And—she threw her arms around the sergeant's neck—Andy, you'rewonderful.     The old American ingenuity, the colonel said, reaching for Andy'sphone. I knew we could lick it. Now all we have to do—     At ease, colonel, the brigadier said sharply. He waited until thecolonel had retreated, then addressed Andy. It's your show. What doyou suggest?     Get somebody—maybe even the President—on all radio and TV networks.Explain frankly about the four-centers and warn against licking anystamps. Then—     He broke off as his phone rang. Answering, he listened for a moment,then hung up and said, But before the big announcement, get somebodychecking on the security clearances at whatever plant it is where theyprint stamps. This's a big deal. Somebody may've been planted yearsago for this operation. It shouldn't be too hard.     But there's no evidence it was a plot yet. Could be pureaccident—some chemical in the stickum spoiled. Do they keep thestickum in barrels? Find out who had access. And ... oh, the phonecall. That was the lab. The antidote's simple and the cure should bequick. They can phone or broadcast the medical information to doctors.The man on the phone said they could start emptying hospitals in sixhours. And maybe we should release some propaganda. United Stateswhips mystery virus, or something like that. And we could send theKremlin a stamp collection and.... Aw, you take it, sir. I'm pooped.  The general wheeled to fire a salvo of commands. Officers poured intothe corridor. Only the brigadier remained, a puzzled frown crinklinghis granite brow.     But you said that postal workers weren't getting sick.     Andy chucked. That's right. Did you ever see a post office clerklick a stamp? They always use a sponge.     The general looked to Bettijean, to Andy, to the stamp. He grinned andthe grin became a rumbling laugh. How would you two like a thirty-dayfurlough to rest up—or to get better acquainted?     Bettijean squealed. Andy reached for her hand.     And while you're gone, the general continued, I'll see what stringsI can pull. If I can't wangle you a couple of battlefield commissions,I'll zip you both through O.C.S. so fast you won't even have time topin on the bars.     But neither Andy nor Bettijean had heard a word after the mention offurlough. Like a pair of puppy-lovers, they were sinking into thedepths of each other's eyes.     And the general was still chuckling as he picked up the lone four-centstamp in his left hand, made a gun of his right hand, and marched thestamp out of the office under guard.     THE END   ","Ten days prior to the epidemic, Colonel Patterson retired. He was Sergeant Andy McCloud’s superior, and his replacement has yet to show up. Andy theorizes that the replacement for the lieutenant got caught up in all the red tape, but, at the end of the day, the newly-coined Germ War Protection needed a leader. And Andy was stepping up to the job. 	He had worked at the Office of the Civil Health and Germ Warfare Protection Coordinator for two years prior to the epidemic. He knew the ins and outs of the place, so, despite being a noncom, he was truly the best for the job. 	One of his colleagues, Corporal Bettijean Baker, had picked up the phone two days prior, and suddenly their whole words changed. An epidemic was sweeping the nation, infecting random people left and right with no underlying cause or trend, and, despite the absence of fatalities, panic was ensuing. Though some of the officers disapprove of Andy’s noncom position, he continues working tirelessly with his colleagues to try and figure out the cause of this terrifying disease. 	He and Corporal Bettijean Baker brainstorm throughout the story, desperately searching for a trend or place of infection. They realize that artists, poets, college students, and workers are the ones being infected; not necessarily doctors, dentists, and government employees. They try to figure out what activities each group does that could possibly have been the cause of their infection. They quickly rule out the disease traveling through water, wind, and food. And, later on, it’s revealed that the disease is not contagious. Bettijean and Andy put their heads together and think. 	Their time spent together brainstorming was also filled with flirtatious moments. Andy, with his freckles and messy hair, and Bettijean with her jet-black hair, share a kiss or two throughout the story. 	After exhausting themselves, Andy orders all the girls to redirect all calls to go out, not in. They are to focus on hospitals and relief crews, to discover more on who the virus is infecting. He and Bettijean are almost fired by the disgruntled colonel, who came with two replacements. Thankfully, just as Andy kisses Bettijean, the general walks in and dismisses the colonel. He reinstates Andy and Bettijean to their former and rightful positions, before telling them that the Iron Curtain has gone silent, except for one coded message from two days before, possibly hinting at the epidemic. 	After the brass left, Bettijean and Andy brainstormed some more, looking through new reports brought in by Janis, a colleague. Janis soon collapses, and it is revealed that she’s been infected. Andy questions her and soon discovers the transmitter of the virus. Stamps! He relates the news to his higher-ups, and rejoices with Bettijean. They are given a 30-day furloughed vacation together, leaving the reader with a future of romance and hope. "
"Describe the relationship between Corporal Bettiejean and Sergeant Andy. </s>      THE PLAGUE         By TEDDY KELLER         Suppose a strictly one hundred per cent American plagueshowed up.... One that attacked only people within thepolitical borders of the United States!         Illustrated by Schoenherr      Sergeant Major Andrew McCloud ignored the jangling telephones and theexcited jabber of a room full of brass, and lit a cigarette. Somebodyhad to keep his head in this mess. Everybody was about to flip.     Like the telephone. Two days ago Corporal Bettijean Baker had beenanswering the rare call on the single line—in that friendly, huskyvoice that gave even generals pause—by saying, Good morning. Officeof the Civil Health and Germ Warfare Protection Co-ordinator. Nowthere was a switchboard out in the hall with a web of lines running toa dozen girls at a half dozen desks wedged into the outer office. Andnow the harried girls answered with a hasty, Germ War Protection.     All the brass hats in Washington had suddenly discovered this officedeep in the recesses of the Pentagon. And none of them could quitecomprehend what had happened. The situation might have been funny, orat least pathetic, if it hadn't been so desperate. Even so, AndyMcCloud's nerves and patience had frayed thin.     I told you, general, he snapped to the flustered brigadier, ColonelPatterson was retired ten days ago. I don't know what happened. Maybethis replacement sawbones got strangled in red tape. Anyhow, thebrand-new lieutenant hasn't showed up here. As far as I know, I'm incharge.     But this is incredible, a two-star general wailed. A mysteriousepidemic is sweeping the country, possibly an insidious germ attacktimed to precede an all-out invasion, and a noncom is sitting on topof the whole powder keg.     Andy's big hands clenched into fists and he had to wait a momentbefore he could speak safely. Doggone the freckles and the unruly mopof hair that give him such a boyish look. May I remind you, general,he said, that I've been entombed here for two years. My staff and Iknow what to do. If you'll give us some co-operation and a priority,we'll try to figure this thing out.     But good heavens, a chicken colonel moaned, this is all soirregular. A noncom! He said it like a dirty word.     Irregular, hell, the brigadier snorted, the message getting through.There're ways. Gentlemen, I suggest we clear out of here and let thesergeant get to work. He took a step toward the door, and the otherofficers, protesting and complaining, moved along after him. As theydrifted out, he turned and said, We'll clear your office for toppriority. Then dead serious, he added, Son, a whole nation couldpanic at any moment. You've got to come through.     Andy didn't waste time standing. He merely nodded to the general,snubbed out his cigarette, and buzzed the intercom. Bettijean, willyou bring me all the latest reports, please? Then he peeled out ofhis be-ribboned blouse and rolled up his sleeves. He allowed himselfone moment to enjoy the sight of the slim, black-headed corporal whoentered his office.  Bettijean crossed briskly to his desk. She gave him a motherly smileas she put down a thick sheaf of papers. You look beat, she said.Brass give you much trouble?     Not much. We're top priority now. He ran fingers through the thick,brown hair and massaged his scalp, trying to generate stimulation tohis wary and confused brain. What's new?     I've gone though some of these, she said. Tried to save you alittle time.     Thanks. Sit down.     She pulled up a chair and thumbed through the papers. So far, nofatalities. That's why there's no panic yet, I guess. But it'sspreading like ... well, like a plague. Fear flickered deep in herdark eyes.     Any water reports? Andy asked.     Wichita O.K., Indianapolis O.K., Tulsa O.K., Buffalo O.K.,—and abunch more. No indication there. Except—she fished out a one-pagereport—some little town in Tennessee. Yesterday there was a campaignfor everybody to write their congressman about some deal and todaythey were to vote on a new water system. Hardly anybody showed up atthe polls. They've all got it.     Andy shrugged. You can drink water, but don't vote for it. Oh, that'sa big help. He rummaged through the clutter on his desk and came upwith a crude chart. Any trends yet?     It's hitting everybody, Bettijean said helplessly. Not many kids sofar, thank heavens. But housewives, businessmen, office workers,teachers, preachers—rich, poor—from Florida to Alaska. Just when youcalled me in, one of the girls thought she had a trend. The isolatedmountain areas of the West and South. But reports are toofragmentary.     What is it? he cried suddenly, banging the desk. People deathlyill, but nobody dying. And doctors can't identify the poison untilthey have a fatality for an autopsy. People stricken in every part ofthe country, but the water systems are pure. How does it spread?     In food?     How? There must be hundreds of canneries and dairies and packingplants over the country. How could they all goof at the sametime—even if it was sabotage?     On the wind?     But who could accurately predict every wind over the entirecountry—even Alaska and Hawaii—without hitting Canada or Mexico? Andwhy wouldn't everybody get it in a given area?     Bettijean's smooth brow furrowed and she reached across the desk togrip his icy, sweating hands. Andy, do ... do you think it's ...well, an enemy?     I don't know, he said. I just don't know.     For a long moment he sat there, trying to draw strength from her,punishing his brain for the glimmer of an idea. Finally, shaking hishead, he pushed back into his chair and reached for the sheaf ofpapers.     We've got to find a clue—a trend—an inkling of something. Henodded toward the outer office. Stop all in-coming calls. Get thosegirls on lines to hospitals in every city and town in the country.Have them contact individual doctors in rural areas. Then line upanother relief crew, and get somebody carting in more coffee andsandwiches. And on those calls, be sure we learn the sex, age, andoccupation of the victims. You and I'll start with Washington.     Bettijean snapped to her feet, grinned her encouragement and strodefrom the room. Andy could hear her crisp instructions to the girls onthe phones. Sucking air through his teeth, he reached for his phoneand directory.     He dialed until every finger of his right hand was sore. He spoke toworried doctors and frantic hospital administrators and hystericalnurses. His firm, fine penmanship deteriorated to a barely legiblescrawl as writer's cramp knotted his hand and arm. His voice burneddown to a rasping whisper. But columns climbed up his rough chart andbroken lines pointed vaguely to trends.  It was hours later when Bettijean came back into the office withanother stack of papers. Andy hung up his phone and reached for acigarette. At that moment the door banged open. Nerves raw, Bettijeancried out. Andy's cigarette tumbled from his trembling fingers.     Sergeant, the chicken colonel barked, parading into the office.     Andy swore under his breath and eyed the two young officers whotrailed after the colonel. Emotionally exhausted, he had to clamp hisjaw against a huge laugh that struggled up in his throat. For just aninstant there, the colonel had reminded him of a movie version ofGeneral Rommel strutting up and down before his tanks. But it wasn't aswagger stick the colonel had tucked under his arm. It was a foldednewspaper. Opening it, the colonel flung it down on Andy's desk.     RED PLAGUE SWEEPS NATION, the scare headline screamed. Andy's firstglance caught such phrases as alleged Russian plot and germwarfare and authorities hopelessly baffled.     Snatching the paper, Andy balled it and hurled it from him. That'llhelp a lot, he growled hoarsely.     Well, then, Sergeant. The colonel tried to relax his square face,but tension rode every weathered wrinkle and fear glinted behind thepale gray eyes. So you finally recognize the gravity of thesituation.     Andy's head snapped up, heated words searing towards his lips.Bettijean stepped quickly around the desk and laid a steady hand onhis shoulder.     Colonel, she said levelly, you should know better than that.     A shocked young captain exploded, Corporal. Maybe you'd better reportto—     All right, Andy said sharply.     For a long moment he stared at his clenched fists. Then he exhaledslowly and, to the colonel, flatly and without apology, he said,You'll have to excuse the people in this office if they overlook someof the G.I. niceties. We've been without sleep for two days, we'resurviving on sandwiches and coffee, and we're fighting a war here thatmakes every other one look like a Sunday School picnic. He feltBettijean's hand tighten reassuringly on his shoulder and he gave hera tired smile. Then he hunched forward and picked up a report. So saywhat you came here to say and let us get back to work.     Sergeant, the captain said, as if reading from a manual,insubordination cannot be tolerated, even under emergency conditions.Your conduct here will be noted and—     Oh, good heavens! Bettijean cried, her fingers biting into Andy'sshoulder. Do you have to come in here trying to throw your weightaround when this man—     That's enough, the colonel snapped. I had hoped that you two wouldco-operate, but.... He let the sentence trail off as he swelled up abit with his own importance. I have turned Washington upside down toget these two officers from the surgeon general's office. Sergeant.Corporal. You are relieved of your duties as of this moment. You willreport to my office at once for suitable disciplinary action.     Bettijean sucked in a strained breath and her hand flew to her mouth.But you can't—     Let's go, Andy said, pushing up from his chair. Ignoring the brass,he turned to her and brushed his lips across hers. Let them sweat awhile. Let 'em have the whole stinking business. Whatever they do tous, at least we can get some sleep.     But you can't quit now, Bettijean protested. These brass hats don'tknow from—     Corporal! the colonel roared.  And from the door, an icy voice said, Yes, colonel?     The colonel and his captains wheeled, stared and saluted. Oh,general, the colonel said. I was just—     I know, the brigadier said, stepping into the room. I've beenlistening to you. And I thought I suggested that everybody leave thesergeant and his staff alone.     But, general, I—     The general showed the colonel his back and motioned Andy into hischair. He glanced to Bettijean and a smile warmed his wedge face.Corporal, were you speaking just then as a woman or as a soldier?     Crimson erupted into Bettijean's face and her tight laugh said manythings. She shrugged. Both I guess.     The general waved her to a chair and, oblivious of the colonel, pulledup a chair for himself. The last trace of humor drained from his faceas he leaned elbows on the desk. Andy, this is even worse than we hadfeared.     Andy fumbled for a cigarette and Bettijean passed him a match. Acaptain opened his mouth to speak, but the colonel shushed him.     I've just come from Intelligence, the general said. We haven't hada report—nothing from our agents, from the Diplomatic Corps, from thecivilian newspapermen—not a word from any Iron Curtain country for aday and half. Everybody's frantic. The last item we had—it was acoded message the Reds'd tried to censor—was an indication ofsomething big in the works.     A day and half ago, Andy mused. Just about the time we knew we hadan epidemic. And about the time they knew it.     It could be just propaganda, Bettijean said hopefully, proving thatthey could cripple us from within.     The general nodded. Or it could be the softening up for an all-outeffort. Every American base in the world is alerted and everyserviceman is being issued live ammunition. If we're wrong, we'vestill got an epidemic and panic that could touch it off. If we'reright ... well, we've got to know. What can you do?     Andy dropped his haggard face into his hands. His voice came throughmuffled. I can sit here and cry. For an eternity he sat there,futility piling on helplessness, aware of Bettijean's hand on his arm.He heard the colonel try to speak and sensed the general's movementthat silenced him.     Suddenly he sat upright and slapped a palm down on the desk. We'llfind your answers, sir. All we ask is co-operation.     The general gave both Andy and Bettijean a long, sober look, thenlaunched himself from the chair. Pivoting, he said, Colonel, you andyour captains will be stationed by that switchboard out there. For theduration of this emergency, you will take orders only from thesergeant and the corporal here.     But, general, the colonel wailed, a noncom? I'm assigned—     The general snorted. Insubordination cannot be tolerated—unless youfind a two-star general to outrank me. Now, as I said before, let'sget out of here and let these people work.  The brass exited wordlessly. Bettijean sighed noisily. Andy found hiscigarette dead and lit another. He fancied a tiny lever in his brainand he shifted gears to direct his thinking back into the properchannel. Abruptly his fatigue began to lift. He picked up the new pileof reports Bettijean had brought in.     She move around the desk and sat, noting the phone book he had used,studying the names he had crossed off. Did you learn anything? sheasked.     Andy coughed, trying to clear his raw throat. It's crazy, he said.From the Senate and House on down, I haven't found a singlegovernment worker sick.     I found a few, she said. Over in a Virginia hospital.     But I did find, Andy said, flipping through pages of his ownscrawl, a society matron and her social secretary, a whole flock ofoffice workers—business, not government—and new parents and newlyengaged girls and.... He shrugged.     Did you notice anything significant about those office workers?     Andy nodded. I was going to ask you the same, since I was justguessing. I hadn't had time to check it out.     Well, I checked some. Practically none of my victims came from bigoffices, either business or industry. They were all out of one andtwo-girl offices or small businesses.     That was my guess. And do you know that I didn't find a doctor,dentist or attorney?     Nor a single postal worker.     Andy tried to smile. One thing we do know. It's not a communicablething. Thank heaven for—     He broke off as a cute blonde entered and put stacks of reports beforeboth Andy and Bettijean. The girl hesitated, fidgeting, fingers to herteeth. Then, without speaking, she hurried out.     Andy stared at the top sheet and groaned. This may be something. Halfthe adult population of Aspen, Colorado, is down.     What? Bettijean frowned over the report in her hands. It's the samething—only not quite as severe—in Taos and Santa Fe, New Mexico.     Writers?     Mostly. Some artists, too, and musicians. And poets are among thehard hit.     This is insane, Andy muttered. Doctors and dentists arefine—writers and poets are sick. Make sense out of that.     Bettijean held up a paper and managed a confused smile. Here's acountry doctor in Tennessee. He doesn't even know what it's all about.Nobody's sick in his valley.     Somebody in our outer office is organized, Andy said, pulling at hiscigarette. Here're reports from a dozen military installations alllumped together.     What does it show?     Black-out. By order of somebody higher up—no medical releases. Mustmean they've got it. He scratched the growing stubble on his chin.If this were a fifth column setup, wouldn't the armed forces be thefirst hit?     Sure, Bettijean brightened, then sobered. Maybe not. The brasscould keep it secret if an epidemic hit an army camp. And they couldslap a control condition on any military area. But the panic will comefrom the general public.     Here's another batch, Andy said. Small college towns undertwenty-five thousand population. All hard hit.     Well, it's not split intellectually. Small colleges and small officesand writers get it. Doctors don't and dentists don't. But we can'ttell who's got it on the military bases.     And it's not geographical. Look, remember those two reports fromTennessee? That place where they voted on water bonds or something,everybody had it. But the country doctor in another section hadn'teven heard of it. Andy could only shake his head.     Bettijean heaved herself up from the chair and trudged back to theouter office. She returned momentarily with a tray of food. Putting apaper cup of coffee and a sandwich in front of Andy, she sat down andnibbled at her snack like an exhausted chipmunk.     Andy banged a fist at his desk again. Coffee splashed over the rim ofhis cup onto the clutter of papers. It's here, he said angrily.It's here somewhere, but we can't find it.     The answer?     Of course. What is it that girls in small offices do or eat or drinkor wear that girls in large offices don't do or eat or drink or wear?What do writers and doctors do differently? Or poets and dentists?What are we missing? What—  In the outer office a girl cried out. A body thumped against a desk,then a chair, then to the floor. Two girls screamed.     Andy bolted up from his chair. Racing to the door, he shouted back toBettijean, Get a staff doctor and a chemist from the lab.     It was the girl who had been so nervous in his office earlier. Now shelay in a pathetic little heap between her desk and chair, whimpering,shivering, eyes wide with horror. The other girls clustered at thehall door, plainly ready to stampede.     It's not contagious, Andy growled. Find some blankets or coats tocover her. And get a glass of water.     The other girls, glad for the excuse, dashed away. Andy scooped up thefallen girl and put her down gently on the close-jammed desks. He useda chair cushion for a pillow. By then the other girls were back with ablanket and the glass of water. He covered the girl, gave her a sip ofwater and heard somebody murmur, Poor Janis.     Now, Andy said brightly, how's that, Janis?     She mustered a smile, and breathed, Better. I ... I was so scared.Fever and dizzy ... symptoms like the epidemic.     Now you know there's nothing to be afraid of, Andy said, feelingsuddenly and ridiculously like a pill roller with a practiced bedsidemanner. You know you may feel pretty miserable, but nobody's conkedout with this stuff yet.     Janis breathed out and her taut body relaxed.     Don't hurry, Andy said, but I want you to tell me everything thatyou did—everything you ate or drank—in the last ... oh, twelvehours. He felt a pressure behind him and swiveled his head to seeBettijean standing there. He tried to smile.     What time is it? Janis asked weakly.     Andy glanced to a wall clock, then gave it a double take.     One of the girls said, It's three o'clock in the morning. She edgednearer Andy, obviously eager to replace Janis as the center ofattention. Andy ignored her.     I ... I've been here since ... golly, yesterday morning at nine,Janis said. I came to work as usual and....     Slowly, haltingly, she recited the routine of a routine work day, thentold about the quick snack that sufficed for supper and about stayingon her phone and typewriter for another five hours. It was abouteleven when the relief crew came in.     What did you do then? Andy asked.     I ... I took a break and.... Her ivory skin reddened, the colorspreading into the roots of her fluffy curls, and she turned her faceaway from Andy. And I had a sandwich and some coffee and got a littlenap in the ladies' lounge and ... and that's all.     And that's not all, Andy prompted. What else?     Nothing, Janis said too quickly.     Andy shook his head. Tell it all and maybe it'll help.     But ... but....     Was it something against regulations?     I ... I don't know. I think....     I'll vouch for your job in this office.     Well.... She seemed on the verge of tears and her pleading glancesought out Andy, then Bettijean, then her co-workers. Finally,resigned, she said, I ... I wrote a letter to my mother.     Andy swallowed against his groan of disappointment. And you told herabout what we were doing here.     Janis nodded, and tears welled into her wide eyes.     Did you mail it?     Y ... yes.     You didn't use a government envelope to save a stamp?     Oh, no. I always carry a few stamps with me. She choked down a sob.Did I do wrong?     No, I don't think so, Andy said, patting her shoulder. There'scertainly nothing secret about this epidemic. Now you just take iteasy and—. Oh, here's a doctor now.     The doctor, a white-headed Air Force major, bustled into the room. Alab technician in a white smock was close behind. Andy could onlyshrug and indicate the girl.     Turning away, lighting a cigarette, he tried to focus on the tangle ofthoughts that spun through his head. Doctors, writers, societymatrons, office workers—Aspen, Taos and college towns—thousands ofpeople sick—but none in that valley in Tennessee—and few governmentworkers—just one girl in his office—and she was sicker and morefrightened about a letter—and....     Hey, wait! Andy yelled.     Everyone in the room froze as Andy spun around, dashed to Bettijean'sdesk and yanked out the wide, top drawer. He pawed through it,straightened, then leaped across to the desk Janis had used. Hesnatched open drawer after drawer. In a bottom one he found her purse.Ripping it open, he dumped the contents on the desk and clawed throughthe pile until he found what he wanted. Handing it to the labtechnician, he said, Get me a report. Fast.     The technician darted out.     Andy wheeled to Bettijean. Get the brass in here. And call thegeneral first. To the doctor, he said, Give that girl the best ofeverything.     Then he ducked back to his own office and to the pile of reports. Hewas still poring over them when the general arrived. Half a dozenother brass hats, none of whom had been to bed, were close behind. Thelab technician arrived a minute later. He shook his head as he handedhis hastily scribbled report to Andy.  It was Bettijean who squeezed into the office and broke the brittlesilence. Andy, for heaven's sake, what is it? Then she moved aroundthe desk to stand behind him as he faced the officers.     Have you got something? the brigadier asked. Some girl outside wasbabbling about writers and doctors, and dentists and college students,and little secretaries and big secretaries. Have you established atrend?     Andy glanced at the lab report and his smile was as relieved as it wasweary. Our problem, he said, was in figuring out what a writer doesthat a doctor doesn't—why girls from small offices were sick—and whysenators and postal workers weren't—why college students caught thebug and people in a Tennessee community didn't.     The lab report isn't complete. They haven't had time to isolate thepoison and prescribe medication. But—he held up a four-centstamp—here's the villain, gentlemen.     The big brass stood stunned and shocked. Mouths flapped open and eyesbugged at Andy, at the stamp.     Bettijean said, Sure. College kids and engaged girls and new parentsand especially writers and artists and poets—they'd all lick lots ofstamps. Professional men have secretaries. Big offices havepostage-meter machines. And government offices have free franking.And—she threw her arms around the sergeant's neck—Andy, you'rewonderful.     The old American ingenuity, the colonel said, reaching for Andy'sphone. I knew we could lick it. Now all we have to do—     At ease, colonel, the brigadier said sharply. He waited until thecolonel had retreated, then addressed Andy. It's your show. What doyou suggest?     Get somebody—maybe even the President—on all radio and TV networks.Explain frankly about the four-centers and warn against licking anystamps. Then—     He broke off as his phone rang. Answering, he listened for a moment,then hung up and said, But before the big announcement, get somebodychecking on the security clearances at whatever plant it is where theyprint stamps. This's a big deal. Somebody may've been planted yearsago for this operation. It shouldn't be too hard.     But there's no evidence it was a plot yet. Could be pureaccident—some chemical in the stickum spoiled. Do they keep thestickum in barrels? Find out who had access. And ... oh, the phonecall. That was the lab. The antidote's simple and the cure should bequick. They can phone or broadcast the medical information to doctors.The man on the phone said they could start emptying hospitals in sixhours. And maybe we should release some propaganda. United Stateswhips mystery virus, or something like that. And we could send theKremlin a stamp collection and.... Aw, you take it, sir. I'm pooped.  The general wheeled to fire a salvo of commands. Officers poured intothe corridor. Only the brigadier remained, a puzzled frown crinklinghis granite brow.     But you said that postal workers weren't getting sick.     Andy chucked. That's right. Did you ever see a post office clerklick a stamp? They always use a sponge.     The general looked to Bettijean, to Andy, to the stamp. He grinned andthe grin became a rumbling laugh. How would you two like a thirty-dayfurlough to rest up—or to get better acquainted?     Bettijean squealed. Andy reached for her hand.     And while you're gone, the general continued, I'll see what stringsI can pull. If I can't wangle you a couple of battlefield commissions,I'll zip you both through O.C.S. so fast you won't even have time topin on the bars.     But neither Andy nor Bettijean had heard a word after the mention offurlough. Like a pair of puppy-lovers, they were sinking into thedepths of each other's eyes.     And the general was still chuckling as he picked up the lone four-centstamp in his left hand, made a gun of his right hand, and marched thestamp out of the office under guard.     THE END   ","Sergeant Andrew McCloud is Corporal Bettijean Baker’s superior, both in rank and position at the Germ War office. They have worked together before, perhaps for the two years that Andy has been stationed there. Their relationship ranges from colleagues to lovers, sharing kisses at work or gentle shoulder touches, while still maintaining a professional atmosphere. 	They begin the story extremely stressed, due to the sudden epidemic, and use their combined brain power to find the root cause of the disease. After hours of working together and defending each other to their higher-ups, they are able to identify different groups of people that have been infected, all of which are random and don’t show a clear trend. After the truth is discovered, that the disease is being spread through licking stamps, Corporal Bettijean and Sergeant Andrew are granted a 30-day vacation together, with the promises of getting to know each other better. They accept gratefully, and stare into each other’s eyes. 	Though their relationship may be inappropriate in the modern office, it’s clear through their constant defense of the other and dedication to the cause, that their romance is just as strong as their professional relationship. "
"What is the significance of Janis's character on the rest of the story? </s>      THE PLAGUE         By TEDDY KELLER         Suppose a strictly one hundred per cent American plagueshowed up.... One that attacked only people within thepolitical borders of the United States!         Illustrated by Schoenherr      Sergeant Major Andrew McCloud ignored the jangling telephones and theexcited jabber of a room full of brass, and lit a cigarette. Somebodyhad to keep his head in this mess. Everybody was about to flip.     Like the telephone. Two days ago Corporal Bettijean Baker had beenanswering the rare call on the single line—in that friendly, huskyvoice that gave even generals pause—by saying, Good morning. Officeof the Civil Health and Germ Warfare Protection Co-ordinator. Nowthere was a switchboard out in the hall with a web of lines running toa dozen girls at a half dozen desks wedged into the outer office. Andnow the harried girls answered with a hasty, Germ War Protection.     All the brass hats in Washington had suddenly discovered this officedeep in the recesses of the Pentagon. And none of them could quitecomprehend what had happened. The situation might have been funny, orat least pathetic, if it hadn't been so desperate. Even so, AndyMcCloud's nerves and patience had frayed thin.     I told you, general, he snapped to the flustered brigadier, ColonelPatterson was retired ten days ago. I don't know what happened. Maybethis replacement sawbones got strangled in red tape. Anyhow, thebrand-new lieutenant hasn't showed up here. As far as I know, I'm incharge.     But this is incredible, a two-star general wailed. A mysteriousepidemic is sweeping the country, possibly an insidious germ attacktimed to precede an all-out invasion, and a noncom is sitting on topof the whole powder keg.     Andy's big hands clenched into fists and he had to wait a momentbefore he could speak safely. Doggone the freckles and the unruly mopof hair that give him such a boyish look. May I remind you, general,he said, that I've been entombed here for two years. My staff and Iknow what to do. If you'll give us some co-operation and a priority,we'll try to figure this thing out.     But good heavens, a chicken colonel moaned, this is all soirregular. A noncom! He said it like a dirty word.     Irregular, hell, the brigadier snorted, the message getting through.There're ways. Gentlemen, I suggest we clear out of here and let thesergeant get to work. He took a step toward the door, and the otherofficers, protesting and complaining, moved along after him. As theydrifted out, he turned and said, We'll clear your office for toppriority. Then dead serious, he added, Son, a whole nation couldpanic at any moment. You've got to come through.     Andy didn't waste time standing. He merely nodded to the general,snubbed out his cigarette, and buzzed the intercom. Bettijean, willyou bring me all the latest reports, please? Then he peeled out ofhis be-ribboned blouse and rolled up his sleeves. He allowed himselfone moment to enjoy the sight of the slim, black-headed corporal whoentered his office.  Bettijean crossed briskly to his desk. She gave him a motherly smileas she put down a thick sheaf of papers. You look beat, she said.Brass give you much trouble?     Not much. We're top priority now. He ran fingers through the thick,brown hair and massaged his scalp, trying to generate stimulation tohis wary and confused brain. What's new?     I've gone though some of these, she said. Tried to save you alittle time.     Thanks. Sit down.     She pulled up a chair and thumbed through the papers. So far, nofatalities. That's why there's no panic yet, I guess. But it'sspreading like ... well, like a plague. Fear flickered deep in herdark eyes.     Any water reports? Andy asked.     Wichita O.K., Indianapolis O.K., Tulsa O.K., Buffalo O.K.,—and abunch more. No indication there. Except—she fished out a one-pagereport—some little town in Tennessee. Yesterday there was a campaignfor everybody to write their congressman about some deal and todaythey were to vote on a new water system. Hardly anybody showed up atthe polls. They've all got it.     Andy shrugged. You can drink water, but don't vote for it. Oh, that'sa big help. He rummaged through the clutter on his desk and came upwith a crude chart. Any trends yet?     It's hitting everybody, Bettijean said helplessly. Not many kids sofar, thank heavens. But housewives, businessmen, office workers,teachers, preachers—rich, poor—from Florida to Alaska. Just when youcalled me in, one of the girls thought she had a trend. The isolatedmountain areas of the West and South. But reports are toofragmentary.     What is it? he cried suddenly, banging the desk. People deathlyill, but nobody dying. And doctors can't identify the poison untilthey have a fatality for an autopsy. People stricken in every part ofthe country, but the water systems are pure. How does it spread?     In food?     How? There must be hundreds of canneries and dairies and packingplants over the country. How could they all goof at the sametime—even if it was sabotage?     On the wind?     But who could accurately predict every wind over the entirecountry—even Alaska and Hawaii—without hitting Canada or Mexico? Andwhy wouldn't everybody get it in a given area?     Bettijean's smooth brow furrowed and she reached across the desk togrip his icy, sweating hands. Andy, do ... do you think it's ...well, an enemy?     I don't know, he said. I just don't know.     For a long moment he sat there, trying to draw strength from her,punishing his brain for the glimmer of an idea. Finally, shaking hishead, he pushed back into his chair and reached for the sheaf ofpapers.     We've got to find a clue—a trend—an inkling of something. Henodded toward the outer office. Stop all in-coming calls. Get thosegirls on lines to hospitals in every city and town in the country.Have them contact individual doctors in rural areas. Then line upanother relief crew, and get somebody carting in more coffee andsandwiches. And on those calls, be sure we learn the sex, age, andoccupation of the victims. You and I'll start with Washington.     Bettijean snapped to her feet, grinned her encouragement and strodefrom the room. Andy could hear her crisp instructions to the girls onthe phones. Sucking air through his teeth, he reached for his phoneand directory.     He dialed until every finger of his right hand was sore. He spoke toworried doctors and frantic hospital administrators and hystericalnurses. His firm, fine penmanship deteriorated to a barely legiblescrawl as writer's cramp knotted his hand and arm. His voice burneddown to a rasping whisper. But columns climbed up his rough chart andbroken lines pointed vaguely to trends.  It was hours later when Bettijean came back into the office withanother stack of papers. Andy hung up his phone and reached for acigarette. At that moment the door banged open. Nerves raw, Bettijeancried out. Andy's cigarette tumbled from his trembling fingers.     Sergeant, the chicken colonel barked, parading into the office.     Andy swore under his breath and eyed the two young officers whotrailed after the colonel. Emotionally exhausted, he had to clamp hisjaw against a huge laugh that struggled up in his throat. For just aninstant there, the colonel had reminded him of a movie version ofGeneral Rommel strutting up and down before his tanks. But it wasn't aswagger stick the colonel had tucked under his arm. It was a foldednewspaper. Opening it, the colonel flung it down on Andy's desk.     RED PLAGUE SWEEPS NATION, the scare headline screamed. Andy's firstglance caught such phrases as alleged Russian plot and germwarfare and authorities hopelessly baffled.     Snatching the paper, Andy balled it and hurled it from him. That'llhelp a lot, he growled hoarsely.     Well, then, Sergeant. The colonel tried to relax his square face,but tension rode every weathered wrinkle and fear glinted behind thepale gray eyes. So you finally recognize the gravity of thesituation.     Andy's head snapped up, heated words searing towards his lips.Bettijean stepped quickly around the desk and laid a steady hand onhis shoulder.     Colonel, she said levelly, you should know better than that.     A shocked young captain exploded, Corporal. Maybe you'd better reportto—     All right, Andy said sharply.     For a long moment he stared at his clenched fists. Then he exhaledslowly and, to the colonel, flatly and without apology, he said,You'll have to excuse the people in this office if they overlook someof the G.I. niceties. We've been without sleep for two days, we'resurviving on sandwiches and coffee, and we're fighting a war here thatmakes every other one look like a Sunday School picnic. He feltBettijean's hand tighten reassuringly on his shoulder and he gave hera tired smile. Then he hunched forward and picked up a report. So saywhat you came here to say and let us get back to work.     Sergeant, the captain said, as if reading from a manual,insubordination cannot be tolerated, even under emergency conditions.Your conduct here will be noted and—     Oh, good heavens! Bettijean cried, her fingers biting into Andy'sshoulder. Do you have to come in here trying to throw your weightaround when this man—     That's enough, the colonel snapped. I had hoped that you two wouldco-operate, but.... He let the sentence trail off as he swelled up abit with his own importance. I have turned Washington upside down toget these two officers from the surgeon general's office. Sergeant.Corporal. You are relieved of your duties as of this moment. You willreport to my office at once for suitable disciplinary action.     Bettijean sucked in a strained breath and her hand flew to her mouth.But you can't—     Let's go, Andy said, pushing up from his chair. Ignoring the brass,he turned to her and brushed his lips across hers. Let them sweat awhile. Let 'em have the whole stinking business. Whatever they do tous, at least we can get some sleep.     But you can't quit now, Bettijean protested. These brass hats don'tknow from—     Corporal! the colonel roared.  And from the door, an icy voice said, Yes, colonel?     The colonel and his captains wheeled, stared and saluted. Oh,general, the colonel said. I was just—     I know, the brigadier said, stepping into the room. I've beenlistening to you. And I thought I suggested that everybody leave thesergeant and his staff alone.     But, general, I—     The general showed the colonel his back and motioned Andy into hischair. He glanced to Bettijean and a smile warmed his wedge face.Corporal, were you speaking just then as a woman or as a soldier?     Crimson erupted into Bettijean's face and her tight laugh said manythings. She shrugged. Both I guess.     The general waved her to a chair and, oblivious of the colonel, pulledup a chair for himself. The last trace of humor drained from his faceas he leaned elbows on the desk. Andy, this is even worse than we hadfeared.     Andy fumbled for a cigarette and Bettijean passed him a match. Acaptain opened his mouth to speak, but the colonel shushed him.     I've just come from Intelligence, the general said. We haven't hada report—nothing from our agents, from the Diplomatic Corps, from thecivilian newspapermen—not a word from any Iron Curtain country for aday and half. Everybody's frantic. The last item we had—it was acoded message the Reds'd tried to censor—was an indication ofsomething big in the works.     A day and half ago, Andy mused. Just about the time we knew we hadan epidemic. And about the time they knew it.     It could be just propaganda, Bettijean said hopefully, proving thatthey could cripple us from within.     The general nodded. Or it could be the softening up for an all-outeffort. Every American base in the world is alerted and everyserviceman is being issued live ammunition. If we're wrong, we'vestill got an epidemic and panic that could touch it off. If we'reright ... well, we've got to know. What can you do?     Andy dropped his haggard face into his hands. His voice came throughmuffled. I can sit here and cry. For an eternity he sat there,futility piling on helplessness, aware of Bettijean's hand on his arm.He heard the colonel try to speak and sensed the general's movementthat silenced him.     Suddenly he sat upright and slapped a palm down on the desk. We'llfind your answers, sir. All we ask is co-operation.     The general gave both Andy and Bettijean a long, sober look, thenlaunched himself from the chair. Pivoting, he said, Colonel, you andyour captains will be stationed by that switchboard out there. For theduration of this emergency, you will take orders only from thesergeant and the corporal here.     But, general, the colonel wailed, a noncom? I'm assigned—     The general snorted. Insubordination cannot be tolerated—unless youfind a two-star general to outrank me. Now, as I said before, let'sget out of here and let these people work.  The brass exited wordlessly. Bettijean sighed noisily. Andy found hiscigarette dead and lit another. He fancied a tiny lever in his brainand he shifted gears to direct his thinking back into the properchannel. Abruptly his fatigue began to lift. He picked up the new pileof reports Bettijean had brought in.     She move around the desk and sat, noting the phone book he had used,studying the names he had crossed off. Did you learn anything? sheasked.     Andy coughed, trying to clear his raw throat. It's crazy, he said.From the Senate and House on down, I haven't found a singlegovernment worker sick.     I found a few, she said. Over in a Virginia hospital.     But I did find, Andy said, flipping through pages of his ownscrawl, a society matron and her social secretary, a whole flock ofoffice workers—business, not government—and new parents and newlyengaged girls and.... He shrugged.     Did you notice anything significant about those office workers?     Andy nodded. I was going to ask you the same, since I was justguessing. I hadn't had time to check it out.     Well, I checked some. Practically none of my victims came from bigoffices, either business or industry. They were all out of one andtwo-girl offices or small businesses.     That was my guess. And do you know that I didn't find a doctor,dentist or attorney?     Nor a single postal worker.     Andy tried to smile. One thing we do know. It's not a communicablething. Thank heaven for—     He broke off as a cute blonde entered and put stacks of reports beforeboth Andy and Bettijean. The girl hesitated, fidgeting, fingers to herteeth. Then, without speaking, she hurried out.     Andy stared at the top sheet and groaned. This may be something. Halfthe adult population of Aspen, Colorado, is down.     What? Bettijean frowned over the report in her hands. It's the samething—only not quite as severe—in Taos and Santa Fe, New Mexico.     Writers?     Mostly. Some artists, too, and musicians. And poets are among thehard hit.     This is insane, Andy muttered. Doctors and dentists arefine—writers and poets are sick. Make sense out of that.     Bettijean held up a paper and managed a confused smile. Here's acountry doctor in Tennessee. He doesn't even know what it's all about.Nobody's sick in his valley.     Somebody in our outer office is organized, Andy said, pulling at hiscigarette. Here're reports from a dozen military installations alllumped together.     What does it show?     Black-out. By order of somebody higher up—no medical releases. Mustmean they've got it. He scratched the growing stubble on his chin.If this were a fifth column setup, wouldn't the armed forces be thefirst hit?     Sure, Bettijean brightened, then sobered. Maybe not. The brasscould keep it secret if an epidemic hit an army camp. And they couldslap a control condition on any military area. But the panic will comefrom the general public.     Here's another batch, Andy said. Small college towns undertwenty-five thousand population. All hard hit.     Well, it's not split intellectually. Small colleges and small officesand writers get it. Doctors don't and dentists don't. But we can'ttell who's got it on the military bases.     And it's not geographical. Look, remember those two reports fromTennessee? That place where they voted on water bonds or something,everybody had it. But the country doctor in another section hadn'teven heard of it. Andy could only shake his head.     Bettijean heaved herself up from the chair and trudged back to theouter office. She returned momentarily with a tray of food. Putting apaper cup of coffee and a sandwich in front of Andy, she sat down andnibbled at her snack like an exhausted chipmunk.     Andy banged a fist at his desk again. Coffee splashed over the rim ofhis cup onto the clutter of papers. It's here, he said angrily.It's here somewhere, but we can't find it.     The answer?     Of course. What is it that girls in small offices do or eat or drinkor wear that girls in large offices don't do or eat or drink or wear?What do writers and doctors do differently? Or poets and dentists?What are we missing? What—  In the outer office a girl cried out. A body thumped against a desk,then a chair, then to the floor. Two girls screamed.     Andy bolted up from his chair. Racing to the door, he shouted back toBettijean, Get a staff doctor and a chemist from the lab.     It was the girl who had been so nervous in his office earlier. Now shelay in a pathetic little heap between her desk and chair, whimpering,shivering, eyes wide with horror. The other girls clustered at thehall door, plainly ready to stampede.     It's not contagious, Andy growled. Find some blankets or coats tocover her. And get a glass of water.     The other girls, glad for the excuse, dashed away. Andy scooped up thefallen girl and put her down gently on the close-jammed desks. He useda chair cushion for a pillow. By then the other girls were back with ablanket and the glass of water. He covered the girl, gave her a sip ofwater and heard somebody murmur, Poor Janis.     Now, Andy said brightly, how's that, Janis?     She mustered a smile, and breathed, Better. I ... I was so scared.Fever and dizzy ... symptoms like the epidemic.     Now you know there's nothing to be afraid of, Andy said, feelingsuddenly and ridiculously like a pill roller with a practiced bedsidemanner. You know you may feel pretty miserable, but nobody's conkedout with this stuff yet.     Janis breathed out and her taut body relaxed.     Don't hurry, Andy said, but I want you to tell me everything thatyou did—everything you ate or drank—in the last ... oh, twelvehours. He felt a pressure behind him and swiveled his head to seeBettijean standing there. He tried to smile.     What time is it? Janis asked weakly.     Andy glanced to a wall clock, then gave it a double take.     One of the girls said, It's three o'clock in the morning. She edgednearer Andy, obviously eager to replace Janis as the center ofattention. Andy ignored her.     I ... I've been here since ... golly, yesterday morning at nine,Janis said. I came to work as usual and....     Slowly, haltingly, she recited the routine of a routine work day, thentold about the quick snack that sufficed for supper and about stayingon her phone and typewriter for another five hours. It was abouteleven when the relief crew came in.     What did you do then? Andy asked.     I ... I took a break and.... Her ivory skin reddened, the colorspreading into the roots of her fluffy curls, and she turned her faceaway from Andy. And I had a sandwich and some coffee and got a littlenap in the ladies' lounge and ... and that's all.     And that's not all, Andy prompted. What else?     Nothing, Janis said too quickly.     Andy shook his head. Tell it all and maybe it'll help.     But ... but....     Was it something against regulations?     I ... I don't know. I think....     I'll vouch for your job in this office.     Well.... She seemed on the verge of tears and her pleading glancesought out Andy, then Bettijean, then her co-workers. Finally,resigned, she said, I ... I wrote a letter to my mother.     Andy swallowed against his groan of disappointment. And you told herabout what we were doing here.     Janis nodded, and tears welled into her wide eyes.     Did you mail it?     Y ... yes.     You didn't use a government envelope to save a stamp?     Oh, no. I always carry a few stamps with me. She choked down a sob.Did I do wrong?     No, I don't think so, Andy said, patting her shoulder. There'scertainly nothing secret about this epidemic. Now you just take iteasy and—. Oh, here's a doctor now.     The doctor, a white-headed Air Force major, bustled into the room. Alab technician in a white smock was close behind. Andy could onlyshrug and indicate the girl.     Turning away, lighting a cigarette, he tried to focus on the tangle ofthoughts that spun through his head. Doctors, writers, societymatrons, office workers—Aspen, Taos and college towns—thousands ofpeople sick—but none in that valley in Tennessee—and few governmentworkers—just one girl in his office—and she was sicker and morefrightened about a letter—and....     Hey, wait! Andy yelled.     Everyone in the room froze as Andy spun around, dashed to Bettijean'sdesk and yanked out the wide, top drawer. He pawed through it,straightened, then leaped across to the desk Janis had used. Hesnatched open drawer after drawer. In a bottom one he found her purse.Ripping it open, he dumped the contents on the desk and clawed throughthe pile until he found what he wanted. Handing it to the labtechnician, he said, Get me a report. Fast.     The technician darted out.     Andy wheeled to Bettijean. Get the brass in here. And call thegeneral first. To the doctor, he said, Give that girl the best ofeverything.     Then he ducked back to his own office and to the pile of reports. Hewas still poring over them when the general arrived. Half a dozenother brass hats, none of whom had been to bed, were close behind. Thelab technician arrived a minute later. He shook his head as he handedhis hastily scribbled report to Andy.  It was Bettijean who squeezed into the office and broke the brittlesilence. Andy, for heaven's sake, what is it? Then she moved aroundthe desk to stand behind him as he faced the officers.     Have you got something? the brigadier asked. Some girl outside wasbabbling about writers and doctors, and dentists and college students,and little secretaries and big secretaries. Have you established atrend?     Andy glanced at the lab report and his smile was as relieved as it wasweary. Our problem, he said, was in figuring out what a writer doesthat a doctor doesn't—why girls from small offices were sick—and whysenators and postal workers weren't—why college students caught thebug and people in a Tennessee community didn't.     The lab report isn't complete. They haven't had time to isolate thepoison and prescribe medication. But—he held up a four-centstamp—here's the villain, gentlemen.     The big brass stood stunned and shocked. Mouths flapped open and eyesbugged at Andy, at the stamp.     Bettijean said, Sure. College kids and engaged girls and new parentsand especially writers and artists and poets—they'd all lick lots ofstamps. Professional men have secretaries. Big offices havepostage-meter machines. And government offices have free franking.And—she threw her arms around the sergeant's neck—Andy, you'rewonderful.     The old American ingenuity, the colonel said, reaching for Andy'sphone. I knew we could lick it. Now all we have to do—     At ease, colonel, the brigadier said sharply. He waited until thecolonel had retreated, then addressed Andy. It's your show. What doyou suggest?     Get somebody—maybe even the President—on all radio and TV networks.Explain frankly about the four-centers and warn against licking anystamps. Then—     He broke off as his phone rang. Answering, he listened for a moment,then hung up and said, But before the big announcement, get somebodychecking on the security clearances at whatever plant it is where theyprint stamps. This's a big deal. Somebody may've been planted yearsago for this operation. It shouldn't be too hard.     But there's no evidence it was a plot yet. Could be pureaccident—some chemical in the stickum spoiled. Do they keep thestickum in barrels? Find out who had access. And ... oh, the phonecall. That was the lab. The antidote's simple and the cure should bequick. They can phone or broadcast the medical information to doctors.The man on the phone said they could start emptying hospitals in sixhours. And maybe we should release some propaganda. United Stateswhips mystery virus, or something like that. And we could send theKremlin a stamp collection and.... Aw, you take it, sir. I'm pooped.  The general wheeled to fire a salvo of commands. Officers poured intothe corridor. Only the brigadier remained, a puzzled frown crinklinghis granite brow.     But you said that postal workers weren't getting sick.     Andy chucked. That's right. Did you ever see a post office clerklick a stamp? They always use a sponge.     The general looked to Bettijean, to Andy, to the stamp. He grinned andthe grin became a rumbling laugh. How would you two like a thirty-dayfurlough to rest up—or to get better acquainted?     Bettijean squealed. Andy reached for her hand.     And while you're gone, the general continued, I'll see what stringsI can pull. If I can't wangle you a couple of battlefield commissions,I'll zip you both through O.C.S. so fast you won't even have time topin on the bars.     But neither Andy nor Bettijean had heard a word after the mention offurlough. Like a pair of puppy-lovers, they were sinking into thedepths of each other's eyes.     And the general was still chuckling as he picked up the lone four-centstamp in his left hand, made a gun of his right hand, and marched thestamp out of the office under guard.     THE END   ","In short, without Janis, Sergeant Andrew McCloud would not have discovered the cause of the epidemic as quickly or at all. 	Near the end of the story, Janis, an attractive blonde woman, enters Sergeant Andy’s office to deliver another stack of reports before him and Corporal Bettijean. The two of them had been analyzing the reports and statistics for several hours now, desperate to find a trend amongst those infected. So far, they had come up with nothing concrete, except for the types of people who were getting infected. Working people, artists, poets, newly engaged women, and small office workers were all turning up sick. Bigger offices, postal workers, doctors, dentists, and government workers were all fine. So, what’s the connection? 	After nervously delivering the reports, Janis quickly scurries out of the office and back to her desk elsewhere. Bettijean and Andy notice that the adult population in Aspen, Colorado; Taos; and Santa Fe, New Mexico is rapidly falling ill, all towns with prominent artistic industries. 	They keep pouring over the reports, making new discoveries but still not coming up with any answers. Suddenly, a girl cries out from beyond his office. They hear a body fall to the floor, and they quickly rush out as the sounds of screaming emerge. Andy sends Bettijean to retrieve a doctor and a chemist, while he runs to help. Janis was lying on the floor, in pain and scared. Luckily, the virus is not contagious, so Andy and the others were able to help her. 	Andy interrogates her, asking detailed questions about her day and the past 12 hours. He tries to ascertain all the moments of her life, so he can pinpoint where and how she got infected. Her symptoms match up with the epidemic at hand (a fever and feeling dizzy), so Andy knows this is his best shot to find the origin. 	Slowly, she recounts her day and tells them all about what she did, where she was, and what she ate. She hides one thing though, which Andy quickly forces out of her. She wrote a letter to her mother, telling her about the epidemic and how scary it was. This is against regulations, as shown through Andy’s grunt of disapproval. She mailed it with her own stamps, not with a government envelope. 	Andy puts all the puzzle pieces together in his mind and realizes that all those people, Janis included, had one thing in common: writing letters. The poison was in the stamp. Without Janis, Andy would have struggled far longer to discover the illness and halt the production and sale of all stamps nationwide. 	"
"What happens to the ""chicken colonel"" throughout the story? </s>      THE PLAGUE         By TEDDY KELLER         Suppose a strictly one hundred per cent American plagueshowed up.... One that attacked only people within thepolitical borders of the United States!         Illustrated by Schoenherr      Sergeant Major Andrew McCloud ignored the jangling telephones and theexcited jabber of a room full of brass, and lit a cigarette. Somebodyhad to keep his head in this mess. Everybody was about to flip.     Like the telephone. Two days ago Corporal Bettijean Baker had beenanswering the rare call on the single line—in that friendly, huskyvoice that gave even generals pause—by saying, Good morning. Officeof the Civil Health and Germ Warfare Protection Co-ordinator. Nowthere was a switchboard out in the hall with a web of lines running toa dozen girls at a half dozen desks wedged into the outer office. Andnow the harried girls answered with a hasty, Germ War Protection.     All the brass hats in Washington had suddenly discovered this officedeep in the recesses of the Pentagon. And none of them could quitecomprehend what had happened. The situation might have been funny, orat least pathetic, if it hadn't been so desperate. Even so, AndyMcCloud's nerves and patience had frayed thin.     I told you, general, he snapped to the flustered brigadier, ColonelPatterson was retired ten days ago. I don't know what happened. Maybethis replacement sawbones got strangled in red tape. Anyhow, thebrand-new lieutenant hasn't showed up here. As far as I know, I'm incharge.     But this is incredible, a two-star general wailed. A mysteriousepidemic is sweeping the country, possibly an insidious germ attacktimed to precede an all-out invasion, and a noncom is sitting on topof the whole powder keg.     Andy's big hands clenched into fists and he had to wait a momentbefore he could speak safely. Doggone the freckles and the unruly mopof hair that give him such a boyish look. May I remind you, general,he said, that I've been entombed here for two years. My staff and Iknow what to do. If you'll give us some co-operation and a priority,we'll try to figure this thing out.     But good heavens, a chicken colonel moaned, this is all soirregular. A noncom! He said it like a dirty word.     Irregular, hell, the brigadier snorted, the message getting through.There're ways. Gentlemen, I suggest we clear out of here and let thesergeant get to work. He took a step toward the door, and the otherofficers, protesting and complaining, moved along after him. As theydrifted out, he turned and said, We'll clear your office for toppriority. Then dead serious, he added, Son, a whole nation couldpanic at any moment. You've got to come through.     Andy didn't waste time standing. He merely nodded to the general,snubbed out his cigarette, and buzzed the intercom. Bettijean, willyou bring me all the latest reports, please? Then he peeled out ofhis be-ribboned blouse and rolled up his sleeves. He allowed himselfone moment to enjoy the sight of the slim, black-headed corporal whoentered his office.  Bettijean crossed briskly to his desk. She gave him a motherly smileas she put down a thick sheaf of papers. You look beat, she said.Brass give you much trouble?     Not much. We're top priority now. He ran fingers through the thick,brown hair and massaged his scalp, trying to generate stimulation tohis wary and confused brain. What's new?     I've gone though some of these, she said. Tried to save you alittle time.     Thanks. Sit down.     She pulled up a chair and thumbed through the papers. So far, nofatalities. That's why there's no panic yet, I guess. But it'sspreading like ... well, like a plague. Fear flickered deep in herdark eyes.     Any water reports? Andy asked.     Wichita O.K., Indianapolis O.K., Tulsa O.K., Buffalo O.K.,—and abunch more. No indication there. Except—she fished out a one-pagereport—some little town in Tennessee. Yesterday there was a campaignfor everybody to write their congressman about some deal and todaythey were to vote on a new water system. Hardly anybody showed up atthe polls. They've all got it.     Andy shrugged. You can drink water, but don't vote for it. Oh, that'sa big help. He rummaged through the clutter on his desk and came upwith a crude chart. Any trends yet?     It's hitting everybody, Bettijean said helplessly. Not many kids sofar, thank heavens. But housewives, businessmen, office workers,teachers, preachers—rich, poor—from Florida to Alaska. Just when youcalled me in, one of the girls thought she had a trend. The isolatedmountain areas of the West and South. But reports are toofragmentary.     What is it? he cried suddenly, banging the desk. People deathlyill, but nobody dying. And doctors can't identify the poison untilthey have a fatality for an autopsy. People stricken in every part ofthe country, but the water systems are pure. How does it spread?     In food?     How? There must be hundreds of canneries and dairies and packingplants over the country. How could they all goof at the sametime—even if it was sabotage?     On the wind?     But who could accurately predict every wind over the entirecountry—even Alaska and Hawaii—without hitting Canada or Mexico? Andwhy wouldn't everybody get it in a given area?     Bettijean's smooth brow furrowed and she reached across the desk togrip his icy, sweating hands. Andy, do ... do you think it's ...well, an enemy?     I don't know, he said. I just don't know.     For a long moment he sat there, trying to draw strength from her,punishing his brain for the glimmer of an idea. Finally, shaking hishead, he pushed back into his chair and reached for the sheaf ofpapers.     We've got to find a clue—a trend—an inkling of something. Henodded toward the outer office. Stop all in-coming calls. Get thosegirls on lines to hospitals in every city and town in the country.Have them contact individual doctors in rural areas. Then line upanother relief crew, and get somebody carting in more coffee andsandwiches. And on those calls, be sure we learn the sex, age, andoccupation of the victims. You and I'll start with Washington.     Bettijean snapped to her feet, grinned her encouragement and strodefrom the room. Andy could hear her crisp instructions to the girls onthe phones. Sucking air through his teeth, he reached for his phoneand directory.     He dialed until every finger of his right hand was sore. He spoke toworried doctors and frantic hospital administrators and hystericalnurses. His firm, fine penmanship deteriorated to a barely legiblescrawl as writer's cramp knotted his hand and arm. His voice burneddown to a rasping whisper. But columns climbed up his rough chart andbroken lines pointed vaguely to trends.  It was hours later when Bettijean came back into the office withanother stack of papers. Andy hung up his phone and reached for acigarette. At that moment the door banged open. Nerves raw, Bettijeancried out. Andy's cigarette tumbled from his trembling fingers.     Sergeant, the chicken colonel barked, parading into the office.     Andy swore under his breath and eyed the two young officers whotrailed after the colonel. Emotionally exhausted, he had to clamp hisjaw against a huge laugh that struggled up in his throat. For just aninstant there, the colonel had reminded him of a movie version ofGeneral Rommel strutting up and down before his tanks. But it wasn't aswagger stick the colonel had tucked under his arm. It was a foldednewspaper. Opening it, the colonel flung it down on Andy's desk.     RED PLAGUE SWEEPS NATION, the scare headline screamed. Andy's firstglance caught such phrases as alleged Russian plot and germwarfare and authorities hopelessly baffled.     Snatching the paper, Andy balled it and hurled it from him. That'llhelp a lot, he growled hoarsely.     Well, then, Sergeant. The colonel tried to relax his square face,but tension rode every weathered wrinkle and fear glinted behind thepale gray eyes. So you finally recognize the gravity of thesituation.     Andy's head snapped up, heated words searing towards his lips.Bettijean stepped quickly around the desk and laid a steady hand onhis shoulder.     Colonel, she said levelly, you should know better than that.     A shocked young captain exploded, Corporal. Maybe you'd better reportto—     All right, Andy said sharply.     For a long moment he stared at his clenched fists. Then he exhaledslowly and, to the colonel, flatly and without apology, he said,You'll have to excuse the people in this office if they overlook someof the G.I. niceties. We've been without sleep for two days, we'resurviving on sandwiches and coffee, and we're fighting a war here thatmakes every other one look like a Sunday School picnic. He feltBettijean's hand tighten reassuringly on his shoulder and he gave hera tired smile. Then he hunched forward and picked up a report. So saywhat you came here to say and let us get back to work.     Sergeant, the captain said, as if reading from a manual,insubordination cannot be tolerated, even under emergency conditions.Your conduct here will be noted and—     Oh, good heavens! Bettijean cried, her fingers biting into Andy'sshoulder. Do you have to come in here trying to throw your weightaround when this man—     That's enough, the colonel snapped. I had hoped that you two wouldco-operate, but.... He let the sentence trail off as he swelled up abit with his own importance. I have turned Washington upside down toget these two officers from the surgeon general's office. Sergeant.Corporal. You are relieved of your duties as of this moment. You willreport to my office at once for suitable disciplinary action.     Bettijean sucked in a strained breath and her hand flew to her mouth.But you can't—     Let's go, Andy said, pushing up from his chair. Ignoring the brass,he turned to her and brushed his lips across hers. Let them sweat awhile. Let 'em have the whole stinking business. Whatever they do tous, at least we can get some sleep.     But you can't quit now, Bettijean protested. These brass hats don'tknow from—     Corporal! the colonel roared.  And from the door, an icy voice said, Yes, colonel?     The colonel and his captains wheeled, stared and saluted. Oh,general, the colonel said. I was just—     I know, the brigadier said, stepping into the room. I've beenlistening to you. And I thought I suggested that everybody leave thesergeant and his staff alone.     But, general, I—     The general showed the colonel his back and motioned Andy into hischair. He glanced to Bettijean and a smile warmed his wedge face.Corporal, were you speaking just then as a woman or as a soldier?     Crimson erupted into Bettijean's face and her tight laugh said manythings. She shrugged. Both I guess.     The general waved her to a chair and, oblivious of the colonel, pulledup a chair for himself. The last trace of humor drained from his faceas he leaned elbows on the desk. Andy, this is even worse than we hadfeared.     Andy fumbled for a cigarette and Bettijean passed him a match. Acaptain opened his mouth to speak, but the colonel shushed him.     I've just come from Intelligence, the general said. We haven't hada report—nothing from our agents, from the Diplomatic Corps, from thecivilian newspapermen—not a word from any Iron Curtain country for aday and half. Everybody's frantic. The last item we had—it was acoded message the Reds'd tried to censor—was an indication ofsomething big in the works.     A day and half ago, Andy mused. Just about the time we knew we hadan epidemic. And about the time they knew it.     It could be just propaganda, Bettijean said hopefully, proving thatthey could cripple us from within.     The general nodded. Or it could be the softening up for an all-outeffort. Every American base in the world is alerted and everyserviceman is being issued live ammunition. If we're wrong, we'vestill got an epidemic and panic that could touch it off. If we'reright ... well, we've got to know. What can you do?     Andy dropped his haggard face into his hands. His voice came throughmuffled. I can sit here and cry. For an eternity he sat there,futility piling on helplessness, aware of Bettijean's hand on his arm.He heard the colonel try to speak and sensed the general's movementthat silenced him.     Suddenly he sat upright and slapped a palm down on the desk. We'llfind your answers, sir. All we ask is co-operation.     The general gave both Andy and Bettijean a long, sober look, thenlaunched himself from the chair. Pivoting, he said, Colonel, you andyour captains will be stationed by that switchboard out there. For theduration of this emergency, you will take orders only from thesergeant and the corporal here.     But, general, the colonel wailed, a noncom? I'm assigned—     The general snorted. Insubordination cannot be tolerated—unless youfind a two-star general to outrank me. Now, as I said before, let'sget out of here and let these people work.  The brass exited wordlessly. Bettijean sighed noisily. Andy found hiscigarette dead and lit another. He fancied a tiny lever in his brainand he shifted gears to direct his thinking back into the properchannel. Abruptly his fatigue began to lift. He picked up the new pileof reports Bettijean had brought in.     She move around the desk and sat, noting the phone book he had used,studying the names he had crossed off. Did you learn anything? sheasked.     Andy coughed, trying to clear his raw throat. It's crazy, he said.From the Senate and House on down, I haven't found a singlegovernment worker sick.     I found a few, she said. Over in a Virginia hospital.     But I did find, Andy said, flipping through pages of his ownscrawl, a society matron and her social secretary, a whole flock ofoffice workers—business, not government—and new parents and newlyengaged girls and.... He shrugged.     Did you notice anything significant about those office workers?     Andy nodded. I was going to ask you the same, since I was justguessing. I hadn't had time to check it out.     Well, I checked some. Practically none of my victims came from bigoffices, either business or industry. They were all out of one andtwo-girl offices or small businesses.     That was my guess. And do you know that I didn't find a doctor,dentist or attorney?     Nor a single postal worker.     Andy tried to smile. One thing we do know. It's not a communicablething. Thank heaven for—     He broke off as a cute blonde entered and put stacks of reports beforeboth Andy and Bettijean. The girl hesitated, fidgeting, fingers to herteeth. Then, without speaking, she hurried out.     Andy stared at the top sheet and groaned. This may be something. Halfthe adult population of Aspen, Colorado, is down.     What? Bettijean frowned over the report in her hands. It's the samething—only not quite as severe—in Taos and Santa Fe, New Mexico.     Writers?     Mostly. Some artists, too, and musicians. And poets are among thehard hit.     This is insane, Andy muttered. Doctors and dentists arefine—writers and poets are sick. Make sense out of that.     Bettijean held up a paper and managed a confused smile. Here's acountry doctor in Tennessee. He doesn't even know what it's all about.Nobody's sick in his valley.     Somebody in our outer office is organized, Andy said, pulling at hiscigarette. Here're reports from a dozen military installations alllumped together.     What does it show?     Black-out. By order of somebody higher up—no medical releases. Mustmean they've got it. He scratched the growing stubble on his chin.If this were a fifth column setup, wouldn't the armed forces be thefirst hit?     Sure, Bettijean brightened, then sobered. Maybe not. The brasscould keep it secret if an epidemic hit an army camp. And they couldslap a control condition on any military area. But the panic will comefrom the general public.     Here's another batch, Andy said. Small college towns undertwenty-five thousand population. All hard hit.     Well, it's not split intellectually. Small colleges and small officesand writers get it. Doctors don't and dentists don't. But we can'ttell who's got it on the military bases.     And it's not geographical. Look, remember those two reports fromTennessee? That place where they voted on water bonds or something,everybody had it. But the country doctor in another section hadn'teven heard of it. Andy could only shake his head.     Bettijean heaved herself up from the chair and trudged back to theouter office. She returned momentarily with a tray of food. Putting apaper cup of coffee and a sandwich in front of Andy, she sat down andnibbled at her snack like an exhausted chipmunk.     Andy banged a fist at his desk again. Coffee splashed over the rim ofhis cup onto the clutter of papers. It's here, he said angrily.It's here somewhere, but we can't find it.     The answer?     Of course. What is it that girls in small offices do or eat or drinkor wear that girls in large offices don't do or eat or drink or wear?What do writers and doctors do differently? Or poets and dentists?What are we missing? What—  In the outer office a girl cried out. A body thumped against a desk,then a chair, then to the floor. Two girls screamed.     Andy bolted up from his chair. Racing to the door, he shouted back toBettijean, Get a staff doctor and a chemist from the lab.     It was the girl who had been so nervous in his office earlier. Now shelay in a pathetic little heap between her desk and chair, whimpering,shivering, eyes wide with horror. The other girls clustered at thehall door, plainly ready to stampede.     It's not contagious, Andy growled. Find some blankets or coats tocover her. And get a glass of water.     The other girls, glad for the excuse, dashed away. Andy scooped up thefallen girl and put her down gently on the close-jammed desks. He useda chair cushion for a pillow. By then the other girls were back with ablanket and the glass of water. He covered the girl, gave her a sip ofwater and heard somebody murmur, Poor Janis.     Now, Andy said brightly, how's that, Janis?     She mustered a smile, and breathed, Better. I ... I was so scared.Fever and dizzy ... symptoms like the epidemic.     Now you know there's nothing to be afraid of, Andy said, feelingsuddenly and ridiculously like a pill roller with a practiced bedsidemanner. You know you may feel pretty miserable, but nobody's conkedout with this stuff yet.     Janis breathed out and her taut body relaxed.     Don't hurry, Andy said, but I want you to tell me everything thatyou did—everything you ate or drank—in the last ... oh, twelvehours. He felt a pressure behind him and swiveled his head to seeBettijean standing there. He tried to smile.     What time is it? Janis asked weakly.     Andy glanced to a wall clock, then gave it a double take.     One of the girls said, It's three o'clock in the morning. She edgednearer Andy, obviously eager to replace Janis as the center ofattention. Andy ignored her.     I ... I've been here since ... golly, yesterday morning at nine,Janis said. I came to work as usual and....     Slowly, haltingly, she recited the routine of a routine work day, thentold about the quick snack that sufficed for supper and about stayingon her phone and typewriter for another five hours. It was abouteleven when the relief crew came in.     What did you do then? Andy asked.     I ... I took a break and.... Her ivory skin reddened, the colorspreading into the roots of her fluffy curls, and she turned her faceaway from Andy. And I had a sandwich and some coffee and got a littlenap in the ladies' lounge and ... and that's all.     And that's not all, Andy prompted. What else?     Nothing, Janis said too quickly.     Andy shook his head. Tell it all and maybe it'll help.     But ... but....     Was it something against regulations?     I ... I don't know. I think....     I'll vouch for your job in this office.     Well.... She seemed on the verge of tears and her pleading glancesought out Andy, then Bettijean, then her co-workers. Finally,resigned, she said, I ... I wrote a letter to my mother.     Andy swallowed against his groan of disappointment. And you told herabout what we were doing here.     Janis nodded, and tears welled into her wide eyes.     Did you mail it?     Y ... yes.     You didn't use a government envelope to save a stamp?     Oh, no. I always carry a few stamps with me. She choked down a sob.Did I do wrong?     No, I don't think so, Andy said, patting her shoulder. There'scertainly nothing secret about this epidemic. Now you just take iteasy and—. Oh, here's a doctor now.     The doctor, a white-headed Air Force major, bustled into the room. Alab technician in a white smock was close behind. Andy could onlyshrug and indicate the girl.     Turning away, lighting a cigarette, he tried to focus on the tangle ofthoughts that spun through his head. Doctors, writers, societymatrons, office workers—Aspen, Taos and college towns—thousands ofpeople sick—but none in that valley in Tennessee—and few governmentworkers—just one girl in his office—and she was sicker and morefrightened about a letter—and....     Hey, wait! Andy yelled.     Everyone in the room froze as Andy spun around, dashed to Bettijean'sdesk and yanked out the wide, top drawer. He pawed through it,straightened, then leaped across to the desk Janis had used. Hesnatched open drawer after drawer. In a bottom one he found her purse.Ripping it open, he dumped the contents on the desk and clawed throughthe pile until he found what he wanted. Handing it to the labtechnician, he said, Get me a report. Fast.     The technician darted out.     Andy wheeled to Bettijean. Get the brass in here. And call thegeneral first. To the doctor, he said, Give that girl the best ofeverything.     Then he ducked back to his own office and to the pile of reports. Hewas still poring over them when the general arrived. Half a dozenother brass hats, none of whom had been to bed, were close behind. Thelab technician arrived a minute later. He shook his head as he handedhis hastily scribbled report to Andy.  It was Bettijean who squeezed into the office and broke the brittlesilence. Andy, for heaven's sake, what is it? Then she moved aroundthe desk to stand behind him as he faced the officers.     Have you got something? the brigadier asked. Some girl outside wasbabbling about writers and doctors, and dentists and college students,and little secretaries and big secretaries. Have you established atrend?     Andy glanced at the lab report and his smile was as relieved as it wasweary. Our problem, he said, was in figuring out what a writer doesthat a doctor doesn't—why girls from small offices were sick—and whysenators and postal workers weren't—why college students caught thebug and people in a Tennessee community didn't.     The lab report isn't complete. They haven't had time to isolate thepoison and prescribe medication. But—he held up a four-centstamp—here's the villain, gentlemen.     The big brass stood stunned and shocked. Mouths flapped open and eyesbugged at Andy, at the stamp.     Bettijean said, Sure. College kids and engaged girls and new parentsand especially writers and artists and poets—they'd all lick lots ofstamps. Professional men have secretaries. Big offices havepostage-meter machines. And government offices have free franking.And—she threw her arms around the sergeant's neck—Andy, you'rewonderful.     The old American ingenuity, the colonel said, reaching for Andy'sphone. I knew we could lick it. Now all we have to do—     At ease, colonel, the brigadier said sharply. He waited until thecolonel had retreated, then addressed Andy. It's your show. What doyou suggest?     Get somebody—maybe even the President—on all radio and TV networks.Explain frankly about the four-centers and warn against licking anystamps. Then—     He broke off as his phone rang. Answering, he listened for a moment,then hung up and said, But before the big announcement, get somebodychecking on the security clearances at whatever plant it is where theyprint stamps. This's a big deal. Somebody may've been planted yearsago for this operation. It shouldn't be too hard.     But there's no evidence it was a plot yet. Could be pureaccident—some chemical in the stickum spoiled. Do they keep thestickum in barrels? Find out who had access. And ... oh, the phonecall. That was the lab. The antidote's simple and the cure should bequick. They can phone or broadcast the medical information to doctors.The man on the phone said they could start emptying hospitals in sixhours. And maybe we should release some propaganda. United Stateswhips mystery virus, or something like that. And we could send theKremlin a stamp collection and.... Aw, you take it, sir. I'm pooped.  The general wheeled to fire a salvo of commands. Officers poured intothe corridor. Only the brigadier remained, a puzzled frown crinklinghis granite brow.     But you said that postal workers weren't getting sick.     Andy chucked. That's right. Did you ever see a post office clerklick a stamp? They always use a sponge.     The general looked to Bettijean, to Andy, to the stamp. He grinned andthe grin became a rumbling laugh. How would you two like a thirty-dayfurlough to rest up—or to get better acquainted?     Bettijean squealed. Andy reached for her hand.     And while you're gone, the general continued, I'll see what stringsI can pull. If I can't wangle you a couple of battlefield commissions,I'll zip you both through O.C.S. so fast you won't even have time topin on the bars.     But neither Andy nor Bettijean had heard a word after the mention offurlough. Like a pair of puppy-lovers, they were sinking into thedepths of each other's eyes.     And the general was still chuckling as he picked up the lone four-centstamp in his left hand, made a gun of his right hand, and marched thestamp out of the office under guard.     THE END   ","From the start, the colonel does not approve of Sergeant Andrew McCloud. His gray eyes carry disapproval and irritation in them. As a member of the brass, the colonel strives for everything to be official and approved of, unlike the sergeant’s recent promotion. The replacement for the retired colonel had not yet arrived, and the chicken colonel is not thrilled. To have a noncom, defined as a noncommissioned officer, in charge of this office while in the midst of a national epidemic is ludicrous, in his eyes. 	Despite voicing his doubts and grievances, Sergeant Andy is allowed to continue working as the head-of-office, at least for the time being. The colonel steals away and plots his next move. 	Several hours later, he returns, this time with two officers in tow. He walks into Sergeant Andy’s office where he and Corporal Bettijean were looking through a stack of papers. With a defiant stride, the colonel tosses a newspaper onto the Sergeant’s desk. Andy reads it and quickly throws it across the room. The article tells the tale of a red plague taking over America, a possible plot from Russia, and baffled government officials. The colonel brought in the article--and possibly helped write it--to convey the seriousness of the situation, but Andy takes it as an offense instead. 	His colleague, Corporal Bettijean, defends Andy and reprimands the colonel at the same time. The captain behind him scolds her in return. After Sergeant Andy recites a list of excuses for his office, the colonel tells him that his insubordination will not be allowed. He calls for his removal, as well as Corporal Bettijean's, and promotes the two officers from the surgeon general’s office to take their positions. 	After some fight, Andy relents and stands up, releasing himself of his duty. He kisses his colleague once, before she tries to fight back again. The general walks in and quickly demotes the colonel and his men to working at the switchboard, where the reader can assume they stay for the rest of the story. "
"What is the plot of the story? </s>      A grim tale of a future in which everyone is desperate to escapereality, and a hero who wants to have his wine and drink it, too.       A BOTTLE OF       Old Wine       By Richard O. Lewis     Illustrated by KELLY FREAS    Herbert Hyrel  settled himselfmore comfortably in hiseasy chair, extended his short legsfurther toward the fireplace, and lethis eyes travel cautiously in the generaldirection of his wife.     She was in her chair as usual, herlong legs curled up beneath her,the upper half of her face hiddenin the bulk of her personalized,three-dimensional telovis. The telovis,of a stereoscopic nature, seeminglybrought the performers withall their tinsel and color directlyinto the room of the watcher.     Hyrel had no way of seeing intothe plastic affair she wore, but heguessed from the expression on thelower half of her face that she waswatching one of the newer black-marketsex-operas. In any event,there would be no sound, movement,or sign of life from her forthe next three hours. To break thethread of the play for even a momentwould ruin all the previousemotional build-up.     There had been a time when hehated her for those long and silentevenings, lonely hours duringwhich he was completely ignored.It was different now, however, forthose hours furnished him withtime for an escape of his own.     His lips curled into a tight smileand his right hand fondled the unobtrusiveswitch beneath his trouserleg. He did not press the switch.He would wait a few minuteslonger. But it was comforting toknow that it was there, exhilaratingto know that he could escapefor a few hours by a mere flick ofhis finger.     He let his eyes stray to the dimlight of the artificial flames in thefireplace. His hate for her was notbounded merely by those lonelyhours she had forced upon him.No, it was far more encompassing.     He hated her with a deep, burningsavagery that was deadly in itspassion. He hated her for hermoney, the money she kept securelyfrom him. He hated her for thepaltry allowance she doled out tohim, as if he were an irresponsiblechild. It was as if she were constantlyreminding him in everyglance and gesture, I made a badbargain when I married you. Youwanted me, my money, everything,and had nothing to give in returnexcept your own doltish self. Youset a trap for me, baited with liesand a false front. Now you arecaught in your own trap and willremain there like a mouse to eatfrom my hand whatever crumbs Istoop to give you.     But some day his hate would beappeased. Yes, some day soon hewould kill her!     He shot a sideways glance at her,wondering if by chance she suspected.... Shehadn't moved. Herlips were pouted into a half smile;the sex-opera had probablyreached one of its more pleasurablemoments.     Hyrel let his eyes shift back tothe fireplace again. Yes, he wouldkill her. Then he would claima rightful share of her money, berid of her debasing dominance.     He let the  thought runaround through his head, savoringit with mental taste buds.He would not kill her tonight. No,nor the next night. He would wait,wait until he had sucked the lastmeasure of pleasure from thethought.     It was like having a bottle ofrare old wine on a shelf where itcould be viewed daily. It was likebeing able to pause again andagain before the bottle, hold it upto the light, and say to it, Someday, when my desire for you hasreached the ultimate, I shall unstopperyou quietly and sip youslowly to the last soul-satisfyingdrop. As long as the bottle remainedthere upon the shelf it wassymbolic of that pleasurable moment....     He snapped out of his reverieand realized he had been wastingprecious moments. There would betime enough tomorrow for gloating.Tonight, there were otherthings to do. Pleasurable things.He remembered the girl he hadmet the night before, and smiledsmugly. Perhaps she would beawaiting him even now. If not,there would be another one....     He settled himself deeper intothe chair, glanced once more at hiswife, then let his head lean comfortablyback against the chair'sheadrest. His hand upon his thighfelt the thin mesh that cloaked hisbody beneath his clothing like asheer stocking. His fingers wentagain to the tiny switch. Again hehesitated.     Herbert Hyrel knew no moreabout the telporter suit he worethan he did about the radio in thecorner, the TV set against the wall,or the personalized telovis his wifewas wearing. You pressed one ofthe buttons on the radio; musiccame out. You pressed a buttonand clicked a dial on the TV;music and pictures came out. Youpressed a button and made an adjustmenton the telovis; three-dimensional,emotion-colored picturesleaped into the room. Youpressed a tiny switch on the telportersuit; you were whisked away toa receiving set you had previouslyset up in secret.     He knew that the music and theimages of the performers on theTV and telovis were brought to hisroom by some form of electrical impulseor wave while the actual musiciansand performers remained inthe studio. He knew that when hepressed the switch on his thighsomething within him—his ectoplasm,higher self, the thing spiritsuse for materialization, whateverits real name—streamed out of himalong an invisible channel, leavinghis body behind in the chair in aconscious but dream-like state. Hisother self materialized in a smallcabin in a hidden nook between ahighway and a river where he hadinstalled the receiving set a monthago.     He thought once more of the girlwho might be waiting for him,smiled, and pressed the switch.     The dank air  of the cabinwas chill to Herbert Hyrel'snaked flesh. He fumbled throughthe darkness for the clothing hekept there, found his shorts andtrousers, got hurriedly into them,then flicked on a pocket lighter andignited a stub of candle upon thetable. By the wavering light, he finisheddressing in the black satinclothing, the white shirt, the flowingnecktie and tam. He invoicedthe contents of his billfold. Notmuch. And his monthly pittancewas still two weeks away....     He had skimped for six monthsto salvage enough money from hisallowance to make a down paymenton the telporter suit. Sincethen, his expenses—monthly paymentsfor the suit, cabin rent, costlyliquor—had forced him to place hisnights of escape on strict ration. Hecould not go on this way, he realized.Not now. Not since he hadmet the girl. He had to have moremoney. Perhaps he could not affordthe luxury of leaving the winebottle longer upon the shelf....     Riverside Club, where Hyrel arrivedby bus and a hundred yardsof walking, was exclusive. It cateredto a clientele that had butthree things in common: money, adesire for utter self-abandonment,and a sales slip indicating ownershipof a telporter suit. The clubwas of necessity expensive, for self-telportationwas strictly illegal, andpolice protection came high.     Herbert Hyrel adjusted his white,silken mask carefully at the doorand shoved his sales slip through asmall aperture where it was thoroughlyscanned by unseen eyes. Abuzzer sounded an instant later, thelock on the door clicked, and Hyrelpushed through into the exhilaratingwarmth of music and laughter.     The main room was large. Hiddenlights along the walls sent slowbeams of red, blue, vermillion,green, yellow and pink trailingacross the domed ceiling in a heterogeneouspattern. The coloredbeams mingled, diffused, spread,were caught up by mirrors of varioustints which diffused and mingledthe lights once more until thewhole effect was an ever-changingpanorama of softly-melting shades.     The gay and bizarre costumes ofthe masked revelers on the dancefloor and at the tables, unearthly inthemselves, were made even moreso by the altering light. Musicflooded the room from unseensources. Laughter—hysterical,drunken, filled with utter abandonment—camefrom the dance floor,the tables, and the private boothsand rooms hidden cleverly withinthe walls.     Hyrel pushed himself to an unoccupiedtable, sat down and ordereda bottle of cheap whiskey. Hewould have preferred champagne,but his depleted finances forbadethe more discriminate taste.     When his order arrived, hepoured a glass tumbler half fulland consumed it eagerly while hiseyes scanned the room in search ofthe girl. He couldn't see her in thedim swirl of color. Had she arrived?Perhaps she was wearing adifferent costume than she had thenight before. If so, recognitionmight prove difficult.     He poured himself another drink,promising himself he would go insearch of her when the liquor beganto take effect.     A woman clad in the revealinggarb of a Persian dancer threw anarm about him from behind andkissed him on the cheek throughthe veil which covered the lowerpart of her face.     Hi, honey, she giggled into hisear. Havin' a time?     He reached for the white arm topull her to him, but she eluded hisgrasp and reeled away into thewaiting arms of a tall toreador.Hyrel gulped his whiskey andwatched her nestle into the arms ofher partner and begin with him asinuous, suggestive dance. Thewhiskey had begun its warming effect,and he laughed.     This was the land of the lotuseaters, the sanctuary of the escapists,the haven of all who wished tocast off their shell of inhibition andbecome the thing they dreamedthemselves to be. Here one couldbe among his own kind, an actorupon a gay stage, a gaudy butterflymetamorphosed from the slug,a knight of old.     The Persian dancing girl wasprobably the wife of a boorish oafwhose idea of romance was spendingan evening telling his wife howhe came to be a successful bankpresident. But she had found hermeans of escape. Perhaps she hadpleaded a sick headache and hadretired to her room. And there uponthe bed now reposed her shell ofreality while her inner self, theshadowy one, completely materialized,became an exotic thing fromthe East in this never-never land.     The man, the toreador, hadprobably closeted himself within hislibrary with a set of account booksand had left strict orders not to bedisturbed until he had finishedwith them.     Both would have terrific hangoversin the morning. But that, ofcourse, would be fully compensatedfor by the memories of the evening.     Hyrel chuckled. The situationstruck him as being funny: theshadowy self got drunk and had agood time, and the outer husk sufferedthe hangover in the morning.Strange. Strange how a device suchas the telporter suit could cause theshadow of each bodily cell to leavethe body, materialize, and becomea reality in its own right. Andyet ...     He looked  at the heel of hisleft hand. There was a long,irregular scar there. It was the resultof a cut he had received nearlythree weeks ago when he hadfallen over this very table and hadrammed his hand into a sliver ofbroken champagne glass. Later thatevening, upon re-telporting backhome, the pain of the cut had remainedin his hand, but there wasno sign of the cut itself on the handof his outer self. The scar was peculiarto the shadowy body only.There was something about theshadowy body that carried thehurts to the outer body, but not thescars....     Sudden laughter broke out nearhim, and he turned quickly in thatdirection. A group of gaily costumedrevelers was standing in asemi-circle about a small mound ofclothing upon the floor. It was thecostume of the toreador.     Hyrel laughed, too. It had happenedmany times before—a costumesuddenly left empty as itsowner, due to a threat of discoveryat home, had had to press theswitch in haste to bring his shadowyself—and complete consciousness—backto his outer self in ahurry.     A waiter picked up the clothing.He would put it safely away so thatthe owner could claim it upon hisnext visit to the club. Anotherwaiter placed a fresh bottle ofwhiskey on the table before Hyrel,and Hyrel paid him for it.     The whiskey, reaching his headnow in surges of warm cheerfulness,was filling him with abandonment,courage, and a desire formerriment. He pushed himself upfrom the table, joined the merrythrong, threw his arm about thePersian dancer, drew her close.     They began dancing slowly tothe throbbing rhythm, dancing andholding on to each other tightly.Hyrel could feel her hot breaththrough her veil upon his neck, addingto the headiness of the liquor.His feeling of depression and inferiorityflowed suddenly from him.Once again he was the all-conqueringmale.     His arm trembled as it drew herstill closer to him and he begandancing directly and purposefullytoward the shadows of a clump ofartificial palms near one corner ofthe room. There was an exit to thegarden behind the palms.     Half way there they passed a secludedbooth from which protrudeda long leg clad in blackmesh stocking. Hyrel paused as herecognized that part of the costume.It was she! The girl! Theone he had met so briefly the nightbefore!     His arm slid away from the Persiandancer, took hold of the mesh-cladleg, and pulled. A female formfollowed the leg from the boothand fell into his arms. He held hertightly, kissed her white neck, lether perfume send his thoughts reeling.     Been looking for me, honey?she whispered, her voice deep andthroaty.     You know it!     He began whisking her away towardthe palms. The Persian girlwas pulled into the booth.     Yes, she was wearing the samecostume she had worn the nightbefore, that of a can-can dancer ofthe 90's. The mesh hose that encasedher shapely legs were held upby flowered supporters in such amanner as to leave four inches ofwhite leg exposed between hose topand lacy panties. Her skirt, frilledto suggest innumerable petticoats,fell away at each hip, leaving thefront open to expose the full lengthof legs. She wore a wig of platinumhair encrusted with jewels thatsparkled in the lights. Her jewel-studdedmask was as white as herhair and covered the upper half ofher face, except for the largealmond slits for her eyes. A whitepurse, jewel crusted, dangled fromone arm.     He stopped once before reachingthe palms, drew her closer, kissedher long and ardently. Then he beganpulling her on again.     She drew back when theyreached the shelter of the fronds.Champagne, first, she whisperedhuskily into his ear.     His heart sank. He had very littlemoney left. Well, it might buya cheap brand....     She sipped  her champagneslowly and provocatively acrossthe table from him. Her eyes sparkledbehind the almond slits of hermask, caught the color changes andcast them back. She was wearingcontact lenses of a garish green.     He wished she would hurry withher drink. He had horrible visionsof his wife at home taking off hertelovis and coming to his chair. Hewould then have to press theswitch that would jerk his shadowyself back along its invisible connectingcord, jerk him back andleave but a small mound of clothesupon the chair at the table.     Deep depression laid hold ofhim. He would not be able to seeher after tonight until he receivedhis monthly dole two weeks hence.She wouldn't wait that long. Someoneelse would have her.     Unless ...     Yes, he knew now that he wasgoing to kill his wife as soon as theopportunity presented itself. Itwould be a simple matter. With theaid of the telporter suit, he couldestablish an iron-clad alibi.     He took a long drink of whiskeyand looked at the dancers abouthim. Sight of their gay costumesheightened his depression. He waswearing a cheap suit of satin, all hecould afford. But some day soon hewould show them! Some time soonhe would be dressed as gaily....     Something troubling you,honey?     His gaze shot back to her andshe blurred slightly before his eyes.No. Nothing at all! He summoneda sickly smile and clutchedher hand in his. Come on. Let'sdance.     He drew her from the chair andinto his arms. She melted towardhim as if desiring to become a partof him. A tremor of excitementsurged through him and threatenedto turn his knees into quiveringjelly. He could not make hisfeet conform to the floodingrhythm of the music. He half stumbled,half pushed her along past thebooths.     In the shelter of the palms hedrew her savagely to him. Let's—let'sgo outside. His voice was littlemore than a croak.     But, honey! She pushed herselfaway, her low voice maddeninghim. Don't you have a privateroom? A girl doesn't like to betaken outside....     Her words bit into his brain likethe blade of a hot knife.     No, he didn't have a privateroom at the club like the others. Aprivate room for his telporter receiver,a private room where hecould take a willing guest. No! Hecouldn't afford it! No!      No!     NO!His lot was a cheap suit of satin!Cheap whiskey! Cheap champagne!A cheap shack by theriver....     An inarticulate cry escaped histwisted lips. He clutched her roughlyto him and dragged her throughthe door and into the moonlight,whiskey and anger lending himbrutal strength.     He pulled her through the desertedgarden.      All the others hadprivate rooms!     He pulled her tothe far end, behind a clump ofsquatty firs. His hands clawed ather. He tried to smother her mouthwith kisses.     She eluded him deftly. But,      honey     ! Her voice had gone deeperinto her throat. I just want to besure about things. If you can't affordone of the private rooms—ifyou can't afford to show me a goodtime—if you can't come here realoften ...     The whiskey pounded andthrobbed at his brain like blowsfrom an unseen club. His egocurled and twisted within him likea headless serpent.     I'll have money! he shouted,struggling to hold her. I'll haveplenty of money! After tonight!     Then we'll wait, she said.We'll wait until tomorrow night.     No! he screamed. You don'tbelieve me! You're like the others!You think I'm no good! But I'llshow you! I'll show all of you!     She had gone  coldly rigid inhis arms, unyielding.     Madness added to the poundingin his brain. Tears welled into hiseyes.     I'll show you! I'll kill her! ThenI'll have money! The handsclutching her shoulders shook herdrunkenly. You wait here! I'll gohome and kill her now! Then I'llbe back!     Silly boy! Her low laughterrang hollowly in his ears. And justwho is it you are going to kill?     My wife! he cried. My wife!I'll ...     A sudden sobering thoughtstruck him. He was talking toomuch. And he wasn't making sense.He shouldn't be telling her this.Anyway, he couldn't get the moneytonight even if he did kill his wife.     And so you are going to killyour wife....     He blinked the tears from hiseyes. His chest was heaving, hisheart pounding. He looked at hershimmering form. Y-yes, he whispered.     Her eyes glinted strangely in thelight of the moon. Her handbagglinted as she opened it, and somethingshe took from it glitteredcoldly in her hand.     Fool!     The first shot tore squarelythrough his heart. And while hestood staring at her, mouth agape,a second shot burned its waythrough his bewildered brain.     Mrs. Herbert Hyrel  removedthe telovis from herhead and laid it carefully aside.She uncoiled her long legs from beneathher, walked to her husband'schair, and stood for a long momentlooking down at him, her lipsdrawn back in contempt. Then shebent over him and reached downhis thigh until her fingers contactedthe small switch.     Seconds later, a slight tremorshook Hyrel's body. His eyessnapped open, air escaped his lungs,his lower jaw sagged inanely, andhis head lolled to one side.     She stood a moment longer,watching his eyes become glazedand sightless. Then she walked tothe telephone.     Police? she said. This is Mrs.Herbert Hyrel. Something horriblehas happened to my husband.Please come over immediately.Bring a doctor.     She hung up, went to her bathroom,stripped off her clothing,and slid carefully out of her telportersuit. This she folded neatlyand tucked away into the false backof the medicine cabinet. She founda fresh pair of blue, plastifur pajamasand got into them.     She was just arriving back intothe living room, tying the cord ofher dressing gown about her slimwaist, when she heard the sound ofthe police siren out front.     THE END       Transcriber's Note:       This etext was produced from      If Worlds of Science Fiction     July 1953.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note.  ","The story begins in a living room where a husband and wife sit in their respective chairs, the wife wearing a headset called a telovis. The husband, Herbert Hyrel, figures she is watching a sex-opera as her escapist entertainment of choice, and waits a few minutes to start his own entertainment. As we waits, he considers his anger towards his wife: he no longer resented the time she spent not talking to him, while utilizing her telovis, but he did hate that she controlled the purse-strings in the household and gave him a small allowance. His anger had been pent up for some time, enough that he wanted to kill his wife, but for now he was satisfied with the idea of killing her. Once enough time had passed, he flicked a switch on the teleporter suit he was wearing and a version of his body appeared in a cabin in the woods that he was renting, where he had left himself a fresh outfit. He headed to the Riverside Club where he hoped to encounter a woman he had met recently, and when he got there he sat down and drank some cheap whiskey. He encountered a costumed woman who teased him, pulled away to dance with someone else, but came back to dance with him once the man she was with disappeared.  This man had flipped the switch on his suit, disappearing and leaving behind a pile of clothes, presumably because he would have been discovered wherever his original body was. As Herbert danced and moved outside, he spotted the woman he had been looking for, wearing a suggestive costume and a platinum wig, her body and her purse all covered in jewels. She asked him for champagne, which he was upset about because he did not have much money, but he obliged and tried to move the night forward after he had had something to drink. Again, though, she requested he spend more money on her--this time, for a private room at the club so they did not have to be outside. She said she was asking him to prove to her that she could be spoiled, but this pressure reminded him how angry he was that he had to spend the little money he had trying to escape from his wife, budgeting in a way that limited his nights out just to have some privacy. He started yelling about how he would have more money soon, and eventually admitted that he would kill his wife to get it. Hearing this, the woman he was with pulled a gun out of her purse and shot him--it was his wife all along. The scene jumps back to the house, where the wife pulls off her telovis set, smugly turns off her husband's teleporter suit, and watches him gasp for air and die. She called the police to call for a doctor, hid her own teleporter suit, and waited for the police to show."
"Who is Herbert's wife and what is her role in the story? </s>      A grim tale of a future in which everyone is desperate to escapereality, and a hero who wants to have his wine and drink it, too.       A BOTTLE OF       Old Wine       By Richard O. Lewis     Illustrated by KELLY FREAS    Herbert Hyrel  settled himselfmore comfortably in hiseasy chair, extended his short legsfurther toward the fireplace, and lethis eyes travel cautiously in the generaldirection of his wife.     She was in her chair as usual, herlong legs curled up beneath her,the upper half of her face hiddenin the bulk of her personalized,three-dimensional telovis. The telovis,of a stereoscopic nature, seeminglybrought the performers withall their tinsel and color directlyinto the room of the watcher.     Hyrel had no way of seeing intothe plastic affair she wore, but heguessed from the expression on thelower half of her face that she waswatching one of the newer black-marketsex-operas. In any event,there would be no sound, movement,or sign of life from her forthe next three hours. To break thethread of the play for even a momentwould ruin all the previousemotional build-up.     There had been a time when hehated her for those long and silentevenings, lonely hours duringwhich he was completely ignored.It was different now, however, forthose hours furnished him withtime for an escape of his own.     His lips curled into a tight smileand his right hand fondled the unobtrusiveswitch beneath his trouserleg. He did not press the switch.He would wait a few minuteslonger. But it was comforting toknow that it was there, exhilaratingto know that he could escapefor a few hours by a mere flick ofhis finger.     He let his eyes stray to the dimlight of the artificial flames in thefireplace. His hate for her was notbounded merely by those lonelyhours she had forced upon him.No, it was far more encompassing.     He hated her with a deep, burningsavagery that was deadly in itspassion. He hated her for hermoney, the money she kept securelyfrom him. He hated her for thepaltry allowance she doled out tohim, as if he were an irresponsiblechild. It was as if she were constantlyreminding him in everyglance and gesture, I made a badbargain when I married you. Youwanted me, my money, everything,and had nothing to give in returnexcept your own doltish self. Youset a trap for me, baited with liesand a false front. Now you arecaught in your own trap and willremain there like a mouse to eatfrom my hand whatever crumbs Istoop to give you.     But some day his hate would beappeased. Yes, some day soon hewould kill her!     He shot a sideways glance at her,wondering if by chance she suspected.... Shehadn't moved. Herlips were pouted into a half smile;the sex-opera had probablyreached one of its more pleasurablemoments.     Hyrel let his eyes shift back tothe fireplace again. Yes, he wouldkill her. Then he would claima rightful share of her money, berid of her debasing dominance.     He let the  thought runaround through his head, savoringit with mental taste buds.He would not kill her tonight. No,nor the next night. He would wait,wait until he had sucked the lastmeasure of pleasure from thethought.     It was like having a bottle ofrare old wine on a shelf where itcould be viewed daily. It was likebeing able to pause again andagain before the bottle, hold it upto the light, and say to it, Someday, when my desire for you hasreached the ultimate, I shall unstopperyou quietly and sip youslowly to the last soul-satisfyingdrop. As long as the bottle remainedthere upon the shelf it wassymbolic of that pleasurable moment....     He snapped out of his reverieand realized he had been wastingprecious moments. There would betime enough tomorrow for gloating.Tonight, there were otherthings to do. Pleasurable things.He remembered the girl he hadmet the night before, and smiledsmugly. Perhaps she would beawaiting him even now. If not,there would be another one....     He settled himself deeper intothe chair, glanced once more at hiswife, then let his head lean comfortablyback against the chair'sheadrest. His hand upon his thighfelt the thin mesh that cloaked hisbody beneath his clothing like asheer stocking. His fingers wentagain to the tiny switch. Again hehesitated.     Herbert Hyrel knew no moreabout the telporter suit he worethan he did about the radio in thecorner, the TV set against the wall,or the personalized telovis his wifewas wearing. You pressed one ofthe buttons on the radio; musiccame out. You pressed a buttonand clicked a dial on the TV;music and pictures came out. Youpressed a button and made an adjustmenton the telovis; three-dimensional,emotion-colored picturesleaped into the room. Youpressed a tiny switch on the telportersuit; you were whisked away toa receiving set you had previouslyset up in secret.     He knew that the music and theimages of the performers on theTV and telovis were brought to hisroom by some form of electrical impulseor wave while the actual musiciansand performers remained inthe studio. He knew that when hepressed the switch on his thighsomething within him—his ectoplasm,higher self, the thing spiritsuse for materialization, whateverits real name—streamed out of himalong an invisible channel, leavinghis body behind in the chair in aconscious but dream-like state. Hisother self materialized in a smallcabin in a hidden nook between ahighway and a river where he hadinstalled the receiving set a monthago.     He thought once more of the girlwho might be waiting for him,smiled, and pressed the switch.     The dank air  of the cabinwas chill to Herbert Hyrel'snaked flesh. He fumbled throughthe darkness for the clothing hekept there, found his shorts andtrousers, got hurriedly into them,then flicked on a pocket lighter andignited a stub of candle upon thetable. By the wavering light, he finisheddressing in the black satinclothing, the white shirt, the flowingnecktie and tam. He invoicedthe contents of his billfold. Notmuch. And his monthly pittancewas still two weeks away....     He had skimped for six monthsto salvage enough money from hisallowance to make a down paymenton the telporter suit. Sincethen, his expenses—monthly paymentsfor the suit, cabin rent, costlyliquor—had forced him to place hisnights of escape on strict ration. Hecould not go on this way, he realized.Not now. Not since he hadmet the girl. He had to have moremoney. Perhaps he could not affordthe luxury of leaving the winebottle longer upon the shelf....     Riverside Club, where Hyrel arrivedby bus and a hundred yardsof walking, was exclusive. It cateredto a clientele that had butthree things in common: money, adesire for utter self-abandonment,and a sales slip indicating ownershipof a telporter suit. The clubwas of necessity expensive, for self-telportationwas strictly illegal, andpolice protection came high.     Herbert Hyrel adjusted his white,silken mask carefully at the doorand shoved his sales slip through asmall aperture where it was thoroughlyscanned by unseen eyes. Abuzzer sounded an instant later, thelock on the door clicked, and Hyrelpushed through into the exhilaratingwarmth of music and laughter.     The main room was large. Hiddenlights along the walls sent slowbeams of red, blue, vermillion,green, yellow and pink trailingacross the domed ceiling in a heterogeneouspattern. The coloredbeams mingled, diffused, spread,were caught up by mirrors of varioustints which diffused and mingledthe lights once more until thewhole effect was an ever-changingpanorama of softly-melting shades.     The gay and bizarre costumes ofthe masked revelers on the dancefloor and at the tables, unearthly inthemselves, were made even moreso by the altering light. Musicflooded the room from unseensources. Laughter—hysterical,drunken, filled with utter abandonment—camefrom the dance floor,the tables, and the private boothsand rooms hidden cleverly withinthe walls.     Hyrel pushed himself to an unoccupiedtable, sat down and ordereda bottle of cheap whiskey. Hewould have preferred champagne,but his depleted finances forbadethe more discriminate taste.     When his order arrived, hepoured a glass tumbler half fulland consumed it eagerly while hiseyes scanned the room in search ofthe girl. He couldn't see her in thedim swirl of color. Had she arrived?Perhaps she was wearing adifferent costume than she had thenight before. If so, recognitionmight prove difficult.     He poured himself another drink,promising himself he would go insearch of her when the liquor beganto take effect.     A woman clad in the revealinggarb of a Persian dancer threw anarm about him from behind andkissed him on the cheek throughthe veil which covered the lowerpart of her face.     Hi, honey, she giggled into hisear. Havin' a time?     He reached for the white arm topull her to him, but she eluded hisgrasp and reeled away into thewaiting arms of a tall toreador.Hyrel gulped his whiskey andwatched her nestle into the arms ofher partner and begin with him asinuous, suggestive dance. Thewhiskey had begun its warming effect,and he laughed.     This was the land of the lotuseaters, the sanctuary of the escapists,the haven of all who wished tocast off their shell of inhibition andbecome the thing they dreamedthemselves to be. Here one couldbe among his own kind, an actorupon a gay stage, a gaudy butterflymetamorphosed from the slug,a knight of old.     The Persian dancing girl wasprobably the wife of a boorish oafwhose idea of romance was spendingan evening telling his wife howhe came to be a successful bankpresident. But she had found hermeans of escape. Perhaps she hadpleaded a sick headache and hadretired to her room. And there uponthe bed now reposed her shell ofreality while her inner self, theshadowy one, completely materialized,became an exotic thing fromthe East in this never-never land.     The man, the toreador, hadprobably closeted himself within hislibrary with a set of account booksand had left strict orders not to bedisturbed until he had finishedwith them.     Both would have terrific hangoversin the morning. But that, ofcourse, would be fully compensatedfor by the memories of the evening.     Hyrel chuckled. The situationstruck him as being funny: theshadowy self got drunk and had agood time, and the outer husk sufferedthe hangover in the morning.Strange. Strange how a device suchas the telporter suit could cause theshadow of each bodily cell to leavethe body, materialize, and becomea reality in its own right. Andyet ...     He looked  at the heel of hisleft hand. There was a long,irregular scar there. It was the resultof a cut he had received nearlythree weeks ago when he hadfallen over this very table and hadrammed his hand into a sliver ofbroken champagne glass. Later thatevening, upon re-telporting backhome, the pain of the cut had remainedin his hand, but there wasno sign of the cut itself on the handof his outer self. The scar was peculiarto the shadowy body only.There was something about theshadowy body that carried thehurts to the outer body, but not thescars....     Sudden laughter broke out nearhim, and he turned quickly in thatdirection. A group of gaily costumedrevelers was standing in asemi-circle about a small mound ofclothing upon the floor. It was thecostume of the toreador.     Hyrel laughed, too. It had happenedmany times before—a costumesuddenly left empty as itsowner, due to a threat of discoveryat home, had had to press theswitch in haste to bring his shadowyself—and complete consciousness—backto his outer self in ahurry.     A waiter picked up the clothing.He would put it safely away so thatthe owner could claim it upon hisnext visit to the club. Anotherwaiter placed a fresh bottle ofwhiskey on the table before Hyrel,and Hyrel paid him for it.     The whiskey, reaching his headnow in surges of warm cheerfulness,was filling him with abandonment,courage, and a desire formerriment. He pushed himself upfrom the table, joined the merrythrong, threw his arm about thePersian dancer, drew her close.     They began dancing slowly tothe throbbing rhythm, dancing andholding on to each other tightly.Hyrel could feel her hot breaththrough her veil upon his neck, addingto the headiness of the liquor.His feeling of depression and inferiorityflowed suddenly from him.Once again he was the all-conqueringmale.     His arm trembled as it drew herstill closer to him and he begandancing directly and purposefullytoward the shadows of a clump ofartificial palms near one corner ofthe room. There was an exit to thegarden behind the palms.     Half way there they passed a secludedbooth from which protrudeda long leg clad in blackmesh stocking. Hyrel paused as herecognized that part of the costume.It was she! The girl! Theone he had met so briefly the nightbefore!     His arm slid away from the Persiandancer, took hold of the mesh-cladleg, and pulled. A female formfollowed the leg from the boothand fell into his arms. He held hertightly, kissed her white neck, lether perfume send his thoughts reeling.     Been looking for me, honey?she whispered, her voice deep andthroaty.     You know it!     He began whisking her away towardthe palms. The Persian girlwas pulled into the booth.     Yes, she was wearing the samecostume she had worn the nightbefore, that of a can-can dancer ofthe 90's. The mesh hose that encasedher shapely legs were held upby flowered supporters in such amanner as to leave four inches ofwhite leg exposed between hose topand lacy panties. Her skirt, frilledto suggest innumerable petticoats,fell away at each hip, leaving thefront open to expose the full lengthof legs. She wore a wig of platinumhair encrusted with jewels thatsparkled in the lights. Her jewel-studdedmask was as white as herhair and covered the upper half ofher face, except for the largealmond slits for her eyes. A whitepurse, jewel crusted, dangled fromone arm.     He stopped once before reachingthe palms, drew her closer, kissedher long and ardently. Then he beganpulling her on again.     She drew back when theyreached the shelter of the fronds.Champagne, first, she whisperedhuskily into his ear.     His heart sank. He had very littlemoney left. Well, it might buya cheap brand....     She sipped  her champagneslowly and provocatively acrossthe table from him. Her eyes sparkledbehind the almond slits of hermask, caught the color changes andcast them back. She was wearingcontact lenses of a garish green.     He wished she would hurry withher drink. He had horrible visionsof his wife at home taking off hertelovis and coming to his chair. Hewould then have to press theswitch that would jerk his shadowyself back along its invisible connectingcord, jerk him back andleave but a small mound of clothesupon the chair at the table.     Deep depression laid hold ofhim. He would not be able to seeher after tonight until he receivedhis monthly dole two weeks hence.She wouldn't wait that long. Someoneelse would have her.     Unless ...     Yes, he knew now that he wasgoing to kill his wife as soon as theopportunity presented itself. Itwould be a simple matter. With theaid of the telporter suit, he couldestablish an iron-clad alibi.     He took a long drink of whiskeyand looked at the dancers abouthim. Sight of their gay costumesheightened his depression. He waswearing a cheap suit of satin, all hecould afford. But some day soon hewould show them! Some time soonhe would be dressed as gaily....     Something troubling you,honey?     His gaze shot back to her andshe blurred slightly before his eyes.No. Nothing at all! He summoneda sickly smile and clutchedher hand in his. Come on. Let'sdance.     He drew her from the chair andinto his arms. She melted towardhim as if desiring to become a partof him. A tremor of excitementsurged through him and threatenedto turn his knees into quiveringjelly. He could not make hisfeet conform to the floodingrhythm of the music. He half stumbled,half pushed her along past thebooths.     In the shelter of the palms hedrew her savagely to him. Let's—let'sgo outside. His voice was littlemore than a croak.     But, honey! She pushed herselfaway, her low voice maddeninghim. Don't you have a privateroom? A girl doesn't like to betaken outside....     Her words bit into his brain likethe blade of a hot knife.     No, he didn't have a privateroom at the club like the others. Aprivate room for his telporter receiver,a private room where hecould take a willing guest. No! Hecouldn't afford it! No!      No!     NO!His lot was a cheap suit of satin!Cheap whiskey! Cheap champagne!A cheap shack by theriver....     An inarticulate cry escaped histwisted lips. He clutched her roughlyto him and dragged her throughthe door and into the moonlight,whiskey and anger lending himbrutal strength.     He pulled her through the desertedgarden.      All the others hadprivate rooms!     He pulled her tothe far end, behind a clump ofsquatty firs. His hands clawed ather. He tried to smother her mouthwith kisses.     She eluded him deftly. But,      honey     ! Her voice had gone deeperinto her throat. I just want to besure about things. If you can't affordone of the private rooms—ifyou can't afford to show me a goodtime—if you can't come here realoften ...     The whiskey pounded andthrobbed at his brain like blowsfrom an unseen club. His egocurled and twisted within him likea headless serpent.     I'll have money! he shouted,struggling to hold her. I'll haveplenty of money! After tonight!     Then we'll wait, she said.We'll wait until tomorrow night.     No! he screamed. You don'tbelieve me! You're like the others!You think I'm no good! But I'llshow you! I'll show all of you!     She had gone  coldly rigid inhis arms, unyielding.     Madness added to the poundingin his brain. Tears welled into hiseyes.     I'll show you! I'll kill her! ThenI'll have money! The handsclutching her shoulders shook herdrunkenly. You wait here! I'll gohome and kill her now! Then I'llbe back!     Silly boy! Her low laughterrang hollowly in his ears. And justwho is it you are going to kill?     My wife! he cried. My wife!I'll ...     A sudden sobering thoughtstruck him. He was talking toomuch. And he wasn't making sense.He shouldn't be telling her this.Anyway, he couldn't get the moneytonight even if he did kill his wife.     And so you are going to killyour wife....     He blinked the tears from hiseyes. His chest was heaving, hisheart pounding. He looked at hershimmering form. Y-yes, he whispered.     Her eyes glinted strangely in thelight of the moon. Her handbagglinted as she opened it, and somethingshe took from it glitteredcoldly in her hand.     Fool!     The first shot tore squarelythrough his heart. And while hestood staring at her, mouth agape,a second shot burned its waythrough his bewildered brain.     Mrs. Herbert Hyrel  removedthe telovis from herhead and laid it carefully aside.She uncoiled her long legs from beneathher, walked to her husband'schair, and stood for a long momentlooking down at him, her lipsdrawn back in contempt. Then shebent over him and reached downhis thigh until her fingers contactedthe small switch.     Seconds later, a slight tremorshook Hyrel's body. His eyessnapped open, air escaped his lungs,his lower jaw sagged inanely, andhis head lolled to one side.     She stood a moment longer,watching his eyes become glazedand sightless. Then she walked tothe telephone.     Police? she said. This is Mrs.Herbert Hyrel. Something horriblehas happened to my husband.Please come over immediately.Bring a doctor.     She hung up, went to her bathroom,stripped off her clothing,and slid carefully out of her telportersuit. This she folded neatlyand tucked away into the false backof the medicine cabinet. She founda fresh pair of blue, plastifur pajamasand got into them.     She was just arriving back intothe living room, tying the cord ofher dressing gown about her slimwaist, when she heard the sound ofthe police siren out front.     THE END       Transcriber's Note:       This etext was produced from      If Worlds of Science Fiction     July 1953.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note.  ","Herbert's wife controls the financial affairs in their household. She is a fan of her telovis set, her preferred medium for escapist entertainment, and Herbert is under the impression that she likes to watch sex-operas, which are a longer experience that rely on emotional build-up. She makes most of the money but also controls it all, which Herbert resents her for--he thinks she is keeping it from him, and feels looked down upon when she gives him his allowance. This infantilizing attitude makes him extremely angry. She is devious and cunning, and hatches a plan to catch him in his act. It is her, after all, that drove him to want to escape. Either to confirm suspicions of a murder plot or to disrupt his own escapist time, she has her own teleporter suit that she uses to position herself to seduce her husband in the one place he figured he would be free from her. She dresses up covered in jewels and insists that he spend money on her to pressure him to admitting that he has none, which eventually pushes him to admit his plan. She kills him once she hears this, and calmly puts everything back in order as she reports something being wrong with her husband to the police, clearly not upset that her husband is dead. "
"Describe the dynamic between Herbert and his wife </s>      A grim tale of a future in which everyone is desperate to escapereality, and a hero who wants to have his wine and drink it, too.       A BOTTLE OF       Old Wine       By Richard O. Lewis     Illustrated by KELLY FREAS    Herbert Hyrel  settled himselfmore comfortably in hiseasy chair, extended his short legsfurther toward the fireplace, and lethis eyes travel cautiously in the generaldirection of his wife.     She was in her chair as usual, herlong legs curled up beneath her,the upper half of her face hiddenin the bulk of her personalized,three-dimensional telovis. The telovis,of a stereoscopic nature, seeminglybrought the performers withall their tinsel and color directlyinto the room of the watcher.     Hyrel had no way of seeing intothe plastic affair she wore, but heguessed from the expression on thelower half of her face that she waswatching one of the newer black-marketsex-operas. In any event,there would be no sound, movement,or sign of life from her forthe next three hours. To break thethread of the play for even a momentwould ruin all the previousemotional build-up.     There had been a time when hehated her for those long and silentevenings, lonely hours duringwhich he was completely ignored.It was different now, however, forthose hours furnished him withtime for an escape of his own.     His lips curled into a tight smileand his right hand fondled the unobtrusiveswitch beneath his trouserleg. He did not press the switch.He would wait a few minuteslonger. But it was comforting toknow that it was there, exhilaratingto know that he could escapefor a few hours by a mere flick ofhis finger.     He let his eyes stray to the dimlight of the artificial flames in thefireplace. His hate for her was notbounded merely by those lonelyhours she had forced upon him.No, it was far more encompassing.     He hated her with a deep, burningsavagery that was deadly in itspassion. He hated her for hermoney, the money she kept securelyfrom him. He hated her for thepaltry allowance she doled out tohim, as if he were an irresponsiblechild. It was as if she were constantlyreminding him in everyglance and gesture, I made a badbargain when I married you. Youwanted me, my money, everything,and had nothing to give in returnexcept your own doltish self. Youset a trap for me, baited with liesand a false front. Now you arecaught in your own trap and willremain there like a mouse to eatfrom my hand whatever crumbs Istoop to give you.     But some day his hate would beappeased. Yes, some day soon hewould kill her!     He shot a sideways glance at her,wondering if by chance she suspected.... Shehadn't moved. Herlips were pouted into a half smile;the sex-opera had probablyreached one of its more pleasurablemoments.     Hyrel let his eyes shift back tothe fireplace again. Yes, he wouldkill her. Then he would claima rightful share of her money, berid of her debasing dominance.     He let the  thought runaround through his head, savoringit with mental taste buds.He would not kill her tonight. No,nor the next night. He would wait,wait until he had sucked the lastmeasure of pleasure from thethought.     It was like having a bottle ofrare old wine on a shelf where itcould be viewed daily. It was likebeing able to pause again andagain before the bottle, hold it upto the light, and say to it, Someday, when my desire for you hasreached the ultimate, I shall unstopperyou quietly and sip youslowly to the last soul-satisfyingdrop. As long as the bottle remainedthere upon the shelf it wassymbolic of that pleasurable moment....     He snapped out of his reverieand realized he had been wastingprecious moments. There would betime enough tomorrow for gloating.Tonight, there were otherthings to do. Pleasurable things.He remembered the girl he hadmet the night before, and smiledsmugly. Perhaps she would beawaiting him even now. If not,there would be another one....     He settled himself deeper intothe chair, glanced once more at hiswife, then let his head lean comfortablyback against the chair'sheadrest. His hand upon his thighfelt the thin mesh that cloaked hisbody beneath his clothing like asheer stocking. His fingers wentagain to the tiny switch. Again hehesitated.     Herbert Hyrel knew no moreabout the telporter suit he worethan he did about the radio in thecorner, the TV set against the wall,or the personalized telovis his wifewas wearing. You pressed one ofthe buttons on the radio; musiccame out. You pressed a buttonand clicked a dial on the TV;music and pictures came out. Youpressed a button and made an adjustmenton the telovis; three-dimensional,emotion-colored picturesleaped into the room. Youpressed a tiny switch on the telportersuit; you were whisked away toa receiving set you had previouslyset up in secret.     He knew that the music and theimages of the performers on theTV and telovis were brought to hisroom by some form of electrical impulseor wave while the actual musiciansand performers remained inthe studio. He knew that when hepressed the switch on his thighsomething within him—his ectoplasm,higher self, the thing spiritsuse for materialization, whateverits real name—streamed out of himalong an invisible channel, leavinghis body behind in the chair in aconscious but dream-like state. Hisother self materialized in a smallcabin in a hidden nook between ahighway and a river where he hadinstalled the receiving set a monthago.     He thought once more of the girlwho might be waiting for him,smiled, and pressed the switch.     The dank air  of the cabinwas chill to Herbert Hyrel'snaked flesh. He fumbled throughthe darkness for the clothing hekept there, found his shorts andtrousers, got hurriedly into them,then flicked on a pocket lighter andignited a stub of candle upon thetable. By the wavering light, he finisheddressing in the black satinclothing, the white shirt, the flowingnecktie and tam. He invoicedthe contents of his billfold. Notmuch. And his monthly pittancewas still two weeks away....     He had skimped for six monthsto salvage enough money from hisallowance to make a down paymenton the telporter suit. Sincethen, his expenses—monthly paymentsfor the suit, cabin rent, costlyliquor—had forced him to place hisnights of escape on strict ration. Hecould not go on this way, he realized.Not now. Not since he hadmet the girl. He had to have moremoney. Perhaps he could not affordthe luxury of leaving the winebottle longer upon the shelf....     Riverside Club, where Hyrel arrivedby bus and a hundred yardsof walking, was exclusive. It cateredto a clientele that had butthree things in common: money, adesire for utter self-abandonment,and a sales slip indicating ownershipof a telporter suit. The clubwas of necessity expensive, for self-telportationwas strictly illegal, andpolice protection came high.     Herbert Hyrel adjusted his white,silken mask carefully at the doorand shoved his sales slip through asmall aperture where it was thoroughlyscanned by unseen eyes. Abuzzer sounded an instant later, thelock on the door clicked, and Hyrelpushed through into the exhilaratingwarmth of music and laughter.     The main room was large. Hiddenlights along the walls sent slowbeams of red, blue, vermillion,green, yellow and pink trailingacross the domed ceiling in a heterogeneouspattern. The coloredbeams mingled, diffused, spread,were caught up by mirrors of varioustints which diffused and mingledthe lights once more until thewhole effect was an ever-changingpanorama of softly-melting shades.     The gay and bizarre costumes ofthe masked revelers on the dancefloor and at the tables, unearthly inthemselves, were made even moreso by the altering light. Musicflooded the room from unseensources. Laughter—hysterical,drunken, filled with utter abandonment—camefrom the dance floor,the tables, and the private boothsand rooms hidden cleverly withinthe walls.     Hyrel pushed himself to an unoccupiedtable, sat down and ordereda bottle of cheap whiskey. Hewould have preferred champagne,but his depleted finances forbadethe more discriminate taste.     When his order arrived, hepoured a glass tumbler half fulland consumed it eagerly while hiseyes scanned the room in search ofthe girl. He couldn't see her in thedim swirl of color. Had she arrived?Perhaps she was wearing adifferent costume than she had thenight before. If so, recognitionmight prove difficult.     He poured himself another drink,promising himself he would go insearch of her when the liquor beganto take effect.     A woman clad in the revealinggarb of a Persian dancer threw anarm about him from behind andkissed him on the cheek throughthe veil which covered the lowerpart of her face.     Hi, honey, she giggled into hisear. Havin' a time?     He reached for the white arm topull her to him, but she eluded hisgrasp and reeled away into thewaiting arms of a tall toreador.Hyrel gulped his whiskey andwatched her nestle into the arms ofher partner and begin with him asinuous, suggestive dance. Thewhiskey had begun its warming effect,and he laughed.     This was the land of the lotuseaters, the sanctuary of the escapists,the haven of all who wished tocast off their shell of inhibition andbecome the thing they dreamedthemselves to be. Here one couldbe among his own kind, an actorupon a gay stage, a gaudy butterflymetamorphosed from the slug,a knight of old.     The Persian dancing girl wasprobably the wife of a boorish oafwhose idea of romance was spendingan evening telling his wife howhe came to be a successful bankpresident. But she had found hermeans of escape. Perhaps she hadpleaded a sick headache and hadretired to her room. And there uponthe bed now reposed her shell ofreality while her inner self, theshadowy one, completely materialized,became an exotic thing fromthe East in this never-never land.     The man, the toreador, hadprobably closeted himself within hislibrary with a set of account booksand had left strict orders not to bedisturbed until he had finishedwith them.     Both would have terrific hangoversin the morning. But that, ofcourse, would be fully compensatedfor by the memories of the evening.     Hyrel chuckled. The situationstruck him as being funny: theshadowy self got drunk and had agood time, and the outer husk sufferedthe hangover in the morning.Strange. Strange how a device suchas the telporter suit could cause theshadow of each bodily cell to leavethe body, materialize, and becomea reality in its own right. Andyet ...     He looked  at the heel of hisleft hand. There was a long,irregular scar there. It was the resultof a cut he had received nearlythree weeks ago when he hadfallen over this very table and hadrammed his hand into a sliver ofbroken champagne glass. Later thatevening, upon re-telporting backhome, the pain of the cut had remainedin his hand, but there wasno sign of the cut itself on the handof his outer self. The scar was peculiarto the shadowy body only.There was something about theshadowy body that carried thehurts to the outer body, but not thescars....     Sudden laughter broke out nearhim, and he turned quickly in thatdirection. A group of gaily costumedrevelers was standing in asemi-circle about a small mound ofclothing upon the floor. It was thecostume of the toreador.     Hyrel laughed, too. It had happenedmany times before—a costumesuddenly left empty as itsowner, due to a threat of discoveryat home, had had to press theswitch in haste to bring his shadowyself—and complete consciousness—backto his outer self in ahurry.     A waiter picked up the clothing.He would put it safely away so thatthe owner could claim it upon hisnext visit to the club. Anotherwaiter placed a fresh bottle ofwhiskey on the table before Hyrel,and Hyrel paid him for it.     The whiskey, reaching his headnow in surges of warm cheerfulness,was filling him with abandonment,courage, and a desire formerriment. He pushed himself upfrom the table, joined the merrythrong, threw his arm about thePersian dancer, drew her close.     They began dancing slowly tothe throbbing rhythm, dancing andholding on to each other tightly.Hyrel could feel her hot breaththrough her veil upon his neck, addingto the headiness of the liquor.His feeling of depression and inferiorityflowed suddenly from him.Once again he was the all-conqueringmale.     His arm trembled as it drew herstill closer to him and he begandancing directly and purposefullytoward the shadows of a clump ofartificial palms near one corner ofthe room. There was an exit to thegarden behind the palms.     Half way there they passed a secludedbooth from which protrudeda long leg clad in blackmesh stocking. Hyrel paused as herecognized that part of the costume.It was she! The girl! Theone he had met so briefly the nightbefore!     His arm slid away from the Persiandancer, took hold of the mesh-cladleg, and pulled. A female formfollowed the leg from the boothand fell into his arms. He held hertightly, kissed her white neck, lether perfume send his thoughts reeling.     Been looking for me, honey?she whispered, her voice deep andthroaty.     You know it!     He began whisking her away towardthe palms. The Persian girlwas pulled into the booth.     Yes, she was wearing the samecostume she had worn the nightbefore, that of a can-can dancer ofthe 90's. The mesh hose that encasedher shapely legs were held upby flowered supporters in such amanner as to leave four inches ofwhite leg exposed between hose topand lacy panties. Her skirt, frilledto suggest innumerable petticoats,fell away at each hip, leaving thefront open to expose the full lengthof legs. She wore a wig of platinumhair encrusted with jewels thatsparkled in the lights. Her jewel-studdedmask was as white as herhair and covered the upper half ofher face, except for the largealmond slits for her eyes. A whitepurse, jewel crusted, dangled fromone arm.     He stopped once before reachingthe palms, drew her closer, kissedher long and ardently. Then he beganpulling her on again.     She drew back when theyreached the shelter of the fronds.Champagne, first, she whisperedhuskily into his ear.     His heart sank. He had very littlemoney left. Well, it might buya cheap brand....     She sipped  her champagneslowly and provocatively acrossthe table from him. Her eyes sparkledbehind the almond slits of hermask, caught the color changes andcast them back. She was wearingcontact lenses of a garish green.     He wished she would hurry withher drink. He had horrible visionsof his wife at home taking off hertelovis and coming to his chair. Hewould then have to press theswitch that would jerk his shadowyself back along its invisible connectingcord, jerk him back andleave but a small mound of clothesupon the chair at the table.     Deep depression laid hold ofhim. He would not be able to seeher after tonight until he receivedhis monthly dole two weeks hence.She wouldn't wait that long. Someoneelse would have her.     Unless ...     Yes, he knew now that he wasgoing to kill his wife as soon as theopportunity presented itself. Itwould be a simple matter. With theaid of the telporter suit, he couldestablish an iron-clad alibi.     He took a long drink of whiskeyand looked at the dancers abouthim. Sight of their gay costumesheightened his depression. He waswearing a cheap suit of satin, all hecould afford. But some day soon hewould show them! Some time soonhe would be dressed as gaily....     Something troubling you,honey?     His gaze shot back to her andshe blurred slightly before his eyes.No. Nothing at all! He summoneda sickly smile and clutchedher hand in his. Come on. Let'sdance.     He drew her from the chair andinto his arms. She melted towardhim as if desiring to become a partof him. A tremor of excitementsurged through him and threatenedto turn his knees into quiveringjelly. He could not make hisfeet conform to the floodingrhythm of the music. He half stumbled,half pushed her along past thebooths.     In the shelter of the palms hedrew her savagely to him. Let's—let'sgo outside. His voice was littlemore than a croak.     But, honey! She pushed herselfaway, her low voice maddeninghim. Don't you have a privateroom? A girl doesn't like to betaken outside....     Her words bit into his brain likethe blade of a hot knife.     No, he didn't have a privateroom at the club like the others. Aprivate room for his telporter receiver,a private room where hecould take a willing guest. No! Hecouldn't afford it! No!      No!     NO!His lot was a cheap suit of satin!Cheap whiskey! Cheap champagne!A cheap shack by theriver....     An inarticulate cry escaped histwisted lips. He clutched her roughlyto him and dragged her throughthe door and into the moonlight,whiskey and anger lending himbrutal strength.     He pulled her through the desertedgarden.      All the others hadprivate rooms!     He pulled her tothe far end, behind a clump ofsquatty firs. His hands clawed ather. He tried to smother her mouthwith kisses.     She eluded him deftly. But,      honey     ! Her voice had gone deeperinto her throat. I just want to besure about things. If you can't affordone of the private rooms—ifyou can't afford to show me a goodtime—if you can't come here realoften ...     The whiskey pounded andthrobbed at his brain like blowsfrom an unseen club. His egocurled and twisted within him likea headless serpent.     I'll have money! he shouted,struggling to hold her. I'll haveplenty of money! After tonight!     Then we'll wait, she said.We'll wait until tomorrow night.     No! he screamed. You don'tbelieve me! You're like the others!You think I'm no good! But I'llshow you! I'll show all of you!     She had gone  coldly rigid inhis arms, unyielding.     Madness added to the poundingin his brain. Tears welled into hiseyes.     I'll show you! I'll kill her! ThenI'll have money! The handsclutching her shoulders shook herdrunkenly. You wait here! I'll gohome and kill her now! Then I'llbe back!     Silly boy! Her low laughterrang hollowly in his ears. And justwho is it you are going to kill?     My wife! he cried. My wife!I'll ...     A sudden sobering thoughtstruck him. He was talking toomuch. And he wasn't making sense.He shouldn't be telling her this.Anyway, he couldn't get the moneytonight even if he did kill his wife.     And so you are going to killyour wife....     He blinked the tears from hiseyes. His chest was heaving, hisheart pounding. He looked at hershimmering form. Y-yes, he whispered.     Her eyes glinted strangely in thelight of the moon. Her handbagglinted as she opened it, and somethingshe took from it glitteredcoldly in her hand.     Fool!     The first shot tore squarelythrough his heart. And while hestood staring at her, mouth agape,a second shot burned its waythrough his bewildered brain.     Mrs. Herbert Hyrel  removedthe telovis from herhead and laid it carefully aside.She uncoiled her long legs from beneathher, walked to her husband'schair, and stood for a long momentlooking down at him, her lipsdrawn back in contempt. Then shebent over him and reached downhis thigh until her fingers contactedthe small switch.     Seconds later, a slight tremorshook Hyrel's body. His eyessnapped open, air escaped his lungs,his lower jaw sagged inanely, andhis head lolled to one side.     She stood a moment longer,watching his eyes become glazedand sightless. Then she walked tothe telephone.     Police? she said. This is Mrs.Herbert Hyrel. Something horriblehas happened to my husband.Please come over immediately.Bring a doctor.     She hung up, went to her bathroom,stripped off her clothing,and slid carefully out of her telportersuit. This she folded neatlyand tucked away into the false backof the medicine cabinet. She founda fresh pair of blue, plastifur pajamasand got into them.     She was just arriving back intothe living room, tying the cord ofher dressing gown about her slimwaist, when she heard the sound ofthe police siren out front.     THE END       Transcriber's Note:       This etext was produced from      If Worlds of Science Fiction     July 1953.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note.  ","The relationship Herbert and his wife have seems to have an infantilizing or patronizing tone to it. His wife seems to be fairly cold towards him, at least from the way she interacts with his death in the last scene of the story, but Herbert is harboring a large amount of hate and anger. A lot of this dynamic is driven by the control of money in the household, as Herbert's wife is in charge of these decisions, and Herbert does not agree with her on how much money he should have access to. His anger increases as he works on a plan to get away from her, as he spends what little he has to maintain access to the Riverside Club, paying rent on a cabin, buying a teleporter suit, and similar expenses. He is finally pushed to make the choice to finally want to kill her when he finds he does not have the spending money to be able to buy nice drinks or private rooms for himself and the woman he meets at the club, who turns out to be his wife. "
"What is the significance of teleporter suits in the story? </s>      A grim tale of a future in which everyone is desperate to escapereality, and a hero who wants to have his wine and drink it, too.       A BOTTLE OF       Old Wine       By Richard O. Lewis     Illustrated by KELLY FREAS    Herbert Hyrel  settled himselfmore comfortably in hiseasy chair, extended his short legsfurther toward the fireplace, and lethis eyes travel cautiously in the generaldirection of his wife.     She was in her chair as usual, herlong legs curled up beneath her,the upper half of her face hiddenin the bulk of her personalized,three-dimensional telovis. The telovis,of a stereoscopic nature, seeminglybrought the performers withall their tinsel and color directlyinto the room of the watcher.     Hyrel had no way of seeing intothe plastic affair she wore, but heguessed from the expression on thelower half of her face that she waswatching one of the newer black-marketsex-operas. In any event,there would be no sound, movement,or sign of life from her forthe next three hours. To break thethread of the play for even a momentwould ruin all the previousemotional build-up.     There had been a time when hehated her for those long and silentevenings, lonely hours duringwhich he was completely ignored.It was different now, however, forthose hours furnished him withtime for an escape of his own.     His lips curled into a tight smileand his right hand fondled the unobtrusiveswitch beneath his trouserleg. He did not press the switch.He would wait a few minuteslonger. But it was comforting toknow that it was there, exhilaratingto know that he could escapefor a few hours by a mere flick ofhis finger.     He let his eyes stray to the dimlight of the artificial flames in thefireplace. His hate for her was notbounded merely by those lonelyhours she had forced upon him.No, it was far more encompassing.     He hated her with a deep, burningsavagery that was deadly in itspassion. He hated her for hermoney, the money she kept securelyfrom him. He hated her for thepaltry allowance she doled out tohim, as if he were an irresponsiblechild. It was as if she were constantlyreminding him in everyglance and gesture, I made a badbargain when I married you. Youwanted me, my money, everything,and had nothing to give in returnexcept your own doltish self. Youset a trap for me, baited with liesand a false front. Now you arecaught in your own trap and willremain there like a mouse to eatfrom my hand whatever crumbs Istoop to give you.     But some day his hate would beappeased. Yes, some day soon hewould kill her!     He shot a sideways glance at her,wondering if by chance she suspected.... Shehadn't moved. Herlips were pouted into a half smile;the sex-opera had probablyreached one of its more pleasurablemoments.     Hyrel let his eyes shift back tothe fireplace again. Yes, he wouldkill her. Then he would claima rightful share of her money, berid of her debasing dominance.     He let the  thought runaround through his head, savoringit with mental taste buds.He would not kill her tonight. No,nor the next night. He would wait,wait until he had sucked the lastmeasure of pleasure from thethought.     It was like having a bottle ofrare old wine on a shelf where itcould be viewed daily. It was likebeing able to pause again andagain before the bottle, hold it upto the light, and say to it, Someday, when my desire for you hasreached the ultimate, I shall unstopperyou quietly and sip youslowly to the last soul-satisfyingdrop. As long as the bottle remainedthere upon the shelf it wassymbolic of that pleasurable moment....     He snapped out of his reverieand realized he had been wastingprecious moments. There would betime enough tomorrow for gloating.Tonight, there were otherthings to do. Pleasurable things.He remembered the girl he hadmet the night before, and smiledsmugly. Perhaps she would beawaiting him even now. If not,there would be another one....     He settled himself deeper intothe chair, glanced once more at hiswife, then let his head lean comfortablyback against the chair'sheadrest. His hand upon his thighfelt the thin mesh that cloaked hisbody beneath his clothing like asheer stocking. His fingers wentagain to the tiny switch. Again hehesitated.     Herbert Hyrel knew no moreabout the telporter suit he worethan he did about the radio in thecorner, the TV set against the wall,or the personalized telovis his wifewas wearing. You pressed one ofthe buttons on the radio; musiccame out. You pressed a buttonand clicked a dial on the TV;music and pictures came out. Youpressed a button and made an adjustmenton the telovis; three-dimensional,emotion-colored picturesleaped into the room. Youpressed a tiny switch on the telportersuit; you were whisked away toa receiving set you had previouslyset up in secret.     He knew that the music and theimages of the performers on theTV and telovis were brought to hisroom by some form of electrical impulseor wave while the actual musiciansand performers remained inthe studio. He knew that when hepressed the switch on his thighsomething within him—his ectoplasm,higher self, the thing spiritsuse for materialization, whateverits real name—streamed out of himalong an invisible channel, leavinghis body behind in the chair in aconscious but dream-like state. Hisother self materialized in a smallcabin in a hidden nook between ahighway and a river where he hadinstalled the receiving set a monthago.     He thought once more of the girlwho might be waiting for him,smiled, and pressed the switch.     The dank air  of the cabinwas chill to Herbert Hyrel'snaked flesh. He fumbled throughthe darkness for the clothing hekept there, found his shorts andtrousers, got hurriedly into them,then flicked on a pocket lighter andignited a stub of candle upon thetable. By the wavering light, he finisheddressing in the black satinclothing, the white shirt, the flowingnecktie and tam. He invoicedthe contents of his billfold. Notmuch. And his monthly pittancewas still two weeks away....     He had skimped for six monthsto salvage enough money from hisallowance to make a down paymenton the telporter suit. Sincethen, his expenses—monthly paymentsfor the suit, cabin rent, costlyliquor—had forced him to place hisnights of escape on strict ration. Hecould not go on this way, he realized.Not now. Not since he hadmet the girl. He had to have moremoney. Perhaps he could not affordthe luxury of leaving the winebottle longer upon the shelf....     Riverside Club, where Hyrel arrivedby bus and a hundred yardsof walking, was exclusive. It cateredto a clientele that had butthree things in common: money, adesire for utter self-abandonment,and a sales slip indicating ownershipof a telporter suit. The clubwas of necessity expensive, for self-telportationwas strictly illegal, andpolice protection came high.     Herbert Hyrel adjusted his white,silken mask carefully at the doorand shoved his sales slip through asmall aperture where it was thoroughlyscanned by unseen eyes. Abuzzer sounded an instant later, thelock on the door clicked, and Hyrelpushed through into the exhilaratingwarmth of music and laughter.     The main room was large. Hiddenlights along the walls sent slowbeams of red, blue, vermillion,green, yellow and pink trailingacross the domed ceiling in a heterogeneouspattern. The coloredbeams mingled, diffused, spread,were caught up by mirrors of varioustints which diffused and mingledthe lights once more until thewhole effect was an ever-changingpanorama of softly-melting shades.     The gay and bizarre costumes ofthe masked revelers on the dancefloor and at the tables, unearthly inthemselves, were made even moreso by the altering light. Musicflooded the room from unseensources. Laughter—hysterical,drunken, filled with utter abandonment—camefrom the dance floor,the tables, and the private boothsand rooms hidden cleverly withinthe walls.     Hyrel pushed himself to an unoccupiedtable, sat down and ordereda bottle of cheap whiskey. Hewould have preferred champagne,but his depleted finances forbadethe more discriminate taste.     When his order arrived, hepoured a glass tumbler half fulland consumed it eagerly while hiseyes scanned the room in search ofthe girl. He couldn't see her in thedim swirl of color. Had she arrived?Perhaps she was wearing adifferent costume than she had thenight before. If so, recognitionmight prove difficult.     He poured himself another drink,promising himself he would go insearch of her when the liquor beganto take effect.     A woman clad in the revealinggarb of a Persian dancer threw anarm about him from behind andkissed him on the cheek throughthe veil which covered the lowerpart of her face.     Hi, honey, she giggled into hisear. Havin' a time?     He reached for the white arm topull her to him, but she eluded hisgrasp and reeled away into thewaiting arms of a tall toreador.Hyrel gulped his whiskey andwatched her nestle into the arms ofher partner and begin with him asinuous, suggestive dance. Thewhiskey had begun its warming effect,and he laughed.     This was the land of the lotuseaters, the sanctuary of the escapists,the haven of all who wished tocast off their shell of inhibition andbecome the thing they dreamedthemselves to be. Here one couldbe among his own kind, an actorupon a gay stage, a gaudy butterflymetamorphosed from the slug,a knight of old.     The Persian dancing girl wasprobably the wife of a boorish oafwhose idea of romance was spendingan evening telling his wife howhe came to be a successful bankpresident. But she had found hermeans of escape. Perhaps she hadpleaded a sick headache and hadretired to her room. And there uponthe bed now reposed her shell ofreality while her inner self, theshadowy one, completely materialized,became an exotic thing fromthe East in this never-never land.     The man, the toreador, hadprobably closeted himself within hislibrary with a set of account booksand had left strict orders not to bedisturbed until he had finishedwith them.     Both would have terrific hangoversin the morning. But that, ofcourse, would be fully compensatedfor by the memories of the evening.     Hyrel chuckled. The situationstruck him as being funny: theshadowy self got drunk and had agood time, and the outer husk sufferedthe hangover in the morning.Strange. Strange how a device suchas the telporter suit could cause theshadow of each bodily cell to leavethe body, materialize, and becomea reality in its own right. Andyet ...     He looked  at the heel of hisleft hand. There was a long,irregular scar there. It was the resultof a cut he had received nearlythree weeks ago when he hadfallen over this very table and hadrammed his hand into a sliver ofbroken champagne glass. Later thatevening, upon re-telporting backhome, the pain of the cut had remainedin his hand, but there wasno sign of the cut itself on the handof his outer self. The scar was peculiarto the shadowy body only.There was something about theshadowy body that carried thehurts to the outer body, but not thescars....     Sudden laughter broke out nearhim, and he turned quickly in thatdirection. A group of gaily costumedrevelers was standing in asemi-circle about a small mound ofclothing upon the floor. It was thecostume of the toreador.     Hyrel laughed, too. It had happenedmany times before—a costumesuddenly left empty as itsowner, due to a threat of discoveryat home, had had to press theswitch in haste to bring his shadowyself—and complete consciousness—backto his outer self in ahurry.     A waiter picked up the clothing.He would put it safely away so thatthe owner could claim it upon hisnext visit to the club. Anotherwaiter placed a fresh bottle ofwhiskey on the table before Hyrel,and Hyrel paid him for it.     The whiskey, reaching his headnow in surges of warm cheerfulness,was filling him with abandonment,courage, and a desire formerriment. He pushed himself upfrom the table, joined the merrythrong, threw his arm about thePersian dancer, drew her close.     They began dancing slowly tothe throbbing rhythm, dancing andholding on to each other tightly.Hyrel could feel her hot breaththrough her veil upon his neck, addingto the headiness of the liquor.His feeling of depression and inferiorityflowed suddenly from him.Once again he was the all-conqueringmale.     His arm trembled as it drew herstill closer to him and he begandancing directly and purposefullytoward the shadows of a clump ofartificial palms near one corner ofthe room. There was an exit to thegarden behind the palms.     Half way there they passed a secludedbooth from which protrudeda long leg clad in blackmesh stocking. Hyrel paused as herecognized that part of the costume.It was she! The girl! Theone he had met so briefly the nightbefore!     His arm slid away from the Persiandancer, took hold of the mesh-cladleg, and pulled. A female formfollowed the leg from the boothand fell into his arms. He held hertightly, kissed her white neck, lether perfume send his thoughts reeling.     Been looking for me, honey?she whispered, her voice deep andthroaty.     You know it!     He began whisking her away towardthe palms. The Persian girlwas pulled into the booth.     Yes, she was wearing the samecostume she had worn the nightbefore, that of a can-can dancer ofthe 90's. The mesh hose that encasedher shapely legs were held upby flowered supporters in such amanner as to leave four inches ofwhite leg exposed between hose topand lacy panties. Her skirt, frilledto suggest innumerable petticoats,fell away at each hip, leaving thefront open to expose the full lengthof legs. She wore a wig of platinumhair encrusted with jewels thatsparkled in the lights. Her jewel-studdedmask was as white as herhair and covered the upper half ofher face, except for the largealmond slits for her eyes. A whitepurse, jewel crusted, dangled fromone arm.     He stopped once before reachingthe palms, drew her closer, kissedher long and ardently. Then he beganpulling her on again.     She drew back when theyreached the shelter of the fronds.Champagne, first, she whisperedhuskily into his ear.     His heart sank. He had very littlemoney left. Well, it might buya cheap brand....     She sipped  her champagneslowly and provocatively acrossthe table from him. Her eyes sparkledbehind the almond slits of hermask, caught the color changes andcast them back. She was wearingcontact lenses of a garish green.     He wished she would hurry withher drink. He had horrible visionsof his wife at home taking off hertelovis and coming to his chair. Hewould then have to press theswitch that would jerk his shadowyself back along its invisible connectingcord, jerk him back andleave but a small mound of clothesupon the chair at the table.     Deep depression laid hold ofhim. He would not be able to seeher after tonight until he receivedhis monthly dole two weeks hence.She wouldn't wait that long. Someoneelse would have her.     Unless ...     Yes, he knew now that he wasgoing to kill his wife as soon as theopportunity presented itself. Itwould be a simple matter. With theaid of the telporter suit, he couldestablish an iron-clad alibi.     He took a long drink of whiskeyand looked at the dancers abouthim. Sight of their gay costumesheightened his depression. He waswearing a cheap suit of satin, all hecould afford. But some day soon hewould show them! Some time soonhe would be dressed as gaily....     Something troubling you,honey?     His gaze shot back to her andshe blurred slightly before his eyes.No. Nothing at all! He summoneda sickly smile and clutchedher hand in his. Come on. Let'sdance.     He drew her from the chair andinto his arms. She melted towardhim as if desiring to become a partof him. A tremor of excitementsurged through him and threatenedto turn his knees into quiveringjelly. He could not make hisfeet conform to the floodingrhythm of the music. He half stumbled,half pushed her along past thebooths.     In the shelter of the palms hedrew her savagely to him. Let's—let'sgo outside. His voice was littlemore than a croak.     But, honey! She pushed herselfaway, her low voice maddeninghim. Don't you have a privateroom? A girl doesn't like to betaken outside....     Her words bit into his brain likethe blade of a hot knife.     No, he didn't have a privateroom at the club like the others. Aprivate room for his telporter receiver,a private room where hecould take a willing guest. No! Hecouldn't afford it! No!      No!     NO!His lot was a cheap suit of satin!Cheap whiskey! Cheap champagne!A cheap shack by theriver....     An inarticulate cry escaped histwisted lips. He clutched her roughlyto him and dragged her throughthe door and into the moonlight,whiskey and anger lending himbrutal strength.     He pulled her through the desertedgarden.      All the others hadprivate rooms!     He pulled her tothe far end, behind a clump ofsquatty firs. His hands clawed ather. He tried to smother her mouthwith kisses.     She eluded him deftly. But,      honey     ! Her voice had gone deeperinto her throat. I just want to besure about things. If you can't affordone of the private rooms—ifyou can't afford to show me a goodtime—if you can't come here realoften ...     The whiskey pounded andthrobbed at his brain like blowsfrom an unseen club. His egocurled and twisted within him likea headless serpent.     I'll have money! he shouted,struggling to hold her. I'll haveplenty of money! After tonight!     Then we'll wait, she said.We'll wait until tomorrow night.     No! he screamed. You don'tbelieve me! You're like the others!You think I'm no good! But I'llshow you! I'll show all of you!     She had gone  coldly rigid inhis arms, unyielding.     Madness added to the poundingin his brain. Tears welled into hiseyes.     I'll show you! I'll kill her! ThenI'll have money! The handsclutching her shoulders shook herdrunkenly. You wait here! I'll gohome and kill her now! Then I'llbe back!     Silly boy! Her low laughterrang hollowly in his ears. And justwho is it you are going to kill?     My wife! he cried. My wife!I'll ...     A sudden sobering thoughtstruck him. He was talking toomuch. And he wasn't making sense.He shouldn't be telling her this.Anyway, he couldn't get the moneytonight even if he did kill his wife.     And so you are going to killyour wife....     He blinked the tears from hiseyes. His chest was heaving, hisheart pounding. He looked at hershimmering form. Y-yes, he whispered.     Her eyes glinted strangely in thelight of the moon. Her handbagglinted as she opened it, and somethingshe took from it glitteredcoldly in her hand.     Fool!     The first shot tore squarelythrough his heart. And while hestood staring at her, mouth agape,a second shot burned its waythrough his bewildered brain.     Mrs. Herbert Hyrel  removedthe telovis from herhead and laid it carefully aside.She uncoiled her long legs from beneathher, walked to her husband'schair, and stood for a long momentlooking down at him, her lipsdrawn back in contempt. Then shebent over him and reached downhis thigh until her fingers contactedthe small switch.     Seconds later, a slight tremorshook Hyrel's body. His eyessnapped open, air escaped his lungs,his lower jaw sagged inanely, andhis head lolled to one side.     She stood a moment longer,watching his eyes become glazedand sightless. Then she walked tothe telephone.     Police? she said. This is Mrs.Herbert Hyrel. Something horriblehas happened to my husband.Please come over immediately.Bring a doctor.     She hung up, went to her bathroom,stripped off her clothing,and slid carefully out of her telportersuit. This she folded neatlyand tucked away into the false backof the medicine cabinet. She founda fresh pair of blue, plastifur pajamasand got into them.     She was just arriving back intothe living room, tying the cord ofher dressing gown about her slimwaist, when she heard the sound ofthe police siren out front.     THE END       Transcriber's Note:       This etext was produced from      If Worlds of Science Fiction     July 1953.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note.  ","Teleporter suits play an important role in the relationship of Herbert and his wife, but also in the society that they live in more broadly. In terms of broad significance, the teleporter suits are important to the Riverside Club, as only people who own one are allowed to enter. They are illegal to own, so the club had to be careful about who they let in. Even though they are frowned upon, it seems they are a popular purchase for those who can afford them. Both Herbert and his wife own one, though we don't learn that his wife has one until the end of the story. For Herbert, the teleporter suit is his ticket to spend time outside of the house that he feels trapped in, in a relationship that he is not happy in. It allows him to visit this club and meet other people. At the same time, it is these suits that allowed his wife to follow him to the club and convince him to admit his plans, eventually ending in his death. After she shoots him, she hides her own suit but leaves his on his person. Because the body in the suit and the other copy of the body experience things differently, it was a sneaky way to kill her husband. "
"Describe the significance of the Riverside Club in the society in general and the story in particular. </s>      A grim tale of a future in which everyone is desperate to escapereality, and a hero who wants to have his wine and drink it, too.       A BOTTLE OF       Old Wine       By Richard O. Lewis     Illustrated by KELLY FREAS    Herbert Hyrel  settled himselfmore comfortably in hiseasy chair, extended his short legsfurther toward the fireplace, and lethis eyes travel cautiously in the generaldirection of his wife.     She was in her chair as usual, herlong legs curled up beneath her,the upper half of her face hiddenin the bulk of her personalized,three-dimensional telovis. The telovis,of a stereoscopic nature, seeminglybrought the performers withall their tinsel and color directlyinto the room of the watcher.     Hyrel had no way of seeing intothe plastic affair she wore, but heguessed from the expression on thelower half of her face that she waswatching one of the newer black-marketsex-operas. In any event,there would be no sound, movement,or sign of life from her forthe next three hours. To break thethread of the play for even a momentwould ruin all the previousemotional build-up.     There had been a time when hehated her for those long and silentevenings, lonely hours duringwhich he was completely ignored.It was different now, however, forthose hours furnished him withtime for an escape of his own.     His lips curled into a tight smileand his right hand fondled the unobtrusiveswitch beneath his trouserleg. He did not press the switch.He would wait a few minuteslonger. But it was comforting toknow that it was there, exhilaratingto know that he could escapefor a few hours by a mere flick ofhis finger.     He let his eyes stray to the dimlight of the artificial flames in thefireplace. His hate for her was notbounded merely by those lonelyhours she had forced upon him.No, it was far more encompassing.     He hated her with a deep, burningsavagery that was deadly in itspassion. He hated her for hermoney, the money she kept securelyfrom him. He hated her for thepaltry allowance she doled out tohim, as if he were an irresponsiblechild. It was as if she were constantlyreminding him in everyglance and gesture, I made a badbargain when I married you. Youwanted me, my money, everything,and had nothing to give in returnexcept your own doltish self. Youset a trap for me, baited with liesand a false front. Now you arecaught in your own trap and willremain there like a mouse to eatfrom my hand whatever crumbs Istoop to give you.     But some day his hate would beappeased. Yes, some day soon hewould kill her!     He shot a sideways glance at her,wondering if by chance she suspected.... Shehadn't moved. Herlips were pouted into a half smile;the sex-opera had probablyreached one of its more pleasurablemoments.     Hyrel let his eyes shift back tothe fireplace again. Yes, he wouldkill her. Then he would claima rightful share of her money, berid of her debasing dominance.     He let the  thought runaround through his head, savoringit with mental taste buds.He would not kill her tonight. No,nor the next night. He would wait,wait until he had sucked the lastmeasure of pleasure from thethought.     It was like having a bottle ofrare old wine on a shelf where itcould be viewed daily. It was likebeing able to pause again andagain before the bottle, hold it upto the light, and say to it, Someday, when my desire for you hasreached the ultimate, I shall unstopperyou quietly and sip youslowly to the last soul-satisfyingdrop. As long as the bottle remainedthere upon the shelf it wassymbolic of that pleasurable moment....     He snapped out of his reverieand realized he had been wastingprecious moments. There would betime enough tomorrow for gloating.Tonight, there were otherthings to do. Pleasurable things.He remembered the girl he hadmet the night before, and smiledsmugly. Perhaps she would beawaiting him even now. If not,there would be another one....     He settled himself deeper intothe chair, glanced once more at hiswife, then let his head lean comfortablyback against the chair'sheadrest. His hand upon his thighfelt the thin mesh that cloaked hisbody beneath his clothing like asheer stocking. His fingers wentagain to the tiny switch. Again hehesitated.     Herbert Hyrel knew no moreabout the telporter suit he worethan he did about the radio in thecorner, the TV set against the wall,or the personalized telovis his wifewas wearing. You pressed one ofthe buttons on the radio; musiccame out. You pressed a buttonand clicked a dial on the TV;music and pictures came out. Youpressed a button and made an adjustmenton the telovis; three-dimensional,emotion-colored picturesleaped into the room. Youpressed a tiny switch on the telportersuit; you were whisked away toa receiving set you had previouslyset up in secret.     He knew that the music and theimages of the performers on theTV and telovis were brought to hisroom by some form of electrical impulseor wave while the actual musiciansand performers remained inthe studio. He knew that when hepressed the switch on his thighsomething within him—his ectoplasm,higher self, the thing spiritsuse for materialization, whateverits real name—streamed out of himalong an invisible channel, leavinghis body behind in the chair in aconscious but dream-like state. Hisother self materialized in a smallcabin in a hidden nook between ahighway and a river where he hadinstalled the receiving set a monthago.     He thought once more of the girlwho might be waiting for him,smiled, and pressed the switch.     The dank air  of the cabinwas chill to Herbert Hyrel'snaked flesh. He fumbled throughthe darkness for the clothing hekept there, found his shorts andtrousers, got hurriedly into them,then flicked on a pocket lighter andignited a stub of candle upon thetable. By the wavering light, he finisheddressing in the black satinclothing, the white shirt, the flowingnecktie and tam. He invoicedthe contents of his billfold. Notmuch. And his monthly pittancewas still two weeks away....     He had skimped for six monthsto salvage enough money from hisallowance to make a down paymenton the telporter suit. Sincethen, his expenses—monthly paymentsfor the suit, cabin rent, costlyliquor—had forced him to place hisnights of escape on strict ration. Hecould not go on this way, he realized.Not now. Not since he hadmet the girl. He had to have moremoney. Perhaps he could not affordthe luxury of leaving the winebottle longer upon the shelf....     Riverside Club, where Hyrel arrivedby bus and a hundred yardsof walking, was exclusive. It cateredto a clientele that had butthree things in common: money, adesire for utter self-abandonment,and a sales slip indicating ownershipof a telporter suit. The clubwas of necessity expensive, for self-telportationwas strictly illegal, andpolice protection came high.     Herbert Hyrel adjusted his white,silken mask carefully at the doorand shoved his sales slip through asmall aperture where it was thoroughlyscanned by unseen eyes. Abuzzer sounded an instant later, thelock on the door clicked, and Hyrelpushed through into the exhilaratingwarmth of music and laughter.     The main room was large. Hiddenlights along the walls sent slowbeams of red, blue, vermillion,green, yellow and pink trailingacross the domed ceiling in a heterogeneouspattern. The coloredbeams mingled, diffused, spread,were caught up by mirrors of varioustints which diffused and mingledthe lights once more until thewhole effect was an ever-changingpanorama of softly-melting shades.     The gay and bizarre costumes ofthe masked revelers on the dancefloor and at the tables, unearthly inthemselves, were made even moreso by the altering light. Musicflooded the room from unseensources. Laughter—hysterical,drunken, filled with utter abandonment—camefrom the dance floor,the tables, and the private boothsand rooms hidden cleverly withinthe walls.     Hyrel pushed himself to an unoccupiedtable, sat down and ordereda bottle of cheap whiskey. Hewould have preferred champagne,but his depleted finances forbadethe more discriminate taste.     When his order arrived, hepoured a glass tumbler half fulland consumed it eagerly while hiseyes scanned the room in search ofthe girl. He couldn't see her in thedim swirl of color. Had she arrived?Perhaps she was wearing adifferent costume than she had thenight before. If so, recognitionmight prove difficult.     He poured himself another drink,promising himself he would go insearch of her when the liquor beganto take effect.     A woman clad in the revealinggarb of a Persian dancer threw anarm about him from behind andkissed him on the cheek throughthe veil which covered the lowerpart of her face.     Hi, honey, she giggled into hisear. Havin' a time?     He reached for the white arm topull her to him, but she eluded hisgrasp and reeled away into thewaiting arms of a tall toreador.Hyrel gulped his whiskey andwatched her nestle into the arms ofher partner and begin with him asinuous, suggestive dance. Thewhiskey had begun its warming effect,and he laughed.     This was the land of the lotuseaters, the sanctuary of the escapists,the haven of all who wished tocast off their shell of inhibition andbecome the thing they dreamedthemselves to be. Here one couldbe among his own kind, an actorupon a gay stage, a gaudy butterflymetamorphosed from the slug,a knight of old.     The Persian dancing girl wasprobably the wife of a boorish oafwhose idea of romance was spendingan evening telling his wife howhe came to be a successful bankpresident. But she had found hermeans of escape. Perhaps she hadpleaded a sick headache and hadretired to her room. And there uponthe bed now reposed her shell ofreality while her inner self, theshadowy one, completely materialized,became an exotic thing fromthe East in this never-never land.     The man, the toreador, hadprobably closeted himself within hislibrary with a set of account booksand had left strict orders not to bedisturbed until he had finishedwith them.     Both would have terrific hangoversin the morning. But that, ofcourse, would be fully compensatedfor by the memories of the evening.     Hyrel chuckled. The situationstruck him as being funny: theshadowy self got drunk and had agood time, and the outer husk sufferedthe hangover in the morning.Strange. Strange how a device suchas the telporter suit could cause theshadow of each bodily cell to leavethe body, materialize, and becomea reality in its own right. Andyet ...     He looked  at the heel of hisleft hand. There was a long,irregular scar there. It was the resultof a cut he had received nearlythree weeks ago when he hadfallen over this very table and hadrammed his hand into a sliver ofbroken champagne glass. Later thatevening, upon re-telporting backhome, the pain of the cut had remainedin his hand, but there wasno sign of the cut itself on the handof his outer self. The scar was peculiarto the shadowy body only.There was something about theshadowy body that carried thehurts to the outer body, but not thescars....     Sudden laughter broke out nearhim, and he turned quickly in thatdirection. A group of gaily costumedrevelers was standing in asemi-circle about a small mound ofclothing upon the floor. It was thecostume of the toreador.     Hyrel laughed, too. It had happenedmany times before—a costumesuddenly left empty as itsowner, due to a threat of discoveryat home, had had to press theswitch in haste to bring his shadowyself—and complete consciousness—backto his outer self in ahurry.     A waiter picked up the clothing.He would put it safely away so thatthe owner could claim it upon hisnext visit to the club. Anotherwaiter placed a fresh bottle ofwhiskey on the table before Hyrel,and Hyrel paid him for it.     The whiskey, reaching his headnow in surges of warm cheerfulness,was filling him with abandonment,courage, and a desire formerriment. He pushed himself upfrom the table, joined the merrythrong, threw his arm about thePersian dancer, drew her close.     They began dancing slowly tothe throbbing rhythm, dancing andholding on to each other tightly.Hyrel could feel her hot breaththrough her veil upon his neck, addingto the headiness of the liquor.His feeling of depression and inferiorityflowed suddenly from him.Once again he was the all-conqueringmale.     His arm trembled as it drew herstill closer to him and he begandancing directly and purposefullytoward the shadows of a clump ofartificial palms near one corner ofthe room. There was an exit to thegarden behind the palms.     Half way there they passed a secludedbooth from which protrudeda long leg clad in blackmesh stocking. Hyrel paused as herecognized that part of the costume.It was she! The girl! Theone he had met so briefly the nightbefore!     His arm slid away from the Persiandancer, took hold of the mesh-cladleg, and pulled. A female formfollowed the leg from the boothand fell into his arms. He held hertightly, kissed her white neck, lether perfume send his thoughts reeling.     Been looking for me, honey?she whispered, her voice deep andthroaty.     You know it!     He began whisking her away towardthe palms. The Persian girlwas pulled into the booth.     Yes, she was wearing the samecostume she had worn the nightbefore, that of a can-can dancer ofthe 90's. The mesh hose that encasedher shapely legs were held upby flowered supporters in such amanner as to leave four inches ofwhite leg exposed between hose topand lacy panties. Her skirt, frilledto suggest innumerable petticoats,fell away at each hip, leaving thefront open to expose the full lengthof legs. She wore a wig of platinumhair encrusted with jewels thatsparkled in the lights. Her jewel-studdedmask was as white as herhair and covered the upper half ofher face, except for the largealmond slits for her eyes. A whitepurse, jewel crusted, dangled fromone arm.     He stopped once before reachingthe palms, drew her closer, kissedher long and ardently. Then he beganpulling her on again.     She drew back when theyreached the shelter of the fronds.Champagne, first, she whisperedhuskily into his ear.     His heart sank. He had very littlemoney left. Well, it might buya cheap brand....     She sipped  her champagneslowly and provocatively acrossthe table from him. Her eyes sparkledbehind the almond slits of hermask, caught the color changes andcast them back. She was wearingcontact lenses of a garish green.     He wished she would hurry withher drink. He had horrible visionsof his wife at home taking off hertelovis and coming to his chair. Hewould then have to press theswitch that would jerk his shadowyself back along its invisible connectingcord, jerk him back andleave but a small mound of clothesupon the chair at the table.     Deep depression laid hold ofhim. He would not be able to seeher after tonight until he receivedhis monthly dole two weeks hence.She wouldn't wait that long. Someoneelse would have her.     Unless ...     Yes, he knew now that he wasgoing to kill his wife as soon as theopportunity presented itself. Itwould be a simple matter. With theaid of the telporter suit, he couldestablish an iron-clad alibi.     He took a long drink of whiskeyand looked at the dancers abouthim. Sight of their gay costumesheightened his depression. He waswearing a cheap suit of satin, all hecould afford. But some day soon hewould show them! Some time soonhe would be dressed as gaily....     Something troubling you,honey?     His gaze shot back to her andshe blurred slightly before his eyes.No. Nothing at all! He summoneda sickly smile and clutchedher hand in his. Come on. Let'sdance.     He drew her from the chair andinto his arms. She melted towardhim as if desiring to become a partof him. A tremor of excitementsurged through him and threatenedto turn his knees into quiveringjelly. He could not make hisfeet conform to the floodingrhythm of the music. He half stumbled,half pushed her along past thebooths.     In the shelter of the palms hedrew her savagely to him. Let's—let'sgo outside. His voice was littlemore than a croak.     But, honey! She pushed herselfaway, her low voice maddeninghim. Don't you have a privateroom? A girl doesn't like to betaken outside....     Her words bit into his brain likethe blade of a hot knife.     No, he didn't have a privateroom at the club like the others. Aprivate room for his telporter receiver,a private room where hecould take a willing guest. No! Hecouldn't afford it! No!      No!     NO!His lot was a cheap suit of satin!Cheap whiskey! Cheap champagne!A cheap shack by theriver....     An inarticulate cry escaped histwisted lips. He clutched her roughlyto him and dragged her throughthe door and into the moonlight,whiskey and anger lending himbrutal strength.     He pulled her through the desertedgarden.      All the others hadprivate rooms!     He pulled her tothe far end, behind a clump ofsquatty firs. His hands clawed ather. He tried to smother her mouthwith kisses.     She eluded him deftly. But,      honey     ! Her voice had gone deeperinto her throat. I just want to besure about things. If you can't affordone of the private rooms—ifyou can't afford to show me a goodtime—if you can't come here realoften ...     The whiskey pounded andthrobbed at his brain like blowsfrom an unseen club. His egocurled and twisted within him likea headless serpent.     I'll have money! he shouted,struggling to hold her. I'll haveplenty of money! After tonight!     Then we'll wait, she said.We'll wait until tomorrow night.     No! he screamed. You don'tbelieve me! You're like the others!You think I'm no good! But I'llshow you! I'll show all of you!     She had gone  coldly rigid inhis arms, unyielding.     Madness added to the poundingin his brain. Tears welled into hiseyes.     I'll show you! I'll kill her! ThenI'll have money! The handsclutching her shoulders shook herdrunkenly. You wait here! I'll gohome and kill her now! Then I'llbe back!     Silly boy! Her low laughterrang hollowly in his ears. And justwho is it you are going to kill?     My wife! he cried. My wife!I'll ...     A sudden sobering thoughtstruck him. He was talking toomuch. And he wasn't making sense.He shouldn't be telling her this.Anyway, he couldn't get the moneytonight even if he did kill his wife.     And so you are going to killyour wife....     He blinked the tears from hiseyes. His chest was heaving, hisheart pounding. He looked at hershimmering form. Y-yes, he whispered.     Her eyes glinted strangely in thelight of the moon. Her handbagglinted as she opened it, and somethingshe took from it glitteredcoldly in her hand.     Fool!     The first shot tore squarelythrough his heart. And while hestood staring at her, mouth agape,a second shot burned its waythrough his bewildered brain.     Mrs. Herbert Hyrel  removedthe telovis from herhead and laid it carefully aside.She uncoiled her long legs from beneathher, walked to her husband'schair, and stood for a long momentlooking down at him, her lipsdrawn back in contempt. Then shebent over him and reached downhis thigh until her fingers contactedthe small switch.     Seconds later, a slight tremorshook Hyrel's body. His eyessnapped open, air escaped his lungs,his lower jaw sagged inanely, andhis head lolled to one side.     She stood a moment longer,watching his eyes become glazedand sightless. Then she walked tothe telephone.     Police? she said. This is Mrs.Herbert Hyrel. Something horriblehas happened to my husband.Please come over immediately.Bring a doctor.     She hung up, went to her bathroom,stripped off her clothing,and slid carefully out of her telportersuit. This she folded neatlyand tucked away into the false backof the medicine cabinet. She founda fresh pair of blue, plastifur pajamasand got into them.     She was just arriving back intothe living room, tying the cord ofher dressing gown about her slimwaist, when she heard the sound ofthe police siren out front.     THE END       Transcriber's Note:       This etext was produced from      If Worlds of Science Fiction     July 1953.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note.  ","The Riverside Club is a place that only the wealthy can escape to: all of the clientele have a lot of money, but they also needed a lot of money to gain access, as they have to prove that they own a teleporter suit to get in. Everyone who goes there is looking to escape themselves, but ironically Herbert escapes his wife to end up right back in front of her. Besides being a point of interest because it offered the clearest path of escape for Herbert, the club is also important because it shows glimpses into how the suits work: when someone has to leave suddenly, their clothes are left behind because it is just the copy of the body that moves. The club also was significant to the story because it provided a place for Herbert's wife to play out her plan to catch Herbert in his own plot."
"What is the plot of the story? </s>     TIME IN THE ROUND     By FRITZ LEIBER     Illustrated by DILLON     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction May 1957.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        Poor Butcher suffered more than any dictator       in history: everybody gave in to him because       he was so puny and they were so impregnable!        From the other end of the Avenue of Wisdom that led across the PeacePark, a gray, hairless, heavily built dog was barking soundlessly atthe towering crystal glory of the Time Theater. For a moment, theeffect was almost frightening: a silent picture of the beginning ofcivilization challenging the end of it. Then a small boy caught upwith the dog and it rolled over enthusiastically at his feet and thescene was normal again.     The small boy, however, seemed definitely pre-civilization. He studiedthe dog coldly and then inserted a thin metal tube under its eyelid andpoked. The dog wagged its stumpy tail. The boy frowned, tightened hisgrip on the tube and jabbed hard. The dog's tail thumped the cushionypavement and the four paws beat the air. The boy shortened his gripand suddenly jabbed the dog several times in the stomach. The stifftube rebounded from the gray, hairless hide. The dog's face split in anupside-down grin, revealing formidable ivory fangs across which a longblack tongue lolled.     The boy regarded the tongue speculatively and pocketed the metal tubewith a grimace of utter disgust. He did not look up when someonecalled: Hi, Butch! Sic 'em, Darter, sic 'em!     A larger small boy and a somewhat older one were approaching across theluxurious, neatly cropped grass, preceded by a hurtling shape that,except for a black hide, was a replica of Butch's gray dog.     Butch shrugged his shoulders resignedly and said in a bored voice:Kill 'em, Brute.  The gray dog hurled itself on Darter. Jaws gaped to get a hold on necksso short and thick as to be mere courtesy terms. They whirled like afanged merry-go-round. Three more dogs, one white, one slate blue andone pink, hurried up and tried to climb aboard.     Butch yawned.     What's the matter? inquired Darter's master. I thought you liked dogfights, Butch.     I do like dog fights, Butch said somberly, without looking around. Idon't like uninj fights. They're just a pretend, like everything else.Nobody gets hurt. And look here, Joggy—and you, too, Hal—when youtalk to me, don't just say Butch. It's the Butcher, see?     That's not exactly a functional name, Hal observed with thejudiciousness of budding maturity, while Joggy said agreeably: Allright, Butcher, I suppose you'd like to have lived way back when peoplewere hurting each other all the time so the blood came out?     I certainly would, the Butcher replied. As Joggy and Hal turned backskeptically to watch the fight, he took out the metal tube, screwedup his face in a dreadful frown and jabbed himself in the hand. Hesqueaked with pain and whisked the tube out of sight.     A kid can't do anything any more, he announced dramatically. Can'tbreak anything except the breakables they give him to break on purpose.Can't get dirty except in the dirt-pen—and they graduate him from thatwhen he's two. Can't even be bitten by an uninj—it's contraprogrammed.     Where'd you ever get so fixated on dirt? Hal asked in a gentle voiceacquired from a robot adolescer.     I've been reading a book about a kid called Huckleberry Finn, theButcher replied airily. A swell book. That guy got dirtier thananything. His eyes became dreamy. He even ate out of a garbage pail.     What's a garbage pail?     I don't know, but it sounds great.     The battling uninjes careened into them. Brute had Darter by the earand was whirling him around hilariously.     Aw,      quit     it, Brute, the Butcher said in annoyance.     Brute obediently loosed his hold and returned to his master, paying noattention to his adversary's efforts to renew the fight.     The Butcher looked Brute squarely in the eyes. You're making too muchof a rumpus, he said. I want to think.  He kicked Brute in the face. The dog squirmed joyously at his feet.     Look, Joggy said, you wouldn't hurt an uninj, for instance, wouldyou?     How can you hurt something that's uninjurable? the Butcher demandedscathingly. An uninj isn't really a dog. It's just a lot of circuitsand a micropack bedded in hyperplastic. He looked at Brute withguarded wistfulness.     I don't know about that, Hal put in. I've heard an uninj isprogrammed with so many genuine canine reactions that it practicallyhas racial memory.     I mean if you      could     hurt an uninj, Joggy amended.     Well, maybe I wouldn't, the Butcher admitted grudgingly. But shutup—I want to think.     About what? Hal asked with saintly reasonableness.     The Butcher achieved a fearful frown. When I'm World Director, hesaid slowly, I'm going to have warfare again.     You think so now, Hal told him. We all do at your age.     We do not, the Butcher retorted. I bet      you     didn't.     Oh, yes, I was foolish, too, the older boy confessed readily. Allnewborn organisms are self-centered and inconsiderate and ruthless.They have to be. That's why we have uninjes to work out on, and deathgames and fear houses, so that our emotions are cleared for adultconditioning. And it's just the same with newborn civilizations. Why,long after atom power and the space drive were discovered, peoplekept having wars and revolutions. It took ages to condition themdifferently. Of course, you can't appreciate it this year, but Man'sgreatest achievement was when he learned to automatically reject allviolent solutions to problems. You'll realize that when you're older.     I will not! the Butcher countered hotly. I'm not going to be asissy. Hal and Joggy blinked at the unfamiliar word. And what if wewere attacked by bloodthirsty monsters from outside the Solar System?     The Space Fleet would take care of them, Hal replied calmly. That'swhat it's for. Adults aren't conditioned to reject violent solutions toproblems where non-human enemies are concerned. Look at what we did toviruses.     But what if somebody got at us through the Time Bubble?     They can't. It's impossible.     Yes, but suppose they did all the same.     You've never been inside the Time Theater—you're not old enoughyet—so you just can't know anything about it or about the reasonswhy it's impossible, Hal replied with friendly factuality. The TimeBubble is just a viewer. You can only look through it, and just intothe past, at that. But you can't travel through it because you can'tchange the past. Time traveling is a lot of kid stuff.     I don't care, the Butcher asserted obstinately. I'm still going tohave warfare when I'm World Director.     They'll condition you out of the idea, Hal assured him.     They will not. I won't let 'em.     It doesn't matter what you think now, Hal said with finality. You'llhave an altogether different opinion when you're six.     Well, what if I will? the Butcher snapped back. You don't have tokeep      telling     me about it, do you?  The others were silent. Joggy began to bounce up and down abstractedlyon the resilient pavement. Hal called in his three uninjes and saidin soothing tones: Joggy and I are going to swim over to the TimeTheater. Want to walk us there, Butch?     Butch scowled.     How about it, Butch?     Still Butch did not seem to hear.     The older boy shrugged and said: Oh, well, how about it—Butcher?     The Butcher swung around. They won't let me in the Time Theater. Yousaid so yourself.     You could walk us over there.     Well, maybe I will and maybe I won't.     While you're deciding, we'll get swimming. Come along, Joggy.     Still scowling, the Butcher took a white soapy crayon from the bulgingpocket in his silver shorts. Pressed into the pavement, it made ablack mark. He scrawled pensively: KEEP ON THE GRASS.     He gazed at his handiwork. No, darn it, that was just what grownupswanted you to do. This grass couldn't be hurt. You couldn't pull it upor tear it off; it hurt your fingers to try. A rub with the side of thecrayon removed the sign. He thought for a moment, then wrote: KEEP OFFTHE GRASS.     With an untroubled countenance, he sprang up and hurried after theothers.     Joggy and the older boy were swimming lazily through the air atshoulder height. In the pavement directly under each of them was awide, saucer-shaped depression which swam along with them. The uninjesavoided the depressions. Darter was strutting on his hind legs, lookingup inquiringly at his master.     Gimme a ride, Hal, gimme a ride! the Butcher called. The older boyignored him. Aw, gimme a ride, Joggy.     Oh, all right. Joggy touched the small box attached to the front ofhis broad metal harness and dropped lightly to the ground. The Butcherclimbed on his back. There was a moment of rocking and pitching, duringwhich each boy accused the other of trying to upset them.     Then the Butcher got his balance and they began to swim alongsecurely, though at a level several inches lower. Brute sprang up afterhis master and was invisibly rebuffed. He retired baffled, but a fewminutes later, he was amusing himself by furious futile efforts toclimb the hemispherical repulsor field.     Slowly the little cavalcade of boys and uninjes proceeded down theAvenue of Wisdom. Hal amused himself by stroking toward a tree. When hewas about four feet from it, he was gently bounced away.  It was really a more tiring method of transportation than walkingand quite useless against the wind. True, by rocking the repulsorhemisphere backward, you could get a brief forward push, but it wouldbe nullified when you rocked forward. A slow swimming stroke was thesimplest way to make progress.     The general sensation, however, was delightful and levitators wereamong the most prized of toys.     There's the Theater, Joggy announced.     I      know     , the Butcher said irritably.     But even he sounded a little solemn and subdued. From the Great Rampto the topmost airy finial, the Time Theater was the dream of a godrealized in unearthly substance. It imparted the aura of demigods tothe adults drifting up and down the ramp.     My father remembers when there wasn't a Time Theater, Hal said softlyas he scanned the facade's glowing charts and maps. Say, they'reviewing Earth, somewhere in Scandinavia around zero in the B.C.-A.D.time scale. It should be interesting.     Will it be about Napoleon? the Butcher asked eagerly. Or Hitler? Ared-headed adult heard and smiled and paused to watch. A lock of hairhad fallen down the middle of the Butcher's forehead, and as he satJoggy like a charger, he did bear a faint resemblance to one of thegrim little egomaniacs of the Dawn Era.     Wrong millennium, Hal said.     Tamerlane then? the Butcher pressed. He killed cities and piled theskulls. Blood-bath stuff. Oh, yes, and Tamerlane was a Scand of theNavies.     Hal looked puzzled and then quickly erased the expression. Well, evenif it is about Tamerlane, you can't see it. How about it, Joggy?     They won't let me in, either.     Yes, they will. You're five years old now.     But I don't feel any older, Joggy replied doubtfully.     The feeling comes at six. Don't worry, the usher will notice thedifference.     Hal and Joggy switched off their levitators and dropped to theirfeet. The Butcher came down rather hard, twisting an ankle. He openedhis mouth to cry, then abruptly closed it hard, bearing his pain intight-lipped silence like an ancient soldier—like Stalin, maybe, hethought. The red-headed adult's face twitched in half-humorous sympathy.     Hal and Joggy mounted the Ramp and entered a twilit corridor whichdrank their faint footsteps and returned pulses of light. The Butcherlimped manfully after them, but when he got inside, he forgot hisbattle injury.  Hal looked back. Honestly, the usher will stop you.     The Butcher shook his head. I'm going to think my way in. I'm going tothink old.     You won't be able to fool the usher, Butcher. You under-fivessimply aren't allowed in the Time Theater. There's a good reason forit—something dangerous might happen if an under-five got inside.     Why?     I don't exactly know, but something.     Hah! I bet they're scared we'd go traveling in the Time Bubble andhave some excitement.     They are not. I guess they just know you'd get bored and wander awayfrom your seats and maybe disturb the adults or upset the electronicsor something. But don't worry about it, Butcher. The usher will takecare of you.     Shut up—I'm thinking I'm World Director, the Butcher informed them,contorting his face diabolically.     Hal spoke to the uninjes, pointing to the side of the corridor.Obediently four of them lined up.     But Brute was peering down the corridor toward where it merged into adeeper darkness. His short legs stiffened, his neckless head seemed toretreat even further between his powerful shoulders, his lips writhedback to show his gleaming fangs, and a completely unfamiliar soundissued from his throat. A choked, grating sound. A growl. The otheruninjes moved uneasily.     Do you suppose something's the matter with his circuits? Joggywhispered. Maybe he's getting racial memories from the Scands.     Of course not, Hal said irritably.     Brute, get over there, the Butcher commanded. Unwillingly, eyes stillfixed on the blackness ahead, Brute obeyed.     The three boys started on. Hal and Joggy experienced a vaguelyelectrical tingling that vanished almost immediately. They looked back.The Butcher had been stopped by an invisible wall.     I told you you couldn't fool the usher, Hal said.     The Butcher hurled himself forward. The wall gave a little, thenbounced him back with equal force.     I bet it'll be a bum time view anyway, the Butcher said, not givingup, but not trying again. And I still don't think the usher can tellhow old you are. I bet there's an over-age teacher spying on youthrough a hole, and if he doesn't like your looks, he switches on theusher.  But the others had disappeared in the blackness. The Butcher waited andthen sat down beside the uninjes. Brute laid his head on his knee andgrowled faintly down the corridor.     Take it easy, Brute, the Butcher consoled him. I don't thinkTamerlane was really a Scand of the Navies anyhow.     Two chattering girls hardly bigger than himself stepped through theusher as if it weren't there.     The Butcher grimly slipped out the metal tube and put it to his lips.There were two closely spaced faint      plops     and a large green stainappeared on the bare back of one girl, while purple fluid dripped fromthe close-cropped hair of the other.     They glared at him and one of them said: A cub! But he had his armsfolded and wasn't looking at them.     Meanwhile, subordinate ushers had guided Hal and Joggy away from themain entrance to the Time Theater. A sphincter dilated and they foundthemselves in a small transparent cubicle from which they could watchthe show without disturbing the adult audience. They unstrapped theirlevitators, laid them on the floor and sat down.       The darkened auditorium was circular. Rising from a low centralplatform was a huge bubble of light, its lower surface somewhatflattened. The audience was seated in concentric rows around thebubble, their keen and compassionate faces dimly revealed by the palecentral glow.     But it was the scene within the bubble that riveted the attention ofthe boys.     Great brooding trees, the trunks of the nearer ones sliced by thebubble's surface, formed the background. Through the dark, wet foliageappeared glimpses of a murky sky, while from the ceiling of the bubble,a ceaseless rain dripped mournfully. A hooded figure crouched beside alittle fire partly shielded by a gnarled trunk. Squatting round aboutwere wiry, blue-eyed men with shoulder-length blond hair and full blondbeards. They were clothed in furs and metal-studded leather.     Here and there were scattered weapons and armor—long swords glisteningwith oil to guard them from rust, crudely painted circular shields, andhelmets from which curved the horns of beasts. Back and forth, lean,wolflike dogs paced with restless monotony.  Sometimes the men seemed to speak together, or one would rise to peerdown the misty forest vistas, but mostly they were motionless. Onlythe hooded figure, which they seemed to regard with a mingled wonderand fear, swayed incessantly to the rhythm of some unheard chant.     The Time Bubble has been brought to rest in one of the barbariccultures of the Dawn Era, a soft voice explained, so casually thatJoggy looked around for the speaker, until Hal nudged him sharply,whispering with barely perceptible embarrassment: Don't do that,Joggy. It's just the electronic interpreter. It senses our developmentand hears our questions and then it automats background and answers.But it's no more alive than an adolescer or a kinderobot. Got a billionmicrotapes, though.     The interpreter continued: The skin-clad men we are viewing in Timein the Round seem to be a group of warriors of the sort who livedby pillage and rapine. The hooded figure is a most unusual find. Webelieve it to be that of a sorcerer who pretended to control the forcesof nature and see into the future.     Joggy whispered: How is it that we can't see the audience through theother side of the bubble? We can see through this side, all right.     The bubble only shines light out, Hal told him hurriedly, to show heknew some things as well as the interpreter. Nothing, not even light,can get into the bubble from outside. The audience on the other side ofthe bubble sees into it just as we do, only they're seeing the otherway—for instance, they can't see the fire because the tree is in theway. And instead of seeing us beyond, they see more trees and sky.     Joggy nodded. You mean that whatever way you look at the bubble, it'sa kind of hole through time?     That's right. Hal cleared his throat and recited: The bubble is thelocus of an infinite number of one-way holes, all centering around twopoints in space-time, one now and one then. The bubble looks completelyopen, but if you tried to step inside, you'd be stopped—and so wouldan atom beam. It takes more energy than an atom beam just to maintainthe bubble, let alone maneuver it.     I see, I guess, Joggy whispered. But if the hole works for light,why can't the people inside the bubble step out of it into our world?     Why—er—you see, Joggy—     The interpreter took over. The holes are one-way for light, but no-wayfor matter. If one of the individuals inside the bubble walked towardyou, he would cross-section and disappear. But to the audience on theopposite side of the bubble, it would be obvious that he had walkedaway along the vista down which they are peering.  As if to provide an example, a figure suddenly materialized ontheir side of the bubble. The wolflike dogs bared their fangs. Foran instant, there was only an eerie, distorted, rapidly growingsilhouette, changing from blood-red to black as the boundary of thebubble cross-sectioned the intruding figure. Then they recognized theback of another long-haired warrior and realized that the audience onthe other side of the bubble had probably seen him approaching for sometime.     He bowed to the hooded figure and handed him a small bag.     More atavistic cubs, big and little! Hold still, Cynthia, a new voicecut in.     Hal turned and saw that two cold-eyed girls had been ushered into thecubicle. One was wiping her close-cropped hair with one hand whilemopping a green stain from her friend's back with the other.     Hal nudged Joggy and whispered: Butch!     But Joggy was still hypnotized by the Time Bubble.     Then how is it, Hal, he asked, that light comes out of the bubble,if the people don't? What I mean is, if one of the people walks towardus, he shrinks to a red blot and disappears. Why doesn't the lightcoming our way disappear, too?     Well—you see, Joggy, it isn't real light. It's—     Once more the interpreter helped him out.     The light that comes from the bubble is an isotope. Like atoms ofone element, photons of a single frequency also have isotopes. It'smore than a matter of polarization. One of these isotopes of lighttends to leak futureward through holes in space-time. Most of thelight goes down the vistas visible to the other side of the audience.But one isotope is diverted through the walls of the bubble into theTime Theater. Perhaps, because of the intense darkness of the theater,you haven't realized how dimly lit the scene is. That's because we'regetting only a single isotope of the original light. Incidentally, noisotopes have been discovered that leak pastward, though attempts arebeing made to synthesize them.     Oh, explanations! murmured one of the newly arrived girls. The cubsare always angling for them. Apple-polishers!           I     like this show, a familiar voice announced serenely. They cutanybody yet with those choppers?     Hal looked down beside him. Butch! How did you manage to get in?     I don't see any blood. Where's the bodies?     But how      did     you get in—Butcher?  The Butcher replied airily: A red-headed man talked to me and said itcertainly was sad for a future dictator not to be able to enjoy scenesof carnage in his youth, so I told him I'd been inside the Time Theaterand just come out to get a drink of water and go to the eliminator, butthen my sprained ankle had got worse—I kind of tried to get up andfell down again—so he picked me up and carried me right through theusher.     Butcher, that wasn't honest, Hal said a little worriedly. Youtricked him into thinking you were older and his brain waves blanketedyours, going through the usher. I really      have     heard it's dangerousfor you under-fives to be in here.     The way those cubs beg for babying and get it! one of the girlscommented. Talk about sex favoritism! She and her companion withdrewto the far end of the cubicle.     The Butcher grinned at them briefly and concentrated his attention onthe scene in the Time Bubble.     Those big dogs— he began suddenly. Brute must have smelled 'em.     Don't be silly, Hal said. Smells can't come out of the Time Bubble.Smells haven't any isotopes and—     I don't care, the Butcher asserted. I bet somebody'll figure outsomeday how to use the bubble for time traveling.     You can't travel in a point of view, Hal contradicted, and that'sall the bubble is. Besides, some scientists think the bubble isn't realat all, but a—uh—     I believe, the interpreter cut in smoothly, that you're thinkingof the theory that the Time Bubble operates by hypermemory. Somescientists would have us believe that all memory is time traveling andthat the basic location of the bubble is not space-time at all, butever-present eternity. Some of them go so far as to state that it isonly a mental inability that prevents the Time Bubble from being usedfor time traveling—just as it may be a similar disability that keepsa robot with the same or even more scopeful memories from being a realman or animal.     It is because of this minority theory that under-age individuals andother beings with impulsive mentalities are barred from the TimeTheater. But do not be alarmed. Even if the minority theory shouldprove true—and no evidence for it has ever appeared—there areautomatically operating safeguards to protect the audience from anyharmful consequences of time traveling (almost certainly impossible,remember) in either direction.     Sissies! was the Butcher's comment.  You're rather young to be here, aren't you? the interpreter inquired.       The Butcher folded his arms and scowled.     The interpreter hesitated almost humanly, probably snatching through aquarter-million microtapes. Well, you wouldn't have got in unless aqualified adult had certified you as plus-age. Enjoy yourself.     There was no need for the last injunction. The scene within the bubblehad acquired a gripping interest. The shaggy warriors were taking uptheir swords, gathering about the hooded sorcerer. The hood fell back,revealing a face with hawklike, disturbing eyes that seemed to belooking straight out of the bubble at the future.     This is getting good, the Butcher said, squirming toward the edge ofhis seat.     Stop being an impulsive mentality, Hal warned him a little nervously.     Hah!     The sorcerer emptied the small bag on the fire and a thick cloud ofsmoke puffed toward the ceiling of the bubble. A clawlike hand wavedwildly. The sorcerer appeared to be expostulating, commanding. Thewarriors stared uncomprehendingly, which seemed to exasperate thesorcerer.     That's right, the Butcher approved loudly. Sock it to 'em!     Butcher! Hal admonished.     Suddenly the bubble grew very bright, as if the Sun had just shoneforth in the ancient world, though the rain still dripped down.     A viewing anomaly has occurred, the interpreter announced. It may benecessary to collapse the Time Bubble for a short period.     In a frenzy, his ragged robes twisting like smoke, the sorcerer rushedat one of the warriors, pushing him backward so that in a moment hemust cross-section.     Attaboy! the Butcher encouraged.     Then the warrior was standing outside the bubble, blinking toward theshadows, rain dripping from his beard and furs.     Oh,      boy     ! the Butcher cheered in ecstasy.     Butcher, you've done it! Hal said, aghast.     I sure did, the Butcher agreed blandly, but that old guy in thebubble helped me. Must take two to work it.     Keep your seats! the interpreter said loudly. We are energizing thesafeguards!  The warriors inside the bubble stared in stupid astonishment after theone who had disappeared from their view. The sorcerer leaped about,pushing them in his direction.     Abrupt light flooded the Time Theater. The warriors who had emergedfrom the bubble stiffened themselves, baring their teeth.     The safeguards are now energized, the interpreter said.     A woman in a short golden tunic stood up uncertainly from the front rowof the audience.     The first warrior looked her up and down, took one hesitant stepforward, then another, then suddenly grabbed her and flung her over hisleft shoulder, looking around menacingly and swinging his sword in hisright hand.     I repeat, the safeguards have been fully energized! Keep your seats!the interpreter enjoined.     In the cubicle, Hal and Joggy gasped, the two girls squeaked, but theButcher yelled a Hey! of disapproval, snatched up something from thefloor and darted out through the sphincter.     Here and there in the audience, other adults stood up. The emergedwarriors formed a ring of swinging swords and questing eyes. Betweentheir legs their wolfish dogs, emerged with them, crouched and snarled.Then the warriors began to fan out.     There has been an unavoidable delay in energizing the safeguards, theinterpreter said. Please be patient.     At that moment, the Butcher entered the main auditorium, brandishing alevitator above his head and striding purposefully down the aisle. Athis heels, five stocky forms trotted. In a definitely pre-civilizationvoice, or at least with pre-civilization volume, he bellowed: Hey,you! You quit that!     The first warrior looked toward him, gave his left shoulder a shake toquiet his wriggling captive, gave his right shoulder one to supple hissword arm, and waited until the dwarfish challenger came into range.Then his sword swished down in a flashing arc.     Next moment, the Butcher was on his knees and the warrior was staringat him open-mouthed. The sword had rebounded from something invisiblean arm's length above the gnomelike creature's head. The warrior backeda step.       The Butcher stayed down, crouching half behind an aisle seat anddigging for something in his pocket. But he didn't stay quiet. Sic'em, Brute! he shrilled. Sic 'em, Darter! Sic 'em, Pinkie and Whitieand Blue! Then he stopped shouting and raised his hand to his mouth.  Growling quite unmechanically, the five uninjes hurled themselvesforward and closed with the warrior's wolflike dogs. At the firstencounter, Brute and Pinkie were grabbed by the throats, shaken, andtossed a dozen feet. The warriors snarled approval and advanced. Butthen Brute and Pinkie raced back eagerly to the fight—and suddenly theface of the leading warrior was drenched with scarlet. He blinked andtouched his fingers to it, then looked at his hand in horror.     The Butcher spared a second to repeat his command to the uninjes. Butalready the battle was going against the larger dogs. The latter hadthe advantage of weight and could toss the smaller dogs like so manyfoxes. But their terrible fangs did no damage, and whenever an uninjclamped on a throat, that throat was torn out.     Meanwhile, great bloody stains had appeared on the bodies of all thewarriors. They drew back in a knot, looking at each other fearfully.That was when the Butcher got to his feet and strode forward, handclenching the levitator above his head.     Get back where you belong, you big jerks! And drop that lady!     The first warrior pointed toward him and hissed something. Immediately,a half dozen swords were smiting at the Butcher.     We are working to energize the safeguards, the interpreter said inmechanical panic. Remain patient and in your seats.     The uninjes leaped into the melee, at first tearing more fur thanflesh. Swords caught them and sent them spinning through the air. Theycame yapping back for more. Brute fixed on the first warrior's ankle.He dropped the woman, stamped unavailingly on the uninj, and let out ascreech.     Swords were still rebounding from the invisible shield under which theButcher crouched, making terrible faces at his attackers. They drewback, looked again at their bloodstains, goggled at the demon dogs.At their leader's screech, they broke and plunged back into the TimeBubble, their leader stumbling limpingly after them. There they wastedno time on their own ragged sorcerer. Their swords rose and fell, andno repulsor field stayed them.     Brute, come back! the Butcher yelled.  The gray uninj let go his hold on the leader's ankle and scamperedout of the Time Bubble, which swiftly dimmed to its original lightintensity and then winked out.     For once in their very mature lives, all of the adults in theauditorium began to jabber at each other simultaneously.     We are sorry, but the anomaly has made it necessary to collapse theTime Bubble, the interpreter said. There will be no viewing untilfurther announcement. Thank you for your patience.     Hal and Joggy caught up with the Butcher just as Brute jumped into hisarms and the woman in gold picked him up and hugged him fiercely. TheButcher started to pull away, then grudgingly submitted.     Cubs! came a small cold voice from behind Hal and Joggy. Alwaysplaying hero! Say, what's that awful smell, Cynthia? It must have comefrom those dirty past men.     Hal and Joggy were shouting at the Butcher, but he wasn't listeningto them or to the older voices clamoring about revised theories ofreality and other important things. He didn't even squirm as Brutelicked his cheek and the woman in gold planted a big kiss practicallyon his mouth.     He smiled dreamily and stroked Brute's muzzle and murmured softly: Wecame, we saw, we conquered, didn't we, Brute?   ","The story starts in a park, where we meet a a young boy who goes by the Butcher (""Butch""), and his dog Brute. The boy is trying to do something to the dog with a small metal tube when Hal, another boy, shows up with his own dogs, and another boy named Joggy. It turns out these are not normal dogs, but are ""uninj"", machines created to be like dogs but not able to be hurt. Butch seems bored with these countermeasures against violence, and intent on putting violence back in the world. His interactions with Hal show us that they live in a civilization where the children are given opportunities to work out any violent and angry tendencies or impulses before they are conditioned as adults. They are only allowed to visit the Time Theater to see glimpses into other societies (and thus evidence of violence) after age five, and the change in mentality happens at age six. Butch wants to use Time Bubble to travel through time, but Hal insists that this is impossible. The boys head to this theater, an incredible crystal building with an important place in this society, choosing to fly there with their hover technology. Joggy is five, so he is allowed to enter with Hal, but Butch is blocked from entering by the ushers, which Hal says is for his own protection. Joggy and Hal take a seat in a children's viewing area to look into the glowing orb of light that sits in the middle of the round theater. The orb acts as a viewport into various times and places, and is currently showing a view of Earth, Scandanavia more specifically, around year zero according to Earth calendars. There are a number of warriors in the forest scene, along with some dogs and a sorcerer, and the boys watch in earnest. As the electronic interpreter for the viewing gives the boys more information about cultural context, Butch manages to sneak in to the theater by lying to the ushers. Shortly after Butch and two young girls join the viewing, something happened that no-one thought possible: the sorcerer pushed one of the warriors through the orb of the Time Bubble, throwing him into the theater. Panic falls on the audience, and warriors and dogs continue to enter the theater as Butch and the uninjes start to fight off the time-travelers with their design keeping them from being injured. Hal is convinced that this happened because an under-five (Butch specifically) was in the theater, but the rest of the public does not know he is young and they thank him for saving the day as he fights off the warriors and the Time Bubble collapses. This is the first piece of chaos the adults have experienced in their adult lives, and the Butcher is content with how it all played out, getting to play hero in a violent setting for a day with Brute."
"Who is Hal and what is his role in the story? </s>     TIME IN THE ROUND     By FRITZ LEIBER     Illustrated by DILLON     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction May 1957.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        Poor Butcher suffered more than any dictator       in history: everybody gave in to him because       he was so puny and they were so impregnable!        From the other end of the Avenue of Wisdom that led across the PeacePark, a gray, hairless, heavily built dog was barking soundlessly atthe towering crystal glory of the Time Theater. For a moment, theeffect was almost frightening: a silent picture of the beginning ofcivilization challenging the end of it. Then a small boy caught upwith the dog and it rolled over enthusiastically at his feet and thescene was normal again.     The small boy, however, seemed definitely pre-civilization. He studiedthe dog coldly and then inserted a thin metal tube under its eyelid andpoked. The dog wagged its stumpy tail. The boy frowned, tightened hisgrip on the tube and jabbed hard. The dog's tail thumped the cushionypavement and the four paws beat the air. The boy shortened his gripand suddenly jabbed the dog several times in the stomach. The stifftube rebounded from the gray, hairless hide. The dog's face split in anupside-down grin, revealing formidable ivory fangs across which a longblack tongue lolled.     The boy regarded the tongue speculatively and pocketed the metal tubewith a grimace of utter disgust. He did not look up when someonecalled: Hi, Butch! Sic 'em, Darter, sic 'em!     A larger small boy and a somewhat older one were approaching across theluxurious, neatly cropped grass, preceded by a hurtling shape that,except for a black hide, was a replica of Butch's gray dog.     Butch shrugged his shoulders resignedly and said in a bored voice:Kill 'em, Brute.  The gray dog hurled itself on Darter. Jaws gaped to get a hold on necksso short and thick as to be mere courtesy terms. They whirled like afanged merry-go-round. Three more dogs, one white, one slate blue andone pink, hurried up and tried to climb aboard.     Butch yawned.     What's the matter? inquired Darter's master. I thought you liked dogfights, Butch.     I do like dog fights, Butch said somberly, without looking around. Idon't like uninj fights. They're just a pretend, like everything else.Nobody gets hurt. And look here, Joggy—and you, too, Hal—when youtalk to me, don't just say Butch. It's the Butcher, see?     That's not exactly a functional name, Hal observed with thejudiciousness of budding maturity, while Joggy said agreeably: Allright, Butcher, I suppose you'd like to have lived way back when peoplewere hurting each other all the time so the blood came out?     I certainly would, the Butcher replied. As Joggy and Hal turned backskeptically to watch the fight, he took out the metal tube, screwedup his face in a dreadful frown and jabbed himself in the hand. Hesqueaked with pain and whisked the tube out of sight.     A kid can't do anything any more, he announced dramatically. Can'tbreak anything except the breakables they give him to break on purpose.Can't get dirty except in the dirt-pen—and they graduate him from thatwhen he's two. Can't even be bitten by an uninj—it's contraprogrammed.     Where'd you ever get so fixated on dirt? Hal asked in a gentle voiceacquired from a robot adolescer.     I've been reading a book about a kid called Huckleberry Finn, theButcher replied airily. A swell book. That guy got dirtier thananything. His eyes became dreamy. He even ate out of a garbage pail.     What's a garbage pail?     I don't know, but it sounds great.     The battling uninjes careened into them. Brute had Darter by the earand was whirling him around hilariously.     Aw,      quit     it, Brute, the Butcher said in annoyance.     Brute obediently loosed his hold and returned to his master, paying noattention to his adversary's efforts to renew the fight.     The Butcher looked Brute squarely in the eyes. You're making too muchof a rumpus, he said. I want to think.  He kicked Brute in the face. The dog squirmed joyously at his feet.     Look, Joggy said, you wouldn't hurt an uninj, for instance, wouldyou?     How can you hurt something that's uninjurable? the Butcher demandedscathingly. An uninj isn't really a dog. It's just a lot of circuitsand a micropack bedded in hyperplastic. He looked at Brute withguarded wistfulness.     I don't know about that, Hal put in. I've heard an uninj isprogrammed with so many genuine canine reactions that it practicallyhas racial memory.     I mean if you      could     hurt an uninj, Joggy amended.     Well, maybe I wouldn't, the Butcher admitted grudgingly. But shutup—I want to think.     About what? Hal asked with saintly reasonableness.     The Butcher achieved a fearful frown. When I'm World Director, hesaid slowly, I'm going to have warfare again.     You think so now, Hal told him. We all do at your age.     We do not, the Butcher retorted. I bet      you     didn't.     Oh, yes, I was foolish, too, the older boy confessed readily. Allnewborn organisms are self-centered and inconsiderate and ruthless.They have to be. That's why we have uninjes to work out on, and deathgames and fear houses, so that our emotions are cleared for adultconditioning. And it's just the same with newborn civilizations. Why,long after atom power and the space drive were discovered, peoplekept having wars and revolutions. It took ages to condition themdifferently. Of course, you can't appreciate it this year, but Man'sgreatest achievement was when he learned to automatically reject allviolent solutions to problems. You'll realize that when you're older.     I will not! the Butcher countered hotly. I'm not going to be asissy. Hal and Joggy blinked at the unfamiliar word. And what if wewere attacked by bloodthirsty monsters from outside the Solar System?     The Space Fleet would take care of them, Hal replied calmly. That'swhat it's for. Adults aren't conditioned to reject violent solutions toproblems where non-human enemies are concerned. Look at what we did toviruses.     But what if somebody got at us through the Time Bubble?     They can't. It's impossible.     Yes, but suppose they did all the same.     You've never been inside the Time Theater—you're not old enoughyet—so you just can't know anything about it or about the reasonswhy it's impossible, Hal replied with friendly factuality. The TimeBubble is just a viewer. You can only look through it, and just intothe past, at that. But you can't travel through it because you can'tchange the past. Time traveling is a lot of kid stuff.     I don't care, the Butcher asserted obstinately. I'm still going tohave warfare when I'm World Director.     They'll condition you out of the idea, Hal assured him.     They will not. I won't let 'em.     It doesn't matter what you think now, Hal said with finality. You'llhave an altogether different opinion when you're six.     Well, what if I will? the Butcher snapped back. You don't have tokeep      telling     me about it, do you?  The others were silent. Joggy began to bounce up and down abstractedlyon the resilient pavement. Hal called in his three uninjes and saidin soothing tones: Joggy and I are going to swim over to the TimeTheater. Want to walk us there, Butch?     Butch scowled.     How about it, Butch?     Still Butch did not seem to hear.     The older boy shrugged and said: Oh, well, how about it—Butcher?     The Butcher swung around. They won't let me in the Time Theater. Yousaid so yourself.     You could walk us over there.     Well, maybe I will and maybe I won't.     While you're deciding, we'll get swimming. Come along, Joggy.     Still scowling, the Butcher took a white soapy crayon from the bulgingpocket in his silver shorts. Pressed into the pavement, it made ablack mark. He scrawled pensively: KEEP ON THE GRASS.     He gazed at his handiwork. No, darn it, that was just what grownupswanted you to do. This grass couldn't be hurt. You couldn't pull it upor tear it off; it hurt your fingers to try. A rub with the side of thecrayon removed the sign. He thought for a moment, then wrote: KEEP OFFTHE GRASS.     With an untroubled countenance, he sprang up and hurried after theothers.     Joggy and the older boy were swimming lazily through the air atshoulder height. In the pavement directly under each of them was awide, saucer-shaped depression which swam along with them. The uninjesavoided the depressions. Darter was strutting on his hind legs, lookingup inquiringly at his master.     Gimme a ride, Hal, gimme a ride! the Butcher called. The older boyignored him. Aw, gimme a ride, Joggy.     Oh, all right. Joggy touched the small box attached to the front ofhis broad metal harness and dropped lightly to the ground. The Butcherclimbed on his back. There was a moment of rocking and pitching, duringwhich each boy accused the other of trying to upset them.     Then the Butcher got his balance and they began to swim alongsecurely, though at a level several inches lower. Brute sprang up afterhis master and was invisibly rebuffed. He retired baffled, but a fewminutes later, he was amusing himself by furious futile efforts toclimb the hemispherical repulsor field.     Slowly the little cavalcade of boys and uninjes proceeded down theAvenue of Wisdom. Hal amused himself by stroking toward a tree. When hewas about four feet from it, he was gently bounced away.  It was really a more tiring method of transportation than walkingand quite useless against the wind. True, by rocking the repulsorhemisphere backward, you could get a brief forward push, but it wouldbe nullified when you rocked forward. A slow swimming stroke was thesimplest way to make progress.     The general sensation, however, was delightful and levitators wereamong the most prized of toys.     There's the Theater, Joggy announced.     I      know     , the Butcher said irritably.     But even he sounded a little solemn and subdued. From the Great Rampto the topmost airy finial, the Time Theater was the dream of a godrealized in unearthly substance. It imparted the aura of demigods tothe adults drifting up and down the ramp.     My father remembers when there wasn't a Time Theater, Hal said softlyas he scanned the facade's glowing charts and maps. Say, they'reviewing Earth, somewhere in Scandinavia around zero in the B.C.-A.D.time scale. It should be interesting.     Will it be about Napoleon? the Butcher asked eagerly. Or Hitler? Ared-headed adult heard and smiled and paused to watch. A lock of hairhad fallen down the middle of the Butcher's forehead, and as he satJoggy like a charger, he did bear a faint resemblance to one of thegrim little egomaniacs of the Dawn Era.     Wrong millennium, Hal said.     Tamerlane then? the Butcher pressed. He killed cities and piled theskulls. Blood-bath stuff. Oh, yes, and Tamerlane was a Scand of theNavies.     Hal looked puzzled and then quickly erased the expression. Well, evenif it is about Tamerlane, you can't see it. How about it, Joggy?     They won't let me in, either.     Yes, they will. You're five years old now.     But I don't feel any older, Joggy replied doubtfully.     The feeling comes at six. Don't worry, the usher will notice thedifference.     Hal and Joggy switched off their levitators and dropped to theirfeet. The Butcher came down rather hard, twisting an ankle. He openedhis mouth to cry, then abruptly closed it hard, bearing his pain intight-lipped silence like an ancient soldier—like Stalin, maybe, hethought. The red-headed adult's face twitched in half-humorous sympathy.     Hal and Joggy mounted the Ramp and entered a twilit corridor whichdrank their faint footsteps and returned pulses of light. The Butcherlimped manfully after them, but when he got inside, he forgot hisbattle injury.  Hal looked back. Honestly, the usher will stop you.     The Butcher shook his head. I'm going to think my way in. I'm going tothink old.     You won't be able to fool the usher, Butcher. You under-fivessimply aren't allowed in the Time Theater. There's a good reason forit—something dangerous might happen if an under-five got inside.     Why?     I don't exactly know, but something.     Hah! I bet they're scared we'd go traveling in the Time Bubble andhave some excitement.     They are not. I guess they just know you'd get bored and wander awayfrom your seats and maybe disturb the adults or upset the electronicsor something. But don't worry about it, Butcher. The usher will takecare of you.     Shut up—I'm thinking I'm World Director, the Butcher informed them,contorting his face diabolically.     Hal spoke to the uninjes, pointing to the side of the corridor.Obediently four of them lined up.     But Brute was peering down the corridor toward where it merged into adeeper darkness. His short legs stiffened, his neckless head seemed toretreat even further between his powerful shoulders, his lips writhedback to show his gleaming fangs, and a completely unfamiliar soundissued from his throat. A choked, grating sound. A growl. The otheruninjes moved uneasily.     Do you suppose something's the matter with his circuits? Joggywhispered. Maybe he's getting racial memories from the Scands.     Of course not, Hal said irritably.     Brute, get over there, the Butcher commanded. Unwillingly, eyes stillfixed on the blackness ahead, Brute obeyed.     The three boys started on. Hal and Joggy experienced a vaguelyelectrical tingling that vanished almost immediately. They looked back.The Butcher had been stopped by an invisible wall.     I told you you couldn't fool the usher, Hal said.     The Butcher hurled himself forward. The wall gave a little, thenbounced him back with equal force.     I bet it'll be a bum time view anyway, the Butcher said, not givingup, but not trying again. And I still don't think the usher can tellhow old you are. I bet there's an over-age teacher spying on youthrough a hole, and if he doesn't like your looks, he switches on theusher.  But the others had disappeared in the blackness. The Butcher waited andthen sat down beside the uninjes. Brute laid his head on his knee andgrowled faintly down the corridor.     Take it easy, Brute, the Butcher consoled him. I don't thinkTamerlane was really a Scand of the Navies anyhow.     Two chattering girls hardly bigger than himself stepped through theusher as if it weren't there.     The Butcher grimly slipped out the metal tube and put it to his lips.There were two closely spaced faint      plops     and a large green stainappeared on the bare back of one girl, while purple fluid dripped fromthe close-cropped hair of the other.     They glared at him and one of them said: A cub! But he had his armsfolded and wasn't looking at them.     Meanwhile, subordinate ushers had guided Hal and Joggy away from themain entrance to the Time Theater. A sphincter dilated and they foundthemselves in a small transparent cubicle from which they could watchthe show without disturbing the adult audience. They unstrapped theirlevitators, laid them on the floor and sat down.       The darkened auditorium was circular. Rising from a low centralplatform was a huge bubble of light, its lower surface somewhatflattened. The audience was seated in concentric rows around thebubble, their keen and compassionate faces dimly revealed by the palecentral glow.     But it was the scene within the bubble that riveted the attention ofthe boys.     Great brooding trees, the trunks of the nearer ones sliced by thebubble's surface, formed the background. Through the dark, wet foliageappeared glimpses of a murky sky, while from the ceiling of the bubble,a ceaseless rain dripped mournfully. A hooded figure crouched beside alittle fire partly shielded by a gnarled trunk. Squatting round aboutwere wiry, blue-eyed men with shoulder-length blond hair and full blondbeards. They were clothed in furs and metal-studded leather.     Here and there were scattered weapons and armor—long swords glisteningwith oil to guard them from rust, crudely painted circular shields, andhelmets from which curved the horns of beasts. Back and forth, lean,wolflike dogs paced with restless monotony.  Sometimes the men seemed to speak together, or one would rise to peerdown the misty forest vistas, but mostly they were motionless. Onlythe hooded figure, which they seemed to regard with a mingled wonderand fear, swayed incessantly to the rhythm of some unheard chant.     The Time Bubble has been brought to rest in one of the barbariccultures of the Dawn Era, a soft voice explained, so casually thatJoggy looked around for the speaker, until Hal nudged him sharply,whispering with barely perceptible embarrassment: Don't do that,Joggy. It's just the electronic interpreter. It senses our developmentand hears our questions and then it automats background and answers.But it's no more alive than an adolescer or a kinderobot. Got a billionmicrotapes, though.     The interpreter continued: The skin-clad men we are viewing in Timein the Round seem to be a group of warriors of the sort who livedby pillage and rapine. The hooded figure is a most unusual find. Webelieve it to be that of a sorcerer who pretended to control the forcesof nature and see into the future.     Joggy whispered: How is it that we can't see the audience through theother side of the bubble? We can see through this side, all right.     The bubble only shines light out, Hal told him hurriedly, to show heknew some things as well as the interpreter. Nothing, not even light,can get into the bubble from outside. The audience on the other side ofthe bubble sees into it just as we do, only they're seeing the otherway—for instance, they can't see the fire because the tree is in theway. And instead of seeing us beyond, they see more trees and sky.     Joggy nodded. You mean that whatever way you look at the bubble, it'sa kind of hole through time?     That's right. Hal cleared his throat and recited: The bubble is thelocus of an infinite number of one-way holes, all centering around twopoints in space-time, one now and one then. The bubble looks completelyopen, but if you tried to step inside, you'd be stopped—and so wouldan atom beam. It takes more energy than an atom beam just to maintainthe bubble, let alone maneuver it.     I see, I guess, Joggy whispered. But if the hole works for light,why can't the people inside the bubble step out of it into our world?     Why—er—you see, Joggy—     The interpreter took over. The holes are one-way for light, but no-wayfor matter. If one of the individuals inside the bubble walked towardyou, he would cross-section and disappear. But to the audience on theopposite side of the bubble, it would be obvious that he had walkedaway along the vista down which they are peering.  As if to provide an example, a figure suddenly materialized ontheir side of the bubble. The wolflike dogs bared their fangs. Foran instant, there was only an eerie, distorted, rapidly growingsilhouette, changing from blood-red to black as the boundary of thebubble cross-sectioned the intruding figure. Then they recognized theback of another long-haired warrior and realized that the audience onthe other side of the bubble had probably seen him approaching for sometime.     He bowed to the hooded figure and handed him a small bag.     More atavistic cubs, big and little! Hold still, Cynthia, a new voicecut in.     Hal turned and saw that two cold-eyed girls had been ushered into thecubicle. One was wiping her close-cropped hair with one hand whilemopping a green stain from her friend's back with the other.     Hal nudged Joggy and whispered: Butch!     But Joggy was still hypnotized by the Time Bubble.     Then how is it, Hal, he asked, that light comes out of the bubble,if the people don't? What I mean is, if one of the people walks towardus, he shrinks to a red blot and disappears. Why doesn't the lightcoming our way disappear, too?     Well—you see, Joggy, it isn't real light. It's—     Once more the interpreter helped him out.     The light that comes from the bubble is an isotope. Like atoms ofone element, photons of a single frequency also have isotopes. It'smore than a matter of polarization. One of these isotopes of lighttends to leak futureward through holes in space-time. Most of thelight goes down the vistas visible to the other side of the audience.But one isotope is diverted through the walls of the bubble into theTime Theater. Perhaps, because of the intense darkness of the theater,you haven't realized how dimly lit the scene is. That's because we'regetting only a single isotope of the original light. Incidentally, noisotopes have been discovered that leak pastward, though attempts arebeing made to synthesize them.     Oh, explanations! murmured one of the newly arrived girls. The cubsare always angling for them. Apple-polishers!           I     like this show, a familiar voice announced serenely. They cutanybody yet with those choppers?     Hal looked down beside him. Butch! How did you manage to get in?     I don't see any blood. Where's the bodies?     But how      did     you get in—Butcher?  The Butcher replied airily: A red-headed man talked to me and said itcertainly was sad for a future dictator not to be able to enjoy scenesof carnage in his youth, so I told him I'd been inside the Time Theaterand just come out to get a drink of water and go to the eliminator, butthen my sprained ankle had got worse—I kind of tried to get up andfell down again—so he picked me up and carried me right through theusher.     Butcher, that wasn't honest, Hal said a little worriedly. Youtricked him into thinking you were older and his brain waves blanketedyours, going through the usher. I really      have     heard it's dangerousfor you under-fives to be in here.     The way those cubs beg for babying and get it! one of the girlscommented. Talk about sex favoritism! She and her companion withdrewto the far end of the cubicle.     The Butcher grinned at them briefly and concentrated his attention onthe scene in the Time Bubble.     Those big dogs— he began suddenly. Brute must have smelled 'em.     Don't be silly, Hal said. Smells can't come out of the Time Bubble.Smells haven't any isotopes and—     I don't care, the Butcher asserted. I bet somebody'll figure outsomeday how to use the bubble for time traveling.     You can't travel in a point of view, Hal contradicted, and that'sall the bubble is. Besides, some scientists think the bubble isn't realat all, but a—uh—     I believe, the interpreter cut in smoothly, that you're thinkingof the theory that the Time Bubble operates by hypermemory. Somescientists would have us believe that all memory is time traveling andthat the basic location of the bubble is not space-time at all, butever-present eternity. Some of them go so far as to state that it isonly a mental inability that prevents the Time Bubble from being usedfor time traveling—just as it may be a similar disability that keepsa robot with the same or even more scopeful memories from being a realman or animal.     It is because of this minority theory that under-age individuals andother beings with impulsive mentalities are barred from the TimeTheater. But do not be alarmed. Even if the minority theory shouldprove true—and no evidence for it has ever appeared—there areautomatically operating safeguards to protect the audience from anyharmful consequences of time traveling (almost certainly impossible,remember) in either direction.     Sissies! was the Butcher's comment.  You're rather young to be here, aren't you? the interpreter inquired.       The Butcher folded his arms and scowled.     The interpreter hesitated almost humanly, probably snatching through aquarter-million microtapes. Well, you wouldn't have got in unless aqualified adult had certified you as plus-age. Enjoy yourself.     There was no need for the last injunction. The scene within the bubblehad acquired a gripping interest. The shaggy warriors were taking uptheir swords, gathering about the hooded sorcerer. The hood fell back,revealing a face with hawklike, disturbing eyes that seemed to belooking straight out of the bubble at the future.     This is getting good, the Butcher said, squirming toward the edge ofhis seat.     Stop being an impulsive mentality, Hal warned him a little nervously.     Hah!     The sorcerer emptied the small bag on the fire and a thick cloud ofsmoke puffed toward the ceiling of the bubble. A clawlike hand wavedwildly. The sorcerer appeared to be expostulating, commanding. Thewarriors stared uncomprehendingly, which seemed to exasperate thesorcerer.     That's right, the Butcher approved loudly. Sock it to 'em!     Butcher! Hal admonished.     Suddenly the bubble grew very bright, as if the Sun had just shoneforth in the ancient world, though the rain still dripped down.     A viewing anomaly has occurred, the interpreter announced. It may benecessary to collapse the Time Bubble for a short period.     In a frenzy, his ragged robes twisting like smoke, the sorcerer rushedat one of the warriors, pushing him backward so that in a moment hemust cross-section.     Attaboy! the Butcher encouraged.     Then the warrior was standing outside the bubble, blinking toward theshadows, rain dripping from his beard and furs.     Oh,      boy     ! the Butcher cheered in ecstasy.     Butcher, you've done it! Hal said, aghast.     I sure did, the Butcher agreed blandly, but that old guy in thebubble helped me. Must take two to work it.     Keep your seats! the interpreter said loudly. We are energizing thesafeguards!  The warriors inside the bubble stared in stupid astonishment after theone who had disappeared from their view. The sorcerer leaped about,pushing them in his direction.     Abrupt light flooded the Time Theater. The warriors who had emergedfrom the bubble stiffened themselves, baring their teeth.     The safeguards are now energized, the interpreter said.     A woman in a short golden tunic stood up uncertainly from the front rowof the audience.     The first warrior looked her up and down, took one hesitant stepforward, then another, then suddenly grabbed her and flung her over hisleft shoulder, looking around menacingly and swinging his sword in hisright hand.     I repeat, the safeguards have been fully energized! Keep your seats!the interpreter enjoined.     In the cubicle, Hal and Joggy gasped, the two girls squeaked, but theButcher yelled a Hey! of disapproval, snatched up something from thefloor and darted out through the sphincter.     Here and there in the audience, other adults stood up. The emergedwarriors formed a ring of swinging swords and questing eyes. Betweentheir legs their wolfish dogs, emerged with them, crouched and snarled.Then the warriors began to fan out.     There has been an unavoidable delay in energizing the safeguards, theinterpreter said. Please be patient.     At that moment, the Butcher entered the main auditorium, brandishing alevitator above his head and striding purposefully down the aisle. Athis heels, five stocky forms trotted. In a definitely pre-civilizationvoice, or at least with pre-civilization volume, he bellowed: Hey,you! You quit that!     The first warrior looked toward him, gave his left shoulder a shake toquiet his wriggling captive, gave his right shoulder one to supple hissword arm, and waited until the dwarfish challenger came into range.Then his sword swished down in a flashing arc.     Next moment, the Butcher was on his knees and the warrior was staringat him open-mouthed. The sword had rebounded from something invisiblean arm's length above the gnomelike creature's head. The warrior backeda step.       The Butcher stayed down, crouching half behind an aisle seat anddigging for something in his pocket. But he didn't stay quiet. Sic'em, Brute! he shrilled. Sic 'em, Darter! Sic 'em, Pinkie and Whitieand Blue! Then he stopped shouting and raised his hand to his mouth.  Growling quite unmechanically, the five uninjes hurled themselvesforward and closed with the warrior's wolflike dogs. At the firstencounter, Brute and Pinkie were grabbed by the throats, shaken, andtossed a dozen feet. The warriors snarled approval and advanced. Butthen Brute and Pinkie raced back eagerly to the fight—and suddenly theface of the leading warrior was drenched with scarlet. He blinked andtouched his fingers to it, then looked at his hand in horror.     The Butcher spared a second to repeat his command to the uninjes. Butalready the battle was going against the larger dogs. The latter hadthe advantage of weight and could toss the smaller dogs like so manyfoxes. But their terrible fangs did no damage, and whenever an uninjclamped on a throat, that throat was torn out.     Meanwhile, great bloody stains had appeared on the bodies of all thewarriors. They drew back in a knot, looking at each other fearfully.That was when the Butcher got to his feet and strode forward, handclenching the levitator above his head.     Get back where you belong, you big jerks! And drop that lady!     The first warrior pointed toward him and hissed something. Immediately,a half dozen swords were smiting at the Butcher.     We are working to energize the safeguards, the interpreter said inmechanical panic. Remain patient and in your seats.     The uninjes leaped into the melee, at first tearing more fur thanflesh. Swords caught them and sent them spinning through the air. Theycame yapping back for more. Brute fixed on the first warrior's ankle.He dropped the woman, stamped unavailingly on the uninj, and let out ascreech.     Swords were still rebounding from the invisible shield under which theButcher crouched, making terrible faces at his attackers. They drewback, looked again at their bloodstains, goggled at the demon dogs.At their leader's screech, they broke and plunged back into the TimeBubble, their leader stumbling limpingly after them. There they wastedno time on their own ragged sorcerer. Their swords rose and fell, andno repulsor field stayed them.     Brute, come back! the Butcher yelled.  The gray uninj let go his hold on the leader's ankle and scamperedout of the Time Bubble, which swiftly dimmed to its original lightintensity and then winked out.     For once in their very mature lives, all of the adults in theauditorium began to jabber at each other simultaneously.     We are sorry, but the anomaly has made it necessary to collapse theTime Bubble, the interpreter said. There will be no viewing untilfurther announcement. Thank you for your patience.     Hal and Joggy caught up with the Butcher just as Brute jumped into hisarms and the woman in gold picked him up and hugged him fiercely. TheButcher started to pull away, then grudgingly submitted.     Cubs! came a small cold voice from behind Hal and Joggy. Alwaysplaying hero! Say, what's that awful smell, Cynthia? It must have comefrom those dirty past men.     Hal and Joggy were shouting at the Butcher, but he wasn't listeningto them or to the older voices clamoring about revised theories ofreality and other important things. He didn't even squirm as Brutelicked his cheek and the woman in gold planted a big kiss practicallyon his mouth.     He smiled dreamily and stroked Brute's muzzle and murmured softly: Wecame, we saw, we conquered, didn't we, Brute?   ","Hal is one of the three boys who drives the narrative of the story; he is the oldest of the three, with the most experience and knowledge. He acts as a mentor to the Butcher and Joggy, the other two boys. Joggy is five, so he is able to go to the Time Theater for the first time, but the Butcher is not yet old enough. Hal tells the Butcher that his violent impulses will pass given time and conditioning, and tries to dissuade him from trying to enter the TIme Theater for the sake of safety. He is the one that wants to go to the theater, and asks the Butcher to walk with him. He scolds the Butcher once he reveals how he snuck into the theater, and is worried about the potential danger. Throughout the time in the theater, it is Hal who explains how the different beings in the society fit together, and the technology (and theories) around the Time Bubble, though the electronic narrator in the viewing box at the theater also helps fill in some details. Throughout the story more broadly, Hal maintains a patient tone with the Butcher, as he tries to be very understanding about his youthful inclinations towards violence, admitting his past urges but pointing towards positive change towards a more calm mindset. "
"What is the role of technology in this society? </s>     TIME IN THE ROUND     By FRITZ LEIBER     Illustrated by DILLON     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction May 1957.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        Poor Butcher suffered more than any dictator       in history: everybody gave in to him because       he was so puny and they were so impregnable!        From the other end of the Avenue of Wisdom that led across the PeacePark, a gray, hairless, heavily built dog was barking soundlessly atthe towering crystal glory of the Time Theater. For a moment, theeffect was almost frightening: a silent picture of the beginning ofcivilization challenging the end of it. Then a small boy caught upwith the dog and it rolled over enthusiastically at his feet and thescene was normal again.     The small boy, however, seemed definitely pre-civilization. He studiedthe dog coldly and then inserted a thin metal tube under its eyelid andpoked. The dog wagged its stumpy tail. The boy frowned, tightened hisgrip on the tube and jabbed hard. The dog's tail thumped the cushionypavement and the four paws beat the air. The boy shortened his gripand suddenly jabbed the dog several times in the stomach. The stifftube rebounded from the gray, hairless hide. The dog's face split in anupside-down grin, revealing formidable ivory fangs across which a longblack tongue lolled.     The boy regarded the tongue speculatively and pocketed the metal tubewith a grimace of utter disgust. He did not look up when someonecalled: Hi, Butch! Sic 'em, Darter, sic 'em!     A larger small boy and a somewhat older one were approaching across theluxurious, neatly cropped grass, preceded by a hurtling shape that,except for a black hide, was a replica of Butch's gray dog.     Butch shrugged his shoulders resignedly and said in a bored voice:Kill 'em, Brute.  The gray dog hurled itself on Darter. Jaws gaped to get a hold on necksso short and thick as to be mere courtesy terms. They whirled like afanged merry-go-round. Three more dogs, one white, one slate blue andone pink, hurried up and tried to climb aboard.     Butch yawned.     What's the matter? inquired Darter's master. I thought you liked dogfights, Butch.     I do like dog fights, Butch said somberly, without looking around. Idon't like uninj fights. They're just a pretend, like everything else.Nobody gets hurt. And look here, Joggy—and you, too, Hal—when youtalk to me, don't just say Butch. It's the Butcher, see?     That's not exactly a functional name, Hal observed with thejudiciousness of budding maturity, while Joggy said agreeably: Allright, Butcher, I suppose you'd like to have lived way back when peoplewere hurting each other all the time so the blood came out?     I certainly would, the Butcher replied. As Joggy and Hal turned backskeptically to watch the fight, he took out the metal tube, screwedup his face in a dreadful frown and jabbed himself in the hand. Hesqueaked with pain and whisked the tube out of sight.     A kid can't do anything any more, he announced dramatically. Can'tbreak anything except the breakables they give him to break on purpose.Can't get dirty except in the dirt-pen—and they graduate him from thatwhen he's two. Can't even be bitten by an uninj—it's contraprogrammed.     Where'd you ever get so fixated on dirt? Hal asked in a gentle voiceacquired from a robot adolescer.     I've been reading a book about a kid called Huckleberry Finn, theButcher replied airily. A swell book. That guy got dirtier thananything. His eyes became dreamy. He even ate out of a garbage pail.     What's a garbage pail?     I don't know, but it sounds great.     The battling uninjes careened into them. Brute had Darter by the earand was whirling him around hilariously.     Aw,      quit     it, Brute, the Butcher said in annoyance.     Brute obediently loosed his hold and returned to his master, paying noattention to his adversary's efforts to renew the fight.     The Butcher looked Brute squarely in the eyes. You're making too muchof a rumpus, he said. I want to think.  He kicked Brute in the face. The dog squirmed joyously at his feet.     Look, Joggy said, you wouldn't hurt an uninj, for instance, wouldyou?     How can you hurt something that's uninjurable? the Butcher demandedscathingly. An uninj isn't really a dog. It's just a lot of circuitsand a micropack bedded in hyperplastic. He looked at Brute withguarded wistfulness.     I don't know about that, Hal put in. I've heard an uninj isprogrammed with so many genuine canine reactions that it practicallyhas racial memory.     I mean if you      could     hurt an uninj, Joggy amended.     Well, maybe I wouldn't, the Butcher admitted grudgingly. But shutup—I want to think.     About what? Hal asked with saintly reasonableness.     The Butcher achieved a fearful frown. When I'm World Director, hesaid slowly, I'm going to have warfare again.     You think so now, Hal told him. We all do at your age.     We do not, the Butcher retorted. I bet      you     didn't.     Oh, yes, I was foolish, too, the older boy confessed readily. Allnewborn organisms are self-centered and inconsiderate and ruthless.They have to be. That's why we have uninjes to work out on, and deathgames and fear houses, so that our emotions are cleared for adultconditioning. And it's just the same with newborn civilizations. Why,long after atom power and the space drive were discovered, peoplekept having wars and revolutions. It took ages to condition themdifferently. Of course, you can't appreciate it this year, but Man'sgreatest achievement was when he learned to automatically reject allviolent solutions to problems. You'll realize that when you're older.     I will not! the Butcher countered hotly. I'm not going to be asissy. Hal and Joggy blinked at the unfamiliar word. And what if wewere attacked by bloodthirsty monsters from outside the Solar System?     The Space Fleet would take care of them, Hal replied calmly. That'swhat it's for. Adults aren't conditioned to reject violent solutions toproblems where non-human enemies are concerned. Look at what we did toviruses.     But what if somebody got at us through the Time Bubble?     They can't. It's impossible.     Yes, but suppose they did all the same.     You've never been inside the Time Theater—you're not old enoughyet—so you just can't know anything about it or about the reasonswhy it's impossible, Hal replied with friendly factuality. The TimeBubble is just a viewer. You can only look through it, and just intothe past, at that. But you can't travel through it because you can'tchange the past. Time traveling is a lot of kid stuff.     I don't care, the Butcher asserted obstinately. I'm still going tohave warfare when I'm World Director.     They'll condition you out of the idea, Hal assured him.     They will not. I won't let 'em.     It doesn't matter what you think now, Hal said with finality. You'llhave an altogether different opinion when you're six.     Well, what if I will? the Butcher snapped back. You don't have tokeep      telling     me about it, do you?  The others were silent. Joggy began to bounce up and down abstractedlyon the resilient pavement. Hal called in his three uninjes and saidin soothing tones: Joggy and I are going to swim over to the TimeTheater. Want to walk us there, Butch?     Butch scowled.     How about it, Butch?     Still Butch did not seem to hear.     The older boy shrugged and said: Oh, well, how about it—Butcher?     The Butcher swung around. They won't let me in the Time Theater. Yousaid so yourself.     You could walk us over there.     Well, maybe I will and maybe I won't.     While you're deciding, we'll get swimming. Come along, Joggy.     Still scowling, the Butcher took a white soapy crayon from the bulgingpocket in his silver shorts. Pressed into the pavement, it made ablack mark. He scrawled pensively: KEEP ON THE GRASS.     He gazed at his handiwork. No, darn it, that was just what grownupswanted you to do. This grass couldn't be hurt. You couldn't pull it upor tear it off; it hurt your fingers to try. A rub with the side of thecrayon removed the sign. He thought for a moment, then wrote: KEEP OFFTHE GRASS.     With an untroubled countenance, he sprang up and hurried after theothers.     Joggy and the older boy were swimming lazily through the air atshoulder height. In the pavement directly under each of them was awide, saucer-shaped depression which swam along with them. The uninjesavoided the depressions. Darter was strutting on his hind legs, lookingup inquiringly at his master.     Gimme a ride, Hal, gimme a ride! the Butcher called. The older boyignored him. Aw, gimme a ride, Joggy.     Oh, all right. Joggy touched the small box attached to the front ofhis broad metal harness and dropped lightly to the ground. The Butcherclimbed on his back. There was a moment of rocking and pitching, duringwhich each boy accused the other of trying to upset them.     Then the Butcher got his balance and they began to swim alongsecurely, though at a level several inches lower. Brute sprang up afterhis master and was invisibly rebuffed. He retired baffled, but a fewminutes later, he was amusing himself by furious futile efforts toclimb the hemispherical repulsor field.     Slowly the little cavalcade of boys and uninjes proceeded down theAvenue of Wisdom. Hal amused himself by stroking toward a tree. When hewas about four feet from it, he was gently bounced away.  It was really a more tiring method of transportation than walkingand quite useless against the wind. True, by rocking the repulsorhemisphere backward, you could get a brief forward push, but it wouldbe nullified when you rocked forward. A slow swimming stroke was thesimplest way to make progress.     The general sensation, however, was delightful and levitators wereamong the most prized of toys.     There's the Theater, Joggy announced.     I      know     , the Butcher said irritably.     But even he sounded a little solemn and subdued. From the Great Rampto the topmost airy finial, the Time Theater was the dream of a godrealized in unearthly substance. It imparted the aura of demigods tothe adults drifting up and down the ramp.     My father remembers when there wasn't a Time Theater, Hal said softlyas he scanned the facade's glowing charts and maps. Say, they'reviewing Earth, somewhere in Scandinavia around zero in the B.C.-A.D.time scale. It should be interesting.     Will it be about Napoleon? the Butcher asked eagerly. Or Hitler? Ared-headed adult heard and smiled and paused to watch. A lock of hairhad fallen down the middle of the Butcher's forehead, and as he satJoggy like a charger, he did bear a faint resemblance to one of thegrim little egomaniacs of the Dawn Era.     Wrong millennium, Hal said.     Tamerlane then? the Butcher pressed. He killed cities and piled theskulls. Blood-bath stuff. Oh, yes, and Tamerlane was a Scand of theNavies.     Hal looked puzzled and then quickly erased the expression. Well, evenif it is about Tamerlane, you can't see it. How about it, Joggy?     They won't let me in, either.     Yes, they will. You're five years old now.     But I don't feel any older, Joggy replied doubtfully.     The feeling comes at six. Don't worry, the usher will notice thedifference.     Hal and Joggy switched off their levitators and dropped to theirfeet. The Butcher came down rather hard, twisting an ankle. He openedhis mouth to cry, then abruptly closed it hard, bearing his pain intight-lipped silence like an ancient soldier—like Stalin, maybe, hethought. The red-headed adult's face twitched in half-humorous sympathy.     Hal and Joggy mounted the Ramp and entered a twilit corridor whichdrank their faint footsteps and returned pulses of light. The Butcherlimped manfully after them, but when he got inside, he forgot hisbattle injury.  Hal looked back. Honestly, the usher will stop you.     The Butcher shook his head. I'm going to think my way in. I'm going tothink old.     You won't be able to fool the usher, Butcher. You under-fivessimply aren't allowed in the Time Theater. There's a good reason forit—something dangerous might happen if an under-five got inside.     Why?     I don't exactly know, but something.     Hah! I bet they're scared we'd go traveling in the Time Bubble andhave some excitement.     They are not. I guess they just know you'd get bored and wander awayfrom your seats and maybe disturb the adults or upset the electronicsor something. But don't worry about it, Butcher. The usher will takecare of you.     Shut up—I'm thinking I'm World Director, the Butcher informed them,contorting his face diabolically.     Hal spoke to the uninjes, pointing to the side of the corridor.Obediently four of them lined up.     But Brute was peering down the corridor toward where it merged into adeeper darkness. His short legs stiffened, his neckless head seemed toretreat even further between his powerful shoulders, his lips writhedback to show his gleaming fangs, and a completely unfamiliar soundissued from his throat. A choked, grating sound. A growl. The otheruninjes moved uneasily.     Do you suppose something's the matter with his circuits? Joggywhispered. Maybe he's getting racial memories from the Scands.     Of course not, Hal said irritably.     Brute, get over there, the Butcher commanded. Unwillingly, eyes stillfixed on the blackness ahead, Brute obeyed.     The three boys started on. Hal and Joggy experienced a vaguelyelectrical tingling that vanished almost immediately. They looked back.The Butcher had been stopped by an invisible wall.     I told you you couldn't fool the usher, Hal said.     The Butcher hurled himself forward. The wall gave a little, thenbounced him back with equal force.     I bet it'll be a bum time view anyway, the Butcher said, not givingup, but not trying again. And I still don't think the usher can tellhow old you are. I bet there's an over-age teacher spying on youthrough a hole, and if he doesn't like your looks, he switches on theusher.  But the others had disappeared in the blackness. The Butcher waited andthen sat down beside the uninjes. Brute laid his head on his knee andgrowled faintly down the corridor.     Take it easy, Brute, the Butcher consoled him. I don't thinkTamerlane was really a Scand of the Navies anyhow.     Two chattering girls hardly bigger than himself stepped through theusher as if it weren't there.     The Butcher grimly slipped out the metal tube and put it to his lips.There were two closely spaced faint      plops     and a large green stainappeared on the bare back of one girl, while purple fluid dripped fromthe close-cropped hair of the other.     They glared at him and one of them said: A cub! But he had his armsfolded and wasn't looking at them.     Meanwhile, subordinate ushers had guided Hal and Joggy away from themain entrance to the Time Theater. A sphincter dilated and they foundthemselves in a small transparent cubicle from which they could watchthe show without disturbing the adult audience. They unstrapped theirlevitators, laid them on the floor and sat down.       The darkened auditorium was circular. Rising from a low centralplatform was a huge bubble of light, its lower surface somewhatflattened. The audience was seated in concentric rows around thebubble, their keen and compassionate faces dimly revealed by the palecentral glow.     But it was the scene within the bubble that riveted the attention ofthe boys.     Great brooding trees, the trunks of the nearer ones sliced by thebubble's surface, formed the background. Through the dark, wet foliageappeared glimpses of a murky sky, while from the ceiling of the bubble,a ceaseless rain dripped mournfully. A hooded figure crouched beside alittle fire partly shielded by a gnarled trunk. Squatting round aboutwere wiry, blue-eyed men with shoulder-length blond hair and full blondbeards. They were clothed in furs and metal-studded leather.     Here and there were scattered weapons and armor—long swords glisteningwith oil to guard them from rust, crudely painted circular shields, andhelmets from which curved the horns of beasts. Back and forth, lean,wolflike dogs paced with restless monotony.  Sometimes the men seemed to speak together, or one would rise to peerdown the misty forest vistas, but mostly they were motionless. Onlythe hooded figure, which they seemed to regard with a mingled wonderand fear, swayed incessantly to the rhythm of some unheard chant.     The Time Bubble has been brought to rest in one of the barbariccultures of the Dawn Era, a soft voice explained, so casually thatJoggy looked around for the speaker, until Hal nudged him sharply,whispering with barely perceptible embarrassment: Don't do that,Joggy. It's just the electronic interpreter. It senses our developmentand hears our questions and then it automats background and answers.But it's no more alive than an adolescer or a kinderobot. Got a billionmicrotapes, though.     The interpreter continued: The skin-clad men we are viewing in Timein the Round seem to be a group of warriors of the sort who livedby pillage and rapine. The hooded figure is a most unusual find. Webelieve it to be that of a sorcerer who pretended to control the forcesof nature and see into the future.     Joggy whispered: How is it that we can't see the audience through theother side of the bubble? We can see through this side, all right.     The bubble only shines light out, Hal told him hurriedly, to show heknew some things as well as the interpreter. Nothing, not even light,can get into the bubble from outside. The audience on the other side ofthe bubble sees into it just as we do, only they're seeing the otherway—for instance, they can't see the fire because the tree is in theway. And instead of seeing us beyond, they see more trees and sky.     Joggy nodded. You mean that whatever way you look at the bubble, it'sa kind of hole through time?     That's right. Hal cleared his throat and recited: The bubble is thelocus of an infinite number of one-way holes, all centering around twopoints in space-time, one now and one then. The bubble looks completelyopen, but if you tried to step inside, you'd be stopped—and so wouldan atom beam. It takes more energy than an atom beam just to maintainthe bubble, let alone maneuver it.     I see, I guess, Joggy whispered. But if the hole works for light,why can't the people inside the bubble step out of it into our world?     Why—er—you see, Joggy—     The interpreter took over. The holes are one-way for light, but no-wayfor matter. If one of the individuals inside the bubble walked towardyou, he would cross-section and disappear. But to the audience on theopposite side of the bubble, it would be obvious that he had walkedaway along the vista down which they are peering.  As if to provide an example, a figure suddenly materialized ontheir side of the bubble. The wolflike dogs bared their fangs. Foran instant, there was only an eerie, distorted, rapidly growingsilhouette, changing from blood-red to black as the boundary of thebubble cross-sectioned the intruding figure. Then they recognized theback of another long-haired warrior and realized that the audience onthe other side of the bubble had probably seen him approaching for sometime.     He bowed to the hooded figure and handed him a small bag.     More atavistic cubs, big and little! Hold still, Cynthia, a new voicecut in.     Hal turned and saw that two cold-eyed girls had been ushered into thecubicle. One was wiping her close-cropped hair with one hand whilemopping a green stain from her friend's back with the other.     Hal nudged Joggy and whispered: Butch!     But Joggy was still hypnotized by the Time Bubble.     Then how is it, Hal, he asked, that light comes out of the bubble,if the people don't? What I mean is, if one of the people walks towardus, he shrinks to a red blot and disappears. Why doesn't the lightcoming our way disappear, too?     Well—you see, Joggy, it isn't real light. It's—     Once more the interpreter helped him out.     The light that comes from the bubble is an isotope. Like atoms ofone element, photons of a single frequency also have isotopes. It'smore than a matter of polarization. One of these isotopes of lighttends to leak futureward through holes in space-time. Most of thelight goes down the vistas visible to the other side of the audience.But one isotope is diverted through the walls of the bubble into theTime Theater. Perhaps, because of the intense darkness of the theater,you haven't realized how dimly lit the scene is. That's because we'regetting only a single isotope of the original light. Incidentally, noisotopes have been discovered that leak pastward, though attempts arebeing made to synthesize them.     Oh, explanations! murmured one of the newly arrived girls. The cubsare always angling for them. Apple-polishers!           I     like this show, a familiar voice announced serenely. They cutanybody yet with those choppers?     Hal looked down beside him. Butch! How did you manage to get in?     I don't see any blood. Where's the bodies?     But how      did     you get in—Butcher?  The Butcher replied airily: A red-headed man talked to me and said itcertainly was sad for a future dictator not to be able to enjoy scenesof carnage in his youth, so I told him I'd been inside the Time Theaterand just come out to get a drink of water and go to the eliminator, butthen my sprained ankle had got worse—I kind of tried to get up andfell down again—so he picked me up and carried me right through theusher.     Butcher, that wasn't honest, Hal said a little worriedly. Youtricked him into thinking you were older and his brain waves blanketedyours, going through the usher. I really      have     heard it's dangerousfor you under-fives to be in here.     The way those cubs beg for babying and get it! one of the girlscommented. Talk about sex favoritism! She and her companion withdrewto the far end of the cubicle.     The Butcher grinned at them briefly and concentrated his attention onthe scene in the Time Bubble.     Those big dogs— he began suddenly. Brute must have smelled 'em.     Don't be silly, Hal said. Smells can't come out of the Time Bubble.Smells haven't any isotopes and—     I don't care, the Butcher asserted. I bet somebody'll figure outsomeday how to use the bubble for time traveling.     You can't travel in a point of view, Hal contradicted, and that'sall the bubble is. Besides, some scientists think the bubble isn't realat all, but a—uh—     I believe, the interpreter cut in smoothly, that you're thinkingof the theory that the Time Bubble operates by hypermemory. Somescientists would have us believe that all memory is time traveling andthat the basic location of the bubble is not space-time at all, butever-present eternity. Some of them go so far as to state that it isonly a mental inability that prevents the Time Bubble from being usedfor time traveling—just as it may be a similar disability that keepsa robot with the same or even more scopeful memories from being a realman or animal.     It is because of this minority theory that under-age individuals andother beings with impulsive mentalities are barred from the TimeTheater. But do not be alarmed. Even if the minority theory shouldprove true—and no evidence for it has ever appeared—there areautomatically operating safeguards to protect the audience from anyharmful consequences of time traveling (almost certainly impossible,remember) in either direction.     Sissies! was the Butcher's comment.  You're rather young to be here, aren't you? the interpreter inquired.       The Butcher folded his arms and scowled.     The interpreter hesitated almost humanly, probably snatching through aquarter-million microtapes. Well, you wouldn't have got in unless aqualified adult had certified you as plus-age. Enjoy yourself.     There was no need for the last injunction. The scene within the bubblehad acquired a gripping interest. The shaggy warriors were taking uptheir swords, gathering about the hooded sorcerer. The hood fell back,revealing a face with hawklike, disturbing eyes that seemed to belooking straight out of the bubble at the future.     This is getting good, the Butcher said, squirming toward the edge ofhis seat.     Stop being an impulsive mentality, Hal warned him a little nervously.     Hah!     The sorcerer emptied the small bag on the fire and a thick cloud ofsmoke puffed toward the ceiling of the bubble. A clawlike hand wavedwildly. The sorcerer appeared to be expostulating, commanding. Thewarriors stared uncomprehendingly, which seemed to exasperate thesorcerer.     That's right, the Butcher approved loudly. Sock it to 'em!     Butcher! Hal admonished.     Suddenly the bubble grew very bright, as if the Sun had just shoneforth in the ancient world, though the rain still dripped down.     A viewing anomaly has occurred, the interpreter announced. It may benecessary to collapse the Time Bubble for a short period.     In a frenzy, his ragged robes twisting like smoke, the sorcerer rushedat one of the warriors, pushing him backward so that in a moment hemust cross-section.     Attaboy! the Butcher encouraged.     Then the warrior was standing outside the bubble, blinking toward theshadows, rain dripping from his beard and furs.     Oh,      boy     ! the Butcher cheered in ecstasy.     Butcher, you've done it! Hal said, aghast.     I sure did, the Butcher agreed blandly, but that old guy in thebubble helped me. Must take two to work it.     Keep your seats! the interpreter said loudly. We are energizing thesafeguards!  The warriors inside the bubble stared in stupid astonishment after theone who had disappeared from their view. The sorcerer leaped about,pushing them in his direction.     Abrupt light flooded the Time Theater. The warriors who had emergedfrom the bubble stiffened themselves, baring their teeth.     The safeguards are now energized, the interpreter said.     A woman in a short golden tunic stood up uncertainly from the front rowof the audience.     The first warrior looked her up and down, took one hesitant stepforward, then another, then suddenly grabbed her and flung her over hisleft shoulder, looking around menacingly and swinging his sword in hisright hand.     I repeat, the safeguards have been fully energized! Keep your seats!the interpreter enjoined.     In the cubicle, Hal and Joggy gasped, the two girls squeaked, but theButcher yelled a Hey! of disapproval, snatched up something from thefloor and darted out through the sphincter.     Here and there in the audience, other adults stood up. The emergedwarriors formed a ring of swinging swords and questing eyes. Betweentheir legs their wolfish dogs, emerged with them, crouched and snarled.Then the warriors began to fan out.     There has been an unavoidable delay in energizing the safeguards, theinterpreter said. Please be patient.     At that moment, the Butcher entered the main auditorium, brandishing alevitator above his head and striding purposefully down the aisle. Athis heels, five stocky forms trotted. In a definitely pre-civilizationvoice, or at least with pre-civilization volume, he bellowed: Hey,you! You quit that!     The first warrior looked toward him, gave his left shoulder a shake toquiet his wriggling captive, gave his right shoulder one to supple hissword arm, and waited until the dwarfish challenger came into range.Then his sword swished down in a flashing arc.     Next moment, the Butcher was on his knees and the warrior was staringat him open-mouthed. The sword had rebounded from something invisiblean arm's length above the gnomelike creature's head. The warrior backeda step.       The Butcher stayed down, crouching half behind an aisle seat anddigging for something in his pocket. But he didn't stay quiet. Sic'em, Brute! he shrilled. Sic 'em, Darter! Sic 'em, Pinkie and Whitieand Blue! Then he stopped shouting and raised his hand to his mouth.  Growling quite unmechanically, the five uninjes hurled themselvesforward and closed with the warrior's wolflike dogs. At the firstencounter, Brute and Pinkie were grabbed by the throats, shaken, andtossed a dozen feet. The warriors snarled approval and advanced. Butthen Brute and Pinkie raced back eagerly to the fight—and suddenly theface of the leading warrior was drenched with scarlet. He blinked andtouched his fingers to it, then looked at his hand in horror.     The Butcher spared a second to repeat his command to the uninjes. Butalready the battle was going against the larger dogs. The latter hadthe advantage of weight and could toss the smaller dogs like so manyfoxes. But their terrible fangs did no damage, and whenever an uninjclamped on a throat, that throat was torn out.     Meanwhile, great bloody stains had appeared on the bodies of all thewarriors. They drew back in a knot, looking at each other fearfully.That was when the Butcher got to his feet and strode forward, handclenching the levitator above his head.     Get back where you belong, you big jerks! And drop that lady!     The first warrior pointed toward him and hissed something. Immediately,a half dozen swords were smiting at the Butcher.     We are working to energize the safeguards, the interpreter said inmechanical panic. Remain patient and in your seats.     The uninjes leaped into the melee, at first tearing more fur thanflesh. Swords caught them and sent them spinning through the air. Theycame yapping back for more. Brute fixed on the first warrior's ankle.He dropped the woman, stamped unavailingly on the uninj, and let out ascreech.     Swords were still rebounding from the invisible shield under which theButcher crouched, making terrible faces at his attackers. They drewback, looked again at their bloodstains, goggled at the demon dogs.At their leader's screech, they broke and plunged back into the TimeBubble, their leader stumbling limpingly after them. There they wastedno time on their own ragged sorcerer. Their swords rose and fell, andno repulsor field stayed them.     Brute, come back! the Butcher yelled.  The gray uninj let go his hold on the leader's ankle and scamperedout of the Time Bubble, which swiftly dimmed to its original lightintensity and then winked out.     For once in their very mature lives, all of the adults in theauditorium began to jabber at each other simultaneously.     We are sorry, but the anomaly has made it necessary to collapse theTime Bubble, the interpreter said. There will be no viewing untilfurther announcement. Thank you for your patience.     Hal and Joggy caught up with the Butcher just as Brute jumped into hisarms and the woman in gold picked him up and hugged him fiercely. TheButcher started to pull away, then grudgingly submitted.     Cubs! came a small cold voice from behind Hal and Joggy. Alwaysplaying hero! Say, what's that awful smell, Cynthia? It must have comefrom those dirty past men.     Hal and Joggy were shouting at the Butcher, but he wasn't listeningto them or to the older voices clamoring about revised theories ofreality and other important things. He didn't even squirm as Brutelicked his cheek and the woman in gold planted a big kiss practicallyon his mouth.     He smiled dreamily and stroked Brute's muzzle and murmured softly: Wecame, we saw, we conquered, didn't we, Brute?   ","There are two major types of technology highlighted in the story: the first is the mechanical kind that allows for hovering travel, the development of uninjes, and the systems in place in the theater like the ushers and the protective mechanisms. The other major thing that could be categorized as technology is the Time Bubble itself; it acts as a form of entertainment but also as a warning to avoid the habits of people of the past. Focusing on the engineering technology that does not directly relate to potential time-travel, it is strongly hinted that the children in the story might be partly mechanical themselves, though this is not clarified. It is pointed out that there are ""adolescers"" and ""kinderobots"", which could be referring to the age groups of these children, and the dogs that follow the people around are also technological creations. The ""uninjes"" are like dogs, and are built to have canine reactions to be as close to real dogs as possible, but cannot be harmed and in the end are still collections of circuits with a battery and molded plastic. There are a number of pieces of technology in the theater, including forcefields used by ushers to block children who are too young to enter, and a number of safeguards like forcefields to protect people inc ase something went wrong with the Time Bubble. The bubble itself is a marvel of technology but nobody understands exactly how it works. Most of the discourse surrounding this is about the theories of time travel. "
"Describe the structure of the society in this story </s>     TIME IN THE ROUND     By FRITZ LEIBER     Illustrated by DILLON     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction May 1957.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        Poor Butcher suffered more than any dictator       in history: everybody gave in to him because       he was so puny and they were so impregnable!        From the other end of the Avenue of Wisdom that led across the PeacePark, a gray, hairless, heavily built dog was barking soundlessly atthe towering crystal glory of the Time Theater. For a moment, theeffect was almost frightening: a silent picture of the beginning ofcivilization challenging the end of it. Then a small boy caught upwith the dog and it rolled over enthusiastically at his feet and thescene was normal again.     The small boy, however, seemed definitely pre-civilization. He studiedthe dog coldly and then inserted a thin metal tube under its eyelid andpoked. The dog wagged its stumpy tail. The boy frowned, tightened hisgrip on the tube and jabbed hard. The dog's tail thumped the cushionypavement and the four paws beat the air. The boy shortened his gripand suddenly jabbed the dog several times in the stomach. The stifftube rebounded from the gray, hairless hide. The dog's face split in anupside-down grin, revealing formidable ivory fangs across which a longblack tongue lolled.     The boy regarded the tongue speculatively and pocketed the metal tubewith a grimace of utter disgust. He did not look up when someonecalled: Hi, Butch! Sic 'em, Darter, sic 'em!     A larger small boy and a somewhat older one were approaching across theluxurious, neatly cropped grass, preceded by a hurtling shape that,except for a black hide, was a replica of Butch's gray dog.     Butch shrugged his shoulders resignedly and said in a bored voice:Kill 'em, Brute.  The gray dog hurled itself on Darter. Jaws gaped to get a hold on necksso short and thick as to be mere courtesy terms. They whirled like afanged merry-go-round. Three more dogs, one white, one slate blue andone pink, hurried up and tried to climb aboard.     Butch yawned.     What's the matter? inquired Darter's master. I thought you liked dogfights, Butch.     I do like dog fights, Butch said somberly, without looking around. Idon't like uninj fights. They're just a pretend, like everything else.Nobody gets hurt. And look here, Joggy—and you, too, Hal—when youtalk to me, don't just say Butch. It's the Butcher, see?     That's not exactly a functional name, Hal observed with thejudiciousness of budding maturity, while Joggy said agreeably: Allright, Butcher, I suppose you'd like to have lived way back when peoplewere hurting each other all the time so the blood came out?     I certainly would, the Butcher replied. As Joggy and Hal turned backskeptically to watch the fight, he took out the metal tube, screwedup his face in a dreadful frown and jabbed himself in the hand. Hesqueaked with pain and whisked the tube out of sight.     A kid can't do anything any more, he announced dramatically. Can'tbreak anything except the breakables they give him to break on purpose.Can't get dirty except in the dirt-pen—and they graduate him from thatwhen he's two. Can't even be bitten by an uninj—it's contraprogrammed.     Where'd you ever get so fixated on dirt? Hal asked in a gentle voiceacquired from a robot adolescer.     I've been reading a book about a kid called Huckleberry Finn, theButcher replied airily. A swell book. That guy got dirtier thananything. His eyes became dreamy. He even ate out of a garbage pail.     What's a garbage pail?     I don't know, but it sounds great.     The battling uninjes careened into them. Brute had Darter by the earand was whirling him around hilariously.     Aw,      quit     it, Brute, the Butcher said in annoyance.     Brute obediently loosed his hold and returned to his master, paying noattention to his adversary's efforts to renew the fight.     The Butcher looked Brute squarely in the eyes. You're making too muchof a rumpus, he said. I want to think.  He kicked Brute in the face. The dog squirmed joyously at his feet.     Look, Joggy said, you wouldn't hurt an uninj, for instance, wouldyou?     How can you hurt something that's uninjurable? the Butcher demandedscathingly. An uninj isn't really a dog. It's just a lot of circuitsand a micropack bedded in hyperplastic. He looked at Brute withguarded wistfulness.     I don't know about that, Hal put in. I've heard an uninj isprogrammed with so many genuine canine reactions that it practicallyhas racial memory.     I mean if you      could     hurt an uninj, Joggy amended.     Well, maybe I wouldn't, the Butcher admitted grudgingly. But shutup—I want to think.     About what? Hal asked with saintly reasonableness.     The Butcher achieved a fearful frown. When I'm World Director, hesaid slowly, I'm going to have warfare again.     You think so now, Hal told him. We all do at your age.     We do not, the Butcher retorted. I bet      you     didn't.     Oh, yes, I was foolish, too, the older boy confessed readily. Allnewborn organisms are self-centered and inconsiderate and ruthless.They have to be. That's why we have uninjes to work out on, and deathgames and fear houses, so that our emotions are cleared for adultconditioning. And it's just the same with newborn civilizations. Why,long after atom power and the space drive were discovered, peoplekept having wars and revolutions. It took ages to condition themdifferently. Of course, you can't appreciate it this year, but Man'sgreatest achievement was when he learned to automatically reject allviolent solutions to problems. You'll realize that when you're older.     I will not! the Butcher countered hotly. I'm not going to be asissy. Hal and Joggy blinked at the unfamiliar word. And what if wewere attacked by bloodthirsty monsters from outside the Solar System?     The Space Fleet would take care of them, Hal replied calmly. That'swhat it's for. Adults aren't conditioned to reject violent solutions toproblems where non-human enemies are concerned. Look at what we did toviruses.     But what if somebody got at us through the Time Bubble?     They can't. It's impossible.     Yes, but suppose they did all the same.     You've never been inside the Time Theater—you're not old enoughyet—so you just can't know anything about it or about the reasonswhy it's impossible, Hal replied with friendly factuality. The TimeBubble is just a viewer. You can only look through it, and just intothe past, at that. But you can't travel through it because you can'tchange the past. Time traveling is a lot of kid stuff.     I don't care, the Butcher asserted obstinately. I'm still going tohave warfare when I'm World Director.     They'll condition you out of the idea, Hal assured him.     They will not. I won't let 'em.     It doesn't matter what you think now, Hal said with finality. You'llhave an altogether different opinion when you're six.     Well, what if I will? the Butcher snapped back. You don't have tokeep      telling     me about it, do you?  The others were silent. Joggy began to bounce up and down abstractedlyon the resilient pavement. Hal called in his three uninjes and saidin soothing tones: Joggy and I are going to swim over to the TimeTheater. Want to walk us there, Butch?     Butch scowled.     How about it, Butch?     Still Butch did not seem to hear.     The older boy shrugged and said: Oh, well, how about it—Butcher?     The Butcher swung around. They won't let me in the Time Theater. Yousaid so yourself.     You could walk us over there.     Well, maybe I will and maybe I won't.     While you're deciding, we'll get swimming. Come along, Joggy.     Still scowling, the Butcher took a white soapy crayon from the bulgingpocket in his silver shorts. Pressed into the pavement, it made ablack mark. He scrawled pensively: KEEP ON THE GRASS.     He gazed at his handiwork. No, darn it, that was just what grownupswanted you to do. This grass couldn't be hurt. You couldn't pull it upor tear it off; it hurt your fingers to try. A rub with the side of thecrayon removed the sign. He thought for a moment, then wrote: KEEP OFFTHE GRASS.     With an untroubled countenance, he sprang up and hurried after theothers.     Joggy and the older boy were swimming lazily through the air atshoulder height. In the pavement directly under each of them was awide, saucer-shaped depression which swam along with them. The uninjesavoided the depressions. Darter was strutting on his hind legs, lookingup inquiringly at his master.     Gimme a ride, Hal, gimme a ride! the Butcher called. The older boyignored him. Aw, gimme a ride, Joggy.     Oh, all right. Joggy touched the small box attached to the front ofhis broad metal harness and dropped lightly to the ground. The Butcherclimbed on his back. There was a moment of rocking and pitching, duringwhich each boy accused the other of trying to upset them.     Then the Butcher got his balance and they began to swim alongsecurely, though at a level several inches lower. Brute sprang up afterhis master and was invisibly rebuffed. He retired baffled, but a fewminutes later, he was amusing himself by furious futile efforts toclimb the hemispherical repulsor field.     Slowly the little cavalcade of boys and uninjes proceeded down theAvenue of Wisdom. Hal amused himself by stroking toward a tree. When hewas about four feet from it, he was gently bounced away.  It was really a more tiring method of transportation than walkingand quite useless against the wind. True, by rocking the repulsorhemisphere backward, you could get a brief forward push, but it wouldbe nullified when you rocked forward. A slow swimming stroke was thesimplest way to make progress.     The general sensation, however, was delightful and levitators wereamong the most prized of toys.     There's the Theater, Joggy announced.     I      know     , the Butcher said irritably.     But even he sounded a little solemn and subdued. From the Great Rampto the topmost airy finial, the Time Theater was the dream of a godrealized in unearthly substance. It imparted the aura of demigods tothe adults drifting up and down the ramp.     My father remembers when there wasn't a Time Theater, Hal said softlyas he scanned the facade's glowing charts and maps. Say, they'reviewing Earth, somewhere in Scandinavia around zero in the B.C.-A.D.time scale. It should be interesting.     Will it be about Napoleon? the Butcher asked eagerly. Or Hitler? Ared-headed adult heard and smiled and paused to watch. A lock of hairhad fallen down the middle of the Butcher's forehead, and as he satJoggy like a charger, he did bear a faint resemblance to one of thegrim little egomaniacs of the Dawn Era.     Wrong millennium, Hal said.     Tamerlane then? the Butcher pressed. He killed cities and piled theskulls. Blood-bath stuff. Oh, yes, and Tamerlane was a Scand of theNavies.     Hal looked puzzled and then quickly erased the expression. Well, evenif it is about Tamerlane, you can't see it. How about it, Joggy?     They won't let me in, either.     Yes, they will. You're five years old now.     But I don't feel any older, Joggy replied doubtfully.     The feeling comes at six. Don't worry, the usher will notice thedifference.     Hal and Joggy switched off their levitators and dropped to theirfeet. The Butcher came down rather hard, twisting an ankle. He openedhis mouth to cry, then abruptly closed it hard, bearing his pain intight-lipped silence like an ancient soldier—like Stalin, maybe, hethought. The red-headed adult's face twitched in half-humorous sympathy.     Hal and Joggy mounted the Ramp and entered a twilit corridor whichdrank their faint footsteps and returned pulses of light. The Butcherlimped manfully after them, but when he got inside, he forgot hisbattle injury.  Hal looked back. Honestly, the usher will stop you.     The Butcher shook his head. I'm going to think my way in. I'm going tothink old.     You won't be able to fool the usher, Butcher. You under-fivessimply aren't allowed in the Time Theater. There's a good reason forit—something dangerous might happen if an under-five got inside.     Why?     I don't exactly know, but something.     Hah! I bet they're scared we'd go traveling in the Time Bubble andhave some excitement.     They are not. I guess they just know you'd get bored and wander awayfrom your seats and maybe disturb the adults or upset the electronicsor something. But don't worry about it, Butcher. The usher will takecare of you.     Shut up—I'm thinking I'm World Director, the Butcher informed them,contorting his face diabolically.     Hal spoke to the uninjes, pointing to the side of the corridor.Obediently four of them lined up.     But Brute was peering down the corridor toward where it merged into adeeper darkness. His short legs stiffened, his neckless head seemed toretreat even further between his powerful shoulders, his lips writhedback to show his gleaming fangs, and a completely unfamiliar soundissued from his throat. A choked, grating sound. A growl. The otheruninjes moved uneasily.     Do you suppose something's the matter with his circuits? Joggywhispered. Maybe he's getting racial memories from the Scands.     Of course not, Hal said irritably.     Brute, get over there, the Butcher commanded. Unwillingly, eyes stillfixed on the blackness ahead, Brute obeyed.     The three boys started on. Hal and Joggy experienced a vaguelyelectrical tingling that vanished almost immediately. They looked back.The Butcher had been stopped by an invisible wall.     I told you you couldn't fool the usher, Hal said.     The Butcher hurled himself forward. The wall gave a little, thenbounced him back with equal force.     I bet it'll be a bum time view anyway, the Butcher said, not givingup, but not trying again. And I still don't think the usher can tellhow old you are. I bet there's an over-age teacher spying on youthrough a hole, and if he doesn't like your looks, he switches on theusher.  But the others had disappeared in the blackness. The Butcher waited andthen sat down beside the uninjes. Brute laid his head on his knee andgrowled faintly down the corridor.     Take it easy, Brute, the Butcher consoled him. I don't thinkTamerlane was really a Scand of the Navies anyhow.     Two chattering girls hardly bigger than himself stepped through theusher as if it weren't there.     The Butcher grimly slipped out the metal tube and put it to his lips.There were two closely spaced faint      plops     and a large green stainappeared on the bare back of one girl, while purple fluid dripped fromthe close-cropped hair of the other.     They glared at him and one of them said: A cub! But he had his armsfolded and wasn't looking at them.     Meanwhile, subordinate ushers had guided Hal and Joggy away from themain entrance to the Time Theater. A sphincter dilated and they foundthemselves in a small transparent cubicle from which they could watchthe show without disturbing the adult audience. They unstrapped theirlevitators, laid them on the floor and sat down.       The darkened auditorium was circular. Rising from a low centralplatform was a huge bubble of light, its lower surface somewhatflattened. The audience was seated in concentric rows around thebubble, their keen and compassionate faces dimly revealed by the palecentral glow.     But it was the scene within the bubble that riveted the attention ofthe boys.     Great brooding trees, the trunks of the nearer ones sliced by thebubble's surface, formed the background. Through the dark, wet foliageappeared glimpses of a murky sky, while from the ceiling of the bubble,a ceaseless rain dripped mournfully. A hooded figure crouched beside alittle fire partly shielded by a gnarled trunk. Squatting round aboutwere wiry, blue-eyed men with shoulder-length blond hair and full blondbeards. They were clothed in furs and metal-studded leather.     Here and there were scattered weapons and armor—long swords glisteningwith oil to guard them from rust, crudely painted circular shields, andhelmets from which curved the horns of beasts. Back and forth, lean,wolflike dogs paced with restless monotony.  Sometimes the men seemed to speak together, or one would rise to peerdown the misty forest vistas, but mostly they were motionless. Onlythe hooded figure, which they seemed to regard with a mingled wonderand fear, swayed incessantly to the rhythm of some unheard chant.     The Time Bubble has been brought to rest in one of the barbariccultures of the Dawn Era, a soft voice explained, so casually thatJoggy looked around for the speaker, until Hal nudged him sharply,whispering with barely perceptible embarrassment: Don't do that,Joggy. It's just the electronic interpreter. It senses our developmentand hears our questions and then it automats background and answers.But it's no more alive than an adolescer or a kinderobot. Got a billionmicrotapes, though.     The interpreter continued: The skin-clad men we are viewing in Timein the Round seem to be a group of warriors of the sort who livedby pillage and rapine. The hooded figure is a most unusual find. Webelieve it to be that of a sorcerer who pretended to control the forcesof nature and see into the future.     Joggy whispered: How is it that we can't see the audience through theother side of the bubble? We can see through this side, all right.     The bubble only shines light out, Hal told him hurriedly, to show heknew some things as well as the interpreter. Nothing, not even light,can get into the bubble from outside. The audience on the other side ofthe bubble sees into it just as we do, only they're seeing the otherway—for instance, they can't see the fire because the tree is in theway. And instead of seeing us beyond, they see more trees and sky.     Joggy nodded. You mean that whatever way you look at the bubble, it'sa kind of hole through time?     That's right. Hal cleared his throat and recited: The bubble is thelocus of an infinite number of one-way holes, all centering around twopoints in space-time, one now and one then. The bubble looks completelyopen, but if you tried to step inside, you'd be stopped—and so wouldan atom beam. It takes more energy than an atom beam just to maintainthe bubble, let alone maneuver it.     I see, I guess, Joggy whispered. But if the hole works for light,why can't the people inside the bubble step out of it into our world?     Why—er—you see, Joggy—     The interpreter took over. The holes are one-way for light, but no-wayfor matter. If one of the individuals inside the bubble walked towardyou, he would cross-section and disappear. But to the audience on theopposite side of the bubble, it would be obvious that he had walkedaway along the vista down which they are peering.  As if to provide an example, a figure suddenly materialized ontheir side of the bubble. The wolflike dogs bared their fangs. Foran instant, there was only an eerie, distorted, rapidly growingsilhouette, changing from blood-red to black as the boundary of thebubble cross-sectioned the intruding figure. Then they recognized theback of another long-haired warrior and realized that the audience onthe other side of the bubble had probably seen him approaching for sometime.     He bowed to the hooded figure and handed him a small bag.     More atavistic cubs, big and little! Hold still, Cynthia, a new voicecut in.     Hal turned and saw that two cold-eyed girls had been ushered into thecubicle. One was wiping her close-cropped hair with one hand whilemopping a green stain from her friend's back with the other.     Hal nudged Joggy and whispered: Butch!     But Joggy was still hypnotized by the Time Bubble.     Then how is it, Hal, he asked, that light comes out of the bubble,if the people don't? What I mean is, if one of the people walks towardus, he shrinks to a red blot and disappears. Why doesn't the lightcoming our way disappear, too?     Well—you see, Joggy, it isn't real light. It's—     Once more the interpreter helped him out.     The light that comes from the bubble is an isotope. Like atoms ofone element, photons of a single frequency also have isotopes. It'smore than a matter of polarization. One of these isotopes of lighttends to leak futureward through holes in space-time. Most of thelight goes down the vistas visible to the other side of the audience.But one isotope is diverted through the walls of the bubble into theTime Theater. Perhaps, because of the intense darkness of the theater,you haven't realized how dimly lit the scene is. That's because we'regetting only a single isotope of the original light. Incidentally, noisotopes have been discovered that leak pastward, though attempts arebeing made to synthesize them.     Oh, explanations! murmured one of the newly arrived girls. The cubsare always angling for them. Apple-polishers!           I     like this show, a familiar voice announced serenely. They cutanybody yet with those choppers?     Hal looked down beside him. Butch! How did you manage to get in?     I don't see any blood. Where's the bodies?     But how      did     you get in—Butcher?  The Butcher replied airily: A red-headed man talked to me and said itcertainly was sad for a future dictator not to be able to enjoy scenesof carnage in his youth, so I told him I'd been inside the Time Theaterand just come out to get a drink of water and go to the eliminator, butthen my sprained ankle had got worse—I kind of tried to get up andfell down again—so he picked me up and carried me right through theusher.     Butcher, that wasn't honest, Hal said a little worriedly. Youtricked him into thinking you were older and his brain waves blanketedyours, going through the usher. I really      have     heard it's dangerousfor you under-fives to be in here.     The way those cubs beg for babying and get it! one of the girlscommented. Talk about sex favoritism! She and her companion withdrewto the far end of the cubicle.     The Butcher grinned at them briefly and concentrated his attention onthe scene in the Time Bubble.     Those big dogs— he began suddenly. Brute must have smelled 'em.     Don't be silly, Hal said. Smells can't come out of the Time Bubble.Smells haven't any isotopes and—     I don't care, the Butcher asserted. I bet somebody'll figure outsomeday how to use the bubble for time traveling.     You can't travel in a point of view, Hal contradicted, and that'sall the bubble is. Besides, some scientists think the bubble isn't realat all, but a—uh—     I believe, the interpreter cut in smoothly, that you're thinkingof the theory that the Time Bubble operates by hypermemory. Somescientists would have us believe that all memory is time traveling andthat the basic location of the bubble is not space-time at all, butever-present eternity. Some of them go so far as to state that it isonly a mental inability that prevents the Time Bubble from being usedfor time traveling—just as it may be a similar disability that keepsa robot with the same or even more scopeful memories from being a realman or animal.     It is because of this minority theory that under-age individuals andother beings with impulsive mentalities are barred from the TimeTheater. But do not be alarmed. Even if the minority theory shouldprove true—and no evidence for it has ever appeared—there areautomatically operating safeguards to protect the audience from anyharmful consequences of time traveling (almost certainly impossible,remember) in either direction.     Sissies! was the Butcher's comment.  You're rather young to be here, aren't you? the interpreter inquired.       The Butcher folded his arms and scowled.     The interpreter hesitated almost humanly, probably snatching through aquarter-million microtapes. Well, you wouldn't have got in unless aqualified adult had certified you as plus-age. Enjoy yourself.     There was no need for the last injunction. The scene within the bubblehad acquired a gripping interest. The shaggy warriors were taking uptheir swords, gathering about the hooded sorcerer. The hood fell back,revealing a face with hawklike, disturbing eyes that seemed to belooking straight out of the bubble at the future.     This is getting good, the Butcher said, squirming toward the edge ofhis seat.     Stop being an impulsive mentality, Hal warned him a little nervously.     Hah!     The sorcerer emptied the small bag on the fire and a thick cloud ofsmoke puffed toward the ceiling of the bubble. A clawlike hand wavedwildly. The sorcerer appeared to be expostulating, commanding. Thewarriors stared uncomprehendingly, which seemed to exasperate thesorcerer.     That's right, the Butcher approved loudly. Sock it to 'em!     Butcher! Hal admonished.     Suddenly the bubble grew very bright, as if the Sun had just shoneforth in the ancient world, though the rain still dripped down.     A viewing anomaly has occurred, the interpreter announced. It may benecessary to collapse the Time Bubble for a short period.     In a frenzy, his ragged robes twisting like smoke, the sorcerer rushedat one of the warriors, pushing him backward so that in a moment hemust cross-section.     Attaboy! the Butcher encouraged.     Then the warrior was standing outside the bubble, blinking toward theshadows, rain dripping from his beard and furs.     Oh,      boy     ! the Butcher cheered in ecstasy.     Butcher, you've done it! Hal said, aghast.     I sure did, the Butcher agreed blandly, but that old guy in thebubble helped me. Must take two to work it.     Keep your seats! the interpreter said loudly. We are energizing thesafeguards!  The warriors inside the bubble stared in stupid astonishment after theone who had disappeared from their view. The sorcerer leaped about,pushing them in his direction.     Abrupt light flooded the Time Theater. The warriors who had emergedfrom the bubble stiffened themselves, baring their teeth.     The safeguards are now energized, the interpreter said.     A woman in a short golden tunic stood up uncertainly from the front rowof the audience.     The first warrior looked her up and down, took one hesitant stepforward, then another, then suddenly grabbed her and flung her over hisleft shoulder, looking around menacingly and swinging his sword in hisright hand.     I repeat, the safeguards have been fully energized! Keep your seats!the interpreter enjoined.     In the cubicle, Hal and Joggy gasped, the two girls squeaked, but theButcher yelled a Hey! of disapproval, snatched up something from thefloor and darted out through the sphincter.     Here and there in the audience, other adults stood up. The emergedwarriors formed a ring of swinging swords and questing eyes. Betweentheir legs their wolfish dogs, emerged with them, crouched and snarled.Then the warriors began to fan out.     There has been an unavoidable delay in energizing the safeguards, theinterpreter said. Please be patient.     At that moment, the Butcher entered the main auditorium, brandishing alevitator above his head and striding purposefully down the aisle. Athis heels, five stocky forms trotted. In a definitely pre-civilizationvoice, or at least with pre-civilization volume, he bellowed: Hey,you! You quit that!     The first warrior looked toward him, gave his left shoulder a shake toquiet his wriggling captive, gave his right shoulder one to supple hissword arm, and waited until the dwarfish challenger came into range.Then his sword swished down in a flashing arc.     Next moment, the Butcher was on his knees and the warrior was staringat him open-mouthed. The sword had rebounded from something invisiblean arm's length above the gnomelike creature's head. The warrior backeda step.       The Butcher stayed down, crouching half behind an aisle seat anddigging for something in his pocket. But he didn't stay quiet. Sic'em, Brute! he shrilled. Sic 'em, Darter! Sic 'em, Pinkie and Whitieand Blue! Then he stopped shouting and raised his hand to his mouth.  Growling quite unmechanically, the five uninjes hurled themselvesforward and closed with the warrior's wolflike dogs. At the firstencounter, Brute and Pinkie were grabbed by the throats, shaken, andtossed a dozen feet. The warriors snarled approval and advanced. Butthen Brute and Pinkie raced back eagerly to the fight—and suddenly theface of the leading warrior was drenched with scarlet. He blinked andtouched his fingers to it, then looked at his hand in horror.     The Butcher spared a second to repeat his command to the uninjes. Butalready the battle was going against the larger dogs. The latter hadthe advantage of weight and could toss the smaller dogs like so manyfoxes. But their terrible fangs did no damage, and whenever an uninjclamped on a throat, that throat was torn out.     Meanwhile, great bloody stains had appeared on the bodies of all thewarriors. They drew back in a knot, looking at each other fearfully.That was when the Butcher got to his feet and strode forward, handclenching the levitator above his head.     Get back where you belong, you big jerks! And drop that lady!     The first warrior pointed toward him and hissed something. Immediately,a half dozen swords were smiting at the Butcher.     We are working to energize the safeguards, the interpreter said inmechanical panic. Remain patient and in your seats.     The uninjes leaped into the melee, at first tearing more fur thanflesh. Swords caught them and sent them spinning through the air. Theycame yapping back for more. Brute fixed on the first warrior's ankle.He dropped the woman, stamped unavailingly on the uninj, and let out ascreech.     Swords were still rebounding from the invisible shield under which theButcher crouched, making terrible faces at his attackers. They drewback, looked again at their bloodstains, goggled at the demon dogs.At their leader's screech, they broke and plunged back into the TimeBubble, their leader stumbling limpingly after them. There they wastedno time on their own ragged sorcerer. Their swords rose and fell, andno repulsor field stayed them.     Brute, come back! the Butcher yelled.  The gray uninj let go his hold on the leader's ankle and scamperedout of the Time Bubble, which swiftly dimmed to its original lightintensity and then winked out.     For once in their very mature lives, all of the adults in theauditorium began to jabber at each other simultaneously.     We are sorry, but the anomaly has made it necessary to collapse theTime Bubble, the interpreter said. There will be no viewing untilfurther announcement. Thank you for your patience.     Hal and Joggy caught up with the Butcher just as Brute jumped into hisarms and the woman in gold picked him up and hugged him fiercely. TheButcher started to pull away, then grudgingly submitted.     Cubs! came a small cold voice from behind Hal and Joggy. Alwaysplaying hero! Say, what's that awful smell, Cynthia? It must have comefrom those dirty past men.     Hal and Joggy were shouting at the Butcher, but he wasn't listeningto them or to the older voices clamoring about revised theories ofreality and other important things. He didn't even squirm as Brutelicked his cheek and the woman in gold planted a big kiss practicallyon his mouth.     He smiled dreamily and stroked Brute's muzzle and murmured softly: Wecame, we saw, we conquered, didn't we, Brute?   ","This society is organized around a reconditioning of thoughts that happens as children transition into adulthood, starting at age six. Adults who have already been reconditioned are passive and polite members of society, who supposedly do not have traces of violent tendencies anymore. Before this, however, there are a few levels of separation from the rest of the society. Five year olds are allowed to go to the Time Theater to view whatever is showing through the Time Bubble, a view into other societies throughout time, but anyone younger than five is not allowed. This is presumably because of safety concerns--Hal thinks that young children are a nuisance to adults in these settings. The society has a number of systems in place specifically for these younger children who have not yet been conditioned. There are things called death games and fear houses, which we do not see details of in this story, that are meant to clear out the childrens' emotional space. It also seems that uninjes, the robotic dogs that the boys have, are also for this purpose: Hal says that they are part of the society's options for letting kids work out their ruthless and inconsiderate impulses. These impulses are restructured when they are aimed at other people, but violent alien beings and viruses or other medical concerns are still considered threats worth responding to in full force. The particular focus on avoiding violent patterns seen in other civilizations is highlighted by the grand nature of the Time Theater, and its position at the end of a major street in a large public park."
"Describe what ""pre-civilization"" means in the context of this story </s>     TIME IN THE ROUND     By FRITZ LEIBER     Illustrated by DILLON     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction May 1957.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        Poor Butcher suffered more than any dictator       in history: everybody gave in to him because       he was so puny and they were so impregnable!        From the other end of the Avenue of Wisdom that led across the PeacePark, a gray, hairless, heavily built dog was barking soundlessly atthe towering crystal glory of the Time Theater. For a moment, theeffect was almost frightening: a silent picture of the beginning ofcivilization challenging the end of it. Then a small boy caught upwith the dog and it rolled over enthusiastically at his feet and thescene was normal again.     The small boy, however, seemed definitely pre-civilization. He studiedthe dog coldly and then inserted a thin metal tube under its eyelid andpoked. The dog wagged its stumpy tail. The boy frowned, tightened hisgrip on the tube and jabbed hard. The dog's tail thumped the cushionypavement and the four paws beat the air. The boy shortened his gripand suddenly jabbed the dog several times in the stomach. The stifftube rebounded from the gray, hairless hide. The dog's face split in anupside-down grin, revealing formidable ivory fangs across which a longblack tongue lolled.     The boy regarded the tongue speculatively and pocketed the metal tubewith a grimace of utter disgust. He did not look up when someonecalled: Hi, Butch! Sic 'em, Darter, sic 'em!     A larger small boy and a somewhat older one were approaching across theluxurious, neatly cropped grass, preceded by a hurtling shape that,except for a black hide, was a replica of Butch's gray dog.     Butch shrugged his shoulders resignedly and said in a bored voice:Kill 'em, Brute.  The gray dog hurled itself on Darter. Jaws gaped to get a hold on necksso short and thick as to be mere courtesy terms. They whirled like afanged merry-go-round. Three more dogs, one white, one slate blue andone pink, hurried up and tried to climb aboard.     Butch yawned.     What's the matter? inquired Darter's master. I thought you liked dogfights, Butch.     I do like dog fights, Butch said somberly, without looking around. Idon't like uninj fights. They're just a pretend, like everything else.Nobody gets hurt. And look here, Joggy—and you, too, Hal—when youtalk to me, don't just say Butch. It's the Butcher, see?     That's not exactly a functional name, Hal observed with thejudiciousness of budding maturity, while Joggy said agreeably: Allright, Butcher, I suppose you'd like to have lived way back when peoplewere hurting each other all the time so the blood came out?     I certainly would, the Butcher replied. As Joggy and Hal turned backskeptically to watch the fight, he took out the metal tube, screwedup his face in a dreadful frown and jabbed himself in the hand. Hesqueaked with pain and whisked the tube out of sight.     A kid can't do anything any more, he announced dramatically. Can'tbreak anything except the breakables they give him to break on purpose.Can't get dirty except in the dirt-pen—and they graduate him from thatwhen he's two. Can't even be bitten by an uninj—it's contraprogrammed.     Where'd you ever get so fixated on dirt? Hal asked in a gentle voiceacquired from a robot adolescer.     I've been reading a book about a kid called Huckleberry Finn, theButcher replied airily. A swell book. That guy got dirtier thananything. His eyes became dreamy. He even ate out of a garbage pail.     What's a garbage pail?     I don't know, but it sounds great.     The battling uninjes careened into them. Brute had Darter by the earand was whirling him around hilariously.     Aw,      quit     it, Brute, the Butcher said in annoyance.     Brute obediently loosed his hold and returned to his master, paying noattention to his adversary's efforts to renew the fight.     The Butcher looked Brute squarely in the eyes. You're making too muchof a rumpus, he said. I want to think.  He kicked Brute in the face. The dog squirmed joyously at his feet.     Look, Joggy said, you wouldn't hurt an uninj, for instance, wouldyou?     How can you hurt something that's uninjurable? the Butcher demandedscathingly. An uninj isn't really a dog. It's just a lot of circuitsand a micropack bedded in hyperplastic. He looked at Brute withguarded wistfulness.     I don't know about that, Hal put in. I've heard an uninj isprogrammed with so many genuine canine reactions that it practicallyhas racial memory.     I mean if you      could     hurt an uninj, Joggy amended.     Well, maybe I wouldn't, the Butcher admitted grudgingly. But shutup—I want to think.     About what? Hal asked with saintly reasonableness.     The Butcher achieved a fearful frown. When I'm World Director, hesaid slowly, I'm going to have warfare again.     You think so now, Hal told him. We all do at your age.     We do not, the Butcher retorted. I bet      you     didn't.     Oh, yes, I was foolish, too, the older boy confessed readily. Allnewborn organisms are self-centered and inconsiderate and ruthless.They have to be. That's why we have uninjes to work out on, and deathgames and fear houses, so that our emotions are cleared for adultconditioning. And it's just the same with newborn civilizations. Why,long after atom power and the space drive were discovered, peoplekept having wars and revolutions. It took ages to condition themdifferently. Of course, you can't appreciate it this year, but Man'sgreatest achievement was when he learned to automatically reject allviolent solutions to problems. You'll realize that when you're older.     I will not! the Butcher countered hotly. I'm not going to be asissy. Hal and Joggy blinked at the unfamiliar word. And what if wewere attacked by bloodthirsty monsters from outside the Solar System?     The Space Fleet would take care of them, Hal replied calmly. That'swhat it's for. Adults aren't conditioned to reject violent solutions toproblems where non-human enemies are concerned. Look at what we did toviruses.     But what if somebody got at us through the Time Bubble?     They can't. It's impossible.     Yes, but suppose they did all the same.     You've never been inside the Time Theater—you're not old enoughyet—so you just can't know anything about it or about the reasonswhy it's impossible, Hal replied with friendly factuality. The TimeBubble is just a viewer. You can only look through it, and just intothe past, at that. But you can't travel through it because you can'tchange the past. Time traveling is a lot of kid stuff.     I don't care, the Butcher asserted obstinately. I'm still going tohave warfare when I'm World Director.     They'll condition you out of the idea, Hal assured him.     They will not. I won't let 'em.     It doesn't matter what you think now, Hal said with finality. You'llhave an altogether different opinion when you're six.     Well, what if I will? the Butcher snapped back. You don't have tokeep      telling     me about it, do you?  The others were silent. Joggy began to bounce up and down abstractedlyon the resilient pavement. Hal called in his three uninjes and saidin soothing tones: Joggy and I are going to swim over to the TimeTheater. Want to walk us there, Butch?     Butch scowled.     How about it, Butch?     Still Butch did not seem to hear.     The older boy shrugged and said: Oh, well, how about it—Butcher?     The Butcher swung around. They won't let me in the Time Theater. Yousaid so yourself.     You could walk us over there.     Well, maybe I will and maybe I won't.     While you're deciding, we'll get swimming. Come along, Joggy.     Still scowling, the Butcher took a white soapy crayon from the bulgingpocket in his silver shorts. Pressed into the pavement, it made ablack mark. He scrawled pensively: KEEP ON THE GRASS.     He gazed at his handiwork. No, darn it, that was just what grownupswanted you to do. This grass couldn't be hurt. You couldn't pull it upor tear it off; it hurt your fingers to try. A rub with the side of thecrayon removed the sign. He thought for a moment, then wrote: KEEP OFFTHE GRASS.     With an untroubled countenance, he sprang up and hurried after theothers.     Joggy and the older boy were swimming lazily through the air atshoulder height. In the pavement directly under each of them was awide, saucer-shaped depression which swam along with them. The uninjesavoided the depressions. Darter was strutting on his hind legs, lookingup inquiringly at his master.     Gimme a ride, Hal, gimme a ride! the Butcher called. The older boyignored him. Aw, gimme a ride, Joggy.     Oh, all right. Joggy touched the small box attached to the front ofhis broad metal harness and dropped lightly to the ground. The Butcherclimbed on his back. There was a moment of rocking and pitching, duringwhich each boy accused the other of trying to upset them.     Then the Butcher got his balance and they began to swim alongsecurely, though at a level several inches lower. Brute sprang up afterhis master and was invisibly rebuffed. He retired baffled, but a fewminutes later, he was amusing himself by furious futile efforts toclimb the hemispherical repulsor field.     Slowly the little cavalcade of boys and uninjes proceeded down theAvenue of Wisdom. Hal amused himself by stroking toward a tree. When hewas about four feet from it, he was gently bounced away.  It was really a more tiring method of transportation than walkingand quite useless against the wind. True, by rocking the repulsorhemisphere backward, you could get a brief forward push, but it wouldbe nullified when you rocked forward. A slow swimming stroke was thesimplest way to make progress.     The general sensation, however, was delightful and levitators wereamong the most prized of toys.     There's the Theater, Joggy announced.     I      know     , the Butcher said irritably.     But even he sounded a little solemn and subdued. From the Great Rampto the topmost airy finial, the Time Theater was the dream of a godrealized in unearthly substance. It imparted the aura of demigods tothe adults drifting up and down the ramp.     My father remembers when there wasn't a Time Theater, Hal said softlyas he scanned the facade's glowing charts and maps. Say, they'reviewing Earth, somewhere in Scandinavia around zero in the B.C.-A.D.time scale. It should be interesting.     Will it be about Napoleon? the Butcher asked eagerly. Or Hitler? Ared-headed adult heard and smiled and paused to watch. A lock of hairhad fallen down the middle of the Butcher's forehead, and as he satJoggy like a charger, he did bear a faint resemblance to one of thegrim little egomaniacs of the Dawn Era.     Wrong millennium, Hal said.     Tamerlane then? the Butcher pressed. He killed cities and piled theskulls. Blood-bath stuff. Oh, yes, and Tamerlane was a Scand of theNavies.     Hal looked puzzled and then quickly erased the expression. Well, evenif it is about Tamerlane, you can't see it. How about it, Joggy?     They won't let me in, either.     Yes, they will. You're five years old now.     But I don't feel any older, Joggy replied doubtfully.     The feeling comes at six. Don't worry, the usher will notice thedifference.     Hal and Joggy switched off their levitators and dropped to theirfeet. The Butcher came down rather hard, twisting an ankle. He openedhis mouth to cry, then abruptly closed it hard, bearing his pain intight-lipped silence like an ancient soldier—like Stalin, maybe, hethought. The red-headed adult's face twitched in half-humorous sympathy.     Hal and Joggy mounted the Ramp and entered a twilit corridor whichdrank their faint footsteps and returned pulses of light. The Butcherlimped manfully after them, but when he got inside, he forgot hisbattle injury.  Hal looked back. Honestly, the usher will stop you.     The Butcher shook his head. I'm going to think my way in. I'm going tothink old.     You won't be able to fool the usher, Butcher. You under-fivessimply aren't allowed in the Time Theater. There's a good reason forit—something dangerous might happen if an under-five got inside.     Why?     I don't exactly know, but something.     Hah! I bet they're scared we'd go traveling in the Time Bubble andhave some excitement.     They are not. I guess they just know you'd get bored and wander awayfrom your seats and maybe disturb the adults or upset the electronicsor something. But don't worry about it, Butcher. The usher will takecare of you.     Shut up—I'm thinking I'm World Director, the Butcher informed them,contorting his face diabolically.     Hal spoke to the uninjes, pointing to the side of the corridor.Obediently four of them lined up.     But Brute was peering down the corridor toward where it merged into adeeper darkness. His short legs stiffened, his neckless head seemed toretreat even further between his powerful shoulders, his lips writhedback to show his gleaming fangs, and a completely unfamiliar soundissued from his throat. A choked, grating sound. A growl. The otheruninjes moved uneasily.     Do you suppose something's the matter with his circuits? Joggywhispered. Maybe he's getting racial memories from the Scands.     Of course not, Hal said irritably.     Brute, get over there, the Butcher commanded. Unwillingly, eyes stillfixed on the blackness ahead, Brute obeyed.     The three boys started on. Hal and Joggy experienced a vaguelyelectrical tingling that vanished almost immediately. They looked back.The Butcher had been stopped by an invisible wall.     I told you you couldn't fool the usher, Hal said.     The Butcher hurled himself forward. The wall gave a little, thenbounced him back with equal force.     I bet it'll be a bum time view anyway, the Butcher said, not givingup, but not trying again. And I still don't think the usher can tellhow old you are. I bet there's an over-age teacher spying on youthrough a hole, and if he doesn't like your looks, he switches on theusher.  But the others had disappeared in the blackness. The Butcher waited andthen sat down beside the uninjes. Brute laid his head on his knee andgrowled faintly down the corridor.     Take it easy, Brute, the Butcher consoled him. I don't thinkTamerlane was really a Scand of the Navies anyhow.     Two chattering girls hardly bigger than himself stepped through theusher as if it weren't there.     The Butcher grimly slipped out the metal tube and put it to his lips.There were two closely spaced faint      plops     and a large green stainappeared on the bare back of one girl, while purple fluid dripped fromthe close-cropped hair of the other.     They glared at him and one of them said: A cub! But he had his armsfolded and wasn't looking at them.     Meanwhile, subordinate ushers had guided Hal and Joggy away from themain entrance to the Time Theater. A sphincter dilated and they foundthemselves in a small transparent cubicle from which they could watchthe show without disturbing the adult audience. They unstrapped theirlevitators, laid them on the floor and sat down.       The darkened auditorium was circular. Rising from a low centralplatform was a huge bubble of light, its lower surface somewhatflattened. The audience was seated in concentric rows around thebubble, their keen and compassionate faces dimly revealed by the palecentral glow.     But it was the scene within the bubble that riveted the attention ofthe boys.     Great brooding trees, the trunks of the nearer ones sliced by thebubble's surface, formed the background. Through the dark, wet foliageappeared glimpses of a murky sky, while from the ceiling of the bubble,a ceaseless rain dripped mournfully. A hooded figure crouched beside alittle fire partly shielded by a gnarled trunk. Squatting round aboutwere wiry, blue-eyed men with shoulder-length blond hair and full blondbeards. They were clothed in furs and metal-studded leather.     Here and there were scattered weapons and armor—long swords glisteningwith oil to guard them from rust, crudely painted circular shields, andhelmets from which curved the horns of beasts. Back and forth, lean,wolflike dogs paced with restless monotony.  Sometimes the men seemed to speak together, or one would rise to peerdown the misty forest vistas, but mostly they were motionless. Onlythe hooded figure, which they seemed to regard with a mingled wonderand fear, swayed incessantly to the rhythm of some unheard chant.     The Time Bubble has been brought to rest in one of the barbariccultures of the Dawn Era, a soft voice explained, so casually thatJoggy looked around for the speaker, until Hal nudged him sharply,whispering with barely perceptible embarrassment: Don't do that,Joggy. It's just the electronic interpreter. It senses our developmentand hears our questions and then it automats background and answers.But it's no more alive than an adolescer or a kinderobot. Got a billionmicrotapes, though.     The interpreter continued: The skin-clad men we are viewing in Timein the Round seem to be a group of warriors of the sort who livedby pillage and rapine. The hooded figure is a most unusual find. Webelieve it to be that of a sorcerer who pretended to control the forcesof nature and see into the future.     Joggy whispered: How is it that we can't see the audience through theother side of the bubble? We can see through this side, all right.     The bubble only shines light out, Hal told him hurriedly, to show heknew some things as well as the interpreter. Nothing, not even light,can get into the bubble from outside. The audience on the other side ofthe bubble sees into it just as we do, only they're seeing the otherway—for instance, they can't see the fire because the tree is in theway. And instead of seeing us beyond, they see more trees and sky.     Joggy nodded. You mean that whatever way you look at the bubble, it'sa kind of hole through time?     That's right. Hal cleared his throat and recited: The bubble is thelocus of an infinite number of one-way holes, all centering around twopoints in space-time, one now and one then. The bubble looks completelyopen, but if you tried to step inside, you'd be stopped—and so wouldan atom beam. It takes more energy than an atom beam just to maintainthe bubble, let alone maneuver it.     I see, I guess, Joggy whispered. But if the hole works for light,why can't the people inside the bubble step out of it into our world?     Why—er—you see, Joggy—     The interpreter took over. The holes are one-way for light, but no-wayfor matter. If one of the individuals inside the bubble walked towardyou, he would cross-section and disappear. But to the audience on theopposite side of the bubble, it would be obvious that he had walkedaway along the vista down which they are peering.  As if to provide an example, a figure suddenly materialized ontheir side of the bubble. The wolflike dogs bared their fangs. Foran instant, there was only an eerie, distorted, rapidly growingsilhouette, changing from blood-red to black as the boundary of thebubble cross-sectioned the intruding figure. Then they recognized theback of another long-haired warrior and realized that the audience onthe other side of the bubble had probably seen him approaching for sometime.     He bowed to the hooded figure and handed him a small bag.     More atavistic cubs, big and little! Hold still, Cynthia, a new voicecut in.     Hal turned and saw that two cold-eyed girls had been ushered into thecubicle. One was wiping her close-cropped hair with one hand whilemopping a green stain from her friend's back with the other.     Hal nudged Joggy and whispered: Butch!     But Joggy was still hypnotized by the Time Bubble.     Then how is it, Hal, he asked, that light comes out of the bubble,if the people don't? What I mean is, if one of the people walks towardus, he shrinks to a red blot and disappears. Why doesn't the lightcoming our way disappear, too?     Well—you see, Joggy, it isn't real light. It's—     Once more the interpreter helped him out.     The light that comes from the bubble is an isotope. Like atoms ofone element, photons of a single frequency also have isotopes. It'smore than a matter of polarization. One of these isotopes of lighttends to leak futureward through holes in space-time. Most of thelight goes down the vistas visible to the other side of the audience.But one isotope is diverted through the walls of the bubble into theTime Theater. Perhaps, because of the intense darkness of the theater,you haven't realized how dimly lit the scene is. That's because we'regetting only a single isotope of the original light. Incidentally, noisotopes have been discovered that leak pastward, though attempts arebeing made to synthesize them.     Oh, explanations! murmured one of the newly arrived girls. The cubsare always angling for them. Apple-polishers!           I     like this show, a familiar voice announced serenely. They cutanybody yet with those choppers?     Hal looked down beside him. Butch! How did you manage to get in?     I don't see any blood. Where's the bodies?     But how      did     you get in—Butcher?  The Butcher replied airily: A red-headed man talked to me and said itcertainly was sad for a future dictator not to be able to enjoy scenesof carnage in his youth, so I told him I'd been inside the Time Theaterand just come out to get a drink of water and go to the eliminator, butthen my sprained ankle had got worse—I kind of tried to get up andfell down again—so he picked me up and carried me right through theusher.     Butcher, that wasn't honest, Hal said a little worriedly. Youtricked him into thinking you were older and his brain waves blanketedyours, going through the usher. I really      have     heard it's dangerousfor you under-fives to be in here.     The way those cubs beg for babying and get it! one of the girlscommented. Talk about sex favoritism! She and her companion withdrewto the far end of the cubicle.     The Butcher grinned at them briefly and concentrated his attention onthe scene in the Time Bubble.     Those big dogs— he began suddenly. Brute must have smelled 'em.     Don't be silly, Hal said. Smells can't come out of the Time Bubble.Smells haven't any isotopes and—     I don't care, the Butcher asserted. I bet somebody'll figure outsomeday how to use the bubble for time traveling.     You can't travel in a point of view, Hal contradicted, and that'sall the bubble is. Besides, some scientists think the bubble isn't realat all, but a—uh—     I believe, the interpreter cut in smoothly, that you're thinkingof the theory that the Time Bubble operates by hypermemory. Somescientists would have us believe that all memory is time traveling andthat the basic location of the bubble is not space-time at all, butever-present eternity. Some of them go so far as to state that it isonly a mental inability that prevents the Time Bubble from being usedfor time traveling—just as it may be a similar disability that keepsa robot with the same or even more scopeful memories from being a realman or animal.     It is because of this minority theory that under-age individuals andother beings with impulsive mentalities are barred from the TimeTheater. But do not be alarmed. Even if the minority theory shouldprove true—and no evidence for it has ever appeared—there areautomatically operating safeguards to protect the audience from anyharmful consequences of time traveling (almost certainly impossible,remember) in either direction.     Sissies! was the Butcher's comment.  You're rather young to be here, aren't you? the interpreter inquired.       The Butcher folded his arms and scowled.     The interpreter hesitated almost humanly, probably snatching through aquarter-million microtapes. Well, you wouldn't have got in unless aqualified adult had certified you as plus-age. Enjoy yourself.     There was no need for the last injunction. The scene within the bubblehad acquired a gripping interest. The shaggy warriors were taking uptheir swords, gathering about the hooded sorcerer. The hood fell back,revealing a face with hawklike, disturbing eyes that seemed to belooking straight out of the bubble at the future.     This is getting good, the Butcher said, squirming toward the edge ofhis seat.     Stop being an impulsive mentality, Hal warned him a little nervously.     Hah!     The sorcerer emptied the small bag on the fire and a thick cloud ofsmoke puffed toward the ceiling of the bubble. A clawlike hand wavedwildly. The sorcerer appeared to be expostulating, commanding. Thewarriors stared uncomprehendingly, which seemed to exasperate thesorcerer.     That's right, the Butcher approved loudly. Sock it to 'em!     Butcher! Hal admonished.     Suddenly the bubble grew very bright, as if the Sun had just shoneforth in the ancient world, though the rain still dripped down.     A viewing anomaly has occurred, the interpreter announced. It may benecessary to collapse the Time Bubble for a short period.     In a frenzy, his ragged robes twisting like smoke, the sorcerer rushedat one of the warriors, pushing him backward so that in a moment hemust cross-section.     Attaboy! the Butcher encouraged.     Then the warrior was standing outside the bubble, blinking toward theshadows, rain dripping from his beard and furs.     Oh,      boy     ! the Butcher cheered in ecstasy.     Butcher, you've done it! Hal said, aghast.     I sure did, the Butcher agreed blandly, but that old guy in thebubble helped me. Must take two to work it.     Keep your seats! the interpreter said loudly. We are energizing thesafeguards!  The warriors inside the bubble stared in stupid astonishment after theone who had disappeared from their view. The sorcerer leaped about,pushing them in his direction.     Abrupt light flooded the Time Theater. The warriors who had emergedfrom the bubble stiffened themselves, baring their teeth.     The safeguards are now energized, the interpreter said.     A woman in a short golden tunic stood up uncertainly from the front rowof the audience.     The first warrior looked her up and down, took one hesitant stepforward, then another, then suddenly grabbed her and flung her over hisleft shoulder, looking around menacingly and swinging his sword in hisright hand.     I repeat, the safeguards have been fully energized! Keep your seats!the interpreter enjoined.     In the cubicle, Hal and Joggy gasped, the two girls squeaked, but theButcher yelled a Hey! of disapproval, snatched up something from thefloor and darted out through the sphincter.     Here and there in the audience, other adults stood up. The emergedwarriors formed a ring of swinging swords and questing eyes. Betweentheir legs their wolfish dogs, emerged with them, crouched and snarled.Then the warriors began to fan out.     There has been an unavoidable delay in energizing the safeguards, theinterpreter said. Please be patient.     At that moment, the Butcher entered the main auditorium, brandishing alevitator above his head and striding purposefully down the aisle. Athis heels, five stocky forms trotted. In a definitely pre-civilizationvoice, or at least with pre-civilization volume, he bellowed: Hey,you! You quit that!     The first warrior looked toward him, gave his left shoulder a shake toquiet his wriggling captive, gave his right shoulder one to supple hissword arm, and waited until the dwarfish challenger came into range.Then his sword swished down in a flashing arc.     Next moment, the Butcher was on his knees and the warrior was staringat him open-mouthed. The sword had rebounded from something invisiblean arm's length above the gnomelike creature's head. The warrior backeda step.       The Butcher stayed down, crouching half behind an aisle seat anddigging for something in his pocket. But he didn't stay quiet. Sic'em, Brute! he shrilled. Sic 'em, Darter! Sic 'em, Pinkie and Whitieand Blue! Then he stopped shouting and raised his hand to his mouth.  Growling quite unmechanically, the five uninjes hurled themselvesforward and closed with the warrior's wolflike dogs. At the firstencounter, Brute and Pinkie were grabbed by the throats, shaken, andtossed a dozen feet. The warriors snarled approval and advanced. Butthen Brute and Pinkie raced back eagerly to the fight—and suddenly theface of the leading warrior was drenched with scarlet. He blinked andtouched his fingers to it, then looked at his hand in horror.     The Butcher spared a second to repeat his command to the uninjes. Butalready the battle was going against the larger dogs. The latter hadthe advantage of weight and could toss the smaller dogs like so manyfoxes. But their terrible fangs did no damage, and whenever an uninjclamped on a throat, that throat was torn out.     Meanwhile, great bloody stains had appeared on the bodies of all thewarriors. They drew back in a knot, looking at each other fearfully.That was when the Butcher got to his feet and strode forward, handclenching the levitator above his head.     Get back where you belong, you big jerks! And drop that lady!     The first warrior pointed toward him and hissed something. Immediately,a half dozen swords were smiting at the Butcher.     We are working to energize the safeguards, the interpreter said inmechanical panic. Remain patient and in your seats.     The uninjes leaped into the melee, at first tearing more fur thanflesh. Swords caught them and sent them spinning through the air. Theycame yapping back for more. Brute fixed on the first warrior's ankle.He dropped the woman, stamped unavailingly on the uninj, and let out ascreech.     Swords were still rebounding from the invisible shield under which theButcher crouched, making terrible faces at his attackers. They drewback, looked again at their bloodstains, goggled at the demon dogs.At their leader's screech, they broke and plunged back into the TimeBubble, their leader stumbling limpingly after them. There they wastedno time on their own ragged sorcerer. Their swords rose and fell, andno repulsor field stayed them.     Brute, come back! the Butcher yelled.  The gray uninj let go his hold on the leader's ankle and scamperedout of the Time Bubble, which swiftly dimmed to its original lightintensity and then winked out.     For once in their very mature lives, all of the adults in theauditorium began to jabber at each other simultaneously.     We are sorry, but the anomaly has made it necessary to collapse theTime Bubble, the interpreter said. There will be no viewing untilfurther announcement. Thank you for your patience.     Hal and Joggy caught up with the Butcher just as Brute jumped into hisarms and the woman in gold picked him up and hugged him fiercely. TheButcher started to pull away, then grudgingly submitted.     Cubs! came a small cold voice from behind Hal and Joggy. Alwaysplaying hero! Say, what's that awful smell, Cynthia? It must have comefrom those dirty past men.     Hal and Joggy were shouting at the Butcher, but he wasn't listeningto them or to the older voices clamoring about revised theories ofreality and other important things. He didn't even squirm as Brutelicked his cheek and the woman in gold planted a big kiss practicallyon his mouth.     He smiled dreamily and stroked Brute's muzzle and murmured softly: Wecame, we saw, we conquered, didn't we, Brute?   ","The term pre-civilization points to anything that has a sense of violence or chaos in the lives of adults. For instance, raised voices and people talking over each other is considered pre-civilization, but so are violent wars. The society is built to get rid of these tendencies in children and recondition them as adults to be calm and peaceful members of society. When the Butcher is referred to as looking pre-civilization at the beginning of the story, it is because he seems to be up to something he isn't supposed to do, as he is potentially hurting or controlling Brute in some way with the use of a metal tube. "
"What is the plot of the story? </s>    Saboteur of Space     By ROBERT ABERNATHY     Fresh power was coming to Earth, energy     which would bring life to a dying planet.     Only two men stood in its way, one a cowardly     rat, the other a murderous martyr; both pawns     in a cosmic game where death moved his chessmen     of fate—and even the winner would lose.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Spring 1944.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Ryd Randl stood, slouching a little, in the darkened footway, andwatched the sky over Dynamopolis come alive with searchlights. Theshuttered glow of Burshis' Stumble Inn was only a few yards off to hisright, but even that lodestone failed before the novel interest of aship about to ground in the one-time Port of Ten Thousand Ships.     Now he made out the flicker of the braking drive a mile or sooverhead, and presently soft motor thunder came down to blanket thealmost lightless city with sound. A beam swayed through the throbbingdarkness, caught the descending ship and held it, a small gleamingminnow slipping through the dark heavens. A faint glow rose from PiMesa, where the spaceport lay above the city, as a runway lightedup—draining the last reserves of the city's stored power, but drainingthem gladly now that, in those autumn days of the historic year 819,relief was in sight.     Ryd shrugged limply; the play was meaningless to him. He turned toshuffle down the inviting ramp into the glowing interior of Burshis'dive.     The place was crowded with men and smoke. Perhaps half the former wereasleep, on tables or on the floor; but for the few places like Burshis'which were still open under the power shortage, many would have frozen,these days, in the chilly nights at fourteen thousand feet. ForDynamopolis sprawled atop the world, now as in the old days when it hadbeen built to be the power center of North America.     The rocket blasts crescendoed and died up on Pi Mesa as Ryd wedgedhimself with difficulty into the group along the bar. If anyonerecognized him, they showed it only by looking fixedly at somethingelse. Only Burshis Yuns kept his static smile and nodded withsurprising friendliness at Ryd's pinched, old-young face.     Ryd was startled by the nod. Burshis finished serving another customerand maneuvered down the stained chrome-and-synthyl bar. Ryd washeartened.     Say, Burshis, he started nervously, as the bulky man halted with hisback to him. But Burshis turned, still smiling, shaking his head sothat his jowls quivered.     No loans, he said flatly. But just one on the house, Ryd.     The drink almost spilled itself in Ryd's hand. Clutching itconvulsively, he made his eyes narrow and said suspiciously, What yousetting 'em up for, Burshis? It's the first time since—     Burshis' smile stayed put. He said affably, Didn't you hear that shipthat just came down on the Mesa? That was the ship from Mars—theescort they were sending with the power cylinder. The power's comingin again. He turned to greet a coin-tapping newcomer, added over hisshoulder: You know what that means, Ryd. Some life around here again.Jobs for all the bums in this town—even for you.     He left Ryd frowning, thinking fuzzily. A warming gulp seemed to clearhis head. Jobs. So they thought they could put that over on him again,huh? Well, he'd show them. He was smart; he was a damn good helioman—no, that had been ten years ago. But now he was out of the habitof working, anyway. No job for Ryd Randl. They gave him one once andthen took it away. He drank still more deeply.     The man on Ryd's immediate right leaned toward him. He laid a hand onhis arm, gripping it hard, and said quietly: So you're Ryd Randl.  Ryd had a bad moment before he saw that the face wasn't that of anyplain-clothes man he knew. For that matter, it didn't belong to anybodyhe had ever known—an odd, big-boned face, strikingly ugly, with abeak-nose that was yet not too large for the hard jaw or too bleak forthe thin mouth below it. An expensive transparent hat slanted over theface, and from its iridescent shadows gleamed eyes that were alert andalmost frighteningly black. Ryd noted that the man wore a dark-graycellotex of a sort rarely seen in joints like Burshis'.     Suppose we step outside, Ryd. I'd like to talk to you.     What's the idea? demanded Ryd, his small store of natural couragefloated to the top by alcohol.     The other seemed to realize that he was getting ahead of himself.He leaned back slightly, drew a deep breath, and said slowly anddistinctly. Would you care to make some money, my friend?           Huh?     Why, yeh—I guess so—     Then come with me. The hand still on his arm was insistent. In hisdaze, Ryd let himself be drawn away from the bar into the sluggishcrowd; then he suddenly remembered his unfinished drink, and madefrantic gestures. Deliberately misunderstanding, the tall strangerfumbled briefly, tossed a coin on the counter-top, and hustled Ryd out,past the blue-and-gold-lit      meloderge     that was softly pouring out itsendlessly changing music, through the swinging doors into the dark.     Outside, between lightless buildings, the still cold closed in onthem. They kept walking—so fast that Ryd began to lose his breath,long-accustomed though his lungs were to the high, thin air.     So you're Ryd Randl, repeated the stranger after a moment's silence.I might have known you. But I'd almost given up finding you tonight.     Ryd tried feebly to wrench free, stumbled. Look, he gasped. Ifyou're a cop, say so!     The other laughed shortly. No. I'm just a man about to offer you achance. For a come-back, Ryd—a chance to live again.... My name—youcan call me Mury.     Ryd was voiceless. Something seemed increasingly ominous about thetall, spare man at his side. He wished himself back in Burshis' withhis first free drink in a month. The thought of it brought tears to hiseyes.     How long have you been out of a job, Ryd?     Nine ... ten years. Say, what's it to you?     And why, Ryd?     Why...? Look, mister, I was a helio operator. He hunched his narrowshoulders and spread his hands in an habitual gesture of defeat. Damngood one, too—I was a foreman ten years ago. But I don't have thephysique for Mars—I might just have made it      then     , but I thought theplant was going to open again and—     And that was it. The almost airless Martian sky, with its burningactinic rays, is so favorable for the use of the helio-dynamic engine.And after the middle of the eighth century, robot labor gave Mars itsfull economic independence—and domination. For power is—power; andthere is the Restriction Act to keep men on Earth even if more than twoin ten could live healthily on the outer world.     Ten years ago, Mury nodded as if satisfied. That must have been thePower Company of North America—the main plant by Dynamopolis itself,that shut down in December, 809. They were the last to close downoutside the military bases in the Kun Lun.     Ryd was pacing beside him now. He felt a queer upsurge of confidence inthis strange man; for too long he had met no sympathy and all too fewmen who talked his language. He burst out: They wouldn't take me, damnthem! Said my record wasn't good enough for them. That is, I didn'thave a drag with any of the Poligerents.     I know all about your record, said Mury softly.     Ryd's suspicions came back abruptly, and he reverted to his oldkicked-dog manner. How do you know? And what's it to you?  All at once, Mury came to a stop, and swung around to face himsquarely, hard eyes compelling. They were on an overpass, not farfrom where the vast, almost wholly deserted offices of the TriplanetFreighting Company sprawled over a square mile of city. A half-smiletwisted Mury's thin lips.     Don't misunderstand me, Ryd—you mean nothing at all to me as anindividual. But you're one of a vast mass of men for whom I amworking—the billions caught in the net of a corrupt government andsold as an economic prey to the ruthless masters of Mars. This, afterthey've borne all the hardships of a year of embargo, have offeredtheir hands willingly to the rebuilding of decadent Earth, only tobe refused by the weak leaders who can neither defy the enemy norcapitulate frankly to him.     Ryd was dazed. His mind had never been constructed to cope with suchideas and the past few years had not improved its capabilities. Areyou talking about the power cylinder? he demanded blurrily.     Mury cast a glance toward the Milky Way as if to descry the Martiancargo projectile somewhere up among its countless lights. He saidsimply, Yes.     I don't get it, mumbled Ryd, frowning. He found words that he hadheard somewhere a day or so before, in some bar or flophouse: Thepower cylinder is going to be the salvation of Earth. It's a shot inthe arm—no, right in the heart of Earth industry, here in Dynamopolis.It will turn the wheels and light the cities and—     To hell with that! snapped Mury, suddenly savage. His hands came upslightly, the fingers flexing; then dropped back to his sides. Don'tyou know you're repeating damnable lies?     Ryd could only stare, cringing and bewildered. Mury went on with apassion shocking after his smooth calm:     The power shell is aid, yes—but with what a price! It's the thirtypieces of silver for which the venal fools who rule our nations havesold the whole planet to Mars. Because they lack the courage andvision to retool Earth's plants and factories for the inescapableconflict, they're selling us out—making Earth, the first home of man,a colony of the Red Planet. Do you know what Earth is to the greatMartian land-owners?      Do you?      He paused out of breath; then finishedvenomously, Earth is a great pool of labor ready to be tapped, cheaperthan robots—cheap as      slaves     !     What about it? gulped Ryd, drawing away from the fanatic. What youwant      me     to do about it?     Mury took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders. His face wasonce more bleakly impassive; only the mouth was an ugly line. We'regoing to do something about it, you and I. Tonight. Now.     Ryd was nearly sober. And wholly terrified. He got out chokingly,What's that mean?     The power shell—isn't coming in as planned.     You can't do that.           We     can, said Mury with a heavy accent on the first word. And thereare fifty thousand credits in it for you, Ryd. Are you with us?     Suspicion was chill reality now in Ryd's mind. And he knew one thingcertainly—if he refused now to accompany Mury, he would be killed, bythis man or another of his kind. For the secret power known only as      We     never took chances. Whispered-of, terrible, and world-embracing,desperate upshot of the times in its principles of dynamitism, war, andpanclasm—that was      We     .     The question hung in the air for a long moment. Then Ryd, withan effort, said, Sure. A moment later it struck him that themonosyllabic assent was suspicious; he added quickly, I got nothing tolose, see? It was, he realized, the cold truth.     You won't lose, said Mury. He seemed to relax. But the menace withwhich he had clothed himself clung, as he turned back on the way theyhad come.     Ryd followed dog-like, his feet in their worn shoes moving without hisvolition. He was frightened. Out of his very fright came a longing toplacate Mury, assure him that he, Ryd, was on the same side whateverhappened....     After some steps he stole a sidelong glance at his tall companion, andwhined, Where ... where we going now?     Mury paused in his long stride, removed a hand from a pocket of thegray topcoat that wrapped him as in somber thoughts. Wordlessly, hepointed as Ryd had known he would—toward where a pale man-made dawnseemed breaking over Pi Mesa.      II     One blow for freedom! said Mury with caught breath. His voice fellupon air scarcely stilled since the sodden thump of the blow that hadkilled the guard.     The body lay between them, face down on the graveled way in the inkymoon-shadow. On one side Pi Mesa stretched away two hundred yards todrop sharply into the night; on the other was the unlighted mass of thelong, continuous, low buildings that housed now unused fuel pumps andservicing equipment. Looking down at the dead huddle at his feet, alittle stunned by the reality of this, Ryd knew that he was in it now.He was caught in the machinery.     Mury hefted the length of steel in his hand once more, as if testingthe weight that had crushed a man's skull so easily. Then, with a shortwrist-flip, he sent it flying into the dried weeds which had over-grownthe aero field on the mesa's rim during the summer months after Stateorder had grounded all fliers in America.     All right, Ryd, he said coolly. Trade clothes with this fellow. I'vebrought you this far—you're taking me the rest of the way.     The rest of the way.     Ryd was still panting, and his side was paining from the strenuousexertion of the long climb up the side of the mountain, far from theguarded highway. His fingers, numbed by the cold of the high, thin air,shook as he knelt and fumbled with the zippers of the dead guard'suniform. The belted gun, however, was heavy and oddly comforting ashe clumsily buckled it about his hips. He knew enough of weaponsto recognize this as, not the usual paralyzer, but a flame pistol,powerful and deadly. He let his hand linger on its butt; then strongfingers tightened on his bony wrist, and he looked up with a start intothe sardonic black eyes of the Panclast.     No use now for firearms, said Mury. All the guns we could carrywouldn't help us if we were caught out there. That gun is just astage property for the little play we're going to give in about threeminutes—when you'll act a guardsman escorting me, a Poligerent ofDynamopolis, aboard the towship      Shahrazad     .     For a moment Ryd felt relief—he had hazily imagined that Mury's hatredof Mars and all things Martian might have led him to try to sabotagethe Martian warship which lay somewhere on the runways beyond the long,low buildings, and which would be closely guarded. But the towshipwould also be guarded ... he shivered in the cold, dry night air.     Mury had melted into the shadow a few yards away. There was a lightscraping, then a green flame sputtered, briefly lighting up his handsand face, and narrowing at once to a thin, singing needle of light.He had turned a pocket electron torch against the lock-mechanism of asmall, disused metal door.       Ryd watched in painful suspense. There was no sound in his ears savefor the hard, dry shrilling of the ray as it bit into the steel. Itseemed to be crying:      run, run     —but he remembered the power that knewhow to punish better than the law, and stood still, shivering.     The lock gave way and the door slipped aside. A light went on inside,and Ryd's heart stopped, backfired, and started again, raggedly. Thesame automatic mechanism that had turned the lights on had started theair-fresher, which picked up speed with a soft whine, sweeping out thelong-stale atmosphere. Mury motioned to Ryd to follow him in.  It was still musty in the narrow passage, between the closely-pressingwalls, beneath the great tubes and cable sheathings that fluted theceiling overhead. A stairway spiraled up on the right to the controlcupola somewhere overhead; even in the airtight gallery a thin filmof dust lay on every step. Up there were the meters and switches ofthe disused terminal facilities of the spaceport; beyond the metaldoor marked CAUTION, just beyond the stairwell, lay the long runwaydown which the ships of space had glided to be serviced, refueled, andlaunched into the sky once more by now dormant machines.     Wait, said Mury succinctly; he vanished up the spiral stair, hislong legs taking two steps at a time. After an aching minute's silence,he was back. All was clear as seen from the turret-windows overhead.     They emerged in shadow, hugging the wall. Almost a quarter of a mile tothe right the megalith of the Communications Tower, crowned with manylights where the signal-men sat godlike in its summit. Its floodlightsshed a vast oval of light out over the mesa, where the mile-longrunways—no longer polished mirror-like as in the days of Dynamopolis'glory—stretched away into the darkness of the table land. A handfulof odd ships—mere remnant of the hundreds that Pi Mesa port hadberthed—huddled under the solenoid wickets, as if driven together bythe chill of the thin, knife-like wind that blew across the mesa.     As the two paced slowly across the runways, Ryd had a sense ofprotective isolation in the vast impersonality of the spaceport.Surely, in this Titanic desolation of metal slabs and flat-roofedbuildings, dominated by the one great tower, total insignificance mustmean safety for them.     And indeed no guard challenged them. There were armed men watchingfor all intruders out on the desert beyond the runways, but onceinside, Ryd's borrowed blue seemed to serve as passport enough.Nonetheless, the passport's knees were shaking when they stood at last,inconspicuous still, at the shadowed base of the Communications Tower.     Not far off, a half-dozen dignitaries, huddled close together in themidst of these Cyclopean man-made things that dwarfed their policies,their principles and ambitions, stood talking rather nervously with twoofficers, aristocratically gaudy in the scarlet of the Martian Fleet.Blue-clad guardsmen of Earth watched from a distance—watched boredlyenough.     And out on the steel-stripped tarmac, under the solenoid of NumberTwo Runway, lay a towship, backed like a stegosaur with its massivemagnets—the      Shahrazad     , panting like a dragon amid rolling clouds ofsteam. She was plainly ready to go into space. The bottom dropped outof Ryd's stomach before he realized that a warning at least must besounded before the ship could lift. But that might come any moment now.     Relax, said Mury in a low voice. Nothing's gone wrong. We'll beaboard the      Shahrazad     when she lifts. For a moment his black eyesshifted, hardening, toward Runway Four. The Martian warship lay therebeyond the solenoid, a spiteful hundred-foot swordfish of steel, withblind gunvalves, row on row, along its sleek sides and turret-blisters.It had not yet been tugged onto the turntable; it could not be leavingagain very soon, though Earth weight was undoubtedly incommodingits crew. About it a few figures stood that were stiffly erect andimmobile, as tall as tall men. From head to toe they were scarlet.     Robots! gasped Ryd, clutching his companion's arm convulsively.Martian soldier robots!     They're unarmed, harmless. They aren't your police with built-inweapons. Only the humans are dangerous. But we've got to move. ForGod's sake, take it easy.     Ryd licked dry lips. Are we going—out into space?     Where else? said Mury.  The official-looking individual in the expensive topcoat and sport hathad reached the starboard airlock of the towship before anyone thoughtto question his authorization, escorted as he was by a blue-uniformedguardsman. When another sentry, pacing between runways a hundred yardsfrom the squat space vessel, paused to wonder, it was—as it cameabout—just a little too late.     The guard turned and swung briskly off to intercept the oddly-behavingpair, hand crowding the butt of his pistol, for he was growinguneasy. His alarm mounted rapidly, till he nearly sprained an anklein sprinting across the last of the two intervening runways, betweenthe solenoid wickets. Those metal arches, crowding one on the otherin perspective, formed a tunnel that effectively shielded the      Shahrazad's     airlocks from more distant view; the gang of notablesattracted by the occasion was already being shepherded back to safetyby the Communications guards, whose attention was thus well taken up.     The slight man in guardsman's blue glanced over his shoulder andvanished abruptly into the circular lock. His companion wheeled on thetopmost step, looking down with some irritation on his unhandsome face,but with no apparent doubt of his command of the situation.     Yes? he inquired frostily.     What goes on here? snapped the guard, frowning at the tall figuresilhouetted against the glow in the airlock. The crew's signaled allaboard and the ship lifts in two minutes. You ought to be—     I am Semul Mury, Poligerent for the City of Dynamopolis, interruptedthe tall man with asperity. The City is naturally interested in thedelivery of the power which will revivify our industries. He paused,sighed, shifting his weight to the next lower step of the gangway. Isuppose you'll want to re-check my credentials?     The guard was somewhat confused; a Poligerent, in ninth-centurybureaucracy, was a force to be reckoned with. But he contrived to nodwith an appearance of brusqueness.     Fully expecting official papers, signed and garnished with all thepompous seals of a chartered metropolis, the guard was dazed to receiveinstead a terrific left-handed foul to the pit of the stomach, and ashe reeled dizzily, retching and clawing for his gun, to find that gunno longer holstered but in the hand of the self-styled Poligerent,pointing at its licensed owner.     I think, Mury said quietly, flexing his left wrist with care thewhile his right held the gun steady, that you'd better come aboardwith us.     The guard was not more cowardly than the run of politically-appointedcivic guardsmen. But a flame gun kills more frightfully than theancient electric chair. He complied, grasping the railing with bothhands as he stumbled before Mury up the gangway—for he was still verysick indeed, wholly apart from his bewilderment, which was enormous.     Above, Ryd Randl waited in the lock, flattened against the curvedwall, white and jittering. The inner door was shut, an impenetrablecountersunk mirror of metal.     Cover him, Ryd, ordered Mury flatly. In obedience Ryd lugged outthe heavy flame pistol and pointed it; his finger was dangerouslytremulous on the firing lever. He moistened his lips to voice hisfears; but Mury, pocketing the other gun, threw the three-way switch onthe side panel, the switch that should have controlled the inner lock.     Nothing happened.     Oh, God. We're caught. We're trapped! The outer gangway had slid up,the lock wheezed shut, forming an impenetrable crypt of niosteel.  Mury smiled with supernal calm. We won't be here long, he said.Then, to quiet Ryd's fears, he went on: The central control panel andthe three local switches inside, between, and outside the locks areon the circuit in that order. Unless the locks were closed from theswitch just beyond the inner lock, that lock will open when the centralcontrol panel is cut out in preparation for lifting.     Almost as he paused and drew breath, a light sprang out over the switchhe had closed and the inner lock swung silently free of its gaskets.Ryd felt a trembling relief; but Mury's voice lashed out like a whip ashe slipped cat-like into the passage.     Keep him covered. Back out of the lock.     Ryd backed—the white, tense face of the prisoner holding his ownnervous gaze—and, almost out of the lock, stumbled over the metalpressure rings. And the gun was out of his unsure grip, clatteringsomewhere near his slithering feet, as he started to fall.     He saw the guardsman hurl himself forward; then he was flung spinning,back against the engine-room door. In a flash, even as he struggledto keep on his feet, he saw the man in the airlock coming up from acrouch, shifting the pistol in his right hand to reach its firinglever; he saw Mury sidestep swiftly and throw the master control switchoutside.     The inner lock whooshed shut, barely missing Ryd. At the same instant,the flame gun lighted locks and passage with one terrific flash, and ascorched, discolored spot appeared on the beveled metal of the oppositelock a foot from Mury's right shoulder.     You damned clumsy little fool— said Mury with soft intensity. Then,while the air around the metal walls still buzzed and snapped withblue sparks, he whirled and went up the control-room gangway in twoquick bounds. Even as he went the flame gun thundered again in thestarboard airlock.     Mury was just in time, for the pilot had been about to flash Ready tothe Communications Tower when the explosions had given him pause. Butthe latter and his two companions were neither ready nor armed; clampedin their seats at the controls, already marked, they were helpless inan instant before the leveled menace of the gun. And the imprisonedguardsman, having wasted most of his charges, was helpless, too, in hislittle cell of steel.     It's been tried before, said one of the masked men. He had a blond,youthful thatch and a smooth healthy face below the mask, together withan astrogator's triangled stars which made him      ex officio     the brainsof the vessel. Stealing a ship—it can't be done any more.     It's been done again, said Mury grimly. And you don't know the halfof it. But—you will. I'll need you. As for your friends— The gunmuzzle shifted slightly to indicate the pilot and the engineer. Out ofthose clamps. You're going to ride this out in the portside airlock.     He had to repeat the command, in tones that snapped with menace, beforethey started with fumbling, rebellious hands to strip their armor fromthemselves. The burly engineer was muttering phrases of obscene fervor;the weedy young pilot was wild-eyed. The blond astrogator, sittingstill masked and apparently unmoved, demanded:     What do you think you're trying to do?     What do      you     think? demanded Mury in return. I'm taking the shipinto space. On schedule and on course—to meet the power shell. Theflame gun moved with a jerk. And as for you—what's your name?     Yet Arliess.     You want to make the trip alive, don't you, Yet Arliess?     The young astrogator stared at him and at the gun through maskinggoggles; then he sank into his seat with a slow shudder. Why, yes, hesaid as if in wonder, I do.      III       Shahrazad     drove steadily forward into deep space, vibrating slightlyto the tremendous thrust of her powerful engines. The small, crampedcabin was stiflingly hot to the three armored men who sat before itsbanked dials, watching their steady needles.     Ryd had blacked out, darkness washing into his eyes and consciousnessdraining from his head, as the space ship had pitched out intoemptiness over the end of the runway on Pi Mesa and Mury had cut in themaindrive. Pressure greater than anything he had ever felt had crushedhim; his voice had been snatched from his lips by those terrible forcesand lost beneath the opening thunder of the three-inch tubes. Up andup, while the acceleration climbed to seven gravities—and Ryd had lostevery sensation, not to regain them until Earth was dropping away underthe towship's keel.     A single gravity held them back and down in the tilted seats, and thecontrol panels seemed to curve half above them, their banks of lightsconfused with the stars coldly through the great nose window. In thecontrol room all sounds impinged on a background made up of the insecthum of air-purifiers, the almost supersonic whine of the fast-spinninggyroscopes somewhere behind them, the deep continuous growl of theengines.     Mury's voice broke through that steady murmur, coming from Ryd's right.You can unfasten your anticlamps, Ryd, he said dryly. That doesn'tmean you, to the young navigator, on his other hand as he sat inthe pilot's seat with his pressure-clamps thrown back and his glovedhands free to caress the multiplex controls before him. Clipped to thesloping dash at his left elbow was a loaded flame gun.     Ryd emerged, with much bungling, from his padded clamps, and shook hishead groggily as he ran a hand through his slightly thinning hair. Heventured shakily, Where are we?     Mury smiled slightly. Only our astrogator, he indicated Arliess,still masked and fettered, can tell you that with precision. Iunderstand only enough of astrogational practice to make sure that heis holding to the course outlined on the log. For that matter ... heis an intelligent young man and if he were not blinded by notions ofduty to an outworn system.... We are now somewhere near the orbit ofthe Moon. Isn't that right, Arliess?     The other did not seem to hear; he sat staring blindly before himthrough his goggles at the slowly-changing chart, where cryptic lightsburned, some moving like glowing paramecia along fine-traced luminoustracks.     Mury too sat silent and immobile for a minute or more. Then, abruptly,he inclined his universal chair far to the right, and his long frameseemed to tense oddly. His finger stabbed out one of the sparks oflight.     What's that, Arliess?     The astrogator broke his silence. A ship.     I know that well enough. What ship?     I supposed you had examined the log. It would have told you thatthat's the liner      Alborak     , out of Aeropolis with a diplomatic missionfor Mars.     Mury shook his head regretfully. That won't wash, Arliess. Even if yousuppose her off course, no liner aspace ever carried a tenth of thatdrive.     I don't know what you're talking about, said Arliess. But his voicewas raw and unsteady.     I'm talking about this. That ship is a warship, and it's looking forus—will intercept us inside of twenty minutes at the most!  ","It’s the year 819, and a man named Ryd Randl who lives in Dynamopolis, a city in North America, goes to a dive bar. The place is crowded with many men because Dynamopolis is experiencing a power shortage, and they would freeze outside. Burshis, the owner of the bar, gives Ryd a free drink and explains that a ship from Mars just brought power back. He is expecting there to be a big boom in the economy soon, which will lead to jobs for people like Ryd. Ryd is not easily convinced of this good news. The ugly and tall man sitting next to Ryd recognizes him. Once outside, Mury introduces himself and asks Ryd if he wants to make some money. He explains that he can offer Ryd a comeback. Ryd has been jobless for ten years, but before that he was a helio operator. Since then, Mars has become fully independent, and all the work moved there. Mury says that he is working for the hundreds of men who have been put out by the corrupt government on Mars. Although Ryd and all the other Earthmen have been told that the new power cylinder being installed will create jobs and bring back the power, Mury argues that isn’t truly the case. He insists that Earthmen are essentially slaves to Mars’s landowners, and in order to stop that from happening, they must stop the power cylinder from landing on Earth. The two men arrive at Pi Mesa, and Mury kills a guard. Ryd steals his clothing and his flame pistol so that they can get on the ship unnoticed. Ryd must pretend to be a guard escorting Mury, the Poligerent of Dynamopolis aboard the Shahrazad. The two men sneak into the controlled area through a metal door, make it to the Communications Tower, and speak with a guard. Mury offers to show his credentials as Poligerent, and surprises the guard with a punch to the gut. Mury takes the officer’s gun, points it at him, and demands he accompany them. Ryd nervously points his flame pistol at the guard and drops his weapon. The weapon goes off and its flame hits some machinery. This gives the pilot pause, and Mury hurries to the control room and takes over the situation. There are three workers there who become his hostages. He explains to the men that he’s taking Shahrazad into space to meet the power shell. When the ship takes off, Ryd passes out from the pressure of the acceleration. When he wakes, Mury assures him that they are on the right path, somewhere near the orbit of the Moon. However, Mury quickly finds out that his masterful plan has been foiled when one of his prisoners, the astrogator, informs him that a ship named the Alboroak is approaching, and it’s about to intercept them. "
"Describe the setting of the story. </s>    Saboteur of Space     By ROBERT ABERNATHY     Fresh power was coming to Earth, energy     which would bring life to a dying planet.     Only two men stood in its way, one a cowardly     rat, the other a murderous martyr; both pawns     in a cosmic game where death moved his chessmen     of fate—and even the winner would lose.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Spring 1944.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Ryd Randl stood, slouching a little, in the darkened footway, andwatched the sky over Dynamopolis come alive with searchlights. Theshuttered glow of Burshis' Stumble Inn was only a few yards off to hisright, but even that lodestone failed before the novel interest of aship about to ground in the one-time Port of Ten Thousand Ships.     Now he made out the flicker of the braking drive a mile or sooverhead, and presently soft motor thunder came down to blanket thealmost lightless city with sound. A beam swayed through the throbbingdarkness, caught the descending ship and held it, a small gleamingminnow slipping through the dark heavens. A faint glow rose from PiMesa, where the spaceport lay above the city, as a runway lightedup—draining the last reserves of the city's stored power, but drainingthem gladly now that, in those autumn days of the historic year 819,relief was in sight.     Ryd shrugged limply; the play was meaningless to him. He turned toshuffle down the inviting ramp into the glowing interior of Burshis'dive.     The place was crowded with men and smoke. Perhaps half the former wereasleep, on tables or on the floor; but for the few places like Burshis'which were still open under the power shortage, many would have frozen,these days, in the chilly nights at fourteen thousand feet. ForDynamopolis sprawled atop the world, now as in the old days when it hadbeen built to be the power center of North America.     The rocket blasts crescendoed and died up on Pi Mesa as Ryd wedgedhimself with difficulty into the group along the bar. If anyonerecognized him, they showed it only by looking fixedly at somethingelse. Only Burshis Yuns kept his static smile and nodded withsurprising friendliness at Ryd's pinched, old-young face.     Ryd was startled by the nod. Burshis finished serving another customerand maneuvered down the stained chrome-and-synthyl bar. Ryd washeartened.     Say, Burshis, he started nervously, as the bulky man halted with hisback to him. But Burshis turned, still smiling, shaking his head sothat his jowls quivered.     No loans, he said flatly. But just one on the house, Ryd.     The drink almost spilled itself in Ryd's hand. Clutching itconvulsively, he made his eyes narrow and said suspiciously, What yousetting 'em up for, Burshis? It's the first time since—     Burshis' smile stayed put. He said affably, Didn't you hear that shipthat just came down on the Mesa? That was the ship from Mars—theescort they were sending with the power cylinder. The power's comingin again. He turned to greet a coin-tapping newcomer, added over hisshoulder: You know what that means, Ryd. Some life around here again.Jobs for all the bums in this town—even for you.     He left Ryd frowning, thinking fuzzily. A warming gulp seemed to clearhis head. Jobs. So they thought they could put that over on him again,huh? Well, he'd show them. He was smart; he was a damn good helioman—no, that had been ten years ago. But now he was out of the habitof working, anyway. No job for Ryd Randl. They gave him one once andthen took it away. He drank still more deeply.     The man on Ryd's immediate right leaned toward him. He laid a hand onhis arm, gripping it hard, and said quietly: So you're Ryd Randl.  Ryd had a bad moment before he saw that the face wasn't that of anyplain-clothes man he knew. For that matter, it didn't belong to anybodyhe had ever known—an odd, big-boned face, strikingly ugly, with abeak-nose that was yet not too large for the hard jaw or too bleak forthe thin mouth below it. An expensive transparent hat slanted over theface, and from its iridescent shadows gleamed eyes that were alert andalmost frighteningly black. Ryd noted that the man wore a dark-graycellotex of a sort rarely seen in joints like Burshis'.     Suppose we step outside, Ryd. I'd like to talk to you.     What's the idea? demanded Ryd, his small store of natural couragefloated to the top by alcohol.     The other seemed to realize that he was getting ahead of himself.He leaned back slightly, drew a deep breath, and said slowly anddistinctly. Would you care to make some money, my friend?           Huh?     Why, yeh—I guess so—     Then come with me. The hand still on his arm was insistent. In hisdaze, Ryd let himself be drawn away from the bar into the sluggishcrowd; then he suddenly remembered his unfinished drink, and madefrantic gestures. Deliberately misunderstanding, the tall strangerfumbled briefly, tossed a coin on the counter-top, and hustled Ryd out,past the blue-and-gold-lit      meloderge     that was softly pouring out itsendlessly changing music, through the swinging doors into the dark.     Outside, between lightless buildings, the still cold closed in onthem. They kept walking—so fast that Ryd began to lose his breath,long-accustomed though his lungs were to the high, thin air.     So you're Ryd Randl, repeated the stranger after a moment's silence.I might have known you. But I'd almost given up finding you tonight.     Ryd tried feebly to wrench free, stumbled. Look, he gasped. Ifyou're a cop, say so!     The other laughed shortly. No. I'm just a man about to offer you achance. For a come-back, Ryd—a chance to live again.... My name—youcan call me Mury.     Ryd was voiceless. Something seemed increasingly ominous about thetall, spare man at his side. He wished himself back in Burshis' withhis first free drink in a month. The thought of it brought tears to hiseyes.     How long have you been out of a job, Ryd?     Nine ... ten years. Say, what's it to you?     And why, Ryd?     Why...? Look, mister, I was a helio operator. He hunched his narrowshoulders and spread his hands in an habitual gesture of defeat. Damngood one, too—I was a foreman ten years ago. But I don't have thephysique for Mars—I might just have made it      then     , but I thought theplant was going to open again and—     And that was it. The almost airless Martian sky, with its burningactinic rays, is so favorable for the use of the helio-dynamic engine.And after the middle of the eighth century, robot labor gave Mars itsfull economic independence—and domination. For power is—power; andthere is the Restriction Act to keep men on Earth even if more than twoin ten could live healthily on the outer world.     Ten years ago, Mury nodded as if satisfied. That must have been thePower Company of North America—the main plant by Dynamopolis itself,that shut down in December, 809. They were the last to close downoutside the military bases in the Kun Lun.     Ryd was pacing beside him now. He felt a queer upsurge of confidence inthis strange man; for too long he had met no sympathy and all too fewmen who talked his language. He burst out: They wouldn't take me, damnthem! Said my record wasn't good enough for them. That is, I didn'thave a drag with any of the Poligerents.     I know all about your record, said Mury softly.     Ryd's suspicions came back abruptly, and he reverted to his oldkicked-dog manner. How do you know? And what's it to you?  All at once, Mury came to a stop, and swung around to face himsquarely, hard eyes compelling. They were on an overpass, not farfrom where the vast, almost wholly deserted offices of the TriplanetFreighting Company sprawled over a square mile of city. A half-smiletwisted Mury's thin lips.     Don't misunderstand me, Ryd—you mean nothing at all to me as anindividual. But you're one of a vast mass of men for whom I amworking—the billions caught in the net of a corrupt government andsold as an economic prey to the ruthless masters of Mars. This, afterthey've borne all the hardships of a year of embargo, have offeredtheir hands willingly to the rebuilding of decadent Earth, only tobe refused by the weak leaders who can neither defy the enemy norcapitulate frankly to him.     Ryd was dazed. His mind had never been constructed to cope with suchideas and the past few years had not improved its capabilities. Areyou talking about the power cylinder? he demanded blurrily.     Mury cast a glance toward the Milky Way as if to descry the Martiancargo projectile somewhere up among its countless lights. He saidsimply, Yes.     I don't get it, mumbled Ryd, frowning. He found words that he hadheard somewhere a day or so before, in some bar or flophouse: Thepower cylinder is going to be the salvation of Earth. It's a shot inthe arm—no, right in the heart of Earth industry, here in Dynamopolis.It will turn the wheels and light the cities and—     To hell with that! snapped Mury, suddenly savage. His hands came upslightly, the fingers flexing; then dropped back to his sides. Don'tyou know you're repeating damnable lies?     Ryd could only stare, cringing and bewildered. Mury went on with apassion shocking after his smooth calm:     The power shell is aid, yes—but with what a price! It's the thirtypieces of silver for which the venal fools who rule our nations havesold the whole planet to Mars. Because they lack the courage andvision to retool Earth's plants and factories for the inescapableconflict, they're selling us out—making Earth, the first home of man,a colony of the Red Planet. Do you know what Earth is to the greatMartian land-owners?      Do you?      He paused out of breath; then finishedvenomously, Earth is a great pool of labor ready to be tapped, cheaperthan robots—cheap as      slaves     !     What about it? gulped Ryd, drawing away from the fanatic. What youwant      me     to do about it?     Mury took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders. His face wasonce more bleakly impassive; only the mouth was an ugly line. We'regoing to do something about it, you and I. Tonight. Now.     Ryd was nearly sober. And wholly terrified. He got out chokingly,What's that mean?     The power shell—isn't coming in as planned.     You can't do that.           We     can, said Mury with a heavy accent on the first word. And thereare fifty thousand credits in it for you, Ryd. Are you with us?     Suspicion was chill reality now in Ryd's mind. And he knew one thingcertainly—if he refused now to accompany Mury, he would be killed, bythis man or another of his kind. For the secret power known only as      We     never took chances. Whispered-of, terrible, and world-embracing,desperate upshot of the times in its principles of dynamitism, war, andpanclasm—that was      We     .     The question hung in the air for a long moment. Then Ryd, withan effort, said, Sure. A moment later it struck him that themonosyllabic assent was suspicious; he added quickly, I got nothing tolose, see? It was, he realized, the cold truth.     You won't lose, said Mury. He seemed to relax. But the menace withwhich he had clothed himself clung, as he turned back on the way theyhad come.     Ryd followed dog-like, his feet in their worn shoes moving without hisvolition. He was frightened. Out of his very fright came a longing toplacate Mury, assure him that he, Ryd, was on the same side whateverhappened....     After some steps he stole a sidelong glance at his tall companion, andwhined, Where ... where we going now?     Mury paused in his long stride, removed a hand from a pocket of thegray topcoat that wrapped him as in somber thoughts. Wordlessly, hepointed as Ryd had known he would—toward where a pale man-made dawnseemed breaking over Pi Mesa.      II     One blow for freedom! said Mury with caught breath. His voice fellupon air scarcely stilled since the sodden thump of the blow that hadkilled the guard.     The body lay between them, face down on the graveled way in the inkymoon-shadow. On one side Pi Mesa stretched away two hundred yards todrop sharply into the night; on the other was the unlighted mass of thelong, continuous, low buildings that housed now unused fuel pumps andservicing equipment. Looking down at the dead huddle at his feet, alittle stunned by the reality of this, Ryd knew that he was in it now.He was caught in the machinery.     Mury hefted the length of steel in his hand once more, as if testingthe weight that had crushed a man's skull so easily. Then, with a shortwrist-flip, he sent it flying into the dried weeds which had over-grownthe aero field on the mesa's rim during the summer months after Stateorder had grounded all fliers in America.     All right, Ryd, he said coolly. Trade clothes with this fellow. I'vebrought you this far—you're taking me the rest of the way.     The rest of the way.     Ryd was still panting, and his side was paining from the strenuousexertion of the long climb up the side of the mountain, far from theguarded highway. His fingers, numbed by the cold of the high, thin air,shook as he knelt and fumbled with the zippers of the dead guard'suniform. The belted gun, however, was heavy and oddly comforting ashe clumsily buckled it about his hips. He knew enough of weaponsto recognize this as, not the usual paralyzer, but a flame pistol,powerful and deadly. He let his hand linger on its butt; then strongfingers tightened on his bony wrist, and he looked up with a start intothe sardonic black eyes of the Panclast.     No use now for firearms, said Mury. All the guns we could carrywouldn't help us if we were caught out there. That gun is just astage property for the little play we're going to give in about threeminutes—when you'll act a guardsman escorting me, a Poligerent ofDynamopolis, aboard the towship      Shahrazad     .     For a moment Ryd felt relief—he had hazily imagined that Mury's hatredof Mars and all things Martian might have led him to try to sabotagethe Martian warship which lay somewhere on the runways beyond the long,low buildings, and which would be closely guarded. But the towshipwould also be guarded ... he shivered in the cold, dry night air.     Mury had melted into the shadow a few yards away. There was a lightscraping, then a green flame sputtered, briefly lighting up his handsand face, and narrowing at once to a thin, singing needle of light.He had turned a pocket electron torch against the lock-mechanism of asmall, disused metal door.       Ryd watched in painful suspense. There was no sound in his ears savefor the hard, dry shrilling of the ray as it bit into the steel. Itseemed to be crying:      run, run     —but he remembered the power that knewhow to punish better than the law, and stood still, shivering.     The lock gave way and the door slipped aside. A light went on inside,and Ryd's heart stopped, backfired, and started again, raggedly. Thesame automatic mechanism that had turned the lights on had started theair-fresher, which picked up speed with a soft whine, sweeping out thelong-stale atmosphere. Mury motioned to Ryd to follow him in.  It was still musty in the narrow passage, between the closely-pressingwalls, beneath the great tubes and cable sheathings that fluted theceiling overhead. A stairway spiraled up on the right to the controlcupola somewhere overhead; even in the airtight gallery a thin filmof dust lay on every step. Up there were the meters and switches ofthe disused terminal facilities of the spaceport; beyond the metaldoor marked CAUTION, just beyond the stairwell, lay the long runwaydown which the ships of space had glided to be serviced, refueled, andlaunched into the sky once more by now dormant machines.     Wait, said Mury succinctly; he vanished up the spiral stair, hislong legs taking two steps at a time. After an aching minute's silence,he was back. All was clear as seen from the turret-windows overhead.     They emerged in shadow, hugging the wall. Almost a quarter of a mile tothe right the megalith of the Communications Tower, crowned with manylights where the signal-men sat godlike in its summit. Its floodlightsshed a vast oval of light out over the mesa, where the mile-longrunways—no longer polished mirror-like as in the days of Dynamopolis'glory—stretched away into the darkness of the table land. A handfulof odd ships—mere remnant of the hundreds that Pi Mesa port hadberthed—huddled under the solenoid wickets, as if driven together bythe chill of the thin, knife-like wind that blew across the mesa.     As the two paced slowly across the runways, Ryd had a sense ofprotective isolation in the vast impersonality of the spaceport.Surely, in this Titanic desolation of metal slabs and flat-roofedbuildings, dominated by the one great tower, total insignificance mustmean safety for them.     And indeed no guard challenged them. There were armed men watchingfor all intruders out on the desert beyond the runways, but onceinside, Ryd's borrowed blue seemed to serve as passport enough.Nonetheless, the passport's knees were shaking when they stood at last,inconspicuous still, at the shadowed base of the Communications Tower.     Not far off, a half-dozen dignitaries, huddled close together in themidst of these Cyclopean man-made things that dwarfed their policies,their principles and ambitions, stood talking rather nervously with twoofficers, aristocratically gaudy in the scarlet of the Martian Fleet.Blue-clad guardsmen of Earth watched from a distance—watched boredlyenough.     And out on the steel-stripped tarmac, under the solenoid of NumberTwo Runway, lay a towship, backed like a stegosaur with its massivemagnets—the      Shahrazad     , panting like a dragon amid rolling clouds ofsteam. She was plainly ready to go into space. The bottom dropped outof Ryd's stomach before he realized that a warning at least must besounded before the ship could lift. But that might come any moment now.     Relax, said Mury in a low voice. Nothing's gone wrong. We'll beaboard the      Shahrazad     when she lifts. For a moment his black eyesshifted, hardening, toward Runway Four. The Martian warship lay therebeyond the solenoid, a spiteful hundred-foot swordfish of steel, withblind gunvalves, row on row, along its sleek sides and turret-blisters.It had not yet been tugged onto the turntable; it could not be leavingagain very soon, though Earth weight was undoubtedly incommodingits crew. About it a few figures stood that were stiffly erect andimmobile, as tall as tall men. From head to toe they were scarlet.     Robots! gasped Ryd, clutching his companion's arm convulsively.Martian soldier robots!     They're unarmed, harmless. They aren't your police with built-inweapons. Only the humans are dangerous. But we've got to move. ForGod's sake, take it easy.     Ryd licked dry lips. Are we going—out into space?     Where else? said Mury.  The official-looking individual in the expensive topcoat and sport hathad reached the starboard airlock of the towship before anyone thoughtto question his authorization, escorted as he was by a blue-uniformedguardsman. When another sentry, pacing between runways a hundred yardsfrom the squat space vessel, paused to wonder, it was—as it cameabout—just a little too late.     The guard turned and swung briskly off to intercept the oddly-behavingpair, hand crowding the butt of his pistol, for he was growinguneasy. His alarm mounted rapidly, till he nearly sprained an anklein sprinting across the last of the two intervening runways, betweenthe solenoid wickets. Those metal arches, crowding one on the otherin perspective, formed a tunnel that effectively shielded the      Shahrazad's     airlocks from more distant view; the gang of notablesattracted by the occasion was already being shepherded back to safetyby the Communications guards, whose attention was thus well taken up.     The slight man in guardsman's blue glanced over his shoulder andvanished abruptly into the circular lock. His companion wheeled on thetopmost step, looking down with some irritation on his unhandsome face,but with no apparent doubt of his command of the situation.     Yes? he inquired frostily.     What goes on here? snapped the guard, frowning at the tall figuresilhouetted against the glow in the airlock. The crew's signaled allaboard and the ship lifts in two minutes. You ought to be—     I am Semul Mury, Poligerent for the City of Dynamopolis, interruptedthe tall man with asperity. The City is naturally interested in thedelivery of the power which will revivify our industries. He paused,sighed, shifting his weight to the next lower step of the gangway. Isuppose you'll want to re-check my credentials?     The guard was somewhat confused; a Poligerent, in ninth-centurybureaucracy, was a force to be reckoned with. But he contrived to nodwith an appearance of brusqueness.     Fully expecting official papers, signed and garnished with all thepompous seals of a chartered metropolis, the guard was dazed to receiveinstead a terrific left-handed foul to the pit of the stomach, and ashe reeled dizzily, retching and clawing for his gun, to find that gunno longer holstered but in the hand of the self-styled Poligerent,pointing at its licensed owner.     I think, Mury said quietly, flexing his left wrist with care thewhile his right held the gun steady, that you'd better come aboardwith us.     The guard was not more cowardly than the run of politically-appointedcivic guardsmen. But a flame gun kills more frightfully than theancient electric chair. He complied, grasping the railing with bothhands as he stumbled before Mury up the gangway—for he was still verysick indeed, wholly apart from his bewilderment, which was enormous.     Above, Ryd Randl waited in the lock, flattened against the curvedwall, white and jittering. The inner door was shut, an impenetrablecountersunk mirror of metal.     Cover him, Ryd, ordered Mury flatly. In obedience Ryd lugged outthe heavy flame pistol and pointed it; his finger was dangerouslytremulous on the firing lever. He moistened his lips to voice hisfears; but Mury, pocketing the other gun, threw the three-way switch onthe side panel, the switch that should have controlled the inner lock.     Nothing happened.     Oh, God. We're caught. We're trapped! The outer gangway had slid up,the lock wheezed shut, forming an impenetrable crypt of niosteel.  Mury smiled with supernal calm. We won't be here long, he said.Then, to quiet Ryd's fears, he went on: The central control panel andthe three local switches inside, between, and outside the locks areon the circuit in that order. Unless the locks were closed from theswitch just beyond the inner lock, that lock will open when the centralcontrol panel is cut out in preparation for lifting.     Almost as he paused and drew breath, a light sprang out over the switchhe had closed and the inner lock swung silently free of its gaskets.Ryd felt a trembling relief; but Mury's voice lashed out like a whip ashe slipped cat-like into the passage.     Keep him covered. Back out of the lock.     Ryd backed—the white, tense face of the prisoner holding his ownnervous gaze—and, almost out of the lock, stumbled over the metalpressure rings. And the gun was out of his unsure grip, clatteringsomewhere near his slithering feet, as he started to fall.     He saw the guardsman hurl himself forward; then he was flung spinning,back against the engine-room door. In a flash, even as he struggledto keep on his feet, he saw the man in the airlock coming up from acrouch, shifting the pistol in his right hand to reach its firinglever; he saw Mury sidestep swiftly and throw the master control switchoutside.     The inner lock whooshed shut, barely missing Ryd. At the same instant,the flame gun lighted locks and passage with one terrific flash, and ascorched, discolored spot appeared on the beveled metal of the oppositelock a foot from Mury's right shoulder.     You damned clumsy little fool— said Mury with soft intensity. Then,while the air around the metal walls still buzzed and snapped withblue sparks, he whirled and went up the control-room gangway in twoquick bounds. Even as he went the flame gun thundered again in thestarboard airlock.     Mury was just in time, for the pilot had been about to flash Ready tothe Communications Tower when the explosions had given him pause. Butthe latter and his two companions were neither ready nor armed; clampedin their seats at the controls, already marked, they were helpless inan instant before the leveled menace of the gun. And the imprisonedguardsman, having wasted most of his charges, was helpless, too, in hislittle cell of steel.     It's been tried before, said one of the masked men. He had a blond,youthful thatch and a smooth healthy face below the mask, together withan astrogator's triangled stars which made him      ex officio     the brainsof the vessel. Stealing a ship—it can't be done any more.     It's been done again, said Mury grimly. And you don't know the halfof it. But—you will. I'll need you. As for your friends— The gunmuzzle shifted slightly to indicate the pilot and the engineer. Out ofthose clamps. You're going to ride this out in the portside airlock.     He had to repeat the command, in tones that snapped with menace, beforethey started with fumbling, rebellious hands to strip their armor fromthemselves. The burly engineer was muttering phrases of obscene fervor;the weedy young pilot was wild-eyed. The blond astrogator, sittingstill masked and apparently unmoved, demanded:     What do you think you're trying to do?     What do      you     think? demanded Mury in return. I'm taking the shipinto space. On schedule and on course—to meet the power shell. Theflame gun moved with a jerk. And as for you—what's your name?     Yet Arliess.     You want to make the trip alive, don't you, Yet Arliess?     The young astrogator stared at him and at the gun through maskinggoggles; then he sank into his seat with a slow shudder. Why, yes, hesaid as if in wonder, I do.      III       Shahrazad     drove steadily forward into deep space, vibrating slightlyto the tremendous thrust of her powerful engines. The small, crampedcabin was stiflingly hot to the three armored men who sat before itsbanked dials, watching their steady needles.     Ryd had blacked out, darkness washing into his eyes and consciousnessdraining from his head, as the space ship had pitched out intoemptiness over the end of the runway on Pi Mesa and Mury had cut in themaindrive. Pressure greater than anything he had ever felt had crushedhim; his voice had been snatched from his lips by those terrible forcesand lost beneath the opening thunder of the three-inch tubes. Up andup, while the acceleration climbed to seven gravities—and Ryd had lostevery sensation, not to regain them until Earth was dropping away underthe towship's keel.     A single gravity held them back and down in the tilted seats, and thecontrol panels seemed to curve half above them, their banks of lightsconfused with the stars coldly through the great nose window. In thecontrol room all sounds impinged on a background made up of the insecthum of air-purifiers, the almost supersonic whine of the fast-spinninggyroscopes somewhere behind them, the deep continuous growl of theengines.     Mury's voice broke through that steady murmur, coming from Ryd's right.You can unfasten your anticlamps, Ryd, he said dryly. That doesn'tmean you, to the young navigator, on his other hand as he sat inthe pilot's seat with his pressure-clamps thrown back and his glovedhands free to caress the multiplex controls before him. Clipped to thesloping dash at his left elbow was a loaded flame gun.     Ryd emerged, with much bungling, from his padded clamps, and shook hishead groggily as he ran a hand through his slightly thinning hair. Heventured shakily, Where are we?     Mury smiled slightly. Only our astrogator, he indicated Arliess,still masked and fettered, can tell you that with precision. Iunderstand only enough of astrogational practice to make sure that heis holding to the course outlined on the log. For that matter ... heis an intelligent young man and if he were not blinded by notions ofduty to an outworn system.... We are now somewhere near the orbit ofthe Moon. Isn't that right, Arliess?     The other did not seem to hear; he sat staring blindly before himthrough his goggles at the slowly-changing chart, where cryptic lightsburned, some moving like glowing paramecia along fine-traced luminoustracks.     Mury too sat silent and immobile for a minute or more. Then, abruptly,he inclined his universal chair far to the right, and his long frameseemed to tense oddly. His finger stabbed out one of the sparks oflight.     What's that, Arliess?     The astrogator broke his silence. A ship.     I know that well enough. What ship?     I supposed you had examined the log. It would have told you thatthat's the liner      Alborak     , out of Aeropolis with a diplomatic missionfor Mars.     Mury shook his head regretfully. That won't wash, Arliess. Even if yousuppose her off course, no liner aspace ever carried a tenth of thatdrive.     I don't know what you're talking about, said Arliess. But his voicewas raw and unsteady.     I'm talking about this. That ship is a warship, and it's looking forus—will intercept us inside of twenty minutes at the most!  ","The story takes place in Dynamopolis, a city in North America, in the year 819. The city is flooded with searchlights, although there is very little power to go around. The Terrestrials must gather at the local bar, Stumble Inn, if they do not want to freeze to death. At one point, Dynamopolis was a wealthy city, known as the Port of Ten Thousand Ships. About ten years ago, the Power Company of North America and the Triplanet Freighting Company were shut down, and the majority of the Terrestrials lost their jobs. The only people with political power are the Poligerents, and unless a Terrestrial knows one of them, he or she is likely left without a way to make ends meet. The Terrestrials were recently told that the power will be restored once the power shell is put on Earth. The air is thin, but the Terrestrials have become accustomed to it.Pi Mesa is the spaceport that hovers over the city. There are still unused ships hovering there from the days where it was an important port with lots of action. Just outside of Pi Mesa there are hundreds of low buildings that are abandoned because they are no longer useful. They contain fuel pumps and servicing equipment, and they serve as a constant reminder of the life the Terrestrials once lived. When Ryd and Mury break into the land patrolled by the guards in blue in the spaceport, they find narrow passages, spiral staircases, and cool metal walls covered in dust. The Communications Tower is nearby, and it is guarded by signal-men.  The soldier robots that are on patrol are about as tall as the average Terrestrial, and they are scarlet colored. They are unarmed and are mostly there to scare intruders away. Mury and Ryd aim to get on a ship called Shahrazad, which rests on the Number Two Runway, waiting for takeoff. When they enter the ship, they find that the cabin is very hot and full of dials and needles. There is a curved control panel in front, and the ship makes a humming sound because of all of the air-purifiers onboard. Mars is an important setting in the story, although the characters do not actually travel there. Mars is almost airless, so it is very easy to run a helio-dynamic engine. On Mars, they use robots for labor, and due to a law that has been passed, Terrestrials are forced to stay on Earth. "
"How does Mury handle himself throughout the story? </s>    Saboteur of Space     By ROBERT ABERNATHY     Fresh power was coming to Earth, energy     which would bring life to a dying planet.     Only two men stood in its way, one a cowardly     rat, the other a murderous martyr; both pawns     in a cosmic game where death moved his chessmen     of fate—and even the winner would lose.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Spring 1944.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Ryd Randl stood, slouching a little, in the darkened footway, andwatched the sky over Dynamopolis come alive with searchlights. Theshuttered glow of Burshis' Stumble Inn was only a few yards off to hisright, but even that lodestone failed before the novel interest of aship about to ground in the one-time Port of Ten Thousand Ships.     Now he made out the flicker of the braking drive a mile or sooverhead, and presently soft motor thunder came down to blanket thealmost lightless city with sound. A beam swayed through the throbbingdarkness, caught the descending ship and held it, a small gleamingminnow slipping through the dark heavens. A faint glow rose from PiMesa, where the spaceport lay above the city, as a runway lightedup—draining the last reserves of the city's stored power, but drainingthem gladly now that, in those autumn days of the historic year 819,relief was in sight.     Ryd shrugged limply; the play was meaningless to him. He turned toshuffle down the inviting ramp into the glowing interior of Burshis'dive.     The place was crowded with men and smoke. Perhaps half the former wereasleep, on tables or on the floor; but for the few places like Burshis'which were still open under the power shortage, many would have frozen,these days, in the chilly nights at fourteen thousand feet. ForDynamopolis sprawled atop the world, now as in the old days when it hadbeen built to be the power center of North America.     The rocket blasts crescendoed and died up on Pi Mesa as Ryd wedgedhimself with difficulty into the group along the bar. If anyonerecognized him, they showed it only by looking fixedly at somethingelse. Only Burshis Yuns kept his static smile and nodded withsurprising friendliness at Ryd's pinched, old-young face.     Ryd was startled by the nod. Burshis finished serving another customerand maneuvered down the stained chrome-and-synthyl bar. Ryd washeartened.     Say, Burshis, he started nervously, as the bulky man halted with hisback to him. But Burshis turned, still smiling, shaking his head sothat his jowls quivered.     No loans, he said flatly. But just one on the house, Ryd.     The drink almost spilled itself in Ryd's hand. Clutching itconvulsively, he made his eyes narrow and said suspiciously, What yousetting 'em up for, Burshis? It's the first time since—     Burshis' smile stayed put. He said affably, Didn't you hear that shipthat just came down on the Mesa? That was the ship from Mars—theescort they were sending with the power cylinder. The power's comingin again. He turned to greet a coin-tapping newcomer, added over hisshoulder: You know what that means, Ryd. Some life around here again.Jobs for all the bums in this town—even for you.     He left Ryd frowning, thinking fuzzily. A warming gulp seemed to clearhis head. Jobs. So they thought they could put that over on him again,huh? Well, he'd show them. He was smart; he was a damn good helioman—no, that had been ten years ago. But now he was out of the habitof working, anyway. No job for Ryd Randl. They gave him one once andthen took it away. He drank still more deeply.     The man on Ryd's immediate right leaned toward him. He laid a hand onhis arm, gripping it hard, and said quietly: So you're Ryd Randl.  Ryd had a bad moment before he saw that the face wasn't that of anyplain-clothes man he knew. For that matter, it didn't belong to anybodyhe had ever known—an odd, big-boned face, strikingly ugly, with abeak-nose that was yet not too large for the hard jaw or too bleak forthe thin mouth below it. An expensive transparent hat slanted over theface, and from its iridescent shadows gleamed eyes that were alert andalmost frighteningly black. Ryd noted that the man wore a dark-graycellotex of a sort rarely seen in joints like Burshis'.     Suppose we step outside, Ryd. I'd like to talk to you.     What's the idea? demanded Ryd, his small store of natural couragefloated to the top by alcohol.     The other seemed to realize that he was getting ahead of himself.He leaned back slightly, drew a deep breath, and said slowly anddistinctly. Would you care to make some money, my friend?           Huh?     Why, yeh—I guess so—     Then come with me. The hand still on his arm was insistent. In hisdaze, Ryd let himself be drawn away from the bar into the sluggishcrowd; then he suddenly remembered his unfinished drink, and madefrantic gestures. Deliberately misunderstanding, the tall strangerfumbled briefly, tossed a coin on the counter-top, and hustled Ryd out,past the blue-and-gold-lit      meloderge     that was softly pouring out itsendlessly changing music, through the swinging doors into the dark.     Outside, between lightless buildings, the still cold closed in onthem. They kept walking—so fast that Ryd began to lose his breath,long-accustomed though his lungs were to the high, thin air.     So you're Ryd Randl, repeated the stranger after a moment's silence.I might have known you. But I'd almost given up finding you tonight.     Ryd tried feebly to wrench free, stumbled. Look, he gasped. Ifyou're a cop, say so!     The other laughed shortly. No. I'm just a man about to offer you achance. For a come-back, Ryd—a chance to live again.... My name—youcan call me Mury.     Ryd was voiceless. Something seemed increasingly ominous about thetall, spare man at his side. He wished himself back in Burshis' withhis first free drink in a month. The thought of it brought tears to hiseyes.     How long have you been out of a job, Ryd?     Nine ... ten years. Say, what's it to you?     And why, Ryd?     Why...? Look, mister, I was a helio operator. He hunched his narrowshoulders and spread his hands in an habitual gesture of defeat. Damngood one, too—I was a foreman ten years ago. But I don't have thephysique for Mars—I might just have made it      then     , but I thought theplant was going to open again and—     And that was it. The almost airless Martian sky, with its burningactinic rays, is so favorable for the use of the helio-dynamic engine.And after the middle of the eighth century, robot labor gave Mars itsfull economic independence—and domination. For power is—power; andthere is the Restriction Act to keep men on Earth even if more than twoin ten could live healthily on the outer world.     Ten years ago, Mury nodded as if satisfied. That must have been thePower Company of North America—the main plant by Dynamopolis itself,that shut down in December, 809. They were the last to close downoutside the military bases in the Kun Lun.     Ryd was pacing beside him now. He felt a queer upsurge of confidence inthis strange man; for too long he had met no sympathy and all too fewmen who talked his language. He burst out: They wouldn't take me, damnthem! Said my record wasn't good enough for them. That is, I didn'thave a drag with any of the Poligerents.     I know all about your record, said Mury softly.     Ryd's suspicions came back abruptly, and he reverted to his oldkicked-dog manner. How do you know? And what's it to you?  All at once, Mury came to a stop, and swung around to face himsquarely, hard eyes compelling. They were on an overpass, not farfrom where the vast, almost wholly deserted offices of the TriplanetFreighting Company sprawled over a square mile of city. A half-smiletwisted Mury's thin lips.     Don't misunderstand me, Ryd—you mean nothing at all to me as anindividual. But you're one of a vast mass of men for whom I amworking—the billions caught in the net of a corrupt government andsold as an economic prey to the ruthless masters of Mars. This, afterthey've borne all the hardships of a year of embargo, have offeredtheir hands willingly to the rebuilding of decadent Earth, only tobe refused by the weak leaders who can neither defy the enemy norcapitulate frankly to him.     Ryd was dazed. His mind had never been constructed to cope with suchideas and the past few years had not improved its capabilities. Areyou talking about the power cylinder? he demanded blurrily.     Mury cast a glance toward the Milky Way as if to descry the Martiancargo projectile somewhere up among its countless lights. He saidsimply, Yes.     I don't get it, mumbled Ryd, frowning. He found words that he hadheard somewhere a day or so before, in some bar or flophouse: Thepower cylinder is going to be the salvation of Earth. It's a shot inthe arm—no, right in the heart of Earth industry, here in Dynamopolis.It will turn the wheels and light the cities and—     To hell with that! snapped Mury, suddenly savage. His hands came upslightly, the fingers flexing; then dropped back to his sides. Don'tyou know you're repeating damnable lies?     Ryd could only stare, cringing and bewildered. Mury went on with apassion shocking after his smooth calm:     The power shell is aid, yes—but with what a price! It's the thirtypieces of silver for which the venal fools who rule our nations havesold the whole planet to Mars. Because they lack the courage andvision to retool Earth's plants and factories for the inescapableconflict, they're selling us out—making Earth, the first home of man,a colony of the Red Planet. Do you know what Earth is to the greatMartian land-owners?      Do you?      He paused out of breath; then finishedvenomously, Earth is a great pool of labor ready to be tapped, cheaperthan robots—cheap as      slaves     !     What about it? gulped Ryd, drawing away from the fanatic. What youwant      me     to do about it?     Mury took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders. His face wasonce more bleakly impassive; only the mouth was an ugly line. We'regoing to do something about it, you and I. Tonight. Now.     Ryd was nearly sober. And wholly terrified. He got out chokingly,What's that mean?     The power shell—isn't coming in as planned.     You can't do that.           We     can, said Mury with a heavy accent on the first word. And thereare fifty thousand credits in it for you, Ryd. Are you with us?     Suspicion was chill reality now in Ryd's mind. And he knew one thingcertainly—if he refused now to accompany Mury, he would be killed, bythis man or another of his kind. For the secret power known only as      We     never took chances. Whispered-of, terrible, and world-embracing,desperate upshot of the times in its principles of dynamitism, war, andpanclasm—that was      We     .     The question hung in the air for a long moment. Then Ryd, withan effort, said, Sure. A moment later it struck him that themonosyllabic assent was suspicious; he added quickly, I got nothing tolose, see? It was, he realized, the cold truth.     You won't lose, said Mury. He seemed to relax. But the menace withwhich he had clothed himself clung, as he turned back on the way theyhad come.     Ryd followed dog-like, his feet in their worn shoes moving without hisvolition. He was frightened. Out of his very fright came a longing toplacate Mury, assure him that he, Ryd, was on the same side whateverhappened....     After some steps he stole a sidelong glance at his tall companion, andwhined, Where ... where we going now?     Mury paused in his long stride, removed a hand from a pocket of thegray topcoat that wrapped him as in somber thoughts. Wordlessly, hepointed as Ryd had known he would—toward where a pale man-made dawnseemed breaking over Pi Mesa.      II     One blow for freedom! said Mury with caught breath. His voice fellupon air scarcely stilled since the sodden thump of the blow that hadkilled the guard.     The body lay between them, face down on the graveled way in the inkymoon-shadow. On one side Pi Mesa stretched away two hundred yards todrop sharply into the night; on the other was the unlighted mass of thelong, continuous, low buildings that housed now unused fuel pumps andservicing equipment. Looking down at the dead huddle at his feet, alittle stunned by the reality of this, Ryd knew that he was in it now.He was caught in the machinery.     Mury hefted the length of steel in his hand once more, as if testingthe weight that had crushed a man's skull so easily. Then, with a shortwrist-flip, he sent it flying into the dried weeds which had over-grownthe aero field on the mesa's rim during the summer months after Stateorder had grounded all fliers in America.     All right, Ryd, he said coolly. Trade clothes with this fellow. I'vebrought you this far—you're taking me the rest of the way.     The rest of the way.     Ryd was still panting, and his side was paining from the strenuousexertion of the long climb up the side of the mountain, far from theguarded highway. His fingers, numbed by the cold of the high, thin air,shook as he knelt and fumbled with the zippers of the dead guard'suniform. The belted gun, however, was heavy and oddly comforting ashe clumsily buckled it about his hips. He knew enough of weaponsto recognize this as, not the usual paralyzer, but a flame pistol,powerful and deadly. He let his hand linger on its butt; then strongfingers tightened on his bony wrist, and he looked up with a start intothe sardonic black eyes of the Panclast.     No use now for firearms, said Mury. All the guns we could carrywouldn't help us if we were caught out there. That gun is just astage property for the little play we're going to give in about threeminutes—when you'll act a guardsman escorting me, a Poligerent ofDynamopolis, aboard the towship      Shahrazad     .     For a moment Ryd felt relief—he had hazily imagined that Mury's hatredof Mars and all things Martian might have led him to try to sabotagethe Martian warship which lay somewhere on the runways beyond the long,low buildings, and which would be closely guarded. But the towshipwould also be guarded ... he shivered in the cold, dry night air.     Mury had melted into the shadow a few yards away. There was a lightscraping, then a green flame sputtered, briefly lighting up his handsand face, and narrowing at once to a thin, singing needle of light.He had turned a pocket electron torch against the lock-mechanism of asmall, disused metal door.       Ryd watched in painful suspense. There was no sound in his ears savefor the hard, dry shrilling of the ray as it bit into the steel. Itseemed to be crying:      run, run     —but he remembered the power that knewhow to punish better than the law, and stood still, shivering.     The lock gave way and the door slipped aside. A light went on inside,and Ryd's heart stopped, backfired, and started again, raggedly. Thesame automatic mechanism that had turned the lights on had started theair-fresher, which picked up speed with a soft whine, sweeping out thelong-stale atmosphere. Mury motioned to Ryd to follow him in.  It was still musty in the narrow passage, between the closely-pressingwalls, beneath the great tubes and cable sheathings that fluted theceiling overhead. A stairway spiraled up on the right to the controlcupola somewhere overhead; even in the airtight gallery a thin filmof dust lay on every step. Up there were the meters and switches ofthe disused terminal facilities of the spaceport; beyond the metaldoor marked CAUTION, just beyond the stairwell, lay the long runwaydown which the ships of space had glided to be serviced, refueled, andlaunched into the sky once more by now dormant machines.     Wait, said Mury succinctly; he vanished up the spiral stair, hislong legs taking two steps at a time. After an aching minute's silence,he was back. All was clear as seen from the turret-windows overhead.     They emerged in shadow, hugging the wall. Almost a quarter of a mile tothe right the megalith of the Communications Tower, crowned with manylights where the signal-men sat godlike in its summit. Its floodlightsshed a vast oval of light out over the mesa, where the mile-longrunways—no longer polished mirror-like as in the days of Dynamopolis'glory—stretched away into the darkness of the table land. A handfulof odd ships—mere remnant of the hundreds that Pi Mesa port hadberthed—huddled under the solenoid wickets, as if driven together bythe chill of the thin, knife-like wind that blew across the mesa.     As the two paced slowly across the runways, Ryd had a sense ofprotective isolation in the vast impersonality of the spaceport.Surely, in this Titanic desolation of metal slabs and flat-roofedbuildings, dominated by the one great tower, total insignificance mustmean safety for them.     And indeed no guard challenged them. There were armed men watchingfor all intruders out on the desert beyond the runways, but onceinside, Ryd's borrowed blue seemed to serve as passport enough.Nonetheless, the passport's knees were shaking when they stood at last,inconspicuous still, at the shadowed base of the Communications Tower.     Not far off, a half-dozen dignitaries, huddled close together in themidst of these Cyclopean man-made things that dwarfed their policies,their principles and ambitions, stood talking rather nervously with twoofficers, aristocratically gaudy in the scarlet of the Martian Fleet.Blue-clad guardsmen of Earth watched from a distance—watched boredlyenough.     And out on the steel-stripped tarmac, under the solenoid of NumberTwo Runway, lay a towship, backed like a stegosaur with its massivemagnets—the      Shahrazad     , panting like a dragon amid rolling clouds ofsteam. She was plainly ready to go into space. The bottom dropped outof Ryd's stomach before he realized that a warning at least must besounded before the ship could lift. But that might come any moment now.     Relax, said Mury in a low voice. Nothing's gone wrong. We'll beaboard the      Shahrazad     when she lifts. For a moment his black eyesshifted, hardening, toward Runway Four. The Martian warship lay therebeyond the solenoid, a spiteful hundred-foot swordfish of steel, withblind gunvalves, row on row, along its sleek sides and turret-blisters.It had not yet been tugged onto the turntable; it could not be leavingagain very soon, though Earth weight was undoubtedly incommodingits crew. About it a few figures stood that were stiffly erect andimmobile, as tall as tall men. From head to toe they were scarlet.     Robots! gasped Ryd, clutching his companion's arm convulsively.Martian soldier robots!     They're unarmed, harmless. They aren't your police with built-inweapons. Only the humans are dangerous. But we've got to move. ForGod's sake, take it easy.     Ryd licked dry lips. Are we going—out into space?     Where else? said Mury.  The official-looking individual in the expensive topcoat and sport hathad reached the starboard airlock of the towship before anyone thoughtto question his authorization, escorted as he was by a blue-uniformedguardsman. When another sentry, pacing between runways a hundred yardsfrom the squat space vessel, paused to wonder, it was—as it cameabout—just a little too late.     The guard turned and swung briskly off to intercept the oddly-behavingpair, hand crowding the butt of his pistol, for he was growinguneasy. His alarm mounted rapidly, till he nearly sprained an anklein sprinting across the last of the two intervening runways, betweenthe solenoid wickets. Those metal arches, crowding one on the otherin perspective, formed a tunnel that effectively shielded the      Shahrazad's     airlocks from more distant view; the gang of notablesattracted by the occasion was already being shepherded back to safetyby the Communications guards, whose attention was thus well taken up.     The slight man in guardsman's blue glanced over his shoulder andvanished abruptly into the circular lock. His companion wheeled on thetopmost step, looking down with some irritation on his unhandsome face,but with no apparent doubt of his command of the situation.     Yes? he inquired frostily.     What goes on here? snapped the guard, frowning at the tall figuresilhouetted against the glow in the airlock. The crew's signaled allaboard and the ship lifts in two minutes. You ought to be—     I am Semul Mury, Poligerent for the City of Dynamopolis, interruptedthe tall man with asperity. The City is naturally interested in thedelivery of the power which will revivify our industries. He paused,sighed, shifting his weight to the next lower step of the gangway. Isuppose you'll want to re-check my credentials?     The guard was somewhat confused; a Poligerent, in ninth-centurybureaucracy, was a force to be reckoned with. But he contrived to nodwith an appearance of brusqueness.     Fully expecting official papers, signed and garnished with all thepompous seals of a chartered metropolis, the guard was dazed to receiveinstead a terrific left-handed foul to the pit of the stomach, and ashe reeled dizzily, retching and clawing for his gun, to find that gunno longer holstered but in the hand of the self-styled Poligerent,pointing at its licensed owner.     I think, Mury said quietly, flexing his left wrist with care thewhile his right held the gun steady, that you'd better come aboardwith us.     The guard was not more cowardly than the run of politically-appointedcivic guardsmen. But a flame gun kills more frightfully than theancient electric chair. He complied, grasping the railing with bothhands as he stumbled before Mury up the gangway—for he was still verysick indeed, wholly apart from his bewilderment, which was enormous.     Above, Ryd Randl waited in the lock, flattened against the curvedwall, white and jittering. The inner door was shut, an impenetrablecountersunk mirror of metal.     Cover him, Ryd, ordered Mury flatly. In obedience Ryd lugged outthe heavy flame pistol and pointed it; his finger was dangerouslytremulous on the firing lever. He moistened his lips to voice hisfears; but Mury, pocketing the other gun, threw the three-way switch onthe side panel, the switch that should have controlled the inner lock.     Nothing happened.     Oh, God. We're caught. We're trapped! The outer gangway had slid up,the lock wheezed shut, forming an impenetrable crypt of niosteel.  Mury smiled with supernal calm. We won't be here long, he said.Then, to quiet Ryd's fears, he went on: The central control panel andthe three local switches inside, between, and outside the locks areon the circuit in that order. Unless the locks were closed from theswitch just beyond the inner lock, that lock will open when the centralcontrol panel is cut out in preparation for lifting.     Almost as he paused and drew breath, a light sprang out over the switchhe had closed and the inner lock swung silently free of its gaskets.Ryd felt a trembling relief; but Mury's voice lashed out like a whip ashe slipped cat-like into the passage.     Keep him covered. Back out of the lock.     Ryd backed—the white, tense face of the prisoner holding his ownnervous gaze—and, almost out of the lock, stumbled over the metalpressure rings. And the gun was out of his unsure grip, clatteringsomewhere near his slithering feet, as he started to fall.     He saw the guardsman hurl himself forward; then he was flung spinning,back against the engine-room door. In a flash, even as he struggledto keep on his feet, he saw the man in the airlock coming up from acrouch, shifting the pistol in his right hand to reach its firinglever; he saw Mury sidestep swiftly and throw the master control switchoutside.     The inner lock whooshed shut, barely missing Ryd. At the same instant,the flame gun lighted locks and passage with one terrific flash, and ascorched, discolored spot appeared on the beveled metal of the oppositelock a foot from Mury's right shoulder.     You damned clumsy little fool— said Mury with soft intensity. Then,while the air around the metal walls still buzzed and snapped withblue sparks, he whirled and went up the control-room gangway in twoquick bounds. Even as he went the flame gun thundered again in thestarboard airlock.     Mury was just in time, for the pilot had been about to flash Ready tothe Communications Tower when the explosions had given him pause. Butthe latter and his two companions were neither ready nor armed; clampedin their seats at the controls, already marked, they were helpless inan instant before the leveled menace of the gun. And the imprisonedguardsman, having wasted most of his charges, was helpless, too, in hislittle cell of steel.     It's been tried before, said one of the masked men. He had a blond,youthful thatch and a smooth healthy face below the mask, together withan astrogator's triangled stars which made him      ex officio     the brainsof the vessel. Stealing a ship—it can't be done any more.     It's been done again, said Mury grimly. And you don't know the halfof it. But—you will. I'll need you. As for your friends— The gunmuzzle shifted slightly to indicate the pilot and the engineer. Out ofthose clamps. You're going to ride this out in the portside airlock.     He had to repeat the command, in tones that snapped with menace, beforethey started with fumbling, rebellious hands to strip their armor fromthemselves. The burly engineer was muttering phrases of obscene fervor;the weedy young pilot was wild-eyed. The blond astrogator, sittingstill masked and apparently unmoved, demanded:     What do you think you're trying to do?     What do      you     think? demanded Mury in return. I'm taking the shipinto space. On schedule and on course—to meet the power shell. Theflame gun moved with a jerk. And as for you—what's your name?     Yet Arliess.     You want to make the trip alive, don't you, Yet Arliess?     The young astrogator stared at him and at the gun through maskinggoggles; then he sank into his seat with a slow shudder. Why, yes, hesaid as if in wonder, I do.      III       Shahrazad     drove steadily forward into deep space, vibrating slightlyto the tremendous thrust of her powerful engines. The small, crampedcabin was stiflingly hot to the three armored men who sat before itsbanked dials, watching their steady needles.     Ryd had blacked out, darkness washing into his eyes and consciousnessdraining from his head, as the space ship had pitched out intoemptiness over the end of the runway on Pi Mesa and Mury had cut in themaindrive. Pressure greater than anything he had ever felt had crushedhim; his voice had been snatched from his lips by those terrible forcesand lost beneath the opening thunder of the three-inch tubes. Up andup, while the acceleration climbed to seven gravities—and Ryd had lostevery sensation, not to regain them until Earth was dropping away underthe towship's keel.     A single gravity held them back and down in the tilted seats, and thecontrol panels seemed to curve half above them, their banks of lightsconfused with the stars coldly through the great nose window. In thecontrol room all sounds impinged on a background made up of the insecthum of air-purifiers, the almost supersonic whine of the fast-spinninggyroscopes somewhere behind them, the deep continuous growl of theengines.     Mury's voice broke through that steady murmur, coming from Ryd's right.You can unfasten your anticlamps, Ryd, he said dryly. That doesn'tmean you, to the young navigator, on his other hand as he sat inthe pilot's seat with his pressure-clamps thrown back and his glovedhands free to caress the multiplex controls before him. Clipped to thesloping dash at his left elbow was a loaded flame gun.     Ryd emerged, with much bungling, from his padded clamps, and shook hishead groggily as he ran a hand through his slightly thinning hair. Heventured shakily, Where are we?     Mury smiled slightly. Only our astrogator, he indicated Arliess,still masked and fettered, can tell you that with precision. Iunderstand only enough of astrogational practice to make sure that heis holding to the course outlined on the log. For that matter ... heis an intelligent young man and if he were not blinded by notions ofduty to an outworn system.... We are now somewhere near the orbit ofthe Moon. Isn't that right, Arliess?     The other did not seem to hear; he sat staring blindly before himthrough his goggles at the slowly-changing chart, where cryptic lightsburned, some moving like glowing paramecia along fine-traced luminoustracks.     Mury too sat silent and immobile for a minute or more. Then, abruptly,he inclined his universal chair far to the right, and his long frameseemed to tense oddly. His finger stabbed out one of the sparks oflight.     What's that, Arliess?     The astrogator broke his silence. A ship.     I know that well enough. What ship?     I supposed you had examined the log. It would have told you thatthat's the liner      Alborak     , out of Aeropolis with a diplomatic missionfor Mars.     Mury shook his head regretfully. That won't wash, Arliess. Even if yousuppose her off course, no liner aspace ever carried a tenth of thatdrive.     I don't know what you're talking about, said Arliess. But his voicewas raw and unsteady.     I'm talking about this. That ship is a warship, and it's looking forus—will intercept us inside of twenty minutes at the most!  ","Mury is a tall and ugly man with a great deal of confidence. When he finds Ryd in the bar, he immediately asks him to step outside and confronts him with a proposition. He is not overly concerned about getting caught talking about rebellion, and he is resolute about his decision to try and take over the spaceship that is about to take off. Mury immediately gains Ryd’s trust when he sympathizes with him about losing his job ten years ago. They are on the same team, angry about the way the Terrestrials have been treated since all of the jobs moved to Mars. He is forceful with Ryd, and he stares at him intensely whenever he is questioned. Mury claims to work for all the men who have been disadvantaged by the corrupt government. He coldly tells Ryd that he means nothing to Mury as an individual, and he is only interested in saving the Terrestrials from becoming the Martians’ slaves. He believes that Earth is about to become a colony of Mars, and he is willing to risk his life to see that plan foiled. Mury’s tough attitude and willingness to act is demonstrated when he kills a guard by crushing his skull. He is unbothered by the incident and sees it as his only choice. Later, he pretends to be Poligerent for the City of Dynamopolis for a moment, only so that he can punch another guard in the stomach, take his firearm, and shoot him. Mury is able to stay calm when Ryd loses his cool. Even when Ryd accidentally fires his weapon inside the central control panel room, Mury focuses on the mission at hand. When he finally takes control of the three men on board the Shahrazad and demands that they takeoff for Mars immediately, he is unfazed by their refusal. He snaps at the pilot and the other two workers and points his gun at them to indicate that he is dead serious about killing them if they do not comply. Mury is so sure of himself that it comes as a big surprise when the pilot tells him that he must not have looked at the log for the day. The Alborak is on a diplomatic mission to Mars, and it is something that Mury overlooked. He does not realize that the ship is fully aware that the Shahrazad has been hijacked, and it’s coming right for them. "
"Why are so many Earthmen desolate? </s>    Saboteur of Space     By ROBERT ABERNATHY     Fresh power was coming to Earth, energy     which would bring life to a dying planet.     Only two men stood in its way, one a cowardly     rat, the other a murderous martyr; both pawns     in a cosmic game where death moved his chessmen     of fate—and even the winner would lose.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Spring 1944.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Ryd Randl stood, slouching a little, in the darkened footway, andwatched the sky over Dynamopolis come alive with searchlights. Theshuttered glow of Burshis' Stumble Inn was only a few yards off to hisright, but even that lodestone failed before the novel interest of aship about to ground in the one-time Port of Ten Thousand Ships.     Now he made out the flicker of the braking drive a mile or sooverhead, and presently soft motor thunder came down to blanket thealmost lightless city with sound. A beam swayed through the throbbingdarkness, caught the descending ship and held it, a small gleamingminnow slipping through the dark heavens. A faint glow rose from PiMesa, where the spaceport lay above the city, as a runway lightedup—draining the last reserves of the city's stored power, but drainingthem gladly now that, in those autumn days of the historic year 819,relief was in sight.     Ryd shrugged limply; the play was meaningless to him. He turned toshuffle down the inviting ramp into the glowing interior of Burshis'dive.     The place was crowded with men and smoke. Perhaps half the former wereasleep, on tables or on the floor; but for the few places like Burshis'which were still open under the power shortage, many would have frozen,these days, in the chilly nights at fourteen thousand feet. ForDynamopolis sprawled atop the world, now as in the old days when it hadbeen built to be the power center of North America.     The rocket blasts crescendoed and died up on Pi Mesa as Ryd wedgedhimself with difficulty into the group along the bar. If anyonerecognized him, they showed it only by looking fixedly at somethingelse. Only Burshis Yuns kept his static smile and nodded withsurprising friendliness at Ryd's pinched, old-young face.     Ryd was startled by the nod. Burshis finished serving another customerand maneuvered down the stained chrome-and-synthyl bar. Ryd washeartened.     Say, Burshis, he started nervously, as the bulky man halted with hisback to him. But Burshis turned, still smiling, shaking his head sothat his jowls quivered.     No loans, he said flatly. But just one on the house, Ryd.     The drink almost spilled itself in Ryd's hand. Clutching itconvulsively, he made his eyes narrow and said suspiciously, What yousetting 'em up for, Burshis? It's the first time since—     Burshis' smile stayed put. He said affably, Didn't you hear that shipthat just came down on the Mesa? That was the ship from Mars—theescort they were sending with the power cylinder. The power's comingin again. He turned to greet a coin-tapping newcomer, added over hisshoulder: You know what that means, Ryd. Some life around here again.Jobs for all the bums in this town—even for you.     He left Ryd frowning, thinking fuzzily. A warming gulp seemed to clearhis head. Jobs. So they thought they could put that over on him again,huh? Well, he'd show them. He was smart; he was a damn good helioman—no, that had been ten years ago. But now he was out of the habitof working, anyway. No job for Ryd Randl. They gave him one once andthen took it away. He drank still more deeply.     The man on Ryd's immediate right leaned toward him. He laid a hand onhis arm, gripping it hard, and said quietly: So you're Ryd Randl.  Ryd had a bad moment before he saw that the face wasn't that of anyplain-clothes man he knew. For that matter, it didn't belong to anybodyhe had ever known—an odd, big-boned face, strikingly ugly, with abeak-nose that was yet not too large for the hard jaw or too bleak forthe thin mouth below it. An expensive transparent hat slanted over theface, and from its iridescent shadows gleamed eyes that were alert andalmost frighteningly black. Ryd noted that the man wore a dark-graycellotex of a sort rarely seen in joints like Burshis'.     Suppose we step outside, Ryd. I'd like to talk to you.     What's the idea? demanded Ryd, his small store of natural couragefloated to the top by alcohol.     The other seemed to realize that he was getting ahead of himself.He leaned back slightly, drew a deep breath, and said slowly anddistinctly. Would you care to make some money, my friend?           Huh?     Why, yeh—I guess so—     Then come with me. The hand still on his arm was insistent. In hisdaze, Ryd let himself be drawn away from the bar into the sluggishcrowd; then he suddenly remembered his unfinished drink, and madefrantic gestures. Deliberately misunderstanding, the tall strangerfumbled briefly, tossed a coin on the counter-top, and hustled Ryd out,past the blue-and-gold-lit      meloderge     that was softly pouring out itsendlessly changing music, through the swinging doors into the dark.     Outside, between lightless buildings, the still cold closed in onthem. They kept walking—so fast that Ryd began to lose his breath,long-accustomed though his lungs were to the high, thin air.     So you're Ryd Randl, repeated the stranger after a moment's silence.I might have known you. But I'd almost given up finding you tonight.     Ryd tried feebly to wrench free, stumbled. Look, he gasped. Ifyou're a cop, say so!     The other laughed shortly. No. I'm just a man about to offer you achance. For a come-back, Ryd—a chance to live again.... My name—youcan call me Mury.     Ryd was voiceless. Something seemed increasingly ominous about thetall, spare man at his side. He wished himself back in Burshis' withhis first free drink in a month. The thought of it brought tears to hiseyes.     How long have you been out of a job, Ryd?     Nine ... ten years. Say, what's it to you?     And why, Ryd?     Why...? Look, mister, I was a helio operator. He hunched his narrowshoulders and spread his hands in an habitual gesture of defeat. Damngood one, too—I was a foreman ten years ago. But I don't have thephysique for Mars—I might just have made it      then     , but I thought theplant was going to open again and—     And that was it. The almost airless Martian sky, with its burningactinic rays, is so favorable for the use of the helio-dynamic engine.And after the middle of the eighth century, robot labor gave Mars itsfull economic independence—and domination. For power is—power; andthere is the Restriction Act to keep men on Earth even if more than twoin ten could live healthily on the outer world.     Ten years ago, Mury nodded as if satisfied. That must have been thePower Company of North America—the main plant by Dynamopolis itself,that shut down in December, 809. They were the last to close downoutside the military bases in the Kun Lun.     Ryd was pacing beside him now. He felt a queer upsurge of confidence inthis strange man; for too long he had met no sympathy and all too fewmen who talked his language. He burst out: They wouldn't take me, damnthem! Said my record wasn't good enough for them. That is, I didn'thave a drag with any of the Poligerents.     I know all about your record, said Mury softly.     Ryd's suspicions came back abruptly, and he reverted to his oldkicked-dog manner. How do you know? And what's it to you?  All at once, Mury came to a stop, and swung around to face himsquarely, hard eyes compelling. They were on an overpass, not farfrom where the vast, almost wholly deserted offices of the TriplanetFreighting Company sprawled over a square mile of city. A half-smiletwisted Mury's thin lips.     Don't misunderstand me, Ryd—you mean nothing at all to me as anindividual. But you're one of a vast mass of men for whom I amworking—the billions caught in the net of a corrupt government andsold as an economic prey to the ruthless masters of Mars. This, afterthey've borne all the hardships of a year of embargo, have offeredtheir hands willingly to the rebuilding of decadent Earth, only tobe refused by the weak leaders who can neither defy the enemy norcapitulate frankly to him.     Ryd was dazed. His mind had never been constructed to cope with suchideas and the past few years had not improved its capabilities. Areyou talking about the power cylinder? he demanded blurrily.     Mury cast a glance toward the Milky Way as if to descry the Martiancargo projectile somewhere up among its countless lights. He saidsimply, Yes.     I don't get it, mumbled Ryd, frowning. He found words that he hadheard somewhere a day or so before, in some bar or flophouse: Thepower cylinder is going to be the salvation of Earth. It's a shot inthe arm—no, right in the heart of Earth industry, here in Dynamopolis.It will turn the wheels and light the cities and—     To hell with that! snapped Mury, suddenly savage. His hands came upslightly, the fingers flexing; then dropped back to his sides. Don'tyou know you're repeating damnable lies?     Ryd could only stare, cringing and bewildered. Mury went on with apassion shocking after his smooth calm:     The power shell is aid, yes—but with what a price! It's the thirtypieces of silver for which the venal fools who rule our nations havesold the whole planet to Mars. Because they lack the courage andvision to retool Earth's plants and factories for the inescapableconflict, they're selling us out—making Earth, the first home of man,a colony of the Red Planet. Do you know what Earth is to the greatMartian land-owners?      Do you?      He paused out of breath; then finishedvenomously, Earth is a great pool of labor ready to be tapped, cheaperthan robots—cheap as      slaves     !     What about it? gulped Ryd, drawing away from the fanatic. What youwant      me     to do about it?     Mury took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders. His face wasonce more bleakly impassive; only the mouth was an ugly line. We'regoing to do something about it, you and I. Tonight. Now.     Ryd was nearly sober. And wholly terrified. He got out chokingly,What's that mean?     The power shell—isn't coming in as planned.     You can't do that.           We     can, said Mury with a heavy accent on the first word. And thereare fifty thousand credits in it for you, Ryd. Are you with us?     Suspicion was chill reality now in Ryd's mind. And he knew one thingcertainly—if he refused now to accompany Mury, he would be killed, bythis man or another of his kind. For the secret power known only as      We     never took chances. Whispered-of, terrible, and world-embracing,desperate upshot of the times in its principles of dynamitism, war, andpanclasm—that was      We     .     The question hung in the air for a long moment. Then Ryd, withan effort, said, Sure. A moment later it struck him that themonosyllabic assent was suspicious; he added quickly, I got nothing tolose, see? It was, he realized, the cold truth.     You won't lose, said Mury. He seemed to relax. But the menace withwhich he had clothed himself clung, as he turned back on the way theyhad come.     Ryd followed dog-like, his feet in their worn shoes moving without hisvolition. He was frightened. Out of his very fright came a longing toplacate Mury, assure him that he, Ryd, was on the same side whateverhappened....     After some steps he stole a sidelong glance at his tall companion, andwhined, Where ... where we going now?     Mury paused in his long stride, removed a hand from a pocket of thegray topcoat that wrapped him as in somber thoughts. Wordlessly, hepointed as Ryd had known he would—toward where a pale man-made dawnseemed breaking over Pi Mesa.      II     One blow for freedom! said Mury with caught breath. His voice fellupon air scarcely stilled since the sodden thump of the blow that hadkilled the guard.     The body lay between them, face down on the graveled way in the inkymoon-shadow. On one side Pi Mesa stretched away two hundred yards todrop sharply into the night; on the other was the unlighted mass of thelong, continuous, low buildings that housed now unused fuel pumps andservicing equipment. Looking down at the dead huddle at his feet, alittle stunned by the reality of this, Ryd knew that he was in it now.He was caught in the machinery.     Mury hefted the length of steel in his hand once more, as if testingthe weight that had crushed a man's skull so easily. Then, with a shortwrist-flip, he sent it flying into the dried weeds which had over-grownthe aero field on the mesa's rim during the summer months after Stateorder had grounded all fliers in America.     All right, Ryd, he said coolly. Trade clothes with this fellow. I'vebrought you this far—you're taking me the rest of the way.     The rest of the way.     Ryd was still panting, and his side was paining from the strenuousexertion of the long climb up the side of the mountain, far from theguarded highway. His fingers, numbed by the cold of the high, thin air,shook as he knelt and fumbled with the zippers of the dead guard'suniform. The belted gun, however, was heavy and oddly comforting ashe clumsily buckled it about his hips. He knew enough of weaponsto recognize this as, not the usual paralyzer, but a flame pistol,powerful and deadly. He let his hand linger on its butt; then strongfingers tightened on his bony wrist, and he looked up with a start intothe sardonic black eyes of the Panclast.     No use now for firearms, said Mury. All the guns we could carrywouldn't help us if we were caught out there. That gun is just astage property for the little play we're going to give in about threeminutes—when you'll act a guardsman escorting me, a Poligerent ofDynamopolis, aboard the towship      Shahrazad     .     For a moment Ryd felt relief—he had hazily imagined that Mury's hatredof Mars and all things Martian might have led him to try to sabotagethe Martian warship which lay somewhere on the runways beyond the long,low buildings, and which would be closely guarded. But the towshipwould also be guarded ... he shivered in the cold, dry night air.     Mury had melted into the shadow a few yards away. There was a lightscraping, then a green flame sputtered, briefly lighting up his handsand face, and narrowing at once to a thin, singing needle of light.He had turned a pocket electron torch against the lock-mechanism of asmall, disused metal door.       Ryd watched in painful suspense. There was no sound in his ears savefor the hard, dry shrilling of the ray as it bit into the steel. Itseemed to be crying:      run, run     —but he remembered the power that knewhow to punish better than the law, and stood still, shivering.     The lock gave way and the door slipped aside. A light went on inside,and Ryd's heart stopped, backfired, and started again, raggedly. Thesame automatic mechanism that had turned the lights on had started theair-fresher, which picked up speed with a soft whine, sweeping out thelong-stale atmosphere. Mury motioned to Ryd to follow him in.  It was still musty in the narrow passage, between the closely-pressingwalls, beneath the great tubes and cable sheathings that fluted theceiling overhead. A stairway spiraled up on the right to the controlcupola somewhere overhead; even in the airtight gallery a thin filmof dust lay on every step. Up there were the meters and switches ofthe disused terminal facilities of the spaceport; beyond the metaldoor marked CAUTION, just beyond the stairwell, lay the long runwaydown which the ships of space had glided to be serviced, refueled, andlaunched into the sky once more by now dormant machines.     Wait, said Mury succinctly; he vanished up the spiral stair, hislong legs taking two steps at a time. After an aching minute's silence,he was back. All was clear as seen from the turret-windows overhead.     They emerged in shadow, hugging the wall. Almost a quarter of a mile tothe right the megalith of the Communications Tower, crowned with manylights where the signal-men sat godlike in its summit. Its floodlightsshed a vast oval of light out over the mesa, where the mile-longrunways—no longer polished mirror-like as in the days of Dynamopolis'glory—stretched away into the darkness of the table land. A handfulof odd ships—mere remnant of the hundreds that Pi Mesa port hadberthed—huddled under the solenoid wickets, as if driven together bythe chill of the thin, knife-like wind that blew across the mesa.     As the two paced slowly across the runways, Ryd had a sense ofprotective isolation in the vast impersonality of the spaceport.Surely, in this Titanic desolation of metal slabs and flat-roofedbuildings, dominated by the one great tower, total insignificance mustmean safety for them.     And indeed no guard challenged them. There were armed men watchingfor all intruders out on the desert beyond the runways, but onceinside, Ryd's borrowed blue seemed to serve as passport enough.Nonetheless, the passport's knees were shaking when they stood at last,inconspicuous still, at the shadowed base of the Communications Tower.     Not far off, a half-dozen dignitaries, huddled close together in themidst of these Cyclopean man-made things that dwarfed their policies,their principles and ambitions, stood talking rather nervously with twoofficers, aristocratically gaudy in the scarlet of the Martian Fleet.Blue-clad guardsmen of Earth watched from a distance—watched boredlyenough.     And out on the steel-stripped tarmac, under the solenoid of NumberTwo Runway, lay a towship, backed like a stegosaur with its massivemagnets—the      Shahrazad     , panting like a dragon amid rolling clouds ofsteam. She was plainly ready to go into space. The bottom dropped outof Ryd's stomach before he realized that a warning at least must besounded before the ship could lift. But that might come any moment now.     Relax, said Mury in a low voice. Nothing's gone wrong. We'll beaboard the      Shahrazad     when she lifts. For a moment his black eyesshifted, hardening, toward Runway Four. The Martian warship lay therebeyond the solenoid, a spiteful hundred-foot swordfish of steel, withblind gunvalves, row on row, along its sleek sides and turret-blisters.It had not yet been tugged onto the turntable; it could not be leavingagain very soon, though Earth weight was undoubtedly incommodingits crew. About it a few figures stood that were stiffly erect andimmobile, as tall as tall men. From head to toe they were scarlet.     Robots! gasped Ryd, clutching his companion's arm convulsively.Martian soldier robots!     They're unarmed, harmless. They aren't your police with built-inweapons. Only the humans are dangerous. But we've got to move. ForGod's sake, take it easy.     Ryd licked dry lips. Are we going—out into space?     Where else? said Mury.  The official-looking individual in the expensive topcoat and sport hathad reached the starboard airlock of the towship before anyone thoughtto question his authorization, escorted as he was by a blue-uniformedguardsman. When another sentry, pacing between runways a hundred yardsfrom the squat space vessel, paused to wonder, it was—as it cameabout—just a little too late.     The guard turned and swung briskly off to intercept the oddly-behavingpair, hand crowding the butt of his pistol, for he was growinguneasy. His alarm mounted rapidly, till he nearly sprained an anklein sprinting across the last of the two intervening runways, betweenthe solenoid wickets. Those metal arches, crowding one on the otherin perspective, formed a tunnel that effectively shielded the      Shahrazad's     airlocks from more distant view; the gang of notablesattracted by the occasion was already being shepherded back to safetyby the Communications guards, whose attention was thus well taken up.     The slight man in guardsman's blue glanced over his shoulder andvanished abruptly into the circular lock. His companion wheeled on thetopmost step, looking down with some irritation on his unhandsome face,but with no apparent doubt of his command of the situation.     Yes? he inquired frostily.     What goes on here? snapped the guard, frowning at the tall figuresilhouetted against the glow in the airlock. The crew's signaled allaboard and the ship lifts in two minutes. You ought to be—     I am Semul Mury, Poligerent for the City of Dynamopolis, interruptedthe tall man with asperity. The City is naturally interested in thedelivery of the power which will revivify our industries. He paused,sighed, shifting his weight to the next lower step of the gangway. Isuppose you'll want to re-check my credentials?     The guard was somewhat confused; a Poligerent, in ninth-centurybureaucracy, was a force to be reckoned with. But he contrived to nodwith an appearance of brusqueness.     Fully expecting official papers, signed and garnished with all thepompous seals of a chartered metropolis, the guard was dazed to receiveinstead a terrific left-handed foul to the pit of the stomach, and ashe reeled dizzily, retching and clawing for his gun, to find that gunno longer holstered but in the hand of the self-styled Poligerent,pointing at its licensed owner.     I think, Mury said quietly, flexing his left wrist with care thewhile his right held the gun steady, that you'd better come aboardwith us.     The guard was not more cowardly than the run of politically-appointedcivic guardsmen. But a flame gun kills more frightfully than theancient electric chair. He complied, grasping the railing with bothhands as he stumbled before Mury up the gangway—for he was still verysick indeed, wholly apart from his bewilderment, which was enormous.     Above, Ryd Randl waited in the lock, flattened against the curvedwall, white and jittering. The inner door was shut, an impenetrablecountersunk mirror of metal.     Cover him, Ryd, ordered Mury flatly. In obedience Ryd lugged outthe heavy flame pistol and pointed it; his finger was dangerouslytremulous on the firing lever. He moistened his lips to voice hisfears; but Mury, pocketing the other gun, threw the three-way switch onthe side panel, the switch that should have controlled the inner lock.     Nothing happened.     Oh, God. We're caught. We're trapped! The outer gangway had slid up,the lock wheezed shut, forming an impenetrable crypt of niosteel.  Mury smiled with supernal calm. We won't be here long, he said.Then, to quiet Ryd's fears, he went on: The central control panel andthe three local switches inside, between, and outside the locks areon the circuit in that order. Unless the locks were closed from theswitch just beyond the inner lock, that lock will open when the centralcontrol panel is cut out in preparation for lifting.     Almost as he paused and drew breath, a light sprang out over the switchhe had closed and the inner lock swung silently free of its gaskets.Ryd felt a trembling relief; but Mury's voice lashed out like a whip ashe slipped cat-like into the passage.     Keep him covered. Back out of the lock.     Ryd backed—the white, tense face of the prisoner holding his ownnervous gaze—and, almost out of the lock, stumbled over the metalpressure rings. And the gun was out of his unsure grip, clatteringsomewhere near his slithering feet, as he started to fall.     He saw the guardsman hurl himself forward; then he was flung spinning,back against the engine-room door. In a flash, even as he struggledto keep on his feet, he saw the man in the airlock coming up from acrouch, shifting the pistol in his right hand to reach its firinglever; he saw Mury sidestep swiftly and throw the master control switchoutside.     The inner lock whooshed shut, barely missing Ryd. At the same instant,the flame gun lighted locks and passage with one terrific flash, and ascorched, discolored spot appeared on the beveled metal of the oppositelock a foot from Mury's right shoulder.     You damned clumsy little fool— said Mury with soft intensity. Then,while the air around the metal walls still buzzed and snapped withblue sparks, he whirled and went up the control-room gangway in twoquick bounds. Even as he went the flame gun thundered again in thestarboard airlock.     Mury was just in time, for the pilot had been about to flash Ready tothe Communications Tower when the explosions had given him pause. Butthe latter and his two companions were neither ready nor armed; clampedin their seats at the controls, already marked, they were helpless inan instant before the leveled menace of the gun. And the imprisonedguardsman, having wasted most of his charges, was helpless, too, in hislittle cell of steel.     It's been tried before, said one of the masked men. He had a blond,youthful thatch and a smooth healthy face below the mask, together withan astrogator's triangled stars which made him      ex officio     the brainsof the vessel. Stealing a ship—it can't be done any more.     It's been done again, said Mury grimly. And you don't know the halfof it. But—you will. I'll need you. As for your friends— The gunmuzzle shifted slightly to indicate the pilot and the engineer. Out ofthose clamps. You're going to ride this out in the portside airlock.     He had to repeat the command, in tones that snapped with menace, beforethey started with fumbling, rebellious hands to strip their armor fromthemselves. The burly engineer was muttering phrases of obscene fervor;the weedy young pilot was wild-eyed. The blond astrogator, sittingstill masked and apparently unmoved, demanded:     What do you think you're trying to do?     What do      you     think? demanded Mury in return. I'm taking the shipinto space. On schedule and on course—to meet the power shell. Theflame gun moved with a jerk. And as for you—what's your name?     Yet Arliess.     You want to make the trip alive, don't you, Yet Arliess?     The young astrogator stared at him and at the gun through maskinggoggles; then he sank into his seat with a slow shudder. Why, yes, hesaid as if in wonder, I do.      III       Shahrazad     drove steadily forward into deep space, vibrating slightlyto the tremendous thrust of her powerful engines. The small, crampedcabin was stiflingly hot to the three armored men who sat before itsbanked dials, watching their steady needles.     Ryd had blacked out, darkness washing into his eyes and consciousnessdraining from his head, as the space ship had pitched out intoemptiness over the end of the runway on Pi Mesa and Mury had cut in themaindrive. Pressure greater than anything he had ever felt had crushedhim; his voice had been snatched from his lips by those terrible forcesand lost beneath the opening thunder of the three-inch tubes. Up andup, while the acceleration climbed to seven gravities—and Ryd had lostevery sensation, not to regain them until Earth was dropping away underthe towship's keel.     A single gravity held them back and down in the tilted seats, and thecontrol panels seemed to curve half above them, their banks of lightsconfused with the stars coldly through the great nose window. In thecontrol room all sounds impinged on a background made up of the insecthum of air-purifiers, the almost supersonic whine of the fast-spinninggyroscopes somewhere behind them, the deep continuous growl of theengines.     Mury's voice broke through that steady murmur, coming from Ryd's right.You can unfasten your anticlamps, Ryd, he said dryly. That doesn'tmean you, to the young navigator, on his other hand as he sat inthe pilot's seat with his pressure-clamps thrown back and his glovedhands free to caress the multiplex controls before him. Clipped to thesloping dash at his left elbow was a loaded flame gun.     Ryd emerged, with much bungling, from his padded clamps, and shook hishead groggily as he ran a hand through his slightly thinning hair. Heventured shakily, Where are we?     Mury smiled slightly. Only our astrogator, he indicated Arliess,still masked and fettered, can tell you that with precision. Iunderstand only enough of astrogational practice to make sure that heis holding to the course outlined on the log. For that matter ... heis an intelligent young man and if he were not blinded by notions ofduty to an outworn system.... We are now somewhere near the orbit ofthe Moon. Isn't that right, Arliess?     The other did not seem to hear; he sat staring blindly before himthrough his goggles at the slowly-changing chart, where cryptic lightsburned, some moving like glowing paramecia along fine-traced luminoustracks.     Mury too sat silent and immobile for a minute or more. Then, abruptly,he inclined his universal chair far to the right, and his long frameseemed to tense oddly. His finger stabbed out one of the sparks oflight.     What's that, Arliess?     The astrogator broke his silence. A ship.     I know that well enough. What ship?     I supposed you had examined the log. It would have told you thatthat's the liner      Alborak     , out of Aeropolis with a diplomatic missionfor Mars.     Mury shook his head regretfully. That won't wash, Arliess. Even if yousuppose her off course, no liner aspace ever carried a tenth of thatdrive.     I don't know what you're talking about, said Arliess. But his voicewas raw and unsteady.     I'm talking about this. That ship is a warship, and it's looking forus—will intercept us inside of twenty minutes at the most!  ","The Earthmen are desolate because their ability to support themselves has been taken away by the people in power. Like many others, Ryd was a helio engineer, and he made a good living in the North American city of Dynamopolis. However, about a decade ago, all of the buildings were shuttered, and the Port of Ten Thousand Ships, Pi Mesa, was essentially closed. The people who live in Dynamopolis were actually luckier than other Terrestrials because theirs was the final port to close. The people in charge discovered that Mars has a thinner atmosphere, and they decided to move all of the work to the red planet. However, they did not transport the Terrestrials to a new land and give them an opportunity to continue working. Instead, they created robots who could easily do the humans’ jobs for a lot less money. Electricity is hard to come by on Dynamopolis, and the energy that is left goes to Pi Mesa. Although people like the local bartender, Burshis, believe the people in power when they say that energy will soon be restored when the power cylinder is brought to Earth, others, like Mury and Ryd, are much more skeptical. They see the writing on the wall: the Terrestrials will continue to be used and abused, and all of the much-needed resources will go towards Mars, the new frontier. "
"Describe the character of Ryd. </s>    Saboteur of Space     By ROBERT ABERNATHY     Fresh power was coming to Earth, energy     which would bring life to a dying planet.     Only two men stood in its way, one a cowardly     rat, the other a murderous martyr; both pawns     in a cosmic game where death moved his chessmen     of fate—and even the winner would lose.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Spring 1944.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Ryd Randl stood, slouching a little, in the darkened footway, andwatched the sky over Dynamopolis come alive with searchlights. Theshuttered glow of Burshis' Stumble Inn was only a few yards off to hisright, but even that lodestone failed before the novel interest of aship about to ground in the one-time Port of Ten Thousand Ships.     Now he made out the flicker of the braking drive a mile or sooverhead, and presently soft motor thunder came down to blanket thealmost lightless city with sound. A beam swayed through the throbbingdarkness, caught the descending ship and held it, a small gleamingminnow slipping through the dark heavens. A faint glow rose from PiMesa, where the spaceport lay above the city, as a runway lightedup—draining the last reserves of the city's stored power, but drainingthem gladly now that, in those autumn days of the historic year 819,relief was in sight.     Ryd shrugged limply; the play was meaningless to him. He turned toshuffle down the inviting ramp into the glowing interior of Burshis'dive.     The place was crowded with men and smoke. Perhaps half the former wereasleep, on tables or on the floor; but for the few places like Burshis'which were still open under the power shortage, many would have frozen,these days, in the chilly nights at fourteen thousand feet. ForDynamopolis sprawled atop the world, now as in the old days when it hadbeen built to be the power center of North America.     The rocket blasts crescendoed and died up on Pi Mesa as Ryd wedgedhimself with difficulty into the group along the bar. If anyonerecognized him, they showed it only by looking fixedly at somethingelse. Only Burshis Yuns kept his static smile and nodded withsurprising friendliness at Ryd's pinched, old-young face.     Ryd was startled by the nod. Burshis finished serving another customerand maneuvered down the stained chrome-and-synthyl bar. Ryd washeartened.     Say, Burshis, he started nervously, as the bulky man halted with hisback to him. But Burshis turned, still smiling, shaking his head sothat his jowls quivered.     No loans, he said flatly. But just one on the house, Ryd.     The drink almost spilled itself in Ryd's hand. Clutching itconvulsively, he made his eyes narrow and said suspiciously, What yousetting 'em up for, Burshis? It's the first time since—     Burshis' smile stayed put. He said affably, Didn't you hear that shipthat just came down on the Mesa? That was the ship from Mars—theescort they were sending with the power cylinder. The power's comingin again. He turned to greet a coin-tapping newcomer, added over hisshoulder: You know what that means, Ryd. Some life around here again.Jobs for all the bums in this town—even for you.     He left Ryd frowning, thinking fuzzily. A warming gulp seemed to clearhis head. Jobs. So they thought they could put that over on him again,huh? Well, he'd show them. He was smart; he was a damn good helioman—no, that had been ten years ago. But now he was out of the habitof working, anyway. No job for Ryd Randl. They gave him one once andthen took it away. He drank still more deeply.     The man on Ryd's immediate right leaned toward him. He laid a hand onhis arm, gripping it hard, and said quietly: So you're Ryd Randl.  Ryd had a bad moment before he saw that the face wasn't that of anyplain-clothes man he knew. For that matter, it didn't belong to anybodyhe had ever known—an odd, big-boned face, strikingly ugly, with abeak-nose that was yet not too large for the hard jaw or too bleak forthe thin mouth below it. An expensive transparent hat slanted over theface, and from its iridescent shadows gleamed eyes that were alert andalmost frighteningly black. Ryd noted that the man wore a dark-graycellotex of a sort rarely seen in joints like Burshis'.     Suppose we step outside, Ryd. I'd like to talk to you.     What's the idea? demanded Ryd, his small store of natural couragefloated to the top by alcohol.     The other seemed to realize that he was getting ahead of himself.He leaned back slightly, drew a deep breath, and said slowly anddistinctly. Would you care to make some money, my friend?           Huh?     Why, yeh—I guess so—     Then come with me. The hand still on his arm was insistent. In hisdaze, Ryd let himself be drawn away from the bar into the sluggishcrowd; then he suddenly remembered his unfinished drink, and madefrantic gestures. Deliberately misunderstanding, the tall strangerfumbled briefly, tossed a coin on the counter-top, and hustled Ryd out,past the blue-and-gold-lit      meloderge     that was softly pouring out itsendlessly changing music, through the swinging doors into the dark.     Outside, between lightless buildings, the still cold closed in onthem. They kept walking—so fast that Ryd began to lose his breath,long-accustomed though his lungs were to the high, thin air.     So you're Ryd Randl, repeated the stranger after a moment's silence.I might have known you. But I'd almost given up finding you tonight.     Ryd tried feebly to wrench free, stumbled. Look, he gasped. Ifyou're a cop, say so!     The other laughed shortly. No. I'm just a man about to offer you achance. For a come-back, Ryd—a chance to live again.... My name—youcan call me Mury.     Ryd was voiceless. Something seemed increasingly ominous about thetall, spare man at his side. He wished himself back in Burshis' withhis first free drink in a month. The thought of it brought tears to hiseyes.     How long have you been out of a job, Ryd?     Nine ... ten years. Say, what's it to you?     And why, Ryd?     Why...? Look, mister, I was a helio operator. He hunched his narrowshoulders and spread his hands in an habitual gesture of defeat. Damngood one, too—I was a foreman ten years ago. But I don't have thephysique for Mars—I might just have made it      then     , but I thought theplant was going to open again and—     And that was it. The almost airless Martian sky, with its burningactinic rays, is so favorable for the use of the helio-dynamic engine.And after the middle of the eighth century, robot labor gave Mars itsfull economic independence—and domination. For power is—power; andthere is the Restriction Act to keep men on Earth even if more than twoin ten could live healthily on the outer world.     Ten years ago, Mury nodded as if satisfied. That must have been thePower Company of North America—the main plant by Dynamopolis itself,that shut down in December, 809. They were the last to close downoutside the military bases in the Kun Lun.     Ryd was pacing beside him now. He felt a queer upsurge of confidence inthis strange man; for too long he had met no sympathy and all too fewmen who talked his language. He burst out: They wouldn't take me, damnthem! Said my record wasn't good enough for them. That is, I didn'thave a drag with any of the Poligerents.     I know all about your record, said Mury softly.     Ryd's suspicions came back abruptly, and he reverted to his oldkicked-dog manner. How do you know? And what's it to you?  All at once, Mury came to a stop, and swung around to face himsquarely, hard eyes compelling. They were on an overpass, not farfrom where the vast, almost wholly deserted offices of the TriplanetFreighting Company sprawled over a square mile of city. A half-smiletwisted Mury's thin lips.     Don't misunderstand me, Ryd—you mean nothing at all to me as anindividual. But you're one of a vast mass of men for whom I amworking—the billions caught in the net of a corrupt government andsold as an economic prey to the ruthless masters of Mars. This, afterthey've borne all the hardships of a year of embargo, have offeredtheir hands willingly to the rebuilding of decadent Earth, only tobe refused by the weak leaders who can neither defy the enemy norcapitulate frankly to him.     Ryd was dazed. His mind had never been constructed to cope with suchideas and the past few years had not improved its capabilities. Areyou talking about the power cylinder? he demanded blurrily.     Mury cast a glance toward the Milky Way as if to descry the Martiancargo projectile somewhere up among its countless lights. He saidsimply, Yes.     I don't get it, mumbled Ryd, frowning. He found words that he hadheard somewhere a day or so before, in some bar or flophouse: Thepower cylinder is going to be the salvation of Earth. It's a shot inthe arm—no, right in the heart of Earth industry, here in Dynamopolis.It will turn the wheels and light the cities and—     To hell with that! snapped Mury, suddenly savage. His hands came upslightly, the fingers flexing; then dropped back to his sides. Don'tyou know you're repeating damnable lies?     Ryd could only stare, cringing and bewildered. Mury went on with apassion shocking after his smooth calm:     The power shell is aid, yes—but with what a price! It's the thirtypieces of silver for which the venal fools who rule our nations havesold the whole planet to Mars. Because they lack the courage andvision to retool Earth's plants and factories for the inescapableconflict, they're selling us out—making Earth, the first home of man,a colony of the Red Planet. Do you know what Earth is to the greatMartian land-owners?      Do you?      He paused out of breath; then finishedvenomously, Earth is a great pool of labor ready to be tapped, cheaperthan robots—cheap as      slaves     !     What about it? gulped Ryd, drawing away from the fanatic. What youwant      me     to do about it?     Mury took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders. His face wasonce more bleakly impassive; only the mouth was an ugly line. We'regoing to do something about it, you and I. Tonight. Now.     Ryd was nearly sober. And wholly terrified. He got out chokingly,What's that mean?     The power shell—isn't coming in as planned.     You can't do that.           We     can, said Mury with a heavy accent on the first word. And thereare fifty thousand credits in it for you, Ryd. Are you with us?     Suspicion was chill reality now in Ryd's mind. And he knew one thingcertainly—if he refused now to accompany Mury, he would be killed, bythis man or another of his kind. For the secret power known only as      We     never took chances. Whispered-of, terrible, and world-embracing,desperate upshot of the times in its principles of dynamitism, war, andpanclasm—that was      We     .     The question hung in the air for a long moment. Then Ryd, withan effort, said, Sure. A moment later it struck him that themonosyllabic assent was suspicious; he added quickly, I got nothing tolose, see? It was, he realized, the cold truth.     You won't lose, said Mury. He seemed to relax. But the menace withwhich he had clothed himself clung, as he turned back on the way theyhad come.     Ryd followed dog-like, his feet in their worn shoes moving without hisvolition. He was frightened. Out of his very fright came a longing toplacate Mury, assure him that he, Ryd, was on the same side whateverhappened....     After some steps he stole a sidelong glance at his tall companion, andwhined, Where ... where we going now?     Mury paused in his long stride, removed a hand from a pocket of thegray topcoat that wrapped him as in somber thoughts. Wordlessly, hepointed as Ryd had known he would—toward where a pale man-made dawnseemed breaking over Pi Mesa.      II     One blow for freedom! said Mury with caught breath. His voice fellupon air scarcely stilled since the sodden thump of the blow that hadkilled the guard.     The body lay between them, face down on the graveled way in the inkymoon-shadow. On one side Pi Mesa stretched away two hundred yards todrop sharply into the night; on the other was the unlighted mass of thelong, continuous, low buildings that housed now unused fuel pumps andservicing equipment. Looking down at the dead huddle at his feet, alittle stunned by the reality of this, Ryd knew that he was in it now.He was caught in the machinery.     Mury hefted the length of steel in his hand once more, as if testingthe weight that had crushed a man's skull so easily. Then, with a shortwrist-flip, he sent it flying into the dried weeds which had over-grownthe aero field on the mesa's rim during the summer months after Stateorder had grounded all fliers in America.     All right, Ryd, he said coolly. Trade clothes with this fellow. I'vebrought you this far—you're taking me the rest of the way.     The rest of the way.     Ryd was still panting, and his side was paining from the strenuousexertion of the long climb up the side of the mountain, far from theguarded highway. His fingers, numbed by the cold of the high, thin air,shook as he knelt and fumbled with the zippers of the dead guard'suniform. The belted gun, however, was heavy and oddly comforting ashe clumsily buckled it about his hips. He knew enough of weaponsto recognize this as, not the usual paralyzer, but a flame pistol,powerful and deadly. He let his hand linger on its butt; then strongfingers tightened on his bony wrist, and he looked up with a start intothe sardonic black eyes of the Panclast.     No use now for firearms, said Mury. All the guns we could carrywouldn't help us if we were caught out there. That gun is just astage property for the little play we're going to give in about threeminutes—when you'll act a guardsman escorting me, a Poligerent ofDynamopolis, aboard the towship      Shahrazad     .     For a moment Ryd felt relief—he had hazily imagined that Mury's hatredof Mars and all things Martian might have led him to try to sabotagethe Martian warship which lay somewhere on the runways beyond the long,low buildings, and which would be closely guarded. But the towshipwould also be guarded ... he shivered in the cold, dry night air.     Mury had melted into the shadow a few yards away. There was a lightscraping, then a green flame sputtered, briefly lighting up his handsand face, and narrowing at once to a thin, singing needle of light.He had turned a pocket electron torch against the lock-mechanism of asmall, disused metal door.       Ryd watched in painful suspense. There was no sound in his ears savefor the hard, dry shrilling of the ray as it bit into the steel. Itseemed to be crying:      run, run     —but he remembered the power that knewhow to punish better than the law, and stood still, shivering.     The lock gave way and the door slipped aside. A light went on inside,and Ryd's heart stopped, backfired, and started again, raggedly. Thesame automatic mechanism that had turned the lights on had started theair-fresher, which picked up speed with a soft whine, sweeping out thelong-stale atmosphere. Mury motioned to Ryd to follow him in.  It was still musty in the narrow passage, between the closely-pressingwalls, beneath the great tubes and cable sheathings that fluted theceiling overhead. A stairway spiraled up on the right to the controlcupola somewhere overhead; even in the airtight gallery a thin filmof dust lay on every step. Up there were the meters and switches ofthe disused terminal facilities of the spaceport; beyond the metaldoor marked CAUTION, just beyond the stairwell, lay the long runwaydown which the ships of space had glided to be serviced, refueled, andlaunched into the sky once more by now dormant machines.     Wait, said Mury succinctly; he vanished up the spiral stair, hislong legs taking two steps at a time. After an aching minute's silence,he was back. All was clear as seen from the turret-windows overhead.     They emerged in shadow, hugging the wall. Almost a quarter of a mile tothe right the megalith of the Communications Tower, crowned with manylights where the signal-men sat godlike in its summit. Its floodlightsshed a vast oval of light out over the mesa, where the mile-longrunways—no longer polished mirror-like as in the days of Dynamopolis'glory—stretched away into the darkness of the table land. A handfulof odd ships—mere remnant of the hundreds that Pi Mesa port hadberthed—huddled under the solenoid wickets, as if driven together bythe chill of the thin, knife-like wind that blew across the mesa.     As the two paced slowly across the runways, Ryd had a sense ofprotective isolation in the vast impersonality of the spaceport.Surely, in this Titanic desolation of metal slabs and flat-roofedbuildings, dominated by the one great tower, total insignificance mustmean safety for them.     And indeed no guard challenged them. There were armed men watchingfor all intruders out on the desert beyond the runways, but onceinside, Ryd's borrowed blue seemed to serve as passport enough.Nonetheless, the passport's knees were shaking when they stood at last,inconspicuous still, at the shadowed base of the Communications Tower.     Not far off, a half-dozen dignitaries, huddled close together in themidst of these Cyclopean man-made things that dwarfed their policies,their principles and ambitions, stood talking rather nervously with twoofficers, aristocratically gaudy in the scarlet of the Martian Fleet.Blue-clad guardsmen of Earth watched from a distance—watched boredlyenough.     And out on the steel-stripped tarmac, under the solenoid of NumberTwo Runway, lay a towship, backed like a stegosaur with its massivemagnets—the      Shahrazad     , panting like a dragon amid rolling clouds ofsteam. She was plainly ready to go into space. The bottom dropped outof Ryd's stomach before he realized that a warning at least must besounded before the ship could lift. But that might come any moment now.     Relax, said Mury in a low voice. Nothing's gone wrong. We'll beaboard the      Shahrazad     when she lifts. For a moment his black eyesshifted, hardening, toward Runway Four. The Martian warship lay therebeyond the solenoid, a spiteful hundred-foot swordfish of steel, withblind gunvalves, row on row, along its sleek sides and turret-blisters.It had not yet been tugged onto the turntable; it could not be leavingagain very soon, though Earth weight was undoubtedly incommodingits crew. About it a few figures stood that were stiffly erect andimmobile, as tall as tall men. From head to toe they were scarlet.     Robots! gasped Ryd, clutching his companion's arm convulsively.Martian soldier robots!     They're unarmed, harmless. They aren't your police with built-inweapons. Only the humans are dangerous. But we've got to move. ForGod's sake, take it easy.     Ryd licked dry lips. Are we going—out into space?     Where else? said Mury.  The official-looking individual in the expensive topcoat and sport hathad reached the starboard airlock of the towship before anyone thoughtto question his authorization, escorted as he was by a blue-uniformedguardsman. When another sentry, pacing between runways a hundred yardsfrom the squat space vessel, paused to wonder, it was—as it cameabout—just a little too late.     The guard turned and swung briskly off to intercept the oddly-behavingpair, hand crowding the butt of his pistol, for he was growinguneasy. His alarm mounted rapidly, till he nearly sprained an anklein sprinting across the last of the two intervening runways, betweenthe solenoid wickets. Those metal arches, crowding one on the otherin perspective, formed a tunnel that effectively shielded the      Shahrazad's     airlocks from more distant view; the gang of notablesattracted by the occasion was already being shepherded back to safetyby the Communications guards, whose attention was thus well taken up.     The slight man in guardsman's blue glanced over his shoulder andvanished abruptly into the circular lock. His companion wheeled on thetopmost step, looking down with some irritation on his unhandsome face,but with no apparent doubt of his command of the situation.     Yes? he inquired frostily.     What goes on here? snapped the guard, frowning at the tall figuresilhouetted against the glow in the airlock. The crew's signaled allaboard and the ship lifts in two minutes. You ought to be—     I am Semul Mury, Poligerent for the City of Dynamopolis, interruptedthe tall man with asperity. The City is naturally interested in thedelivery of the power which will revivify our industries. He paused,sighed, shifting his weight to the next lower step of the gangway. Isuppose you'll want to re-check my credentials?     The guard was somewhat confused; a Poligerent, in ninth-centurybureaucracy, was a force to be reckoned with. But he contrived to nodwith an appearance of brusqueness.     Fully expecting official papers, signed and garnished with all thepompous seals of a chartered metropolis, the guard was dazed to receiveinstead a terrific left-handed foul to the pit of the stomach, and ashe reeled dizzily, retching and clawing for his gun, to find that gunno longer holstered but in the hand of the self-styled Poligerent,pointing at its licensed owner.     I think, Mury said quietly, flexing his left wrist with care thewhile his right held the gun steady, that you'd better come aboardwith us.     The guard was not more cowardly than the run of politically-appointedcivic guardsmen. But a flame gun kills more frightfully than theancient electric chair. He complied, grasping the railing with bothhands as he stumbled before Mury up the gangway—for he was still verysick indeed, wholly apart from his bewilderment, which was enormous.     Above, Ryd Randl waited in the lock, flattened against the curvedwall, white and jittering. The inner door was shut, an impenetrablecountersunk mirror of metal.     Cover him, Ryd, ordered Mury flatly. In obedience Ryd lugged outthe heavy flame pistol and pointed it; his finger was dangerouslytremulous on the firing lever. He moistened his lips to voice hisfears; but Mury, pocketing the other gun, threw the three-way switch onthe side panel, the switch that should have controlled the inner lock.     Nothing happened.     Oh, God. We're caught. We're trapped! The outer gangway had slid up,the lock wheezed shut, forming an impenetrable crypt of niosteel.  Mury smiled with supernal calm. We won't be here long, he said.Then, to quiet Ryd's fears, he went on: The central control panel andthe three local switches inside, between, and outside the locks areon the circuit in that order. Unless the locks were closed from theswitch just beyond the inner lock, that lock will open when the centralcontrol panel is cut out in preparation for lifting.     Almost as he paused and drew breath, a light sprang out over the switchhe had closed and the inner lock swung silently free of its gaskets.Ryd felt a trembling relief; but Mury's voice lashed out like a whip ashe slipped cat-like into the passage.     Keep him covered. Back out of the lock.     Ryd backed—the white, tense face of the prisoner holding his ownnervous gaze—and, almost out of the lock, stumbled over the metalpressure rings. And the gun was out of his unsure grip, clatteringsomewhere near his slithering feet, as he started to fall.     He saw the guardsman hurl himself forward; then he was flung spinning,back against the engine-room door. In a flash, even as he struggledto keep on his feet, he saw the man in the airlock coming up from acrouch, shifting the pistol in his right hand to reach its firinglever; he saw Mury sidestep swiftly and throw the master control switchoutside.     The inner lock whooshed shut, barely missing Ryd. At the same instant,the flame gun lighted locks and passage with one terrific flash, and ascorched, discolored spot appeared on the beveled metal of the oppositelock a foot from Mury's right shoulder.     You damned clumsy little fool— said Mury with soft intensity. Then,while the air around the metal walls still buzzed and snapped withblue sparks, he whirled and went up the control-room gangway in twoquick bounds. Even as he went the flame gun thundered again in thestarboard airlock.     Mury was just in time, for the pilot had been about to flash Ready tothe Communications Tower when the explosions had given him pause. Butthe latter and his two companions were neither ready nor armed; clampedin their seats at the controls, already marked, they were helpless inan instant before the leveled menace of the gun. And the imprisonedguardsman, having wasted most of his charges, was helpless, too, in hislittle cell of steel.     It's been tried before, said one of the masked men. He had a blond,youthful thatch and a smooth healthy face below the mask, together withan astrogator's triangled stars which made him      ex officio     the brainsof the vessel. Stealing a ship—it can't be done any more.     It's been done again, said Mury grimly. And you don't know the halfof it. But—you will. I'll need you. As for your friends— The gunmuzzle shifted slightly to indicate the pilot and the engineer. Out ofthose clamps. You're going to ride this out in the portside airlock.     He had to repeat the command, in tones that snapped with menace, beforethey started with fumbling, rebellious hands to strip their armor fromthemselves. The burly engineer was muttering phrases of obscene fervor;the weedy young pilot was wild-eyed. The blond astrogator, sittingstill masked and apparently unmoved, demanded:     What do you think you're trying to do?     What do      you     think? demanded Mury in return. I'm taking the shipinto space. On schedule and on course—to meet the power shell. Theflame gun moved with a jerk. And as for you—what's your name?     Yet Arliess.     You want to make the trip alive, don't you, Yet Arliess?     The young astrogator stared at him and at the gun through maskinggoggles; then he sank into his seat with a slow shudder. Why, yes, hesaid as if in wonder, I do.      III       Shahrazad     drove steadily forward into deep space, vibrating slightlyto the tremendous thrust of her powerful engines. The small, crampedcabin was stiflingly hot to the three armored men who sat before itsbanked dials, watching their steady needles.     Ryd had blacked out, darkness washing into his eyes and consciousnessdraining from his head, as the space ship had pitched out intoemptiness over the end of the runway on Pi Mesa and Mury had cut in themaindrive. Pressure greater than anything he had ever felt had crushedhim; his voice had been snatched from his lips by those terrible forcesand lost beneath the opening thunder of the three-inch tubes. Up andup, while the acceleration climbed to seven gravities—and Ryd had lostevery sensation, not to regain them until Earth was dropping away underthe towship's keel.     A single gravity held them back and down in the tilted seats, and thecontrol panels seemed to curve half above them, their banks of lightsconfused with the stars coldly through the great nose window. In thecontrol room all sounds impinged on a background made up of the insecthum of air-purifiers, the almost supersonic whine of the fast-spinninggyroscopes somewhere behind them, the deep continuous growl of theengines.     Mury's voice broke through that steady murmur, coming from Ryd's right.You can unfasten your anticlamps, Ryd, he said dryly. That doesn'tmean you, to the young navigator, on his other hand as he sat inthe pilot's seat with his pressure-clamps thrown back and his glovedhands free to caress the multiplex controls before him. Clipped to thesloping dash at his left elbow was a loaded flame gun.     Ryd emerged, with much bungling, from his padded clamps, and shook hishead groggily as he ran a hand through his slightly thinning hair. Heventured shakily, Where are we?     Mury smiled slightly. Only our astrogator, he indicated Arliess,still masked and fettered, can tell you that with precision. Iunderstand only enough of astrogational practice to make sure that heis holding to the course outlined on the log. For that matter ... heis an intelligent young man and if he were not blinded by notions ofduty to an outworn system.... We are now somewhere near the orbit ofthe Moon. Isn't that right, Arliess?     The other did not seem to hear; he sat staring blindly before himthrough his goggles at the slowly-changing chart, where cryptic lightsburned, some moving like glowing paramecia along fine-traced luminoustracks.     Mury too sat silent and immobile for a minute or more. Then, abruptly,he inclined his universal chair far to the right, and his long frameseemed to tense oddly. His finger stabbed out one of the sparks oflight.     What's that, Arliess?     The astrogator broke his silence. A ship.     I know that well enough. What ship?     I supposed you had examined the log. It would have told you thatthat's the liner      Alborak     , out of Aeropolis with a diplomatic missionfor Mars.     Mury shook his head regretfully. That won't wash, Arliess. Even if yousuppose her off course, no liner aspace ever carried a tenth of thatdrive.     I don't know what you're talking about, said Arliess. But his voicewas raw and unsteady.     I'm talking about this. That ship is a warship, and it's looking forus—will intercept us inside of twenty minutes at the most!  ","Ryd is a resentful and skeptical person because he has been without a job for at least ten years. His only solace comes from drinking at Burshis’ Stumble Inn, where he can pretend that no one knows him and have a nice chat with the bar owner. He knows he was a good helio engineer, and he is fully aware that he did not deserve to have his job ripped from his hands. When the bartender suggests that he will have a new job soon, Ryd thinks to himself that anyone who wants to give him a job can screw off. He has been without one for too long to even know how to manage it. Ryd is also skeptical of people around him. When Mury approaches him at the bar, he notices right away that Mury seems out of place in the way that he’s dressed. He also gives Mury an attitude when the man starts a conversation with him. He has learned not to trust many people, so he acts contrary to his natural intuition when he listens to Mury and almost immediately believes he has his best interest in mind.Ryd is not a trained spy or someone who has a lot of experience with committing crimes, so he is very out of place on his mission with Mury. He is jumpy, anxious, and concerned for his safety throughout the job. He is so uncomfortable holding a weapon that he actually drops his flame pistol in a control room and nearly starts a fire. He leaves the dirty work to Mury, and he does not offer to shoot anyone or engage in combat or do anything that isn’t directly asked of him. Ryd goes along for the ride because he is afraid that Mury will kill him if he backs out of the mission, and he also realizes that Mury’s plan may be the only thing that saves men like him from becoming slaves. "
"What is the plot of the story? </s>  class=chap/>    THE SERPENT RIVER     By Don Wilcox     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Other Worlds May 1957.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]  class=chap/>    The Code was rigid—no fraternization with the     peoples of other planets! Earth wanted no     shotgun weddings of the worlds of space!  class=chap/>    Split Campbell and I brought our ship down to a quiet landing on thesummit of a mile-wide naked rock, and I turned to the telescope for acloser view of the strange thing we had come to see.     It shone, eighteen or twenty miles away, in the light of the lateafternoon sun. It was a long silvery serpent-like      something     thatcrawled slowly over the planet's surface.     There was no way of guessing how large it was, at this distance. Itmight have been a rope rolled into shape out of a mountain—or a chainof mountains. It might have been a river of bluish-gray dough that hadshaped itself into a great cable. Its diameter? If it had been a hollowtube, cities could have flowed through it upright without bending theirskyscrapers. It was, to the eye, an endless rope of cloud oozing alongthe surface of the land. No, not cloud, for it had the compactness ofsolid substance.     We could see it at several points among the low foothills. Even fromthis distance we could guess that it had been moving along its coursefor centuries. Moving like a sluggish snake. It followed a deep-wornpath between the nearer hills and the high jagged mountains on thehorizon.       What was it?       Split Campbell and I had been sent here to learn the answers.Our sponsor was the well known EGGWE (the Earth-Galaxy GoodWill Expeditions.) We were under the EGGWE Code. We were the firstexpedition to this planet, but we had come equipped with two importantpieces of advance information. The Keynes-Roy roving cameras (unmanned)had brought back to the Earth choice items of fact about various partsof the universe. From these photos we knew (1) that man lived on thisplanet, a humanoid closely resembling the humans of the Earth; and(2) that a vast cylindrical rope crawled the surface of this land,continuously, endlessly.     We had intentionally landed at what we guessed would be a safe distancefrom the rope. If it were a living thing, like a serpent, we preferrednot to disturb it. If it gave off heat or poisonous gases or deadlyvibrations, we meant to keep our distance. If, on the other hand, itproved to be some sort of vegetable—a vine of glacier proportions—ora river of some silvery, creamy substance—we would move in upon itgradually, gathering facts as we progressed. I could depend uponSplit to record all observable phenomena with the accuracy ofsplit-hairs.     Split was working at the reports like a drudge at this very moment.     I looked up from the telescope, expecting him to be waiting his turneagerly. I misguessed. He didn't even glance up from his books. Rareyoung Campbell! Always a man of duty, never a man of impulse!     Here Campbell, take a look at the 'rope'.     Before I finish the reports, sir? If I recall our Code, Section Two,Order of Duties upon Landing: A—     Forget the Code. Take a look at the rope while the sun's on it.... Seeit?     Yes sir.     Can you see it's moving? See the little clouds of dust coming up fromunder its belly?     Yes sir. An excellent view, Captain Linden.     What do you think of it, Split? Ever see a sight like that before?     No sir.     Well, what about it? Any comments?     Split answered me with an enthusiastic, By gollies, sir! Then, withrestraint, It's precisely what I expected from the photographs, sir.Any orders, sir?     Relax, Split! That's the order. Relax!     Thanks—thanks, Cap! That was his effort to sound informal, thoughcoming from him it was strained. His training had given him anexaggerated notion of the importance of dignity and discipline.     He was naturally so conscientious it was painful. And to top it all,his scientific habit of thought made him want to stop and weigh hiswords even when speaking of casual things such as how much sugar herequired in his coffee.     Needless to say, I had kidded him unmercifully over these traits.Across the millions of miles of space that we had recently traveled(our first voyage together) I had amused myself at his expense. Ihad sworn that he would find, in time, that he couldn't even trimhis fingernails without calipers, or comb his hair without actuallyphysically splitting the hairs that cropped up in the middle of thepart. That was when I had nicknamed him Split—and the wide ears thatstuck out from his stubble-cut blond hair had glowed with the pink ofselfconsciousness. Plainly, he liked the kidding. But if I thought Icould rescue him from the weight of dignity and duty, I was mistaken.     Now he had turned the telescope for a view far to the right. He paused.     What do you see? I asked.     I cannot say definitely. The exact scientific classification of theobject I am observing would call for more detailed scrutiny—     You're seeing some sort of object?     Yes sir.     What sort of object?     A living creature, sir—upright, wearing clothes—     A      man     ?     To all appearances, sir—     You bounder, give me that telescope!  class=chap/>    2.     If you have explored the weird life of many a planet, as I have, youcan appreciate the deep sense of excitement that comes over me when,looking out at a new world for the first time, I see a man-like animal.     Walking upright!     Wearing adornments in the nature of clothing!     I gazed, and my lungs filled with the breath of wonderment. A man!Across millions of miles of space—a man, like the men of the Earth.     Six times before in my life of exploration I had gazed at new realmswithin the approachable parts of our universe, but never before had theliving creatures borne such wonderful resemblance to the human life ofour Earth.     A man!     He might have been creeping on all fours.     He might have been skulking like a lesser animal.     He might have been entirely naked.     He was none of these—and at the very first moment of viewing him Ifelt a kinship toward him. Oh, he was primitive in appearance—but hadmy ancestors not been the same? Was this not a mirror of my own racea million years or so ago? I sensed that my own stream of life hadsomehow crossed with his in ages gone by. How? Who can ever know? Bywhat faded charts of the movements through the sky will man ever beable to retrace relationships of forms of life among planets?     Get ready to go out and meet him, Campbell, I said. He's a friend.     Split Campbell gave me a look as if to say, Sir, you don't even knowwhat sort of animal he is, actually, much less whether he's friendly ormurderous.     There are some things I can sense on first sight, Campbell. Take myword for it, he's a friend.     I didn't say anything, sir.     Good. Don't. Just get ready.     We're going to go      out     —?     Yes, I said. Orders.     And meet both of them? Split was at the telescope.     Both? I took the instrument from him. Both! Well!     They seem to be coming out of the ground, Split said. I see no signsof habitation, but apparently we've landed on top of an undergroundcity—though I hasten to add that this is only an hypothesis.     One's a male and the other's a female, I said.     Another hypothesis, said Split.     The late evening sunshine gave us a clear view of our two friends.They were fully a mile away. Split was certain they had not seen ourship, and to this conclusion I was in agreement. They had apparentlycome up out of the barren rock hillside to view the sunset. I studiedthem through the telescope while Split checked over equipment for ahike.     The man's walk was unhurried. He moved thoughtfully, one mightguess. His bare chest and legs showed him to be statuesque in mold,cleanly muscled, fine of bone. His skin was almost the color of thecream-colored robe which flowed from his back, whipping lightly inthe breeze. He wore a brilliant red sash about his middle, and thiswas matched by a red headdress that came down over his shoulders as acircular mantle.     The girl stood several yards distant, watching him. This was somesort of ritual, no doubt. He was not concerned with her, but with thesetting sun. Its rays were almost horizontal, knifing through a breakin the distant mountain skyline. He went through some routine motions,his moving arms highlighted by the lemon-colored light of evening.     The girl approached him. Two other persons appeared from somewhere backof her.... Three.... Four.... Five....     Where do they come from? Split had paused in the act of checkingequipment to take his turn at the telescope. If he had not done so, Imight not have made a discovery. The landscape was      moving     .     The long shadows that I had not noticed through the telescope were aprominent part of the picture I saw through the ship's window when Ilooked out across the scene with the naked eye. The shadows were moving.     They were tree shadows. They were moving toward the clearing where thecrowd gathered. And the reason for their movement was that the treesthemselves were moving.     Notice anything? I asked Split.     The crowd is growing. We've certainly landed on top of a city. Hegazed. They're coming from underground.     Looking through the telescope, obviously he didn't catch the view ofthe moving trees.     Notice anything else unusual? I persisted.     Yes. The females—I'm speaking hypothetically—but they      must     befemales—are all wearing puffy white fur ornaments around their elbows.I wonder why?     You haven't noticed the trees?     The females are quite attractive, said Split.     I forgot about the moving trees, then, and took over the telescope.Mobile trees were not new to me. I had seen similar vegetation on otherplanets—sponge-trees—which possessed a sort of muscular quality. Ifthese were similar, they were no doubt feeding along the surface of theslope below the rocky plateau. The people in the clearing beyond paidno attention to them.     I studied the crowd of people. Only the leader wore the brilliant garb.The others were more scantily clothed. All were handsome of build. Thelemon-tinted sunlight glanced off the muscular shoulders of the malesand the soft curves of the females.     Those furry elbow ornaments on the females, I said to Split,they're for protection. The caves they live in must be narrow, sothey pad their elbows.     Why don't they pad their shoulders? They don't have anything on theirshoulders.     Are you complaining?     We became fascinated in watching, from the seclusion of our ship. If wewere to walk out, or make any sounds, we might have interrupted theirmeeting. Here they were in their native ritual of sunset, not knowingthat people from another world watched. The tall leader must be makinga speech. They sat around him in little huddles. He moved his arms incalm, graceful gestures.     They'd better break it up! Split said suddenly. The jungles aremoving in on them.     They're spellbound, I said. They're used to sponge-trees. Didn't youever see moving trees?     Split said sharply, Those trees are marching! They're an army undercover. Look!     I saw, then. The whole line of advancing vegetation was camouflage fora sneak attack. And all those natives sitting around in meeting were asinnocent as a flock of sitting ducks. Split Campbell's voice was edgedwith alarm. Captain! Those worshippers—how can we warn them? Oh-oh!Too late. Look!     All at once the advancing sponge-trees were tossed back over the headsof the savage band concealed within. They were warriors—fifty or moreof them—with painted naked bodies. They dashed forward in a widesemicircle, swinging crude weapons, bent on slaughter.  class=chap/>    3.     They were waving short clubs or whips with stones tied to the ends.They charged up the slope, about sixty yards, swinging their weirdclubs with a threat of death.     Wild disorder suddenly struck the audience. Campbell and I believed wewere about to witness a massacre.     Captain—      Jim     ! You're not going to let this happen!     Our sympathies had gone to the first groups, the peaceable ones. I hadthe same impulse as Campbell—to do something—anything! Yet here wesat in our ship, more than half a mile from our thirty-five or fortyfriends in danger.     Our friends were panicked. But they didn't take flight. They didn'tduck for the holes in the rocky hilltop. Instead, they rallied andpacked themselves around their tall leader. They stood, a defiant wall.     Can we shoot a ray, Jim?     I didn't answer. Later I would recall that Split      could     drop hisdignity under excitement—his Captain Linden and sir. Just now hewanted any sort of split-second order.     We saw the naked warriors run out in a wide circle. They spun andweaved, they twirled their deadly clubs, they danced grotesquely. Theywere closing in. Closer and closer. It was all their party.     Jim, can we shoot?     Hit number sixteen, Campbell.     Split touched the number sixteen signal.     The ship's siren wailed out over the land.     You could tell when the sound struck them. The circle of savage onessuddenly fell apart. The dancing broke into the wildest contortions youever saw. As if they'd been spanked by a wave of electricity. The sirenscream must have sounded like an animal cry from an unknown world. Theattackers ran for the sponge-trees. The rootless jungle came to life.It jerked and jumped spasmodically down the slope. And our siren keptright on singing.     Ready for that hike, Campbell? Give me my equipment coat. I gotinto it. I looked back to the telescope. The tall man of the partyhad behaved with exceptional calmness. He had turned to stare in ourdirection from the instant the siren sounded. He could no doubt makeout the lines of our silvery ship in the shadows. Slowly, deliberately,he marched over the hilltop toward us.     Most of his party now scampered back to the safety of their hidingplaces in the ground. But a few—the brave ones, perhaps, or theofficials of his group—came with him.     He needs a stronger guard than that, Campbell grumbled.     Sixteen was still wailing. Set it for ten minutes and come on, Isaid. Together we descended from the ship.     We took into our nostrils the tangy air, breathing fiercely, at first.We slogged along over the rock surface feeling our weight to beone-and-a-third times normal. We glanced down the slope apprehensively.We didn't want any footraces. The trees, however, were stillretreating. Our siren would sing on for another eight minutes. Andin case of further danger, we were equipped with the standard pocketarsenal of special purpose capsule bombs.     Soon we came face to face with the tall, stately old leader in thecream-and-red cloak.     Split and I stood together, close enough to exchange comments againstthe siren's wail. Fine looking people, we observed. Smooth faces.Like the features of Earth men. These creatures could walk downany main street back home. With a bit of makeup they would pass.Notice, Captain, they have strange looking eyes. Very smooth.It's because they have no eyebrows ... no eye lashes. Verysmooth—handsome—attractive.     Then the siren went off.     The leader stood before me, apparently unafraid. He seemed to bewaiting for me to explain my presence. His group of twelve gathered inclose.     I had met such situations with ease before. EGGWE explorers comeequipped. I held out a gift toward the leader. It was a singingmedallion attached to a chain. It was disc-shaped, patterned after alarge silver coin. It made music at the touch of a button. In clear,dainty bell tones it rang out its one tune, Trail of Stars.     As it played I held it up for inspection. I placed it around my ownneck, then offered it to the leader. I thought he was smiling. He wasnot overwhelmed by the magic of this gadget. He saw it for what itwas, a token of friendship. There was a keenness about him that Iliked. Yes, he was smiling. He bent his head forward and allowed me toplace the gift around his neck.     Tomboldo, he said, pointing to himself.     Split and I tried to imitate his breathy accents as we repeated aloud,Tomboldo.     We pointed to ourselves, in turn, and spoke our own names. And then,as the names of the others were pronounced, we tried to memorize eachbreathy sound that was uttered. I was able to remember four or five ofthem. One was Gravgak.     Gravgak's piercing eyes caused me to notice him. Suspicious eyes? I didnot know these people's expressions well enough to be sure.     Gravgak was a guard, tall and muscular, whose arms and legs werepainted with green and black diamond designs.     By motions and words we didn't understand, we inferred that we wereinvited to accompany the party back home, inside the hill, where wewould be safe. I nodded to Campbell. It's our chance to be guests ofTomboldo. Nothing could have pleased us more. For our big purpose—tounderstand the Serpent River—would be forwarded greatly if we couldlearn, through the people, what its meanings were. To analyze theriver's substance, estimate its rate, its weight, its temperature, andto map its course—these facts were only a part of the information wesought. The fuller story would be to learn how the inhabitants of thisplanet regarded it: whether they loved or shunned it, and what legendsthey may have woven around it. All this knowledge would be useful whenfuture expeditions of men from the Earth followed us (through EGGWE)for an extension of peaceful trade relationships.     Tomboldo depended upon the guard Gravgak to make sure that the way wassafe. Gravgak was supposed to keep an eye on the line of floating treesthat had taken flight down the hillside. Danger still lurked there, weknew. And now the siren that had frightened off the attack was silent.Our ship, locked against invaders, could be forgotten. We were guestsof Tomboldo.     Gravgak was our guard, but he didn't work at it. He was too anxious tohear all the talk. In the excitement of our meeting, everyone ignoredthe growing darkness, the lurking dangers. Gravgak confronted us withagitated jabbering:     Wollo—yeeta—vo—vandartch—vandartch! Grr—see—o—see—o—see—o!     See—o—see—o—see—o, one of the others echoed.     It began to make sense. They wanted us to repeat the siren noises. Theenemy had threatened their lives. There could very well have been awholesale slaughter. But as long as we could make the see—o—see—owe were all safe.     Split and I exchanged glances. He touched his hand to the equipmentjacket, to remind me we were armed with something more miraculous thana yowling siren.     See—o—see—o—see—o! Others of Tomboldo's party echoed the demand.They must have seen the sponge-trees again moving toward our path.      See—o—see—o!          Our peaceful march turned into a spasm of terror. The sponge-treescame rushing up the slope, as if borne by a sudden gust of wind. Theybounced over our path, and the war party spilled out of them.     Shouting. A wild swinging of clubs. And no cat-and-mouse tricks. Nodeliberate circling and closing in. An outright attack. Naked bodiesgleaming in the semi-darkness. Arms swinging weapons, choosing thenearest victims. The luminous rocks on the ends of the clubs flashed.Shouting, screeching, hurling their clubs. The whizzing fury filled theair.     I hurled a capsule bomb. It struck at the base of a bouncingsponge-tree, and blew the thing to bits.     The attackers ran back into a huddle, screaming. Then they cameforward, rushing defiantly.     Our muscular guard, Gravgak was too bold. He had picked up one of theirclubs and he ran toward their advance, and to all of Tomboldo's partyit must have appeared that he was bravely rushing to his death. Yetthe gesture of the club he swung so wildly could have been intended asa      warning     ! It could have meant, Run back, you fools, or thesestrange devils will throw fire at you.     I threw fire. And so did my lieutenant. He didn't wait for orders,thank goodness. He knew it was their lives or ours. Zip, zip,zip—BLANG-BLANG-BLANG! The bursts of fire at their feet ripped therocks. The spray caught them and knocked them back. Three or fourwarriors in the fore ranks were torn up in the blasts. Others wereflattened—and those who were able, ran.     They ran, not waiting for the cover of sponge-trees. Not bothering topick up their clubs.     But the operation was not a complete success. We had suffered a seriouscasualty. The guard Gravgak. He had rushed out too far, and the firstblast of fire and rock had knocked him down. Now Tomboldo and others ofthe party hovered over him.     His eyes opened a little. I thought he was staring at me, drilling mewith suspicion. I worked over him with medicines. The crowd around usstood back in an attitude of awe as Split and I applied ready bandages,and held a stimulant to his nostrils that made him breath back toconsciousness.     Suddenly he came to life. Lying there on his back, with the club stillat his fingertips, he swung up on one elbow. The swift motion causeda cry of joy from the crowd. I heard a little of it—and then blackedout. For as the muscular Gravgak moved, his fingers closed over thehandle of the club. It whizzed upward with him—apparently all byaccident. The stone that dangled from the end of the club crashed intomy head.     I went into instant darkness. Darkness, and a long, long silence.  class=chap/>    4.     Vauna, the beautiful daughter of Tomboldo, came into my life during theweeks that I lay unconscious.     I must have talked aloud much during those feverish hours of darkness.     Campbell! I would call out of a nightmare. Campbell, we're about toland. Is everything set? Check the instruments again, Campbell.     S-s-sh! The low hush of Split Campbell's voice would somehowpenetrate my dream.     The voices about me were soft. My dreams echoed the soft female voicesof this new, strange language.     Campbell, are you there?... Have you forgotten the Code, Campbell?     Quiet, Captain.     Who is it that's swabbing my face? I can't see.     It's Vauna. She's smiling at you, Captain. Can't you see her?     Is this the pretty one we saw through the telescope?     One of them.     And what of the other? There were two together. I remember—     Omosla is here too. She's Vauna's attendant. We're all looking afteryou, Captain Linden. Did you know I performed an operation to relievethe pressure on your brain? You must get well, Captain. The words ofCampbell came through insistently.     After a silence that may have lasted for hours or days, I said,Campbell, you haven't forgot the EGGWE Code?     Of course not, Captain.     Section Four?     Section Four, he repeated in a low voice, as if to pacify me and putme to sleep. Conduct of EGGWE agents toward native inhabitants: A, Noagent shall enter into any diplomatic agreement that shall be construedas binding—     I interrupted. Clause D?     He picked it up. D, no agent shall enter into a marriage contract withany native.... H-m-m. You're not trying to warn me, are you, CaptainLinden? Or are you warning      yourself     ?     At that moment my eyes opened a little. Swimming before my blurredvision was the face of Vauna. I did remember her—yes, she must havehaunted my dreams, for now my eyes burned in an effort to define herfeatures more clearly. This was indeed Vauna, who had been one of theparty of twelve, and had walked beside her father in the face of theattack. Deep within my subconscious the image of her beautiful face andfigure had lingered. I murmured a single word of answer to Campbell'squestion. Myself.     In the hours that followed, I came to know the soft footsteps of Vauna.The caverns in which she and her father and all these Benzendellapeople lived were pleasantly warm and fragrant. My misty impressions oftheir life about me were like the first impressions of a child learningabout the world into which he has been born.     Sometimes I would hear Vauna and her attendant Omosla talking together.Often when Campbell would stop in this part of the cavern to inquireabout me, Omosla would drop in also. She and Campbell were learning toconverse in simple words. And Vauna and I—yes. If I could only avoidblacking out.     I wanted to see her.     So often my eyes would refuse to open. A thousand nightmares. Spaceships shooting through meteor swarms. Stars like eyes. Eyes like stars.The eyes of Vauna, the daughter of Tomboldo. The sensitive stroke ofVauna's fingers, brushing my forehead, pressing my hand.     I regained my health gradually.     Are you quite awake? Vauna would ask me in her musical Benzendellawords. You speak better today. Your friend Campbell has brought youmore recordings of our language, so you can learn to speak more. Myfather is eager to talk with you. But you must sleep more. You arestill weak.     It gave me a weird sensation to awaken in the night, trying to adjustmyself to my surroundings. The Benzendellas were sleep-singers. Bynight they murmured mysterious little songs through their sleep.Strange harmonies whispered through the caves.     And if I stirred restlessly, the footsteps of Vauna might come to methrough the darkness. In her sleeping garments she would come to me,faintly visible in the pink light that filtered through from somecorridor. She would whisper melodious Benzendella words and tell me togo back to sleep, and I would drift into the darkness of my endlessdreams.     The day came when I awakened to see both Vauna and her father standingbefore me. Stern old Tomboldo, with his chalk-smooth face and not ahint of an eyebrow or eyelash, rapped his hand against my ribs, shookthe fiber bed lightly, and smiled. From a pocket concealed in hisflowing cape, he drew forth the musical watch, touched the button, andplayed, Trail of Stars.     I have learned to talk, I said.     You have had a long sleep.     I am well again. See, I can almost walk. But as I started to rise,the wave of blackness warned me, and I restrained my ambition. I willwalk soon.     We will have much to talk about. Your friend has pointed to the starsand told me a strange story of your coming. We have walked around theship. He has told me how it rides through the sky. I can hardly makemyself believe. Tomboldo's eyes cast upward under the strong ridge offorehead where the eyebrows should have been. He was evidently tryingto visualize the flight of a space ship. We will have much to telleach other.     I hope so, I said. Campbell and I came to learn about the      serpentriver     . I resorted to my own language for the last two words, notknowing the Benzendella equivalent.      I     made an eel-like motionwith my arm. But they didn't understand. And before I could explain,the footsteps of other Benzendellas approached, and presently I lookedaround to see that quite an audience had gathered. The most prominentfigure of the new group was the big muscular guard of the black andgreen diamond markings—Gravgak.     You get well? Gravgak said to me. His eyes drilled me closely.     I get well, I said.     The blow on the head, he said, was not meant.     I looked at him. Everyone was looking at him, and I knew this was meantto be an occasion of apology. But the light of fire in Vauna's eyestold me that she did not believe. He saw her look, and his own eyesflashed darts of defiance. With an abrupt word to me, he wheeled andstarted off. Get well!     The crowd of men and women made way for him. But in the arched doorwayhe turned. Vauna. I am ready to speak to you alone.     She started. I reached and barely touched her hand. She stopped. Iwill talk with you later, Gravgak.     Now! he shouted. Alone.     He stalked off. A moment later Vauna, after exchanging a word with herfather, excused herself from the crowd and followed Gravgak.     From the way those in the room looked, I knew this must be a dramaticmoment. It was as if she had acknowledged Gravgak as her master—or herlover. He had called for her. She had followed.     But her old father was still the master. He stepped toward the door.Vauna!... Gravgak!... Come back.     (I will always wonder what might have happened if he hadn't calledthem! Was my distrust of Gravgak justified? Had I become merely ajealous lover—or was I right in my hunch that the tall muscular guardwas a potential traitor?)     Vauna reappeared at once. I believe she was glad that she had beencalled back.     Gravgak came sullenly. At the edge of the crowd in the arched doorwayhe stood scowling.     While we are together, old Tomboldo said quietly, looking around atthe assemblage, I must tell you the decision of the council. Soon wewill move back to the other part of the world.     There were low murmurs of approval through the chamber.     We will wait a few days, Tomboldo went on, until our new friend—he pointed to me—is well enough to travel. We would never leave himhere to the mercy of the savage ones. He and his helper came throughthe sky in time to save us from being destroyed. We must never forgetthis kindness. When we ascend the      Kao-Wagwattl     , the ever moving      rope of life     , these friends shall come with us. On the back ofthe Kao-Wagwattl      they shall ride with us across the land     .  class=chap/>","Captain Linden and his lieutenant ""Split"" Campbell make up the first manned expedition from Earth to this particular planet, aiming to investigate a large silver river on its surface. The seemingly-endless silvery strip that traveled the planet's surface was unidentifiable as of yet. They see the river-like thing early on, but Campbell spots a humanoid through his telescope--this being is much like a human man, including the fact that he wore clothing. Captain Linden decides it's time for introductions, as if he senses he can trust this being, but they watch as a female and then many other people join the first man on the surface, seemingly coming out of an underground city. Linden and Campbell think their ship is out of sight, and watch a ritual that the man is performing to the setting sun. The crowd of people continues to increase, and Linden notices that the landscape is moving: trees are shifting in the ground. He and Campbell stay in the ship and observe the various types of clothing and the ritual itself, as well as the moving trees which seemed to be moving to attack the people. They are indeed warriors starting an attack, and started swinging weapons. Linden tells Campbell to start the siren on their ship to scare away the attackers, and the first man they'd seen, presumably the leader, starts towards the ship. Once they are close enough, it is obvious that the humanoids don't have eyebrows or eye lashes. Captain Linden hands the leader a medallion that plays a song, as a token of friendship. Tomboldo, the leader, starts a round of introductions through a lot of gesturing. Linden hopes to learn about the Serpent River through the people to understand its cultural significance, and these people start to ask about the siren noises. The warriors attack again and panic ensues, pushing the humans to use weapons this time. Gravgak, the guard who had been escorting the humans, is knocked down. As Linden tries to tend to him, Gravgak knocks him out with his club. Linden is unconscious for a few weeks, and Vauna, Tomboldo's daughter, spends a lot of time by the Captian's side. Linden reminds Campbell that they weren't allowed to marry anyone from this planet, but mostly in an effort to warn himself to be careful around Vauna. He learns that these people are called the Benzendellas. Tomboldo is baffled by the technology that the humans have, but Linden is not able to communicate his questions about the Serpent River. He sees Gravgak, who apologizes for the accidental injury, but from Vauna's reaction Linden is not sure if he is telling the truth. Gravgak insists on talking to Vauna in private, but Vauna's father calls them back. It is Tomboldo's thanks to the humans that gives a glimpse into the meaning of the Serpent River: he says the humans will ride with them on the rope of life, which they call Kao-Wagwattl."
"Who is Gravgak and what is his importance to the story? </s>  class=chap/>    THE SERPENT RIVER     By Don Wilcox     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Other Worlds May 1957.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]  class=chap/>    The Code was rigid—no fraternization with the     peoples of other planets! Earth wanted no     shotgun weddings of the worlds of space!  class=chap/>    Split Campbell and I brought our ship down to a quiet landing on thesummit of a mile-wide naked rock, and I turned to the telescope for acloser view of the strange thing we had come to see.     It shone, eighteen or twenty miles away, in the light of the lateafternoon sun. It was a long silvery serpent-like      something     thatcrawled slowly over the planet's surface.     There was no way of guessing how large it was, at this distance. Itmight have been a rope rolled into shape out of a mountain—or a chainof mountains. It might have been a river of bluish-gray dough that hadshaped itself into a great cable. Its diameter? If it had been a hollowtube, cities could have flowed through it upright without bending theirskyscrapers. It was, to the eye, an endless rope of cloud oozing alongthe surface of the land. No, not cloud, for it had the compactness ofsolid substance.     We could see it at several points among the low foothills. Even fromthis distance we could guess that it had been moving along its coursefor centuries. Moving like a sluggish snake. It followed a deep-wornpath between the nearer hills and the high jagged mountains on thehorizon.       What was it?       Split Campbell and I had been sent here to learn the answers.Our sponsor was the well known EGGWE (the Earth-Galaxy GoodWill Expeditions.) We were under the EGGWE Code. We were the firstexpedition to this planet, but we had come equipped with two importantpieces of advance information. The Keynes-Roy roving cameras (unmanned)had brought back to the Earth choice items of fact about various partsof the universe. From these photos we knew (1) that man lived on thisplanet, a humanoid closely resembling the humans of the Earth; and(2) that a vast cylindrical rope crawled the surface of this land,continuously, endlessly.     We had intentionally landed at what we guessed would be a safe distancefrom the rope. If it were a living thing, like a serpent, we preferrednot to disturb it. If it gave off heat or poisonous gases or deadlyvibrations, we meant to keep our distance. If, on the other hand, itproved to be some sort of vegetable—a vine of glacier proportions—ora river of some silvery, creamy substance—we would move in upon itgradually, gathering facts as we progressed. I could depend uponSplit to record all observable phenomena with the accuracy ofsplit-hairs.     Split was working at the reports like a drudge at this very moment.     I looked up from the telescope, expecting him to be waiting his turneagerly. I misguessed. He didn't even glance up from his books. Rareyoung Campbell! Always a man of duty, never a man of impulse!     Here Campbell, take a look at the 'rope'.     Before I finish the reports, sir? If I recall our Code, Section Two,Order of Duties upon Landing: A—     Forget the Code. Take a look at the rope while the sun's on it.... Seeit?     Yes sir.     Can you see it's moving? See the little clouds of dust coming up fromunder its belly?     Yes sir. An excellent view, Captain Linden.     What do you think of it, Split? Ever see a sight like that before?     No sir.     Well, what about it? Any comments?     Split answered me with an enthusiastic, By gollies, sir! Then, withrestraint, It's precisely what I expected from the photographs, sir.Any orders, sir?     Relax, Split! That's the order. Relax!     Thanks—thanks, Cap! That was his effort to sound informal, thoughcoming from him it was strained. His training had given him anexaggerated notion of the importance of dignity and discipline.     He was naturally so conscientious it was painful. And to top it all,his scientific habit of thought made him want to stop and weigh hiswords even when speaking of casual things such as how much sugar herequired in his coffee.     Needless to say, I had kidded him unmercifully over these traits.Across the millions of miles of space that we had recently traveled(our first voyage together) I had amused myself at his expense. Ihad sworn that he would find, in time, that he couldn't even trimhis fingernails without calipers, or comb his hair without actuallyphysically splitting the hairs that cropped up in the middle of thepart. That was when I had nicknamed him Split—and the wide ears thatstuck out from his stubble-cut blond hair had glowed with the pink ofselfconsciousness. Plainly, he liked the kidding. But if I thought Icould rescue him from the weight of dignity and duty, I was mistaken.     Now he had turned the telescope for a view far to the right. He paused.     What do you see? I asked.     I cannot say definitely. The exact scientific classification of theobject I am observing would call for more detailed scrutiny—     You're seeing some sort of object?     Yes sir.     What sort of object?     A living creature, sir—upright, wearing clothes—     A      man     ?     To all appearances, sir—     You bounder, give me that telescope!  class=chap/>    2.     If you have explored the weird life of many a planet, as I have, youcan appreciate the deep sense of excitement that comes over me when,looking out at a new world for the first time, I see a man-like animal.     Walking upright!     Wearing adornments in the nature of clothing!     I gazed, and my lungs filled with the breath of wonderment. A man!Across millions of miles of space—a man, like the men of the Earth.     Six times before in my life of exploration I had gazed at new realmswithin the approachable parts of our universe, but never before had theliving creatures borne such wonderful resemblance to the human life ofour Earth.     A man!     He might have been creeping on all fours.     He might have been skulking like a lesser animal.     He might have been entirely naked.     He was none of these—and at the very first moment of viewing him Ifelt a kinship toward him. Oh, he was primitive in appearance—but hadmy ancestors not been the same? Was this not a mirror of my own racea million years or so ago? I sensed that my own stream of life hadsomehow crossed with his in ages gone by. How? Who can ever know? Bywhat faded charts of the movements through the sky will man ever beable to retrace relationships of forms of life among planets?     Get ready to go out and meet him, Campbell, I said. He's a friend.     Split Campbell gave me a look as if to say, Sir, you don't even knowwhat sort of animal he is, actually, much less whether he's friendly ormurderous.     There are some things I can sense on first sight, Campbell. Take myword for it, he's a friend.     I didn't say anything, sir.     Good. Don't. Just get ready.     We're going to go      out     —?     Yes, I said. Orders.     And meet both of them? Split was at the telescope.     Both? I took the instrument from him. Both! Well!     They seem to be coming out of the ground, Split said. I see no signsof habitation, but apparently we've landed on top of an undergroundcity—though I hasten to add that this is only an hypothesis.     One's a male and the other's a female, I said.     Another hypothesis, said Split.     The late evening sunshine gave us a clear view of our two friends.They were fully a mile away. Split was certain they had not seen ourship, and to this conclusion I was in agreement. They had apparentlycome up out of the barren rock hillside to view the sunset. I studiedthem through the telescope while Split checked over equipment for ahike.     The man's walk was unhurried. He moved thoughtfully, one mightguess. His bare chest and legs showed him to be statuesque in mold,cleanly muscled, fine of bone. His skin was almost the color of thecream-colored robe which flowed from his back, whipping lightly inthe breeze. He wore a brilliant red sash about his middle, and thiswas matched by a red headdress that came down over his shoulders as acircular mantle.     The girl stood several yards distant, watching him. This was somesort of ritual, no doubt. He was not concerned with her, but with thesetting sun. Its rays were almost horizontal, knifing through a breakin the distant mountain skyline. He went through some routine motions,his moving arms highlighted by the lemon-colored light of evening.     The girl approached him. Two other persons appeared from somewhere backof her.... Three.... Four.... Five....     Where do they come from? Split had paused in the act of checkingequipment to take his turn at the telescope. If he had not done so, Imight not have made a discovery. The landscape was      moving     .     The long shadows that I had not noticed through the telescope were aprominent part of the picture I saw through the ship's window when Ilooked out across the scene with the naked eye. The shadows were moving.     They were tree shadows. They were moving toward the clearing where thecrowd gathered. And the reason for their movement was that the treesthemselves were moving.     Notice anything? I asked Split.     The crowd is growing. We've certainly landed on top of a city. Hegazed. They're coming from underground.     Looking through the telescope, obviously he didn't catch the view ofthe moving trees.     Notice anything else unusual? I persisted.     Yes. The females—I'm speaking hypothetically—but they      must     befemales—are all wearing puffy white fur ornaments around their elbows.I wonder why?     You haven't noticed the trees?     The females are quite attractive, said Split.     I forgot about the moving trees, then, and took over the telescope.Mobile trees were not new to me. I had seen similar vegetation on otherplanets—sponge-trees—which possessed a sort of muscular quality. Ifthese were similar, they were no doubt feeding along the surface of theslope below the rocky plateau. The people in the clearing beyond paidno attention to them.     I studied the crowd of people. Only the leader wore the brilliant garb.The others were more scantily clothed. All were handsome of build. Thelemon-tinted sunlight glanced off the muscular shoulders of the malesand the soft curves of the females.     Those furry elbow ornaments on the females, I said to Split,they're for protection. The caves they live in must be narrow, sothey pad their elbows.     Why don't they pad their shoulders? They don't have anything on theirshoulders.     Are you complaining?     We became fascinated in watching, from the seclusion of our ship. If wewere to walk out, or make any sounds, we might have interrupted theirmeeting. Here they were in their native ritual of sunset, not knowingthat people from another world watched. The tall leader must be makinga speech. They sat around him in little huddles. He moved his arms incalm, graceful gestures.     They'd better break it up! Split said suddenly. The jungles aremoving in on them.     They're spellbound, I said. They're used to sponge-trees. Didn't youever see moving trees?     Split said sharply, Those trees are marching! They're an army undercover. Look!     I saw, then. The whole line of advancing vegetation was camouflage fora sneak attack. And all those natives sitting around in meeting were asinnocent as a flock of sitting ducks. Split Campbell's voice was edgedwith alarm. Captain! Those worshippers—how can we warn them? Oh-oh!Too late. Look!     All at once the advancing sponge-trees were tossed back over the headsof the savage band concealed within. They were warriors—fifty or moreof them—with painted naked bodies. They dashed forward in a widesemicircle, swinging crude weapons, bent on slaughter.  class=chap/>    3.     They were waving short clubs or whips with stones tied to the ends.They charged up the slope, about sixty yards, swinging their weirdclubs with a threat of death.     Wild disorder suddenly struck the audience. Campbell and I believed wewere about to witness a massacre.     Captain—      Jim     ! You're not going to let this happen!     Our sympathies had gone to the first groups, the peaceable ones. I hadthe same impulse as Campbell—to do something—anything! Yet here wesat in our ship, more than half a mile from our thirty-five or fortyfriends in danger.     Our friends were panicked. But they didn't take flight. They didn'tduck for the holes in the rocky hilltop. Instead, they rallied andpacked themselves around their tall leader. They stood, a defiant wall.     Can we shoot a ray, Jim?     I didn't answer. Later I would recall that Split      could     drop hisdignity under excitement—his Captain Linden and sir. Just now hewanted any sort of split-second order.     We saw the naked warriors run out in a wide circle. They spun andweaved, they twirled their deadly clubs, they danced grotesquely. Theywere closing in. Closer and closer. It was all their party.     Jim, can we shoot?     Hit number sixteen, Campbell.     Split touched the number sixteen signal.     The ship's siren wailed out over the land.     You could tell when the sound struck them. The circle of savage onessuddenly fell apart. The dancing broke into the wildest contortions youever saw. As if they'd been spanked by a wave of electricity. The sirenscream must have sounded like an animal cry from an unknown world. Theattackers ran for the sponge-trees. The rootless jungle came to life.It jerked and jumped spasmodically down the slope. And our siren keptright on singing.     Ready for that hike, Campbell? Give me my equipment coat. I gotinto it. I looked back to the telescope. The tall man of the partyhad behaved with exceptional calmness. He had turned to stare in ourdirection from the instant the siren sounded. He could no doubt makeout the lines of our silvery ship in the shadows. Slowly, deliberately,he marched over the hilltop toward us.     Most of his party now scampered back to the safety of their hidingplaces in the ground. But a few—the brave ones, perhaps, or theofficials of his group—came with him.     He needs a stronger guard than that, Campbell grumbled.     Sixteen was still wailing. Set it for ten minutes and come on, Isaid. Together we descended from the ship.     We took into our nostrils the tangy air, breathing fiercely, at first.We slogged along over the rock surface feeling our weight to beone-and-a-third times normal. We glanced down the slope apprehensively.We didn't want any footraces. The trees, however, were stillretreating. Our siren would sing on for another eight minutes. Andin case of further danger, we were equipped with the standard pocketarsenal of special purpose capsule bombs.     Soon we came face to face with the tall, stately old leader in thecream-and-red cloak.     Split and I stood together, close enough to exchange comments againstthe siren's wail. Fine looking people, we observed. Smooth faces.Like the features of Earth men. These creatures could walk downany main street back home. With a bit of makeup they would pass.Notice, Captain, they have strange looking eyes. Very smooth.It's because they have no eyebrows ... no eye lashes. Verysmooth—handsome—attractive.     Then the siren went off.     The leader stood before me, apparently unafraid. He seemed to bewaiting for me to explain my presence. His group of twelve gathered inclose.     I had met such situations with ease before. EGGWE explorers comeequipped. I held out a gift toward the leader. It was a singingmedallion attached to a chain. It was disc-shaped, patterned after alarge silver coin. It made music at the touch of a button. In clear,dainty bell tones it rang out its one tune, Trail of Stars.     As it played I held it up for inspection. I placed it around my ownneck, then offered it to the leader. I thought he was smiling. He wasnot overwhelmed by the magic of this gadget. He saw it for what itwas, a token of friendship. There was a keenness about him that Iliked. Yes, he was smiling. He bent his head forward and allowed me toplace the gift around his neck.     Tomboldo, he said, pointing to himself.     Split and I tried to imitate his breathy accents as we repeated aloud,Tomboldo.     We pointed to ourselves, in turn, and spoke our own names. And then,as the names of the others were pronounced, we tried to memorize eachbreathy sound that was uttered. I was able to remember four or five ofthem. One was Gravgak.     Gravgak's piercing eyes caused me to notice him. Suspicious eyes? I didnot know these people's expressions well enough to be sure.     Gravgak was a guard, tall and muscular, whose arms and legs werepainted with green and black diamond designs.     By motions and words we didn't understand, we inferred that we wereinvited to accompany the party back home, inside the hill, where wewould be safe. I nodded to Campbell. It's our chance to be guests ofTomboldo. Nothing could have pleased us more. For our big purpose—tounderstand the Serpent River—would be forwarded greatly if we couldlearn, through the people, what its meanings were. To analyze theriver's substance, estimate its rate, its weight, its temperature, andto map its course—these facts were only a part of the information wesought. The fuller story would be to learn how the inhabitants of thisplanet regarded it: whether they loved or shunned it, and what legendsthey may have woven around it. All this knowledge would be useful whenfuture expeditions of men from the Earth followed us (through EGGWE)for an extension of peaceful trade relationships.     Tomboldo depended upon the guard Gravgak to make sure that the way wassafe. Gravgak was supposed to keep an eye on the line of floating treesthat had taken flight down the hillside. Danger still lurked there, weknew. And now the siren that had frightened off the attack was silent.Our ship, locked against invaders, could be forgotten. We were guestsof Tomboldo.     Gravgak was our guard, but he didn't work at it. He was too anxious tohear all the talk. In the excitement of our meeting, everyone ignoredthe growing darkness, the lurking dangers. Gravgak confronted us withagitated jabbering:     Wollo—yeeta—vo—vandartch—vandartch! Grr—see—o—see—o—see—o!     See—o—see—o—see—o, one of the others echoed.     It began to make sense. They wanted us to repeat the siren noises. Theenemy had threatened their lives. There could very well have been awholesale slaughter. But as long as we could make the see—o—see—owe were all safe.     Split and I exchanged glances. He touched his hand to the equipmentjacket, to remind me we were armed with something more miraculous thana yowling siren.     See—o—see—o—see—o! Others of Tomboldo's party echoed the demand.They must have seen the sponge-trees again moving toward our path.      See—o—see—o!          Our peaceful march turned into a spasm of terror. The sponge-treescame rushing up the slope, as if borne by a sudden gust of wind. Theybounced over our path, and the war party spilled out of them.     Shouting. A wild swinging of clubs. And no cat-and-mouse tricks. Nodeliberate circling and closing in. An outright attack. Naked bodiesgleaming in the semi-darkness. Arms swinging weapons, choosing thenearest victims. The luminous rocks on the ends of the clubs flashed.Shouting, screeching, hurling their clubs. The whizzing fury filled theair.     I hurled a capsule bomb. It struck at the base of a bouncingsponge-tree, and blew the thing to bits.     The attackers ran back into a huddle, screaming. Then they cameforward, rushing defiantly.     Our muscular guard, Gravgak was too bold. He had picked up one of theirclubs and he ran toward their advance, and to all of Tomboldo's partyit must have appeared that he was bravely rushing to his death. Yetthe gesture of the club he swung so wildly could have been intended asa      warning     ! It could have meant, Run back, you fools, or thesestrange devils will throw fire at you.     I threw fire. And so did my lieutenant. He didn't wait for orders,thank goodness. He knew it was their lives or ours. Zip, zip,zip—BLANG-BLANG-BLANG! The bursts of fire at their feet ripped therocks. The spray caught them and knocked them back. Three or fourwarriors in the fore ranks were torn up in the blasts. Others wereflattened—and those who were able, ran.     They ran, not waiting for the cover of sponge-trees. Not bothering topick up their clubs.     But the operation was not a complete success. We had suffered a seriouscasualty. The guard Gravgak. He had rushed out too far, and the firstblast of fire and rock had knocked him down. Now Tomboldo and others ofthe party hovered over him.     His eyes opened a little. I thought he was staring at me, drilling mewith suspicion. I worked over him with medicines. The crowd around usstood back in an attitude of awe as Split and I applied ready bandages,and held a stimulant to his nostrils that made him breath back toconsciousness.     Suddenly he came to life. Lying there on his back, with the club stillat his fingertips, he swung up on one elbow. The swift motion causeda cry of joy from the crowd. I heard a little of it—and then blackedout. For as the muscular Gravgak moved, his fingers closed over thehandle of the club. It whizzed upward with him—apparently all byaccident. The stone that dangled from the end of the club crashed intomy head.     I went into instant darkness. Darkness, and a long, long silence.  class=chap/>    4.     Vauna, the beautiful daughter of Tomboldo, came into my life during theweeks that I lay unconscious.     I must have talked aloud much during those feverish hours of darkness.     Campbell! I would call out of a nightmare. Campbell, we're about toland. Is everything set? Check the instruments again, Campbell.     S-s-sh! The low hush of Split Campbell's voice would somehowpenetrate my dream.     The voices about me were soft. My dreams echoed the soft female voicesof this new, strange language.     Campbell, are you there?... Have you forgotten the Code, Campbell?     Quiet, Captain.     Who is it that's swabbing my face? I can't see.     It's Vauna. She's smiling at you, Captain. Can't you see her?     Is this the pretty one we saw through the telescope?     One of them.     And what of the other? There were two together. I remember—     Omosla is here too. She's Vauna's attendant. We're all looking afteryou, Captain Linden. Did you know I performed an operation to relievethe pressure on your brain? You must get well, Captain. The words ofCampbell came through insistently.     After a silence that may have lasted for hours or days, I said,Campbell, you haven't forgot the EGGWE Code?     Of course not, Captain.     Section Four?     Section Four, he repeated in a low voice, as if to pacify me and putme to sleep. Conduct of EGGWE agents toward native inhabitants: A, Noagent shall enter into any diplomatic agreement that shall be construedas binding—     I interrupted. Clause D?     He picked it up. D, no agent shall enter into a marriage contract withany native.... H-m-m. You're not trying to warn me, are you, CaptainLinden? Or are you warning      yourself     ?     At that moment my eyes opened a little. Swimming before my blurredvision was the face of Vauna. I did remember her—yes, she must havehaunted my dreams, for now my eyes burned in an effort to define herfeatures more clearly. This was indeed Vauna, who had been one of theparty of twelve, and had walked beside her father in the face of theattack. Deep within my subconscious the image of her beautiful face andfigure had lingered. I murmured a single word of answer to Campbell'squestion. Myself.     In the hours that followed, I came to know the soft footsteps of Vauna.The caverns in which she and her father and all these Benzendellapeople lived were pleasantly warm and fragrant. My misty impressions oftheir life about me were like the first impressions of a child learningabout the world into which he has been born.     Sometimes I would hear Vauna and her attendant Omosla talking together.Often when Campbell would stop in this part of the cavern to inquireabout me, Omosla would drop in also. She and Campbell were learning toconverse in simple words. And Vauna and I—yes. If I could only avoidblacking out.     I wanted to see her.     So often my eyes would refuse to open. A thousand nightmares. Spaceships shooting through meteor swarms. Stars like eyes. Eyes like stars.The eyes of Vauna, the daughter of Tomboldo. The sensitive stroke ofVauna's fingers, brushing my forehead, pressing my hand.     I regained my health gradually.     Are you quite awake? Vauna would ask me in her musical Benzendellawords. You speak better today. Your friend Campbell has brought youmore recordings of our language, so you can learn to speak more. Myfather is eager to talk with you. But you must sleep more. You arestill weak.     It gave me a weird sensation to awaken in the night, trying to adjustmyself to my surroundings. The Benzendellas were sleep-singers. Bynight they murmured mysterious little songs through their sleep.Strange harmonies whispered through the caves.     And if I stirred restlessly, the footsteps of Vauna might come to methrough the darkness. In her sleeping garments she would come to me,faintly visible in the pink light that filtered through from somecorridor. She would whisper melodious Benzendella words and tell me togo back to sleep, and I would drift into the darkness of my endlessdreams.     The day came when I awakened to see both Vauna and her father standingbefore me. Stern old Tomboldo, with his chalk-smooth face and not ahint of an eyebrow or eyelash, rapped his hand against my ribs, shookthe fiber bed lightly, and smiled. From a pocket concealed in hisflowing cape, he drew forth the musical watch, touched the button, andplayed, Trail of Stars.     I have learned to talk, I said.     You have had a long sleep.     I am well again. See, I can almost walk. But as I started to rise,the wave of blackness warned me, and I restrained my ambition. I willwalk soon.     We will have much to talk about. Your friend has pointed to the starsand told me a strange story of your coming. We have walked around theship. He has told me how it rides through the sky. I can hardly makemyself believe. Tomboldo's eyes cast upward under the strong ridge offorehead where the eyebrows should have been. He was evidently tryingto visualize the flight of a space ship. We will have much to telleach other.     I hope so, I said. Campbell and I came to learn about the      serpentriver     . I resorted to my own language for the last two words, notknowing the Benzendella equivalent.      I     made an eel-like motionwith my arm. But they didn't understand. And before I could explain,the footsteps of other Benzendellas approached, and presently I lookedaround to see that quite an audience had gathered. The most prominentfigure of the new group was the big muscular guard of the black andgreen diamond markings—Gravgak.     You get well? Gravgak said to me. His eyes drilled me closely.     I get well, I said.     The blow on the head, he said, was not meant.     I looked at him. Everyone was looking at him, and I knew this was meantto be an occasion of apology. But the light of fire in Vauna's eyestold me that she did not believe. He saw her look, and his own eyesflashed darts of defiance. With an abrupt word to me, he wheeled andstarted off. Get well!     The crowd of men and women made way for him. But in the arched doorwayhe turned. Vauna. I am ready to speak to you alone.     She started. I reached and barely touched her hand. She stopped. Iwill talk with you later, Gravgak.     Now! he shouted. Alone.     He stalked off. A moment later Vauna, after exchanging a word with herfather, excused herself from the crowd and followed Gravgak.     From the way those in the room looked, I knew this must be a dramaticmoment. It was as if she had acknowledged Gravgak as her master—or herlover. He had called for her. She had followed.     But her old father was still the master. He stepped toward the door.Vauna!... Gravgak!... Come back.     (I will always wonder what might have happened if he hadn't calledthem! Was my distrust of Gravgak justified? Had I become merely ajealous lover—or was I right in my hunch that the tall muscular guardwas a potential traitor?)     Vauna reappeared at once. I believe she was glad that she had beencalled back.     Gravgak came sullenly. At the edge of the crowd in the arched doorwayhe stood scowling.     While we are together, old Tomboldo said quietly, looking around atthe assemblage, I must tell you the decision of the council. Soon wewill move back to the other part of the world.     There were low murmurs of approval through the chamber.     We will wait a few days, Tomboldo went on, until our new friend—he pointed to me—is well enough to travel. We would never leave himhere to the mercy of the savage ones. He and his helper came throughthe sky in time to save us from being destroyed. We must never forgetthis kindness. When we ascend the      Kao-Wagwattl     , the ever moving      rope of life     , these friends shall come with us. On the back ofthe Kao-Wagwattl      they shall ride with us across the land     .  class=chap/>","Gravgak is a guard who serves under Tomboldo, the leader of the Benzendella people, and escorts the humans after they meet. He is tall and muscular, with piercing eyes, and his limbs are painted with diamonds in green and black. He is knocked down during the second attack, and when Linden tries to tend to him, Gravgak knocks him out with his club. After Linden comes to a few weeks later, Gravgak apologizes for accidentally knocking him out, but it's not clear if he is being sincere about it being an accident. Linden's suspicions primarily come from Vauna's reaction, but Gravgak seems to hold some power over Vauna and Linden is not able to learn what Gravgak's true intentions are. "
"What is the significance of the siren? </s>  class=chap/>    THE SERPENT RIVER     By Don Wilcox     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Other Worlds May 1957.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]  class=chap/>    The Code was rigid—no fraternization with the     peoples of other planets! Earth wanted no     shotgun weddings of the worlds of space!  class=chap/>    Split Campbell and I brought our ship down to a quiet landing on thesummit of a mile-wide naked rock, and I turned to the telescope for acloser view of the strange thing we had come to see.     It shone, eighteen or twenty miles away, in the light of the lateafternoon sun. It was a long silvery serpent-like      something     thatcrawled slowly over the planet's surface.     There was no way of guessing how large it was, at this distance. Itmight have been a rope rolled into shape out of a mountain—or a chainof mountains. It might have been a river of bluish-gray dough that hadshaped itself into a great cable. Its diameter? If it had been a hollowtube, cities could have flowed through it upright without bending theirskyscrapers. It was, to the eye, an endless rope of cloud oozing alongthe surface of the land. No, not cloud, for it had the compactness ofsolid substance.     We could see it at several points among the low foothills. Even fromthis distance we could guess that it had been moving along its coursefor centuries. Moving like a sluggish snake. It followed a deep-wornpath between the nearer hills and the high jagged mountains on thehorizon.       What was it?       Split Campbell and I had been sent here to learn the answers.Our sponsor was the well known EGGWE (the Earth-Galaxy GoodWill Expeditions.) We were under the EGGWE Code. We were the firstexpedition to this planet, but we had come equipped with two importantpieces of advance information. The Keynes-Roy roving cameras (unmanned)had brought back to the Earth choice items of fact about various partsof the universe. From these photos we knew (1) that man lived on thisplanet, a humanoid closely resembling the humans of the Earth; and(2) that a vast cylindrical rope crawled the surface of this land,continuously, endlessly.     We had intentionally landed at what we guessed would be a safe distancefrom the rope. If it were a living thing, like a serpent, we preferrednot to disturb it. If it gave off heat or poisonous gases or deadlyvibrations, we meant to keep our distance. If, on the other hand, itproved to be some sort of vegetable—a vine of glacier proportions—ora river of some silvery, creamy substance—we would move in upon itgradually, gathering facts as we progressed. I could depend uponSplit to record all observable phenomena with the accuracy ofsplit-hairs.     Split was working at the reports like a drudge at this very moment.     I looked up from the telescope, expecting him to be waiting his turneagerly. I misguessed. He didn't even glance up from his books. Rareyoung Campbell! Always a man of duty, never a man of impulse!     Here Campbell, take a look at the 'rope'.     Before I finish the reports, sir? If I recall our Code, Section Two,Order of Duties upon Landing: A—     Forget the Code. Take a look at the rope while the sun's on it.... Seeit?     Yes sir.     Can you see it's moving? See the little clouds of dust coming up fromunder its belly?     Yes sir. An excellent view, Captain Linden.     What do you think of it, Split? Ever see a sight like that before?     No sir.     Well, what about it? Any comments?     Split answered me with an enthusiastic, By gollies, sir! Then, withrestraint, It's precisely what I expected from the photographs, sir.Any orders, sir?     Relax, Split! That's the order. Relax!     Thanks—thanks, Cap! That was his effort to sound informal, thoughcoming from him it was strained. His training had given him anexaggerated notion of the importance of dignity and discipline.     He was naturally so conscientious it was painful. And to top it all,his scientific habit of thought made him want to stop and weigh hiswords even when speaking of casual things such as how much sugar herequired in his coffee.     Needless to say, I had kidded him unmercifully over these traits.Across the millions of miles of space that we had recently traveled(our first voyage together) I had amused myself at his expense. Ihad sworn that he would find, in time, that he couldn't even trimhis fingernails without calipers, or comb his hair without actuallyphysically splitting the hairs that cropped up in the middle of thepart. That was when I had nicknamed him Split—and the wide ears thatstuck out from his stubble-cut blond hair had glowed with the pink ofselfconsciousness. Plainly, he liked the kidding. But if I thought Icould rescue him from the weight of dignity and duty, I was mistaken.     Now he had turned the telescope for a view far to the right. He paused.     What do you see? I asked.     I cannot say definitely. The exact scientific classification of theobject I am observing would call for more detailed scrutiny—     You're seeing some sort of object?     Yes sir.     What sort of object?     A living creature, sir—upright, wearing clothes—     A      man     ?     To all appearances, sir—     You bounder, give me that telescope!  class=chap/>    2.     If you have explored the weird life of many a planet, as I have, youcan appreciate the deep sense of excitement that comes over me when,looking out at a new world for the first time, I see a man-like animal.     Walking upright!     Wearing adornments in the nature of clothing!     I gazed, and my lungs filled with the breath of wonderment. A man!Across millions of miles of space—a man, like the men of the Earth.     Six times before in my life of exploration I had gazed at new realmswithin the approachable parts of our universe, but never before had theliving creatures borne such wonderful resemblance to the human life ofour Earth.     A man!     He might have been creeping on all fours.     He might have been skulking like a lesser animal.     He might have been entirely naked.     He was none of these—and at the very first moment of viewing him Ifelt a kinship toward him. Oh, he was primitive in appearance—but hadmy ancestors not been the same? Was this not a mirror of my own racea million years or so ago? I sensed that my own stream of life hadsomehow crossed with his in ages gone by. How? Who can ever know? Bywhat faded charts of the movements through the sky will man ever beable to retrace relationships of forms of life among planets?     Get ready to go out and meet him, Campbell, I said. He's a friend.     Split Campbell gave me a look as if to say, Sir, you don't even knowwhat sort of animal he is, actually, much less whether he's friendly ormurderous.     There are some things I can sense on first sight, Campbell. Take myword for it, he's a friend.     I didn't say anything, sir.     Good. Don't. Just get ready.     We're going to go      out     —?     Yes, I said. Orders.     And meet both of them? Split was at the telescope.     Both? I took the instrument from him. Both! Well!     They seem to be coming out of the ground, Split said. I see no signsof habitation, but apparently we've landed on top of an undergroundcity—though I hasten to add that this is only an hypothesis.     One's a male and the other's a female, I said.     Another hypothesis, said Split.     The late evening sunshine gave us a clear view of our two friends.They were fully a mile away. Split was certain they had not seen ourship, and to this conclusion I was in agreement. They had apparentlycome up out of the barren rock hillside to view the sunset. I studiedthem through the telescope while Split checked over equipment for ahike.     The man's walk was unhurried. He moved thoughtfully, one mightguess. His bare chest and legs showed him to be statuesque in mold,cleanly muscled, fine of bone. His skin was almost the color of thecream-colored robe which flowed from his back, whipping lightly inthe breeze. He wore a brilliant red sash about his middle, and thiswas matched by a red headdress that came down over his shoulders as acircular mantle.     The girl stood several yards distant, watching him. This was somesort of ritual, no doubt. He was not concerned with her, but with thesetting sun. Its rays were almost horizontal, knifing through a breakin the distant mountain skyline. He went through some routine motions,his moving arms highlighted by the lemon-colored light of evening.     The girl approached him. Two other persons appeared from somewhere backof her.... Three.... Four.... Five....     Where do they come from? Split had paused in the act of checkingequipment to take his turn at the telescope. If he had not done so, Imight not have made a discovery. The landscape was      moving     .     The long shadows that I had not noticed through the telescope were aprominent part of the picture I saw through the ship's window when Ilooked out across the scene with the naked eye. The shadows were moving.     They were tree shadows. They were moving toward the clearing where thecrowd gathered. And the reason for their movement was that the treesthemselves were moving.     Notice anything? I asked Split.     The crowd is growing. We've certainly landed on top of a city. Hegazed. They're coming from underground.     Looking through the telescope, obviously he didn't catch the view ofthe moving trees.     Notice anything else unusual? I persisted.     Yes. The females—I'm speaking hypothetically—but they      must     befemales—are all wearing puffy white fur ornaments around their elbows.I wonder why?     You haven't noticed the trees?     The females are quite attractive, said Split.     I forgot about the moving trees, then, and took over the telescope.Mobile trees were not new to me. I had seen similar vegetation on otherplanets—sponge-trees—which possessed a sort of muscular quality. Ifthese were similar, they were no doubt feeding along the surface of theslope below the rocky plateau. The people in the clearing beyond paidno attention to them.     I studied the crowd of people. Only the leader wore the brilliant garb.The others were more scantily clothed. All were handsome of build. Thelemon-tinted sunlight glanced off the muscular shoulders of the malesand the soft curves of the females.     Those furry elbow ornaments on the females, I said to Split,they're for protection. The caves they live in must be narrow, sothey pad their elbows.     Why don't they pad their shoulders? They don't have anything on theirshoulders.     Are you complaining?     We became fascinated in watching, from the seclusion of our ship. If wewere to walk out, or make any sounds, we might have interrupted theirmeeting. Here they were in their native ritual of sunset, not knowingthat people from another world watched. The tall leader must be makinga speech. They sat around him in little huddles. He moved his arms incalm, graceful gestures.     They'd better break it up! Split said suddenly. The jungles aremoving in on them.     They're spellbound, I said. They're used to sponge-trees. Didn't youever see moving trees?     Split said sharply, Those trees are marching! They're an army undercover. Look!     I saw, then. The whole line of advancing vegetation was camouflage fora sneak attack. And all those natives sitting around in meeting were asinnocent as a flock of sitting ducks. Split Campbell's voice was edgedwith alarm. Captain! Those worshippers—how can we warn them? Oh-oh!Too late. Look!     All at once the advancing sponge-trees were tossed back over the headsof the savage band concealed within. They were warriors—fifty or moreof them—with painted naked bodies. They dashed forward in a widesemicircle, swinging crude weapons, bent on slaughter.  class=chap/>    3.     They were waving short clubs or whips with stones tied to the ends.They charged up the slope, about sixty yards, swinging their weirdclubs with a threat of death.     Wild disorder suddenly struck the audience. Campbell and I believed wewere about to witness a massacre.     Captain—      Jim     ! You're not going to let this happen!     Our sympathies had gone to the first groups, the peaceable ones. I hadthe same impulse as Campbell—to do something—anything! Yet here wesat in our ship, more than half a mile from our thirty-five or fortyfriends in danger.     Our friends were panicked. But they didn't take flight. They didn'tduck for the holes in the rocky hilltop. Instead, they rallied andpacked themselves around their tall leader. They stood, a defiant wall.     Can we shoot a ray, Jim?     I didn't answer. Later I would recall that Split      could     drop hisdignity under excitement—his Captain Linden and sir. Just now hewanted any sort of split-second order.     We saw the naked warriors run out in a wide circle. They spun andweaved, they twirled their deadly clubs, they danced grotesquely. Theywere closing in. Closer and closer. It was all their party.     Jim, can we shoot?     Hit number sixteen, Campbell.     Split touched the number sixteen signal.     The ship's siren wailed out over the land.     You could tell when the sound struck them. The circle of savage onessuddenly fell apart. The dancing broke into the wildest contortions youever saw. As if they'd been spanked by a wave of electricity. The sirenscream must have sounded like an animal cry from an unknown world. Theattackers ran for the sponge-trees. The rootless jungle came to life.It jerked and jumped spasmodically down the slope. And our siren keptright on singing.     Ready for that hike, Campbell? Give me my equipment coat. I gotinto it. I looked back to the telescope. The tall man of the partyhad behaved with exceptional calmness. He had turned to stare in ourdirection from the instant the siren sounded. He could no doubt makeout the lines of our silvery ship in the shadows. Slowly, deliberately,he marched over the hilltop toward us.     Most of his party now scampered back to the safety of their hidingplaces in the ground. But a few—the brave ones, perhaps, or theofficials of his group—came with him.     He needs a stronger guard than that, Campbell grumbled.     Sixteen was still wailing. Set it for ten minutes and come on, Isaid. Together we descended from the ship.     We took into our nostrils the tangy air, breathing fiercely, at first.We slogged along over the rock surface feeling our weight to beone-and-a-third times normal. We glanced down the slope apprehensively.We didn't want any footraces. The trees, however, were stillretreating. Our siren would sing on for another eight minutes. Andin case of further danger, we were equipped with the standard pocketarsenal of special purpose capsule bombs.     Soon we came face to face with the tall, stately old leader in thecream-and-red cloak.     Split and I stood together, close enough to exchange comments againstthe siren's wail. Fine looking people, we observed. Smooth faces.Like the features of Earth men. These creatures could walk downany main street back home. With a bit of makeup they would pass.Notice, Captain, they have strange looking eyes. Very smooth.It's because they have no eyebrows ... no eye lashes. Verysmooth—handsome—attractive.     Then the siren went off.     The leader stood before me, apparently unafraid. He seemed to bewaiting for me to explain my presence. His group of twelve gathered inclose.     I had met such situations with ease before. EGGWE explorers comeequipped. I held out a gift toward the leader. It was a singingmedallion attached to a chain. It was disc-shaped, patterned after alarge silver coin. It made music at the touch of a button. In clear,dainty bell tones it rang out its one tune, Trail of Stars.     As it played I held it up for inspection. I placed it around my ownneck, then offered it to the leader. I thought he was smiling. He wasnot overwhelmed by the magic of this gadget. He saw it for what itwas, a token of friendship. There was a keenness about him that Iliked. Yes, he was smiling. He bent his head forward and allowed me toplace the gift around his neck.     Tomboldo, he said, pointing to himself.     Split and I tried to imitate his breathy accents as we repeated aloud,Tomboldo.     We pointed to ourselves, in turn, and spoke our own names. And then,as the names of the others were pronounced, we tried to memorize eachbreathy sound that was uttered. I was able to remember four or five ofthem. One was Gravgak.     Gravgak's piercing eyes caused me to notice him. Suspicious eyes? I didnot know these people's expressions well enough to be sure.     Gravgak was a guard, tall and muscular, whose arms and legs werepainted with green and black diamond designs.     By motions and words we didn't understand, we inferred that we wereinvited to accompany the party back home, inside the hill, where wewould be safe. I nodded to Campbell. It's our chance to be guests ofTomboldo. Nothing could have pleased us more. For our big purpose—tounderstand the Serpent River—would be forwarded greatly if we couldlearn, through the people, what its meanings were. To analyze theriver's substance, estimate its rate, its weight, its temperature, andto map its course—these facts were only a part of the information wesought. The fuller story would be to learn how the inhabitants of thisplanet regarded it: whether they loved or shunned it, and what legendsthey may have woven around it. All this knowledge would be useful whenfuture expeditions of men from the Earth followed us (through EGGWE)for an extension of peaceful trade relationships.     Tomboldo depended upon the guard Gravgak to make sure that the way wassafe. Gravgak was supposed to keep an eye on the line of floating treesthat had taken flight down the hillside. Danger still lurked there, weknew. And now the siren that had frightened off the attack was silent.Our ship, locked against invaders, could be forgotten. We were guestsof Tomboldo.     Gravgak was our guard, but he didn't work at it. He was too anxious tohear all the talk. In the excitement of our meeting, everyone ignoredthe growing darkness, the lurking dangers. Gravgak confronted us withagitated jabbering:     Wollo—yeeta—vo—vandartch—vandartch! Grr—see—o—see—o—see—o!     See—o—see—o—see—o, one of the others echoed.     It began to make sense. They wanted us to repeat the siren noises. Theenemy had threatened their lives. There could very well have been awholesale slaughter. But as long as we could make the see—o—see—owe were all safe.     Split and I exchanged glances. He touched his hand to the equipmentjacket, to remind me we were armed with something more miraculous thana yowling siren.     See—o—see—o—see—o! Others of Tomboldo's party echoed the demand.They must have seen the sponge-trees again moving toward our path.      See—o—see—o!          Our peaceful march turned into a spasm of terror. The sponge-treescame rushing up the slope, as if borne by a sudden gust of wind. Theybounced over our path, and the war party spilled out of them.     Shouting. A wild swinging of clubs. And no cat-and-mouse tricks. Nodeliberate circling and closing in. An outright attack. Naked bodiesgleaming in the semi-darkness. Arms swinging weapons, choosing thenearest victims. The luminous rocks on the ends of the clubs flashed.Shouting, screeching, hurling their clubs. The whizzing fury filled theair.     I hurled a capsule bomb. It struck at the base of a bouncingsponge-tree, and blew the thing to bits.     The attackers ran back into a huddle, screaming. Then they cameforward, rushing defiantly.     Our muscular guard, Gravgak was too bold. He had picked up one of theirclubs and he ran toward their advance, and to all of Tomboldo's partyit must have appeared that he was bravely rushing to his death. Yetthe gesture of the club he swung so wildly could have been intended asa      warning     ! It could have meant, Run back, you fools, or thesestrange devils will throw fire at you.     I threw fire. And so did my lieutenant. He didn't wait for orders,thank goodness. He knew it was their lives or ours. Zip, zip,zip—BLANG-BLANG-BLANG! The bursts of fire at their feet ripped therocks. The spray caught them and knocked them back. Three or fourwarriors in the fore ranks were torn up in the blasts. Others wereflattened—and those who were able, ran.     They ran, not waiting for the cover of sponge-trees. Not bothering topick up their clubs.     But the operation was not a complete success. We had suffered a seriouscasualty. The guard Gravgak. He had rushed out too far, and the firstblast of fire and rock had knocked him down. Now Tomboldo and others ofthe party hovered over him.     His eyes opened a little. I thought he was staring at me, drilling mewith suspicion. I worked over him with medicines. The crowd around usstood back in an attitude of awe as Split and I applied ready bandages,and held a stimulant to his nostrils that made him breath back toconsciousness.     Suddenly he came to life. Lying there on his back, with the club stillat his fingertips, he swung up on one elbow. The swift motion causeda cry of joy from the crowd. I heard a little of it—and then blackedout. For as the muscular Gravgak moved, his fingers closed over thehandle of the club. It whizzed upward with him—apparently all byaccident. The stone that dangled from the end of the club crashed intomy head.     I went into instant darkness. Darkness, and a long, long silence.  class=chap/>    4.     Vauna, the beautiful daughter of Tomboldo, came into my life during theweeks that I lay unconscious.     I must have talked aloud much during those feverish hours of darkness.     Campbell! I would call out of a nightmare. Campbell, we're about toland. Is everything set? Check the instruments again, Campbell.     S-s-sh! The low hush of Split Campbell's voice would somehowpenetrate my dream.     The voices about me were soft. My dreams echoed the soft female voicesof this new, strange language.     Campbell, are you there?... Have you forgotten the Code, Campbell?     Quiet, Captain.     Who is it that's swabbing my face? I can't see.     It's Vauna. She's smiling at you, Captain. Can't you see her?     Is this the pretty one we saw through the telescope?     One of them.     And what of the other? There were two together. I remember—     Omosla is here too. She's Vauna's attendant. We're all looking afteryou, Captain Linden. Did you know I performed an operation to relievethe pressure on your brain? You must get well, Captain. The words ofCampbell came through insistently.     After a silence that may have lasted for hours or days, I said,Campbell, you haven't forgot the EGGWE Code?     Of course not, Captain.     Section Four?     Section Four, he repeated in a low voice, as if to pacify me and putme to sleep. Conduct of EGGWE agents toward native inhabitants: A, Noagent shall enter into any diplomatic agreement that shall be construedas binding—     I interrupted. Clause D?     He picked it up. D, no agent shall enter into a marriage contract withany native.... H-m-m. You're not trying to warn me, are you, CaptainLinden? Or are you warning      yourself     ?     At that moment my eyes opened a little. Swimming before my blurredvision was the face of Vauna. I did remember her—yes, she must havehaunted my dreams, for now my eyes burned in an effort to define herfeatures more clearly. This was indeed Vauna, who had been one of theparty of twelve, and had walked beside her father in the face of theattack. Deep within my subconscious the image of her beautiful face andfigure had lingered. I murmured a single word of answer to Campbell'squestion. Myself.     In the hours that followed, I came to know the soft footsteps of Vauna.The caverns in which she and her father and all these Benzendellapeople lived were pleasantly warm and fragrant. My misty impressions oftheir life about me were like the first impressions of a child learningabout the world into which he has been born.     Sometimes I would hear Vauna and her attendant Omosla talking together.Often when Campbell would stop in this part of the cavern to inquireabout me, Omosla would drop in also. She and Campbell were learning toconverse in simple words. And Vauna and I—yes. If I could only avoidblacking out.     I wanted to see her.     So often my eyes would refuse to open. A thousand nightmares. Spaceships shooting through meteor swarms. Stars like eyes. Eyes like stars.The eyes of Vauna, the daughter of Tomboldo. The sensitive stroke ofVauna's fingers, brushing my forehead, pressing my hand.     I regained my health gradually.     Are you quite awake? Vauna would ask me in her musical Benzendellawords. You speak better today. Your friend Campbell has brought youmore recordings of our language, so you can learn to speak more. Myfather is eager to talk with you. But you must sleep more. You arestill weak.     It gave me a weird sensation to awaken in the night, trying to adjustmyself to my surroundings. The Benzendellas were sleep-singers. Bynight they murmured mysterious little songs through their sleep.Strange harmonies whispered through the caves.     And if I stirred restlessly, the footsteps of Vauna might come to methrough the darkness. In her sleeping garments she would come to me,faintly visible in the pink light that filtered through from somecorridor. She would whisper melodious Benzendella words and tell me togo back to sleep, and I would drift into the darkness of my endlessdreams.     The day came when I awakened to see both Vauna and her father standingbefore me. Stern old Tomboldo, with his chalk-smooth face and not ahint of an eyebrow or eyelash, rapped his hand against my ribs, shookthe fiber bed lightly, and smiled. From a pocket concealed in hisflowing cape, he drew forth the musical watch, touched the button, andplayed, Trail of Stars.     I have learned to talk, I said.     You have had a long sleep.     I am well again. See, I can almost walk. But as I started to rise,the wave of blackness warned me, and I restrained my ambition. I willwalk soon.     We will have much to talk about. Your friend has pointed to the starsand told me a strange story of your coming. We have walked around theship. He has told me how it rides through the sky. I can hardly makemyself believe. Tomboldo's eyes cast upward under the strong ridge offorehead where the eyebrows should have been. He was evidently tryingto visualize the flight of a space ship. We will have much to telleach other.     I hope so, I said. Campbell and I came to learn about the      serpentriver     . I resorted to my own language for the last two words, notknowing the Benzendella equivalent.      I     made an eel-like motionwith my arm. But they didn't understand. And before I could explain,the footsteps of other Benzendellas approached, and presently I lookedaround to see that quite an audience had gathered. The most prominentfigure of the new group was the big muscular guard of the black andgreen diamond markings—Gravgak.     You get well? Gravgak said to me. His eyes drilled me closely.     I get well, I said.     The blow on the head, he said, was not meant.     I looked at him. Everyone was looking at him, and I knew this was meantto be an occasion of apology. But the light of fire in Vauna's eyestold me that she did not believe. He saw her look, and his own eyesflashed darts of defiance. With an abrupt word to me, he wheeled andstarted off. Get well!     The crowd of men and women made way for him. But in the arched doorwayhe turned. Vauna. I am ready to speak to you alone.     She started. I reached and barely touched her hand. She stopped. Iwill talk with you later, Gravgak.     Now! he shouted. Alone.     He stalked off. A moment later Vauna, after exchanging a word with herfather, excused herself from the crowd and followed Gravgak.     From the way those in the room looked, I knew this must be a dramaticmoment. It was as if she had acknowledged Gravgak as her master—or herlover. He had called for her. She had followed.     But her old father was still the master. He stepped toward the door.Vauna!... Gravgak!... Come back.     (I will always wonder what might have happened if he hadn't calledthem! Was my distrust of Gravgak justified? Had I become merely ajealous lover—or was I right in my hunch that the tall muscular guardwas a potential traitor?)     Vauna reappeared at once. I believe she was glad that she had beencalled back.     Gravgak came sullenly. At the edge of the crowd in the arched doorwayhe stood scowling.     While we are together, old Tomboldo said quietly, looking around atthe assemblage, I must tell you the decision of the council. Soon wewill move back to the other part of the world.     There were low murmurs of approval through the chamber.     We will wait a few days, Tomboldo went on, until our new friend—he pointed to me—is well enough to travel. We would never leave himhere to the mercy of the savage ones. He and his helper came throughthe sky in time to save us from being destroyed. We must never forgetthis kindness. When we ascend the      Kao-Wagwattl     , the ever moving      rope of life     , these friends shall come with us. On the back ofthe Kao-Wagwattl      they shall ride with us across the land     .  class=chap/>","When Linden and Campbell arrive at the planet, they are primarily interested in the snaking silver rope that travels around the continent like a river, but they notice some people seemingly coming from underground. As these people were performing a ritual, the humans noticed an impending attack from a different group, but didn't want to use weapons so they started a siren on their ship to distract the attackers. This siren did scare these attackers off for a while, and when Linden and Campbell started trying to communicate with the Benzendella people the only thing the Benzendellas could say was an imitation of the siren noise. It was this siren that saved the people from the initial attack, and thus made these people trust the humans, but was also the beginning of their attempts at communication. In an indirect way, using this siren is how the humans ended up with a chance to ask the Benzendella people about the Serpent River that they came to learn more about. "
"Who is Captain Linden and what happens to him throughout the story? </s>  class=chap/>    THE SERPENT RIVER     By Don Wilcox     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Other Worlds May 1957.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]  class=chap/>    The Code was rigid—no fraternization with the     peoples of other planets! Earth wanted no     shotgun weddings of the worlds of space!  class=chap/>    Split Campbell and I brought our ship down to a quiet landing on thesummit of a mile-wide naked rock, and I turned to the telescope for acloser view of the strange thing we had come to see.     It shone, eighteen or twenty miles away, in the light of the lateafternoon sun. It was a long silvery serpent-like      something     thatcrawled slowly over the planet's surface.     There was no way of guessing how large it was, at this distance. Itmight have been a rope rolled into shape out of a mountain—or a chainof mountains. It might have been a river of bluish-gray dough that hadshaped itself into a great cable. Its diameter? If it had been a hollowtube, cities could have flowed through it upright without bending theirskyscrapers. It was, to the eye, an endless rope of cloud oozing alongthe surface of the land. No, not cloud, for it had the compactness ofsolid substance.     We could see it at several points among the low foothills. Even fromthis distance we could guess that it had been moving along its coursefor centuries. Moving like a sluggish snake. It followed a deep-wornpath between the nearer hills and the high jagged mountains on thehorizon.       What was it?       Split Campbell and I had been sent here to learn the answers.Our sponsor was the well known EGGWE (the Earth-Galaxy GoodWill Expeditions.) We were under the EGGWE Code. We were the firstexpedition to this planet, but we had come equipped with two importantpieces of advance information. The Keynes-Roy roving cameras (unmanned)had brought back to the Earth choice items of fact about various partsof the universe. From these photos we knew (1) that man lived on thisplanet, a humanoid closely resembling the humans of the Earth; and(2) that a vast cylindrical rope crawled the surface of this land,continuously, endlessly.     We had intentionally landed at what we guessed would be a safe distancefrom the rope. If it were a living thing, like a serpent, we preferrednot to disturb it. If it gave off heat or poisonous gases or deadlyvibrations, we meant to keep our distance. If, on the other hand, itproved to be some sort of vegetable—a vine of glacier proportions—ora river of some silvery, creamy substance—we would move in upon itgradually, gathering facts as we progressed. I could depend uponSplit to record all observable phenomena with the accuracy ofsplit-hairs.     Split was working at the reports like a drudge at this very moment.     I looked up from the telescope, expecting him to be waiting his turneagerly. I misguessed. He didn't even glance up from his books. Rareyoung Campbell! Always a man of duty, never a man of impulse!     Here Campbell, take a look at the 'rope'.     Before I finish the reports, sir? If I recall our Code, Section Two,Order of Duties upon Landing: A—     Forget the Code. Take a look at the rope while the sun's on it.... Seeit?     Yes sir.     Can you see it's moving? See the little clouds of dust coming up fromunder its belly?     Yes sir. An excellent view, Captain Linden.     What do you think of it, Split? Ever see a sight like that before?     No sir.     Well, what about it? Any comments?     Split answered me with an enthusiastic, By gollies, sir! Then, withrestraint, It's precisely what I expected from the photographs, sir.Any orders, sir?     Relax, Split! That's the order. Relax!     Thanks—thanks, Cap! That was his effort to sound informal, thoughcoming from him it was strained. His training had given him anexaggerated notion of the importance of dignity and discipline.     He was naturally so conscientious it was painful. And to top it all,his scientific habit of thought made him want to stop and weigh hiswords even when speaking of casual things such as how much sugar herequired in his coffee.     Needless to say, I had kidded him unmercifully over these traits.Across the millions of miles of space that we had recently traveled(our first voyage together) I had amused myself at his expense. Ihad sworn that he would find, in time, that he couldn't even trimhis fingernails without calipers, or comb his hair without actuallyphysically splitting the hairs that cropped up in the middle of thepart. That was when I had nicknamed him Split—and the wide ears thatstuck out from his stubble-cut blond hair had glowed with the pink ofselfconsciousness. Plainly, he liked the kidding. But if I thought Icould rescue him from the weight of dignity and duty, I was mistaken.     Now he had turned the telescope for a view far to the right. He paused.     What do you see? I asked.     I cannot say definitely. The exact scientific classification of theobject I am observing would call for more detailed scrutiny—     You're seeing some sort of object?     Yes sir.     What sort of object?     A living creature, sir—upright, wearing clothes—     A      man     ?     To all appearances, sir—     You bounder, give me that telescope!  class=chap/>    2.     If you have explored the weird life of many a planet, as I have, youcan appreciate the deep sense of excitement that comes over me when,looking out at a new world for the first time, I see a man-like animal.     Walking upright!     Wearing adornments in the nature of clothing!     I gazed, and my lungs filled with the breath of wonderment. A man!Across millions of miles of space—a man, like the men of the Earth.     Six times before in my life of exploration I had gazed at new realmswithin the approachable parts of our universe, but never before had theliving creatures borne such wonderful resemblance to the human life ofour Earth.     A man!     He might have been creeping on all fours.     He might have been skulking like a lesser animal.     He might have been entirely naked.     He was none of these—and at the very first moment of viewing him Ifelt a kinship toward him. Oh, he was primitive in appearance—but hadmy ancestors not been the same? Was this not a mirror of my own racea million years or so ago? I sensed that my own stream of life hadsomehow crossed with his in ages gone by. How? Who can ever know? Bywhat faded charts of the movements through the sky will man ever beable to retrace relationships of forms of life among planets?     Get ready to go out and meet him, Campbell, I said. He's a friend.     Split Campbell gave me a look as if to say, Sir, you don't even knowwhat sort of animal he is, actually, much less whether he's friendly ormurderous.     There are some things I can sense on first sight, Campbell. Take myword for it, he's a friend.     I didn't say anything, sir.     Good. Don't. Just get ready.     We're going to go      out     —?     Yes, I said. Orders.     And meet both of them? Split was at the telescope.     Both? I took the instrument from him. Both! Well!     They seem to be coming out of the ground, Split said. I see no signsof habitation, but apparently we've landed on top of an undergroundcity—though I hasten to add that this is only an hypothesis.     One's a male and the other's a female, I said.     Another hypothesis, said Split.     The late evening sunshine gave us a clear view of our two friends.They were fully a mile away. Split was certain they had not seen ourship, and to this conclusion I was in agreement. They had apparentlycome up out of the barren rock hillside to view the sunset. I studiedthem through the telescope while Split checked over equipment for ahike.     The man's walk was unhurried. He moved thoughtfully, one mightguess. His bare chest and legs showed him to be statuesque in mold,cleanly muscled, fine of bone. His skin was almost the color of thecream-colored robe which flowed from his back, whipping lightly inthe breeze. He wore a brilliant red sash about his middle, and thiswas matched by a red headdress that came down over his shoulders as acircular mantle.     The girl stood several yards distant, watching him. This was somesort of ritual, no doubt. He was not concerned with her, but with thesetting sun. Its rays were almost horizontal, knifing through a breakin the distant mountain skyline. He went through some routine motions,his moving arms highlighted by the lemon-colored light of evening.     The girl approached him. Two other persons appeared from somewhere backof her.... Three.... Four.... Five....     Where do they come from? Split had paused in the act of checkingequipment to take his turn at the telescope. If he had not done so, Imight not have made a discovery. The landscape was      moving     .     The long shadows that I had not noticed through the telescope were aprominent part of the picture I saw through the ship's window when Ilooked out across the scene with the naked eye. The shadows were moving.     They were tree shadows. They were moving toward the clearing where thecrowd gathered. And the reason for their movement was that the treesthemselves were moving.     Notice anything? I asked Split.     The crowd is growing. We've certainly landed on top of a city. Hegazed. They're coming from underground.     Looking through the telescope, obviously he didn't catch the view ofthe moving trees.     Notice anything else unusual? I persisted.     Yes. The females—I'm speaking hypothetically—but they      must     befemales—are all wearing puffy white fur ornaments around their elbows.I wonder why?     You haven't noticed the trees?     The females are quite attractive, said Split.     I forgot about the moving trees, then, and took over the telescope.Mobile trees were not new to me. I had seen similar vegetation on otherplanets—sponge-trees—which possessed a sort of muscular quality. Ifthese were similar, they were no doubt feeding along the surface of theslope below the rocky plateau. The people in the clearing beyond paidno attention to them.     I studied the crowd of people. Only the leader wore the brilliant garb.The others were more scantily clothed. All were handsome of build. Thelemon-tinted sunlight glanced off the muscular shoulders of the malesand the soft curves of the females.     Those furry elbow ornaments on the females, I said to Split,they're for protection. The caves they live in must be narrow, sothey pad their elbows.     Why don't they pad their shoulders? They don't have anything on theirshoulders.     Are you complaining?     We became fascinated in watching, from the seclusion of our ship. If wewere to walk out, or make any sounds, we might have interrupted theirmeeting. Here they were in their native ritual of sunset, not knowingthat people from another world watched. The tall leader must be makinga speech. They sat around him in little huddles. He moved his arms incalm, graceful gestures.     They'd better break it up! Split said suddenly. The jungles aremoving in on them.     They're spellbound, I said. They're used to sponge-trees. Didn't youever see moving trees?     Split said sharply, Those trees are marching! They're an army undercover. Look!     I saw, then. The whole line of advancing vegetation was camouflage fora sneak attack. And all those natives sitting around in meeting were asinnocent as a flock of sitting ducks. Split Campbell's voice was edgedwith alarm. Captain! Those worshippers—how can we warn them? Oh-oh!Too late. Look!     All at once the advancing sponge-trees were tossed back over the headsof the savage band concealed within. They were warriors—fifty or moreof them—with painted naked bodies. They dashed forward in a widesemicircle, swinging crude weapons, bent on slaughter.  class=chap/>    3.     They were waving short clubs or whips with stones tied to the ends.They charged up the slope, about sixty yards, swinging their weirdclubs with a threat of death.     Wild disorder suddenly struck the audience. Campbell and I believed wewere about to witness a massacre.     Captain—      Jim     ! You're not going to let this happen!     Our sympathies had gone to the first groups, the peaceable ones. I hadthe same impulse as Campbell—to do something—anything! Yet here wesat in our ship, more than half a mile from our thirty-five or fortyfriends in danger.     Our friends were panicked. But they didn't take flight. They didn'tduck for the holes in the rocky hilltop. Instead, they rallied andpacked themselves around their tall leader. They stood, a defiant wall.     Can we shoot a ray, Jim?     I didn't answer. Later I would recall that Split      could     drop hisdignity under excitement—his Captain Linden and sir. Just now hewanted any sort of split-second order.     We saw the naked warriors run out in a wide circle. They spun andweaved, they twirled their deadly clubs, they danced grotesquely. Theywere closing in. Closer and closer. It was all their party.     Jim, can we shoot?     Hit number sixteen, Campbell.     Split touched the number sixteen signal.     The ship's siren wailed out over the land.     You could tell when the sound struck them. The circle of savage onessuddenly fell apart. The dancing broke into the wildest contortions youever saw. As if they'd been spanked by a wave of electricity. The sirenscream must have sounded like an animal cry from an unknown world. Theattackers ran for the sponge-trees. The rootless jungle came to life.It jerked and jumped spasmodically down the slope. And our siren keptright on singing.     Ready for that hike, Campbell? Give me my equipment coat. I gotinto it. I looked back to the telescope. The tall man of the partyhad behaved with exceptional calmness. He had turned to stare in ourdirection from the instant the siren sounded. He could no doubt makeout the lines of our silvery ship in the shadows. Slowly, deliberately,he marched over the hilltop toward us.     Most of his party now scampered back to the safety of their hidingplaces in the ground. But a few—the brave ones, perhaps, or theofficials of his group—came with him.     He needs a stronger guard than that, Campbell grumbled.     Sixteen was still wailing. Set it for ten minutes and come on, Isaid. Together we descended from the ship.     We took into our nostrils the tangy air, breathing fiercely, at first.We slogged along over the rock surface feeling our weight to beone-and-a-third times normal. We glanced down the slope apprehensively.We didn't want any footraces. The trees, however, were stillretreating. Our siren would sing on for another eight minutes. Andin case of further danger, we were equipped with the standard pocketarsenal of special purpose capsule bombs.     Soon we came face to face with the tall, stately old leader in thecream-and-red cloak.     Split and I stood together, close enough to exchange comments againstthe siren's wail. Fine looking people, we observed. Smooth faces.Like the features of Earth men. These creatures could walk downany main street back home. With a bit of makeup they would pass.Notice, Captain, they have strange looking eyes. Very smooth.It's because they have no eyebrows ... no eye lashes. Verysmooth—handsome—attractive.     Then the siren went off.     The leader stood before me, apparently unafraid. He seemed to bewaiting for me to explain my presence. His group of twelve gathered inclose.     I had met such situations with ease before. EGGWE explorers comeequipped. I held out a gift toward the leader. It was a singingmedallion attached to a chain. It was disc-shaped, patterned after alarge silver coin. It made music at the touch of a button. In clear,dainty bell tones it rang out its one tune, Trail of Stars.     As it played I held it up for inspection. I placed it around my ownneck, then offered it to the leader. I thought he was smiling. He wasnot overwhelmed by the magic of this gadget. He saw it for what itwas, a token of friendship. There was a keenness about him that Iliked. Yes, he was smiling. He bent his head forward and allowed me toplace the gift around his neck.     Tomboldo, he said, pointing to himself.     Split and I tried to imitate his breathy accents as we repeated aloud,Tomboldo.     We pointed to ourselves, in turn, and spoke our own names. And then,as the names of the others were pronounced, we tried to memorize eachbreathy sound that was uttered. I was able to remember four or five ofthem. One was Gravgak.     Gravgak's piercing eyes caused me to notice him. Suspicious eyes? I didnot know these people's expressions well enough to be sure.     Gravgak was a guard, tall and muscular, whose arms and legs werepainted with green and black diamond designs.     By motions and words we didn't understand, we inferred that we wereinvited to accompany the party back home, inside the hill, where wewould be safe. I nodded to Campbell. It's our chance to be guests ofTomboldo. Nothing could have pleased us more. For our big purpose—tounderstand the Serpent River—would be forwarded greatly if we couldlearn, through the people, what its meanings were. To analyze theriver's substance, estimate its rate, its weight, its temperature, andto map its course—these facts were only a part of the information wesought. The fuller story would be to learn how the inhabitants of thisplanet regarded it: whether they loved or shunned it, and what legendsthey may have woven around it. All this knowledge would be useful whenfuture expeditions of men from the Earth followed us (through EGGWE)for an extension of peaceful trade relationships.     Tomboldo depended upon the guard Gravgak to make sure that the way wassafe. Gravgak was supposed to keep an eye on the line of floating treesthat had taken flight down the hillside. Danger still lurked there, weknew. And now the siren that had frightened off the attack was silent.Our ship, locked against invaders, could be forgotten. We were guestsof Tomboldo.     Gravgak was our guard, but he didn't work at it. He was too anxious tohear all the talk. In the excitement of our meeting, everyone ignoredthe growing darkness, the lurking dangers. Gravgak confronted us withagitated jabbering:     Wollo—yeeta—vo—vandartch—vandartch! Grr—see—o—see—o—see—o!     See—o—see—o—see—o, one of the others echoed.     It began to make sense. They wanted us to repeat the siren noises. Theenemy had threatened their lives. There could very well have been awholesale slaughter. But as long as we could make the see—o—see—owe were all safe.     Split and I exchanged glances. He touched his hand to the equipmentjacket, to remind me we were armed with something more miraculous thana yowling siren.     See—o—see—o—see—o! Others of Tomboldo's party echoed the demand.They must have seen the sponge-trees again moving toward our path.      See—o—see—o!          Our peaceful march turned into a spasm of terror. The sponge-treescame rushing up the slope, as if borne by a sudden gust of wind. Theybounced over our path, and the war party spilled out of them.     Shouting. A wild swinging of clubs. And no cat-and-mouse tricks. Nodeliberate circling and closing in. An outright attack. Naked bodiesgleaming in the semi-darkness. Arms swinging weapons, choosing thenearest victims. The luminous rocks on the ends of the clubs flashed.Shouting, screeching, hurling their clubs. The whizzing fury filled theair.     I hurled a capsule bomb. It struck at the base of a bouncingsponge-tree, and blew the thing to bits.     The attackers ran back into a huddle, screaming. Then they cameforward, rushing defiantly.     Our muscular guard, Gravgak was too bold. He had picked up one of theirclubs and he ran toward their advance, and to all of Tomboldo's partyit must have appeared that he was bravely rushing to his death. Yetthe gesture of the club he swung so wildly could have been intended asa      warning     ! It could have meant, Run back, you fools, or thesestrange devils will throw fire at you.     I threw fire. And so did my lieutenant. He didn't wait for orders,thank goodness. He knew it was their lives or ours. Zip, zip,zip—BLANG-BLANG-BLANG! The bursts of fire at their feet ripped therocks. The spray caught them and knocked them back. Three or fourwarriors in the fore ranks were torn up in the blasts. Others wereflattened—and those who were able, ran.     They ran, not waiting for the cover of sponge-trees. Not bothering topick up their clubs.     But the operation was not a complete success. We had suffered a seriouscasualty. The guard Gravgak. He had rushed out too far, and the firstblast of fire and rock had knocked him down. Now Tomboldo and others ofthe party hovered over him.     His eyes opened a little. I thought he was staring at me, drilling mewith suspicion. I worked over him with medicines. The crowd around usstood back in an attitude of awe as Split and I applied ready bandages,and held a stimulant to his nostrils that made him breath back toconsciousness.     Suddenly he came to life. Lying there on his back, with the club stillat his fingertips, he swung up on one elbow. The swift motion causeda cry of joy from the crowd. I heard a little of it—and then blackedout. For as the muscular Gravgak moved, his fingers closed over thehandle of the club. It whizzed upward with him—apparently all byaccident. The stone that dangled from the end of the club crashed intomy head.     I went into instant darkness. Darkness, and a long, long silence.  class=chap/>    4.     Vauna, the beautiful daughter of Tomboldo, came into my life during theweeks that I lay unconscious.     I must have talked aloud much during those feverish hours of darkness.     Campbell! I would call out of a nightmare. Campbell, we're about toland. Is everything set? Check the instruments again, Campbell.     S-s-sh! The low hush of Split Campbell's voice would somehowpenetrate my dream.     The voices about me were soft. My dreams echoed the soft female voicesof this new, strange language.     Campbell, are you there?... Have you forgotten the Code, Campbell?     Quiet, Captain.     Who is it that's swabbing my face? I can't see.     It's Vauna. She's smiling at you, Captain. Can't you see her?     Is this the pretty one we saw through the telescope?     One of them.     And what of the other? There were two together. I remember—     Omosla is here too. She's Vauna's attendant. We're all looking afteryou, Captain Linden. Did you know I performed an operation to relievethe pressure on your brain? You must get well, Captain. The words ofCampbell came through insistently.     After a silence that may have lasted for hours or days, I said,Campbell, you haven't forgot the EGGWE Code?     Of course not, Captain.     Section Four?     Section Four, he repeated in a low voice, as if to pacify me and putme to sleep. Conduct of EGGWE agents toward native inhabitants: A, Noagent shall enter into any diplomatic agreement that shall be construedas binding—     I interrupted. Clause D?     He picked it up. D, no agent shall enter into a marriage contract withany native.... H-m-m. You're not trying to warn me, are you, CaptainLinden? Or are you warning      yourself     ?     At that moment my eyes opened a little. Swimming before my blurredvision was the face of Vauna. I did remember her—yes, she must havehaunted my dreams, for now my eyes burned in an effort to define herfeatures more clearly. This was indeed Vauna, who had been one of theparty of twelve, and had walked beside her father in the face of theattack. Deep within my subconscious the image of her beautiful face andfigure had lingered. I murmured a single word of answer to Campbell'squestion. Myself.     In the hours that followed, I came to know the soft footsteps of Vauna.The caverns in which she and her father and all these Benzendellapeople lived were pleasantly warm and fragrant. My misty impressions oftheir life about me were like the first impressions of a child learningabout the world into which he has been born.     Sometimes I would hear Vauna and her attendant Omosla talking together.Often when Campbell would stop in this part of the cavern to inquireabout me, Omosla would drop in also. She and Campbell were learning toconverse in simple words. And Vauna and I—yes. If I could only avoidblacking out.     I wanted to see her.     So often my eyes would refuse to open. A thousand nightmares. Spaceships shooting through meteor swarms. Stars like eyes. Eyes like stars.The eyes of Vauna, the daughter of Tomboldo. The sensitive stroke ofVauna's fingers, brushing my forehead, pressing my hand.     I regained my health gradually.     Are you quite awake? Vauna would ask me in her musical Benzendellawords. You speak better today. Your friend Campbell has brought youmore recordings of our language, so you can learn to speak more. Myfather is eager to talk with you. But you must sleep more. You arestill weak.     It gave me a weird sensation to awaken in the night, trying to adjustmyself to my surroundings. The Benzendellas were sleep-singers. Bynight they murmured mysterious little songs through their sleep.Strange harmonies whispered through the caves.     And if I stirred restlessly, the footsteps of Vauna might come to methrough the darkness. In her sleeping garments she would come to me,faintly visible in the pink light that filtered through from somecorridor. She would whisper melodious Benzendella words and tell me togo back to sleep, and I would drift into the darkness of my endlessdreams.     The day came when I awakened to see both Vauna and her father standingbefore me. Stern old Tomboldo, with his chalk-smooth face and not ahint of an eyebrow or eyelash, rapped his hand against my ribs, shookthe fiber bed lightly, and smiled. From a pocket concealed in hisflowing cape, he drew forth the musical watch, touched the button, andplayed, Trail of Stars.     I have learned to talk, I said.     You have had a long sleep.     I am well again. See, I can almost walk. But as I started to rise,the wave of blackness warned me, and I restrained my ambition. I willwalk soon.     We will have much to talk about. Your friend has pointed to the starsand told me a strange story of your coming. We have walked around theship. He has told me how it rides through the sky. I can hardly makemyself believe. Tomboldo's eyes cast upward under the strong ridge offorehead where the eyebrows should have been. He was evidently tryingto visualize the flight of a space ship. We will have much to telleach other.     I hope so, I said. Campbell and I came to learn about the      serpentriver     . I resorted to my own language for the last two words, notknowing the Benzendella equivalent.      I     made an eel-like motionwith my arm. But they didn't understand. And before I could explain,the footsteps of other Benzendellas approached, and presently I lookedaround to see that quite an audience had gathered. The most prominentfigure of the new group was the big muscular guard of the black andgreen diamond markings—Gravgak.     You get well? Gravgak said to me. His eyes drilled me closely.     I get well, I said.     The blow on the head, he said, was not meant.     I looked at him. Everyone was looking at him, and I knew this was meantto be an occasion of apology. But the light of fire in Vauna's eyestold me that she did not believe. He saw her look, and his own eyesflashed darts of defiance. With an abrupt word to me, he wheeled andstarted off. Get well!     The crowd of men and women made way for him. But in the arched doorwayhe turned. Vauna. I am ready to speak to you alone.     She started. I reached and barely touched her hand. She stopped. Iwill talk with you later, Gravgak.     Now! he shouted. Alone.     He stalked off. A moment later Vauna, after exchanging a word with herfather, excused herself from the crowd and followed Gravgak.     From the way those in the room looked, I knew this must be a dramaticmoment. It was as if she had acknowledged Gravgak as her master—or herlover. He had called for her. She had followed.     But her old father was still the master. He stepped toward the door.Vauna!... Gravgak!... Come back.     (I will always wonder what might have happened if he hadn't calledthem! Was my distrust of Gravgak justified? Had I become merely ajealous lover—or was I right in my hunch that the tall muscular guardwas a potential traitor?)     Vauna reappeared at once. I believe she was glad that she had beencalled back.     Gravgak came sullenly. At the edge of the crowd in the arched doorwayhe stood scowling.     While we are together, old Tomboldo said quietly, looking around atthe assemblage, I must tell you the decision of the council. Soon wewill move back to the other part of the world.     There were low murmurs of approval through the chamber.     We will wait a few days, Tomboldo went on, until our new friend—he pointed to me—is well enough to travel. We would never leave himhere to the mercy of the savage ones. He and his helper came throughthe sky in time to save us from being destroyed. We must never forgetthis kindness. When we ascend the      Kao-Wagwattl     , the ever moving      rope of life     , these friends shall come with us. On the back ofthe Kao-Wagwattl      they shall ride with us across the land     .  class=chap/>","Captain Linden is the leader of the first manned expedition from Earth to the planet that is inhabited by the Benzendella people. His sponsorship is from the Earth-Galaxy Good Will Expeditions, ""EGGWE"" for short. Because a previous rover had discovered a mysterious silver river and some humanoid creatures, Linden and his lieutenant were sent to discover more. He hoped that interacting with the humanoids would allow him to learn some cultural significance behind what he referred to as the Serpent River, which he also planned on studying scientifically. After he landed, while Campbell was monitoring the humanoids, he noticed that trees were moving towards the people, and sensed an incoming attack. He ordered Campbell to start a siren from their ship to distract the attackers, and later led the two of them to meet the local Benzendella people. He presented their leader with a token of friendship, a medallion that played music. As another attack started, and a guard fell, Linden tried to tend to the guard but was knocked out and did not regain consciousness for a few weeks. As he slowly healed and felt more normal, he had to warn himself to be careful around Vauna, the Benzendella leader's daughter, who had been watching him at his bedside. She was very beautiful, and he knew it was against mission code to marry locals. "
"Describe the relationship between Captain Linden and his lieutenant ""Split"" Campbell </s>  class=chap/>    THE SERPENT RIVER     By Don Wilcox     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Other Worlds May 1957.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]  class=chap/>    The Code was rigid—no fraternization with the     peoples of other planets! Earth wanted no     shotgun weddings of the worlds of space!  class=chap/>    Split Campbell and I brought our ship down to a quiet landing on thesummit of a mile-wide naked rock, and I turned to the telescope for acloser view of the strange thing we had come to see.     It shone, eighteen or twenty miles away, in the light of the lateafternoon sun. It was a long silvery serpent-like      something     thatcrawled slowly over the planet's surface.     There was no way of guessing how large it was, at this distance. Itmight have been a rope rolled into shape out of a mountain—or a chainof mountains. It might have been a river of bluish-gray dough that hadshaped itself into a great cable. Its diameter? If it had been a hollowtube, cities could have flowed through it upright without bending theirskyscrapers. It was, to the eye, an endless rope of cloud oozing alongthe surface of the land. No, not cloud, for it had the compactness ofsolid substance.     We could see it at several points among the low foothills. Even fromthis distance we could guess that it had been moving along its coursefor centuries. Moving like a sluggish snake. It followed a deep-wornpath between the nearer hills and the high jagged mountains on thehorizon.       What was it?       Split Campbell and I had been sent here to learn the answers.Our sponsor was the well known EGGWE (the Earth-Galaxy GoodWill Expeditions.) We were under the EGGWE Code. We were the firstexpedition to this planet, but we had come equipped with two importantpieces of advance information. The Keynes-Roy roving cameras (unmanned)had brought back to the Earth choice items of fact about various partsof the universe. From these photos we knew (1) that man lived on thisplanet, a humanoid closely resembling the humans of the Earth; and(2) that a vast cylindrical rope crawled the surface of this land,continuously, endlessly.     We had intentionally landed at what we guessed would be a safe distancefrom the rope. If it were a living thing, like a serpent, we preferrednot to disturb it. If it gave off heat or poisonous gases or deadlyvibrations, we meant to keep our distance. If, on the other hand, itproved to be some sort of vegetable—a vine of glacier proportions—ora river of some silvery, creamy substance—we would move in upon itgradually, gathering facts as we progressed. I could depend uponSplit to record all observable phenomena with the accuracy ofsplit-hairs.     Split was working at the reports like a drudge at this very moment.     I looked up from the telescope, expecting him to be waiting his turneagerly. I misguessed. He didn't even glance up from his books. Rareyoung Campbell! Always a man of duty, never a man of impulse!     Here Campbell, take a look at the 'rope'.     Before I finish the reports, sir? If I recall our Code, Section Two,Order of Duties upon Landing: A—     Forget the Code. Take a look at the rope while the sun's on it.... Seeit?     Yes sir.     Can you see it's moving? See the little clouds of dust coming up fromunder its belly?     Yes sir. An excellent view, Captain Linden.     What do you think of it, Split? Ever see a sight like that before?     No sir.     Well, what about it? Any comments?     Split answered me with an enthusiastic, By gollies, sir! Then, withrestraint, It's precisely what I expected from the photographs, sir.Any orders, sir?     Relax, Split! That's the order. Relax!     Thanks—thanks, Cap! That was his effort to sound informal, thoughcoming from him it was strained. His training had given him anexaggerated notion of the importance of dignity and discipline.     He was naturally so conscientious it was painful. And to top it all,his scientific habit of thought made him want to stop and weigh hiswords even when speaking of casual things such as how much sugar herequired in his coffee.     Needless to say, I had kidded him unmercifully over these traits.Across the millions of miles of space that we had recently traveled(our first voyage together) I had amused myself at his expense. Ihad sworn that he would find, in time, that he couldn't even trimhis fingernails without calipers, or comb his hair without actuallyphysically splitting the hairs that cropped up in the middle of thepart. That was when I had nicknamed him Split—and the wide ears thatstuck out from his stubble-cut blond hair had glowed with the pink ofselfconsciousness. Plainly, he liked the kidding. But if I thought Icould rescue him from the weight of dignity and duty, I was mistaken.     Now he had turned the telescope for a view far to the right. He paused.     What do you see? I asked.     I cannot say definitely. The exact scientific classification of theobject I am observing would call for more detailed scrutiny—     You're seeing some sort of object?     Yes sir.     What sort of object?     A living creature, sir—upright, wearing clothes—     A      man     ?     To all appearances, sir—     You bounder, give me that telescope!  class=chap/>    2.     If you have explored the weird life of many a planet, as I have, youcan appreciate the deep sense of excitement that comes over me when,looking out at a new world for the first time, I see a man-like animal.     Walking upright!     Wearing adornments in the nature of clothing!     I gazed, and my lungs filled with the breath of wonderment. A man!Across millions of miles of space—a man, like the men of the Earth.     Six times before in my life of exploration I had gazed at new realmswithin the approachable parts of our universe, but never before had theliving creatures borne such wonderful resemblance to the human life ofour Earth.     A man!     He might have been creeping on all fours.     He might have been skulking like a lesser animal.     He might have been entirely naked.     He was none of these—and at the very first moment of viewing him Ifelt a kinship toward him. Oh, he was primitive in appearance—but hadmy ancestors not been the same? Was this not a mirror of my own racea million years or so ago? I sensed that my own stream of life hadsomehow crossed with his in ages gone by. How? Who can ever know? Bywhat faded charts of the movements through the sky will man ever beable to retrace relationships of forms of life among planets?     Get ready to go out and meet him, Campbell, I said. He's a friend.     Split Campbell gave me a look as if to say, Sir, you don't even knowwhat sort of animal he is, actually, much less whether he's friendly ormurderous.     There are some things I can sense on first sight, Campbell. Take myword for it, he's a friend.     I didn't say anything, sir.     Good. Don't. Just get ready.     We're going to go      out     —?     Yes, I said. Orders.     And meet both of them? Split was at the telescope.     Both? I took the instrument from him. Both! Well!     They seem to be coming out of the ground, Split said. I see no signsof habitation, but apparently we've landed on top of an undergroundcity—though I hasten to add that this is only an hypothesis.     One's a male and the other's a female, I said.     Another hypothesis, said Split.     The late evening sunshine gave us a clear view of our two friends.They were fully a mile away. Split was certain they had not seen ourship, and to this conclusion I was in agreement. They had apparentlycome up out of the barren rock hillside to view the sunset. I studiedthem through the telescope while Split checked over equipment for ahike.     The man's walk was unhurried. He moved thoughtfully, one mightguess. His bare chest and legs showed him to be statuesque in mold,cleanly muscled, fine of bone. His skin was almost the color of thecream-colored robe which flowed from his back, whipping lightly inthe breeze. He wore a brilliant red sash about his middle, and thiswas matched by a red headdress that came down over his shoulders as acircular mantle.     The girl stood several yards distant, watching him. This was somesort of ritual, no doubt. He was not concerned with her, but with thesetting sun. Its rays were almost horizontal, knifing through a breakin the distant mountain skyline. He went through some routine motions,his moving arms highlighted by the lemon-colored light of evening.     The girl approached him. Two other persons appeared from somewhere backof her.... Three.... Four.... Five....     Where do they come from? Split had paused in the act of checkingequipment to take his turn at the telescope. If he had not done so, Imight not have made a discovery. The landscape was      moving     .     The long shadows that I had not noticed through the telescope were aprominent part of the picture I saw through the ship's window when Ilooked out across the scene with the naked eye. The shadows were moving.     They were tree shadows. They were moving toward the clearing where thecrowd gathered. And the reason for their movement was that the treesthemselves were moving.     Notice anything? I asked Split.     The crowd is growing. We've certainly landed on top of a city. Hegazed. They're coming from underground.     Looking through the telescope, obviously he didn't catch the view ofthe moving trees.     Notice anything else unusual? I persisted.     Yes. The females—I'm speaking hypothetically—but they      must     befemales—are all wearing puffy white fur ornaments around their elbows.I wonder why?     You haven't noticed the trees?     The females are quite attractive, said Split.     I forgot about the moving trees, then, and took over the telescope.Mobile trees were not new to me. I had seen similar vegetation on otherplanets—sponge-trees—which possessed a sort of muscular quality. Ifthese were similar, they were no doubt feeding along the surface of theslope below the rocky plateau. The people in the clearing beyond paidno attention to them.     I studied the crowd of people. Only the leader wore the brilliant garb.The others were more scantily clothed. All were handsome of build. Thelemon-tinted sunlight glanced off the muscular shoulders of the malesand the soft curves of the females.     Those furry elbow ornaments on the females, I said to Split,they're for protection. The caves they live in must be narrow, sothey pad their elbows.     Why don't they pad their shoulders? They don't have anything on theirshoulders.     Are you complaining?     We became fascinated in watching, from the seclusion of our ship. If wewere to walk out, or make any sounds, we might have interrupted theirmeeting. Here they were in their native ritual of sunset, not knowingthat people from another world watched. The tall leader must be makinga speech. They sat around him in little huddles. He moved his arms incalm, graceful gestures.     They'd better break it up! Split said suddenly. The jungles aremoving in on them.     They're spellbound, I said. They're used to sponge-trees. Didn't youever see moving trees?     Split said sharply, Those trees are marching! They're an army undercover. Look!     I saw, then. The whole line of advancing vegetation was camouflage fora sneak attack. And all those natives sitting around in meeting were asinnocent as a flock of sitting ducks. Split Campbell's voice was edgedwith alarm. Captain! Those worshippers—how can we warn them? Oh-oh!Too late. Look!     All at once the advancing sponge-trees were tossed back over the headsof the savage band concealed within. They were warriors—fifty or moreof them—with painted naked bodies. They dashed forward in a widesemicircle, swinging crude weapons, bent on slaughter.  class=chap/>    3.     They were waving short clubs or whips with stones tied to the ends.They charged up the slope, about sixty yards, swinging their weirdclubs with a threat of death.     Wild disorder suddenly struck the audience. Campbell and I believed wewere about to witness a massacre.     Captain—      Jim     ! You're not going to let this happen!     Our sympathies had gone to the first groups, the peaceable ones. I hadthe same impulse as Campbell—to do something—anything! Yet here wesat in our ship, more than half a mile from our thirty-five or fortyfriends in danger.     Our friends were panicked. But they didn't take flight. They didn'tduck for the holes in the rocky hilltop. Instead, they rallied andpacked themselves around their tall leader. They stood, a defiant wall.     Can we shoot a ray, Jim?     I didn't answer. Later I would recall that Split      could     drop hisdignity under excitement—his Captain Linden and sir. Just now hewanted any sort of split-second order.     We saw the naked warriors run out in a wide circle. They spun andweaved, they twirled their deadly clubs, they danced grotesquely. Theywere closing in. Closer and closer. It was all their party.     Jim, can we shoot?     Hit number sixteen, Campbell.     Split touched the number sixteen signal.     The ship's siren wailed out over the land.     You could tell when the sound struck them. The circle of savage onessuddenly fell apart. The dancing broke into the wildest contortions youever saw. As if they'd been spanked by a wave of electricity. The sirenscream must have sounded like an animal cry from an unknown world. Theattackers ran for the sponge-trees. The rootless jungle came to life.It jerked and jumped spasmodically down the slope. And our siren keptright on singing.     Ready for that hike, Campbell? Give me my equipment coat. I gotinto it. I looked back to the telescope. The tall man of the partyhad behaved with exceptional calmness. He had turned to stare in ourdirection from the instant the siren sounded. He could no doubt makeout the lines of our silvery ship in the shadows. Slowly, deliberately,he marched over the hilltop toward us.     Most of his party now scampered back to the safety of their hidingplaces in the ground. But a few—the brave ones, perhaps, or theofficials of his group—came with him.     He needs a stronger guard than that, Campbell grumbled.     Sixteen was still wailing. Set it for ten minutes and come on, Isaid. Together we descended from the ship.     We took into our nostrils the tangy air, breathing fiercely, at first.We slogged along over the rock surface feeling our weight to beone-and-a-third times normal. We glanced down the slope apprehensively.We didn't want any footraces. The trees, however, were stillretreating. Our siren would sing on for another eight minutes. Andin case of further danger, we were equipped with the standard pocketarsenal of special purpose capsule bombs.     Soon we came face to face with the tall, stately old leader in thecream-and-red cloak.     Split and I stood together, close enough to exchange comments againstthe siren's wail. Fine looking people, we observed. Smooth faces.Like the features of Earth men. These creatures could walk downany main street back home. With a bit of makeup they would pass.Notice, Captain, they have strange looking eyes. Very smooth.It's because they have no eyebrows ... no eye lashes. Verysmooth—handsome—attractive.     Then the siren went off.     The leader stood before me, apparently unafraid. He seemed to bewaiting for me to explain my presence. His group of twelve gathered inclose.     I had met such situations with ease before. EGGWE explorers comeequipped. I held out a gift toward the leader. It was a singingmedallion attached to a chain. It was disc-shaped, patterned after alarge silver coin. It made music at the touch of a button. In clear,dainty bell tones it rang out its one tune, Trail of Stars.     As it played I held it up for inspection. I placed it around my ownneck, then offered it to the leader. I thought he was smiling. He wasnot overwhelmed by the magic of this gadget. He saw it for what itwas, a token of friendship. There was a keenness about him that Iliked. Yes, he was smiling. He bent his head forward and allowed me toplace the gift around his neck.     Tomboldo, he said, pointing to himself.     Split and I tried to imitate his breathy accents as we repeated aloud,Tomboldo.     We pointed to ourselves, in turn, and spoke our own names. And then,as the names of the others were pronounced, we tried to memorize eachbreathy sound that was uttered. I was able to remember four or five ofthem. One was Gravgak.     Gravgak's piercing eyes caused me to notice him. Suspicious eyes? I didnot know these people's expressions well enough to be sure.     Gravgak was a guard, tall and muscular, whose arms and legs werepainted with green and black diamond designs.     By motions and words we didn't understand, we inferred that we wereinvited to accompany the party back home, inside the hill, where wewould be safe. I nodded to Campbell. It's our chance to be guests ofTomboldo. Nothing could have pleased us more. For our big purpose—tounderstand the Serpent River—would be forwarded greatly if we couldlearn, through the people, what its meanings were. To analyze theriver's substance, estimate its rate, its weight, its temperature, andto map its course—these facts were only a part of the information wesought. The fuller story would be to learn how the inhabitants of thisplanet regarded it: whether they loved or shunned it, and what legendsthey may have woven around it. All this knowledge would be useful whenfuture expeditions of men from the Earth followed us (through EGGWE)for an extension of peaceful trade relationships.     Tomboldo depended upon the guard Gravgak to make sure that the way wassafe. Gravgak was supposed to keep an eye on the line of floating treesthat had taken flight down the hillside. Danger still lurked there, weknew. And now the siren that had frightened off the attack was silent.Our ship, locked against invaders, could be forgotten. We were guestsof Tomboldo.     Gravgak was our guard, but he didn't work at it. He was too anxious tohear all the talk. In the excitement of our meeting, everyone ignoredthe growing darkness, the lurking dangers. Gravgak confronted us withagitated jabbering:     Wollo—yeeta—vo—vandartch—vandartch! Grr—see—o—see—o—see—o!     See—o—see—o—see—o, one of the others echoed.     It began to make sense. They wanted us to repeat the siren noises. Theenemy had threatened their lives. There could very well have been awholesale slaughter. But as long as we could make the see—o—see—owe were all safe.     Split and I exchanged glances. He touched his hand to the equipmentjacket, to remind me we were armed with something more miraculous thana yowling siren.     See—o—see—o—see—o! Others of Tomboldo's party echoed the demand.They must have seen the sponge-trees again moving toward our path.      See—o—see—o!          Our peaceful march turned into a spasm of terror. The sponge-treescame rushing up the slope, as if borne by a sudden gust of wind. Theybounced over our path, and the war party spilled out of them.     Shouting. A wild swinging of clubs. And no cat-and-mouse tricks. Nodeliberate circling and closing in. An outright attack. Naked bodiesgleaming in the semi-darkness. Arms swinging weapons, choosing thenearest victims. The luminous rocks on the ends of the clubs flashed.Shouting, screeching, hurling their clubs. The whizzing fury filled theair.     I hurled a capsule bomb. It struck at the base of a bouncingsponge-tree, and blew the thing to bits.     The attackers ran back into a huddle, screaming. Then they cameforward, rushing defiantly.     Our muscular guard, Gravgak was too bold. He had picked up one of theirclubs and he ran toward their advance, and to all of Tomboldo's partyit must have appeared that he was bravely rushing to his death. Yetthe gesture of the club he swung so wildly could have been intended asa      warning     ! It could have meant, Run back, you fools, or thesestrange devils will throw fire at you.     I threw fire. And so did my lieutenant. He didn't wait for orders,thank goodness. He knew it was their lives or ours. Zip, zip,zip—BLANG-BLANG-BLANG! The bursts of fire at their feet ripped therocks. The spray caught them and knocked them back. Three or fourwarriors in the fore ranks were torn up in the blasts. Others wereflattened—and those who were able, ran.     They ran, not waiting for the cover of sponge-trees. Not bothering topick up their clubs.     But the operation was not a complete success. We had suffered a seriouscasualty. The guard Gravgak. He had rushed out too far, and the firstblast of fire and rock had knocked him down. Now Tomboldo and others ofthe party hovered over him.     His eyes opened a little. I thought he was staring at me, drilling mewith suspicion. I worked over him with medicines. The crowd around usstood back in an attitude of awe as Split and I applied ready bandages,and held a stimulant to his nostrils that made him breath back toconsciousness.     Suddenly he came to life. Lying there on his back, with the club stillat his fingertips, he swung up on one elbow. The swift motion causeda cry of joy from the crowd. I heard a little of it—and then blackedout. For as the muscular Gravgak moved, his fingers closed over thehandle of the club. It whizzed upward with him—apparently all byaccident. The stone that dangled from the end of the club crashed intomy head.     I went into instant darkness. Darkness, and a long, long silence.  class=chap/>    4.     Vauna, the beautiful daughter of Tomboldo, came into my life during theweeks that I lay unconscious.     I must have talked aloud much during those feverish hours of darkness.     Campbell! I would call out of a nightmare. Campbell, we're about toland. Is everything set? Check the instruments again, Campbell.     S-s-sh! The low hush of Split Campbell's voice would somehowpenetrate my dream.     The voices about me were soft. My dreams echoed the soft female voicesof this new, strange language.     Campbell, are you there?... Have you forgotten the Code, Campbell?     Quiet, Captain.     Who is it that's swabbing my face? I can't see.     It's Vauna. She's smiling at you, Captain. Can't you see her?     Is this the pretty one we saw through the telescope?     One of them.     And what of the other? There were two together. I remember—     Omosla is here too. She's Vauna's attendant. We're all looking afteryou, Captain Linden. Did you know I performed an operation to relievethe pressure on your brain? You must get well, Captain. The words ofCampbell came through insistently.     After a silence that may have lasted for hours or days, I said,Campbell, you haven't forgot the EGGWE Code?     Of course not, Captain.     Section Four?     Section Four, he repeated in a low voice, as if to pacify me and putme to sleep. Conduct of EGGWE agents toward native inhabitants: A, Noagent shall enter into any diplomatic agreement that shall be construedas binding—     I interrupted. Clause D?     He picked it up. D, no agent shall enter into a marriage contract withany native.... H-m-m. You're not trying to warn me, are you, CaptainLinden? Or are you warning      yourself     ?     At that moment my eyes opened a little. Swimming before my blurredvision was the face of Vauna. I did remember her—yes, she must havehaunted my dreams, for now my eyes burned in an effort to define herfeatures more clearly. This was indeed Vauna, who had been one of theparty of twelve, and had walked beside her father in the face of theattack. Deep within my subconscious the image of her beautiful face andfigure had lingered. I murmured a single word of answer to Campbell'squestion. Myself.     In the hours that followed, I came to know the soft footsteps of Vauna.The caverns in which she and her father and all these Benzendellapeople lived were pleasantly warm and fragrant. My misty impressions oftheir life about me were like the first impressions of a child learningabout the world into which he has been born.     Sometimes I would hear Vauna and her attendant Omosla talking together.Often when Campbell would stop in this part of the cavern to inquireabout me, Omosla would drop in also. She and Campbell were learning toconverse in simple words. And Vauna and I—yes. If I could only avoidblacking out.     I wanted to see her.     So often my eyes would refuse to open. A thousand nightmares. Spaceships shooting through meteor swarms. Stars like eyes. Eyes like stars.The eyes of Vauna, the daughter of Tomboldo. The sensitive stroke ofVauna's fingers, brushing my forehead, pressing my hand.     I regained my health gradually.     Are you quite awake? Vauna would ask me in her musical Benzendellawords. You speak better today. Your friend Campbell has brought youmore recordings of our language, so you can learn to speak more. Myfather is eager to talk with you. But you must sleep more. You arestill weak.     It gave me a weird sensation to awaken in the night, trying to adjustmyself to my surroundings. The Benzendellas were sleep-singers. Bynight they murmured mysterious little songs through their sleep.Strange harmonies whispered through the caves.     And if I stirred restlessly, the footsteps of Vauna might come to methrough the darkness. In her sleeping garments she would come to me,faintly visible in the pink light that filtered through from somecorridor. She would whisper melodious Benzendella words and tell me togo back to sleep, and I would drift into the darkness of my endlessdreams.     The day came when I awakened to see both Vauna and her father standingbefore me. Stern old Tomboldo, with his chalk-smooth face and not ahint of an eyebrow or eyelash, rapped his hand against my ribs, shookthe fiber bed lightly, and smiled. From a pocket concealed in hisflowing cape, he drew forth the musical watch, touched the button, andplayed, Trail of Stars.     I have learned to talk, I said.     You have had a long sleep.     I am well again. See, I can almost walk. But as I started to rise,the wave of blackness warned me, and I restrained my ambition. I willwalk soon.     We will have much to talk about. Your friend has pointed to the starsand told me a strange story of your coming. We have walked around theship. He has told me how it rides through the sky. I can hardly makemyself believe. Tomboldo's eyes cast upward under the strong ridge offorehead where the eyebrows should have been. He was evidently tryingto visualize the flight of a space ship. We will have much to telleach other.     I hope so, I said. Campbell and I came to learn about the      serpentriver     . I resorted to my own language for the last two words, notknowing the Benzendella equivalent.      I     made an eel-like motionwith my arm. But they didn't understand. And before I could explain,the footsteps of other Benzendellas approached, and presently I lookedaround to see that quite an audience had gathered. The most prominentfigure of the new group was the big muscular guard of the black andgreen diamond markings—Gravgak.     You get well? Gravgak said to me. His eyes drilled me closely.     I get well, I said.     The blow on the head, he said, was not meant.     I looked at him. Everyone was looking at him, and I knew this was meantto be an occasion of apology. But the light of fire in Vauna's eyestold me that she did not believe. He saw her look, and his own eyesflashed darts of defiance. With an abrupt word to me, he wheeled andstarted off. Get well!     The crowd of men and women made way for him. But in the arched doorwayhe turned. Vauna. I am ready to speak to you alone.     She started. I reached and barely touched her hand. She stopped. Iwill talk with you later, Gravgak.     Now! he shouted. Alone.     He stalked off. A moment later Vauna, after exchanging a word with herfather, excused herself from the crowd and followed Gravgak.     From the way those in the room looked, I knew this must be a dramaticmoment. It was as if she had acknowledged Gravgak as her master—or herlover. He had called for her. She had followed.     But her old father was still the master. He stepped toward the door.Vauna!... Gravgak!... Come back.     (I will always wonder what might have happened if he hadn't calledthem! Was my distrust of Gravgak justified? Had I become merely ajealous lover—or was I right in my hunch that the tall muscular guardwas a potential traitor?)     Vauna reappeared at once. I believe she was glad that she had beencalled back.     Gravgak came sullenly. At the edge of the crowd in the arched doorwayhe stood scowling.     While we are together, old Tomboldo said quietly, looking around atthe assemblage, I must tell you the decision of the council. Soon wewill move back to the other part of the world.     There were low murmurs of approval through the chamber.     We will wait a few days, Tomboldo went on, until our new friend—he pointed to me—is well enough to travel. We would never leave himhere to the mercy of the savage ones. He and his helper came throughthe sky in time to save us from being destroyed. We must never forgetthis kindness. When we ascend the      Kao-Wagwattl     , the ever moving      rope of life     , these friends shall come with us. On the back ofthe Kao-Wagwattl      they shall ride with us across the land     .  class=chap/>","Linden is a fairly relaxed captain who is ready to perform his mission to code, but is almost amused at his lieutenant's inability to stray from code. He calls Campbell ""Split"" because he does everything so by-the-book that if he were combing his hair down the middle, he wouldn't be surprised if he split the hairs in the middle of his head for perfect symmetry. They seem to work well together, and Campbell is dedicated to his scientific mission and reviewing reports, while Linden reminds him to look at the window at the world around them, which offers a nice balance to their progress. Campbell clearly respects Linden a lot, and Linden is always kind to him and not rude or condescending, which is important for team cohesion on a mission away from a home planet. "
"What is the plot of the story? </s>     What is POSAT?     By PHYLLIS STERLING SMITH     Illustrated by ED ALEXANDER     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction September 1951.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Of course coming events cast their shadows     before, but this shadow was 400 years long!      The following advertisement appeared in the July 1953 issue of severalmagazines:     MASTERY OF ALL KNOWLEDGE CAN BE YOURS!     What is the secret source of those profound     principles that can solve the problems of life?     Send for our FREE booklet of explanation.     Do not be a leaf in the wind! YOU     can alter the course of your life!     Tap the treasury of Wisdom through the ages!     The Perpetual Order of Seekers After Truth     POSAT     an ancient secret society     Most readers passed it by with scarcely a glance. It was, after all,similar to the many that had appeared through the years under thename of that same society. Other readers, as their eyes slid over thefamiliar format of the ad, speculated idly about the persistent andmildly mysterious organization behind it. A few even resolved to clipthe attached coupon and send for the booklet—sometime—when a pen orpencil was nearer at hand.     Bill Evans, an unemployed pharmacist, saw the ad in a copy of      YourLife and Psychology     that had been abandoned on his seat in the bus.He filled out the blanks on the coupon with a scrap of stubby pencil.You can alter the course of your life! he read again. He particularlyliked that thought, even though he had long since ceased to believeit. He actually took the trouble to mail the coupon. After all, hehad, literally, nothing to lose, and nothing else to occupy his time.     Miss Elizabeth Arnable was one of the few to whom the advertisementwas unfamiliar. As a matter of fact, she very seldom read a magazine.The radio in her room took the place of reading matter, and she alwaysliked to think that it amused her cats as well as herself. Readingwould be so selfish under the circumstances, wouldn't it? Not but whatthe cats weren't almost smart enough to read, she always said.     It just so happened, however, that she had bought a copy of the      Antivivisectionist Gazette     the day before. She pounced upon the POSATad as a trout might snap at a particularly attractive fly. Havingfilled out the coupon with violet ink, she invented an errand thatwould take her past the neighborhood post office so that she could postit as soon as possible.     Donald Alford, research physicist, came across the POSAT ad tucked atthe bottom of a column in      The Bulletin of Physical Research     . He wasengrossed in the latest paper by Dr. Crandon, a man whom he admiredfrom the point of view of both a former student and a fellow researchworker. Consequently, he was one of the many who passed over the POSATad with the disregard accorded to any common object.     He read with interest to the end of the article before he realized thatsome component of the advertisement had been noted by a region of hisbrain just beyond consciousness. It teased at him like a tickle thatcouldn't be scratched until he turned back to the page.     It was the symbol or emblem of POSAT, he realized, that had caught hisattention. The perpendicularly crossed ellipses centered with a smallblack circle might almost be a conventionalized version of the Bohratom of helium. He smiled with mild skepticism as he read through theprinted matter that accompanied it.     I wonder what their racket is, he mused. Then, because his typewriterwas conveniently at hand, he carefully tore out the coupon and insertedit in the machine. The spacing of the typewriter didn't fit the dottedlines on the coupon, of course, but he didn't bother to correct it.He addressed an envelope, laid it with other mail to be posted, andpromptly forgot all about it. Since he was a methodical man, it wasentrusted to the U.S. mail early the next morning, together with hisother letters.     Three identical forms accompanied the booklet which POSAT sent inresponse to the three inquiries. The booklet gave no more informationthan had the original advertisement, but with considerable morevolubility. It promised the recipient the secrets of the Cosmos and thekey that would unlock the hidden knowledge within himself—if he wouldmerely fill out the enclosed form.     Bill Evans, the unemployed pharmacist, let the paper lie unanswered forseveral days. To be quite honest, he was disappointed. Although he hadmentally disclaimed all belief in anything that POSAT might offer, hehad watched the return mails with anticipation. His own resources werealmost at an end, and he had reached the point where intervention bysomething supernatural, or at least superhuman, seemed the only hope.     He had hoped, unreasonably, that POSAT had an answer. But time layheavily upon him, and he used it one evening to write the requestedinformation—about his employment (ha!), his religious beliefs, hisreason for inquiring about POSAT, his financial situation. Withoutquite knowing that he did so, he communicated in his terse answers someof his desperation and sense of futility.     Miss Arnable was delighted with the opportunity for autobiographicalcomposition. It required five extra sheets of paper to convey all theinformation that she wished to give—all about her poor, dear fatherwho had been a missionary to China, and the kinship that she felttoward the mystic cults of the East, her belief that her cats werereincarnations of her loved ones (which, she stated, derived from areligion of the Persians; or was it the Egyptians?) and in her completeand absolute acceptance of everything that POSAT had stated in theirbooklet. And what would the dues be? She wished to join immediately.Fortunately, dear father had left her in a comfortable financialsituation.     To Donald Alford, the booklet seemed to confirm his suspicion thatPOSAT was a racket of some sort. Why else would they be interested inhis employment or financial position? It also served to increase hiscuriosity.     What do you suppose they're driving at? he asked his wife Betty,handing her the booklet and questionnaire.     I don't really know what to say, she answered, squinting a little asshe usually did when puzzled. I know one thing, though, and that'sthat you won't stop until you find out!     The scientific attitude, he acknowledged with a grin.     Why don't you fill out this questionnaire incognito, though? shesuggested. Pretend that we're wealthy and see if they try to get ourmoney. Do they have anything yet except your name and address?     Don was shocked. If I send this back to them, it will have to be withcorrect answers!     The scientific attitude again, Betty sighed. Don't you ever let yourimagination run away with the facts a bit? What are you going to givefor your reasons for asking about POSAT?     Curiosity, he replied, and, pulling his fountain pen from his vestpocket, he wrote exactly that, in small, neat script.     It was unfortunate for his curiosity that Don could not see thecontents of the three envelopes that were mailed from the offices ofPOSAT the following week. For this time they differed.     Bill Evans was once again disappointed. The pamphlet that was enclosedgave what apparently meant to be final answers to life's problems. Theywere couched in vaguely metaphysical terms and offered absolutely nohelp to him.     His disappointment was tempered, however, by the knowledge that hehad unexpectedly found a job. Or, rather, it had fallen into his lap.When he had thought that every avenue of employment had been tried, aposition had been offered him in a wholesale pharmacy in the olderindustrial part of the city. It was not a particularly attractive placeto work, located as it was next to a large warehouse, but to him it washope for the future.     It amused him to discover that the offices of POSAT were located on theother side of the same warehouse, at the end of a blind alley. Blindalley indeed! He felt vaguely ashamed for having placed any confidencein them.     Miss Arnable was thrilled to discover that her envelope contained notonly several pamphlets, (she scanned the titles rapidly and found thatone of them concerned the sacred cats of ancient Egypt), but that itcontained also a small pin with the symbol of POSAT wrought in gold andblack enamel. The covering letter said that she had been accepted as anactive member of POSAT and that the dues were five dollars per month;please remit by return mail. She wrote a check immediately, and settledcontentedly into a chair to peruse the article on sacred cats.     After a while she began to read aloud so that her own cats could enjoyit, too.     Don Alford would not have been surprised if his envelope had showncontents similar to the ones that the others received. The foldedsheets of paper that he pulled forth, however, made him stiffen withsharp surprise.       Come here a minute, Betty, he called, spreading them out carefully onthe dining room table. What do you make of these?     She came, dish cloth in hand, and thoughtfully examined them, one byone. Multiple choice questions! It looks like a psychological test ofsome sort.     This isn't the kind of thing I expected them to send me, worriedDon. Look at the type of thing they ask. 'If you had discovereda new and virulent poison that could be compounded from commonhousehold ingredients, would you (1) publish the information in adaily newspaper, (2) manufacture it secretly and sell it as rodentexterminator, (3) give the information to the armed forces for useas a secret weapon, or (4) withhold the information entirely as toodangerous to be passed on?'     Could they be a spy ring? asked Betty. Subversive agents? Anxious tofind out your scientific secrets like that classified stuff that you'reso careful of when you bring it home from the lab?     Don scanned the papers quickly. There's nothing here that looks likean attempt to get information. Besides, I've told them nothing aboutmy work except that I do research in physics. They don't even knowwhat company I work for. If this is a psychological test, it measuresattitudes, nothing else. Why should they want to know my attitudes?     Do you suppose that POSAT is really what it claims to be—a secretsociety—and that they actually screen their applicants?     He smiled wryly. Wouldn't it be interesting if I didn't make the gradeafter starting out to expose their racket?     He pulled out his pen and sat down to the task of resolving thedilemmas before him.     His next communication from POSAT came to his business address and,paradoxically, was more personal than its forerunners.     Dear Doctor Alford:     We have examined with interest the information that you have sent tous. We are happy to inform you that, thus far, you have satisfied therequirements for membership in the Perpetual Order of Seekers AfterTruth. Before accepting new members into this ancient and honorablesecret society, we find it desirable that they have a personalinterview with the Grand Chairman of POSAT.     Accordingly, you are cordially invited to an audience with our GrandChairman on Tuesday, July 10, at 2:30 P.M. Please let us know if thisarrangement is acceptable to you. If not, we will attempt to makeanother appointment for you.     The time specified for the appointment was hardly a convenient onefor Don. At 2:30 P.M. on most Tuesdays, he would be at work in thelaboratory. And while his employers made no complaint if he took hisresearch problems home with him and worried over them half the night,they were not equally enthusiastic when he used working hours forpursuing unrelated interests. Moreover, the headquarters of POSAT wasin a town almost a hundred miles distant. Could he afford to take awhole day off for chasing will-o-wisps?     It hardly seemed worth the trouble. He wondered if Betty would bedisappointed if he dropped the whole matter. Since the letter had beensent to the laboratory instead of his home, he couldn't consult herabout it without telephoning.       Since the letter had been sent to the laboratory instead of his home!     But it was impossible!     He searched feverishly through his pile of daily mail for theenvelope in which the letter had come. The address stared up at him,unmistakably and fearfully legible. The name of his company. The numberof the room he worked in. In short, the address that he had never giventhem!     Get hold of yourself, he commanded his frightened mind. There's someperfectly logical, easy explanation for this. They looked it up in thedirectory of the Institute of Physics. Or in the alumni directory ofthe university. Or—or—     But the more he thought about it, the more sinister it seemed. Hislaboratory address was available, but why should POSAT take the troubleof looking it up? Some prudent impulse had led him to withhold thatparticular bit of information, yet now, for some reason of their own,POSAT had unearthed the information.     His wife's words echoed in his mind, Could they be a spy ring?Subversive agents?     Don shook his head as though to clear away the confusion. Hisconservative habit of thought made him reject that explanation as toomelodramatic.     At least one decision was easier to reach because of his doubts. Now heknew he had to keep his appointment with the Grand Chairman of POSAT.     He scribbled a memo to the department office stating that he would notbe at work on Tuesday.  At first Don Alford had some trouble locating the POSAT headquarters.It seemed to him that the block in which the street number would fallwas occupied entirely by a huge sprawling warehouse, of concreteconstruction, and almost entirely windowless. It was recessed from thestreet in several places to make room for the small, shabby buildingsof a wholesale pharmacy, a printer's plant, an upholstering shop, andwas also indented by alleys lined with loading platforms.     It was at the back of one of the alleys that he finally found a doormarked with the now familiar emblem of POSAT.     He opened the frosted glass door with a feeling of misgiving, and faceda dark flight of stairs leading to the upper floor. Somewhere above hima buzzer sounded, evidently indicating his arrival. He picked his wayup through the murky stairwell.     The reception room was hardly a cheerful place, with its battered deskfacing the view of the empty alley, and a film of dust obscuring thepattern of the gray-looking wallpaper and worn rug. But the light ofthe summer afternoon filtering through the window scattered the gloomsomewhat, enough to help Don doubt that he would find the menace herethat he had come to expect.     The girl addressing envelopes at the desk looked very ordinary.      Notthe Mata-Hari type     , thought Don, with an inward chuckle at his ownsuspicions. He handed her the letter.     She smiled. We've been expecting you, Dr. Alford. If you'll just stepinto the next room—     She opened a door opposite the stairwell, and Don stepped through it.     The sight of the luxurious room before him struck his eyes with theshock of a dentist's drill, so great was the contrast between it andthe shabby reception room. For a moment Don had difficulty breathing.The rug—Don had seen one like it before, but it had been in a museum.The paintings on the walls, ornately framed in gilt carving, weresurely old masters—of the Renaissance period, he guessed. Although herecognized none of the pictures, he felt that he could almost name theartists. That glowing one near the corner would probably be a Titian.Or was it Tintorretto? He regretted for a moment the lost opportunitiesof his college days, when he had passed up Art History in favor ofOperational Circuit Analysis.     The girl opened a filing cabinet, the front of which was set flush withthe wall, and, selecting a folder from it, disappeared through anotherdoor.     Don sprang to examine the picture near the corner. It was hung at eyelevel—that is, at the eye level of the average person. Don had to bendover a bit to see it properly. He searched for a signature. Apparentlythere was none. But did artists sign their pictures back in thosedays? He wished he knew more about such things.     Each of the paintings was individually lighted by a fluorescent tubeheld on brackets directly above it. As Don straightened up from hisscrutiny of the picture, he inadvertently hit his head against thelight. The tube, dislodged from its brackets, fell to the rug with amuffled thud.       Now I've done it!     thought Don with dismay. But at least the tubehadn't shattered.     In fact—it was still glowing brightly! His eyes registered the fact,even while his mind refused to believe it. He raised his eyes to thebrackets. They were simple pieces of solid hardware designed to supportthe tube.     There were no wires!     Don picked up the slender, glowing cylinder and held it betweentrembling fingers. Although it was delivering as much light as a twoor three hundred watt bulb, it was cool to the touch. He examined itminutely. There was no possibility of concealed batteries.     The thumping of his heart was caused not by the fact that he had neverseen a similar tube before, but because he had. He had never heldone in his hands, though. The ones which his company had produced asexperimental models had been unsuccessful at converting all of theradioactivity into light, and had, of necessity, been heavily shielded.     Right now, two of his colleagues back in the laboratory would stillbe searching for the right combination of fluorescent materialand radioactive salts with which to make the simple, efficient,self-contained lighting unit that he was holding in his hand at thismoment!       But this is impossible!     he thought.      We're the only company that'sworking on this, and it's secret. There can't be any in actualproduction!       And even if one had actually been successfully produced, how would ithave fallen into the possession of POSAT, an Ancient Secret Society,The Perpetual Order of Seekers After Truth?     The conviction grew in Don's mind that here was something much deeperand more sinister than he would be able to cope with. He should haveasked for help, should have stated his suspicions to the police or theF.B.I. Even now—     With sudden decision, he thrust the lighting tube into his pocket andstepped swiftly to the outer door. He grasped the knob and shook itimpatiently when it stuck and refused to turn. He yanked at it. Hisimpatience changed to panic. It was locked!     A soft sound behind him made him whirl about. The secretary hadentered again through the inner door. She glanced at the vacant lightbracket, then significantly at his bulging pocket. Her gaze was stillas bland and innocent as when he had entered, but to Don she no longerseemed ordinary. Her very calmness in the face of his odd actions wasdistressingly ominous.     Our Grand Chairman will see you now, she said in a quiet voice.     Don realized that he was half crouched in the position of an animalexpecting attack. He straightened up with what dignity he could manageto find.     She opened the inner door again and Don followed her into what hesupposed to be the office of the Grand Chairman of POSAT.     Instead he found himself on a balcony along the side of a vast room,which must have been the interior of the warehouse that he had notedoutside. The girl motioned him toward the far end of the balcony, wherea frosted glass door marked the office of the Grand Chairman.       But Don could not will his legs to move. His heart beat at the sight ofthe room below him. It was a laboratory, but a laboratory the like ofwhich he had never seen before. Most of the equipment was unfamiliarto him. Whatever he did recognize was of a different design than he hadever used, and there was something about it that convinced him thatthis was more advanced. The men who bent busily over their instrumentsdid not raise their eyes to the figures on the balcony.     Good Lord! Don gasped. That's an atomic reactor down there! Therecould be no doubt about it, even though he could see it only obscurelythrough the bluish-green plastic shielding it.     His thoughts were so clamorous that he hardly realized that he hadspoken aloud, or that the door at the end of the balcony had opened.     He was only dimly aware of the approaching footsteps as he speculatedwildly on the nature of the shielding material. What could be so densethat only an inch would provide adequate shielding and yet remainsemitransparent?     His scientist's mind applauded the genius who had developed it, even asthe alarming conviction grew that he wouldn't—couldn't—be allowed toleave here any more. Surely no man would be allowed to leave this placealive to tell the fantastic story to the world!     Hello, Don, said a quiet voice beside him. It's good to see youagain.     Dr. Crandon! he heard his own voice reply.       You're     the GrandChairman of POSAT?     He felt betrayed and sick at heart. The very voice with whichCrandon had spoken conjured up visions of quiet lecture halls andhis own youthful excitement at the masterful and orderly disclosureof scientific facts. To find him here in this mad and treacherousplace—didn't anything make sense any longer?     I think we have rather abused you, Don, Dr. Crandon continued. Hisvoice sounded so gentle that Don found it hard to think there was anyevil in it. I can see that you are suspicious of us, and—yes—afraid.  Don stared at the scene below him. After his initial glance to confirmhis identification of Crandon, Don could not bear to look at him.     Crandon's voice suddenly hardened, became abrupt. You're partly rightabout us, of course. I hate to think how many laws this organizationhas broken. Don't condemn us yet, though. You'll be a member yourselfbefore the day is over.     Don was shocked by such confidence in his corruptibility.     What do you use? he asked bitterly. Drugs? Hypnosis?     Crandon sighed. I forgot how little you know, Don. I have a longstory to tell you. You'll find it hard to believe at first. But try totrust me. Try to believe me, as you once did. When I say that much ofwhat POSAT does is illegal, I do not mean immoral. We're probably themost moral organization in the world. Get over the idea that you havestumbled into a den of thieves.     Crandon paused as though searching for words with which to continue.     Did you notice the paintings in the waiting room as you entered?     Don nodded, too bewildered to speak.     They were donated by the founder of our Organization. They were partof his personal collection—which, incidentally, he bought from theartists themselves. He also designed the atomic reactor we use forpower here in the laboratory.     Then the pictures are modern, said Don, aware that his mouth washanging open foolishly. I thought one was a Titian—     It is, said Crandon. We have several original Titians, although Ireally don't know too much about them.     But how could a man alive      today     buy paintings from an artist of theRenaissance?     He is not alive today. POSAT is actually what our advertisementsclaim—an      ancient     secret society. Our founder has been dead for overfour centuries.     But you said that he designed your atomic reactor.     Yes. This particular one has been in use for only twenty years,however.     Don's confusion was complete. Crandon looked at him kindly. Let'sstart at the beginning, he said, and Don was back again in theclassroom with the deep voice of Professor Crandon unfolding thepages of knowledge in clear and logical manner. Four hundred yearsago, in the time of the Italian Renaissance, a man lived who was asuper-genius. His was the kind of incredible mentality that appears notin every generation, or even every century, but once in thousands ofyears.     Probably the man who invented what we call the phonetic alphabet wasone like him. That man lived seven thousand years ago in Mesopotamia,and his discovery was so original, so far from the natural courseof man's thinking, that not once in the intervening seven thousandyears has that device been rediscovered. It still exists only in thecivilizations to which it has been passed on directly.     The super-genius who was our founder was not a semanticist. He wasa physical scientist and mathematician. Starting with the meagerheritage that existed in these fields in his time, he began tacklingphysical puzzles one by one. Sitting in his study, using as hisprincipal tool his own great mind, he invented calculus, developed thequantum theory of light, moved on to electromagnetic radiation and whatwe call Maxwell's equations—although, of course, he antedated Maxwellby centuries—developed the special and general theories of relativity,the tool of wave mechanics, and finally, toward the end of his life, hemathematically derived the packing fraction that describes the bindingenergy of nuclei—     But it can't be done, Don objected. It's an observed phenomenon. Ithasn't been derived. Every conservative instinct that he possessedcried out against this impossible fantasy. And yet—there sat thereactor, sheathed in its strange shield. Crandon watched the directionof Don's glance.     Yes, the reactor, said Crandon. He built one like it. It confirmedhis theories. His calculations showed him something else too. He sawthe destructive potentialities of an atomic explosion. He himself couldnot have built an atomic bomb; he didn't have the facilities. But hisknowledge would have enabled other men to do so. He looked abouthim. He saw a political setup of warring principalities, rival states,intrigue, and squabbles over political power. Giving the men of histime atomic energy would have been like handing a baby a firecrackerwith a lighted fuse.     What should he have done? Let his secrets die with him? Hedidn't think so. No one else in his age could have      derived     theknowledge that he did. But it was an age of brilliant men. Leonardo.Michelangelo. There were men capable of      learning     his science, even asmen can learn it today. He gathered some of them together and foundedthis society. It served two purposes. It perpetuated his discoveriesand at the same time it maintained the greatest secrecy about them. Heurged that the secrets be kept until the time when men could use themsafely. The other purpose was to make that time come about as soon aspossible.     Crandon looked at Don's unbelieving face. How can I make you see thatit is the truth? Think of the eons that man or manlike creatures havewalked the Earth. Think what a small fraction of that time is fourhundred years. Is it so strange that atomic energy was discovered alittle early, by this displacement in time that is so tiny after all?     But by one man, Don argued.     Crandon shrugged. Compared with him, Don, you and I are stupid men.So are the scientists who slowly plodded down the same road he hadcome, stumbling first on one truth and then the succeeding one. We knowthat inventions and discoveries do not occur at random. Each is basedon the one that preceded it. We are all aware of the phenomenon ofsimultaneous invention. The path to truth is a straight one. It is onlyour own stupidity that makes it seem slow and tortuous.     He merely followed the straight path, Crandon finished simply.  Don's incredulity thawed a little. It was not entirely beyond the realmof possibility.     But if it were true! A vast panorama of possible achievements spreadbefore him.     Four hundred years! he murmured with awe. You've had four hundredyears head-start on the rest of the world! What wonders you must haveuncovered in that time!     Our technical achievements may disappoint you, warned Crandon.Oh, they're way beyond anything that you are familiar with. You'veundoubtedly noticed the shielding material on the reactor. That's afairly recent development of our metallurgical department. There areother things in the laboratory that I can't even explain to you untilyou have caught up on the technical basis for understanding them.     Our emphasis has not been on physical sciences, however, except asthey contribute to our central project. We want to change civilizationso that it can use physical science without disaster.     For a moment Don had been fired with enthusiasm. But at these words hisheart sank.     Then you've failed, he said bitterly. In spite of centuries ofadvance warning, you've failed to change the rest of us enough toprevent us from trying to blow ourselves off the Earth. Here we are,still snarling and snapping at our neighbors' throats—and we've caughtup with you. We have the atomic bomb. What's POSAT been doing all thattime? Or have you found that human nature really can't be changed?     Come with me, said Crandon.     He led the way along the narrow balcony to another door, then down asteep flight of stairs. He opened a door at the bottom, and Don sawwhat must have been the world's largest computing machine.     This is our answer, said Crandon. Oh, rather, it's the tool by whichwe find our answer. For two centuries we have been working on thenewest of the sciences—that of human motivation. Soon we will be readyto put some of our new knowledge to work. But you are right in onerespect, we are working now against time. We must hurry if we are tosave our civilization. That's why you are here. We have work for you todo. Will you join us, Don?     But why the hocus-pocus? asked Don. Why do you hide behind such aweird front as POSAT? Why do you advertise in magazines and invite justanyone to join? Why didn't you approach me directly, if you have workfor me to do? And if you really have the answers to our problems, whyhaven't you gathered together all the scientists in the world to workon this project—before it's too late?     Crandon took a sighing breath. How I wish that we could do just that!But you forget that one of the prime purposes of our organization isto maintain the secrecy of our discoveries until they can be safelydisclosed. We must be absolutely certain that anyone who enters thisbuilding will have joined POSAT before he leaves. What if we approachedthe wrong scientist? Centuries of accomplishment might be wasted ifthey attempted either to reveal it or to exploit it!     Do you recall the questionnaires that you answered before you wereinvited here? We fed the answers to this machine and, as a result, weknow more about how you will react in any given situation than you doyourself. Even if you should fail to join us, our secrets would besafe with you. Of course, we miss a few of the scientists who mightbe perfect material for our organization. You'd be surprised, though,at how clever our advertisements are at attracting exactly the men wewant. With the help of our new science, we have baited our ads well,and we know how to maintain interest. Curiosity is, to the men we want,a powerful motivator.     But what about the others? asked Don. There must be hundreds ofapplicants who would be of no use to you at all.     Oh, yes, replied Crandon. There are the mild religious fanatics. Weenroll them as members and keep them interested by sending pamphlets inline with their interests. We even let them contribute to our upkeep,if they seem to want to. They never get beyond the reception room ifthey come to call on us. But they are additional people through whom wecan act when the time finally comes.     There are also the desperate people who try POSAT as a lastresort—lost ones who can't find their direction in life. For them weput into practice some of our newly won knowledge. We rehabilitatethem—anonymously, of course. Even find jobs or patch up homes. It'sgood practice for us.     I think I've answered most of your questions, Don. But you haven'tanswered mine. Will you join us?     Don looked solemnly at the orderly array of the computer before him.He had one more question.     Will it really work? Can it actually tell you how to motivate thestubborn, quarrelsome, opinionated people one finds on this Earth?     Crandon smiled. You're here, aren't you?     Don nodded, his tense features relaxing.     Enroll me as a member, he said.   ","In 1953, an advertisement for the Perpetual Order of Seekers After Truth appears in magazines. The ad claims that POSAT is an ancient secret society looking for new members. Three individuals send away to receive a free booklet from them. Bill is a pharmacist who is down on his luck and out of a job. Elizabeth is a wealthy woman who lives with cats. Don is a research physicist who has a successful career and a wife, Betty. POSAT sends Bill, Elizabeth, and Don three identical forms in the mail and asks for their responses. Bill is initially skeptical, but he hopes that POSAT will be able to turn his life around in some unexpected way. He answers the questions about his employment, religion, and finances. Elizabeth does the same enthusiastically. Although Don believes it’s a scam, he can’t squash his own curiosity, and he sends his answers in.In return, Bill receives a pamphlet with vague descriptions for how to solve life’s problems. He finds the material useless, but he isn’t disappointed because he just landed a new job. Elizabeth discovers that she has been accepted into the society, and she must pay $5 a month. Lastly, Don receives a multiple choice exam, which he answers and sends back.Don receives a request to meet with the Grand Chairman at his work, and this surprises him because he never gave them his work address. He finds the warehouse and sees that it is windowless, rundown, and dirty. However, the waiting room contains beautiful rugs and paintings in ornate frames. He realizes that each painting is lit with a glowing tube that does not contain batteries, and he puts one of the lights in his pocket. It shocks him because his workplace is the only laboratory working on this exact product. He no longer trusts what is going on at POSAT and tries to leave, but the door is locked. Don is brought upstairs, and his fear increases when he looks into a high tech laboratory and sees scientists working on an atomic reactor. Dr. Crandon, Don’s former professor, appears and introduces himself as the Grand Chairman. He tells Don that POSAT has been around for over four hundred years, and its founder invented the atomic reactor. He did not have the technology to build it, and he realized that humanity was not ready for such a weapon. He decided to share his knowledge with other geniuses and keep it all a secret. Their goal was to get humanity to a point where information could be shared without the threat of violence and death. Crandon shows Don the world’s biggest computer, which is meant to learn humans’ motivation. Don’s test was put into the computer, and his responses indicate that he will join POSAT and be a valuable member. Bill was given a job to improve his life, and Elizabeth feels included and contributes financially. Don decides to join the secret society and work towards a more peaceful planet. "
"Describe the setting of the story. </s>     What is POSAT?     By PHYLLIS STERLING SMITH     Illustrated by ED ALEXANDER     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction September 1951.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Of course coming events cast their shadows     before, but this shadow was 400 years long!      The following advertisement appeared in the July 1953 issue of severalmagazines:     MASTERY OF ALL KNOWLEDGE CAN BE YOURS!     What is the secret source of those profound     principles that can solve the problems of life?     Send for our FREE booklet of explanation.     Do not be a leaf in the wind! YOU     can alter the course of your life!     Tap the treasury of Wisdom through the ages!     The Perpetual Order of Seekers After Truth     POSAT     an ancient secret society     Most readers passed it by with scarcely a glance. It was, after all,similar to the many that had appeared through the years under thename of that same society. Other readers, as their eyes slid over thefamiliar format of the ad, speculated idly about the persistent andmildly mysterious organization behind it. A few even resolved to clipthe attached coupon and send for the booklet—sometime—when a pen orpencil was nearer at hand.     Bill Evans, an unemployed pharmacist, saw the ad in a copy of      YourLife and Psychology     that had been abandoned on his seat in the bus.He filled out the blanks on the coupon with a scrap of stubby pencil.You can alter the course of your life! he read again. He particularlyliked that thought, even though he had long since ceased to believeit. He actually took the trouble to mail the coupon. After all, hehad, literally, nothing to lose, and nothing else to occupy his time.     Miss Elizabeth Arnable was one of the few to whom the advertisementwas unfamiliar. As a matter of fact, she very seldom read a magazine.The radio in her room took the place of reading matter, and she alwaysliked to think that it amused her cats as well as herself. Readingwould be so selfish under the circumstances, wouldn't it? Not but whatthe cats weren't almost smart enough to read, she always said.     It just so happened, however, that she had bought a copy of the      Antivivisectionist Gazette     the day before. She pounced upon the POSATad as a trout might snap at a particularly attractive fly. Havingfilled out the coupon with violet ink, she invented an errand thatwould take her past the neighborhood post office so that she could postit as soon as possible.     Donald Alford, research physicist, came across the POSAT ad tucked atthe bottom of a column in      The Bulletin of Physical Research     . He wasengrossed in the latest paper by Dr. Crandon, a man whom he admiredfrom the point of view of both a former student and a fellow researchworker. Consequently, he was one of the many who passed over the POSATad with the disregard accorded to any common object.     He read with interest to the end of the article before he realized thatsome component of the advertisement had been noted by a region of hisbrain just beyond consciousness. It teased at him like a tickle thatcouldn't be scratched until he turned back to the page.     It was the symbol or emblem of POSAT, he realized, that had caught hisattention. The perpendicularly crossed ellipses centered with a smallblack circle might almost be a conventionalized version of the Bohratom of helium. He smiled with mild skepticism as he read through theprinted matter that accompanied it.     I wonder what their racket is, he mused. Then, because his typewriterwas conveniently at hand, he carefully tore out the coupon and insertedit in the machine. The spacing of the typewriter didn't fit the dottedlines on the coupon, of course, but he didn't bother to correct it.He addressed an envelope, laid it with other mail to be posted, andpromptly forgot all about it. Since he was a methodical man, it wasentrusted to the U.S. mail early the next morning, together with hisother letters.     Three identical forms accompanied the booklet which POSAT sent inresponse to the three inquiries. The booklet gave no more informationthan had the original advertisement, but with considerable morevolubility. It promised the recipient the secrets of the Cosmos and thekey that would unlock the hidden knowledge within himself—if he wouldmerely fill out the enclosed form.     Bill Evans, the unemployed pharmacist, let the paper lie unanswered forseveral days. To be quite honest, he was disappointed. Although he hadmentally disclaimed all belief in anything that POSAT might offer, hehad watched the return mails with anticipation. His own resources werealmost at an end, and he had reached the point where intervention bysomething supernatural, or at least superhuman, seemed the only hope.     He had hoped, unreasonably, that POSAT had an answer. But time layheavily upon him, and he used it one evening to write the requestedinformation—about his employment (ha!), his religious beliefs, hisreason for inquiring about POSAT, his financial situation. Withoutquite knowing that he did so, he communicated in his terse answers someof his desperation and sense of futility.     Miss Arnable was delighted with the opportunity for autobiographicalcomposition. It required five extra sheets of paper to convey all theinformation that she wished to give—all about her poor, dear fatherwho had been a missionary to China, and the kinship that she felttoward the mystic cults of the East, her belief that her cats werereincarnations of her loved ones (which, she stated, derived from areligion of the Persians; or was it the Egyptians?) and in her completeand absolute acceptance of everything that POSAT had stated in theirbooklet. And what would the dues be? She wished to join immediately.Fortunately, dear father had left her in a comfortable financialsituation.     To Donald Alford, the booklet seemed to confirm his suspicion thatPOSAT was a racket of some sort. Why else would they be interested inhis employment or financial position? It also served to increase hiscuriosity.     What do you suppose they're driving at? he asked his wife Betty,handing her the booklet and questionnaire.     I don't really know what to say, she answered, squinting a little asshe usually did when puzzled. I know one thing, though, and that'sthat you won't stop until you find out!     The scientific attitude, he acknowledged with a grin.     Why don't you fill out this questionnaire incognito, though? shesuggested. Pretend that we're wealthy and see if they try to get ourmoney. Do they have anything yet except your name and address?     Don was shocked. If I send this back to them, it will have to be withcorrect answers!     The scientific attitude again, Betty sighed. Don't you ever let yourimagination run away with the facts a bit? What are you going to givefor your reasons for asking about POSAT?     Curiosity, he replied, and, pulling his fountain pen from his vestpocket, he wrote exactly that, in small, neat script.     It was unfortunate for his curiosity that Don could not see thecontents of the three envelopes that were mailed from the offices ofPOSAT the following week. For this time they differed.     Bill Evans was once again disappointed. The pamphlet that was enclosedgave what apparently meant to be final answers to life's problems. Theywere couched in vaguely metaphysical terms and offered absolutely nohelp to him.     His disappointment was tempered, however, by the knowledge that hehad unexpectedly found a job. Or, rather, it had fallen into his lap.When he had thought that every avenue of employment had been tried, aposition had been offered him in a wholesale pharmacy in the olderindustrial part of the city. It was not a particularly attractive placeto work, located as it was next to a large warehouse, but to him it washope for the future.     It amused him to discover that the offices of POSAT were located on theother side of the same warehouse, at the end of a blind alley. Blindalley indeed! He felt vaguely ashamed for having placed any confidencein them.     Miss Arnable was thrilled to discover that her envelope contained notonly several pamphlets, (she scanned the titles rapidly and found thatone of them concerned the sacred cats of ancient Egypt), but that itcontained also a small pin with the symbol of POSAT wrought in gold andblack enamel. The covering letter said that she had been accepted as anactive member of POSAT and that the dues were five dollars per month;please remit by return mail. She wrote a check immediately, and settledcontentedly into a chair to peruse the article on sacred cats.     After a while she began to read aloud so that her own cats could enjoyit, too.     Don Alford would not have been surprised if his envelope had showncontents similar to the ones that the others received. The foldedsheets of paper that he pulled forth, however, made him stiffen withsharp surprise.       Come here a minute, Betty, he called, spreading them out carefully onthe dining room table. What do you make of these?     She came, dish cloth in hand, and thoughtfully examined them, one byone. Multiple choice questions! It looks like a psychological test ofsome sort.     This isn't the kind of thing I expected them to send me, worriedDon. Look at the type of thing they ask. 'If you had discovereda new and virulent poison that could be compounded from commonhousehold ingredients, would you (1) publish the information in adaily newspaper, (2) manufacture it secretly and sell it as rodentexterminator, (3) give the information to the armed forces for useas a secret weapon, or (4) withhold the information entirely as toodangerous to be passed on?'     Could they be a spy ring? asked Betty. Subversive agents? Anxious tofind out your scientific secrets like that classified stuff that you'reso careful of when you bring it home from the lab?     Don scanned the papers quickly. There's nothing here that looks likean attempt to get information. Besides, I've told them nothing aboutmy work except that I do research in physics. They don't even knowwhat company I work for. If this is a psychological test, it measuresattitudes, nothing else. Why should they want to know my attitudes?     Do you suppose that POSAT is really what it claims to be—a secretsociety—and that they actually screen their applicants?     He smiled wryly. Wouldn't it be interesting if I didn't make the gradeafter starting out to expose their racket?     He pulled out his pen and sat down to the task of resolving thedilemmas before him.     His next communication from POSAT came to his business address and,paradoxically, was more personal than its forerunners.     Dear Doctor Alford:     We have examined with interest the information that you have sent tous. We are happy to inform you that, thus far, you have satisfied therequirements for membership in the Perpetual Order of Seekers AfterTruth. Before accepting new members into this ancient and honorablesecret society, we find it desirable that they have a personalinterview with the Grand Chairman of POSAT.     Accordingly, you are cordially invited to an audience with our GrandChairman on Tuesday, July 10, at 2:30 P.M. Please let us know if thisarrangement is acceptable to you. If not, we will attempt to makeanother appointment for you.     The time specified for the appointment was hardly a convenient onefor Don. At 2:30 P.M. on most Tuesdays, he would be at work in thelaboratory. And while his employers made no complaint if he took hisresearch problems home with him and worried over them half the night,they were not equally enthusiastic when he used working hours forpursuing unrelated interests. Moreover, the headquarters of POSAT wasin a town almost a hundred miles distant. Could he afford to take awhole day off for chasing will-o-wisps?     It hardly seemed worth the trouble. He wondered if Betty would bedisappointed if he dropped the whole matter. Since the letter had beensent to the laboratory instead of his home, he couldn't consult herabout it without telephoning.       Since the letter had been sent to the laboratory instead of his home!     But it was impossible!     He searched feverishly through his pile of daily mail for theenvelope in which the letter had come. The address stared up at him,unmistakably and fearfully legible. The name of his company. The numberof the room he worked in. In short, the address that he had never giventhem!     Get hold of yourself, he commanded his frightened mind. There's someperfectly logical, easy explanation for this. They looked it up in thedirectory of the Institute of Physics. Or in the alumni directory ofthe university. Or—or—     But the more he thought about it, the more sinister it seemed. Hislaboratory address was available, but why should POSAT take the troubleof looking it up? Some prudent impulse had led him to withhold thatparticular bit of information, yet now, for some reason of their own,POSAT had unearthed the information.     His wife's words echoed in his mind, Could they be a spy ring?Subversive agents?     Don shook his head as though to clear away the confusion. Hisconservative habit of thought made him reject that explanation as toomelodramatic.     At least one decision was easier to reach because of his doubts. Now heknew he had to keep his appointment with the Grand Chairman of POSAT.     He scribbled a memo to the department office stating that he would notbe at work on Tuesday.  At first Don Alford had some trouble locating the POSAT headquarters.It seemed to him that the block in which the street number would fallwas occupied entirely by a huge sprawling warehouse, of concreteconstruction, and almost entirely windowless. It was recessed from thestreet in several places to make room for the small, shabby buildingsof a wholesale pharmacy, a printer's plant, an upholstering shop, andwas also indented by alleys lined with loading platforms.     It was at the back of one of the alleys that he finally found a doormarked with the now familiar emblem of POSAT.     He opened the frosted glass door with a feeling of misgiving, and faceda dark flight of stairs leading to the upper floor. Somewhere above hima buzzer sounded, evidently indicating his arrival. He picked his wayup through the murky stairwell.     The reception room was hardly a cheerful place, with its battered deskfacing the view of the empty alley, and a film of dust obscuring thepattern of the gray-looking wallpaper and worn rug. But the light ofthe summer afternoon filtering through the window scattered the gloomsomewhat, enough to help Don doubt that he would find the menace herethat he had come to expect.     The girl addressing envelopes at the desk looked very ordinary.      Notthe Mata-Hari type     , thought Don, with an inward chuckle at his ownsuspicions. He handed her the letter.     She smiled. We've been expecting you, Dr. Alford. If you'll just stepinto the next room—     She opened a door opposite the stairwell, and Don stepped through it.     The sight of the luxurious room before him struck his eyes with theshock of a dentist's drill, so great was the contrast between it andthe shabby reception room. For a moment Don had difficulty breathing.The rug—Don had seen one like it before, but it had been in a museum.The paintings on the walls, ornately framed in gilt carving, weresurely old masters—of the Renaissance period, he guessed. Although herecognized none of the pictures, he felt that he could almost name theartists. That glowing one near the corner would probably be a Titian.Or was it Tintorretto? He regretted for a moment the lost opportunitiesof his college days, when he had passed up Art History in favor ofOperational Circuit Analysis.     The girl opened a filing cabinet, the front of which was set flush withthe wall, and, selecting a folder from it, disappeared through anotherdoor.     Don sprang to examine the picture near the corner. It was hung at eyelevel—that is, at the eye level of the average person. Don had to bendover a bit to see it properly. He searched for a signature. Apparentlythere was none. But did artists sign their pictures back in thosedays? He wished he knew more about such things.     Each of the paintings was individually lighted by a fluorescent tubeheld on brackets directly above it. As Don straightened up from hisscrutiny of the picture, he inadvertently hit his head against thelight. The tube, dislodged from its brackets, fell to the rug with amuffled thud.       Now I've done it!     thought Don with dismay. But at least the tubehadn't shattered.     In fact—it was still glowing brightly! His eyes registered the fact,even while his mind refused to believe it. He raised his eyes to thebrackets. They were simple pieces of solid hardware designed to supportthe tube.     There were no wires!     Don picked up the slender, glowing cylinder and held it betweentrembling fingers. Although it was delivering as much light as a twoor three hundred watt bulb, it was cool to the touch. He examined itminutely. There was no possibility of concealed batteries.     The thumping of his heart was caused not by the fact that he had neverseen a similar tube before, but because he had. He had never heldone in his hands, though. The ones which his company had produced asexperimental models had been unsuccessful at converting all of theradioactivity into light, and had, of necessity, been heavily shielded.     Right now, two of his colleagues back in the laboratory would stillbe searching for the right combination of fluorescent materialand radioactive salts with which to make the simple, efficient,self-contained lighting unit that he was holding in his hand at thismoment!       But this is impossible!     he thought.      We're the only company that'sworking on this, and it's secret. There can't be any in actualproduction!       And even if one had actually been successfully produced, how would ithave fallen into the possession of POSAT, an Ancient Secret Society,The Perpetual Order of Seekers After Truth?     The conviction grew in Don's mind that here was something much deeperand more sinister than he would be able to cope with. He should haveasked for help, should have stated his suspicions to the police or theF.B.I. Even now—     With sudden decision, he thrust the lighting tube into his pocket andstepped swiftly to the outer door. He grasped the knob and shook itimpatiently when it stuck and refused to turn. He yanked at it. Hisimpatience changed to panic. It was locked!     A soft sound behind him made him whirl about. The secretary hadentered again through the inner door. She glanced at the vacant lightbracket, then significantly at his bulging pocket. Her gaze was stillas bland and innocent as when he had entered, but to Don she no longerseemed ordinary. Her very calmness in the face of his odd actions wasdistressingly ominous.     Our Grand Chairman will see you now, she said in a quiet voice.     Don realized that he was half crouched in the position of an animalexpecting attack. He straightened up with what dignity he could manageto find.     She opened the inner door again and Don followed her into what hesupposed to be the office of the Grand Chairman of POSAT.     Instead he found himself on a balcony along the side of a vast room,which must have been the interior of the warehouse that he had notedoutside. The girl motioned him toward the far end of the balcony, wherea frosted glass door marked the office of the Grand Chairman.       But Don could not will his legs to move. His heart beat at the sight ofthe room below him. It was a laboratory, but a laboratory the like ofwhich he had never seen before. Most of the equipment was unfamiliarto him. Whatever he did recognize was of a different design than he hadever used, and there was something about it that convinced him thatthis was more advanced. The men who bent busily over their instrumentsdid not raise their eyes to the figures on the balcony.     Good Lord! Don gasped. That's an atomic reactor down there! Therecould be no doubt about it, even though he could see it only obscurelythrough the bluish-green plastic shielding it.     His thoughts were so clamorous that he hardly realized that he hadspoken aloud, or that the door at the end of the balcony had opened.     He was only dimly aware of the approaching footsteps as he speculatedwildly on the nature of the shielding material. What could be so densethat only an inch would provide adequate shielding and yet remainsemitransparent?     His scientist's mind applauded the genius who had developed it, even asthe alarming conviction grew that he wouldn't—couldn't—be allowed toleave here any more. Surely no man would be allowed to leave this placealive to tell the fantastic story to the world!     Hello, Don, said a quiet voice beside him. It's good to see youagain.     Dr. Crandon! he heard his own voice reply.       You're     the GrandChairman of POSAT?     He felt betrayed and sick at heart. The very voice with whichCrandon had spoken conjured up visions of quiet lecture halls andhis own youthful excitement at the masterful and orderly disclosureof scientific facts. To find him here in this mad and treacherousplace—didn't anything make sense any longer?     I think we have rather abused you, Don, Dr. Crandon continued. Hisvoice sounded so gentle that Don found it hard to think there was anyevil in it. I can see that you are suspicious of us, and—yes—afraid.  Don stared at the scene below him. After his initial glance to confirmhis identification of Crandon, Don could not bear to look at him.     Crandon's voice suddenly hardened, became abrupt. You're partly rightabout us, of course. I hate to think how many laws this organizationhas broken. Don't condemn us yet, though. You'll be a member yourselfbefore the day is over.     Don was shocked by such confidence in his corruptibility.     What do you use? he asked bitterly. Drugs? Hypnosis?     Crandon sighed. I forgot how little you know, Don. I have a longstory to tell you. You'll find it hard to believe at first. But try totrust me. Try to believe me, as you once did. When I say that much ofwhat POSAT does is illegal, I do not mean immoral. We're probably themost moral organization in the world. Get over the idea that you havestumbled into a den of thieves.     Crandon paused as though searching for words with which to continue.     Did you notice the paintings in the waiting room as you entered?     Don nodded, too bewildered to speak.     They were donated by the founder of our Organization. They were partof his personal collection—which, incidentally, he bought from theartists themselves. He also designed the atomic reactor we use forpower here in the laboratory.     Then the pictures are modern, said Don, aware that his mouth washanging open foolishly. I thought one was a Titian—     It is, said Crandon. We have several original Titians, although Ireally don't know too much about them.     But how could a man alive      today     buy paintings from an artist of theRenaissance?     He is not alive today. POSAT is actually what our advertisementsclaim—an      ancient     secret society. Our founder has been dead for overfour centuries.     But you said that he designed your atomic reactor.     Yes. This particular one has been in use for only twenty years,however.     Don's confusion was complete. Crandon looked at him kindly. Let'sstart at the beginning, he said, and Don was back again in theclassroom with the deep voice of Professor Crandon unfolding thepages of knowledge in clear and logical manner. Four hundred yearsago, in the time of the Italian Renaissance, a man lived who was asuper-genius. His was the kind of incredible mentality that appears notin every generation, or even every century, but once in thousands ofyears.     Probably the man who invented what we call the phonetic alphabet wasone like him. That man lived seven thousand years ago in Mesopotamia,and his discovery was so original, so far from the natural courseof man's thinking, that not once in the intervening seven thousandyears has that device been rediscovered. It still exists only in thecivilizations to which it has been passed on directly.     The super-genius who was our founder was not a semanticist. He wasa physical scientist and mathematician. Starting with the meagerheritage that existed in these fields in his time, he began tacklingphysical puzzles one by one. Sitting in his study, using as hisprincipal tool his own great mind, he invented calculus, developed thequantum theory of light, moved on to electromagnetic radiation and whatwe call Maxwell's equations—although, of course, he antedated Maxwellby centuries—developed the special and general theories of relativity,the tool of wave mechanics, and finally, toward the end of his life, hemathematically derived the packing fraction that describes the bindingenergy of nuclei—     But it can't be done, Don objected. It's an observed phenomenon. Ithasn't been derived. Every conservative instinct that he possessedcried out against this impossible fantasy. And yet—there sat thereactor, sheathed in its strange shield. Crandon watched the directionof Don's glance.     Yes, the reactor, said Crandon. He built one like it. It confirmedhis theories. His calculations showed him something else too. He sawthe destructive potentialities of an atomic explosion. He himself couldnot have built an atomic bomb; he didn't have the facilities. But hisknowledge would have enabled other men to do so. He looked abouthim. He saw a political setup of warring principalities, rival states,intrigue, and squabbles over political power. Giving the men of histime atomic energy would have been like handing a baby a firecrackerwith a lighted fuse.     What should he have done? Let his secrets die with him? Hedidn't think so. No one else in his age could have      derived     theknowledge that he did. But it was an age of brilliant men. Leonardo.Michelangelo. There were men capable of      learning     his science, even asmen can learn it today. He gathered some of them together and foundedthis society. It served two purposes. It perpetuated his discoveriesand at the same time it maintained the greatest secrecy about them. Heurged that the secrets be kept until the time when men could use themsafely. The other purpose was to make that time come about as soon aspossible.     Crandon looked at Don's unbelieving face. How can I make you see thatit is the truth? Think of the eons that man or manlike creatures havewalked the Earth. Think what a small fraction of that time is fourhundred years. Is it so strange that atomic energy was discovered alittle early, by this displacement in time that is so tiny after all?     But by one man, Don argued.     Crandon shrugged. Compared with him, Don, you and I are stupid men.So are the scientists who slowly plodded down the same road he hadcome, stumbling first on one truth and then the succeeding one. We knowthat inventions and discoveries do not occur at random. Each is basedon the one that preceded it. We are all aware of the phenomenon ofsimultaneous invention. The path to truth is a straight one. It is onlyour own stupidity that makes it seem slow and tortuous.     He merely followed the straight path, Crandon finished simply.  Don's incredulity thawed a little. It was not entirely beyond the realmof possibility.     But if it were true! A vast panorama of possible achievements spreadbefore him.     Four hundred years! he murmured with awe. You've had four hundredyears head-start on the rest of the world! What wonders you must haveuncovered in that time!     Our technical achievements may disappoint you, warned Crandon.Oh, they're way beyond anything that you are familiar with. You'veundoubtedly noticed the shielding material on the reactor. That's afairly recent development of our metallurgical department. There areother things in the laboratory that I can't even explain to you untilyou have caught up on the technical basis for understanding them.     Our emphasis has not been on physical sciences, however, except asthey contribute to our central project. We want to change civilizationso that it can use physical science without disaster.     For a moment Don had been fired with enthusiasm. But at these words hisheart sank.     Then you've failed, he said bitterly. In spite of centuries ofadvance warning, you've failed to change the rest of us enough toprevent us from trying to blow ourselves off the Earth. Here we are,still snarling and snapping at our neighbors' throats—and we've caughtup with you. We have the atomic bomb. What's POSAT been doing all thattime? Or have you found that human nature really can't be changed?     Come with me, said Crandon.     He led the way along the narrow balcony to another door, then down asteep flight of stairs. He opened a door at the bottom, and Don sawwhat must have been the world's largest computing machine.     This is our answer, said Crandon. Oh, rather, it's the tool by whichwe find our answer. For two centuries we have been working on thenewest of the sciences—that of human motivation. Soon we will be readyto put some of our new knowledge to work. But you are right in onerespect, we are working now against time. We must hurry if we are tosave our civilization. That's why you are here. We have work for you todo. Will you join us, Don?     But why the hocus-pocus? asked Don. Why do you hide behind such aweird front as POSAT? Why do you advertise in magazines and invite justanyone to join? Why didn't you approach me directly, if you have workfor me to do? And if you really have the answers to our problems, whyhaven't you gathered together all the scientists in the world to workon this project—before it's too late?     Crandon took a sighing breath. How I wish that we could do just that!But you forget that one of the prime purposes of our organization isto maintain the secrecy of our discoveries until they can be safelydisclosed. We must be absolutely certain that anyone who enters thisbuilding will have joined POSAT before he leaves. What if we approachedthe wrong scientist? Centuries of accomplishment might be wasted ifthey attempted either to reveal it or to exploit it!     Do you recall the questionnaires that you answered before you wereinvited here? We fed the answers to this machine and, as a result, weknow more about how you will react in any given situation than you doyourself. Even if you should fail to join us, our secrets would besafe with you. Of course, we miss a few of the scientists who mightbe perfect material for our organization. You'd be surprised, though,at how clever our advertisements are at attracting exactly the men wewant. With the help of our new science, we have baited our ads well,and we know how to maintain interest. Curiosity is, to the men we want,a powerful motivator.     But what about the others? asked Don. There must be hundreds ofapplicants who would be of no use to you at all.     Oh, yes, replied Crandon. There are the mild religious fanatics. Weenroll them as members and keep them interested by sending pamphlets inline with their interests. We even let them contribute to our upkeep,if they seem to want to. They never get beyond the reception room ifthey come to call on us. But they are additional people through whom wecan act when the time finally comes.     There are also the desperate people who try POSAT as a lastresort—lost ones who can't find their direction in life. For them weput into practice some of our newly won knowledge. We rehabilitatethem—anonymously, of course. Even find jobs or patch up homes. It'sgood practice for us.     I think I've answered most of your questions, Don. But you haven'tanswered mine. Will you join us?     Don looked solemnly at the orderly array of the computer before him.He had one more question.     Will it really work? Can it actually tell you how to motivate thestubborn, quarrelsome, opinionated people one finds on this Earth?     Crandon smiled. You're here, aren't you?     Don nodded, his tense features relaxing.     Enroll me as a member, he said.   ","“What is POSAT?” takes place in an unspecified city. Three of the characters, Bill, Elizabeth, and Don, lead ordinary lives and hold typical jobs. Don is a physicist, and the laboratory he works at is located about 100 miles away from the POSAT headquarters. The POSAT headquarters is the main setting described in the story. It is located at the end of an alley in an unassuming warehouse, next to a wholesale pharmacy, an upholstery shop, and a printer’s plant. The building is almost entirely windowless, and the only sign that the secret society is housed there is the organization’s emblem on its door. Visitors enter a dark room with a staircase. A buzzer goes off to let the employees of POSAT know that someone has arrived. The reception room is dusty and highly unimpressive. The wallpaper and rugs are worn out and gray, and the woman who works at the beat-up reception desk is average looking. The next room that some visitors are allowed access to is entirely different from the first. There are gorgeous Renaissance paintings on the walls, framed with ornate gold decoration and lit up with individual lights. The rug is lush, and the room is impeccably clean. Finally, when visitors are invited to meet with the Grand Chairman, they must enter a balcony area located in the interior of the warehouse. There is a frosted glass door with the Grand Chairman’s name on it. On the lower floor, there is a laboratory that is visible from the balcony. The lab contains advanced equipment that is not available anywhere else in the world. It also houses an atomic reactor that is shielded by a bluish-green invention that is about an inch thick The shield is semi-transparent but also incredibly strong. Beneath the balcony, down a steep flight of stairs, there is a gigantic computing machine. Everything that goes on in the POSAT building must remain confidential, and very few individuals are told the secrets of the ancient society. "
"Why is Mr. Crandon an important character in the story? </s>     What is POSAT?     By PHYLLIS STERLING SMITH     Illustrated by ED ALEXANDER     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction September 1951.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Of course coming events cast their shadows     before, but this shadow was 400 years long!      The following advertisement appeared in the July 1953 issue of severalmagazines:     MASTERY OF ALL KNOWLEDGE CAN BE YOURS!     What is the secret source of those profound     principles that can solve the problems of life?     Send for our FREE booklet of explanation.     Do not be a leaf in the wind! YOU     can alter the course of your life!     Tap the treasury of Wisdom through the ages!     The Perpetual Order of Seekers After Truth     POSAT     an ancient secret society     Most readers passed it by with scarcely a glance. It was, after all,similar to the many that had appeared through the years under thename of that same society. Other readers, as their eyes slid over thefamiliar format of the ad, speculated idly about the persistent andmildly mysterious organization behind it. A few even resolved to clipthe attached coupon and send for the booklet—sometime—when a pen orpencil was nearer at hand.     Bill Evans, an unemployed pharmacist, saw the ad in a copy of      YourLife and Psychology     that had been abandoned on his seat in the bus.He filled out the blanks on the coupon with a scrap of stubby pencil.You can alter the course of your life! he read again. He particularlyliked that thought, even though he had long since ceased to believeit. He actually took the trouble to mail the coupon. After all, hehad, literally, nothing to lose, and nothing else to occupy his time.     Miss Elizabeth Arnable was one of the few to whom the advertisementwas unfamiliar. As a matter of fact, she very seldom read a magazine.The radio in her room took the place of reading matter, and she alwaysliked to think that it amused her cats as well as herself. Readingwould be so selfish under the circumstances, wouldn't it? Not but whatthe cats weren't almost smart enough to read, she always said.     It just so happened, however, that she had bought a copy of the      Antivivisectionist Gazette     the day before. She pounced upon the POSATad as a trout might snap at a particularly attractive fly. Havingfilled out the coupon with violet ink, she invented an errand thatwould take her past the neighborhood post office so that she could postit as soon as possible.     Donald Alford, research physicist, came across the POSAT ad tucked atthe bottom of a column in      The Bulletin of Physical Research     . He wasengrossed in the latest paper by Dr. Crandon, a man whom he admiredfrom the point of view of both a former student and a fellow researchworker. Consequently, he was one of the many who passed over the POSATad with the disregard accorded to any common object.     He read with interest to the end of the article before he realized thatsome component of the advertisement had been noted by a region of hisbrain just beyond consciousness. It teased at him like a tickle thatcouldn't be scratched until he turned back to the page.     It was the symbol or emblem of POSAT, he realized, that had caught hisattention. The perpendicularly crossed ellipses centered with a smallblack circle might almost be a conventionalized version of the Bohratom of helium. He smiled with mild skepticism as he read through theprinted matter that accompanied it.     I wonder what their racket is, he mused. Then, because his typewriterwas conveniently at hand, he carefully tore out the coupon and insertedit in the machine. The spacing of the typewriter didn't fit the dottedlines on the coupon, of course, but he didn't bother to correct it.He addressed an envelope, laid it with other mail to be posted, andpromptly forgot all about it. Since he was a methodical man, it wasentrusted to the U.S. mail early the next morning, together with hisother letters.     Three identical forms accompanied the booklet which POSAT sent inresponse to the three inquiries. The booklet gave no more informationthan had the original advertisement, but with considerable morevolubility. It promised the recipient the secrets of the Cosmos and thekey that would unlock the hidden knowledge within himself—if he wouldmerely fill out the enclosed form.     Bill Evans, the unemployed pharmacist, let the paper lie unanswered forseveral days. To be quite honest, he was disappointed. Although he hadmentally disclaimed all belief in anything that POSAT might offer, hehad watched the return mails with anticipation. His own resources werealmost at an end, and he had reached the point where intervention bysomething supernatural, or at least superhuman, seemed the only hope.     He had hoped, unreasonably, that POSAT had an answer. But time layheavily upon him, and he used it one evening to write the requestedinformation—about his employment (ha!), his religious beliefs, hisreason for inquiring about POSAT, his financial situation. Withoutquite knowing that he did so, he communicated in his terse answers someof his desperation and sense of futility.     Miss Arnable was delighted with the opportunity for autobiographicalcomposition. It required five extra sheets of paper to convey all theinformation that she wished to give—all about her poor, dear fatherwho had been a missionary to China, and the kinship that she felttoward the mystic cults of the East, her belief that her cats werereincarnations of her loved ones (which, she stated, derived from areligion of the Persians; or was it the Egyptians?) and in her completeand absolute acceptance of everything that POSAT had stated in theirbooklet. And what would the dues be? She wished to join immediately.Fortunately, dear father had left her in a comfortable financialsituation.     To Donald Alford, the booklet seemed to confirm his suspicion thatPOSAT was a racket of some sort. Why else would they be interested inhis employment or financial position? It also served to increase hiscuriosity.     What do you suppose they're driving at? he asked his wife Betty,handing her the booklet and questionnaire.     I don't really know what to say, she answered, squinting a little asshe usually did when puzzled. I know one thing, though, and that'sthat you won't stop until you find out!     The scientific attitude, he acknowledged with a grin.     Why don't you fill out this questionnaire incognito, though? shesuggested. Pretend that we're wealthy and see if they try to get ourmoney. Do they have anything yet except your name and address?     Don was shocked. If I send this back to them, it will have to be withcorrect answers!     The scientific attitude again, Betty sighed. Don't you ever let yourimagination run away with the facts a bit? What are you going to givefor your reasons for asking about POSAT?     Curiosity, he replied, and, pulling his fountain pen from his vestpocket, he wrote exactly that, in small, neat script.     It was unfortunate for his curiosity that Don could not see thecontents of the three envelopes that were mailed from the offices ofPOSAT the following week. For this time they differed.     Bill Evans was once again disappointed. The pamphlet that was enclosedgave what apparently meant to be final answers to life's problems. Theywere couched in vaguely metaphysical terms and offered absolutely nohelp to him.     His disappointment was tempered, however, by the knowledge that hehad unexpectedly found a job. Or, rather, it had fallen into his lap.When he had thought that every avenue of employment had been tried, aposition had been offered him in a wholesale pharmacy in the olderindustrial part of the city. It was not a particularly attractive placeto work, located as it was next to a large warehouse, but to him it washope for the future.     It amused him to discover that the offices of POSAT were located on theother side of the same warehouse, at the end of a blind alley. Blindalley indeed! He felt vaguely ashamed for having placed any confidencein them.     Miss Arnable was thrilled to discover that her envelope contained notonly several pamphlets, (she scanned the titles rapidly and found thatone of them concerned the sacred cats of ancient Egypt), but that itcontained also a small pin with the symbol of POSAT wrought in gold andblack enamel. The covering letter said that she had been accepted as anactive member of POSAT and that the dues were five dollars per month;please remit by return mail. She wrote a check immediately, and settledcontentedly into a chair to peruse the article on sacred cats.     After a while she began to read aloud so that her own cats could enjoyit, too.     Don Alford would not have been surprised if his envelope had showncontents similar to the ones that the others received. The foldedsheets of paper that he pulled forth, however, made him stiffen withsharp surprise.       Come here a minute, Betty, he called, spreading them out carefully onthe dining room table. What do you make of these?     She came, dish cloth in hand, and thoughtfully examined them, one byone. Multiple choice questions! It looks like a psychological test ofsome sort.     This isn't the kind of thing I expected them to send me, worriedDon. Look at the type of thing they ask. 'If you had discovereda new and virulent poison that could be compounded from commonhousehold ingredients, would you (1) publish the information in adaily newspaper, (2) manufacture it secretly and sell it as rodentexterminator, (3) give the information to the armed forces for useas a secret weapon, or (4) withhold the information entirely as toodangerous to be passed on?'     Could they be a spy ring? asked Betty. Subversive agents? Anxious tofind out your scientific secrets like that classified stuff that you'reso careful of when you bring it home from the lab?     Don scanned the papers quickly. There's nothing here that looks likean attempt to get information. Besides, I've told them nothing aboutmy work except that I do research in physics. They don't even knowwhat company I work for. If this is a psychological test, it measuresattitudes, nothing else. Why should they want to know my attitudes?     Do you suppose that POSAT is really what it claims to be—a secretsociety—and that they actually screen their applicants?     He smiled wryly. Wouldn't it be interesting if I didn't make the gradeafter starting out to expose their racket?     He pulled out his pen and sat down to the task of resolving thedilemmas before him.     His next communication from POSAT came to his business address and,paradoxically, was more personal than its forerunners.     Dear Doctor Alford:     We have examined with interest the information that you have sent tous. We are happy to inform you that, thus far, you have satisfied therequirements for membership in the Perpetual Order of Seekers AfterTruth. Before accepting new members into this ancient and honorablesecret society, we find it desirable that they have a personalinterview with the Grand Chairman of POSAT.     Accordingly, you are cordially invited to an audience with our GrandChairman on Tuesday, July 10, at 2:30 P.M. Please let us know if thisarrangement is acceptable to you. If not, we will attempt to makeanother appointment for you.     The time specified for the appointment was hardly a convenient onefor Don. At 2:30 P.M. on most Tuesdays, he would be at work in thelaboratory. And while his employers made no complaint if he took hisresearch problems home with him and worried over them half the night,they were not equally enthusiastic when he used working hours forpursuing unrelated interests. Moreover, the headquarters of POSAT wasin a town almost a hundred miles distant. Could he afford to take awhole day off for chasing will-o-wisps?     It hardly seemed worth the trouble. He wondered if Betty would bedisappointed if he dropped the whole matter. Since the letter had beensent to the laboratory instead of his home, he couldn't consult herabout it without telephoning.       Since the letter had been sent to the laboratory instead of his home!     But it was impossible!     He searched feverishly through his pile of daily mail for theenvelope in which the letter had come. The address stared up at him,unmistakably and fearfully legible. The name of his company. The numberof the room he worked in. In short, the address that he had never giventhem!     Get hold of yourself, he commanded his frightened mind. There's someperfectly logical, easy explanation for this. They looked it up in thedirectory of the Institute of Physics. Or in the alumni directory ofthe university. Or—or—     But the more he thought about it, the more sinister it seemed. Hislaboratory address was available, but why should POSAT take the troubleof looking it up? Some prudent impulse had led him to withhold thatparticular bit of information, yet now, for some reason of their own,POSAT had unearthed the information.     His wife's words echoed in his mind, Could they be a spy ring?Subversive agents?     Don shook his head as though to clear away the confusion. Hisconservative habit of thought made him reject that explanation as toomelodramatic.     At least one decision was easier to reach because of his doubts. Now heknew he had to keep his appointment with the Grand Chairman of POSAT.     He scribbled a memo to the department office stating that he would notbe at work on Tuesday.  At first Don Alford had some trouble locating the POSAT headquarters.It seemed to him that the block in which the street number would fallwas occupied entirely by a huge sprawling warehouse, of concreteconstruction, and almost entirely windowless. It was recessed from thestreet in several places to make room for the small, shabby buildingsof a wholesale pharmacy, a printer's plant, an upholstering shop, andwas also indented by alleys lined with loading platforms.     It was at the back of one of the alleys that he finally found a doormarked with the now familiar emblem of POSAT.     He opened the frosted glass door with a feeling of misgiving, and faceda dark flight of stairs leading to the upper floor. Somewhere above hima buzzer sounded, evidently indicating his arrival. He picked his wayup through the murky stairwell.     The reception room was hardly a cheerful place, with its battered deskfacing the view of the empty alley, and a film of dust obscuring thepattern of the gray-looking wallpaper and worn rug. But the light ofthe summer afternoon filtering through the window scattered the gloomsomewhat, enough to help Don doubt that he would find the menace herethat he had come to expect.     The girl addressing envelopes at the desk looked very ordinary.      Notthe Mata-Hari type     , thought Don, with an inward chuckle at his ownsuspicions. He handed her the letter.     She smiled. We've been expecting you, Dr. Alford. If you'll just stepinto the next room—     She opened a door opposite the stairwell, and Don stepped through it.     The sight of the luxurious room before him struck his eyes with theshock of a dentist's drill, so great was the contrast between it andthe shabby reception room. For a moment Don had difficulty breathing.The rug—Don had seen one like it before, but it had been in a museum.The paintings on the walls, ornately framed in gilt carving, weresurely old masters—of the Renaissance period, he guessed. Although herecognized none of the pictures, he felt that he could almost name theartists. That glowing one near the corner would probably be a Titian.Or was it Tintorretto? He regretted for a moment the lost opportunitiesof his college days, when he had passed up Art History in favor ofOperational Circuit Analysis.     The girl opened a filing cabinet, the front of which was set flush withthe wall, and, selecting a folder from it, disappeared through anotherdoor.     Don sprang to examine the picture near the corner. It was hung at eyelevel—that is, at the eye level of the average person. Don had to bendover a bit to see it properly. He searched for a signature. Apparentlythere was none. But did artists sign their pictures back in thosedays? He wished he knew more about such things.     Each of the paintings was individually lighted by a fluorescent tubeheld on brackets directly above it. As Don straightened up from hisscrutiny of the picture, he inadvertently hit his head against thelight. The tube, dislodged from its brackets, fell to the rug with amuffled thud.       Now I've done it!     thought Don with dismay. But at least the tubehadn't shattered.     In fact—it was still glowing brightly! His eyes registered the fact,even while his mind refused to believe it. He raised his eyes to thebrackets. They were simple pieces of solid hardware designed to supportthe tube.     There were no wires!     Don picked up the slender, glowing cylinder and held it betweentrembling fingers. Although it was delivering as much light as a twoor three hundred watt bulb, it was cool to the touch. He examined itminutely. There was no possibility of concealed batteries.     The thumping of his heart was caused not by the fact that he had neverseen a similar tube before, but because he had. He had never heldone in his hands, though. The ones which his company had produced asexperimental models had been unsuccessful at converting all of theradioactivity into light, and had, of necessity, been heavily shielded.     Right now, two of his colleagues back in the laboratory would stillbe searching for the right combination of fluorescent materialand radioactive salts with which to make the simple, efficient,self-contained lighting unit that he was holding in his hand at thismoment!       But this is impossible!     he thought.      We're the only company that'sworking on this, and it's secret. There can't be any in actualproduction!       And even if one had actually been successfully produced, how would ithave fallen into the possession of POSAT, an Ancient Secret Society,The Perpetual Order of Seekers After Truth?     The conviction grew in Don's mind that here was something much deeperand more sinister than he would be able to cope with. He should haveasked for help, should have stated his suspicions to the police or theF.B.I. Even now—     With sudden decision, he thrust the lighting tube into his pocket andstepped swiftly to the outer door. He grasped the knob and shook itimpatiently when it stuck and refused to turn. He yanked at it. Hisimpatience changed to panic. It was locked!     A soft sound behind him made him whirl about. The secretary hadentered again through the inner door. She glanced at the vacant lightbracket, then significantly at his bulging pocket. Her gaze was stillas bland and innocent as when he had entered, but to Don she no longerseemed ordinary. Her very calmness in the face of his odd actions wasdistressingly ominous.     Our Grand Chairman will see you now, she said in a quiet voice.     Don realized that he was half crouched in the position of an animalexpecting attack. He straightened up with what dignity he could manageto find.     She opened the inner door again and Don followed her into what hesupposed to be the office of the Grand Chairman of POSAT.     Instead he found himself on a balcony along the side of a vast room,which must have been the interior of the warehouse that he had notedoutside. The girl motioned him toward the far end of the balcony, wherea frosted glass door marked the office of the Grand Chairman.       But Don could not will his legs to move. His heart beat at the sight ofthe room below him. It was a laboratory, but a laboratory the like ofwhich he had never seen before. Most of the equipment was unfamiliarto him. Whatever he did recognize was of a different design than he hadever used, and there was something about it that convinced him thatthis was more advanced. The men who bent busily over their instrumentsdid not raise their eyes to the figures on the balcony.     Good Lord! Don gasped. That's an atomic reactor down there! Therecould be no doubt about it, even though he could see it only obscurelythrough the bluish-green plastic shielding it.     His thoughts were so clamorous that he hardly realized that he hadspoken aloud, or that the door at the end of the balcony had opened.     He was only dimly aware of the approaching footsteps as he speculatedwildly on the nature of the shielding material. What could be so densethat only an inch would provide adequate shielding and yet remainsemitransparent?     His scientist's mind applauded the genius who had developed it, even asthe alarming conviction grew that he wouldn't—couldn't—be allowed toleave here any more. Surely no man would be allowed to leave this placealive to tell the fantastic story to the world!     Hello, Don, said a quiet voice beside him. It's good to see youagain.     Dr. Crandon! he heard his own voice reply.       You're     the GrandChairman of POSAT?     He felt betrayed and sick at heart. The very voice with whichCrandon had spoken conjured up visions of quiet lecture halls andhis own youthful excitement at the masterful and orderly disclosureof scientific facts. To find him here in this mad and treacherousplace—didn't anything make sense any longer?     I think we have rather abused you, Don, Dr. Crandon continued. Hisvoice sounded so gentle that Don found it hard to think there was anyevil in it. I can see that you are suspicious of us, and—yes—afraid.  Don stared at the scene below him. After his initial glance to confirmhis identification of Crandon, Don could not bear to look at him.     Crandon's voice suddenly hardened, became abrupt. You're partly rightabout us, of course. I hate to think how many laws this organizationhas broken. Don't condemn us yet, though. You'll be a member yourselfbefore the day is over.     Don was shocked by such confidence in his corruptibility.     What do you use? he asked bitterly. Drugs? Hypnosis?     Crandon sighed. I forgot how little you know, Don. I have a longstory to tell you. You'll find it hard to believe at first. But try totrust me. Try to believe me, as you once did. When I say that much ofwhat POSAT does is illegal, I do not mean immoral. We're probably themost moral organization in the world. Get over the idea that you havestumbled into a den of thieves.     Crandon paused as though searching for words with which to continue.     Did you notice the paintings in the waiting room as you entered?     Don nodded, too bewildered to speak.     They were donated by the founder of our Organization. They were partof his personal collection—which, incidentally, he bought from theartists themselves. He also designed the atomic reactor we use forpower here in the laboratory.     Then the pictures are modern, said Don, aware that his mouth washanging open foolishly. I thought one was a Titian—     It is, said Crandon. We have several original Titians, although Ireally don't know too much about them.     But how could a man alive      today     buy paintings from an artist of theRenaissance?     He is not alive today. POSAT is actually what our advertisementsclaim—an      ancient     secret society. Our founder has been dead for overfour centuries.     But you said that he designed your atomic reactor.     Yes. This particular one has been in use for only twenty years,however.     Don's confusion was complete. Crandon looked at him kindly. Let'sstart at the beginning, he said, and Don was back again in theclassroom with the deep voice of Professor Crandon unfolding thepages of knowledge in clear and logical manner. Four hundred yearsago, in the time of the Italian Renaissance, a man lived who was asuper-genius. His was the kind of incredible mentality that appears notin every generation, or even every century, but once in thousands ofyears.     Probably the man who invented what we call the phonetic alphabet wasone like him. That man lived seven thousand years ago in Mesopotamia,and his discovery was so original, so far from the natural courseof man's thinking, that not once in the intervening seven thousandyears has that device been rediscovered. It still exists only in thecivilizations to which it has been passed on directly.     The super-genius who was our founder was not a semanticist. He wasa physical scientist and mathematician. Starting with the meagerheritage that existed in these fields in his time, he began tacklingphysical puzzles one by one. Sitting in his study, using as hisprincipal tool his own great mind, he invented calculus, developed thequantum theory of light, moved on to electromagnetic radiation and whatwe call Maxwell's equations—although, of course, he antedated Maxwellby centuries—developed the special and general theories of relativity,the tool of wave mechanics, and finally, toward the end of his life, hemathematically derived the packing fraction that describes the bindingenergy of nuclei—     But it can't be done, Don objected. It's an observed phenomenon. Ithasn't been derived. Every conservative instinct that he possessedcried out against this impossible fantasy. And yet—there sat thereactor, sheathed in its strange shield. Crandon watched the directionof Don's glance.     Yes, the reactor, said Crandon. He built one like it. It confirmedhis theories. His calculations showed him something else too. He sawthe destructive potentialities of an atomic explosion. He himself couldnot have built an atomic bomb; he didn't have the facilities. But hisknowledge would have enabled other men to do so. He looked abouthim. He saw a political setup of warring principalities, rival states,intrigue, and squabbles over political power. Giving the men of histime atomic energy would have been like handing a baby a firecrackerwith a lighted fuse.     What should he have done? Let his secrets die with him? Hedidn't think so. No one else in his age could have      derived     theknowledge that he did. But it was an age of brilliant men. Leonardo.Michelangelo. There were men capable of      learning     his science, even asmen can learn it today. He gathered some of them together and foundedthis society. It served two purposes. It perpetuated his discoveriesand at the same time it maintained the greatest secrecy about them. Heurged that the secrets be kept until the time when men could use themsafely. The other purpose was to make that time come about as soon aspossible.     Crandon looked at Don's unbelieving face. How can I make you see thatit is the truth? Think of the eons that man or manlike creatures havewalked the Earth. Think what a small fraction of that time is fourhundred years. Is it so strange that atomic energy was discovered alittle early, by this displacement in time that is so tiny after all?     But by one man, Don argued.     Crandon shrugged. Compared with him, Don, you and I are stupid men.So are the scientists who slowly plodded down the same road he hadcome, stumbling first on one truth and then the succeeding one. We knowthat inventions and discoveries do not occur at random. Each is basedon the one that preceded it. We are all aware of the phenomenon ofsimultaneous invention. The path to truth is a straight one. It is onlyour own stupidity that makes it seem slow and tortuous.     He merely followed the straight path, Crandon finished simply.  Don's incredulity thawed a little. It was not entirely beyond the realmof possibility.     But if it were true! A vast panorama of possible achievements spreadbefore him.     Four hundred years! he murmured with awe. You've had four hundredyears head-start on the rest of the world! What wonders you must haveuncovered in that time!     Our technical achievements may disappoint you, warned Crandon.Oh, they're way beyond anything that you are familiar with. You'veundoubtedly noticed the shielding material on the reactor. That's afairly recent development of our metallurgical department. There areother things in the laboratory that I can't even explain to you untilyou have caught up on the technical basis for understanding them.     Our emphasis has not been on physical sciences, however, except asthey contribute to our central project. We want to change civilizationso that it can use physical science without disaster.     For a moment Don had been fired with enthusiasm. But at these words hisheart sank.     Then you've failed, he said bitterly. In spite of centuries ofadvance warning, you've failed to change the rest of us enough toprevent us from trying to blow ourselves off the Earth. Here we are,still snarling and snapping at our neighbors' throats—and we've caughtup with you. We have the atomic bomb. What's POSAT been doing all thattime? Or have you found that human nature really can't be changed?     Come with me, said Crandon.     He led the way along the narrow balcony to another door, then down asteep flight of stairs. He opened a door at the bottom, and Don sawwhat must have been the world's largest computing machine.     This is our answer, said Crandon. Oh, rather, it's the tool by whichwe find our answer. For two centuries we have been working on thenewest of the sciences—that of human motivation. Soon we will be readyto put some of our new knowledge to work. But you are right in onerespect, we are working now against time. We must hurry if we are tosave our civilization. That's why you are here. We have work for you todo. Will you join us, Don?     But why the hocus-pocus? asked Don. Why do you hide behind such aweird front as POSAT? Why do you advertise in magazines and invite justanyone to join? Why didn't you approach me directly, if you have workfor me to do? And if you really have the answers to our problems, whyhaven't you gathered together all the scientists in the world to workon this project—before it's too late?     Crandon took a sighing breath. How I wish that we could do just that!But you forget that one of the prime purposes of our organization isto maintain the secrecy of our discoveries until they can be safelydisclosed. We must be absolutely certain that anyone who enters thisbuilding will have joined POSAT before he leaves. What if we approachedthe wrong scientist? Centuries of accomplishment might be wasted ifthey attempted either to reveal it or to exploit it!     Do you recall the questionnaires that you answered before you wereinvited here? We fed the answers to this machine and, as a result, weknow more about how you will react in any given situation than you doyourself. Even if you should fail to join us, our secrets would besafe with you. Of course, we miss a few of the scientists who mightbe perfect material for our organization. You'd be surprised, though,at how clever our advertisements are at attracting exactly the men wewant. With the help of our new science, we have baited our ads well,and we know how to maintain interest. Curiosity is, to the men we want,a powerful motivator.     But what about the others? asked Don. There must be hundreds ofapplicants who would be of no use to you at all.     Oh, yes, replied Crandon. There are the mild religious fanatics. Weenroll them as members and keep them interested by sending pamphlets inline with their interests. We even let them contribute to our upkeep,if they seem to want to. They never get beyond the reception room ifthey come to call on us. But they are additional people through whom wecan act when the time finally comes.     There are also the desperate people who try POSAT as a lastresort—lost ones who can't find their direction in life. For them weput into practice some of our newly won knowledge. We rehabilitatethem—anonymously, of course. Even find jobs or patch up homes. It'sgood practice for us.     I think I've answered most of your questions, Don. But you haven'tanswered mine. Will you join us?     Don looked solemnly at the orderly array of the computer before him.He had one more question.     Will it really work? Can it actually tell you how to motivate thestubborn, quarrelsome, opinionated people one finds on this Earth?     Crandon smiled. You're here, aren't you?     Don nodded, his tense features relaxing.     Enroll me as a member, he said.   ","Mr. Crandon is a member of POSAT, and he is also a professor, published author, and researcher. Don admires Mr. Crandon as an intellectual before he realizes that Crandon is also the Grand Chairman of POSAT. When Don finds out that Crandon is a member of the secret society, he is shocked. Don knows that Crandon is a highly intelligent person, and POSAT seems like a scam. When Crandon explains the truth about the ancient society, its history, its goals, and its ability to pick the finest individuals to join its ranks, Don listens carefully because of his prior connection to Crandon. Had the Grand Chairman been a complete stranger to Don, he might have written the entire experience off as a manipulative scheme or a simply impossible endeavor. After one short conversation and a tour of the building, Don is willing to join POSAT as a member. Crandon is a persuasive salesman and a true believer in the organization and its goal to make a more civil society. "
"What is the history of POSAT? </s>     What is POSAT?     By PHYLLIS STERLING SMITH     Illustrated by ED ALEXANDER     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction September 1951.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Of course coming events cast their shadows     before, but this shadow was 400 years long!      The following advertisement appeared in the July 1953 issue of severalmagazines:     MASTERY OF ALL KNOWLEDGE CAN BE YOURS!     What is the secret source of those profound     principles that can solve the problems of life?     Send for our FREE booklet of explanation.     Do not be a leaf in the wind! YOU     can alter the course of your life!     Tap the treasury of Wisdom through the ages!     The Perpetual Order of Seekers After Truth     POSAT     an ancient secret society     Most readers passed it by with scarcely a glance. It was, after all,similar to the many that had appeared through the years under thename of that same society. Other readers, as their eyes slid over thefamiliar format of the ad, speculated idly about the persistent andmildly mysterious organization behind it. A few even resolved to clipthe attached coupon and send for the booklet—sometime—when a pen orpencil was nearer at hand.     Bill Evans, an unemployed pharmacist, saw the ad in a copy of      YourLife and Psychology     that had been abandoned on his seat in the bus.He filled out the blanks on the coupon with a scrap of stubby pencil.You can alter the course of your life! he read again. He particularlyliked that thought, even though he had long since ceased to believeit. He actually took the trouble to mail the coupon. After all, hehad, literally, nothing to lose, and nothing else to occupy his time.     Miss Elizabeth Arnable was one of the few to whom the advertisementwas unfamiliar. As a matter of fact, she very seldom read a magazine.The radio in her room took the place of reading matter, and she alwaysliked to think that it amused her cats as well as herself. Readingwould be so selfish under the circumstances, wouldn't it? Not but whatthe cats weren't almost smart enough to read, she always said.     It just so happened, however, that she had bought a copy of the      Antivivisectionist Gazette     the day before. She pounced upon the POSATad as a trout might snap at a particularly attractive fly. Havingfilled out the coupon with violet ink, she invented an errand thatwould take her past the neighborhood post office so that she could postit as soon as possible.     Donald Alford, research physicist, came across the POSAT ad tucked atthe bottom of a column in      The Bulletin of Physical Research     . He wasengrossed in the latest paper by Dr. Crandon, a man whom he admiredfrom the point of view of both a former student and a fellow researchworker. Consequently, he was one of the many who passed over the POSATad with the disregard accorded to any common object.     He read with interest to the end of the article before he realized thatsome component of the advertisement had been noted by a region of hisbrain just beyond consciousness. It teased at him like a tickle thatcouldn't be scratched until he turned back to the page.     It was the symbol or emblem of POSAT, he realized, that had caught hisattention. The perpendicularly crossed ellipses centered with a smallblack circle might almost be a conventionalized version of the Bohratom of helium. He smiled with mild skepticism as he read through theprinted matter that accompanied it.     I wonder what their racket is, he mused. Then, because his typewriterwas conveniently at hand, he carefully tore out the coupon and insertedit in the machine. The spacing of the typewriter didn't fit the dottedlines on the coupon, of course, but he didn't bother to correct it.He addressed an envelope, laid it with other mail to be posted, andpromptly forgot all about it. Since he was a methodical man, it wasentrusted to the U.S. mail early the next morning, together with hisother letters.     Three identical forms accompanied the booklet which POSAT sent inresponse to the three inquiries. The booklet gave no more informationthan had the original advertisement, but with considerable morevolubility. It promised the recipient the secrets of the Cosmos and thekey that would unlock the hidden knowledge within himself—if he wouldmerely fill out the enclosed form.     Bill Evans, the unemployed pharmacist, let the paper lie unanswered forseveral days. To be quite honest, he was disappointed. Although he hadmentally disclaimed all belief in anything that POSAT might offer, hehad watched the return mails with anticipation. His own resources werealmost at an end, and he had reached the point where intervention bysomething supernatural, or at least superhuman, seemed the only hope.     He had hoped, unreasonably, that POSAT had an answer. But time layheavily upon him, and he used it one evening to write the requestedinformation—about his employment (ha!), his religious beliefs, hisreason for inquiring about POSAT, his financial situation. Withoutquite knowing that he did so, he communicated in his terse answers someof his desperation and sense of futility.     Miss Arnable was delighted with the opportunity for autobiographicalcomposition. It required five extra sheets of paper to convey all theinformation that she wished to give—all about her poor, dear fatherwho had been a missionary to China, and the kinship that she felttoward the mystic cults of the East, her belief that her cats werereincarnations of her loved ones (which, she stated, derived from areligion of the Persians; or was it the Egyptians?) and in her completeand absolute acceptance of everything that POSAT had stated in theirbooklet. And what would the dues be? She wished to join immediately.Fortunately, dear father had left her in a comfortable financialsituation.     To Donald Alford, the booklet seemed to confirm his suspicion thatPOSAT was a racket of some sort. Why else would they be interested inhis employment or financial position? It also served to increase hiscuriosity.     What do you suppose they're driving at? he asked his wife Betty,handing her the booklet and questionnaire.     I don't really know what to say, she answered, squinting a little asshe usually did when puzzled. I know one thing, though, and that'sthat you won't stop until you find out!     The scientific attitude, he acknowledged with a grin.     Why don't you fill out this questionnaire incognito, though? shesuggested. Pretend that we're wealthy and see if they try to get ourmoney. Do they have anything yet except your name and address?     Don was shocked. If I send this back to them, it will have to be withcorrect answers!     The scientific attitude again, Betty sighed. Don't you ever let yourimagination run away with the facts a bit? What are you going to givefor your reasons for asking about POSAT?     Curiosity, he replied, and, pulling his fountain pen from his vestpocket, he wrote exactly that, in small, neat script.     It was unfortunate for his curiosity that Don could not see thecontents of the three envelopes that were mailed from the offices ofPOSAT the following week. For this time they differed.     Bill Evans was once again disappointed. The pamphlet that was enclosedgave what apparently meant to be final answers to life's problems. Theywere couched in vaguely metaphysical terms and offered absolutely nohelp to him.     His disappointment was tempered, however, by the knowledge that hehad unexpectedly found a job. Or, rather, it had fallen into his lap.When he had thought that every avenue of employment had been tried, aposition had been offered him in a wholesale pharmacy in the olderindustrial part of the city. It was not a particularly attractive placeto work, located as it was next to a large warehouse, but to him it washope for the future.     It amused him to discover that the offices of POSAT were located on theother side of the same warehouse, at the end of a blind alley. Blindalley indeed! He felt vaguely ashamed for having placed any confidencein them.     Miss Arnable was thrilled to discover that her envelope contained notonly several pamphlets, (she scanned the titles rapidly and found thatone of them concerned the sacred cats of ancient Egypt), but that itcontained also a small pin with the symbol of POSAT wrought in gold andblack enamel. The covering letter said that she had been accepted as anactive member of POSAT and that the dues were five dollars per month;please remit by return mail. She wrote a check immediately, and settledcontentedly into a chair to peruse the article on sacred cats.     After a while she began to read aloud so that her own cats could enjoyit, too.     Don Alford would not have been surprised if his envelope had showncontents similar to the ones that the others received. The foldedsheets of paper that he pulled forth, however, made him stiffen withsharp surprise.       Come here a minute, Betty, he called, spreading them out carefully onthe dining room table. What do you make of these?     She came, dish cloth in hand, and thoughtfully examined them, one byone. Multiple choice questions! It looks like a psychological test ofsome sort.     This isn't the kind of thing I expected them to send me, worriedDon. Look at the type of thing they ask. 'If you had discovereda new and virulent poison that could be compounded from commonhousehold ingredients, would you (1) publish the information in adaily newspaper, (2) manufacture it secretly and sell it as rodentexterminator, (3) give the information to the armed forces for useas a secret weapon, or (4) withhold the information entirely as toodangerous to be passed on?'     Could they be a spy ring? asked Betty. Subversive agents? Anxious tofind out your scientific secrets like that classified stuff that you'reso careful of when you bring it home from the lab?     Don scanned the papers quickly. There's nothing here that looks likean attempt to get information. Besides, I've told them nothing aboutmy work except that I do research in physics. They don't even knowwhat company I work for. If this is a psychological test, it measuresattitudes, nothing else. Why should they want to know my attitudes?     Do you suppose that POSAT is really what it claims to be—a secretsociety—and that they actually screen their applicants?     He smiled wryly. Wouldn't it be interesting if I didn't make the gradeafter starting out to expose their racket?     He pulled out his pen and sat down to the task of resolving thedilemmas before him.     His next communication from POSAT came to his business address and,paradoxically, was more personal than its forerunners.     Dear Doctor Alford:     We have examined with interest the information that you have sent tous. We are happy to inform you that, thus far, you have satisfied therequirements for membership in the Perpetual Order of Seekers AfterTruth. Before accepting new members into this ancient and honorablesecret society, we find it desirable that they have a personalinterview with the Grand Chairman of POSAT.     Accordingly, you are cordially invited to an audience with our GrandChairman on Tuesday, July 10, at 2:30 P.M. Please let us know if thisarrangement is acceptable to you. If not, we will attempt to makeanother appointment for you.     The time specified for the appointment was hardly a convenient onefor Don. At 2:30 P.M. on most Tuesdays, he would be at work in thelaboratory. And while his employers made no complaint if he took hisresearch problems home with him and worried over them half the night,they were not equally enthusiastic when he used working hours forpursuing unrelated interests. Moreover, the headquarters of POSAT wasin a town almost a hundred miles distant. Could he afford to take awhole day off for chasing will-o-wisps?     It hardly seemed worth the trouble. He wondered if Betty would bedisappointed if he dropped the whole matter. Since the letter had beensent to the laboratory instead of his home, he couldn't consult herabout it without telephoning.       Since the letter had been sent to the laboratory instead of his home!     But it was impossible!     He searched feverishly through his pile of daily mail for theenvelope in which the letter had come. The address stared up at him,unmistakably and fearfully legible. The name of his company. The numberof the room he worked in. In short, the address that he had never giventhem!     Get hold of yourself, he commanded his frightened mind. There's someperfectly logical, easy explanation for this. They looked it up in thedirectory of the Institute of Physics. Or in the alumni directory ofthe university. Or—or—     But the more he thought about it, the more sinister it seemed. Hislaboratory address was available, but why should POSAT take the troubleof looking it up? Some prudent impulse had led him to withhold thatparticular bit of information, yet now, for some reason of their own,POSAT had unearthed the information.     His wife's words echoed in his mind, Could they be a spy ring?Subversive agents?     Don shook his head as though to clear away the confusion. Hisconservative habit of thought made him reject that explanation as toomelodramatic.     At least one decision was easier to reach because of his doubts. Now heknew he had to keep his appointment with the Grand Chairman of POSAT.     He scribbled a memo to the department office stating that he would notbe at work on Tuesday.  At first Don Alford had some trouble locating the POSAT headquarters.It seemed to him that the block in which the street number would fallwas occupied entirely by a huge sprawling warehouse, of concreteconstruction, and almost entirely windowless. It was recessed from thestreet in several places to make room for the small, shabby buildingsof a wholesale pharmacy, a printer's plant, an upholstering shop, andwas also indented by alleys lined with loading platforms.     It was at the back of one of the alleys that he finally found a doormarked with the now familiar emblem of POSAT.     He opened the frosted glass door with a feeling of misgiving, and faceda dark flight of stairs leading to the upper floor. Somewhere above hima buzzer sounded, evidently indicating his arrival. He picked his wayup through the murky stairwell.     The reception room was hardly a cheerful place, with its battered deskfacing the view of the empty alley, and a film of dust obscuring thepattern of the gray-looking wallpaper and worn rug. But the light ofthe summer afternoon filtering through the window scattered the gloomsomewhat, enough to help Don doubt that he would find the menace herethat he had come to expect.     The girl addressing envelopes at the desk looked very ordinary.      Notthe Mata-Hari type     , thought Don, with an inward chuckle at his ownsuspicions. He handed her the letter.     She smiled. We've been expecting you, Dr. Alford. If you'll just stepinto the next room—     She opened a door opposite the stairwell, and Don stepped through it.     The sight of the luxurious room before him struck his eyes with theshock of a dentist's drill, so great was the contrast between it andthe shabby reception room. For a moment Don had difficulty breathing.The rug—Don had seen one like it before, but it had been in a museum.The paintings on the walls, ornately framed in gilt carving, weresurely old masters—of the Renaissance period, he guessed. Although herecognized none of the pictures, he felt that he could almost name theartists. That glowing one near the corner would probably be a Titian.Or was it Tintorretto? He regretted for a moment the lost opportunitiesof his college days, when he had passed up Art History in favor ofOperational Circuit Analysis.     The girl opened a filing cabinet, the front of which was set flush withthe wall, and, selecting a folder from it, disappeared through anotherdoor.     Don sprang to examine the picture near the corner. It was hung at eyelevel—that is, at the eye level of the average person. Don had to bendover a bit to see it properly. He searched for a signature. Apparentlythere was none. But did artists sign their pictures back in thosedays? He wished he knew more about such things.     Each of the paintings was individually lighted by a fluorescent tubeheld on brackets directly above it. As Don straightened up from hisscrutiny of the picture, he inadvertently hit his head against thelight. The tube, dislodged from its brackets, fell to the rug with amuffled thud.       Now I've done it!     thought Don with dismay. But at least the tubehadn't shattered.     In fact—it was still glowing brightly! His eyes registered the fact,even while his mind refused to believe it. He raised his eyes to thebrackets. They were simple pieces of solid hardware designed to supportthe tube.     There were no wires!     Don picked up the slender, glowing cylinder and held it betweentrembling fingers. Although it was delivering as much light as a twoor three hundred watt bulb, it was cool to the touch. He examined itminutely. There was no possibility of concealed batteries.     The thumping of his heart was caused not by the fact that he had neverseen a similar tube before, but because he had. He had never heldone in his hands, though. The ones which his company had produced asexperimental models had been unsuccessful at converting all of theradioactivity into light, and had, of necessity, been heavily shielded.     Right now, two of his colleagues back in the laboratory would stillbe searching for the right combination of fluorescent materialand radioactive salts with which to make the simple, efficient,self-contained lighting unit that he was holding in his hand at thismoment!       But this is impossible!     he thought.      We're the only company that'sworking on this, and it's secret. There can't be any in actualproduction!       And even if one had actually been successfully produced, how would ithave fallen into the possession of POSAT, an Ancient Secret Society,The Perpetual Order of Seekers After Truth?     The conviction grew in Don's mind that here was something much deeperand more sinister than he would be able to cope with. He should haveasked for help, should have stated his suspicions to the police or theF.B.I. Even now—     With sudden decision, he thrust the lighting tube into his pocket andstepped swiftly to the outer door. He grasped the knob and shook itimpatiently when it stuck and refused to turn. He yanked at it. Hisimpatience changed to panic. It was locked!     A soft sound behind him made him whirl about. The secretary hadentered again through the inner door. She glanced at the vacant lightbracket, then significantly at his bulging pocket. Her gaze was stillas bland and innocent as when he had entered, but to Don she no longerseemed ordinary. Her very calmness in the face of his odd actions wasdistressingly ominous.     Our Grand Chairman will see you now, she said in a quiet voice.     Don realized that he was half crouched in the position of an animalexpecting attack. He straightened up with what dignity he could manageto find.     She opened the inner door again and Don followed her into what hesupposed to be the office of the Grand Chairman of POSAT.     Instead he found himself on a balcony along the side of a vast room,which must have been the interior of the warehouse that he had notedoutside. The girl motioned him toward the far end of the balcony, wherea frosted glass door marked the office of the Grand Chairman.       But Don could not will his legs to move. His heart beat at the sight ofthe room below him. It was a laboratory, but a laboratory the like ofwhich he had never seen before. Most of the equipment was unfamiliarto him. Whatever he did recognize was of a different design than he hadever used, and there was something about it that convinced him thatthis was more advanced. The men who bent busily over their instrumentsdid not raise their eyes to the figures on the balcony.     Good Lord! Don gasped. That's an atomic reactor down there! Therecould be no doubt about it, even though he could see it only obscurelythrough the bluish-green plastic shielding it.     His thoughts were so clamorous that he hardly realized that he hadspoken aloud, or that the door at the end of the balcony had opened.     He was only dimly aware of the approaching footsteps as he speculatedwildly on the nature of the shielding material. What could be so densethat only an inch would provide adequate shielding and yet remainsemitransparent?     His scientist's mind applauded the genius who had developed it, even asthe alarming conviction grew that he wouldn't—couldn't—be allowed toleave here any more. Surely no man would be allowed to leave this placealive to tell the fantastic story to the world!     Hello, Don, said a quiet voice beside him. It's good to see youagain.     Dr. Crandon! he heard his own voice reply.       You're     the GrandChairman of POSAT?     He felt betrayed and sick at heart. The very voice with whichCrandon had spoken conjured up visions of quiet lecture halls andhis own youthful excitement at the masterful and orderly disclosureof scientific facts. To find him here in this mad and treacherousplace—didn't anything make sense any longer?     I think we have rather abused you, Don, Dr. Crandon continued. Hisvoice sounded so gentle that Don found it hard to think there was anyevil in it. I can see that you are suspicious of us, and—yes—afraid.  Don stared at the scene below him. After his initial glance to confirmhis identification of Crandon, Don could not bear to look at him.     Crandon's voice suddenly hardened, became abrupt. You're partly rightabout us, of course. I hate to think how many laws this organizationhas broken. Don't condemn us yet, though. You'll be a member yourselfbefore the day is over.     Don was shocked by such confidence in his corruptibility.     What do you use? he asked bitterly. Drugs? Hypnosis?     Crandon sighed. I forgot how little you know, Don. I have a longstory to tell you. You'll find it hard to believe at first. But try totrust me. Try to believe me, as you once did. When I say that much ofwhat POSAT does is illegal, I do not mean immoral. We're probably themost moral organization in the world. Get over the idea that you havestumbled into a den of thieves.     Crandon paused as though searching for words with which to continue.     Did you notice the paintings in the waiting room as you entered?     Don nodded, too bewildered to speak.     They were donated by the founder of our Organization. They were partof his personal collection—which, incidentally, he bought from theartists themselves. He also designed the atomic reactor we use forpower here in the laboratory.     Then the pictures are modern, said Don, aware that his mouth washanging open foolishly. I thought one was a Titian—     It is, said Crandon. We have several original Titians, although Ireally don't know too much about them.     But how could a man alive      today     buy paintings from an artist of theRenaissance?     He is not alive today. POSAT is actually what our advertisementsclaim—an      ancient     secret society. Our founder has been dead for overfour centuries.     But you said that he designed your atomic reactor.     Yes. This particular one has been in use for only twenty years,however.     Don's confusion was complete. Crandon looked at him kindly. Let'sstart at the beginning, he said, and Don was back again in theclassroom with the deep voice of Professor Crandon unfolding thepages of knowledge in clear and logical manner. Four hundred yearsago, in the time of the Italian Renaissance, a man lived who was asuper-genius. His was the kind of incredible mentality that appears notin every generation, or even every century, but once in thousands ofyears.     Probably the man who invented what we call the phonetic alphabet wasone like him. That man lived seven thousand years ago in Mesopotamia,and his discovery was so original, so far from the natural courseof man's thinking, that not once in the intervening seven thousandyears has that device been rediscovered. It still exists only in thecivilizations to which it has been passed on directly.     The super-genius who was our founder was not a semanticist. He wasa physical scientist and mathematician. Starting with the meagerheritage that existed in these fields in his time, he began tacklingphysical puzzles one by one. Sitting in his study, using as hisprincipal tool his own great mind, he invented calculus, developed thequantum theory of light, moved on to electromagnetic radiation and whatwe call Maxwell's equations—although, of course, he antedated Maxwellby centuries—developed the special and general theories of relativity,the tool of wave mechanics, and finally, toward the end of his life, hemathematically derived the packing fraction that describes the bindingenergy of nuclei—     But it can't be done, Don objected. It's an observed phenomenon. Ithasn't been derived. Every conservative instinct that he possessedcried out against this impossible fantasy. And yet—there sat thereactor, sheathed in its strange shield. Crandon watched the directionof Don's glance.     Yes, the reactor, said Crandon. He built one like it. It confirmedhis theories. His calculations showed him something else too. He sawthe destructive potentialities of an atomic explosion. He himself couldnot have built an atomic bomb; he didn't have the facilities. But hisknowledge would have enabled other men to do so. He looked abouthim. He saw a political setup of warring principalities, rival states,intrigue, and squabbles over political power. Giving the men of histime atomic energy would have been like handing a baby a firecrackerwith a lighted fuse.     What should he have done? Let his secrets die with him? Hedidn't think so. No one else in his age could have      derived     theknowledge that he did. But it was an age of brilliant men. Leonardo.Michelangelo. There were men capable of      learning     his science, even asmen can learn it today. He gathered some of them together and foundedthis society. It served two purposes. It perpetuated his discoveriesand at the same time it maintained the greatest secrecy about them. Heurged that the secrets be kept until the time when men could use themsafely. The other purpose was to make that time come about as soon aspossible.     Crandon looked at Don's unbelieving face. How can I make you see thatit is the truth? Think of the eons that man or manlike creatures havewalked the Earth. Think what a small fraction of that time is fourhundred years. Is it so strange that atomic energy was discovered alittle early, by this displacement in time that is so tiny after all?     But by one man, Don argued.     Crandon shrugged. Compared with him, Don, you and I are stupid men.So are the scientists who slowly plodded down the same road he hadcome, stumbling first on one truth and then the succeeding one. We knowthat inventions and discoveries do not occur at random. Each is basedon the one that preceded it. We are all aware of the phenomenon ofsimultaneous invention. The path to truth is a straight one. It is onlyour own stupidity that makes it seem slow and tortuous.     He merely followed the straight path, Crandon finished simply.  Don's incredulity thawed a little. It was not entirely beyond the realmof possibility.     But if it were true! A vast panorama of possible achievements spreadbefore him.     Four hundred years! he murmured with awe. You've had four hundredyears head-start on the rest of the world! What wonders you must haveuncovered in that time!     Our technical achievements may disappoint you, warned Crandon.Oh, they're way beyond anything that you are familiar with. You'veundoubtedly noticed the shielding material on the reactor. That's afairly recent development of our metallurgical department. There areother things in the laboratory that I can't even explain to you untilyou have caught up on the technical basis for understanding them.     Our emphasis has not been on physical sciences, however, except asthey contribute to our central project. We want to change civilizationso that it can use physical science without disaster.     For a moment Don had been fired with enthusiasm. But at these words hisheart sank.     Then you've failed, he said bitterly. In spite of centuries ofadvance warning, you've failed to change the rest of us enough toprevent us from trying to blow ourselves off the Earth. Here we are,still snarling and snapping at our neighbors' throats—and we've caughtup with you. We have the atomic bomb. What's POSAT been doing all thattime? Or have you found that human nature really can't be changed?     Come with me, said Crandon.     He led the way along the narrow balcony to another door, then down asteep flight of stairs. He opened a door at the bottom, and Don sawwhat must have been the world's largest computing machine.     This is our answer, said Crandon. Oh, rather, it's the tool by whichwe find our answer. For two centuries we have been working on thenewest of the sciences—that of human motivation. Soon we will be readyto put some of our new knowledge to work. But you are right in onerespect, we are working now against time. We must hurry if we are tosave our civilization. That's why you are here. We have work for you todo. Will you join us, Don?     But why the hocus-pocus? asked Don. Why do you hide behind such aweird front as POSAT? Why do you advertise in magazines and invite justanyone to join? Why didn't you approach me directly, if you have workfor me to do? And if you really have the answers to our problems, whyhaven't you gathered together all the scientists in the world to workon this project—before it's too late?     Crandon took a sighing breath. How I wish that we could do just that!But you forget that one of the prime purposes of our organization isto maintain the secrecy of our discoveries until they can be safelydisclosed. We must be absolutely certain that anyone who enters thisbuilding will have joined POSAT before he leaves. What if we approachedthe wrong scientist? Centuries of accomplishment might be wasted ifthey attempted either to reveal it or to exploit it!     Do you recall the questionnaires that you answered before you wereinvited here? We fed the answers to this machine and, as a result, weknow more about how you will react in any given situation than you doyourself. Even if you should fail to join us, our secrets would besafe with you. Of course, we miss a few of the scientists who mightbe perfect material for our organization. You'd be surprised, though,at how clever our advertisements are at attracting exactly the men wewant. With the help of our new science, we have baited our ads well,and we know how to maintain interest. Curiosity is, to the men we want,a powerful motivator.     But what about the others? asked Don. There must be hundreds ofapplicants who would be of no use to you at all.     Oh, yes, replied Crandon. There are the mild religious fanatics. Weenroll them as members and keep them interested by sending pamphlets inline with their interests. We even let them contribute to our upkeep,if they seem to want to. They never get beyond the reception room ifthey come to call on us. But they are additional people through whom wecan act when the time finally comes.     There are also the desperate people who try POSAT as a lastresort—lost ones who can't find their direction in life. For them weput into practice some of our newly won knowledge. We rehabilitatethem—anonymously, of course. Even find jobs or patch up homes. It'sgood practice for us.     I think I've answered most of your questions, Don. But you haven'tanswered mine. Will you join us?     Don looked solemnly at the orderly array of the computer before him.He had one more question.     Will it really work? Can it actually tell you how to motivate thestubborn, quarrelsome, opinionated people one finds on this Earth?     Crandon smiled. You're here, aren't you?     Don nodded, his tense features relaxing.     Enroll me as a member, he said.   ","The Perpetual Order of Seekers After Truth, POSAT, is an ancient secret society. It was founded by a genius of a man who lived during the Italian Renaissance, roughly 400 years ago. The founder was a mathematician and scientist, and he invented calculus, created the quantum theory of light, and wrote Maxwell’s equations. However, he did not get credit for any of these ideas. He also designed the atomic reactor that Don sees in the laboratory of the building. The founder understood how dangerous the atomic bomb was, and he did not want to give his peers the tools to create such a powerful weapon. He did not trust men who were at war with one another over political power. Still, he did not want his knowledge to vanish when he died, so he created POSAT. He was willing to share his scientific and mathematical secrets, but he did not wish for untrustworthy people to get their hands on the information until it would be safe to do so. The founder also wanted POSAT to work towards a more peaceful society where everyone could be trusted to share knowledge and information without the fear of it leading to catastrophic events. In the centuries since the society was founded, the members have invented new tools and technologies that are not available anywhere else in the world, like the atomic reactor shield and the lightbulbs that hang above each Renaissance painting in the waiting room. Yet, the secret society’s main goal is to create a civilized society, not new inventions. In an effort to make that vision a reality, members of POSAT created a very large computer that seeks to decode human motivation. The computer used Don’s multiple choice questionnaire to determine that Don would be a good fit for the society because he is trustworthy. Although it seems like POSAT should involve more renowned scientists and peacekeepers to make sure it accomplishes its mission, it must also guard all of its secrets, and in an increasingly surveilled state, that would be nearly impossible to do while also including great thought leaders. "
"How do Bill and Elizabeth contribute to the story? </s>     What is POSAT?     By PHYLLIS STERLING SMITH     Illustrated by ED ALEXANDER     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction September 1951.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Of course coming events cast their shadows     before, but this shadow was 400 years long!      The following advertisement appeared in the July 1953 issue of severalmagazines:     MASTERY OF ALL KNOWLEDGE CAN BE YOURS!     What is the secret source of those profound     principles that can solve the problems of life?     Send for our FREE booklet of explanation.     Do not be a leaf in the wind! YOU     can alter the course of your life!     Tap the treasury of Wisdom through the ages!     The Perpetual Order of Seekers After Truth     POSAT     an ancient secret society     Most readers passed it by with scarcely a glance. It was, after all,similar to the many that had appeared through the years under thename of that same society. Other readers, as their eyes slid over thefamiliar format of the ad, speculated idly about the persistent andmildly mysterious organization behind it. A few even resolved to clipthe attached coupon and send for the booklet—sometime—when a pen orpencil was nearer at hand.     Bill Evans, an unemployed pharmacist, saw the ad in a copy of      YourLife and Psychology     that had been abandoned on his seat in the bus.He filled out the blanks on the coupon with a scrap of stubby pencil.You can alter the course of your life! he read again. He particularlyliked that thought, even though he had long since ceased to believeit. He actually took the trouble to mail the coupon. After all, hehad, literally, nothing to lose, and nothing else to occupy his time.     Miss Elizabeth Arnable was one of the few to whom the advertisementwas unfamiliar. As a matter of fact, she very seldom read a magazine.The radio in her room took the place of reading matter, and she alwaysliked to think that it amused her cats as well as herself. Readingwould be so selfish under the circumstances, wouldn't it? Not but whatthe cats weren't almost smart enough to read, she always said.     It just so happened, however, that she had bought a copy of the      Antivivisectionist Gazette     the day before. She pounced upon the POSATad as a trout might snap at a particularly attractive fly. Havingfilled out the coupon with violet ink, she invented an errand thatwould take her past the neighborhood post office so that she could postit as soon as possible.     Donald Alford, research physicist, came across the POSAT ad tucked atthe bottom of a column in      The Bulletin of Physical Research     . He wasengrossed in the latest paper by Dr. Crandon, a man whom he admiredfrom the point of view of both a former student and a fellow researchworker. Consequently, he was one of the many who passed over the POSATad with the disregard accorded to any common object.     He read with interest to the end of the article before he realized thatsome component of the advertisement had been noted by a region of hisbrain just beyond consciousness. It teased at him like a tickle thatcouldn't be scratched until he turned back to the page.     It was the symbol or emblem of POSAT, he realized, that had caught hisattention. The perpendicularly crossed ellipses centered with a smallblack circle might almost be a conventionalized version of the Bohratom of helium. He smiled with mild skepticism as he read through theprinted matter that accompanied it.     I wonder what their racket is, he mused. Then, because his typewriterwas conveniently at hand, he carefully tore out the coupon and insertedit in the machine. The spacing of the typewriter didn't fit the dottedlines on the coupon, of course, but he didn't bother to correct it.He addressed an envelope, laid it with other mail to be posted, andpromptly forgot all about it. Since he was a methodical man, it wasentrusted to the U.S. mail early the next morning, together with hisother letters.     Three identical forms accompanied the booklet which POSAT sent inresponse to the three inquiries. The booklet gave no more informationthan had the original advertisement, but with considerable morevolubility. It promised the recipient the secrets of the Cosmos and thekey that would unlock the hidden knowledge within himself—if he wouldmerely fill out the enclosed form.     Bill Evans, the unemployed pharmacist, let the paper lie unanswered forseveral days. To be quite honest, he was disappointed. Although he hadmentally disclaimed all belief in anything that POSAT might offer, hehad watched the return mails with anticipation. His own resources werealmost at an end, and he had reached the point where intervention bysomething supernatural, or at least superhuman, seemed the only hope.     He had hoped, unreasonably, that POSAT had an answer. But time layheavily upon him, and he used it one evening to write the requestedinformation—about his employment (ha!), his religious beliefs, hisreason for inquiring about POSAT, his financial situation. Withoutquite knowing that he did so, he communicated in his terse answers someof his desperation and sense of futility.     Miss Arnable was delighted with the opportunity for autobiographicalcomposition. It required five extra sheets of paper to convey all theinformation that she wished to give—all about her poor, dear fatherwho had been a missionary to China, and the kinship that she felttoward the mystic cults of the East, her belief that her cats werereincarnations of her loved ones (which, she stated, derived from areligion of the Persians; or was it the Egyptians?) and in her completeand absolute acceptance of everything that POSAT had stated in theirbooklet. And what would the dues be? She wished to join immediately.Fortunately, dear father had left her in a comfortable financialsituation.     To Donald Alford, the booklet seemed to confirm his suspicion thatPOSAT was a racket of some sort. Why else would they be interested inhis employment or financial position? It also served to increase hiscuriosity.     What do you suppose they're driving at? he asked his wife Betty,handing her the booklet and questionnaire.     I don't really know what to say, she answered, squinting a little asshe usually did when puzzled. I know one thing, though, and that'sthat you won't stop until you find out!     The scientific attitude, he acknowledged with a grin.     Why don't you fill out this questionnaire incognito, though? shesuggested. Pretend that we're wealthy and see if they try to get ourmoney. Do they have anything yet except your name and address?     Don was shocked. If I send this back to them, it will have to be withcorrect answers!     The scientific attitude again, Betty sighed. Don't you ever let yourimagination run away with the facts a bit? What are you going to givefor your reasons for asking about POSAT?     Curiosity, he replied, and, pulling his fountain pen from his vestpocket, he wrote exactly that, in small, neat script.     It was unfortunate for his curiosity that Don could not see thecontents of the three envelopes that were mailed from the offices ofPOSAT the following week. For this time they differed.     Bill Evans was once again disappointed. The pamphlet that was enclosedgave what apparently meant to be final answers to life's problems. Theywere couched in vaguely metaphysical terms and offered absolutely nohelp to him.     His disappointment was tempered, however, by the knowledge that hehad unexpectedly found a job. Or, rather, it had fallen into his lap.When he had thought that every avenue of employment had been tried, aposition had been offered him in a wholesale pharmacy in the olderindustrial part of the city. It was not a particularly attractive placeto work, located as it was next to a large warehouse, but to him it washope for the future.     It amused him to discover that the offices of POSAT were located on theother side of the same warehouse, at the end of a blind alley. Blindalley indeed! He felt vaguely ashamed for having placed any confidencein them.     Miss Arnable was thrilled to discover that her envelope contained notonly several pamphlets, (she scanned the titles rapidly and found thatone of them concerned the sacred cats of ancient Egypt), but that itcontained also a small pin with the symbol of POSAT wrought in gold andblack enamel. The covering letter said that she had been accepted as anactive member of POSAT and that the dues were five dollars per month;please remit by return mail. She wrote a check immediately, and settledcontentedly into a chair to peruse the article on sacred cats.     After a while she began to read aloud so that her own cats could enjoyit, too.     Don Alford would not have been surprised if his envelope had showncontents similar to the ones that the others received. The foldedsheets of paper that he pulled forth, however, made him stiffen withsharp surprise.       Come here a minute, Betty, he called, spreading them out carefully onthe dining room table. What do you make of these?     She came, dish cloth in hand, and thoughtfully examined them, one byone. Multiple choice questions! It looks like a psychological test ofsome sort.     This isn't the kind of thing I expected them to send me, worriedDon. Look at the type of thing they ask. 'If you had discovereda new and virulent poison that could be compounded from commonhousehold ingredients, would you (1) publish the information in adaily newspaper, (2) manufacture it secretly and sell it as rodentexterminator, (3) give the information to the armed forces for useas a secret weapon, or (4) withhold the information entirely as toodangerous to be passed on?'     Could they be a spy ring? asked Betty. Subversive agents? Anxious tofind out your scientific secrets like that classified stuff that you'reso careful of when you bring it home from the lab?     Don scanned the papers quickly. There's nothing here that looks likean attempt to get information. Besides, I've told them nothing aboutmy work except that I do research in physics. They don't even knowwhat company I work for. If this is a psychological test, it measuresattitudes, nothing else. Why should they want to know my attitudes?     Do you suppose that POSAT is really what it claims to be—a secretsociety—and that they actually screen their applicants?     He smiled wryly. Wouldn't it be interesting if I didn't make the gradeafter starting out to expose their racket?     He pulled out his pen and sat down to the task of resolving thedilemmas before him.     His next communication from POSAT came to his business address and,paradoxically, was more personal than its forerunners.     Dear Doctor Alford:     We have examined with interest the information that you have sent tous. We are happy to inform you that, thus far, you have satisfied therequirements for membership in the Perpetual Order of Seekers AfterTruth. Before accepting new members into this ancient and honorablesecret society, we find it desirable that they have a personalinterview with the Grand Chairman of POSAT.     Accordingly, you are cordially invited to an audience with our GrandChairman on Tuesday, July 10, at 2:30 P.M. Please let us know if thisarrangement is acceptable to you. If not, we will attempt to makeanother appointment for you.     The time specified for the appointment was hardly a convenient onefor Don. At 2:30 P.M. on most Tuesdays, he would be at work in thelaboratory. And while his employers made no complaint if he took hisresearch problems home with him and worried over them half the night,they were not equally enthusiastic when he used working hours forpursuing unrelated interests. Moreover, the headquarters of POSAT wasin a town almost a hundred miles distant. Could he afford to take awhole day off for chasing will-o-wisps?     It hardly seemed worth the trouble. He wondered if Betty would bedisappointed if he dropped the whole matter. Since the letter had beensent to the laboratory instead of his home, he couldn't consult herabout it without telephoning.       Since the letter had been sent to the laboratory instead of his home!     But it was impossible!     He searched feverishly through his pile of daily mail for theenvelope in which the letter had come. The address stared up at him,unmistakably and fearfully legible. The name of his company. The numberof the room he worked in. In short, the address that he had never giventhem!     Get hold of yourself, he commanded his frightened mind. There's someperfectly logical, easy explanation for this. They looked it up in thedirectory of the Institute of Physics. Or in the alumni directory ofthe university. Or—or—     But the more he thought about it, the more sinister it seemed. Hislaboratory address was available, but why should POSAT take the troubleof looking it up? Some prudent impulse had led him to withhold thatparticular bit of information, yet now, for some reason of their own,POSAT had unearthed the information.     His wife's words echoed in his mind, Could they be a spy ring?Subversive agents?     Don shook his head as though to clear away the confusion. Hisconservative habit of thought made him reject that explanation as toomelodramatic.     At least one decision was easier to reach because of his doubts. Now heknew he had to keep his appointment with the Grand Chairman of POSAT.     He scribbled a memo to the department office stating that he would notbe at work on Tuesday.  At first Don Alford had some trouble locating the POSAT headquarters.It seemed to him that the block in which the street number would fallwas occupied entirely by a huge sprawling warehouse, of concreteconstruction, and almost entirely windowless. It was recessed from thestreet in several places to make room for the small, shabby buildingsof a wholesale pharmacy, a printer's plant, an upholstering shop, andwas also indented by alleys lined with loading platforms.     It was at the back of one of the alleys that he finally found a doormarked with the now familiar emblem of POSAT.     He opened the frosted glass door with a feeling of misgiving, and faceda dark flight of stairs leading to the upper floor. Somewhere above hima buzzer sounded, evidently indicating his arrival. He picked his wayup through the murky stairwell.     The reception room was hardly a cheerful place, with its battered deskfacing the view of the empty alley, and a film of dust obscuring thepattern of the gray-looking wallpaper and worn rug. But the light ofthe summer afternoon filtering through the window scattered the gloomsomewhat, enough to help Don doubt that he would find the menace herethat he had come to expect.     The girl addressing envelopes at the desk looked very ordinary.      Notthe Mata-Hari type     , thought Don, with an inward chuckle at his ownsuspicions. He handed her the letter.     She smiled. We've been expecting you, Dr. Alford. If you'll just stepinto the next room—     She opened a door opposite the stairwell, and Don stepped through it.     The sight of the luxurious room before him struck his eyes with theshock of a dentist's drill, so great was the contrast between it andthe shabby reception room. For a moment Don had difficulty breathing.The rug—Don had seen one like it before, but it had been in a museum.The paintings on the walls, ornately framed in gilt carving, weresurely old masters—of the Renaissance period, he guessed. Although herecognized none of the pictures, he felt that he could almost name theartists. That glowing one near the corner would probably be a Titian.Or was it Tintorretto? He regretted for a moment the lost opportunitiesof his college days, when he had passed up Art History in favor ofOperational Circuit Analysis.     The girl opened a filing cabinet, the front of which was set flush withthe wall, and, selecting a folder from it, disappeared through anotherdoor.     Don sprang to examine the picture near the corner. It was hung at eyelevel—that is, at the eye level of the average person. Don had to bendover a bit to see it properly. He searched for a signature. Apparentlythere was none. But did artists sign their pictures back in thosedays? He wished he knew more about such things.     Each of the paintings was individually lighted by a fluorescent tubeheld on brackets directly above it. As Don straightened up from hisscrutiny of the picture, he inadvertently hit his head against thelight. The tube, dislodged from its brackets, fell to the rug with amuffled thud.       Now I've done it!     thought Don with dismay. But at least the tubehadn't shattered.     In fact—it was still glowing brightly! His eyes registered the fact,even while his mind refused to believe it. He raised his eyes to thebrackets. They were simple pieces of solid hardware designed to supportthe tube.     There were no wires!     Don picked up the slender, glowing cylinder and held it betweentrembling fingers. Although it was delivering as much light as a twoor three hundred watt bulb, it was cool to the touch. He examined itminutely. There was no possibility of concealed batteries.     The thumping of his heart was caused not by the fact that he had neverseen a similar tube before, but because he had. He had never heldone in his hands, though. The ones which his company had produced asexperimental models had been unsuccessful at converting all of theradioactivity into light, and had, of necessity, been heavily shielded.     Right now, two of his colleagues back in the laboratory would stillbe searching for the right combination of fluorescent materialand radioactive salts with which to make the simple, efficient,self-contained lighting unit that he was holding in his hand at thismoment!       But this is impossible!     he thought.      We're the only company that'sworking on this, and it's secret. There can't be any in actualproduction!       And even if one had actually been successfully produced, how would ithave fallen into the possession of POSAT, an Ancient Secret Society,The Perpetual Order of Seekers After Truth?     The conviction grew in Don's mind that here was something much deeperand more sinister than he would be able to cope with. He should haveasked for help, should have stated his suspicions to the police or theF.B.I. Even now—     With sudden decision, he thrust the lighting tube into his pocket andstepped swiftly to the outer door. He grasped the knob and shook itimpatiently when it stuck and refused to turn. He yanked at it. Hisimpatience changed to panic. It was locked!     A soft sound behind him made him whirl about. The secretary hadentered again through the inner door. She glanced at the vacant lightbracket, then significantly at his bulging pocket. Her gaze was stillas bland and innocent as when he had entered, but to Don she no longerseemed ordinary. Her very calmness in the face of his odd actions wasdistressingly ominous.     Our Grand Chairman will see you now, she said in a quiet voice.     Don realized that he was half crouched in the position of an animalexpecting attack. He straightened up with what dignity he could manageto find.     She opened the inner door again and Don followed her into what hesupposed to be the office of the Grand Chairman of POSAT.     Instead he found himself on a balcony along the side of a vast room,which must have been the interior of the warehouse that he had notedoutside. The girl motioned him toward the far end of the balcony, wherea frosted glass door marked the office of the Grand Chairman.       But Don could not will his legs to move. His heart beat at the sight ofthe room below him. It was a laboratory, but a laboratory the like ofwhich he had never seen before. Most of the equipment was unfamiliarto him. Whatever he did recognize was of a different design than he hadever used, and there was something about it that convinced him thatthis was more advanced. The men who bent busily over their instrumentsdid not raise their eyes to the figures on the balcony.     Good Lord! Don gasped. That's an atomic reactor down there! Therecould be no doubt about it, even though he could see it only obscurelythrough the bluish-green plastic shielding it.     His thoughts were so clamorous that he hardly realized that he hadspoken aloud, or that the door at the end of the balcony had opened.     He was only dimly aware of the approaching footsteps as he speculatedwildly on the nature of the shielding material. What could be so densethat only an inch would provide adequate shielding and yet remainsemitransparent?     His scientist's mind applauded the genius who had developed it, even asthe alarming conviction grew that he wouldn't—couldn't—be allowed toleave here any more. Surely no man would be allowed to leave this placealive to tell the fantastic story to the world!     Hello, Don, said a quiet voice beside him. It's good to see youagain.     Dr. Crandon! he heard his own voice reply.       You're     the GrandChairman of POSAT?     He felt betrayed and sick at heart. The very voice with whichCrandon had spoken conjured up visions of quiet lecture halls andhis own youthful excitement at the masterful and orderly disclosureof scientific facts. To find him here in this mad and treacherousplace—didn't anything make sense any longer?     I think we have rather abused you, Don, Dr. Crandon continued. Hisvoice sounded so gentle that Don found it hard to think there was anyevil in it. I can see that you are suspicious of us, and—yes—afraid.  Don stared at the scene below him. After his initial glance to confirmhis identification of Crandon, Don could not bear to look at him.     Crandon's voice suddenly hardened, became abrupt. You're partly rightabout us, of course. I hate to think how many laws this organizationhas broken. Don't condemn us yet, though. You'll be a member yourselfbefore the day is over.     Don was shocked by such confidence in his corruptibility.     What do you use? he asked bitterly. Drugs? Hypnosis?     Crandon sighed. I forgot how little you know, Don. I have a longstory to tell you. You'll find it hard to believe at first. But try totrust me. Try to believe me, as you once did. When I say that much ofwhat POSAT does is illegal, I do not mean immoral. We're probably themost moral organization in the world. Get over the idea that you havestumbled into a den of thieves.     Crandon paused as though searching for words with which to continue.     Did you notice the paintings in the waiting room as you entered?     Don nodded, too bewildered to speak.     They were donated by the founder of our Organization. They were partof his personal collection—which, incidentally, he bought from theartists themselves. He also designed the atomic reactor we use forpower here in the laboratory.     Then the pictures are modern, said Don, aware that his mouth washanging open foolishly. I thought one was a Titian—     It is, said Crandon. We have several original Titians, although Ireally don't know too much about them.     But how could a man alive      today     buy paintings from an artist of theRenaissance?     He is not alive today. POSAT is actually what our advertisementsclaim—an      ancient     secret society. Our founder has been dead for overfour centuries.     But you said that he designed your atomic reactor.     Yes. This particular one has been in use for only twenty years,however.     Don's confusion was complete. Crandon looked at him kindly. Let'sstart at the beginning, he said, and Don was back again in theclassroom with the deep voice of Professor Crandon unfolding thepages of knowledge in clear and logical manner. Four hundred yearsago, in the time of the Italian Renaissance, a man lived who was asuper-genius. His was the kind of incredible mentality that appears notin every generation, or even every century, but once in thousands ofyears.     Probably the man who invented what we call the phonetic alphabet wasone like him. That man lived seven thousand years ago in Mesopotamia,and his discovery was so original, so far from the natural courseof man's thinking, that not once in the intervening seven thousandyears has that device been rediscovered. It still exists only in thecivilizations to which it has been passed on directly.     The super-genius who was our founder was not a semanticist. He wasa physical scientist and mathematician. Starting with the meagerheritage that existed in these fields in his time, he began tacklingphysical puzzles one by one. Sitting in his study, using as hisprincipal tool his own great mind, he invented calculus, developed thequantum theory of light, moved on to electromagnetic radiation and whatwe call Maxwell's equations—although, of course, he antedated Maxwellby centuries—developed the special and general theories of relativity,the tool of wave mechanics, and finally, toward the end of his life, hemathematically derived the packing fraction that describes the bindingenergy of nuclei—     But it can't be done, Don objected. It's an observed phenomenon. Ithasn't been derived. Every conservative instinct that he possessedcried out against this impossible fantasy. And yet—there sat thereactor, sheathed in its strange shield. Crandon watched the directionof Don's glance.     Yes, the reactor, said Crandon. He built one like it. It confirmedhis theories. His calculations showed him something else too. He sawthe destructive potentialities of an atomic explosion. He himself couldnot have built an atomic bomb; he didn't have the facilities. But hisknowledge would have enabled other men to do so. He looked abouthim. He saw a political setup of warring principalities, rival states,intrigue, and squabbles over political power. Giving the men of histime atomic energy would have been like handing a baby a firecrackerwith a lighted fuse.     What should he have done? Let his secrets die with him? Hedidn't think so. No one else in his age could have      derived     theknowledge that he did. But it was an age of brilliant men. Leonardo.Michelangelo. There were men capable of      learning     his science, even asmen can learn it today. He gathered some of them together and foundedthis society. It served two purposes. It perpetuated his discoveriesand at the same time it maintained the greatest secrecy about them. Heurged that the secrets be kept until the time when men could use themsafely. The other purpose was to make that time come about as soon aspossible.     Crandon looked at Don's unbelieving face. How can I make you see thatit is the truth? Think of the eons that man or manlike creatures havewalked the Earth. Think what a small fraction of that time is fourhundred years. Is it so strange that atomic energy was discovered alittle early, by this displacement in time that is so tiny after all?     But by one man, Don argued.     Crandon shrugged. Compared with him, Don, you and I are stupid men.So are the scientists who slowly plodded down the same road he hadcome, stumbling first on one truth and then the succeeding one. We knowthat inventions and discoveries do not occur at random. Each is basedon the one that preceded it. We are all aware of the phenomenon ofsimultaneous invention. The path to truth is a straight one. It is onlyour own stupidity that makes it seem slow and tortuous.     He merely followed the straight path, Crandon finished simply.  Don's incredulity thawed a little. It was not entirely beyond the realmof possibility.     But if it were true! A vast panorama of possible achievements spreadbefore him.     Four hundred years! he murmured with awe. You've had four hundredyears head-start on the rest of the world! What wonders you must haveuncovered in that time!     Our technical achievements may disappoint you, warned Crandon.Oh, they're way beyond anything that you are familiar with. You'veundoubtedly noticed the shielding material on the reactor. That's afairly recent development of our metallurgical department. There areother things in the laboratory that I can't even explain to you untilyou have caught up on the technical basis for understanding them.     Our emphasis has not been on physical sciences, however, except asthey contribute to our central project. We want to change civilizationso that it can use physical science without disaster.     For a moment Don had been fired with enthusiasm. But at these words hisheart sank.     Then you've failed, he said bitterly. In spite of centuries ofadvance warning, you've failed to change the rest of us enough toprevent us from trying to blow ourselves off the Earth. Here we are,still snarling and snapping at our neighbors' throats—and we've caughtup with you. We have the atomic bomb. What's POSAT been doing all thattime? Or have you found that human nature really can't be changed?     Come with me, said Crandon.     He led the way along the narrow balcony to another door, then down asteep flight of stairs. He opened a door at the bottom, and Don sawwhat must have been the world's largest computing machine.     This is our answer, said Crandon. Oh, rather, it's the tool by whichwe find our answer. For two centuries we have been working on thenewest of the sciences—that of human motivation. Soon we will be readyto put some of our new knowledge to work. But you are right in onerespect, we are working now against time. We must hurry if we are tosave our civilization. That's why you are here. We have work for you todo. Will you join us, Don?     But why the hocus-pocus? asked Don. Why do you hide behind such aweird front as POSAT? Why do you advertise in magazines and invite justanyone to join? Why didn't you approach me directly, if you have workfor me to do? And if you really have the answers to our problems, whyhaven't you gathered together all the scientists in the world to workon this project—before it's too late?     Crandon took a sighing breath. How I wish that we could do just that!But you forget that one of the prime purposes of our organization isto maintain the secrecy of our discoveries until they can be safelydisclosed. We must be absolutely certain that anyone who enters thisbuilding will have joined POSAT before he leaves. What if we approachedthe wrong scientist? Centuries of accomplishment might be wasted ifthey attempted either to reveal it or to exploit it!     Do you recall the questionnaires that you answered before you wereinvited here? We fed the answers to this machine and, as a result, weknow more about how you will react in any given situation than you doyourself. Even if you should fail to join us, our secrets would besafe with you. Of course, we miss a few of the scientists who mightbe perfect material for our organization. You'd be surprised, though,at how clever our advertisements are at attracting exactly the men wewant. With the help of our new science, we have baited our ads well,and we know how to maintain interest. Curiosity is, to the men we want,a powerful motivator.     But what about the others? asked Don. There must be hundreds ofapplicants who would be of no use to you at all.     Oh, yes, replied Crandon. There are the mild religious fanatics. Weenroll them as members and keep them interested by sending pamphlets inline with their interests. We even let them contribute to our upkeep,if they seem to want to. They never get beyond the reception room ifthey come to call on us. But they are additional people through whom wecan act when the time finally comes.     There are also the desperate people who try POSAT as a lastresort—lost ones who can't find their direction in life. For them weput into practice some of our newly won knowledge. We rehabilitatethem—anonymously, of course. Even find jobs or patch up homes. It'sgood practice for us.     I think I've answered most of your questions, Don. But you haven'tanswered mine. Will you join us?     Don looked solemnly at the orderly array of the computer before him.He had one more question.     Will it really work? Can it actually tell you how to motivate thestubborn, quarrelsome, opinionated people one finds on this Earth?     Crandon smiled. You're here, aren't you?     Don nodded, his tense features relaxing.     Enroll me as a member, he said.   ","Bill and Elizabeth are minor characters in the story, but they are key in demonstrating how POSAT’S recruiting efforts work. Bill, Elizabeth, and Don all see the same magazine advertisement and decide to send their coupons in the mail and receive an informational pamphlet in return. Bill is motivated by his desire to change his life. He has lost his job and feels useless and dejected. Elizabeth wants to join the ancient society because she truly believes it can offer her profound wisdom. She also believes that her cats are her family members reincarnated, so she’s clearly a gullible person who hopes to find magic and miracles in her everyday life. Don is curious about the advertisement, and as a naturally skeptical person, he assumes it’s all a hoax.POSAT’s correspondence with the three highly different individuals starts out the same, but after gaining a little bit of insight into each person’s background, job, religious beliefs, and motivation for joining the society, the people at POSAT individualize Bill, Elizabeth, and Don’s responses. Bill receives a pamphlet with vague answers to life’s problems, while Elizabeth gets literature about topics like the sacred cats of ancient Egypt. She is also offered an official membership to the group and told to contribute $5 per month. Don, however, is given an in-depth psychological exam. Towards the end of the story, Mr. Crandon reveals how POSAT’s magazine advertisements work to attract people to the secret society. The new supercomputer they have invented has created the perfect combination of intrigue, symbolism, and promise of knowledge to get the right peoples’ attention. Don, for example, was immediately taken by POSAT’s logo, although he could not explain why. When people like Bill and Elizabeth apply to become members, they are pacified through other means. Elizabeth is an example of a religious fanatic who contributes to the society financially while also feeling deeply satisfied at her inclusion. Bill is an example of someone who is desperate and wants to try to join the society as a way to change his life.  Since POSAT wants a more civilized and peaceful society, they work with those people by finding them new jobs or renovating their homes. "
"What is the plot of the story? </s>     I, the Unspeakable     By WALT SHELDON     Illustrated by LOUIS MARCHETTI     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction April 1951.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]       What's in a name? might be very dangerous     to ask in certain societies, in which sticks     and stones are also a big problem!      I fought to be awake. I was dreaming, but I think I must have blushed.I must have blushed in my sleep.           Do it!      she said.       Please do it! For me!          It was the voice that always came, low, intense, seductive, the soundof your hand on silk ... and to a citizen of Northem, a conformist, itwas shocking. I was a conformist then; I was still one that morning.     I awoke. The glowlight was on, slowly increasing. I was in my livingmachine in Center Four, where I belonged, and all the familiar thingswere about me, reality was back, but I was breathing very hard.     I lay on the pneumo a while before getting up. I looked at thechroner: 0703 hours, Day 17, Month IX, New Century Three. My morningnuro-tablets had already popped from the tube, and the timer had begunto boil an egg. The egg was there because the realfood allotment hadbeen increased last month. The balance of trade with Southem had justswung a decimal or two our way.     I rose finally, stepped to the mirror, switched it to positive andlooked at myself. New wrinkles—or maybe just a deepening of the oldones. It was beginning to show; the past two years were leaving traces.     I hadn't worried about my appearance when I'd been with the Office ofWeapons. There, I'd been able to keep pretty much to myself, doingresearch on magnetic mechanics as applied to space drive. But otherjobs, where you had to be among people, might be different. I neededevery possible thing in my favor.     Yes, I still hoped for a job, even after two years. I still meant tokeep on plugging, making the rounds.     I'd go out again today.     The timer clicked and my egg was ready. I swallowed the tablets andthen took the egg to the table to savor it and make it last.     As I leaned forward to sit, the metal tag dangled from my neck,catching the glowlight. My identity tag.     Everything came back in a rush—     My name. The dream and      her     voice. And her suggestion.       Would I dare? Would I start out this very morning and take the risk,the terrible risk?    You remember renumbering. Two years ago. You remember how it was then;how everybody looked forward to his new designation, and how everybodymade jokes about the way the letters came out, and how all the recordswere for a while fouled up beyond recognition.     The telecomics kidded renumbering. One went a little too far andthey psycho-scanned him and then sent him to Marscol as a dangerousnonconform.     If you were disappointed with your new designation, you didn'tcomplain. You didn't want a sudden visit from the Deacons during thenight.     There had to be renumbering. We all understood that. With thepopulation of Northem already past two billion, the old designationswere too clumsy. Renumbering was efficient. It contributed to the goodof Northem. It helped advance the warless struggle with Southem.     The equator is the boundary. I understand that once there wasa political difference and that the two superstates sprawledlongitudinally, not latitudinally, over the globe. Now they are prettymuch the same. There is the truce, and they are both geared for war.They are both efficient states, as tightly controlled as an experimentwith enzymes, as microsurgery, as the temper of a diplomat.     We were renumbered, then, in Northem. You know the system: everybodynow has six digits and an additional prefix or suffix of four letters.Stateleader, for instance, has the designation AAAA-111/111. Now, toaddress somebody by calling off four letters is a little clumsy. We tryto pronounce them when they are pronounceable. That is, no one says toStateleader, Good morning, A-A-A-A. They say, Good morning, Aaaa.     Reading the last quote, I notice a curious effect. It says what I feel.Of course I didn't feel that way on that particular morning. I wasstill conformal; the last thing in my mind was that I would infract andbe psycho-scanned.     Four letters then, and in many cases a pronounceable four letter word.     A four letter word.     Yes, you suspect already. You know what a four letter word can be.     Mine was.     It was unspeakable.     The slight weight on my forehead reminded me that I still wore mysleep-learner. I'd been studying administrative cybernetics, hoping toqualify in that field, although it was a poor substitute for a spacedrive expert. I removed the band and stepped across the room andturned off the oscillator. I went back to my egg and my bitter memories.     I will never forget the first day I received my new four lettercombination and reported it to my chief, as required. I was unthinkablyembarrassed. He didn't say anything. He just swallowed and chokedand became crimson when he saw it. He didn't dare pass it to hissecretarial engineer; he went to the administrative circuits andregistered it himself.     I can't blame him for easing me out. He was trying to run an efficientorganization, after all, and no doubt I upset its efficiency. My workwas important—magnetic mechanics was the only way to handle quantareaction, or the so-called non-energy drive, and was therefore theanswer to feasible space travel beyond our present limit of Mars—andthere were frequent inspection tours by Big Wheels and Very ImportantPersons.     Whenever anyone, especially a woman, asked my name, the embarrassmentwould become a crackling electric field all about us. The best tacticwas just not to answer.  The chief called me in one day. He looked haggard.     Er—old man, he said, not quite able to bring himself to utter myname, I'm going to have to switch you to another department. How wouldyou like to work on nutrition kits? Very interesting work.     Nutrition kits?      Me?     On nutrition kits?     Well, I—er—know it sounds unusual, but it justifies. I just hadthe cybs work it over in the light of present regulations, and itjustifies.     Everything had to justify, of course. Every act in the monthly reporthad to be covered by regulations and cross-regulations. Of course therewere so many regulations that if you just took the time to work it out,you could justify damn near anything. I knew what the chief was up to.Just to remove me from my post would have taken a year of applicationsand hearings and innumerable visits to the capital in Center One. Butif I should infract—deliberately infract—it would enable the chief tolet me go. The equivalent of resigning.     I'll infract, I said. Rather than go on nutrition kits, I'llinfract.     He looked vastly relieved. Uh—fine, he said. I rather hoped youwould.     It took a week or so. Then I was on Non-Productive status and issued anN/P book for my necessities. Very few luxury coupons in the N/P book.I didn't really mind at first. My new living machine was smaller, butbasically comfortable, and since I was still a loyal member of thestate and a verified conformist, I wouldn't starve.     But I didn't know what I was in for.     I went from bureau to bureau, office to office, department todepartment—any place where they might use a space drive expert. Apattern began to emerge; the same story everywhere. When I mentioned myspecialty they would look delighted. When I handed them my tag and theysaw my name, they would go into immediate polite confusion. As soon asthey recovered they would say they'd call me if anything turned up....  A few weeks of this and I became a bit dazed.     And then there was the problem of everyday existence. You might sayit's lucky to be an N/P for a while. I've heard people say that. Basicneeds provided, worlds of leisure time; on the surface it soundsattractive.     But let me give you an example. Say it is monthly realfood day. You goto the store, your mouth already watering in anticipation. You takeyour place in line and wait for your package. The distributor takesyour coupon book and is all ready to reach for your package—and thenhe sees the fatal letters N/P. Non-Producer. A drone, a drain upon theState. You can see his stare curdle. He scowls at the book again.     Not sure this is in order. Better go to the end of the line. We'llcheck it later.     You know what happens before the end of the line reaches the counter.No more packages.     Well, I couldn't get myself off N/P status until I got a post, andwith my name I      couldn't     get a post.     Nor could I change my name. You know what happens when you try tochange something already on the records. The very idea of wantingchange implies criticism of the State. Unthinkable behavior.     That was why this curious dream voice shocked me so. The thing that itsuggested was quite as embarrassing as its non-standard, emotional,provocative tone.     Bear with me; I'm getting to the voice—to      her     —in a moment.     I want to tell you first about the loneliness, the terrible loneliness.I could hardly join group games at any of the rec centers. I could joinno special interest clubs or even State Loyalty chapters. Although Idabbled with theoretical research in my own quarters, I could scarcelysubmit any findings for publication—not with my name attached. Apseudonym would have been non-regulation and illegal.     But there was the worst thing of all. I could not mate.  Funny, I hadn't thought about mating until it became impossible. Iremember the first time, out of sheer idleness, I wandered into aEugenic Center. I filled out my form very carefully and submitted itfor analysis and assignment. The clerk saw my name, and did the usualdouble-take. He coughed and swallowed and fidgeted.     He said, Of course you understand that we must submit yourapplication to the woman authorized to spend time in the mating boothswith you, and that she has the right to refuse.     Yes, I understand that.     M'm, he said, and dismissed me with a nod.     I waited for a call in the next few weeks, still hoping, but I knewno woman would consent to meet a man with my name, let alone enter amating booth with him.     The urge to reproduce myself became unbearable. I concocted all sortsof wild schemes.     I might infract socially and be classified a nonconform and sent toMarscol. I'd heard rumors that in that desolate land, on that desolateplanet, both mingling and mating were rather disgustingly unrestricted.Casual mating would be terribly dangerous, of course, with all the wildirradiated genes from the atomic decade still around, but I felt I'd bewilling to risk that. Well, almost....     About then I began to have these dreams. As I've told you, in the dreamthere was only this woman's seductive voice. The first time I heard itI awoke in a warm sweat and swore something had gone wrong with thesleep-learner. You never hear the actual words with this machine, ofcourse; you simply absorb the concepts unconsciously. Still, it seemedan explanation. I checked thoroughly. Nothing wrong.     The next night I heard the woman's voice again.           Try it     , she said.       Do it. Start tomorrow to get your name changed.There will be a way. There must be a way. The rules are so mixed upthat a clever man can do almost anything. Do it, please—for me.       She was not only trying to get me to commit nonconformity, but makingheretical remarks besides. I awoke that time and half-expected a Deaconto pop out of the tube and turn his electric club upon me.     And I heard the voice nearly every night.     It hammered away.           What if you do fail? Almost anything would be better than themiserable existence you're leading now!          One morning I even caught myself wondering just how I'd go about thisidea of hers. Wondering what the first step might be.     She seemed to read my thoughts. That night she said,       Consult the cybsin the Govpub office. If you look hard enough and long enough, you'llfind a way.          Now, on this morning of the seventeenth day in the ninth month,I ate my boiled egg slowly and actually toyed with the idea. Ithought of being on productive status again. I had almost lost myfanatical craving to be useful to the State, but I did want to bebusy—desperately. I didn't want to be despised any more. I didn'twant to be lonely. I wanted to reproduce myself.     I made my decision suddenly. Waves of emotion carried me along. I gotup, crossed the room to the directory, and pushbuttoned to find thelocation of the nearest Govpub office.     I didn't know what would happen and almost didn't care.      II     Like most important places, the Govpub Office in Center Four wasunderground. I could have taken a tunnelcar more quickly, but it seemedpleasanter to travel topside. Or maybe I just wanted to put this off abit. Think about it. Compose myself.     At the entrance to the Govpub warren there was a big director cyb, aplate with a speaker and switch. The sign on it said to switch it onand get close to the speaker and I did.     The cyb's mechanical voice—they never seem to get the th soundsright—said, This is Branch Four of the Office of GovernmentPublications. Say, 'Publications,' and/or, 'Information desired,' asthoroughly and concisely as possible. Use approved voice and standardphraseology.     Well, simple enough so far. I had always rather prided myself on myknack for approved voice, those flat, emotionless tones that indicateefficiency. And I would never forget how to speak Statese. I said,Applicant desires all pertinent information relative assignment,change or amendment of State Serial designations, otherwise generallyreferred to as nomenclature.     There was a second's delay while the audio patterns tripped relays andbrought the memory tubes in.     Then the cyb said, Proceed to Numbering and Identity section. Consultalphabetical list and diagram on your left for location of same.     Thanks, I said absent-mindedly.     I started to turn away and the cyb said, Information on tanks ismilitary information and classified. State authorization for—     I switched it off.  Numbering and Identity wasn't hard to find. I took the shaft to theproper level and then it was only a walk of a few hundred yards throughthe glowlit corridors.     N. & I. turned out to be a big room, somewhat circular, veryhigh-ceilinged, with banks of cyb controls covering the upper walls.Narrow passageways, like spokes, led off in several directions. Therewas an information desk in the center of the room.     I looked that way and my heart went into free fall.     There was a girl at the information desk. An exceptionally attractivegirl. She was well within the limits of acceptable standard, and herfeatures were even enough, and her hair a middle blonde—but she hadsomething else. Hard to describe. It was a warmth, a buoyancy, a senseof life and intense animation. It didn't exactly show; it radiated. Itseemed to sing out from her clear complexion, from her figure, whicheven a tunic could not hide, from everything about her.     And if I were to state my business, I would have to tell her my name.     I almost backed out right then. I stopped momentarily. And then commonsense took hold and I realized that if I were to go through with thisthing, here would be only the first of a long series of embarrassmentsand discomforts. It had to be done.     I walked up to the desk and the girl turned to face me, and I couldhave sworn that a faint smile crossed her lips. It was swift, like theshadow of a bird across one of the lawns in one of the great parkstopside. Very non-standard. Yet I wasn't offended; if anything, I feltsuddenly and disturbingly pleased.     What information is desired? she asked. Her voice was standard—orwas it?     Again I had the feeling of restrained warmth.     I used colloquial. I want to get the dope on State Serialdesignations, how they're assigned and so forth. Especially how theymight be changed.     She put a handsteno on the desk top and said, Name? Address? Post?     I froze. I stood there and stared at her.     She looked up and said, Well?     I—er—no post at present. N/P status.     Her fingers moved on the steno.     I gave her my address and she recorded that.     Then I paused again.     She said, And your name?     I took a deep breath and told her.     I didn't want to look into her eyes. I wanted to look away, but Icouldn't find a decent excuse to. I saw her eyes become wide andnoticed for the first time that they were a warm gray, almost a mousecolor. I felt like laughing at that irrelevant observation, but morethan that I felt like turning and running. I felt like climbing anddashing all over the walls like a frustrated cat and yelling at thetop of my lungs. I felt like anything but standing there and lookingstupid, meeting her stare—  She looked down quickly and recorded my name. It took her a littlelonger than necessary. In that time she recovered. Somewhat.     All right, she said finally, I'll make a search.     She turned to a row of buttons on a console in the center of the deskand began to press them in various combinations. A typer clicked away.She tore off a slip of paper, consulted it, and said, Informationdesired is in Bank 29. Please follow me.     Well, following her was a pleasure, anyway. I could watch the movementof her hips and torso as she walked. She was not tall, but long-leggedand extremely lithe. Graceful and rhythmic. Very, very feminine, almostbeyond standard in that respect. I felt blood throb in my temples andwas heartily ashamed of myself.     I would like to be in a mating booth with her, I thought, the fullauthorized twenty minutes. And I knew I was unconformist and therealization hardly scared me at all.     She led me down one of the long passageways.     A few moments later I said, Don't you sometimes get—well, prettylonely working here? Personal talk at a time like this wasn't approvedbehavior, but I couldn't help it.     She answered hesitantly, but at least she answered. She said, Notterribly. The cybs are company enough most of the time.     You don't get many visitors, then.     Not right here. N. & I. isn't a very popular section. Most people whocome to Govpub spend their time researching in the ancient manuscriptroom. The—er—social habits of the pre-atomic civilization.     I laughed. I knew what she meant, all right. Pre-atomics and theirideas about free mating always fascinated people. I moved up besideher. What's your name, by the way?     L-A-R-A 339/827.     I pronounced it. Lara. Lah-rah. That's beautiful. Fits you, too.  She didn't answer; she kept her eyes straight ahead and I saw the faintspot of color on her cheek.     I had a sudden impulse to ask her to meet me after hours at oneof the rec centers. If it had been my danger alone, I might have,but I couldn't very well ask her to risk discovery of a haphazard,unauthorized arrangement like that and the possibility of going to thepsycho-scan.     We came to a turn in the corridor and something happened; I'm not surejust how it happened. I keep telling myself that my movements were notactually deliberate. I was to the right of her. The turn was to theleft. She turned quickly, and I didn't, so that I bumped into her,knocking her off balance. I grabbed her to keep her from falling.     For a moment we stood there, face to face, touching each other lightly.I held her by the arms. I felt the primitive warmth of her breath. Oureyes held together ... proton ... electron ... I felt her tremble.     She broke from my grip suddenly and started off again.     After that she was very business-like.     We came finally to the controls of Bank 29 and she stood before themand began to press button combinations. I watched her work; I watchedher move. I had almost forgotten why I'd come here. The lights blinkedon and off and the typers clacked softly as the machine sorted outinformation.     She had a long printed sheet from the roll presently. She frowned atit and turned to me. You can take this along and study it, she said,but I'm afraid what you have in mind may be—a little difficult.     She must have guessed what I had in mind. I said, I didn't think itwould be easy.     It seems that the only agency authorized to change a State Serialunder any circumstances is Opsych.     Opsych? You can't keep up with all these departments.     The Office of Psychological Adjustment. They can change you if you gofrom a lower to higher E.A.C.     I don't get it, exactly.     As she spoke I had the idea that there was sympathy in her voice. Justan overtone. Well, she said, as you know, the post a person isqualified to hold often depends largely on his Emotional AdjustmentCategory. Now if he improves and passes from, let us say, Grade 3 toGrade 4, he will probably change his place of work. In order to protecthim from any associative maladjustments developed under the old E.A.C,he is permitted a new number.     I groaned. But I'm already in the highest E.A.C.!     It looks very uncertain then.     Sometimes I think I'd be better off in the mines, or onMarscol—or—in the hell of the pre-atomics!     She looked amused. What did you say your E.A.C. was?     Oh, all right. Sorry. I controlled myself and grinned. I guess thiswhole thing has been just a little too much for me. Maybe my E.A.C.'seven gone down.     That might be your chance then.     How do you mean?     If you could get to the top man in Opsych and demonstrate that yournumber has inadvertently changed your E.A.C., he might be able tojustify a change.     By the State, he might! I punched my palm. Only how do I get to him?     I can find his location on the cyb here. Center One, the capital, fora guess. You'll have to get a travel permit to go there, of course.Just a moment.     She worked at the machine again, trying it on general data. The printedslip came out a moment later and she read it to me. Chief, Opsych, wasin the capital all right. It didn't give the exact location of hisoffice, but it did tell how to find the underground bay in Center Onecontaining the Opsych offices.     We headed back through the passageway then and she kept well ahead ofme. I couldn't keep my eyes from her walk, from the way she walked witheverything below her shoulders. My blood was pounding at my templesagain.     I tried to keep the conversation going. Do you think it'll be hard toget a travel permit?     Not impossible. My guess is that you'll be at Travbur all daytomorrow, maybe even the next day. But you ought to be able to swing itif you hold out long enough.     I sighed. I know. It's that way everywhere in Northem. Our motto oughtto be, 'Why make it difficult when with just a little more effort youcan make it impossible?'  She started to laugh, and then, as she emerged from the passageway intothe big circular room, she cut her laugh short.     A second later, as I came along, I saw why.     There were two Deacons by the central desk. They were burly and hadthat hard, pinched-face look and wore the usual black belts. Electricclubs hung from the belts. Spidery looking pistols were at their sides.     I didn't know whether these two had heard my crack or not. I know theykept looking at me.     Lara and I crossed the room silently, she back to her desk, I to theexit door. The Deacons' remote, disapproving eyes swung in azimuth,tracking us.     I walked out and wanted to turn and smile at Lara, and get into mysmile something of the hope that someday, somewhere, I'd see heragain—but of course I didn't dare.      III     I had the usual difficulties at Travbur the next day. I won't go intothem, except to say that I was batted from office to office like a pingpong ball, and that, when I finally got my travel permit, I was made tofeel that I had stolen an original Picasso from the State Museum.     I made it in a day. Just. I got my permit thirty seconds before closingtime. I was to take the jetcopter to Center One at 0700 hours thefollowing morning.     In my living machine that evening, I was much too excited to work attheoretical research as I usually did after a hard day of trampingaround. I bathed, I paced a while, I sat and hummed nervously andgot up and paced again. I turned on the telepuppets. There was adrama about the space pilots who fly the nonconformist prisoners tothe forests and pulp-acetate plants on Mars. Seemed that the Southempolitical prisoners who are confined to the southern hemisphere ofMars, wanted to attack and conquer the north. The nonconformists, ledby our pilot, came through for the State in the end. Corn is thickerthan water. Standard.     There were, however, some good stereofilm shots of the limitlessforests of Mars, and I wondered what it would be like to live there, ina green, fresh-smelling land. Pleasant, I supposed, if you could put upwith the no doubt revolting morality of a prison planet.     And the drama seemed to point out that there was no more security forthe nonconformists out there than for us here on Earth. Maybe somewherein the universe, I thought, there would be peace for men. Somewherebeyond the solar system, perhaps, someday when we had the means to gothere....     Yet instinct told me that wasn't the answer, either. I thought of averse by an ancient pre-atomic poet named Hoffenstein. (People hadunwieldy, random combinations of letters for names in those days.) Thepoem went:   Wherever I go,    I   go too, And spoil everything.    That was it. The story of mankind.     I turned the glowlight down and lay on the pneumo after a while, but Ididn't sleep for a long, long time.     Then, when I did sleep, when I had been sleeping, I heard the voiceagain. The low, seductive woman's voice—the startling, shocking voiceout of my unconscious.           You have taken the first step     , she said.       You are on your wayto freedom. Don't stop now. Don't sink back into the lifelessness ofconformity. Go on ... on and on. Keep struggling, for that is the onlyanswer....       I didn't exactly talk back, but in the queer way of the dream, I      thought     objections. I was in my thirties, at the mid-point of mylife, and the whole of that life had been spent under the State. I knewno other way to act. Suppressing what little individuality I mighthave was, for me, a way of survival. I was chockful of prescribed,stereotyped reactions, and I held onto them even when something withinme told me what they were. This wasn't easy, this breaking away, noteven this slight departure from the secure, camouflaged norm....           The woman, Lara, attracts you     , said the voice.     I suppose at that point I twitched or rolled in my sleep. Yes, thevoice was right, the woman Lara attracted me. So much that I ached withit.           Take her. Find a way. When you succeed in changing your name, andknow that you can do things, then find a way. There will be a way.          The idea at once thrilled and frightened me.     I woke writhing and in a sweat again.     It was morning.     I dressed and headed for the jetcopter stage and the ship for CenterOne.     The ship was comfortable and departed on time, a transport with seatsfor about twenty passengers. I sat near the tail and moodily busiedmyself watching the gaunt brown earth far below. Between Centers therewas mostly desert, only occasional patches of green. Before the atomicdecade, I had heard, nearly all the earth was green and teemed withlife ... birds, insects, animals, people, too. It was hard rock andsand now, with a few scrubs hanging on for life. The pre-atomics, whohadn't mastered synthesization, would have a hard time scratchingexistence from the earth today.     I tried to break the sad mood, and started to look around at some ofthe other passengers. That was when I first noticed the prisonersin the forward seats. Man and woman, they were, a youngish, rathernon-descript couple, thin, very quiet. They were manacled and twoDeacons sat across from them. The Deacons' backs were turned to me andI could see the prisoners' faces.     They had curious faces. Their eyes were indescribably sad, and yettheir lips seemed to be ready to smile at any moment.     They were holding hands, not seeming to care about this vulgaremotional display.     I had the sudden crazy idea that Lara and I were sitting there, holdinghands like that, nonconforming in the highest, and that we werewonderfully happy. Our eyes were sad too, but we were really happy,quietly happy, and that was why our lips stayed upon the brink of asmile.  ","The narrator is awoken by a female voice in his head. He recounts his time as a conformist citizen of Northem, a futuristic dystopian civilization: one day, he wakes up and regards himself in the mirror, observing signs of aging on his face. He sees the toll of the past two years, since the renumbering. The narrator explains that, as part of ensuring the efficiency of Northem, the designation of each citizen is periodically changed. In the most recent one, everyone was assigned six numerical digits and a prefix or suffix of four letters, which often spelled something pronounceable – for the narrator, the four letters spelled an unspeakably vulgar word. As a result, the narrator is forced to infract from his job and assume non-productive status and begins encountering difficulties in quotidien tasks, such as receiving his realfood package. Furthermore, his designation prevents him from acquiring gainful employment and reassuming productive status, as well as the ability to mate. The narrator then recounts hearing the woman’s voice for the first time. She encourages him to change his name, a difficult thing to do because of its implied criticism of the state. The voice returns in his sleep, nearly every night. Driven by his loneliness and social ostracization, the narrator brings himself to the Govpub Office, a sort of government center, in an attempt to change his designation. In the underground office of his local Govpub Office, the narrator navigates his way to the Numbering and Identity section with help of a cyb, an automated assistant. In the round room that is the Number and Identity department, he observes a remarkably attractive woman at the information desk. Though he is nervous at first, fearing that he will have to share with her his embarrassing name, he dismisses his hesitance and approaches her. He reluctantly shares his name, and asks that she direct him to information concerning state serial designations. As the girl, whose name she reveals is LARA, leads the narrator to information bank 29 where the requested information is stored, they share an inappropriate moment: Lara trips and the narrator grabs her arms. Lara’s demeanor changes, and she now conducts herself in an all-business fashion. At bank 29, Lara explains to the narrator the tasks he must complete in order to change his name, including traveling to the capital. On their way back to the main room, the narrator makes a joke which elicits a laugh from Lara. As she enters the rotunda, she abruptly stops laughing. The narrator, following closely behind, quickly realizes why: two Deacons, officers of the state, are at the central desk. On the night before his departure to the capital, the narrator once again hears the mysterious female voice in his head. She tells him that he is attracted to Lara. On the transport to the capital the narrator sees a young couple holding hands, and pictures himself with Lara in their position."
"What appears to be the role of the State in the Northem? </s>     I, the Unspeakable     By WALT SHELDON     Illustrated by LOUIS MARCHETTI     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction April 1951.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]       What's in a name? might be very dangerous     to ask in certain societies, in which sticks     and stones are also a big problem!      I fought to be awake. I was dreaming, but I think I must have blushed.I must have blushed in my sleep.           Do it!      she said.       Please do it! For me!          It was the voice that always came, low, intense, seductive, the soundof your hand on silk ... and to a citizen of Northem, a conformist, itwas shocking. I was a conformist then; I was still one that morning.     I awoke. The glowlight was on, slowly increasing. I was in my livingmachine in Center Four, where I belonged, and all the familiar thingswere about me, reality was back, but I was breathing very hard.     I lay on the pneumo a while before getting up. I looked at thechroner: 0703 hours, Day 17, Month IX, New Century Three. My morningnuro-tablets had already popped from the tube, and the timer had begunto boil an egg. The egg was there because the realfood allotment hadbeen increased last month. The balance of trade with Southem had justswung a decimal or two our way.     I rose finally, stepped to the mirror, switched it to positive andlooked at myself. New wrinkles—or maybe just a deepening of the oldones. It was beginning to show; the past two years were leaving traces.     I hadn't worried about my appearance when I'd been with the Office ofWeapons. There, I'd been able to keep pretty much to myself, doingresearch on magnetic mechanics as applied to space drive. But otherjobs, where you had to be among people, might be different. I neededevery possible thing in my favor.     Yes, I still hoped for a job, even after two years. I still meant tokeep on plugging, making the rounds.     I'd go out again today.     The timer clicked and my egg was ready. I swallowed the tablets andthen took the egg to the table to savor it and make it last.     As I leaned forward to sit, the metal tag dangled from my neck,catching the glowlight. My identity tag.     Everything came back in a rush—     My name. The dream and      her     voice. And her suggestion.       Would I dare? Would I start out this very morning and take the risk,the terrible risk?    You remember renumbering. Two years ago. You remember how it was then;how everybody looked forward to his new designation, and how everybodymade jokes about the way the letters came out, and how all the recordswere for a while fouled up beyond recognition.     The telecomics kidded renumbering. One went a little too far andthey psycho-scanned him and then sent him to Marscol as a dangerousnonconform.     If you were disappointed with your new designation, you didn'tcomplain. You didn't want a sudden visit from the Deacons during thenight.     There had to be renumbering. We all understood that. With thepopulation of Northem already past two billion, the old designationswere too clumsy. Renumbering was efficient. It contributed to the goodof Northem. It helped advance the warless struggle with Southem.     The equator is the boundary. I understand that once there wasa political difference and that the two superstates sprawledlongitudinally, not latitudinally, over the globe. Now they are prettymuch the same. There is the truce, and they are both geared for war.They are both efficient states, as tightly controlled as an experimentwith enzymes, as microsurgery, as the temper of a diplomat.     We were renumbered, then, in Northem. You know the system: everybodynow has six digits and an additional prefix or suffix of four letters.Stateleader, for instance, has the designation AAAA-111/111. Now, toaddress somebody by calling off four letters is a little clumsy. We tryto pronounce them when they are pronounceable. That is, no one says toStateleader, Good morning, A-A-A-A. They say, Good morning, Aaaa.     Reading the last quote, I notice a curious effect. It says what I feel.Of course I didn't feel that way on that particular morning. I wasstill conformal; the last thing in my mind was that I would infract andbe psycho-scanned.     Four letters then, and in many cases a pronounceable four letter word.     A four letter word.     Yes, you suspect already. You know what a four letter word can be.     Mine was.     It was unspeakable.     The slight weight on my forehead reminded me that I still wore mysleep-learner. I'd been studying administrative cybernetics, hoping toqualify in that field, although it was a poor substitute for a spacedrive expert. I removed the band and stepped across the room andturned off the oscillator. I went back to my egg and my bitter memories.     I will never forget the first day I received my new four lettercombination and reported it to my chief, as required. I was unthinkablyembarrassed. He didn't say anything. He just swallowed and chokedand became crimson when he saw it. He didn't dare pass it to hissecretarial engineer; he went to the administrative circuits andregistered it himself.     I can't blame him for easing me out. He was trying to run an efficientorganization, after all, and no doubt I upset its efficiency. My workwas important—magnetic mechanics was the only way to handle quantareaction, or the so-called non-energy drive, and was therefore theanswer to feasible space travel beyond our present limit of Mars—andthere were frequent inspection tours by Big Wheels and Very ImportantPersons.     Whenever anyone, especially a woman, asked my name, the embarrassmentwould become a crackling electric field all about us. The best tacticwas just not to answer.  The chief called me in one day. He looked haggard.     Er—old man, he said, not quite able to bring himself to utter myname, I'm going to have to switch you to another department. How wouldyou like to work on nutrition kits? Very interesting work.     Nutrition kits?      Me?     On nutrition kits?     Well, I—er—know it sounds unusual, but it justifies. I just hadthe cybs work it over in the light of present regulations, and itjustifies.     Everything had to justify, of course. Every act in the monthly reporthad to be covered by regulations and cross-regulations. Of course therewere so many regulations that if you just took the time to work it out,you could justify damn near anything. I knew what the chief was up to.Just to remove me from my post would have taken a year of applicationsand hearings and innumerable visits to the capital in Center One. Butif I should infract—deliberately infract—it would enable the chief tolet me go. The equivalent of resigning.     I'll infract, I said. Rather than go on nutrition kits, I'llinfract.     He looked vastly relieved. Uh—fine, he said. I rather hoped youwould.     It took a week or so. Then I was on Non-Productive status and issued anN/P book for my necessities. Very few luxury coupons in the N/P book.I didn't really mind at first. My new living machine was smaller, butbasically comfortable, and since I was still a loyal member of thestate and a verified conformist, I wouldn't starve.     But I didn't know what I was in for.     I went from bureau to bureau, office to office, department todepartment—any place where they might use a space drive expert. Apattern began to emerge; the same story everywhere. When I mentioned myspecialty they would look delighted. When I handed them my tag and theysaw my name, they would go into immediate polite confusion. As soon asthey recovered they would say they'd call me if anything turned up....  A few weeks of this and I became a bit dazed.     And then there was the problem of everyday existence. You might sayit's lucky to be an N/P for a while. I've heard people say that. Basicneeds provided, worlds of leisure time; on the surface it soundsattractive.     But let me give you an example. Say it is monthly realfood day. You goto the store, your mouth already watering in anticipation. You takeyour place in line and wait for your package. The distributor takesyour coupon book and is all ready to reach for your package—and thenhe sees the fatal letters N/P. Non-Producer. A drone, a drain upon theState. You can see his stare curdle. He scowls at the book again.     Not sure this is in order. Better go to the end of the line. We'llcheck it later.     You know what happens before the end of the line reaches the counter.No more packages.     Well, I couldn't get myself off N/P status until I got a post, andwith my name I      couldn't     get a post.     Nor could I change my name. You know what happens when you try tochange something already on the records. The very idea of wantingchange implies criticism of the State. Unthinkable behavior.     That was why this curious dream voice shocked me so. The thing that itsuggested was quite as embarrassing as its non-standard, emotional,provocative tone.     Bear with me; I'm getting to the voice—to      her     —in a moment.     I want to tell you first about the loneliness, the terrible loneliness.I could hardly join group games at any of the rec centers. I could joinno special interest clubs or even State Loyalty chapters. Although Idabbled with theoretical research in my own quarters, I could scarcelysubmit any findings for publication—not with my name attached. Apseudonym would have been non-regulation and illegal.     But there was the worst thing of all. I could not mate.  Funny, I hadn't thought about mating until it became impossible. Iremember the first time, out of sheer idleness, I wandered into aEugenic Center. I filled out my form very carefully and submitted itfor analysis and assignment. The clerk saw my name, and did the usualdouble-take. He coughed and swallowed and fidgeted.     He said, Of course you understand that we must submit yourapplication to the woman authorized to spend time in the mating boothswith you, and that she has the right to refuse.     Yes, I understand that.     M'm, he said, and dismissed me with a nod.     I waited for a call in the next few weeks, still hoping, but I knewno woman would consent to meet a man with my name, let alone enter amating booth with him.     The urge to reproduce myself became unbearable. I concocted all sortsof wild schemes.     I might infract socially and be classified a nonconform and sent toMarscol. I'd heard rumors that in that desolate land, on that desolateplanet, both mingling and mating were rather disgustingly unrestricted.Casual mating would be terribly dangerous, of course, with all the wildirradiated genes from the atomic decade still around, but I felt I'd bewilling to risk that. Well, almost....     About then I began to have these dreams. As I've told you, in the dreamthere was only this woman's seductive voice. The first time I heard itI awoke in a warm sweat and swore something had gone wrong with thesleep-learner. You never hear the actual words with this machine, ofcourse; you simply absorb the concepts unconsciously. Still, it seemedan explanation. I checked thoroughly. Nothing wrong.     The next night I heard the woman's voice again.           Try it     , she said.       Do it. Start tomorrow to get your name changed.There will be a way. There must be a way. The rules are so mixed upthat a clever man can do almost anything. Do it, please—for me.       She was not only trying to get me to commit nonconformity, but makingheretical remarks besides. I awoke that time and half-expected a Deaconto pop out of the tube and turn his electric club upon me.     And I heard the voice nearly every night.     It hammered away.           What if you do fail? Almost anything would be better than themiserable existence you're leading now!          One morning I even caught myself wondering just how I'd go about thisidea of hers. Wondering what the first step might be.     She seemed to read my thoughts. That night she said,       Consult the cybsin the Govpub office. If you look hard enough and long enough, you'llfind a way.          Now, on this morning of the seventeenth day in the ninth month,I ate my boiled egg slowly and actually toyed with the idea. Ithought of being on productive status again. I had almost lost myfanatical craving to be useful to the State, but I did want to bebusy—desperately. I didn't want to be despised any more. I didn'twant to be lonely. I wanted to reproduce myself.     I made my decision suddenly. Waves of emotion carried me along. I gotup, crossed the room to the directory, and pushbuttoned to find thelocation of the nearest Govpub office.     I didn't know what would happen and almost didn't care.      II     Like most important places, the Govpub Office in Center Four wasunderground. I could have taken a tunnelcar more quickly, but it seemedpleasanter to travel topside. Or maybe I just wanted to put this off abit. Think about it. Compose myself.     At the entrance to the Govpub warren there was a big director cyb, aplate with a speaker and switch. The sign on it said to switch it onand get close to the speaker and I did.     The cyb's mechanical voice—they never seem to get the th soundsright—said, This is Branch Four of the Office of GovernmentPublications. Say, 'Publications,' and/or, 'Information desired,' asthoroughly and concisely as possible. Use approved voice and standardphraseology.     Well, simple enough so far. I had always rather prided myself on myknack for approved voice, those flat, emotionless tones that indicateefficiency. And I would never forget how to speak Statese. I said,Applicant desires all pertinent information relative assignment,change or amendment of State Serial designations, otherwise generallyreferred to as nomenclature.     There was a second's delay while the audio patterns tripped relays andbrought the memory tubes in.     Then the cyb said, Proceed to Numbering and Identity section. Consultalphabetical list and diagram on your left for location of same.     Thanks, I said absent-mindedly.     I started to turn away and the cyb said, Information on tanks ismilitary information and classified. State authorization for—     I switched it off.  Numbering and Identity wasn't hard to find. I took the shaft to theproper level and then it was only a walk of a few hundred yards throughthe glowlit corridors.     N. & I. turned out to be a big room, somewhat circular, veryhigh-ceilinged, with banks of cyb controls covering the upper walls.Narrow passageways, like spokes, led off in several directions. Therewas an information desk in the center of the room.     I looked that way and my heart went into free fall.     There was a girl at the information desk. An exceptionally attractivegirl. She was well within the limits of acceptable standard, and herfeatures were even enough, and her hair a middle blonde—but she hadsomething else. Hard to describe. It was a warmth, a buoyancy, a senseof life and intense animation. It didn't exactly show; it radiated. Itseemed to sing out from her clear complexion, from her figure, whicheven a tunic could not hide, from everything about her.     And if I were to state my business, I would have to tell her my name.     I almost backed out right then. I stopped momentarily. And then commonsense took hold and I realized that if I were to go through with thisthing, here would be only the first of a long series of embarrassmentsand discomforts. It had to be done.     I walked up to the desk and the girl turned to face me, and I couldhave sworn that a faint smile crossed her lips. It was swift, like theshadow of a bird across one of the lawns in one of the great parkstopside. Very non-standard. Yet I wasn't offended; if anything, I feltsuddenly and disturbingly pleased.     What information is desired? she asked. Her voice was standard—orwas it?     Again I had the feeling of restrained warmth.     I used colloquial. I want to get the dope on State Serialdesignations, how they're assigned and so forth. Especially how theymight be changed.     She put a handsteno on the desk top and said, Name? Address? Post?     I froze. I stood there and stared at her.     She looked up and said, Well?     I—er—no post at present. N/P status.     Her fingers moved on the steno.     I gave her my address and she recorded that.     Then I paused again.     She said, And your name?     I took a deep breath and told her.     I didn't want to look into her eyes. I wanted to look away, but Icouldn't find a decent excuse to. I saw her eyes become wide andnoticed for the first time that they were a warm gray, almost a mousecolor. I felt like laughing at that irrelevant observation, but morethan that I felt like turning and running. I felt like climbing anddashing all over the walls like a frustrated cat and yelling at thetop of my lungs. I felt like anything but standing there and lookingstupid, meeting her stare—  She looked down quickly and recorded my name. It took her a littlelonger than necessary. In that time she recovered. Somewhat.     All right, she said finally, I'll make a search.     She turned to a row of buttons on a console in the center of the deskand began to press them in various combinations. A typer clicked away.She tore off a slip of paper, consulted it, and said, Informationdesired is in Bank 29. Please follow me.     Well, following her was a pleasure, anyway. I could watch the movementof her hips and torso as she walked. She was not tall, but long-leggedand extremely lithe. Graceful and rhythmic. Very, very feminine, almostbeyond standard in that respect. I felt blood throb in my temples andwas heartily ashamed of myself.     I would like to be in a mating booth with her, I thought, the fullauthorized twenty minutes. And I knew I was unconformist and therealization hardly scared me at all.     She led me down one of the long passageways.     A few moments later I said, Don't you sometimes get—well, prettylonely working here? Personal talk at a time like this wasn't approvedbehavior, but I couldn't help it.     She answered hesitantly, but at least she answered. She said, Notterribly. The cybs are company enough most of the time.     You don't get many visitors, then.     Not right here. N. & I. isn't a very popular section. Most people whocome to Govpub spend their time researching in the ancient manuscriptroom. The—er—social habits of the pre-atomic civilization.     I laughed. I knew what she meant, all right. Pre-atomics and theirideas about free mating always fascinated people. I moved up besideher. What's your name, by the way?     L-A-R-A 339/827.     I pronounced it. Lara. Lah-rah. That's beautiful. Fits you, too.  She didn't answer; she kept her eyes straight ahead and I saw the faintspot of color on her cheek.     I had a sudden impulse to ask her to meet me after hours at oneof the rec centers. If it had been my danger alone, I might have,but I couldn't very well ask her to risk discovery of a haphazard,unauthorized arrangement like that and the possibility of going to thepsycho-scan.     We came to a turn in the corridor and something happened; I'm not surejust how it happened. I keep telling myself that my movements were notactually deliberate. I was to the right of her. The turn was to theleft. She turned quickly, and I didn't, so that I bumped into her,knocking her off balance. I grabbed her to keep her from falling.     For a moment we stood there, face to face, touching each other lightly.I held her by the arms. I felt the primitive warmth of her breath. Oureyes held together ... proton ... electron ... I felt her tremble.     She broke from my grip suddenly and started off again.     After that she was very business-like.     We came finally to the controls of Bank 29 and she stood before themand began to press button combinations. I watched her work; I watchedher move. I had almost forgotten why I'd come here. The lights blinkedon and off and the typers clacked softly as the machine sorted outinformation.     She had a long printed sheet from the roll presently. She frowned atit and turned to me. You can take this along and study it, she said,but I'm afraid what you have in mind may be—a little difficult.     She must have guessed what I had in mind. I said, I didn't think itwould be easy.     It seems that the only agency authorized to change a State Serialunder any circumstances is Opsych.     Opsych? You can't keep up with all these departments.     The Office of Psychological Adjustment. They can change you if you gofrom a lower to higher E.A.C.     I don't get it, exactly.     As she spoke I had the idea that there was sympathy in her voice. Justan overtone. Well, she said, as you know, the post a person isqualified to hold often depends largely on his Emotional AdjustmentCategory. Now if he improves and passes from, let us say, Grade 3 toGrade 4, he will probably change his place of work. In order to protecthim from any associative maladjustments developed under the old E.A.C,he is permitted a new number.     I groaned. But I'm already in the highest E.A.C.!     It looks very uncertain then.     Sometimes I think I'd be better off in the mines, or onMarscol—or—in the hell of the pre-atomics!     She looked amused. What did you say your E.A.C. was?     Oh, all right. Sorry. I controlled myself and grinned. I guess thiswhole thing has been just a little too much for me. Maybe my E.A.C.'seven gone down.     That might be your chance then.     How do you mean?     If you could get to the top man in Opsych and demonstrate that yournumber has inadvertently changed your E.A.C., he might be able tojustify a change.     By the State, he might! I punched my palm. Only how do I get to him?     I can find his location on the cyb here. Center One, the capital, fora guess. You'll have to get a travel permit to go there, of course.Just a moment.     She worked at the machine again, trying it on general data. The printedslip came out a moment later and she read it to me. Chief, Opsych, wasin the capital all right. It didn't give the exact location of hisoffice, but it did tell how to find the underground bay in Center Onecontaining the Opsych offices.     We headed back through the passageway then and she kept well ahead ofme. I couldn't keep my eyes from her walk, from the way she walked witheverything below her shoulders. My blood was pounding at my templesagain.     I tried to keep the conversation going. Do you think it'll be hard toget a travel permit?     Not impossible. My guess is that you'll be at Travbur all daytomorrow, maybe even the next day. But you ought to be able to swing itif you hold out long enough.     I sighed. I know. It's that way everywhere in Northem. Our motto oughtto be, 'Why make it difficult when with just a little more effort youcan make it impossible?'  She started to laugh, and then, as she emerged from the passageway intothe big circular room, she cut her laugh short.     A second later, as I came along, I saw why.     There were two Deacons by the central desk. They were burly and hadthat hard, pinched-face look and wore the usual black belts. Electricclubs hung from the belts. Spidery looking pistols were at their sides.     I didn't know whether these two had heard my crack or not. I know theykept looking at me.     Lara and I crossed the room silently, she back to her desk, I to theexit door. The Deacons' remote, disapproving eyes swung in azimuth,tracking us.     I walked out and wanted to turn and smile at Lara, and get into mysmile something of the hope that someday, somewhere, I'd see heragain—but of course I didn't dare.      III     I had the usual difficulties at Travbur the next day. I won't go intothem, except to say that I was batted from office to office like a pingpong ball, and that, when I finally got my travel permit, I was made tofeel that I had stolen an original Picasso from the State Museum.     I made it in a day. Just. I got my permit thirty seconds before closingtime. I was to take the jetcopter to Center One at 0700 hours thefollowing morning.     In my living machine that evening, I was much too excited to work attheoretical research as I usually did after a hard day of trampingaround. I bathed, I paced a while, I sat and hummed nervously andgot up and paced again. I turned on the telepuppets. There was adrama about the space pilots who fly the nonconformist prisoners tothe forests and pulp-acetate plants on Mars. Seemed that the Southempolitical prisoners who are confined to the southern hemisphere ofMars, wanted to attack and conquer the north. The nonconformists, ledby our pilot, came through for the State in the end. Corn is thickerthan water. Standard.     There were, however, some good stereofilm shots of the limitlessforests of Mars, and I wondered what it would be like to live there, ina green, fresh-smelling land. Pleasant, I supposed, if you could put upwith the no doubt revolting morality of a prison planet.     And the drama seemed to point out that there was no more security forthe nonconformists out there than for us here on Earth. Maybe somewherein the universe, I thought, there would be peace for men. Somewherebeyond the solar system, perhaps, someday when we had the means to gothere....     Yet instinct told me that wasn't the answer, either. I thought of averse by an ancient pre-atomic poet named Hoffenstein. (People hadunwieldy, random combinations of letters for names in those days.) Thepoem went:   Wherever I go,    I   go too, And spoil everything.    That was it. The story of mankind.     I turned the glowlight down and lay on the pneumo after a while, but Ididn't sleep for a long, long time.     Then, when I did sleep, when I had been sleeping, I heard the voiceagain. The low, seductive woman's voice—the startling, shocking voiceout of my unconscious.           You have taken the first step     , she said.       You are on your wayto freedom. Don't stop now. Don't sink back into the lifelessness ofconformity. Go on ... on and on. Keep struggling, for that is the onlyanswer....       I didn't exactly talk back, but in the queer way of the dream, I      thought     objections. I was in my thirties, at the mid-point of mylife, and the whole of that life had been spent under the State. I knewno other way to act. Suppressing what little individuality I mighthave was, for me, a way of survival. I was chockful of prescribed,stereotyped reactions, and I held onto them even when something withinme told me what they were. This wasn't easy, this breaking away, noteven this slight departure from the secure, camouflaged norm....           The woman, Lara, attracts you     , said the voice.     I suppose at that point I twitched or rolled in my sleep. Yes, thevoice was right, the woman Lara attracted me. So much that I ached withit.           Take her. Find a way. When you succeed in changing your name, andknow that you can do things, then find a way. There will be a way.          The idea at once thrilled and frightened me.     I woke writhing and in a sweat again.     It was morning.     I dressed and headed for the jetcopter stage and the ship for CenterOne.     The ship was comfortable and departed on time, a transport with seatsfor about twenty passengers. I sat near the tail and moodily busiedmyself watching the gaunt brown earth far below. Between Centers therewas mostly desert, only occasional patches of green. Before the atomicdecade, I had heard, nearly all the earth was green and teemed withlife ... birds, insects, animals, people, too. It was hard rock andsand now, with a few scrubs hanging on for life. The pre-atomics, whohadn't mastered synthesization, would have a hard time scratchingexistence from the earth today.     I tried to break the sad mood, and started to look around at some ofthe other passengers. That was when I first noticed the prisonersin the forward seats. Man and woman, they were, a youngish, rathernon-descript couple, thin, very quiet. They were manacled and twoDeacons sat across from them. The Deacons' backs were turned to me andI could see the prisoners' faces.     They had curious faces. Their eyes were indescribably sad, and yettheir lips seemed to be ready to smile at any moment.     They were holding hands, not seeming to care about this vulgaremotional display.     I had the sudden crazy idea that Lara and I were sitting there, holdinghands like that, nonconforming in the highest, and that we werewonderfully happy. Our eyes were sad too, but we were really happy,quietly happy, and that was why our lips stayed upon the brink of asmile.  ","Northem, one of the two superstates of the world and home to the Narrator, is ruled by the State. It is highly efficient, and allocates alphanumeric designations to its citizens to be used as names. In the most recent renumbering, the State assigns the narrator an unspeakable four-letter designation. 	The State, through its officers the Deacons, enforces norms of acceptability. These norms include the ranges of physical attractiveness within which women are required to stay, the flat tone of voice in which citizens must speak, and the facial expressions citizens are allowed to display. Additionally, the State regulates sexual behaviour: mating is only allowed in Eugenic Centers, and those who infract upon sexual norms are sent to a prison planet called Marscol. 	The State further regulates the allocation of realfood, such as eggs, which is a valuable commodity. When the balance of trade between Northem and Southem, the other superstate, fluctuates, more or less realfood becomes available. Non-productive members of society, so long as they are conformists, or loyal members of the state, are cared for by the State."
"What is the narrator’s relationship to the mysterious voice in his dreams? </s>     I, the Unspeakable     By WALT SHELDON     Illustrated by LOUIS MARCHETTI     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction April 1951.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]       What's in a name? might be very dangerous     to ask in certain societies, in which sticks     and stones are also a big problem!      I fought to be awake. I was dreaming, but I think I must have blushed.I must have blushed in my sleep.           Do it!      she said.       Please do it! For me!          It was the voice that always came, low, intense, seductive, the soundof your hand on silk ... and to a citizen of Northem, a conformist, itwas shocking. I was a conformist then; I was still one that morning.     I awoke. The glowlight was on, slowly increasing. I was in my livingmachine in Center Four, where I belonged, and all the familiar thingswere about me, reality was back, but I was breathing very hard.     I lay on the pneumo a while before getting up. I looked at thechroner: 0703 hours, Day 17, Month IX, New Century Three. My morningnuro-tablets had already popped from the tube, and the timer had begunto boil an egg. The egg was there because the realfood allotment hadbeen increased last month. The balance of trade with Southem had justswung a decimal or two our way.     I rose finally, stepped to the mirror, switched it to positive andlooked at myself. New wrinkles—or maybe just a deepening of the oldones. It was beginning to show; the past two years were leaving traces.     I hadn't worried about my appearance when I'd been with the Office ofWeapons. There, I'd been able to keep pretty much to myself, doingresearch on magnetic mechanics as applied to space drive. But otherjobs, where you had to be among people, might be different. I neededevery possible thing in my favor.     Yes, I still hoped for a job, even after two years. I still meant tokeep on plugging, making the rounds.     I'd go out again today.     The timer clicked and my egg was ready. I swallowed the tablets andthen took the egg to the table to savor it and make it last.     As I leaned forward to sit, the metal tag dangled from my neck,catching the glowlight. My identity tag.     Everything came back in a rush—     My name. The dream and      her     voice. And her suggestion.       Would I dare? Would I start out this very morning and take the risk,the terrible risk?    You remember renumbering. Two years ago. You remember how it was then;how everybody looked forward to his new designation, and how everybodymade jokes about the way the letters came out, and how all the recordswere for a while fouled up beyond recognition.     The telecomics kidded renumbering. One went a little too far andthey psycho-scanned him and then sent him to Marscol as a dangerousnonconform.     If you were disappointed with your new designation, you didn'tcomplain. You didn't want a sudden visit from the Deacons during thenight.     There had to be renumbering. We all understood that. With thepopulation of Northem already past two billion, the old designationswere too clumsy. Renumbering was efficient. It contributed to the goodof Northem. It helped advance the warless struggle with Southem.     The equator is the boundary. I understand that once there wasa political difference and that the two superstates sprawledlongitudinally, not latitudinally, over the globe. Now they are prettymuch the same. There is the truce, and they are both geared for war.They are both efficient states, as tightly controlled as an experimentwith enzymes, as microsurgery, as the temper of a diplomat.     We were renumbered, then, in Northem. You know the system: everybodynow has six digits and an additional prefix or suffix of four letters.Stateleader, for instance, has the designation AAAA-111/111. Now, toaddress somebody by calling off four letters is a little clumsy. We tryto pronounce them when they are pronounceable. That is, no one says toStateleader, Good morning, A-A-A-A. They say, Good morning, Aaaa.     Reading the last quote, I notice a curious effect. It says what I feel.Of course I didn't feel that way on that particular morning. I wasstill conformal; the last thing in my mind was that I would infract andbe psycho-scanned.     Four letters then, and in many cases a pronounceable four letter word.     A four letter word.     Yes, you suspect already. You know what a four letter word can be.     Mine was.     It was unspeakable.     The slight weight on my forehead reminded me that I still wore mysleep-learner. I'd been studying administrative cybernetics, hoping toqualify in that field, although it was a poor substitute for a spacedrive expert. I removed the band and stepped across the room andturned off the oscillator. I went back to my egg and my bitter memories.     I will never forget the first day I received my new four lettercombination and reported it to my chief, as required. I was unthinkablyembarrassed. He didn't say anything. He just swallowed and chokedand became crimson when he saw it. He didn't dare pass it to hissecretarial engineer; he went to the administrative circuits andregistered it himself.     I can't blame him for easing me out. He was trying to run an efficientorganization, after all, and no doubt I upset its efficiency. My workwas important—magnetic mechanics was the only way to handle quantareaction, or the so-called non-energy drive, and was therefore theanswer to feasible space travel beyond our present limit of Mars—andthere were frequent inspection tours by Big Wheels and Very ImportantPersons.     Whenever anyone, especially a woman, asked my name, the embarrassmentwould become a crackling electric field all about us. The best tacticwas just not to answer.  The chief called me in one day. He looked haggard.     Er—old man, he said, not quite able to bring himself to utter myname, I'm going to have to switch you to another department. How wouldyou like to work on nutrition kits? Very interesting work.     Nutrition kits?      Me?     On nutrition kits?     Well, I—er—know it sounds unusual, but it justifies. I just hadthe cybs work it over in the light of present regulations, and itjustifies.     Everything had to justify, of course. Every act in the monthly reporthad to be covered by regulations and cross-regulations. Of course therewere so many regulations that if you just took the time to work it out,you could justify damn near anything. I knew what the chief was up to.Just to remove me from my post would have taken a year of applicationsand hearings and innumerable visits to the capital in Center One. Butif I should infract—deliberately infract—it would enable the chief tolet me go. The equivalent of resigning.     I'll infract, I said. Rather than go on nutrition kits, I'llinfract.     He looked vastly relieved. Uh—fine, he said. I rather hoped youwould.     It took a week or so. Then I was on Non-Productive status and issued anN/P book for my necessities. Very few luxury coupons in the N/P book.I didn't really mind at first. My new living machine was smaller, butbasically comfortable, and since I was still a loyal member of thestate and a verified conformist, I wouldn't starve.     But I didn't know what I was in for.     I went from bureau to bureau, office to office, department todepartment—any place where they might use a space drive expert. Apattern began to emerge; the same story everywhere. When I mentioned myspecialty they would look delighted. When I handed them my tag and theysaw my name, they would go into immediate polite confusion. As soon asthey recovered they would say they'd call me if anything turned up....  A few weeks of this and I became a bit dazed.     And then there was the problem of everyday existence. You might sayit's lucky to be an N/P for a while. I've heard people say that. Basicneeds provided, worlds of leisure time; on the surface it soundsattractive.     But let me give you an example. Say it is monthly realfood day. You goto the store, your mouth already watering in anticipation. You takeyour place in line and wait for your package. The distributor takesyour coupon book and is all ready to reach for your package—and thenhe sees the fatal letters N/P. Non-Producer. A drone, a drain upon theState. You can see his stare curdle. He scowls at the book again.     Not sure this is in order. Better go to the end of the line. We'llcheck it later.     You know what happens before the end of the line reaches the counter.No more packages.     Well, I couldn't get myself off N/P status until I got a post, andwith my name I      couldn't     get a post.     Nor could I change my name. You know what happens when you try tochange something already on the records. The very idea of wantingchange implies criticism of the State. Unthinkable behavior.     That was why this curious dream voice shocked me so. The thing that itsuggested was quite as embarrassing as its non-standard, emotional,provocative tone.     Bear with me; I'm getting to the voice—to      her     —in a moment.     I want to tell you first about the loneliness, the terrible loneliness.I could hardly join group games at any of the rec centers. I could joinno special interest clubs or even State Loyalty chapters. Although Idabbled with theoretical research in my own quarters, I could scarcelysubmit any findings for publication—not with my name attached. Apseudonym would have been non-regulation and illegal.     But there was the worst thing of all. I could not mate.  Funny, I hadn't thought about mating until it became impossible. Iremember the first time, out of sheer idleness, I wandered into aEugenic Center. I filled out my form very carefully and submitted itfor analysis and assignment. The clerk saw my name, and did the usualdouble-take. He coughed and swallowed and fidgeted.     He said, Of course you understand that we must submit yourapplication to the woman authorized to spend time in the mating boothswith you, and that she has the right to refuse.     Yes, I understand that.     M'm, he said, and dismissed me with a nod.     I waited for a call in the next few weeks, still hoping, but I knewno woman would consent to meet a man with my name, let alone enter amating booth with him.     The urge to reproduce myself became unbearable. I concocted all sortsof wild schemes.     I might infract socially and be classified a nonconform and sent toMarscol. I'd heard rumors that in that desolate land, on that desolateplanet, both mingling and mating were rather disgustingly unrestricted.Casual mating would be terribly dangerous, of course, with all the wildirradiated genes from the atomic decade still around, but I felt I'd bewilling to risk that. Well, almost....     About then I began to have these dreams. As I've told you, in the dreamthere was only this woman's seductive voice. The first time I heard itI awoke in a warm sweat and swore something had gone wrong with thesleep-learner. You never hear the actual words with this machine, ofcourse; you simply absorb the concepts unconsciously. Still, it seemedan explanation. I checked thoroughly. Nothing wrong.     The next night I heard the woman's voice again.           Try it     , she said.       Do it. Start tomorrow to get your name changed.There will be a way. There must be a way. The rules are so mixed upthat a clever man can do almost anything. Do it, please—for me.       She was not only trying to get me to commit nonconformity, but makingheretical remarks besides. I awoke that time and half-expected a Deaconto pop out of the tube and turn his electric club upon me.     And I heard the voice nearly every night.     It hammered away.           What if you do fail? Almost anything would be better than themiserable existence you're leading now!          One morning I even caught myself wondering just how I'd go about thisidea of hers. Wondering what the first step might be.     She seemed to read my thoughts. That night she said,       Consult the cybsin the Govpub office. If you look hard enough and long enough, you'llfind a way.          Now, on this morning of the seventeenth day in the ninth month,I ate my boiled egg slowly and actually toyed with the idea. Ithought of being on productive status again. I had almost lost myfanatical craving to be useful to the State, but I did want to bebusy—desperately. I didn't want to be despised any more. I didn'twant to be lonely. I wanted to reproduce myself.     I made my decision suddenly. Waves of emotion carried me along. I gotup, crossed the room to the directory, and pushbuttoned to find thelocation of the nearest Govpub office.     I didn't know what would happen and almost didn't care.      II     Like most important places, the Govpub Office in Center Four wasunderground. I could have taken a tunnelcar more quickly, but it seemedpleasanter to travel topside. Or maybe I just wanted to put this off abit. Think about it. Compose myself.     At the entrance to the Govpub warren there was a big director cyb, aplate with a speaker and switch. The sign on it said to switch it onand get close to the speaker and I did.     The cyb's mechanical voice—they never seem to get the th soundsright—said, This is Branch Four of the Office of GovernmentPublications. Say, 'Publications,' and/or, 'Information desired,' asthoroughly and concisely as possible. Use approved voice and standardphraseology.     Well, simple enough so far. I had always rather prided myself on myknack for approved voice, those flat, emotionless tones that indicateefficiency. And I would never forget how to speak Statese. I said,Applicant desires all pertinent information relative assignment,change or amendment of State Serial designations, otherwise generallyreferred to as nomenclature.     There was a second's delay while the audio patterns tripped relays andbrought the memory tubes in.     Then the cyb said, Proceed to Numbering and Identity section. Consultalphabetical list and diagram on your left for location of same.     Thanks, I said absent-mindedly.     I started to turn away and the cyb said, Information on tanks ismilitary information and classified. State authorization for—     I switched it off.  Numbering and Identity wasn't hard to find. I took the shaft to theproper level and then it was only a walk of a few hundred yards throughthe glowlit corridors.     N. & I. turned out to be a big room, somewhat circular, veryhigh-ceilinged, with banks of cyb controls covering the upper walls.Narrow passageways, like spokes, led off in several directions. Therewas an information desk in the center of the room.     I looked that way and my heart went into free fall.     There was a girl at the information desk. An exceptionally attractivegirl. She was well within the limits of acceptable standard, and herfeatures were even enough, and her hair a middle blonde—but she hadsomething else. Hard to describe. It was a warmth, a buoyancy, a senseof life and intense animation. It didn't exactly show; it radiated. Itseemed to sing out from her clear complexion, from her figure, whicheven a tunic could not hide, from everything about her.     And if I were to state my business, I would have to tell her my name.     I almost backed out right then. I stopped momentarily. And then commonsense took hold and I realized that if I were to go through with thisthing, here would be only the first of a long series of embarrassmentsand discomforts. It had to be done.     I walked up to the desk and the girl turned to face me, and I couldhave sworn that a faint smile crossed her lips. It was swift, like theshadow of a bird across one of the lawns in one of the great parkstopside. Very non-standard. Yet I wasn't offended; if anything, I feltsuddenly and disturbingly pleased.     What information is desired? she asked. Her voice was standard—orwas it?     Again I had the feeling of restrained warmth.     I used colloquial. I want to get the dope on State Serialdesignations, how they're assigned and so forth. Especially how theymight be changed.     She put a handsteno on the desk top and said, Name? Address? Post?     I froze. I stood there and stared at her.     She looked up and said, Well?     I—er—no post at present. N/P status.     Her fingers moved on the steno.     I gave her my address and she recorded that.     Then I paused again.     She said, And your name?     I took a deep breath and told her.     I didn't want to look into her eyes. I wanted to look away, but Icouldn't find a decent excuse to. I saw her eyes become wide andnoticed for the first time that they were a warm gray, almost a mousecolor. I felt like laughing at that irrelevant observation, but morethan that I felt like turning and running. I felt like climbing anddashing all over the walls like a frustrated cat and yelling at thetop of my lungs. I felt like anything but standing there and lookingstupid, meeting her stare—  She looked down quickly and recorded my name. It took her a littlelonger than necessary. In that time she recovered. Somewhat.     All right, she said finally, I'll make a search.     She turned to a row of buttons on a console in the center of the deskand began to press them in various combinations. A typer clicked away.She tore off a slip of paper, consulted it, and said, Informationdesired is in Bank 29. Please follow me.     Well, following her was a pleasure, anyway. I could watch the movementof her hips and torso as she walked. She was not tall, but long-leggedand extremely lithe. Graceful and rhythmic. Very, very feminine, almostbeyond standard in that respect. I felt blood throb in my temples andwas heartily ashamed of myself.     I would like to be in a mating booth with her, I thought, the fullauthorized twenty minutes. And I knew I was unconformist and therealization hardly scared me at all.     She led me down one of the long passageways.     A few moments later I said, Don't you sometimes get—well, prettylonely working here? Personal talk at a time like this wasn't approvedbehavior, but I couldn't help it.     She answered hesitantly, but at least she answered. She said, Notterribly. The cybs are company enough most of the time.     You don't get many visitors, then.     Not right here. N. & I. isn't a very popular section. Most people whocome to Govpub spend their time researching in the ancient manuscriptroom. The—er—social habits of the pre-atomic civilization.     I laughed. I knew what she meant, all right. Pre-atomics and theirideas about free mating always fascinated people. I moved up besideher. What's your name, by the way?     L-A-R-A 339/827.     I pronounced it. Lara. Lah-rah. That's beautiful. Fits you, too.  She didn't answer; she kept her eyes straight ahead and I saw the faintspot of color on her cheek.     I had a sudden impulse to ask her to meet me after hours at oneof the rec centers. If it had been my danger alone, I might have,but I couldn't very well ask her to risk discovery of a haphazard,unauthorized arrangement like that and the possibility of going to thepsycho-scan.     We came to a turn in the corridor and something happened; I'm not surejust how it happened. I keep telling myself that my movements were notactually deliberate. I was to the right of her. The turn was to theleft. She turned quickly, and I didn't, so that I bumped into her,knocking her off balance. I grabbed her to keep her from falling.     For a moment we stood there, face to face, touching each other lightly.I held her by the arms. I felt the primitive warmth of her breath. Oureyes held together ... proton ... electron ... I felt her tremble.     She broke from my grip suddenly and started off again.     After that she was very business-like.     We came finally to the controls of Bank 29 and she stood before themand began to press button combinations. I watched her work; I watchedher move. I had almost forgotten why I'd come here. The lights blinkedon and off and the typers clacked softly as the machine sorted outinformation.     She had a long printed sheet from the roll presently. She frowned atit and turned to me. You can take this along and study it, she said,but I'm afraid what you have in mind may be—a little difficult.     She must have guessed what I had in mind. I said, I didn't think itwould be easy.     It seems that the only agency authorized to change a State Serialunder any circumstances is Opsych.     Opsych? You can't keep up with all these departments.     The Office of Psychological Adjustment. They can change you if you gofrom a lower to higher E.A.C.     I don't get it, exactly.     As she spoke I had the idea that there was sympathy in her voice. Justan overtone. Well, she said, as you know, the post a person isqualified to hold often depends largely on his Emotional AdjustmentCategory. Now if he improves and passes from, let us say, Grade 3 toGrade 4, he will probably change his place of work. In order to protecthim from any associative maladjustments developed under the old E.A.C,he is permitted a new number.     I groaned. But I'm already in the highest E.A.C.!     It looks very uncertain then.     Sometimes I think I'd be better off in the mines, or onMarscol—or—in the hell of the pre-atomics!     She looked amused. What did you say your E.A.C. was?     Oh, all right. Sorry. I controlled myself and grinned. I guess thiswhole thing has been just a little too much for me. Maybe my E.A.C.'seven gone down.     That might be your chance then.     How do you mean?     If you could get to the top man in Opsych and demonstrate that yournumber has inadvertently changed your E.A.C., he might be able tojustify a change.     By the State, he might! I punched my palm. Only how do I get to him?     I can find his location on the cyb here. Center One, the capital, fora guess. You'll have to get a travel permit to go there, of course.Just a moment.     She worked at the machine again, trying it on general data. The printedslip came out a moment later and she read it to me. Chief, Opsych, wasin the capital all right. It didn't give the exact location of hisoffice, but it did tell how to find the underground bay in Center Onecontaining the Opsych offices.     We headed back through the passageway then and she kept well ahead ofme. I couldn't keep my eyes from her walk, from the way she walked witheverything below her shoulders. My blood was pounding at my templesagain.     I tried to keep the conversation going. Do you think it'll be hard toget a travel permit?     Not impossible. My guess is that you'll be at Travbur all daytomorrow, maybe even the next day. But you ought to be able to swing itif you hold out long enough.     I sighed. I know. It's that way everywhere in Northem. Our motto oughtto be, 'Why make it difficult when with just a little more effort youcan make it impossible?'  She started to laugh, and then, as she emerged from the passageway intothe big circular room, she cut her laugh short.     A second later, as I came along, I saw why.     There were two Deacons by the central desk. They were burly and hadthat hard, pinched-face look and wore the usual black belts. Electricclubs hung from the belts. Spidery looking pistols were at their sides.     I didn't know whether these two had heard my crack or not. I know theykept looking at me.     Lara and I crossed the room silently, she back to her desk, I to theexit door. The Deacons' remote, disapproving eyes swung in azimuth,tracking us.     I walked out and wanted to turn and smile at Lara, and get into mysmile something of the hope that someday, somewhere, I'd see heragain—but of course I didn't dare.      III     I had the usual difficulties at Travbur the next day. I won't go intothem, except to say that I was batted from office to office like a pingpong ball, and that, when I finally got my travel permit, I was made tofeel that I had stolen an original Picasso from the State Museum.     I made it in a day. Just. I got my permit thirty seconds before closingtime. I was to take the jetcopter to Center One at 0700 hours thefollowing morning.     In my living machine that evening, I was much too excited to work attheoretical research as I usually did after a hard day of trampingaround. I bathed, I paced a while, I sat and hummed nervously andgot up and paced again. I turned on the telepuppets. There was adrama about the space pilots who fly the nonconformist prisoners tothe forests and pulp-acetate plants on Mars. Seemed that the Southempolitical prisoners who are confined to the southern hemisphere ofMars, wanted to attack and conquer the north. The nonconformists, ledby our pilot, came through for the State in the end. Corn is thickerthan water. Standard.     There were, however, some good stereofilm shots of the limitlessforests of Mars, and I wondered what it would be like to live there, ina green, fresh-smelling land. Pleasant, I supposed, if you could put upwith the no doubt revolting morality of a prison planet.     And the drama seemed to point out that there was no more security forthe nonconformists out there than for us here on Earth. Maybe somewherein the universe, I thought, there would be peace for men. Somewherebeyond the solar system, perhaps, someday when we had the means to gothere....     Yet instinct told me that wasn't the answer, either. I thought of averse by an ancient pre-atomic poet named Hoffenstein. (People hadunwieldy, random combinations of letters for names in those days.) Thepoem went:   Wherever I go,    I   go too, And spoil everything.    That was it. The story of mankind.     I turned the glowlight down and lay on the pneumo after a while, but Ididn't sleep for a long, long time.     Then, when I did sleep, when I had been sleeping, I heard the voiceagain. The low, seductive woman's voice—the startling, shocking voiceout of my unconscious.           You have taken the first step     , she said.       You are on your wayto freedom. Don't stop now. Don't sink back into the lifelessness ofconformity. Go on ... on and on. Keep struggling, for that is the onlyanswer....       I didn't exactly talk back, but in the queer way of the dream, I      thought     objections. I was in my thirties, at the mid-point of mylife, and the whole of that life had been spent under the State. I knewno other way to act. Suppressing what little individuality I mighthave was, for me, a way of survival. I was chockful of prescribed,stereotyped reactions, and I held onto them even when something withinme told me what they were. This wasn't easy, this breaking away, noteven this slight departure from the secure, camouflaged norm....           The woman, Lara, attracts you     , said the voice.     I suppose at that point I twitched or rolled in my sleep. Yes, thevoice was right, the woman Lara attracted me. So much that I ached withit.           Take her. Find a way. When you succeed in changing your name, andknow that you can do things, then find a way. There will be a way.          The idea at once thrilled and frightened me.     I woke writhing and in a sweat again.     It was morning.     I dressed and headed for the jetcopter stage and the ship for CenterOne.     The ship was comfortable and departed on time, a transport with seatsfor about twenty passengers. I sat near the tail and moodily busiedmyself watching the gaunt brown earth far below. Between Centers therewas mostly desert, only occasional patches of green. Before the atomicdecade, I had heard, nearly all the earth was green and teemed withlife ... birds, insects, animals, people, too. It was hard rock andsand now, with a few scrubs hanging on for life. The pre-atomics, whohadn't mastered synthesization, would have a hard time scratchingexistence from the earth today.     I tried to break the sad mood, and started to look around at some ofthe other passengers. That was when I first noticed the prisonersin the forward seats. Man and woman, they were, a youngish, rathernon-descript couple, thin, very quiet. They were manacled and twoDeacons sat across from them. The Deacons' backs were turned to me andI could see the prisoners' faces.     They had curious faces. Their eyes were indescribably sad, and yettheir lips seemed to be ready to smile at any moment.     They were holding hands, not seeming to care about this vulgaremotional display.     I had the sudden crazy idea that Lara and I were sitting there, holdinghands like that, nonconforming in the highest, and that we werewonderfully happy. Our eyes were sad too, but we were really happy,quietly happy, and that was why our lips stayed upon the brink of asmile.  ","As the narrator finds it increasingly difficult to find a sexual partner as a result of his state-appointed designation, he begins to hear a mysterious female voice in his dreams. She first encourages him to change his name. Initially, he worries that his sleep-learner, a wearable head device which enables learning during sleep, has malfunctioned, but he finds no evidence of this. The narrator hears the voice nearly every night. He often worries about the voice, as the contents of its speech are heretical. She encourages him to go to the Govpub office, a sort of government office in his locality, and he eventually obliges. On the night before the narrator is slated to take a transport to the capital to change his name, he hears the voice again. It encourages him to persevere, and that he is attracted to Lara, a woman he had met earlier in the week. The voice further pushes him to pursue a relationship with Lara once he is able to change his name."
"How does the narrator’s name affect his social life? </s>     I, the Unspeakable     By WALT SHELDON     Illustrated by LOUIS MARCHETTI     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction April 1951.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]       What's in a name? might be very dangerous     to ask in certain societies, in which sticks     and stones are also a big problem!      I fought to be awake. I was dreaming, but I think I must have blushed.I must have blushed in my sleep.           Do it!      she said.       Please do it! For me!          It was the voice that always came, low, intense, seductive, the soundof your hand on silk ... and to a citizen of Northem, a conformist, itwas shocking. I was a conformist then; I was still one that morning.     I awoke. The glowlight was on, slowly increasing. I was in my livingmachine in Center Four, where I belonged, and all the familiar thingswere about me, reality was back, but I was breathing very hard.     I lay on the pneumo a while before getting up. I looked at thechroner: 0703 hours, Day 17, Month IX, New Century Three. My morningnuro-tablets had already popped from the tube, and the timer had begunto boil an egg. The egg was there because the realfood allotment hadbeen increased last month. The balance of trade with Southem had justswung a decimal or two our way.     I rose finally, stepped to the mirror, switched it to positive andlooked at myself. New wrinkles—or maybe just a deepening of the oldones. It was beginning to show; the past two years were leaving traces.     I hadn't worried about my appearance when I'd been with the Office ofWeapons. There, I'd been able to keep pretty much to myself, doingresearch on magnetic mechanics as applied to space drive. But otherjobs, where you had to be among people, might be different. I neededevery possible thing in my favor.     Yes, I still hoped for a job, even after two years. I still meant tokeep on plugging, making the rounds.     I'd go out again today.     The timer clicked and my egg was ready. I swallowed the tablets andthen took the egg to the table to savor it and make it last.     As I leaned forward to sit, the metal tag dangled from my neck,catching the glowlight. My identity tag.     Everything came back in a rush—     My name. The dream and      her     voice. And her suggestion.       Would I dare? Would I start out this very morning and take the risk,the terrible risk?    You remember renumbering. Two years ago. You remember how it was then;how everybody looked forward to his new designation, and how everybodymade jokes about the way the letters came out, and how all the recordswere for a while fouled up beyond recognition.     The telecomics kidded renumbering. One went a little too far andthey psycho-scanned him and then sent him to Marscol as a dangerousnonconform.     If you were disappointed with your new designation, you didn'tcomplain. You didn't want a sudden visit from the Deacons during thenight.     There had to be renumbering. We all understood that. With thepopulation of Northem already past two billion, the old designationswere too clumsy. Renumbering was efficient. It contributed to the goodof Northem. It helped advance the warless struggle with Southem.     The equator is the boundary. I understand that once there wasa political difference and that the two superstates sprawledlongitudinally, not latitudinally, over the globe. Now they are prettymuch the same. There is the truce, and they are both geared for war.They are both efficient states, as tightly controlled as an experimentwith enzymes, as microsurgery, as the temper of a diplomat.     We were renumbered, then, in Northem. You know the system: everybodynow has six digits and an additional prefix or suffix of four letters.Stateleader, for instance, has the designation AAAA-111/111. Now, toaddress somebody by calling off four letters is a little clumsy. We tryto pronounce them when they are pronounceable. That is, no one says toStateleader, Good morning, A-A-A-A. They say, Good morning, Aaaa.     Reading the last quote, I notice a curious effect. It says what I feel.Of course I didn't feel that way on that particular morning. I wasstill conformal; the last thing in my mind was that I would infract andbe psycho-scanned.     Four letters then, and in many cases a pronounceable four letter word.     A four letter word.     Yes, you suspect already. You know what a four letter word can be.     Mine was.     It was unspeakable.     The slight weight on my forehead reminded me that I still wore mysleep-learner. I'd been studying administrative cybernetics, hoping toqualify in that field, although it was a poor substitute for a spacedrive expert. I removed the band and stepped across the room andturned off the oscillator. I went back to my egg and my bitter memories.     I will never forget the first day I received my new four lettercombination and reported it to my chief, as required. I was unthinkablyembarrassed. He didn't say anything. He just swallowed and chokedand became crimson when he saw it. He didn't dare pass it to hissecretarial engineer; he went to the administrative circuits andregistered it himself.     I can't blame him for easing me out. He was trying to run an efficientorganization, after all, and no doubt I upset its efficiency. My workwas important—magnetic mechanics was the only way to handle quantareaction, or the so-called non-energy drive, and was therefore theanswer to feasible space travel beyond our present limit of Mars—andthere were frequent inspection tours by Big Wheels and Very ImportantPersons.     Whenever anyone, especially a woman, asked my name, the embarrassmentwould become a crackling electric field all about us. The best tacticwas just not to answer.  The chief called me in one day. He looked haggard.     Er—old man, he said, not quite able to bring himself to utter myname, I'm going to have to switch you to another department. How wouldyou like to work on nutrition kits? Very interesting work.     Nutrition kits?      Me?     On nutrition kits?     Well, I—er—know it sounds unusual, but it justifies. I just hadthe cybs work it over in the light of present regulations, and itjustifies.     Everything had to justify, of course. Every act in the monthly reporthad to be covered by regulations and cross-regulations. Of course therewere so many regulations that if you just took the time to work it out,you could justify damn near anything. I knew what the chief was up to.Just to remove me from my post would have taken a year of applicationsand hearings and innumerable visits to the capital in Center One. Butif I should infract—deliberately infract—it would enable the chief tolet me go. The equivalent of resigning.     I'll infract, I said. Rather than go on nutrition kits, I'llinfract.     He looked vastly relieved. Uh—fine, he said. I rather hoped youwould.     It took a week or so. Then I was on Non-Productive status and issued anN/P book for my necessities. Very few luxury coupons in the N/P book.I didn't really mind at first. My new living machine was smaller, butbasically comfortable, and since I was still a loyal member of thestate and a verified conformist, I wouldn't starve.     But I didn't know what I was in for.     I went from bureau to bureau, office to office, department todepartment—any place where they might use a space drive expert. Apattern began to emerge; the same story everywhere. When I mentioned myspecialty they would look delighted. When I handed them my tag and theysaw my name, they would go into immediate polite confusion. As soon asthey recovered they would say they'd call me if anything turned up....  A few weeks of this and I became a bit dazed.     And then there was the problem of everyday existence. You might sayit's lucky to be an N/P for a while. I've heard people say that. Basicneeds provided, worlds of leisure time; on the surface it soundsattractive.     But let me give you an example. Say it is monthly realfood day. You goto the store, your mouth already watering in anticipation. You takeyour place in line and wait for your package. The distributor takesyour coupon book and is all ready to reach for your package—and thenhe sees the fatal letters N/P. Non-Producer. A drone, a drain upon theState. You can see his stare curdle. He scowls at the book again.     Not sure this is in order. Better go to the end of the line. We'llcheck it later.     You know what happens before the end of the line reaches the counter.No more packages.     Well, I couldn't get myself off N/P status until I got a post, andwith my name I      couldn't     get a post.     Nor could I change my name. You know what happens when you try tochange something already on the records. The very idea of wantingchange implies criticism of the State. Unthinkable behavior.     That was why this curious dream voice shocked me so. The thing that itsuggested was quite as embarrassing as its non-standard, emotional,provocative tone.     Bear with me; I'm getting to the voice—to      her     —in a moment.     I want to tell you first about the loneliness, the terrible loneliness.I could hardly join group games at any of the rec centers. I could joinno special interest clubs or even State Loyalty chapters. Although Idabbled with theoretical research in my own quarters, I could scarcelysubmit any findings for publication—not with my name attached. Apseudonym would have been non-regulation and illegal.     But there was the worst thing of all. I could not mate.  Funny, I hadn't thought about mating until it became impossible. Iremember the first time, out of sheer idleness, I wandered into aEugenic Center. I filled out my form very carefully and submitted itfor analysis and assignment. The clerk saw my name, and did the usualdouble-take. He coughed and swallowed and fidgeted.     He said, Of course you understand that we must submit yourapplication to the woman authorized to spend time in the mating boothswith you, and that she has the right to refuse.     Yes, I understand that.     M'm, he said, and dismissed me with a nod.     I waited for a call in the next few weeks, still hoping, but I knewno woman would consent to meet a man with my name, let alone enter amating booth with him.     The urge to reproduce myself became unbearable. I concocted all sortsof wild schemes.     I might infract socially and be classified a nonconform and sent toMarscol. I'd heard rumors that in that desolate land, on that desolateplanet, both mingling and mating were rather disgustingly unrestricted.Casual mating would be terribly dangerous, of course, with all the wildirradiated genes from the atomic decade still around, but I felt I'd bewilling to risk that. Well, almost....     About then I began to have these dreams. As I've told you, in the dreamthere was only this woman's seductive voice. The first time I heard itI awoke in a warm sweat and swore something had gone wrong with thesleep-learner. You never hear the actual words with this machine, ofcourse; you simply absorb the concepts unconsciously. Still, it seemedan explanation. I checked thoroughly. Nothing wrong.     The next night I heard the woman's voice again.           Try it     , she said.       Do it. Start tomorrow to get your name changed.There will be a way. There must be a way. The rules are so mixed upthat a clever man can do almost anything. Do it, please—for me.       She was not only trying to get me to commit nonconformity, but makingheretical remarks besides. I awoke that time and half-expected a Deaconto pop out of the tube and turn his electric club upon me.     And I heard the voice nearly every night.     It hammered away.           What if you do fail? Almost anything would be better than themiserable existence you're leading now!          One morning I even caught myself wondering just how I'd go about thisidea of hers. Wondering what the first step might be.     She seemed to read my thoughts. That night she said,       Consult the cybsin the Govpub office. If you look hard enough and long enough, you'llfind a way.          Now, on this morning of the seventeenth day in the ninth month,I ate my boiled egg slowly and actually toyed with the idea. Ithought of being on productive status again. I had almost lost myfanatical craving to be useful to the State, but I did want to bebusy—desperately. I didn't want to be despised any more. I didn'twant to be lonely. I wanted to reproduce myself.     I made my decision suddenly. Waves of emotion carried me along. I gotup, crossed the room to the directory, and pushbuttoned to find thelocation of the nearest Govpub office.     I didn't know what would happen and almost didn't care.      II     Like most important places, the Govpub Office in Center Four wasunderground. I could have taken a tunnelcar more quickly, but it seemedpleasanter to travel topside. Or maybe I just wanted to put this off abit. Think about it. Compose myself.     At the entrance to the Govpub warren there was a big director cyb, aplate with a speaker and switch. The sign on it said to switch it onand get close to the speaker and I did.     The cyb's mechanical voice—they never seem to get the th soundsright—said, This is Branch Four of the Office of GovernmentPublications. Say, 'Publications,' and/or, 'Information desired,' asthoroughly and concisely as possible. Use approved voice and standardphraseology.     Well, simple enough so far. I had always rather prided myself on myknack for approved voice, those flat, emotionless tones that indicateefficiency. And I would never forget how to speak Statese. I said,Applicant desires all pertinent information relative assignment,change or amendment of State Serial designations, otherwise generallyreferred to as nomenclature.     There was a second's delay while the audio patterns tripped relays andbrought the memory tubes in.     Then the cyb said, Proceed to Numbering and Identity section. Consultalphabetical list and diagram on your left for location of same.     Thanks, I said absent-mindedly.     I started to turn away and the cyb said, Information on tanks ismilitary information and classified. State authorization for—     I switched it off.  Numbering and Identity wasn't hard to find. I took the shaft to theproper level and then it was only a walk of a few hundred yards throughthe glowlit corridors.     N. & I. turned out to be a big room, somewhat circular, veryhigh-ceilinged, with banks of cyb controls covering the upper walls.Narrow passageways, like spokes, led off in several directions. Therewas an information desk in the center of the room.     I looked that way and my heart went into free fall.     There was a girl at the information desk. An exceptionally attractivegirl. She was well within the limits of acceptable standard, and herfeatures were even enough, and her hair a middle blonde—but she hadsomething else. Hard to describe. It was a warmth, a buoyancy, a senseof life and intense animation. It didn't exactly show; it radiated. Itseemed to sing out from her clear complexion, from her figure, whicheven a tunic could not hide, from everything about her.     And if I were to state my business, I would have to tell her my name.     I almost backed out right then. I stopped momentarily. And then commonsense took hold and I realized that if I were to go through with thisthing, here would be only the first of a long series of embarrassmentsand discomforts. It had to be done.     I walked up to the desk and the girl turned to face me, and I couldhave sworn that a faint smile crossed her lips. It was swift, like theshadow of a bird across one of the lawns in one of the great parkstopside. Very non-standard. Yet I wasn't offended; if anything, I feltsuddenly and disturbingly pleased.     What information is desired? she asked. Her voice was standard—orwas it?     Again I had the feeling of restrained warmth.     I used colloquial. I want to get the dope on State Serialdesignations, how they're assigned and so forth. Especially how theymight be changed.     She put a handsteno on the desk top and said, Name? Address? Post?     I froze. I stood there and stared at her.     She looked up and said, Well?     I—er—no post at present. N/P status.     Her fingers moved on the steno.     I gave her my address and she recorded that.     Then I paused again.     She said, And your name?     I took a deep breath and told her.     I didn't want to look into her eyes. I wanted to look away, but Icouldn't find a decent excuse to. I saw her eyes become wide andnoticed for the first time that they were a warm gray, almost a mousecolor. I felt like laughing at that irrelevant observation, but morethan that I felt like turning and running. I felt like climbing anddashing all over the walls like a frustrated cat and yelling at thetop of my lungs. I felt like anything but standing there and lookingstupid, meeting her stare—  She looked down quickly and recorded my name. It took her a littlelonger than necessary. In that time she recovered. Somewhat.     All right, she said finally, I'll make a search.     She turned to a row of buttons on a console in the center of the deskand began to press them in various combinations. A typer clicked away.She tore off a slip of paper, consulted it, and said, Informationdesired is in Bank 29. Please follow me.     Well, following her was a pleasure, anyway. I could watch the movementof her hips and torso as she walked. She was not tall, but long-leggedand extremely lithe. Graceful and rhythmic. Very, very feminine, almostbeyond standard in that respect. I felt blood throb in my temples andwas heartily ashamed of myself.     I would like to be in a mating booth with her, I thought, the fullauthorized twenty minutes. And I knew I was unconformist and therealization hardly scared me at all.     She led me down one of the long passageways.     A few moments later I said, Don't you sometimes get—well, prettylonely working here? Personal talk at a time like this wasn't approvedbehavior, but I couldn't help it.     She answered hesitantly, but at least she answered. She said, Notterribly. The cybs are company enough most of the time.     You don't get many visitors, then.     Not right here. N. & I. isn't a very popular section. Most people whocome to Govpub spend their time researching in the ancient manuscriptroom. The—er—social habits of the pre-atomic civilization.     I laughed. I knew what she meant, all right. Pre-atomics and theirideas about free mating always fascinated people. I moved up besideher. What's your name, by the way?     L-A-R-A 339/827.     I pronounced it. Lara. Lah-rah. That's beautiful. Fits you, too.  She didn't answer; she kept her eyes straight ahead and I saw the faintspot of color on her cheek.     I had a sudden impulse to ask her to meet me after hours at oneof the rec centers. If it had been my danger alone, I might have,but I couldn't very well ask her to risk discovery of a haphazard,unauthorized arrangement like that and the possibility of going to thepsycho-scan.     We came to a turn in the corridor and something happened; I'm not surejust how it happened. I keep telling myself that my movements were notactually deliberate. I was to the right of her. The turn was to theleft. She turned quickly, and I didn't, so that I bumped into her,knocking her off balance. I grabbed her to keep her from falling.     For a moment we stood there, face to face, touching each other lightly.I held her by the arms. I felt the primitive warmth of her breath. Oureyes held together ... proton ... electron ... I felt her tremble.     She broke from my grip suddenly and started off again.     After that she was very business-like.     We came finally to the controls of Bank 29 and she stood before themand began to press button combinations. I watched her work; I watchedher move. I had almost forgotten why I'd come here. The lights blinkedon and off and the typers clacked softly as the machine sorted outinformation.     She had a long printed sheet from the roll presently. She frowned atit and turned to me. You can take this along and study it, she said,but I'm afraid what you have in mind may be—a little difficult.     She must have guessed what I had in mind. I said, I didn't think itwould be easy.     It seems that the only agency authorized to change a State Serialunder any circumstances is Opsych.     Opsych? You can't keep up with all these departments.     The Office of Psychological Adjustment. They can change you if you gofrom a lower to higher E.A.C.     I don't get it, exactly.     As she spoke I had the idea that there was sympathy in her voice. Justan overtone. Well, she said, as you know, the post a person isqualified to hold often depends largely on his Emotional AdjustmentCategory. Now if he improves and passes from, let us say, Grade 3 toGrade 4, he will probably change his place of work. In order to protecthim from any associative maladjustments developed under the old E.A.C,he is permitted a new number.     I groaned. But I'm already in the highest E.A.C.!     It looks very uncertain then.     Sometimes I think I'd be better off in the mines, or onMarscol—or—in the hell of the pre-atomics!     She looked amused. What did you say your E.A.C. was?     Oh, all right. Sorry. I controlled myself and grinned. I guess thiswhole thing has been just a little too much for me. Maybe my E.A.C.'seven gone down.     That might be your chance then.     How do you mean?     If you could get to the top man in Opsych and demonstrate that yournumber has inadvertently changed your E.A.C., he might be able tojustify a change.     By the State, he might! I punched my palm. Only how do I get to him?     I can find his location on the cyb here. Center One, the capital, fora guess. You'll have to get a travel permit to go there, of course.Just a moment.     She worked at the machine again, trying it on general data. The printedslip came out a moment later and she read it to me. Chief, Opsych, wasin the capital all right. It didn't give the exact location of hisoffice, but it did tell how to find the underground bay in Center Onecontaining the Opsych offices.     We headed back through the passageway then and she kept well ahead ofme. I couldn't keep my eyes from her walk, from the way she walked witheverything below her shoulders. My blood was pounding at my templesagain.     I tried to keep the conversation going. Do you think it'll be hard toget a travel permit?     Not impossible. My guess is that you'll be at Travbur all daytomorrow, maybe even the next day. But you ought to be able to swing itif you hold out long enough.     I sighed. I know. It's that way everywhere in Northem. Our motto oughtto be, 'Why make it difficult when with just a little more effort youcan make it impossible?'  She started to laugh, and then, as she emerged from the passageway intothe big circular room, she cut her laugh short.     A second later, as I came along, I saw why.     There were two Deacons by the central desk. They were burly and hadthat hard, pinched-face look and wore the usual black belts. Electricclubs hung from the belts. Spidery looking pistols were at their sides.     I didn't know whether these two had heard my crack or not. I know theykept looking at me.     Lara and I crossed the room silently, she back to her desk, I to theexit door. The Deacons' remote, disapproving eyes swung in azimuth,tracking us.     I walked out and wanted to turn and smile at Lara, and get into mysmile something of the hope that someday, somewhere, I'd see heragain—but of course I didn't dare.      III     I had the usual difficulties at Travbur the next day. I won't go intothem, except to say that I was batted from office to office like a pingpong ball, and that, when I finally got my travel permit, I was made tofeel that I had stolen an original Picasso from the State Museum.     I made it in a day. Just. I got my permit thirty seconds before closingtime. I was to take the jetcopter to Center One at 0700 hours thefollowing morning.     In my living machine that evening, I was much too excited to work attheoretical research as I usually did after a hard day of trampingaround. I bathed, I paced a while, I sat and hummed nervously andgot up and paced again. I turned on the telepuppets. There was adrama about the space pilots who fly the nonconformist prisoners tothe forests and pulp-acetate plants on Mars. Seemed that the Southempolitical prisoners who are confined to the southern hemisphere ofMars, wanted to attack and conquer the north. The nonconformists, ledby our pilot, came through for the State in the end. Corn is thickerthan water. Standard.     There were, however, some good stereofilm shots of the limitlessforests of Mars, and I wondered what it would be like to live there, ina green, fresh-smelling land. Pleasant, I supposed, if you could put upwith the no doubt revolting morality of a prison planet.     And the drama seemed to point out that there was no more security forthe nonconformists out there than for us here on Earth. Maybe somewherein the universe, I thought, there would be peace for men. Somewherebeyond the solar system, perhaps, someday when we had the means to gothere....     Yet instinct told me that wasn't the answer, either. I thought of averse by an ancient pre-atomic poet named Hoffenstein. (People hadunwieldy, random combinations of letters for names in those days.) Thepoem went:   Wherever I go,    I   go too, And spoil everything.    That was it. The story of mankind.     I turned the glowlight down and lay on the pneumo after a while, but Ididn't sleep for a long, long time.     Then, when I did sleep, when I had been sleeping, I heard the voiceagain. The low, seductive woman's voice—the startling, shocking voiceout of my unconscious.           You have taken the first step     , she said.       You are on your wayto freedom. Don't stop now. Don't sink back into the lifelessness ofconformity. Go on ... on and on. Keep struggling, for that is the onlyanswer....       I didn't exactly talk back, but in the queer way of the dream, I      thought     objections. I was in my thirties, at the mid-point of mylife, and the whole of that life had been spent under the State. I knewno other way to act. Suppressing what little individuality I mighthave was, for me, a way of survival. I was chockful of prescribed,stereotyped reactions, and I held onto them even when something withinme told me what they were. This wasn't easy, this breaking away, noteven this slight departure from the secure, camouflaged norm....           The woman, Lara, attracts you     , said the voice.     I suppose at that point I twitched or rolled in my sleep. Yes, thevoice was right, the woman Lara attracted me. So much that I ached withit.           Take her. Find a way. When you succeed in changing your name, andknow that you can do things, then find a way. There will be a way.          The idea at once thrilled and frightened me.     I woke writhing and in a sweat again.     It was morning.     I dressed and headed for the jetcopter stage and the ship for CenterOne.     The ship was comfortable and departed on time, a transport with seatsfor about twenty passengers. I sat near the tail and moodily busiedmyself watching the gaunt brown earth far below. Between Centers therewas mostly desert, only occasional patches of green. Before the atomicdecade, I had heard, nearly all the earth was green and teemed withlife ... birds, insects, animals, people, too. It was hard rock andsand now, with a few scrubs hanging on for life. The pre-atomics, whohadn't mastered synthesization, would have a hard time scratchingexistence from the earth today.     I tried to break the sad mood, and started to look around at some ofthe other passengers. That was when I first noticed the prisonersin the forward seats. Man and woman, they were, a youngish, rathernon-descript couple, thin, very quiet. They were manacled and twoDeacons sat across from them. The Deacons' backs were turned to me andI could see the prisoners' faces.     They had curious faces. Their eyes were indescribably sad, and yettheir lips seemed to be ready to smile at any moment.     They were holding hands, not seeming to care about this vulgaremotional display.     I had the sudden crazy idea that Lara and I were sitting there, holdinghands like that, nonconforming in the highest, and that we werewonderfully happy. Our eyes were sad too, but we were really happy,quietly happy, and that was why our lips stayed upon the brink of asmile.  ","The narrator, who was designated an unspeakably vulgar four-letter designation during the last renumbering, has been negatively affected by his new name. Because of its distracting effect on those who learn it, he is forced to resign from his job studying magnetic mechanics and assume non-productive status, which in turn hampers his ability to acquire realfood. Theoretical research which the narrator privately conducts could not be published. His designation further prevents him from participating in group games at the rec center, special interest clubs, and State Loyalty chapters. The narrator is unable to mate since, at the Eugenic Centers where mating is regulated by the State, he must submit an application which must be approved by women who are authorized to mate with him."
"How do others react upon hearing the narrator’s name? </s>     I, the Unspeakable     By WALT SHELDON     Illustrated by LOUIS MARCHETTI     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction April 1951.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]       What's in a name? might be very dangerous     to ask in certain societies, in which sticks     and stones are also a big problem!      I fought to be awake. I was dreaming, but I think I must have blushed.I must have blushed in my sleep.           Do it!      she said.       Please do it! For me!          It was the voice that always came, low, intense, seductive, the soundof your hand on silk ... and to a citizen of Northem, a conformist, itwas shocking. I was a conformist then; I was still one that morning.     I awoke. The glowlight was on, slowly increasing. I was in my livingmachine in Center Four, where I belonged, and all the familiar thingswere about me, reality was back, but I was breathing very hard.     I lay on the pneumo a while before getting up. I looked at thechroner: 0703 hours, Day 17, Month IX, New Century Three. My morningnuro-tablets had already popped from the tube, and the timer had begunto boil an egg. The egg was there because the realfood allotment hadbeen increased last month. The balance of trade with Southem had justswung a decimal or two our way.     I rose finally, stepped to the mirror, switched it to positive andlooked at myself. New wrinkles—or maybe just a deepening of the oldones. It was beginning to show; the past two years were leaving traces.     I hadn't worried about my appearance when I'd been with the Office ofWeapons. There, I'd been able to keep pretty much to myself, doingresearch on magnetic mechanics as applied to space drive. But otherjobs, where you had to be among people, might be different. I neededevery possible thing in my favor.     Yes, I still hoped for a job, even after two years. I still meant tokeep on plugging, making the rounds.     I'd go out again today.     The timer clicked and my egg was ready. I swallowed the tablets andthen took the egg to the table to savor it and make it last.     As I leaned forward to sit, the metal tag dangled from my neck,catching the glowlight. My identity tag.     Everything came back in a rush—     My name. The dream and      her     voice. And her suggestion.       Would I dare? Would I start out this very morning and take the risk,the terrible risk?    You remember renumbering. Two years ago. You remember how it was then;how everybody looked forward to his new designation, and how everybodymade jokes about the way the letters came out, and how all the recordswere for a while fouled up beyond recognition.     The telecomics kidded renumbering. One went a little too far andthey psycho-scanned him and then sent him to Marscol as a dangerousnonconform.     If you were disappointed with your new designation, you didn'tcomplain. You didn't want a sudden visit from the Deacons during thenight.     There had to be renumbering. We all understood that. With thepopulation of Northem already past two billion, the old designationswere too clumsy. Renumbering was efficient. It contributed to the goodof Northem. It helped advance the warless struggle with Southem.     The equator is the boundary. I understand that once there wasa political difference and that the two superstates sprawledlongitudinally, not latitudinally, over the globe. Now they are prettymuch the same. There is the truce, and they are both geared for war.They are both efficient states, as tightly controlled as an experimentwith enzymes, as microsurgery, as the temper of a diplomat.     We were renumbered, then, in Northem. You know the system: everybodynow has six digits and an additional prefix or suffix of four letters.Stateleader, for instance, has the designation AAAA-111/111. Now, toaddress somebody by calling off four letters is a little clumsy. We tryto pronounce them when they are pronounceable. That is, no one says toStateleader, Good morning, A-A-A-A. They say, Good morning, Aaaa.     Reading the last quote, I notice a curious effect. It says what I feel.Of course I didn't feel that way on that particular morning. I wasstill conformal; the last thing in my mind was that I would infract andbe psycho-scanned.     Four letters then, and in many cases a pronounceable four letter word.     A four letter word.     Yes, you suspect already. You know what a four letter word can be.     Mine was.     It was unspeakable.     The slight weight on my forehead reminded me that I still wore mysleep-learner. I'd been studying administrative cybernetics, hoping toqualify in that field, although it was a poor substitute for a spacedrive expert. I removed the band and stepped across the room andturned off the oscillator. I went back to my egg and my bitter memories.     I will never forget the first day I received my new four lettercombination and reported it to my chief, as required. I was unthinkablyembarrassed. He didn't say anything. He just swallowed and chokedand became crimson when he saw it. He didn't dare pass it to hissecretarial engineer; he went to the administrative circuits andregistered it himself.     I can't blame him for easing me out. He was trying to run an efficientorganization, after all, and no doubt I upset its efficiency. My workwas important—magnetic mechanics was the only way to handle quantareaction, or the so-called non-energy drive, and was therefore theanswer to feasible space travel beyond our present limit of Mars—andthere were frequent inspection tours by Big Wheels and Very ImportantPersons.     Whenever anyone, especially a woman, asked my name, the embarrassmentwould become a crackling electric field all about us. The best tacticwas just not to answer.  The chief called me in one day. He looked haggard.     Er—old man, he said, not quite able to bring himself to utter myname, I'm going to have to switch you to another department. How wouldyou like to work on nutrition kits? Very interesting work.     Nutrition kits?      Me?     On nutrition kits?     Well, I—er—know it sounds unusual, but it justifies. I just hadthe cybs work it over in the light of present regulations, and itjustifies.     Everything had to justify, of course. Every act in the monthly reporthad to be covered by regulations and cross-regulations. Of course therewere so many regulations that if you just took the time to work it out,you could justify damn near anything. I knew what the chief was up to.Just to remove me from my post would have taken a year of applicationsand hearings and innumerable visits to the capital in Center One. Butif I should infract—deliberately infract—it would enable the chief tolet me go. The equivalent of resigning.     I'll infract, I said. Rather than go on nutrition kits, I'llinfract.     He looked vastly relieved. Uh—fine, he said. I rather hoped youwould.     It took a week or so. Then I was on Non-Productive status and issued anN/P book for my necessities. Very few luxury coupons in the N/P book.I didn't really mind at first. My new living machine was smaller, butbasically comfortable, and since I was still a loyal member of thestate and a verified conformist, I wouldn't starve.     But I didn't know what I was in for.     I went from bureau to bureau, office to office, department todepartment—any place where they might use a space drive expert. Apattern began to emerge; the same story everywhere. When I mentioned myspecialty they would look delighted. When I handed them my tag and theysaw my name, they would go into immediate polite confusion. As soon asthey recovered they would say they'd call me if anything turned up....  A few weeks of this and I became a bit dazed.     And then there was the problem of everyday existence. You might sayit's lucky to be an N/P for a while. I've heard people say that. Basicneeds provided, worlds of leisure time; on the surface it soundsattractive.     But let me give you an example. Say it is monthly realfood day. You goto the store, your mouth already watering in anticipation. You takeyour place in line and wait for your package. The distributor takesyour coupon book and is all ready to reach for your package—and thenhe sees the fatal letters N/P. Non-Producer. A drone, a drain upon theState. You can see his stare curdle. He scowls at the book again.     Not sure this is in order. Better go to the end of the line. We'llcheck it later.     You know what happens before the end of the line reaches the counter.No more packages.     Well, I couldn't get myself off N/P status until I got a post, andwith my name I      couldn't     get a post.     Nor could I change my name. You know what happens when you try tochange something already on the records. The very idea of wantingchange implies criticism of the State. Unthinkable behavior.     That was why this curious dream voice shocked me so. The thing that itsuggested was quite as embarrassing as its non-standard, emotional,provocative tone.     Bear with me; I'm getting to the voice—to      her     —in a moment.     I want to tell you first about the loneliness, the terrible loneliness.I could hardly join group games at any of the rec centers. I could joinno special interest clubs or even State Loyalty chapters. Although Idabbled with theoretical research in my own quarters, I could scarcelysubmit any findings for publication—not with my name attached. Apseudonym would have been non-regulation and illegal.     But there was the worst thing of all. I could not mate.  Funny, I hadn't thought about mating until it became impossible. Iremember the first time, out of sheer idleness, I wandered into aEugenic Center. I filled out my form very carefully and submitted itfor analysis and assignment. The clerk saw my name, and did the usualdouble-take. He coughed and swallowed and fidgeted.     He said, Of course you understand that we must submit yourapplication to the woman authorized to spend time in the mating boothswith you, and that she has the right to refuse.     Yes, I understand that.     M'm, he said, and dismissed me with a nod.     I waited for a call in the next few weeks, still hoping, but I knewno woman would consent to meet a man with my name, let alone enter amating booth with him.     The urge to reproduce myself became unbearable. I concocted all sortsof wild schemes.     I might infract socially and be classified a nonconform and sent toMarscol. I'd heard rumors that in that desolate land, on that desolateplanet, both mingling and mating were rather disgustingly unrestricted.Casual mating would be terribly dangerous, of course, with all the wildirradiated genes from the atomic decade still around, but I felt I'd bewilling to risk that. Well, almost....     About then I began to have these dreams. As I've told you, in the dreamthere was only this woman's seductive voice. The first time I heard itI awoke in a warm sweat and swore something had gone wrong with thesleep-learner. You never hear the actual words with this machine, ofcourse; you simply absorb the concepts unconsciously. Still, it seemedan explanation. I checked thoroughly. Nothing wrong.     The next night I heard the woman's voice again.           Try it     , she said.       Do it. Start tomorrow to get your name changed.There will be a way. There must be a way. The rules are so mixed upthat a clever man can do almost anything. Do it, please—for me.       She was not only trying to get me to commit nonconformity, but makingheretical remarks besides. I awoke that time and half-expected a Deaconto pop out of the tube and turn his electric club upon me.     And I heard the voice nearly every night.     It hammered away.           What if you do fail? Almost anything would be better than themiserable existence you're leading now!          One morning I even caught myself wondering just how I'd go about thisidea of hers. Wondering what the first step might be.     She seemed to read my thoughts. That night she said,       Consult the cybsin the Govpub office. If you look hard enough and long enough, you'llfind a way.          Now, on this morning of the seventeenth day in the ninth month,I ate my boiled egg slowly and actually toyed with the idea. Ithought of being on productive status again. I had almost lost myfanatical craving to be useful to the State, but I did want to bebusy—desperately. I didn't want to be despised any more. I didn'twant to be lonely. I wanted to reproduce myself.     I made my decision suddenly. Waves of emotion carried me along. I gotup, crossed the room to the directory, and pushbuttoned to find thelocation of the nearest Govpub office.     I didn't know what would happen and almost didn't care.      II     Like most important places, the Govpub Office in Center Four wasunderground. I could have taken a tunnelcar more quickly, but it seemedpleasanter to travel topside. Or maybe I just wanted to put this off abit. Think about it. Compose myself.     At the entrance to the Govpub warren there was a big director cyb, aplate with a speaker and switch. The sign on it said to switch it onand get close to the speaker and I did.     The cyb's mechanical voice—they never seem to get the th soundsright—said, This is Branch Four of the Office of GovernmentPublications. Say, 'Publications,' and/or, 'Information desired,' asthoroughly and concisely as possible. Use approved voice and standardphraseology.     Well, simple enough so far. I had always rather prided myself on myknack for approved voice, those flat, emotionless tones that indicateefficiency. And I would never forget how to speak Statese. I said,Applicant desires all pertinent information relative assignment,change or amendment of State Serial designations, otherwise generallyreferred to as nomenclature.     There was a second's delay while the audio patterns tripped relays andbrought the memory tubes in.     Then the cyb said, Proceed to Numbering and Identity section. Consultalphabetical list and diagram on your left for location of same.     Thanks, I said absent-mindedly.     I started to turn away and the cyb said, Information on tanks ismilitary information and classified. State authorization for—     I switched it off.  Numbering and Identity wasn't hard to find. I took the shaft to theproper level and then it was only a walk of a few hundred yards throughthe glowlit corridors.     N. & I. turned out to be a big room, somewhat circular, veryhigh-ceilinged, with banks of cyb controls covering the upper walls.Narrow passageways, like spokes, led off in several directions. Therewas an information desk in the center of the room.     I looked that way and my heart went into free fall.     There was a girl at the information desk. An exceptionally attractivegirl. She was well within the limits of acceptable standard, and herfeatures were even enough, and her hair a middle blonde—but she hadsomething else. Hard to describe. It was a warmth, a buoyancy, a senseof life and intense animation. It didn't exactly show; it radiated. Itseemed to sing out from her clear complexion, from her figure, whicheven a tunic could not hide, from everything about her.     And if I were to state my business, I would have to tell her my name.     I almost backed out right then. I stopped momentarily. And then commonsense took hold and I realized that if I were to go through with thisthing, here would be only the first of a long series of embarrassmentsand discomforts. It had to be done.     I walked up to the desk and the girl turned to face me, and I couldhave sworn that a faint smile crossed her lips. It was swift, like theshadow of a bird across one of the lawns in one of the great parkstopside. Very non-standard. Yet I wasn't offended; if anything, I feltsuddenly and disturbingly pleased.     What information is desired? she asked. Her voice was standard—orwas it?     Again I had the feeling of restrained warmth.     I used colloquial. I want to get the dope on State Serialdesignations, how they're assigned and so forth. Especially how theymight be changed.     She put a handsteno on the desk top and said, Name? Address? Post?     I froze. I stood there and stared at her.     She looked up and said, Well?     I—er—no post at present. N/P status.     Her fingers moved on the steno.     I gave her my address and she recorded that.     Then I paused again.     She said, And your name?     I took a deep breath and told her.     I didn't want to look into her eyes. I wanted to look away, but Icouldn't find a decent excuse to. I saw her eyes become wide andnoticed for the first time that they were a warm gray, almost a mousecolor. I felt like laughing at that irrelevant observation, but morethan that I felt like turning and running. I felt like climbing anddashing all over the walls like a frustrated cat and yelling at thetop of my lungs. I felt like anything but standing there and lookingstupid, meeting her stare—  She looked down quickly and recorded my name. It took her a littlelonger than necessary. In that time she recovered. Somewhat.     All right, she said finally, I'll make a search.     She turned to a row of buttons on a console in the center of the deskand began to press them in various combinations. A typer clicked away.She tore off a slip of paper, consulted it, and said, Informationdesired is in Bank 29. Please follow me.     Well, following her was a pleasure, anyway. I could watch the movementof her hips and torso as she walked. She was not tall, but long-leggedand extremely lithe. Graceful and rhythmic. Very, very feminine, almostbeyond standard in that respect. I felt blood throb in my temples andwas heartily ashamed of myself.     I would like to be in a mating booth with her, I thought, the fullauthorized twenty minutes. And I knew I was unconformist and therealization hardly scared me at all.     She led me down one of the long passageways.     A few moments later I said, Don't you sometimes get—well, prettylonely working here? Personal talk at a time like this wasn't approvedbehavior, but I couldn't help it.     She answered hesitantly, but at least she answered. She said, Notterribly. The cybs are company enough most of the time.     You don't get many visitors, then.     Not right here. N. & I. isn't a very popular section. Most people whocome to Govpub spend their time researching in the ancient manuscriptroom. The—er—social habits of the pre-atomic civilization.     I laughed. I knew what she meant, all right. Pre-atomics and theirideas about free mating always fascinated people. I moved up besideher. What's your name, by the way?     L-A-R-A 339/827.     I pronounced it. Lara. Lah-rah. That's beautiful. Fits you, too.  She didn't answer; she kept her eyes straight ahead and I saw the faintspot of color on her cheek.     I had a sudden impulse to ask her to meet me after hours at oneof the rec centers. If it had been my danger alone, I might have,but I couldn't very well ask her to risk discovery of a haphazard,unauthorized arrangement like that and the possibility of going to thepsycho-scan.     We came to a turn in the corridor and something happened; I'm not surejust how it happened. I keep telling myself that my movements were notactually deliberate. I was to the right of her. The turn was to theleft. She turned quickly, and I didn't, so that I bumped into her,knocking her off balance. I grabbed her to keep her from falling.     For a moment we stood there, face to face, touching each other lightly.I held her by the arms. I felt the primitive warmth of her breath. Oureyes held together ... proton ... electron ... I felt her tremble.     She broke from my grip suddenly and started off again.     After that she was very business-like.     We came finally to the controls of Bank 29 and she stood before themand began to press button combinations. I watched her work; I watchedher move. I had almost forgotten why I'd come here. The lights blinkedon and off and the typers clacked softly as the machine sorted outinformation.     She had a long printed sheet from the roll presently. She frowned atit and turned to me. You can take this along and study it, she said,but I'm afraid what you have in mind may be—a little difficult.     She must have guessed what I had in mind. I said, I didn't think itwould be easy.     It seems that the only agency authorized to change a State Serialunder any circumstances is Opsych.     Opsych? You can't keep up with all these departments.     The Office of Psychological Adjustment. They can change you if you gofrom a lower to higher E.A.C.     I don't get it, exactly.     As she spoke I had the idea that there was sympathy in her voice. Justan overtone. Well, she said, as you know, the post a person isqualified to hold often depends largely on his Emotional AdjustmentCategory. Now if he improves and passes from, let us say, Grade 3 toGrade 4, he will probably change his place of work. In order to protecthim from any associative maladjustments developed under the old E.A.C,he is permitted a new number.     I groaned. But I'm already in the highest E.A.C.!     It looks very uncertain then.     Sometimes I think I'd be better off in the mines, or onMarscol—or—in the hell of the pre-atomics!     She looked amused. What did you say your E.A.C. was?     Oh, all right. Sorry. I controlled myself and grinned. I guess thiswhole thing has been just a little too much for me. Maybe my E.A.C.'seven gone down.     That might be your chance then.     How do you mean?     If you could get to the top man in Opsych and demonstrate that yournumber has inadvertently changed your E.A.C., he might be able tojustify a change.     By the State, he might! I punched my palm. Only how do I get to him?     I can find his location on the cyb here. Center One, the capital, fora guess. You'll have to get a travel permit to go there, of course.Just a moment.     She worked at the machine again, trying it on general data. The printedslip came out a moment later and she read it to me. Chief, Opsych, wasin the capital all right. It didn't give the exact location of hisoffice, but it did tell how to find the underground bay in Center Onecontaining the Opsych offices.     We headed back through the passageway then and she kept well ahead ofme. I couldn't keep my eyes from her walk, from the way she walked witheverything below her shoulders. My blood was pounding at my templesagain.     I tried to keep the conversation going. Do you think it'll be hard toget a travel permit?     Not impossible. My guess is that you'll be at Travbur all daytomorrow, maybe even the next day. But you ought to be able to swing itif you hold out long enough.     I sighed. I know. It's that way everywhere in Northem. Our motto oughtto be, 'Why make it difficult when with just a little more effort youcan make it impossible?'  She started to laugh, and then, as she emerged from the passageway intothe big circular room, she cut her laugh short.     A second later, as I came along, I saw why.     There were two Deacons by the central desk. They were burly and hadthat hard, pinched-face look and wore the usual black belts. Electricclubs hung from the belts. Spidery looking pistols were at their sides.     I didn't know whether these two had heard my crack or not. I know theykept looking at me.     Lara and I crossed the room silently, she back to her desk, I to theexit door. The Deacons' remote, disapproving eyes swung in azimuth,tracking us.     I walked out and wanted to turn and smile at Lara, and get into mysmile something of the hope that someday, somewhere, I'd see heragain—but of course I didn't dare.      III     I had the usual difficulties at Travbur the next day. I won't go intothem, except to say that I was batted from office to office like a pingpong ball, and that, when I finally got my travel permit, I was made tofeel that I had stolen an original Picasso from the State Museum.     I made it in a day. Just. I got my permit thirty seconds before closingtime. I was to take the jetcopter to Center One at 0700 hours thefollowing morning.     In my living machine that evening, I was much too excited to work attheoretical research as I usually did after a hard day of trampingaround. I bathed, I paced a while, I sat and hummed nervously andgot up and paced again. I turned on the telepuppets. There was adrama about the space pilots who fly the nonconformist prisoners tothe forests and pulp-acetate plants on Mars. Seemed that the Southempolitical prisoners who are confined to the southern hemisphere ofMars, wanted to attack and conquer the north. The nonconformists, ledby our pilot, came through for the State in the end. Corn is thickerthan water. Standard.     There were, however, some good stereofilm shots of the limitlessforests of Mars, and I wondered what it would be like to live there, ina green, fresh-smelling land. Pleasant, I supposed, if you could put upwith the no doubt revolting morality of a prison planet.     And the drama seemed to point out that there was no more security forthe nonconformists out there than for us here on Earth. Maybe somewherein the universe, I thought, there would be peace for men. Somewherebeyond the solar system, perhaps, someday when we had the means to gothere....     Yet instinct told me that wasn't the answer, either. I thought of averse by an ancient pre-atomic poet named Hoffenstein. (People hadunwieldy, random combinations of letters for names in those days.) Thepoem went:   Wherever I go,    I   go too, And spoil everything.    That was it. The story of mankind.     I turned the glowlight down and lay on the pneumo after a while, but Ididn't sleep for a long, long time.     Then, when I did sleep, when I had been sleeping, I heard the voiceagain. The low, seductive woman's voice—the startling, shocking voiceout of my unconscious.           You have taken the first step     , she said.       You are on your wayto freedom. Don't stop now. Don't sink back into the lifelessness ofconformity. Go on ... on and on. Keep struggling, for that is the onlyanswer....       I didn't exactly talk back, but in the queer way of the dream, I      thought     objections. I was in my thirties, at the mid-point of mylife, and the whole of that life had been spent under the State. I knewno other way to act. Suppressing what little individuality I mighthave was, for me, a way of survival. I was chockful of prescribed,stereotyped reactions, and I held onto them even when something withinme told me what they were. This wasn't easy, this breaking away, noteven this slight departure from the secure, camouflaged norm....           The woman, Lara, attracts you     , said the voice.     I suppose at that point I twitched or rolled in my sleep. Yes, thevoice was right, the woman Lara attracted me. So much that I ached withit.           Take her. Find a way. When you succeed in changing your name, andknow that you can do things, then find a way. There will be a way.          The idea at once thrilled and frightened me.     I woke writhing and in a sweat again.     It was morning.     I dressed and headed for the jetcopter stage and the ship for CenterOne.     The ship was comfortable and departed on time, a transport with seatsfor about twenty passengers. I sat near the tail and moodily busiedmyself watching the gaunt brown earth far below. Between Centers therewas mostly desert, only occasional patches of green. Before the atomicdecade, I had heard, nearly all the earth was green and teemed withlife ... birds, insects, animals, people, too. It was hard rock andsand now, with a few scrubs hanging on for life. The pre-atomics, whohadn't mastered synthesization, would have a hard time scratchingexistence from the earth today.     I tried to break the sad mood, and started to look around at some ofthe other passengers. That was when I first noticed the prisonersin the forward seats. Man and woman, they were, a youngish, rathernon-descript couple, thin, very quiet. They were manacled and twoDeacons sat across from them. The Deacons' backs were turned to me andI could see the prisoners' faces.     They had curious faces. Their eyes were indescribably sad, and yettheir lips seemed to be ready to smile at any moment.     They were holding hands, not seeming to care about this vulgaremotional display.     I had the sudden crazy idea that Lara and I were sitting there, holdinghands like that, nonconforming in the highest, and that we werewonderfully happy. Our eyes were sad too, but we were really happy,quietly happy, and that was why our lips stayed upon the brink of asmile.  ","Typically, people are unwelcoming of the narrator upon learning his name. During his job search, he is welcome in virtue of his previous experience in space drives, but is quickly dismissed upon sharing his name. In submitting his application to mate at a Eugenic Center, the clerk dismisses the narrator’s chances of finding a mate with a reminder that the women are able to refuse. Lara, the information clerk at the department of Numbering and Identity, is taken aback and hesitates in recording the narrator’s personal information. "
"What is the plot of the story? </s>    Wanderers of the Wolf Moon     By NELSON S. BOND     They were marooned on Titan, their ship wrecked,     the radio smashed. Yet they had to exist, had     to build a new life on a hostile world. And the     man who assumed command was Gregory Malcolm, the     bespectacled secretary—whose only adventures     had come through the pages of a book.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Spring 1944.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Sparks snapped off the switches and followed him to the door of theradio turret. Sparks was a stunted, usually-grinning, little redheadnamed Hannigan. But he wasn't grinning now. He laid an anxious hand onGreg's arm. If I was you, he said, if I was you, Malcolm, I don'tthink I'd say nothing to the boss about this. Not just yet, anyhow.     Greg said, Why not?     Sparks spluttered and fussed and made heavy weather of answering.     Well, for one thing, it ain't important. It would only worry him. Andthen there's the womenfolks, they scare easy. Which of course theyain't no cause to. Atmospherics don't mean nothing. I've rode outworse storms than this—plenty of times. And in worse crates than the      Carefree     .     Greg studied him carefully from behind trim plasta-rimmed spectacles.He drew a deep breath. He said levelly, So it's      that     bad, eh,Sparks?     What bad? I just told you—     I know. Sparks, I'm not a professional spaceman. But I've studiedastrogation as few Earthlubbers have. It's been my hobby for years. AndI think I know what we're up against.     We hit a warp-eddy last night. We've been trapped in a vortex formore than eight hours. Lord only knows how many hundreds of thousandsof miles we've been borne off our course. And now we've blasted into asuper-ionized belt of atmospherics. Your radio signals are blanketed.You can't get signals in or out. We're a deaf-mute speck of metal beingwhirled headlong through space. Isn't that it?     I don't know what— began Sparks hotly. Then he stopped, studied hiscompanion thoughtfully, nodded. O.Q., he confessed, that's it. Butwe ain't licked yet. We got three good men on the bridge. Townsend ...Graves ... Langhorn. They'll pull out of this if anybody can. And theyain't no sense in scaring the Old Man and his family.     I won't tell them, said Greg. I won't tell them unless I have to.But between you and me, what are the odds against us, Sparks?     The radioman shrugged.     Who knows? Vortices are unpredictable. Maybe the damn thing will tossus out on the very spot it picked us up. Maybe it will give us the oldchuckeroo a million miles the other side of Pluto. Maybe it will crackus up on an asteroid or satellite. No way of telling till it happens.     And the controls?     As useless, said Sparks, as a cow in a cyclone.     So?     We sit tight, said Sparks succinctly, and hope.     Malcolm nodded quietly. He took off his spectacles, breathed on them,wiped them, replaced them. He was tall and fair; in his neat, crisplypressed business suit he appeared even slimmer than he was. But therewas no nervousness in his movements. He moved measuredly. Well, hesaid, that appears to be that. I'm going up to the dining dome.     Sparks stared at him querulously.     You're a queer duck, Malcolm. I don't think you've got a nerve in yourbody.     Nerves are a luxury I can't afford, replied Greg. If anythinghappens—and if there's time to do so—let me know. He paused at thedoor. Good luck, he said.     Clear ether! said Sparks mechanically. He stared after the other manwonderingly for a long moment, then went back to his control banks,shaking his head and muttering.  Gregory Malcolm climbed down the Jacob's-ladder and strode brisklythrough the labyrinthine corridors that were the entrails of thespace yacht      Carefree     . He paused once to peer through a      perilens     set into the ship's port plates. It was a weird sight that met hisgaze. Not space, ebony-black and bejewelled with a myriad flamingsplotches of color; not the old, familiar constellations treadingtheir ever-lasting, inexorable paths about the perimeter of Sol'stiny universe, but a shimmering webwork of light, so tortured-violetthat the eyes ached to look upon it. This was the mad typhoon ofspace-atmospherics through which the      Carefree     was now being twisted,topsy-turvy, toward a nameless goal.     He moved on, approaching at last the quartzite-paned observationrotunda which was the dining dome of the ship.     His footsteps slowed as he composed himself to face those within. Ashe hesitated in the dimly-lighted passage, a trick of lights on glassmirrored to him the room beyond. He could see the others while theywere as yet unaware of his presence. Their voices reached him clearly.     J. Foster Andrews, his employer and the employer of the ten thousandor more men and women who worked for Galactic Metals Corporation,dominated the head of the table. He was a plump, impatient littleNapoleon. Opposite him, calm, graceful, serene, tastefully garbed andelaborately coiffured even here in deep space, three weeks from thenearest beauty shop, sat his wife, Enid.     On Andrews' right sat his sister, Maud. Not young, features plain as amud fence, but charming despite her age and homeliness simply becauseof her eyes; puckish, shrewdly intelligent eyes, constantly aglint withsuppressed humor at—guessed Greg—the amusing foibles and frailties ofthose about her.     She gave her breakfast the enthusiastic attention of one too old andshapeless to be concerned with such folderol as calories and dietetics,pausing only from time to time to share smidgeons of food with awatery-eyed scrap of white, curly fluff beside her chair. Her petpoodle, whom she called by the opprobrious title of Cuddles.     On J. Foster's left sat his daughter, Crystal. She it was who causedGregory Malcolm's staid, respectable heart to give a little lurch ashe glimpsed her reflected vision—all gold and crimson and cream—inthe glistening walls. If Crystal was her name, so, too, was crystal herloveliness.     But—Greg shook his head—but she was not for him. She was alreadypledged to the young man seated beside her. Ralph Breadon. He turnedto murmur something to her as Greg watched; Greg saw and admired anddisliked his rangy height, his sturdy, well-knit strength, the richbrownness of his skin, his hair, his eyes.     The sound of his own name startled Greg.     Malcolm! called the man at the head of the table. Malcolm! Now wherein blazes is he, anyhow? he demanded of no one in particular, everyonein general. He spooned a dab of liquid gold from a Limoges preservejar, tongued it suspiciously, frowned. Bitter! he complained.     It's the very      best     Martian honey, said his wife.     Drylands clover, added Crystal.     It's still bitter, said J. Foster petulantly.     His sister sniffed. Nonsense! It's delightful.     I say it's bitter, repeated Andrews sulkily. And lifted his voiceagain.       Malcolm!     Where      are     you?     You called me, sir? said Malcolm, moving into the room. He noddedpolitely to the others. Good morning, Mrs. Andrews ... MissAndrews ... Mr. Breadon....     Oh, sit down! snapped J. Foster. Sit down here and stop bobbing yourhead like a teetotum! Had your breakfast? The honey's no good; it'sbitter. He glared at his sister challengingly. Where have you been,anyway? What kind of secretary are you? Have you been up to the radioturret? How's the market today? Is Galactic up or down?     Malcolm said, I don't know, sir.     Fine! Fine! Andrews rattled on automatically before the wordsregistered. Then he started, his face turning red. Eh? What's that?Don't know! What do you mean, you don't know? I pay you to—     There's no transmission, sir, said Greg quietly.     No trans—nonsense! Of course there's transmission! I put a millioncredits into this ship. Finest space-yacht ever built. Latest equipmentthroughout. Sparks is drunk, that's what you mean! Well, you hop rightup there and—  Maud Andrews put down her fork with a clatter. Oh, for goodness sakes,Jonathan, shut up and give the boy time to explain! He's standingthere with his mouth gaping like a rain-spout, trying to get a word inedgewise! What's the trouble, Gregory? She turned to Greg, as JonathanFoster Andrews wheezed into startled silence.       That?          She glanced at the quartzite dome, beyond which the veil of iridescencewove and cross-wove and shimmered like a pallid aurora.     Greg nodded. Yes, Miss Andrews.     Enid Andrews spoke languidly from the other end of the table.     But what is it, Gregory? A local phenomenon?     You might call it that, said Greg, selecting his words cautiously.It's an ionized field into which we've blasted. It—it—shouldn't staywith us long. But while it persists, our radio will be blanketed out.     Breadon's chestnut head came up suddenly, sharply.     Ionization! That means atmosphere!     Greg said, Yes.     And an atmosphere means a body in space somewhere near— Breadonstopped, bit his lip before the appeal in Malcolm's eyes, tried to passit off easily. Oh, well—a change of scenery, what?     But the moment of alarm in his voice had not passed unnoticed. CrystalAndrews spoke for all of them, her voice preternaturally quiet.     You're hiding something, Malcolm. What is it? Is there—danger?     But Greg didn't have to answer that question. From the doorway a harsh,defiantly strident voice answered for him. The voice of Bert Andrews,Crystal's older brother.     Danger? You're damn right there's danger! What's the matter withyou folks—are you all deaf, dumb and blind? We've been caught in aspace-vortex for hours. Now we're in the H-layer of a planet we can'teven see—and in fifteen minutes or fifteen seconds we may all besmashed as flat as pancakes!     The proclamation brought them out of their chairs. Greg's heart sank;his vain plea, Mr. Andrews— was lost in the medley of Crystal'ssudden gasp, Enid Andrews' short, choking scream, J. Foster's bellowingroar at his only son.     Bert—you're drunk!     Bert weaved precariously from the doorway, laughed in his father's face.     Sure I'm drunk! Why not? If you're smart you'll get drunk, too. Thewhole damn lot of you! He flicked a derisive hand toward Greg. Youtoo, Boy Scout! What were you trying to do—hide the bad news fromthem? Well, it's no use. Everybody might as well know the worst. We'regone gooses ... geeses ... aw, what the hell! Dead ducks! He fellinto a chair, sprawled there laughing mirthlessly with fear riding thetoo-high notes of his laughter.     J. Foster turned to his secretary slowly. His ire had faded; there wasonly deep concern in his voice.     Is he telling the truth, Malcolm?     Greg said soberly, Partly, sir. He's overstating the danger—butthere is danger. We are caught in a space-vortex, and as Mr.Breadon realized, the presence of these ionics means we're in theHeaviside-layer of some heavenly body. But we may not crack up.     Maud Andrews glanced at him shrewdly.     Is there anything we can do?     Not a thing. The officers on the bridge are doing everything possible.     In that case, said the older woman, we might as well finish ourbreakfast. Here, Cuddles! Come to momsy! She sat down again. Greglooked at her admiringly. Ralph Breadon stroked his brown jaw. He said,The life-skiffs?     A last resort, said Greg. Sparks promised he'd let me know if itwere necessary. We'll hope it's not—     But it was a vain hope, vainly spoken in the last, vain moment. Foreven as he phrased the hopeful words, came the sound of swift, racingfootsteps up the corridor. Into the dining dome burst Hannigan, eyeshot with excitement. And his cry dispelled Greg's final hopes forsafety.     Everybody—the Number Four life-skiff—      quick     ! We've been caught in agrav-drag and we're going to crash!      II     Those next hectic moments were never afterward very clear in GregMalcolm's memory. He had a confused recollection of hearing Sparks'warning punctuated by a loud, shrill scream which he vaguely identifiedas emanating from Mrs. Andrews' throat ... he was conscious of feeling,suddenly, beneath his feet the sickening, quickening lurch of a shipout of control, gripped by gravitational forces beyond its power toallay ... he recalled his own voice dinning in his ears as, incredibly,with Sparks, he took command of the hasty flight from the dining domedown the corridor to the aft ramp, up the ramp, across girdered beamsin the super-structure to the small, independently motored rocket-skiffcradled there.     He was aware, too, of strangely disconnected incidents happening aroundhim, he being a part of them but seeming to be only a disinterestedspectator to their strangeness. Of his forcing Maud Andrews towardthe door of the dome ... of her pushing back against him with all theweight of her body ... of her irate voice, Cuddles! I forgot him!Then the shrill excited yapping of the poodle cradled against her asthey charged on down the corridor.     J. Foster waddling beside him, tugging at his arm, panting, Theofficers? and his own unfelt assurance. They can take care ofthemselves. It's a general 'bandon ship. Enid Andrews stumbling overthe hem of a filmy peignoir ... himself bending to lift her boldly andbodily, sweating palms feeling the warm animal heat of her excitedbody hot beneath them ... Crystal Andrews stopping suddenly, crying,'Tina! ... and Hannigan's reply, Your maid? I woke her. She's in thelife-skiff. Bert Andrews stopping suddenly, being sick in the middleof the corridor, his drunkenness losing itself in the thick, surenausea of the ever-increasing unsteadiness beneath their feet.     Then the life-skiff, the clang of metal as Hannigan slammed theport behind the last of them, the fumbling for a lock-stud, thequick, grateful pant of the miniature hypos, and a weird feeling ofweightlessness, rushingness, hurtlingness as his eardrums throbbed andhis mouth tasted brassy and bloody with the fierce velocity of theirescape.     Sense and meaning returned only when all this ended. As one waking froma nightmare dream, Greg Malcolm returned to a world he could recognize.A tiny world, encased within the walls of a forty-foot life-skiff. Aworld peopled too scantily. Andrews, his wife and sister, his son anddaughter; 'Tina Laney, the maid; Breadon, Hannigan, young Tommy O'Doul,the cabin-boy (though where he had come from, or when, Greg did notknow). And himself. In a life-skiff. In space.     Somewhere in space. He looked through the      perilens     . What he saw thenhe might better never have seen. For that shimmering pink-ochre veilhad wisped away, now, and in the clean, cold, bitter-clear light of adistant sun he watched the death-dive of the yacht      Carefree     .     Like a vast silver top, spinning heedlessly, wildly, it streaked towarda mottled gray and green, brown and dun, hard and crushing-brutalterrain below. Still at its helm stood someone, for even in that lastdreadful moment burst from its nose-jets a ruddy mushroom of flame thattried to, but could not, brake the dizzy fall.     For an instant Greg's eyes, stingingly blinded and wet, thought theyglimpsed a wee black mote dancing from the bowels of the      Carefree     ; amote that might be another skiff like their own. But he could not besure, and then the      Carefree     was accelerating with such violence andspeed that the eye could see it only as a flaming silver lance againstthe ugly earth-carcase beneath, and then it struck and a carmine bud offlame burst and flowered for an instant, and that was all....     And Greg Malcolm turned from the      perilens     , shaken.     Hannigan said, It's over? and Greg nodded.     Hannigan said, The other skiffs? Did they break free, or were theycaught?     I don't know. I couldn't see for sure.     You must have seen. Are we the only ones?     I couldn't see for sure. Maybe. Maybe not.     Then a body scrambled forward, pressing through the tightness of otherhuddled bodies, and there was a hand upon his elbow. I'll take overnow, Malcolm.  It was Ralph Breadon. Gregory looked at him slowly, uncomprehendinglyat first. His hand was reluctant to leave the guiding-gear of thesmall ship which was, now, all that remained to them of civilizationand civilization's wondrous accomplishments. He had not realized untilthis moment that for a while ... for a short, eager, pulse-quickeningwhile ... on his alertness, in his hands, had depended the destiniesof ten men and women. But he knew, suddenly and completely, that itwas for this single moment his whole lifetime had waited. It was forthis brief moment of command that some intuition, some instinct greaterthan knowledge, had prepared him. This was why he, an Earthlubber, hadstudied astrogation, made a hobby of the empire of the stars. That hemight be fitted to command when all others failed. And now—     And now the moment was past, and he was once again Gregory Malcolm,mild, lean, pale, bespectacled secretary to J. Foster Andrews. And theman at his side was Ralph Breadon, socialite and gentleman sportsman,trained pilot. And in Malcolm the habit of obedience was strong....     Very well, sir, he said. And he turned over the controls.     What happened then was unfortunate. It might just as well have happenedto Malcolm, though afterward no one could ever say with certainty.However that was, either by carelessness or malfortune or inefficiency,once-thwarted disaster struck again at the little party on thelife-skiff. At the instant Breadon's hand seized the controls the skiffjerked suddenly as though struck with a ponderous fist, its throbbingmotors choked and snarled in a high, rising crescendo of torment thatlost itself in supersonic heights, and the ship that had been driftingeasily and under control to the planet beneath now dipped viciously.     The misfortune was that too many huddled in the tiny space understoodthe operation of the life-skiff, and what must be done instantly. Andthat neither pilot was as yet in control of the ship. Breadon's handleaped for the Dixie rod, so, too, did Malcolm's—and across both theirbodies came the arm of Sparks Hannigan, searching the controls.     In the scramble someone's sleeve brushed the banks of control-keys. Themotors, killed, soughed into silence. The ship rocked into a spin. Gregcried out, his voice a strange harshness in his ears; Breadon cursed;one of the women bleated fearfully.     Then Breadon, still cursing, fought all hands from the controls but hisown. And the man was not without courage. For all could see plainly,in the illumined      perilens     , how near to swift death that moment ofuncertainty had led them. The skiff, which an instant before had beenhigh in the stratosphere of this unknown planet ... or satelliteor whatever it might be ... was now flashing toward hard ground atlightning speed.  Only a miracle, Greg knew, could save them now. An impulse spun hishead, he looked at Crystal Andrews. There was no fear in her eyes. Justa hotness and an inexplicable anger. Beside her was the other girl, themaid, 'Tina; she was frankly afraid. Her teeth were clenched in hernether lip, and her eyes were wide and anxious, but she did not cry out.     Only a miracle could save them now. But Breadon's hands performedthat miracle; his quick, nerveless, trained hands. A stud here ...a lever there ... a swift wrenching toss of the shoulders. His facetwisted back over his shoulder, and his straining lips pulled tautand bloodless away from his teeth. Hold tight, folks! We're going tobounce—     Then they struck!     But they struck glancingly, as Breadon had hoped, and planned for,and gambled on. They struck and bounced. The frail craft shiveredand groaned in metal agony, jarred across harsh soil, bounced again,settled, nosed over and rocked to a standstill. Somewhere forwardsomething snapped with a shrill, high      ping!     of stress; somewhere aftwas the metallic flap-clanging of broken gear trailing behind them. Butthey were safe.     Breath, held so long that he could not remember its inhalation, escapedGreg's lungs in a long sigh. Nice work, Mr. Breadon! he cried. Oh,nice work!     But surprisingly, savagely, Breadon turned on him.     It would have been      better     work, Malcolm, if you'd kept your damnedhands off the controls! Now see what you've done? Smashed up our skiff!Our only—     He didn't do it! piped the shrill voice of Tommy O'Doul. You done ityourself, Mr. Breadon. Your sleeve. It caught the switch.     Quiet! Breadon, cheeks flushed, reached out smartly, stilledthe youngster's defense with a swift, ungentle slap. And you,Malcolm—after this, do as you're told, and don't try to assumeresponsibilities too great for you. All right, everybody. Let's get outand see how bad the damage is.     Instinctively Greg had surged a half step forward as Breadon silencedthe cabin boy. Now old habit and common-sense halted him. He'soverwrought, he reasoned. We're all excited and on edge. We've been toBedlam. Our nerves are shot. In a little while we'll all be back tonormal.     He said quietly, Very well, Mr. Breadon. And he climbed from thebroken skiff.  Hannigan said, Looks bad, don't it?     Very, said Malcolm. He fingered a shard of loose metal flapping likea fin from the stern of the skiff. Not hopeless, though. There shouldbe an acetylene torch in the tool locker. With that—     You ought to of poked him, said Hannigan.     What? Oh, you mean—?     Yeah. The kid was right, you know. He done it.     His sleeve, you mean. Well, it was an accident, said Greg. It couldhave happened to anyone. And he made a good landing. Consideringeverything. Anyhow— Again he was Gregory Malcolm, serious-faced,efficient secretary. Anyhow, we have been thrust into an extremelyprecarious circumstance. It would be silly to take umbrage at a man'snervous anger. We must have no quarreling, no bickering—     Umbrage! snorted Sparks. Bickering! They're big words. I ain't sureI know what they mean. I ain't exactly sure they mean      anything     . Heglanced at Greg oddly. You're a queer jasper, Malcolm. Back thereon the ship, I figured you for a sort of a stuffed-shirt. Yes-man tothe boss. And then in the show-down, you come through like a moviehero—for a little while. Then you let that Breadon guy give you thespur without a squawk—     Malcolm adjusted his plasta-rimmed spectacles. He said, almoststubbornly, Our situation is grave. There must be no bickering.     Bickering your Aunt Jenny! What do you call that?     Sparks jerked a contemptuous thumb toward the group from which theywere separated. Upon disembarking, only Greg and Sparks had moved tomake a careful examination of their damaged craft. The others, moreor less under the direction of Breadon, were making gestures towardremoving certain necessaries from the skiff. Their efforts, slight anduncertain as they were, had already embroiled them in argument.     The gist of their argument, so far as Greg Malcolm could determine, wasthat everyone wanted something to be done, but no two could agree asto just what that something was, and no one seemed to have any burstingdesire to participate in actual physical labor.     J. Foster Andrews, all traces of his former panic and confusion fled,was planted firmly, Napoleonically, some few yards from the open portof the life-skiff, barking impatient orders at little Tommy O'Doulwho—as Greg watched—stumbled from the port bearing a huge armload ofedibles.     'Tina, the maid, was in a frenzy of motion, trying to administer to thecomplaints and demands of Mrs. Andrews (whose immaculate hair-do hadsuffered in the frenetic minutes of their flight) and Crystal Andrews(who knew perfectly well there were sweaters in the life-skiff) andMiss Maud (who wanted a can of prepared dog-food and a can-openerimmediately, and look at poor Cuddles, momsy's 'ittle pet was      so     hungry)!     Bert Andrews was sulkily insisting that it was nonsense to leave thewarmth and security of the skiff anyway, and he wished he had a drink,while the harassed, self-appointed commander of the refugee corps wasshouting at whomever happened, at any given moment, to capture hisdivided and completely frantic attention. His orders were masterpiecesof confusion, developing around one premise that the castaway crewshould immediately set up a camp. Where, how, or with what nonexistentequipment, Breadon did not venture to say.     You see what I mean? demanded Sparks disgustedly.  Greg Malcolm saw. He also saw other things. That their landing-spot,while excellent for its purpose, was not by any manner of means anideal campsite. It was a small, flat basin of sandy soil, rimmed byshallow mountains. His gaze sought these hills, looked approvingly ontheir greenness, upon the multitude of dark pock-marks dotting them.These caves, were they not the habitations of potential enemies, mightwell become the sanctuaries of spacewrecked men.     He saw, also, a thin ribbon of silver sheering the face of the northernhills. His gaze, rising still skyward, saw other things—     He nodded. He knew, now, where they were. Or approximately. There wasbut one planet in the solar system which boasted such a phenomenon. Theapparent distance of the Sun, judged by its diminished disc, arguedhis judgment to be correct. The fact that they had surged through anatmospheric belt for some length of time before finally meeting withdisaster.     Titan, he said. Hyperion possibly. But probably Titan.     Sparks' gaze, following Greg's upward, contracted in an expression ofdismay.     Dirty cow! You mean that's where we are?     I believe so. There's Saturn, our mother planet, looming above us aslarge as a dinner plate. And the grav-drag here is almost Earth norm.Titan has a 3,000 mile diameter. That, combined with the Saturniantractile constant, would give us a strong pull.     Sparks wailed, But Titan! Great morning, Malcolm, nobody ever comesto Titan! There ain't no mines here, no colonies, no— He stoppedsuddenly, his eyes widening yet farther. And, hey—this place is      dangerous     ! There are—     I know it, said Greg swiftly, quietly. Shut up, Sparks. No usetelling the others. If they don't guess it themselves, what they don'tknow won't alarm them. We've got to do something, though. Get ourselvesorganized into a defensive community. That's the only way—     Ralph Breadon's sharp, dictatorial voice interrupted him. Well,Malcolm, stop soldiering and make yourself useful!     And J. Foster, not to have his authority usurped, supplemented theorder. Yes, Malcolm, let's get going! No time for day-dreaming, myman. We want action!     Sparks said, Maybe you'll get it now, fatty! under his breath, andlooked at Malcolm hopefully. But his companion merely nodded, movedforward toward the others, quietly obedient to the command.     Yes, sir, he said.     Hannigan groaned and followed him.      III     Breadon said, All right, Tommy, dump them here. I have a few words tosay. He glanced about him pompously. Now, folks, naturally we wantto get away from here as soon as possible. Therefore I delegate you,Sparks, to immediately get a message off. An SOS to the nearest spacecruiser.     Hannigan grinned. It was not a pleasant grin. He took his timeanswering. He spat thoughtfully on the ground before him, lifted hishead. He said, A message, huh?     That's what I said.     And what'll I send it with? drawled Sparks. Tom-toms?     Breadon flushed darkly.     I believe the life-skiff was equipped with a radio? And theoreticallyyou are a radio operator?     Finest radio money can buy! interpolated J. Foster Andrews proudly.Put a million credits into the      Carefree     . Best equipment throughout.     Sparks looked from one to another of them, grinned insolently. You'reboth right. I      am     a radio operator, and there      was     a radio. But wecrashed, remember? On account of some dope's sleeve got caught in themaster switch—     That will do! snapped Breadon angrily. He stared at the bandy-leggedlittle redhead. You mean the radio was broken?     It wasn't helped none. The tubes was made out of glass, and glassdon't bounce so good.     Greg Malcolm said thoughtfully, Sparks, can't you fix it?     Well, mebbe. But not in five minutes. Maybe not in five years. I won'tknow till I get going on it.     Breadon frowned.     I'll handle this, Malcolm, he crisped. Again to the radioman, Well,you get to work on it immediately. And as soon as you get it fixed,send out an SOS advising the patrol where we are—     Speaking of which, insinuated Sparks, where are we?     Breadon glared at him wrathfully.     Why—why on one of the satellites of Saturn, of course. Any fool cansee that!     O.Q. But does any fool know which one? Or shall I tell you it's Titan?And when you know that, then what? Titan wasn't named that on accountof it was a pimple. It's a big place. What'll I tell the Patrol?      SOS.Stranded in the middle of we-don't-know-where, somewhere on Titan,maybe.     They'll be hunting for us till we've got whiskers down to ourknees.     Breadon's irate look vanished. He looked stricken. He said, I—I don'tknow. We have a compass—     Once again it was Gregory Malcolm who entered into the conversation. Hehad been toying, almost absentmindedly, with a funnel taken from theskiff's stores. Into this he had poured a small portion of water; hisright forefinger was pressed to the bottom of the tube, closing it. Hesaid, I can answer part of that question now. Enough to cut the searchin half, anyway. We're in the northern hemisphere of the satellite.     Maud Andrews looked at him sharply as if noticing him for the firsttime in her life.     How, she asked, did you know that, Malcolm?  ","Gregory Malcolm is a secretary to J. Foster Andrews, the wealthy leader of the Galactic Metals Corporation. In the control room of Andrews’s space yacht the Carefree, Sparks, the radioman, fails to downplay the seriousness of their situation to Malcolm: the Carefree has been sucked into an unpredictable vortex and the fate of the ship and its occupants is uncertain. 	Malcolm approaches the dining room, where Andrews and members of his family are enjoying breakfast. He is unnoticed by his employers, but takes note of Andrews’s beautiful daughter Crystal and her betrothed Ralph Breadon. Suddenly, Andrews calls Malcolm over to complain about the honey and to enquire about the state of the Galactic market. Malcolm, in virtue of the fact that the vortex has blocked communication to and from the Carefree, is unable to answer. Crystal asks Malcolm if they are in danger, but before he is able to answer the question, Crystal’s older brother Bert enters drunkenly and suggests that they are doomed. Sparks abruptly enters the room and confirms Bert’s drunken suspicion: they have been caught in a gravitation downdraft and must evacuate to a life skiff. On the skiff with members of the Andrews family, Sparks, a cabin-boy, and Breadon, Malcolm navigates above a celestial body and observes the crash of the Carefree. Just as Malcolm surrenders control of the skiff to Breadon, its engines engage and they quickly fall towards the planet. Breadon deftly manipulates the controls, and they land safely. As Malcolm quickly congratulates Breadon on his landing, the latter blames and berates the secretary for the fall. The cabin-boy, however, points out that Breadon’s sleeve was responsible for their descent. Malcolm and Sparks examine the damage to the skiff, and Sparks shares his frustrations about Malcolm’s submissive, secretarial behaviour. Malcolm concludes that they are on a rarely-visited, unpopulated, vast, and dangerous moon of Saturn called Titan. Malcolm resolves not to tell the Andrews, fearing that the information would only make them panic. Meanwhile, the Andrews family are in disarray over how best to remove necessities from the skiff.Breadon delegates to Sparks the role of establishing communication. Sparks, however, responds poorly and reveals that they are on Titan, and that their chances of rescue are dim. "
"Who are the members aboard the life skiff with Malcolm? </s>    Wanderers of the Wolf Moon     By NELSON S. BOND     They were marooned on Titan, their ship wrecked,     the radio smashed. Yet they had to exist, had     to build a new life on a hostile world. And the     man who assumed command was Gregory Malcolm, the     bespectacled secretary—whose only adventures     had come through the pages of a book.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Spring 1944.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Sparks snapped off the switches and followed him to the door of theradio turret. Sparks was a stunted, usually-grinning, little redheadnamed Hannigan. But he wasn't grinning now. He laid an anxious hand onGreg's arm. If I was you, he said, if I was you, Malcolm, I don'tthink I'd say nothing to the boss about this. Not just yet, anyhow.     Greg said, Why not?     Sparks spluttered and fussed and made heavy weather of answering.     Well, for one thing, it ain't important. It would only worry him. Andthen there's the womenfolks, they scare easy. Which of course theyain't no cause to. Atmospherics don't mean nothing. I've rode outworse storms than this—plenty of times. And in worse crates than the      Carefree     .     Greg studied him carefully from behind trim plasta-rimmed spectacles.He drew a deep breath. He said levelly, So it's      that     bad, eh,Sparks?     What bad? I just told you—     I know. Sparks, I'm not a professional spaceman. But I've studiedastrogation as few Earthlubbers have. It's been my hobby for years. AndI think I know what we're up against.     We hit a warp-eddy last night. We've been trapped in a vortex formore than eight hours. Lord only knows how many hundreds of thousandsof miles we've been borne off our course. And now we've blasted into asuper-ionized belt of atmospherics. Your radio signals are blanketed.You can't get signals in or out. We're a deaf-mute speck of metal beingwhirled headlong through space. Isn't that it?     I don't know what— began Sparks hotly. Then he stopped, studied hiscompanion thoughtfully, nodded. O.Q., he confessed, that's it. Butwe ain't licked yet. We got three good men on the bridge. Townsend ...Graves ... Langhorn. They'll pull out of this if anybody can. And theyain't no sense in scaring the Old Man and his family.     I won't tell them, said Greg. I won't tell them unless I have to.But between you and me, what are the odds against us, Sparks?     The radioman shrugged.     Who knows? Vortices are unpredictable. Maybe the damn thing will tossus out on the very spot it picked us up. Maybe it will give us the oldchuckeroo a million miles the other side of Pluto. Maybe it will crackus up on an asteroid or satellite. No way of telling till it happens.     And the controls?     As useless, said Sparks, as a cow in a cyclone.     So?     We sit tight, said Sparks succinctly, and hope.     Malcolm nodded quietly. He took off his spectacles, breathed on them,wiped them, replaced them. He was tall and fair; in his neat, crisplypressed business suit he appeared even slimmer than he was. But therewas no nervousness in his movements. He moved measuredly. Well, hesaid, that appears to be that. I'm going up to the dining dome.     Sparks stared at him querulously.     You're a queer duck, Malcolm. I don't think you've got a nerve in yourbody.     Nerves are a luxury I can't afford, replied Greg. If anythinghappens—and if there's time to do so—let me know. He paused at thedoor. Good luck, he said.     Clear ether! said Sparks mechanically. He stared after the other manwonderingly for a long moment, then went back to his control banks,shaking his head and muttering.  Gregory Malcolm climbed down the Jacob's-ladder and strode brisklythrough the labyrinthine corridors that were the entrails of thespace yacht      Carefree     . He paused once to peer through a      perilens     set into the ship's port plates. It was a weird sight that met hisgaze. Not space, ebony-black and bejewelled with a myriad flamingsplotches of color; not the old, familiar constellations treadingtheir ever-lasting, inexorable paths about the perimeter of Sol'stiny universe, but a shimmering webwork of light, so tortured-violetthat the eyes ached to look upon it. This was the mad typhoon ofspace-atmospherics through which the      Carefree     was now being twisted,topsy-turvy, toward a nameless goal.     He moved on, approaching at last the quartzite-paned observationrotunda which was the dining dome of the ship.     His footsteps slowed as he composed himself to face those within. Ashe hesitated in the dimly-lighted passage, a trick of lights on glassmirrored to him the room beyond. He could see the others while theywere as yet unaware of his presence. Their voices reached him clearly.     J. Foster Andrews, his employer and the employer of the ten thousandor more men and women who worked for Galactic Metals Corporation,dominated the head of the table. He was a plump, impatient littleNapoleon. Opposite him, calm, graceful, serene, tastefully garbed andelaborately coiffured even here in deep space, three weeks from thenearest beauty shop, sat his wife, Enid.     On Andrews' right sat his sister, Maud. Not young, features plain as amud fence, but charming despite her age and homeliness simply becauseof her eyes; puckish, shrewdly intelligent eyes, constantly aglint withsuppressed humor at—guessed Greg—the amusing foibles and frailties ofthose about her.     She gave her breakfast the enthusiastic attention of one too old andshapeless to be concerned with such folderol as calories and dietetics,pausing only from time to time to share smidgeons of food with awatery-eyed scrap of white, curly fluff beside her chair. Her petpoodle, whom she called by the opprobrious title of Cuddles.     On J. Foster's left sat his daughter, Crystal. She it was who causedGregory Malcolm's staid, respectable heart to give a little lurch ashe glimpsed her reflected vision—all gold and crimson and cream—inthe glistening walls. If Crystal was her name, so, too, was crystal herloveliness.     But—Greg shook his head—but she was not for him. She was alreadypledged to the young man seated beside her. Ralph Breadon. He turnedto murmur something to her as Greg watched; Greg saw and admired anddisliked his rangy height, his sturdy, well-knit strength, the richbrownness of his skin, his hair, his eyes.     The sound of his own name startled Greg.     Malcolm! called the man at the head of the table. Malcolm! Now wherein blazes is he, anyhow? he demanded of no one in particular, everyonein general. He spooned a dab of liquid gold from a Limoges preservejar, tongued it suspiciously, frowned. Bitter! he complained.     It's the very      best     Martian honey, said his wife.     Drylands clover, added Crystal.     It's still bitter, said J. Foster petulantly.     His sister sniffed. Nonsense! It's delightful.     I say it's bitter, repeated Andrews sulkily. And lifted his voiceagain.       Malcolm!     Where      are     you?     You called me, sir? said Malcolm, moving into the room. He noddedpolitely to the others. Good morning, Mrs. Andrews ... MissAndrews ... Mr. Breadon....     Oh, sit down! snapped J. Foster. Sit down here and stop bobbing yourhead like a teetotum! Had your breakfast? The honey's no good; it'sbitter. He glared at his sister challengingly. Where have you been,anyway? What kind of secretary are you? Have you been up to the radioturret? How's the market today? Is Galactic up or down?     Malcolm said, I don't know, sir.     Fine! Fine! Andrews rattled on automatically before the wordsregistered. Then he started, his face turning red. Eh? What's that?Don't know! What do you mean, you don't know? I pay you to—     There's no transmission, sir, said Greg quietly.     No trans—nonsense! Of course there's transmission! I put a millioncredits into this ship. Finest space-yacht ever built. Latest equipmentthroughout. Sparks is drunk, that's what you mean! Well, you hop rightup there and—  Maud Andrews put down her fork with a clatter. Oh, for goodness sakes,Jonathan, shut up and give the boy time to explain! He's standingthere with his mouth gaping like a rain-spout, trying to get a word inedgewise! What's the trouble, Gregory? She turned to Greg, as JonathanFoster Andrews wheezed into startled silence.       That?          She glanced at the quartzite dome, beyond which the veil of iridescencewove and cross-wove and shimmered like a pallid aurora.     Greg nodded. Yes, Miss Andrews.     Enid Andrews spoke languidly from the other end of the table.     But what is it, Gregory? A local phenomenon?     You might call it that, said Greg, selecting his words cautiously.It's an ionized field into which we've blasted. It—it—shouldn't staywith us long. But while it persists, our radio will be blanketed out.     Breadon's chestnut head came up suddenly, sharply.     Ionization! That means atmosphere!     Greg said, Yes.     And an atmosphere means a body in space somewhere near— Breadonstopped, bit his lip before the appeal in Malcolm's eyes, tried to passit off easily. Oh, well—a change of scenery, what?     But the moment of alarm in his voice had not passed unnoticed. CrystalAndrews spoke for all of them, her voice preternaturally quiet.     You're hiding something, Malcolm. What is it? Is there—danger?     But Greg didn't have to answer that question. From the doorway a harsh,defiantly strident voice answered for him. The voice of Bert Andrews,Crystal's older brother.     Danger? You're damn right there's danger! What's the matter withyou folks—are you all deaf, dumb and blind? We've been caught in aspace-vortex for hours. Now we're in the H-layer of a planet we can'teven see—and in fifteen minutes or fifteen seconds we may all besmashed as flat as pancakes!     The proclamation brought them out of their chairs. Greg's heart sank;his vain plea, Mr. Andrews— was lost in the medley of Crystal'ssudden gasp, Enid Andrews' short, choking scream, J. Foster's bellowingroar at his only son.     Bert—you're drunk!     Bert weaved precariously from the doorway, laughed in his father's face.     Sure I'm drunk! Why not? If you're smart you'll get drunk, too. Thewhole damn lot of you! He flicked a derisive hand toward Greg. Youtoo, Boy Scout! What were you trying to do—hide the bad news fromthem? Well, it's no use. Everybody might as well know the worst. We'regone gooses ... geeses ... aw, what the hell! Dead ducks! He fellinto a chair, sprawled there laughing mirthlessly with fear riding thetoo-high notes of his laughter.     J. Foster turned to his secretary slowly. His ire had faded; there wasonly deep concern in his voice.     Is he telling the truth, Malcolm?     Greg said soberly, Partly, sir. He's overstating the danger—butthere is danger. We are caught in a space-vortex, and as Mr.Breadon realized, the presence of these ionics means we're in theHeaviside-layer of some heavenly body. But we may not crack up.     Maud Andrews glanced at him shrewdly.     Is there anything we can do?     Not a thing. The officers on the bridge are doing everything possible.     In that case, said the older woman, we might as well finish ourbreakfast. Here, Cuddles! Come to momsy! She sat down again. Greglooked at her admiringly. Ralph Breadon stroked his brown jaw. He said,The life-skiffs?     A last resort, said Greg. Sparks promised he'd let me know if itwere necessary. We'll hope it's not—     But it was a vain hope, vainly spoken in the last, vain moment. Foreven as he phrased the hopeful words, came the sound of swift, racingfootsteps up the corridor. Into the dining dome burst Hannigan, eyeshot with excitement. And his cry dispelled Greg's final hopes forsafety.     Everybody—the Number Four life-skiff—      quick     ! We've been caught in agrav-drag and we're going to crash!      II     Those next hectic moments were never afterward very clear in GregMalcolm's memory. He had a confused recollection of hearing Sparks'warning punctuated by a loud, shrill scream which he vaguely identifiedas emanating from Mrs. Andrews' throat ... he was conscious of feeling,suddenly, beneath his feet the sickening, quickening lurch of a shipout of control, gripped by gravitational forces beyond its power toallay ... he recalled his own voice dinning in his ears as, incredibly,with Sparks, he took command of the hasty flight from the dining domedown the corridor to the aft ramp, up the ramp, across girdered beamsin the super-structure to the small, independently motored rocket-skiffcradled there.     He was aware, too, of strangely disconnected incidents happening aroundhim, he being a part of them but seeming to be only a disinterestedspectator to their strangeness. Of his forcing Maud Andrews towardthe door of the dome ... of her pushing back against him with all theweight of her body ... of her irate voice, Cuddles! I forgot him!Then the shrill excited yapping of the poodle cradled against her asthey charged on down the corridor.     J. Foster waddling beside him, tugging at his arm, panting, Theofficers? and his own unfelt assurance. They can take care ofthemselves. It's a general 'bandon ship. Enid Andrews stumbling overthe hem of a filmy peignoir ... himself bending to lift her boldly andbodily, sweating palms feeling the warm animal heat of her excitedbody hot beneath them ... Crystal Andrews stopping suddenly, crying,'Tina! ... and Hannigan's reply, Your maid? I woke her. She's in thelife-skiff. Bert Andrews stopping suddenly, being sick in the middleof the corridor, his drunkenness losing itself in the thick, surenausea of the ever-increasing unsteadiness beneath their feet.     Then the life-skiff, the clang of metal as Hannigan slammed theport behind the last of them, the fumbling for a lock-stud, thequick, grateful pant of the miniature hypos, and a weird feeling ofweightlessness, rushingness, hurtlingness as his eardrums throbbed andhis mouth tasted brassy and bloody with the fierce velocity of theirescape.     Sense and meaning returned only when all this ended. As one waking froma nightmare dream, Greg Malcolm returned to a world he could recognize.A tiny world, encased within the walls of a forty-foot life-skiff. Aworld peopled too scantily. Andrews, his wife and sister, his son anddaughter; 'Tina Laney, the maid; Breadon, Hannigan, young Tommy O'Doul,the cabin-boy (though where he had come from, or when, Greg did notknow). And himself. In a life-skiff. In space.     Somewhere in space. He looked through the      perilens     . What he saw thenhe might better never have seen. For that shimmering pink-ochre veilhad wisped away, now, and in the clean, cold, bitter-clear light of adistant sun he watched the death-dive of the yacht      Carefree     .     Like a vast silver top, spinning heedlessly, wildly, it streaked towarda mottled gray and green, brown and dun, hard and crushing-brutalterrain below. Still at its helm stood someone, for even in that lastdreadful moment burst from its nose-jets a ruddy mushroom of flame thattried to, but could not, brake the dizzy fall.     For an instant Greg's eyes, stingingly blinded and wet, thought theyglimpsed a wee black mote dancing from the bowels of the      Carefree     ; amote that might be another skiff like their own. But he could not besure, and then the      Carefree     was accelerating with such violence andspeed that the eye could see it only as a flaming silver lance againstthe ugly earth-carcase beneath, and then it struck and a carmine bud offlame burst and flowered for an instant, and that was all....     And Greg Malcolm turned from the      perilens     , shaken.     Hannigan said, It's over? and Greg nodded.     Hannigan said, The other skiffs? Did they break free, or were theycaught?     I don't know. I couldn't see for sure.     You must have seen. Are we the only ones?     I couldn't see for sure. Maybe. Maybe not.     Then a body scrambled forward, pressing through the tightness of otherhuddled bodies, and there was a hand upon his elbow. I'll take overnow, Malcolm.  It was Ralph Breadon. Gregory looked at him slowly, uncomprehendinglyat first. His hand was reluctant to leave the guiding-gear of thesmall ship which was, now, all that remained to them of civilizationand civilization's wondrous accomplishments. He had not realized untilthis moment that for a while ... for a short, eager, pulse-quickeningwhile ... on his alertness, in his hands, had depended the destiniesof ten men and women. But he knew, suddenly and completely, that itwas for this single moment his whole lifetime had waited. It was forthis brief moment of command that some intuition, some instinct greaterthan knowledge, had prepared him. This was why he, an Earthlubber, hadstudied astrogation, made a hobby of the empire of the stars. That hemight be fitted to command when all others failed. And now—     And now the moment was past, and he was once again Gregory Malcolm,mild, lean, pale, bespectacled secretary to J. Foster Andrews. And theman at his side was Ralph Breadon, socialite and gentleman sportsman,trained pilot. And in Malcolm the habit of obedience was strong....     Very well, sir, he said. And he turned over the controls.     What happened then was unfortunate. It might just as well have happenedto Malcolm, though afterward no one could ever say with certainty.However that was, either by carelessness or malfortune or inefficiency,once-thwarted disaster struck again at the little party on thelife-skiff. At the instant Breadon's hand seized the controls the skiffjerked suddenly as though struck with a ponderous fist, its throbbingmotors choked and snarled in a high, rising crescendo of torment thatlost itself in supersonic heights, and the ship that had been driftingeasily and under control to the planet beneath now dipped viciously.     The misfortune was that too many huddled in the tiny space understoodthe operation of the life-skiff, and what must be done instantly. Andthat neither pilot was as yet in control of the ship. Breadon's handleaped for the Dixie rod, so, too, did Malcolm's—and across both theirbodies came the arm of Sparks Hannigan, searching the controls.     In the scramble someone's sleeve brushed the banks of control-keys. Themotors, killed, soughed into silence. The ship rocked into a spin. Gregcried out, his voice a strange harshness in his ears; Breadon cursed;one of the women bleated fearfully.     Then Breadon, still cursing, fought all hands from the controls but hisown. And the man was not without courage. For all could see plainly,in the illumined      perilens     , how near to swift death that moment ofuncertainty had led them. The skiff, which an instant before had beenhigh in the stratosphere of this unknown planet ... or satelliteor whatever it might be ... was now flashing toward hard ground atlightning speed.  Only a miracle, Greg knew, could save them now. An impulse spun hishead, he looked at Crystal Andrews. There was no fear in her eyes. Justa hotness and an inexplicable anger. Beside her was the other girl, themaid, 'Tina; she was frankly afraid. Her teeth were clenched in hernether lip, and her eyes were wide and anxious, but she did not cry out.     Only a miracle could save them now. But Breadon's hands performedthat miracle; his quick, nerveless, trained hands. A stud here ...a lever there ... a swift wrenching toss of the shoulders. His facetwisted back over his shoulder, and his straining lips pulled tautand bloodless away from his teeth. Hold tight, folks! We're going tobounce—     Then they struck!     But they struck glancingly, as Breadon had hoped, and planned for,and gambled on. They struck and bounced. The frail craft shiveredand groaned in metal agony, jarred across harsh soil, bounced again,settled, nosed over and rocked to a standstill. Somewhere forwardsomething snapped with a shrill, high      ping!     of stress; somewhere aftwas the metallic flap-clanging of broken gear trailing behind them. Butthey were safe.     Breath, held so long that he could not remember its inhalation, escapedGreg's lungs in a long sigh. Nice work, Mr. Breadon! he cried. Oh,nice work!     But surprisingly, savagely, Breadon turned on him.     It would have been      better     work, Malcolm, if you'd kept your damnedhands off the controls! Now see what you've done? Smashed up our skiff!Our only—     He didn't do it! piped the shrill voice of Tommy O'Doul. You done ityourself, Mr. Breadon. Your sleeve. It caught the switch.     Quiet! Breadon, cheeks flushed, reached out smartly, stilledthe youngster's defense with a swift, ungentle slap. And you,Malcolm—after this, do as you're told, and don't try to assumeresponsibilities too great for you. All right, everybody. Let's get outand see how bad the damage is.     Instinctively Greg had surged a half step forward as Breadon silencedthe cabin boy. Now old habit and common-sense halted him. He'soverwrought, he reasoned. We're all excited and on edge. We've been toBedlam. Our nerves are shot. In a little while we'll all be back tonormal.     He said quietly, Very well, Mr. Breadon. And he climbed from thebroken skiff.  Hannigan said, Looks bad, don't it?     Very, said Malcolm. He fingered a shard of loose metal flapping likea fin from the stern of the skiff. Not hopeless, though. There shouldbe an acetylene torch in the tool locker. With that—     You ought to of poked him, said Hannigan.     What? Oh, you mean—?     Yeah. The kid was right, you know. He done it.     His sleeve, you mean. Well, it was an accident, said Greg. It couldhave happened to anyone. And he made a good landing. Consideringeverything. Anyhow— Again he was Gregory Malcolm, serious-faced,efficient secretary. Anyhow, we have been thrust into an extremelyprecarious circumstance. It would be silly to take umbrage at a man'snervous anger. We must have no quarreling, no bickering—     Umbrage! snorted Sparks. Bickering! They're big words. I ain't sureI know what they mean. I ain't exactly sure they mean      anything     . Heglanced at Greg oddly. You're a queer jasper, Malcolm. Back thereon the ship, I figured you for a sort of a stuffed-shirt. Yes-man tothe boss. And then in the show-down, you come through like a moviehero—for a little while. Then you let that Breadon guy give you thespur without a squawk—     Malcolm adjusted his plasta-rimmed spectacles. He said, almoststubbornly, Our situation is grave. There must be no bickering.     Bickering your Aunt Jenny! What do you call that?     Sparks jerked a contemptuous thumb toward the group from which theywere separated. Upon disembarking, only Greg and Sparks had moved tomake a careful examination of their damaged craft. The others, moreor less under the direction of Breadon, were making gestures towardremoving certain necessaries from the skiff. Their efforts, slight anduncertain as they were, had already embroiled them in argument.     The gist of their argument, so far as Greg Malcolm could determine, wasthat everyone wanted something to be done, but no two could agree asto just what that something was, and no one seemed to have any burstingdesire to participate in actual physical labor.     J. Foster Andrews, all traces of his former panic and confusion fled,was planted firmly, Napoleonically, some few yards from the open portof the life-skiff, barking impatient orders at little Tommy O'Doulwho—as Greg watched—stumbled from the port bearing a huge armload ofedibles.     'Tina, the maid, was in a frenzy of motion, trying to administer to thecomplaints and demands of Mrs. Andrews (whose immaculate hair-do hadsuffered in the frenetic minutes of their flight) and Crystal Andrews(who knew perfectly well there were sweaters in the life-skiff) andMiss Maud (who wanted a can of prepared dog-food and a can-openerimmediately, and look at poor Cuddles, momsy's 'ittle pet was      so     hungry)!     Bert Andrews was sulkily insisting that it was nonsense to leave thewarmth and security of the skiff anyway, and he wished he had a drink,while the harassed, self-appointed commander of the refugee corps wasshouting at whomever happened, at any given moment, to capture hisdivided and completely frantic attention. His orders were masterpiecesof confusion, developing around one premise that the castaway crewshould immediately set up a camp. Where, how, or with what nonexistentequipment, Breadon did not venture to say.     You see what I mean? demanded Sparks disgustedly.  Greg Malcolm saw. He also saw other things. That their landing-spot,while excellent for its purpose, was not by any manner of means anideal campsite. It was a small, flat basin of sandy soil, rimmed byshallow mountains. His gaze sought these hills, looked approvingly ontheir greenness, upon the multitude of dark pock-marks dotting them.These caves, were they not the habitations of potential enemies, mightwell become the sanctuaries of spacewrecked men.     He saw, also, a thin ribbon of silver sheering the face of the northernhills. His gaze, rising still skyward, saw other things—     He nodded. He knew, now, where they were. Or approximately. There wasbut one planet in the solar system which boasted such a phenomenon. Theapparent distance of the Sun, judged by its diminished disc, arguedhis judgment to be correct. The fact that they had surged through anatmospheric belt for some length of time before finally meeting withdisaster.     Titan, he said. Hyperion possibly. But probably Titan.     Sparks' gaze, following Greg's upward, contracted in an expression ofdismay.     Dirty cow! You mean that's where we are?     I believe so. There's Saturn, our mother planet, looming above us aslarge as a dinner plate. And the grav-drag here is almost Earth norm.Titan has a 3,000 mile diameter. That, combined with the Saturniantractile constant, would give us a strong pull.     Sparks wailed, But Titan! Great morning, Malcolm, nobody ever comesto Titan! There ain't no mines here, no colonies, no— He stoppedsuddenly, his eyes widening yet farther. And, hey—this place is      dangerous     ! There are—     I know it, said Greg swiftly, quietly. Shut up, Sparks. No usetelling the others. If they don't guess it themselves, what they don'tknow won't alarm them. We've got to do something, though. Get ourselvesorganized into a defensive community. That's the only way—     Ralph Breadon's sharp, dictatorial voice interrupted him. Well,Malcolm, stop soldiering and make yourself useful!     And J. Foster, not to have his authority usurped, supplemented theorder. Yes, Malcolm, let's get going! No time for day-dreaming, myman. We want action!     Sparks said, Maybe you'll get it now, fatty! under his breath, andlooked at Malcolm hopefully. But his companion merely nodded, movedforward toward the others, quietly obedient to the command.     Yes, sir, he said.     Hannigan groaned and followed him.      III     Breadon said, All right, Tommy, dump them here. I have a few words tosay. He glanced about him pompously. Now, folks, naturally we wantto get away from here as soon as possible. Therefore I delegate you,Sparks, to immediately get a message off. An SOS to the nearest spacecruiser.     Hannigan grinned. It was not a pleasant grin. He took his timeanswering. He spat thoughtfully on the ground before him, lifted hishead. He said, A message, huh?     That's what I said.     And what'll I send it with? drawled Sparks. Tom-toms?     Breadon flushed darkly.     I believe the life-skiff was equipped with a radio? And theoreticallyyou are a radio operator?     Finest radio money can buy! interpolated J. Foster Andrews proudly.Put a million credits into the      Carefree     . Best equipment throughout.     Sparks looked from one to another of them, grinned insolently. You'reboth right. I      am     a radio operator, and there      was     a radio. But wecrashed, remember? On account of some dope's sleeve got caught in themaster switch—     That will do! snapped Breadon angrily. He stared at the bandy-leggedlittle redhead. You mean the radio was broken?     It wasn't helped none. The tubes was made out of glass, and glassdon't bounce so good.     Greg Malcolm said thoughtfully, Sparks, can't you fix it?     Well, mebbe. But not in five minutes. Maybe not in five years. I won'tknow till I get going on it.     Breadon frowned.     I'll handle this, Malcolm, he crisped. Again to the radioman, Well,you get to work on it immediately. And as soon as you get it fixed,send out an SOS advising the patrol where we are—     Speaking of which, insinuated Sparks, where are we?     Breadon glared at him wrathfully.     Why—why on one of the satellites of Saturn, of course. Any fool cansee that!     O.Q. But does any fool know which one? Or shall I tell you it's Titan?And when you know that, then what? Titan wasn't named that on accountof it was a pimple. It's a big place. What'll I tell the Patrol?      SOS.Stranded in the middle of we-don't-know-where, somewhere on Titan,maybe.     They'll be hunting for us till we've got whiskers down to ourknees.     Breadon's irate look vanished. He looked stricken. He said, I—I don'tknow. We have a compass—     Once again it was Gregory Malcolm who entered into the conversation. Hehad been toying, almost absentmindedly, with a funnel taken from theskiff's stores. Into this he had poured a small portion of water; hisright forefinger was pressed to the bottom of the tube, closing it. Hesaid, I can answer part of that question now. Enough to cut the searchin half, anyway. We're in the northern hemisphere of the satellite.     Maud Andrews looked at him sharply as if noticing him for the firsttime in her life.     How, she asked, did you know that, Malcolm?  ","On life skiff number four, the skiff onto which Gregory Malcolm had evacuated were himself, his employers J. Foster Andrews, the head of the Galactic Metals Corporations, and his family: Andrews’s tall and well-styled wife Enid, his plain-featured, out of shape but beautiful-eyed sister Maud, Maud’s poodle Cuddles, Andrews’s drunk son Bert, Andrews’s beautiful daughter Crystal, and the man to whom Crystal was promised, Ralph Breadon. Malcolm describes Ralph as tall and strong-knit, with tanned skin. Also aboard the skiff were the maid of the Andrews family, ‘Tina Laney, a cabin boy named Tommy O’Doul, and the radio engineer of the Carefree named Hannigan, who is also called Sparks. "
"What is the relationship between Malcolm and Breadon? </s>    Wanderers of the Wolf Moon     By NELSON S. BOND     They were marooned on Titan, their ship wrecked,     the radio smashed. Yet they had to exist, had     to build a new life on a hostile world. And the     man who assumed command was Gregory Malcolm, the     bespectacled secretary—whose only adventures     had come through the pages of a book.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Spring 1944.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Sparks snapped off the switches and followed him to the door of theradio turret. Sparks was a stunted, usually-grinning, little redheadnamed Hannigan. But he wasn't grinning now. He laid an anxious hand onGreg's arm. If I was you, he said, if I was you, Malcolm, I don'tthink I'd say nothing to the boss about this. Not just yet, anyhow.     Greg said, Why not?     Sparks spluttered and fussed and made heavy weather of answering.     Well, for one thing, it ain't important. It would only worry him. Andthen there's the womenfolks, they scare easy. Which of course theyain't no cause to. Atmospherics don't mean nothing. I've rode outworse storms than this—plenty of times. And in worse crates than the      Carefree     .     Greg studied him carefully from behind trim plasta-rimmed spectacles.He drew a deep breath. He said levelly, So it's      that     bad, eh,Sparks?     What bad? I just told you—     I know. Sparks, I'm not a professional spaceman. But I've studiedastrogation as few Earthlubbers have. It's been my hobby for years. AndI think I know what we're up against.     We hit a warp-eddy last night. We've been trapped in a vortex formore than eight hours. Lord only knows how many hundreds of thousandsof miles we've been borne off our course. And now we've blasted into asuper-ionized belt of atmospherics. Your radio signals are blanketed.You can't get signals in or out. We're a deaf-mute speck of metal beingwhirled headlong through space. Isn't that it?     I don't know what— began Sparks hotly. Then he stopped, studied hiscompanion thoughtfully, nodded. O.Q., he confessed, that's it. Butwe ain't licked yet. We got three good men on the bridge. Townsend ...Graves ... Langhorn. They'll pull out of this if anybody can. And theyain't no sense in scaring the Old Man and his family.     I won't tell them, said Greg. I won't tell them unless I have to.But between you and me, what are the odds against us, Sparks?     The radioman shrugged.     Who knows? Vortices are unpredictable. Maybe the damn thing will tossus out on the very spot it picked us up. Maybe it will give us the oldchuckeroo a million miles the other side of Pluto. Maybe it will crackus up on an asteroid or satellite. No way of telling till it happens.     And the controls?     As useless, said Sparks, as a cow in a cyclone.     So?     We sit tight, said Sparks succinctly, and hope.     Malcolm nodded quietly. He took off his spectacles, breathed on them,wiped them, replaced them. He was tall and fair; in his neat, crisplypressed business suit he appeared even slimmer than he was. But therewas no nervousness in his movements. He moved measuredly. Well, hesaid, that appears to be that. I'm going up to the dining dome.     Sparks stared at him querulously.     You're a queer duck, Malcolm. I don't think you've got a nerve in yourbody.     Nerves are a luxury I can't afford, replied Greg. If anythinghappens—and if there's time to do so—let me know. He paused at thedoor. Good luck, he said.     Clear ether! said Sparks mechanically. He stared after the other manwonderingly for a long moment, then went back to his control banks,shaking his head and muttering.  Gregory Malcolm climbed down the Jacob's-ladder and strode brisklythrough the labyrinthine corridors that were the entrails of thespace yacht      Carefree     . He paused once to peer through a      perilens     set into the ship's port plates. It was a weird sight that met hisgaze. Not space, ebony-black and bejewelled with a myriad flamingsplotches of color; not the old, familiar constellations treadingtheir ever-lasting, inexorable paths about the perimeter of Sol'stiny universe, but a shimmering webwork of light, so tortured-violetthat the eyes ached to look upon it. This was the mad typhoon ofspace-atmospherics through which the      Carefree     was now being twisted,topsy-turvy, toward a nameless goal.     He moved on, approaching at last the quartzite-paned observationrotunda which was the dining dome of the ship.     His footsteps slowed as he composed himself to face those within. Ashe hesitated in the dimly-lighted passage, a trick of lights on glassmirrored to him the room beyond. He could see the others while theywere as yet unaware of his presence. Their voices reached him clearly.     J. Foster Andrews, his employer and the employer of the ten thousandor more men and women who worked for Galactic Metals Corporation,dominated the head of the table. He was a plump, impatient littleNapoleon. Opposite him, calm, graceful, serene, tastefully garbed andelaborately coiffured even here in deep space, three weeks from thenearest beauty shop, sat his wife, Enid.     On Andrews' right sat his sister, Maud. Not young, features plain as amud fence, but charming despite her age and homeliness simply becauseof her eyes; puckish, shrewdly intelligent eyes, constantly aglint withsuppressed humor at—guessed Greg—the amusing foibles and frailties ofthose about her.     She gave her breakfast the enthusiastic attention of one too old andshapeless to be concerned with such folderol as calories and dietetics,pausing only from time to time to share smidgeons of food with awatery-eyed scrap of white, curly fluff beside her chair. Her petpoodle, whom she called by the opprobrious title of Cuddles.     On J. Foster's left sat his daughter, Crystal. She it was who causedGregory Malcolm's staid, respectable heart to give a little lurch ashe glimpsed her reflected vision—all gold and crimson and cream—inthe glistening walls. If Crystal was her name, so, too, was crystal herloveliness.     But—Greg shook his head—but she was not for him. She was alreadypledged to the young man seated beside her. Ralph Breadon. He turnedto murmur something to her as Greg watched; Greg saw and admired anddisliked his rangy height, his sturdy, well-knit strength, the richbrownness of his skin, his hair, his eyes.     The sound of his own name startled Greg.     Malcolm! called the man at the head of the table. Malcolm! Now wherein blazes is he, anyhow? he demanded of no one in particular, everyonein general. He spooned a dab of liquid gold from a Limoges preservejar, tongued it suspiciously, frowned. Bitter! he complained.     It's the very      best     Martian honey, said his wife.     Drylands clover, added Crystal.     It's still bitter, said J. Foster petulantly.     His sister sniffed. Nonsense! It's delightful.     I say it's bitter, repeated Andrews sulkily. And lifted his voiceagain.       Malcolm!     Where      are     you?     You called me, sir? said Malcolm, moving into the room. He noddedpolitely to the others. Good morning, Mrs. Andrews ... MissAndrews ... Mr. Breadon....     Oh, sit down! snapped J. Foster. Sit down here and stop bobbing yourhead like a teetotum! Had your breakfast? The honey's no good; it'sbitter. He glared at his sister challengingly. Where have you been,anyway? What kind of secretary are you? Have you been up to the radioturret? How's the market today? Is Galactic up or down?     Malcolm said, I don't know, sir.     Fine! Fine! Andrews rattled on automatically before the wordsregistered. Then he started, his face turning red. Eh? What's that?Don't know! What do you mean, you don't know? I pay you to—     There's no transmission, sir, said Greg quietly.     No trans—nonsense! Of course there's transmission! I put a millioncredits into this ship. Finest space-yacht ever built. Latest equipmentthroughout. Sparks is drunk, that's what you mean! Well, you hop rightup there and—  Maud Andrews put down her fork with a clatter. Oh, for goodness sakes,Jonathan, shut up and give the boy time to explain! He's standingthere with his mouth gaping like a rain-spout, trying to get a word inedgewise! What's the trouble, Gregory? She turned to Greg, as JonathanFoster Andrews wheezed into startled silence.       That?          She glanced at the quartzite dome, beyond which the veil of iridescencewove and cross-wove and shimmered like a pallid aurora.     Greg nodded. Yes, Miss Andrews.     Enid Andrews spoke languidly from the other end of the table.     But what is it, Gregory? A local phenomenon?     You might call it that, said Greg, selecting his words cautiously.It's an ionized field into which we've blasted. It—it—shouldn't staywith us long. But while it persists, our radio will be blanketed out.     Breadon's chestnut head came up suddenly, sharply.     Ionization! That means atmosphere!     Greg said, Yes.     And an atmosphere means a body in space somewhere near— Breadonstopped, bit his lip before the appeal in Malcolm's eyes, tried to passit off easily. Oh, well—a change of scenery, what?     But the moment of alarm in his voice had not passed unnoticed. CrystalAndrews spoke for all of them, her voice preternaturally quiet.     You're hiding something, Malcolm. What is it? Is there—danger?     But Greg didn't have to answer that question. From the doorway a harsh,defiantly strident voice answered for him. The voice of Bert Andrews,Crystal's older brother.     Danger? You're damn right there's danger! What's the matter withyou folks—are you all deaf, dumb and blind? We've been caught in aspace-vortex for hours. Now we're in the H-layer of a planet we can'teven see—and in fifteen minutes or fifteen seconds we may all besmashed as flat as pancakes!     The proclamation brought them out of their chairs. Greg's heart sank;his vain plea, Mr. Andrews— was lost in the medley of Crystal'ssudden gasp, Enid Andrews' short, choking scream, J. Foster's bellowingroar at his only son.     Bert—you're drunk!     Bert weaved precariously from the doorway, laughed in his father's face.     Sure I'm drunk! Why not? If you're smart you'll get drunk, too. Thewhole damn lot of you! He flicked a derisive hand toward Greg. Youtoo, Boy Scout! What were you trying to do—hide the bad news fromthem? Well, it's no use. Everybody might as well know the worst. We'regone gooses ... geeses ... aw, what the hell! Dead ducks! He fellinto a chair, sprawled there laughing mirthlessly with fear riding thetoo-high notes of his laughter.     J. Foster turned to his secretary slowly. His ire had faded; there wasonly deep concern in his voice.     Is he telling the truth, Malcolm?     Greg said soberly, Partly, sir. He's overstating the danger—butthere is danger. We are caught in a space-vortex, and as Mr.Breadon realized, the presence of these ionics means we're in theHeaviside-layer of some heavenly body. But we may not crack up.     Maud Andrews glanced at him shrewdly.     Is there anything we can do?     Not a thing. The officers on the bridge are doing everything possible.     In that case, said the older woman, we might as well finish ourbreakfast. Here, Cuddles! Come to momsy! She sat down again. Greglooked at her admiringly. Ralph Breadon stroked his brown jaw. He said,The life-skiffs?     A last resort, said Greg. Sparks promised he'd let me know if itwere necessary. We'll hope it's not—     But it was a vain hope, vainly spoken in the last, vain moment. Foreven as he phrased the hopeful words, came the sound of swift, racingfootsteps up the corridor. Into the dining dome burst Hannigan, eyeshot with excitement. And his cry dispelled Greg's final hopes forsafety.     Everybody—the Number Four life-skiff—      quick     ! We've been caught in agrav-drag and we're going to crash!      II     Those next hectic moments were never afterward very clear in GregMalcolm's memory. He had a confused recollection of hearing Sparks'warning punctuated by a loud, shrill scream which he vaguely identifiedas emanating from Mrs. Andrews' throat ... he was conscious of feeling,suddenly, beneath his feet the sickening, quickening lurch of a shipout of control, gripped by gravitational forces beyond its power toallay ... he recalled his own voice dinning in his ears as, incredibly,with Sparks, he took command of the hasty flight from the dining domedown the corridor to the aft ramp, up the ramp, across girdered beamsin the super-structure to the small, independently motored rocket-skiffcradled there.     He was aware, too, of strangely disconnected incidents happening aroundhim, he being a part of them but seeming to be only a disinterestedspectator to their strangeness. Of his forcing Maud Andrews towardthe door of the dome ... of her pushing back against him with all theweight of her body ... of her irate voice, Cuddles! I forgot him!Then the shrill excited yapping of the poodle cradled against her asthey charged on down the corridor.     J. Foster waddling beside him, tugging at his arm, panting, Theofficers? and his own unfelt assurance. They can take care ofthemselves. It's a general 'bandon ship. Enid Andrews stumbling overthe hem of a filmy peignoir ... himself bending to lift her boldly andbodily, sweating palms feeling the warm animal heat of her excitedbody hot beneath them ... Crystal Andrews stopping suddenly, crying,'Tina! ... and Hannigan's reply, Your maid? I woke her. She's in thelife-skiff. Bert Andrews stopping suddenly, being sick in the middleof the corridor, his drunkenness losing itself in the thick, surenausea of the ever-increasing unsteadiness beneath their feet.     Then the life-skiff, the clang of metal as Hannigan slammed theport behind the last of them, the fumbling for a lock-stud, thequick, grateful pant of the miniature hypos, and a weird feeling ofweightlessness, rushingness, hurtlingness as his eardrums throbbed andhis mouth tasted brassy and bloody with the fierce velocity of theirescape.     Sense and meaning returned only when all this ended. As one waking froma nightmare dream, Greg Malcolm returned to a world he could recognize.A tiny world, encased within the walls of a forty-foot life-skiff. Aworld peopled too scantily. Andrews, his wife and sister, his son anddaughter; 'Tina Laney, the maid; Breadon, Hannigan, young Tommy O'Doul,the cabin-boy (though where he had come from, or when, Greg did notknow). And himself. In a life-skiff. In space.     Somewhere in space. He looked through the      perilens     . What he saw thenhe might better never have seen. For that shimmering pink-ochre veilhad wisped away, now, and in the clean, cold, bitter-clear light of adistant sun he watched the death-dive of the yacht      Carefree     .     Like a vast silver top, spinning heedlessly, wildly, it streaked towarda mottled gray and green, brown and dun, hard and crushing-brutalterrain below. Still at its helm stood someone, for even in that lastdreadful moment burst from its nose-jets a ruddy mushroom of flame thattried to, but could not, brake the dizzy fall.     For an instant Greg's eyes, stingingly blinded and wet, thought theyglimpsed a wee black mote dancing from the bowels of the      Carefree     ; amote that might be another skiff like their own. But he could not besure, and then the      Carefree     was accelerating with such violence andspeed that the eye could see it only as a flaming silver lance againstthe ugly earth-carcase beneath, and then it struck and a carmine bud offlame burst and flowered for an instant, and that was all....     And Greg Malcolm turned from the      perilens     , shaken.     Hannigan said, It's over? and Greg nodded.     Hannigan said, The other skiffs? Did they break free, or were theycaught?     I don't know. I couldn't see for sure.     You must have seen. Are we the only ones?     I couldn't see for sure. Maybe. Maybe not.     Then a body scrambled forward, pressing through the tightness of otherhuddled bodies, and there was a hand upon his elbow. I'll take overnow, Malcolm.  It was Ralph Breadon. Gregory looked at him slowly, uncomprehendinglyat first. His hand was reluctant to leave the guiding-gear of thesmall ship which was, now, all that remained to them of civilizationand civilization's wondrous accomplishments. He had not realized untilthis moment that for a while ... for a short, eager, pulse-quickeningwhile ... on his alertness, in his hands, had depended the destiniesof ten men and women. But he knew, suddenly and completely, that itwas for this single moment his whole lifetime had waited. It was forthis brief moment of command that some intuition, some instinct greaterthan knowledge, had prepared him. This was why he, an Earthlubber, hadstudied astrogation, made a hobby of the empire of the stars. That hemight be fitted to command when all others failed. And now—     And now the moment was past, and he was once again Gregory Malcolm,mild, lean, pale, bespectacled secretary to J. Foster Andrews. And theman at his side was Ralph Breadon, socialite and gentleman sportsman,trained pilot. And in Malcolm the habit of obedience was strong....     Very well, sir, he said. And he turned over the controls.     What happened then was unfortunate. It might just as well have happenedto Malcolm, though afterward no one could ever say with certainty.However that was, either by carelessness or malfortune or inefficiency,once-thwarted disaster struck again at the little party on thelife-skiff. At the instant Breadon's hand seized the controls the skiffjerked suddenly as though struck with a ponderous fist, its throbbingmotors choked and snarled in a high, rising crescendo of torment thatlost itself in supersonic heights, and the ship that had been driftingeasily and under control to the planet beneath now dipped viciously.     The misfortune was that too many huddled in the tiny space understoodthe operation of the life-skiff, and what must be done instantly. Andthat neither pilot was as yet in control of the ship. Breadon's handleaped for the Dixie rod, so, too, did Malcolm's—and across both theirbodies came the arm of Sparks Hannigan, searching the controls.     In the scramble someone's sleeve brushed the banks of control-keys. Themotors, killed, soughed into silence. The ship rocked into a spin. Gregcried out, his voice a strange harshness in his ears; Breadon cursed;one of the women bleated fearfully.     Then Breadon, still cursing, fought all hands from the controls but hisown. And the man was not without courage. For all could see plainly,in the illumined      perilens     , how near to swift death that moment ofuncertainty had led them. The skiff, which an instant before had beenhigh in the stratosphere of this unknown planet ... or satelliteor whatever it might be ... was now flashing toward hard ground atlightning speed.  Only a miracle, Greg knew, could save them now. An impulse spun hishead, he looked at Crystal Andrews. There was no fear in her eyes. Justa hotness and an inexplicable anger. Beside her was the other girl, themaid, 'Tina; she was frankly afraid. Her teeth were clenched in hernether lip, and her eyes were wide and anxious, but she did not cry out.     Only a miracle could save them now. But Breadon's hands performedthat miracle; his quick, nerveless, trained hands. A stud here ...a lever there ... a swift wrenching toss of the shoulders. His facetwisted back over his shoulder, and his straining lips pulled tautand bloodless away from his teeth. Hold tight, folks! We're going tobounce—     Then they struck!     But they struck glancingly, as Breadon had hoped, and planned for,and gambled on. They struck and bounced. The frail craft shiveredand groaned in metal agony, jarred across harsh soil, bounced again,settled, nosed over and rocked to a standstill. Somewhere forwardsomething snapped with a shrill, high      ping!     of stress; somewhere aftwas the metallic flap-clanging of broken gear trailing behind them. Butthey were safe.     Breath, held so long that he could not remember its inhalation, escapedGreg's lungs in a long sigh. Nice work, Mr. Breadon! he cried. Oh,nice work!     But surprisingly, savagely, Breadon turned on him.     It would have been      better     work, Malcolm, if you'd kept your damnedhands off the controls! Now see what you've done? Smashed up our skiff!Our only—     He didn't do it! piped the shrill voice of Tommy O'Doul. You done ityourself, Mr. Breadon. Your sleeve. It caught the switch.     Quiet! Breadon, cheeks flushed, reached out smartly, stilledthe youngster's defense with a swift, ungentle slap. And you,Malcolm—after this, do as you're told, and don't try to assumeresponsibilities too great for you. All right, everybody. Let's get outand see how bad the damage is.     Instinctively Greg had surged a half step forward as Breadon silencedthe cabin boy. Now old habit and common-sense halted him. He'soverwrought, he reasoned. We're all excited and on edge. We've been toBedlam. Our nerves are shot. In a little while we'll all be back tonormal.     He said quietly, Very well, Mr. Breadon. And he climbed from thebroken skiff.  Hannigan said, Looks bad, don't it?     Very, said Malcolm. He fingered a shard of loose metal flapping likea fin from the stern of the skiff. Not hopeless, though. There shouldbe an acetylene torch in the tool locker. With that—     You ought to of poked him, said Hannigan.     What? Oh, you mean—?     Yeah. The kid was right, you know. He done it.     His sleeve, you mean. Well, it was an accident, said Greg. It couldhave happened to anyone. And he made a good landing. Consideringeverything. Anyhow— Again he was Gregory Malcolm, serious-faced,efficient secretary. Anyhow, we have been thrust into an extremelyprecarious circumstance. It would be silly to take umbrage at a man'snervous anger. We must have no quarreling, no bickering—     Umbrage! snorted Sparks. Bickering! They're big words. I ain't sureI know what they mean. I ain't exactly sure they mean      anything     . Heglanced at Greg oddly. You're a queer jasper, Malcolm. Back thereon the ship, I figured you for a sort of a stuffed-shirt. Yes-man tothe boss. And then in the show-down, you come through like a moviehero—for a little while. Then you let that Breadon guy give you thespur without a squawk—     Malcolm adjusted his plasta-rimmed spectacles. He said, almoststubbornly, Our situation is grave. There must be no bickering.     Bickering your Aunt Jenny! What do you call that?     Sparks jerked a contemptuous thumb toward the group from which theywere separated. Upon disembarking, only Greg and Sparks had moved tomake a careful examination of their damaged craft. The others, moreor less under the direction of Breadon, were making gestures towardremoving certain necessaries from the skiff. Their efforts, slight anduncertain as they were, had already embroiled them in argument.     The gist of their argument, so far as Greg Malcolm could determine, wasthat everyone wanted something to be done, but no two could agree asto just what that something was, and no one seemed to have any burstingdesire to participate in actual physical labor.     J. Foster Andrews, all traces of his former panic and confusion fled,was planted firmly, Napoleonically, some few yards from the open portof the life-skiff, barking impatient orders at little Tommy O'Doulwho—as Greg watched—stumbled from the port bearing a huge armload ofedibles.     'Tina, the maid, was in a frenzy of motion, trying to administer to thecomplaints and demands of Mrs. Andrews (whose immaculate hair-do hadsuffered in the frenetic minutes of their flight) and Crystal Andrews(who knew perfectly well there were sweaters in the life-skiff) andMiss Maud (who wanted a can of prepared dog-food and a can-openerimmediately, and look at poor Cuddles, momsy's 'ittle pet was      so     hungry)!     Bert Andrews was sulkily insisting that it was nonsense to leave thewarmth and security of the skiff anyway, and he wished he had a drink,while the harassed, self-appointed commander of the refugee corps wasshouting at whomever happened, at any given moment, to capture hisdivided and completely frantic attention. His orders were masterpiecesof confusion, developing around one premise that the castaway crewshould immediately set up a camp. Where, how, or with what nonexistentequipment, Breadon did not venture to say.     You see what I mean? demanded Sparks disgustedly.  Greg Malcolm saw. He also saw other things. That their landing-spot,while excellent for its purpose, was not by any manner of means anideal campsite. It was a small, flat basin of sandy soil, rimmed byshallow mountains. His gaze sought these hills, looked approvingly ontheir greenness, upon the multitude of dark pock-marks dotting them.These caves, were they not the habitations of potential enemies, mightwell become the sanctuaries of spacewrecked men.     He saw, also, a thin ribbon of silver sheering the face of the northernhills. His gaze, rising still skyward, saw other things—     He nodded. He knew, now, where they were. Or approximately. There wasbut one planet in the solar system which boasted such a phenomenon. Theapparent distance of the Sun, judged by its diminished disc, arguedhis judgment to be correct. The fact that they had surged through anatmospheric belt for some length of time before finally meeting withdisaster.     Titan, he said. Hyperion possibly. But probably Titan.     Sparks' gaze, following Greg's upward, contracted in an expression ofdismay.     Dirty cow! You mean that's where we are?     I believe so. There's Saturn, our mother planet, looming above us aslarge as a dinner plate. And the grav-drag here is almost Earth norm.Titan has a 3,000 mile diameter. That, combined with the Saturniantractile constant, would give us a strong pull.     Sparks wailed, But Titan! Great morning, Malcolm, nobody ever comesto Titan! There ain't no mines here, no colonies, no— He stoppedsuddenly, his eyes widening yet farther. And, hey—this place is      dangerous     ! There are—     I know it, said Greg swiftly, quietly. Shut up, Sparks. No usetelling the others. If they don't guess it themselves, what they don'tknow won't alarm them. We've got to do something, though. Get ourselvesorganized into a defensive community. That's the only way—     Ralph Breadon's sharp, dictatorial voice interrupted him. Well,Malcolm, stop soldiering and make yourself useful!     And J. Foster, not to have his authority usurped, supplemented theorder. Yes, Malcolm, let's get going! No time for day-dreaming, myman. We want action!     Sparks said, Maybe you'll get it now, fatty! under his breath, andlooked at Malcolm hopefully. But his companion merely nodded, movedforward toward the others, quietly obedient to the command.     Yes, sir, he said.     Hannigan groaned and followed him.      III     Breadon said, All right, Tommy, dump them here. I have a few words tosay. He glanced about him pompously. Now, folks, naturally we wantto get away from here as soon as possible. Therefore I delegate you,Sparks, to immediately get a message off. An SOS to the nearest spacecruiser.     Hannigan grinned. It was not a pleasant grin. He took his timeanswering. He spat thoughtfully on the ground before him, lifted hishead. He said, A message, huh?     That's what I said.     And what'll I send it with? drawled Sparks. Tom-toms?     Breadon flushed darkly.     I believe the life-skiff was equipped with a radio? And theoreticallyyou are a radio operator?     Finest radio money can buy! interpolated J. Foster Andrews proudly.Put a million credits into the      Carefree     . Best equipment throughout.     Sparks looked from one to another of them, grinned insolently. You'reboth right. I      am     a radio operator, and there      was     a radio. But wecrashed, remember? On account of some dope's sleeve got caught in themaster switch—     That will do! snapped Breadon angrily. He stared at the bandy-leggedlittle redhead. You mean the radio was broken?     It wasn't helped none. The tubes was made out of glass, and glassdon't bounce so good.     Greg Malcolm said thoughtfully, Sparks, can't you fix it?     Well, mebbe. But not in five minutes. Maybe not in five years. I won'tknow till I get going on it.     Breadon frowned.     I'll handle this, Malcolm, he crisped. Again to the radioman, Well,you get to work on it immediately. And as soon as you get it fixed,send out an SOS advising the patrol where we are—     Speaking of which, insinuated Sparks, where are we?     Breadon glared at him wrathfully.     Why—why on one of the satellites of Saturn, of course. Any fool cansee that!     O.Q. But does any fool know which one? Or shall I tell you it's Titan?And when you know that, then what? Titan wasn't named that on accountof it was a pimple. It's a big place. What'll I tell the Patrol?      SOS.Stranded in the middle of we-don't-know-where, somewhere on Titan,maybe.     They'll be hunting for us till we've got whiskers down to ourknees.     Breadon's irate look vanished. He looked stricken. He said, I—I don'tknow. We have a compass—     Once again it was Gregory Malcolm who entered into the conversation. Hehad been toying, almost absentmindedly, with a funnel taken from theskiff's stores. Into this he had poured a small portion of water; hisright forefinger was pressed to the bottom of the tube, closing it. Hesaid, I can answer part of that question now. Enough to cut the searchin half, anyway. We're in the northern hemisphere of the satellite.     Maud Andrews looked at him sharply as if noticing him for the firsttime in her life.     How, she asked, did you know that, Malcolm?  ","Gregory Malcolm is a secretary to J. Foster Andrews, father of Crystal Andrews, who is promised to Ralph Breadon. Malcolm is attracted to Crystal, and dislikes Breadon’s appearance, though he admires it as well. In the life skiff, Breadon behaves in a domineering manner towards Malcolm, suggesting that he hand over the controls of the skiff. During the transfer of controls, however, Breadon’s sleeve is caught on a switch and causes the skiff to crash towards Titan. During their descent, Malcolm attempts to control their trajectory but is dismissed by Breadon, who successfully lands the skiff on the moon of Saturn. Malcolm quickly congratulates Breadon, but is berated for interfering. Despite this, however, Malcolm later rationalizes Breadon’s arrogant behaviour and maintains to Sparks, the radio engineer, that he holds no grudge against him, seemingly hiding his anger behind his job as a secretary. "
"What is the relationship between the Andrews family and those in their employ? </s>    Wanderers of the Wolf Moon     By NELSON S. BOND     They were marooned on Titan, their ship wrecked,     the radio smashed. Yet they had to exist, had     to build a new life on a hostile world. And the     man who assumed command was Gregory Malcolm, the     bespectacled secretary—whose only adventures     had come through the pages of a book.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Spring 1944.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Sparks snapped off the switches and followed him to the door of theradio turret. Sparks was a stunted, usually-grinning, little redheadnamed Hannigan. But he wasn't grinning now. He laid an anxious hand onGreg's arm. If I was you, he said, if I was you, Malcolm, I don'tthink I'd say nothing to the boss about this. Not just yet, anyhow.     Greg said, Why not?     Sparks spluttered and fussed and made heavy weather of answering.     Well, for one thing, it ain't important. It would only worry him. Andthen there's the womenfolks, they scare easy. Which of course theyain't no cause to. Atmospherics don't mean nothing. I've rode outworse storms than this—plenty of times. And in worse crates than the      Carefree     .     Greg studied him carefully from behind trim plasta-rimmed spectacles.He drew a deep breath. He said levelly, So it's      that     bad, eh,Sparks?     What bad? I just told you—     I know. Sparks, I'm not a professional spaceman. But I've studiedastrogation as few Earthlubbers have. It's been my hobby for years. AndI think I know what we're up against.     We hit a warp-eddy last night. We've been trapped in a vortex formore than eight hours. Lord only knows how many hundreds of thousandsof miles we've been borne off our course. And now we've blasted into asuper-ionized belt of atmospherics. Your radio signals are blanketed.You can't get signals in or out. We're a deaf-mute speck of metal beingwhirled headlong through space. Isn't that it?     I don't know what— began Sparks hotly. Then he stopped, studied hiscompanion thoughtfully, nodded. O.Q., he confessed, that's it. Butwe ain't licked yet. We got three good men on the bridge. Townsend ...Graves ... Langhorn. They'll pull out of this if anybody can. And theyain't no sense in scaring the Old Man and his family.     I won't tell them, said Greg. I won't tell them unless I have to.But between you and me, what are the odds against us, Sparks?     The radioman shrugged.     Who knows? Vortices are unpredictable. Maybe the damn thing will tossus out on the very spot it picked us up. Maybe it will give us the oldchuckeroo a million miles the other side of Pluto. Maybe it will crackus up on an asteroid or satellite. No way of telling till it happens.     And the controls?     As useless, said Sparks, as a cow in a cyclone.     So?     We sit tight, said Sparks succinctly, and hope.     Malcolm nodded quietly. He took off his spectacles, breathed on them,wiped them, replaced them. He was tall and fair; in his neat, crisplypressed business suit he appeared even slimmer than he was. But therewas no nervousness in his movements. He moved measuredly. Well, hesaid, that appears to be that. I'm going up to the dining dome.     Sparks stared at him querulously.     You're a queer duck, Malcolm. I don't think you've got a nerve in yourbody.     Nerves are a luxury I can't afford, replied Greg. If anythinghappens—and if there's time to do so—let me know. He paused at thedoor. Good luck, he said.     Clear ether! said Sparks mechanically. He stared after the other manwonderingly for a long moment, then went back to his control banks,shaking his head and muttering.  Gregory Malcolm climbed down the Jacob's-ladder and strode brisklythrough the labyrinthine corridors that were the entrails of thespace yacht      Carefree     . He paused once to peer through a      perilens     set into the ship's port plates. It was a weird sight that met hisgaze. Not space, ebony-black and bejewelled with a myriad flamingsplotches of color; not the old, familiar constellations treadingtheir ever-lasting, inexorable paths about the perimeter of Sol'stiny universe, but a shimmering webwork of light, so tortured-violetthat the eyes ached to look upon it. This was the mad typhoon ofspace-atmospherics through which the      Carefree     was now being twisted,topsy-turvy, toward a nameless goal.     He moved on, approaching at last the quartzite-paned observationrotunda which was the dining dome of the ship.     His footsteps slowed as he composed himself to face those within. Ashe hesitated in the dimly-lighted passage, a trick of lights on glassmirrored to him the room beyond. He could see the others while theywere as yet unaware of his presence. Their voices reached him clearly.     J. Foster Andrews, his employer and the employer of the ten thousandor more men and women who worked for Galactic Metals Corporation,dominated the head of the table. He was a plump, impatient littleNapoleon. Opposite him, calm, graceful, serene, tastefully garbed andelaborately coiffured even here in deep space, three weeks from thenearest beauty shop, sat his wife, Enid.     On Andrews' right sat his sister, Maud. Not young, features plain as amud fence, but charming despite her age and homeliness simply becauseof her eyes; puckish, shrewdly intelligent eyes, constantly aglint withsuppressed humor at—guessed Greg—the amusing foibles and frailties ofthose about her.     She gave her breakfast the enthusiastic attention of one too old andshapeless to be concerned with such folderol as calories and dietetics,pausing only from time to time to share smidgeons of food with awatery-eyed scrap of white, curly fluff beside her chair. Her petpoodle, whom she called by the opprobrious title of Cuddles.     On J. Foster's left sat his daughter, Crystal. She it was who causedGregory Malcolm's staid, respectable heart to give a little lurch ashe glimpsed her reflected vision—all gold and crimson and cream—inthe glistening walls. If Crystal was her name, so, too, was crystal herloveliness.     But—Greg shook his head—but she was not for him. She was alreadypledged to the young man seated beside her. Ralph Breadon. He turnedto murmur something to her as Greg watched; Greg saw and admired anddisliked his rangy height, his sturdy, well-knit strength, the richbrownness of his skin, his hair, his eyes.     The sound of his own name startled Greg.     Malcolm! called the man at the head of the table. Malcolm! Now wherein blazes is he, anyhow? he demanded of no one in particular, everyonein general. He spooned a dab of liquid gold from a Limoges preservejar, tongued it suspiciously, frowned. Bitter! he complained.     It's the very      best     Martian honey, said his wife.     Drylands clover, added Crystal.     It's still bitter, said J. Foster petulantly.     His sister sniffed. Nonsense! It's delightful.     I say it's bitter, repeated Andrews sulkily. And lifted his voiceagain.       Malcolm!     Where      are     you?     You called me, sir? said Malcolm, moving into the room. He noddedpolitely to the others. Good morning, Mrs. Andrews ... MissAndrews ... Mr. Breadon....     Oh, sit down! snapped J. Foster. Sit down here and stop bobbing yourhead like a teetotum! Had your breakfast? The honey's no good; it'sbitter. He glared at his sister challengingly. Where have you been,anyway? What kind of secretary are you? Have you been up to the radioturret? How's the market today? Is Galactic up or down?     Malcolm said, I don't know, sir.     Fine! Fine! Andrews rattled on automatically before the wordsregistered. Then he started, his face turning red. Eh? What's that?Don't know! What do you mean, you don't know? I pay you to—     There's no transmission, sir, said Greg quietly.     No trans—nonsense! Of course there's transmission! I put a millioncredits into this ship. Finest space-yacht ever built. Latest equipmentthroughout. Sparks is drunk, that's what you mean! Well, you hop rightup there and—  Maud Andrews put down her fork with a clatter. Oh, for goodness sakes,Jonathan, shut up and give the boy time to explain! He's standingthere with his mouth gaping like a rain-spout, trying to get a word inedgewise! What's the trouble, Gregory? She turned to Greg, as JonathanFoster Andrews wheezed into startled silence.       That?          She glanced at the quartzite dome, beyond which the veil of iridescencewove and cross-wove and shimmered like a pallid aurora.     Greg nodded. Yes, Miss Andrews.     Enid Andrews spoke languidly from the other end of the table.     But what is it, Gregory? A local phenomenon?     You might call it that, said Greg, selecting his words cautiously.It's an ionized field into which we've blasted. It—it—shouldn't staywith us long. But while it persists, our radio will be blanketed out.     Breadon's chestnut head came up suddenly, sharply.     Ionization! That means atmosphere!     Greg said, Yes.     And an atmosphere means a body in space somewhere near— Breadonstopped, bit his lip before the appeal in Malcolm's eyes, tried to passit off easily. Oh, well—a change of scenery, what?     But the moment of alarm in his voice had not passed unnoticed. CrystalAndrews spoke for all of them, her voice preternaturally quiet.     You're hiding something, Malcolm. What is it? Is there—danger?     But Greg didn't have to answer that question. From the doorway a harsh,defiantly strident voice answered for him. The voice of Bert Andrews,Crystal's older brother.     Danger? You're damn right there's danger! What's the matter withyou folks—are you all deaf, dumb and blind? We've been caught in aspace-vortex for hours. Now we're in the H-layer of a planet we can'teven see—and in fifteen minutes or fifteen seconds we may all besmashed as flat as pancakes!     The proclamation brought them out of their chairs. Greg's heart sank;his vain plea, Mr. Andrews— was lost in the medley of Crystal'ssudden gasp, Enid Andrews' short, choking scream, J. Foster's bellowingroar at his only son.     Bert—you're drunk!     Bert weaved precariously from the doorway, laughed in his father's face.     Sure I'm drunk! Why not? If you're smart you'll get drunk, too. Thewhole damn lot of you! He flicked a derisive hand toward Greg. Youtoo, Boy Scout! What were you trying to do—hide the bad news fromthem? Well, it's no use. Everybody might as well know the worst. We'regone gooses ... geeses ... aw, what the hell! Dead ducks! He fellinto a chair, sprawled there laughing mirthlessly with fear riding thetoo-high notes of his laughter.     J. Foster turned to his secretary slowly. His ire had faded; there wasonly deep concern in his voice.     Is he telling the truth, Malcolm?     Greg said soberly, Partly, sir. He's overstating the danger—butthere is danger. We are caught in a space-vortex, and as Mr.Breadon realized, the presence of these ionics means we're in theHeaviside-layer of some heavenly body. But we may not crack up.     Maud Andrews glanced at him shrewdly.     Is there anything we can do?     Not a thing. The officers on the bridge are doing everything possible.     In that case, said the older woman, we might as well finish ourbreakfast. Here, Cuddles! Come to momsy! She sat down again. Greglooked at her admiringly. Ralph Breadon stroked his brown jaw. He said,The life-skiffs?     A last resort, said Greg. Sparks promised he'd let me know if itwere necessary. We'll hope it's not—     But it was a vain hope, vainly spoken in the last, vain moment. Foreven as he phrased the hopeful words, came the sound of swift, racingfootsteps up the corridor. Into the dining dome burst Hannigan, eyeshot with excitement. And his cry dispelled Greg's final hopes forsafety.     Everybody—the Number Four life-skiff—      quick     ! We've been caught in agrav-drag and we're going to crash!      II     Those next hectic moments were never afterward very clear in GregMalcolm's memory. He had a confused recollection of hearing Sparks'warning punctuated by a loud, shrill scream which he vaguely identifiedas emanating from Mrs. Andrews' throat ... he was conscious of feeling,suddenly, beneath his feet the sickening, quickening lurch of a shipout of control, gripped by gravitational forces beyond its power toallay ... he recalled his own voice dinning in his ears as, incredibly,with Sparks, he took command of the hasty flight from the dining domedown the corridor to the aft ramp, up the ramp, across girdered beamsin the super-structure to the small, independently motored rocket-skiffcradled there.     He was aware, too, of strangely disconnected incidents happening aroundhim, he being a part of them but seeming to be only a disinterestedspectator to their strangeness. Of his forcing Maud Andrews towardthe door of the dome ... of her pushing back against him with all theweight of her body ... of her irate voice, Cuddles! I forgot him!Then the shrill excited yapping of the poodle cradled against her asthey charged on down the corridor.     J. Foster waddling beside him, tugging at his arm, panting, Theofficers? and his own unfelt assurance. They can take care ofthemselves. It's a general 'bandon ship. Enid Andrews stumbling overthe hem of a filmy peignoir ... himself bending to lift her boldly andbodily, sweating palms feeling the warm animal heat of her excitedbody hot beneath them ... Crystal Andrews stopping suddenly, crying,'Tina! ... and Hannigan's reply, Your maid? I woke her. She's in thelife-skiff. Bert Andrews stopping suddenly, being sick in the middleof the corridor, his drunkenness losing itself in the thick, surenausea of the ever-increasing unsteadiness beneath their feet.     Then the life-skiff, the clang of metal as Hannigan slammed theport behind the last of them, the fumbling for a lock-stud, thequick, grateful pant of the miniature hypos, and a weird feeling ofweightlessness, rushingness, hurtlingness as his eardrums throbbed andhis mouth tasted brassy and bloody with the fierce velocity of theirescape.     Sense and meaning returned only when all this ended. As one waking froma nightmare dream, Greg Malcolm returned to a world he could recognize.A tiny world, encased within the walls of a forty-foot life-skiff. Aworld peopled too scantily. Andrews, his wife and sister, his son anddaughter; 'Tina Laney, the maid; Breadon, Hannigan, young Tommy O'Doul,the cabin-boy (though where he had come from, or when, Greg did notknow). And himself. In a life-skiff. In space.     Somewhere in space. He looked through the      perilens     . What he saw thenhe might better never have seen. For that shimmering pink-ochre veilhad wisped away, now, and in the clean, cold, bitter-clear light of adistant sun he watched the death-dive of the yacht      Carefree     .     Like a vast silver top, spinning heedlessly, wildly, it streaked towarda mottled gray and green, brown and dun, hard and crushing-brutalterrain below. Still at its helm stood someone, for even in that lastdreadful moment burst from its nose-jets a ruddy mushroom of flame thattried to, but could not, brake the dizzy fall.     For an instant Greg's eyes, stingingly blinded and wet, thought theyglimpsed a wee black mote dancing from the bowels of the      Carefree     ; amote that might be another skiff like their own. But he could not besure, and then the      Carefree     was accelerating with such violence andspeed that the eye could see it only as a flaming silver lance againstthe ugly earth-carcase beneath, and then it struck and a carmine bud offlame burst and flowered for an instant, and that was all....     And Greg Malcolm turned from the      perilens     , shaken.     Hannigan said, It's over? and Greg nodded.     Hannigan said, The other skiffs? Did they break free, or were theycaught?     I don't know. I couldn't see for sure.     You must have seen. Are we the only ones?     I couldn't see for sure. Maybe. Maybe not.     Then a body scrambled forward, pressing through the tightness of otherhuddled bodies, and there was a hand upon his elbow. I'll take overnow, Malcolm.  It was Ralph Breadon. Gregory looked at him slowly, uncomprehendinglyat first. His hand was reluctant to leave the guiding-gear of thesmall ship which was, now, all that remained to them of civilizationand civilization's wondrous accomplishments. He had not realized untilthis moment that for a while ... for a short, eager, pulse-quickeningwhile ... on his alertness, in his hands, had depended the destiniesof ten men and women. But he knew, suddenly and completely, that itwas for this single moment his whole lifetime had waited. It was forthis brief moment of command that some intuition, some instinct greaterthan knowledge, had prepared him. This was why he, an Earthlubber, hadstudied astrogation, made a hobby of the empire of the stars. That hemight be fitted to command when all others failed. And now—     And now the moment was past, and he was once again Gregory Malcolm,mild, lean, pale, bespectacled secretary to J. Foster Andrews. And theman at his side was Ralph Breadon, socialite and gentleman sportsman,trained pilot. And in Malcolm the habit of obedience was strong....     Very well, sir, he said. And he turned over the controls.     What happened then was unfortunate. It might just as well have happenedto Malcolm, though afterward no one could ever say with certainty.However that was, either by carelessness or malfortune or inefficiency,once-thwarted disaster struck again at the little party on thelife-skiff. At the instant Breadon's hand seized the controls the skiffjerked suddenly as though struck with a ponderous fist, its throbbingmotors choked and snarled in a high, rising crescendo of torment thatlost itself in supersonic heights, and the ship that had been driftingeasily and under control to the planet beneath now dipped viciously.     The misfortune was that too many huddled in the tiny space understoodthe operation of the life-skiff, and what must be done instantly. Andthat neither pilot was as yet in control of the ship. Breadon's handleaped for the Dixie rod, so, too, did Malcolm's—and across both theirbodies came the arm of Sparks Hannigan, searching the controls.     In the scramble someone's sleeve brushed the banks of control-keys. Themotors, killed, soughed into silence. The ship rocked into a spin. Gregcried out, his voice a strange harshness in his ears; Breadon cursed;one of the women bleated fearfully.     Then Breadon, still cursing, fought all hands from the controls but hisown. And the man was not without courage. For all could see plainly,in the illumined      perilens     , how near to swift death that moment ofuncertainty had led them. The skiff, which an instant before had beenhigh in the stratosphere of this unknown planet ... or satelliteor whatever it might be ... was now flashing toward hard ground atlightning speed.  Only a miracle, Greg knew, could save them now. An impulse spun hishead, he looked at Crystal Andrews. There was no fear in her eyes. Justa hotness and an inexplicable anger. Beside her was the other girl, themaid, 'Tina; she was frankly afraid. Her teeth were clenched in hernether lip, and her eyes were wide and anxious, but she did not cry out.     Only a miracle could save them now. But Breadon's hands performedthat miracle; his quick, nerveless, trained hands. A stud here ...a lever there ... a swift wrenching toss of the shoulders. His facetwisted back over his shoulder, and his straining lips pulled tautand bloodless away from his teeth. Hold tight, folks! We're going tobounce—     Then they struck!     But they struck glancingly, as Breadon had hoped, and planned for,and gambled on. They struck and bounced. The frail craft shiveredand groaned in metal agony, jarred across harsh soil, bounced again,settled, nosed over and rocked to a standstill. Somewhere forwardsomething snapped with a shrill, high      ping!     of stress; somewhere aftwas the metallic flap-clanging of broken gear trailing behind them. Butthey were safe.     Breath, held so long that he could not remember its inhalation, escapedGreg's lungs in a long sigh. Nice work, Mr. Breadon! he cried. Oh,nice work!     But surprisingly, savagely, Breadon turned on him.     It would have been      better     work, Malcolm, if you'd kept your damnedhands off the controls! Now see what you've done? Smashed up our skiff!Our only—     He didn't do it! piped the shrill voice of Tommy O'Doul. You done ityourself, Mr. Breadon. Your sleeve. It caught the switch.     Quiet! Breadon, cheeks flushed, reached out smartly, stilledthe youngster's defense with a swift, ungentle slap. And you,Malcolm—after this, do as you're told, and don't try to assumeresponsibilities too great for you. All right, everybody. Let's get outand see how bad the damage is.     Instinctively Greg had surged a half step forward as Breadon silencedthe cabin boy. Now old habit and common-sense halted him. He'soverwrought, he reasoned. We're all excited and on edge. We've been toBedlam. Our nerves are shot. In a little while we'll all be back tonormal.     He said quietly, Very well, Mr. Breadon. And he climbed from thebroken skiff.  Hannigan said, Looks bad, don't it?     Very, said Malcolm. He fingered a shard of loose metal flapping likea fin from the stern of the skiff. Not hopeless, though. There shouldbe an acetylene torch in the tool locker. With that—     You ought to of poked him, said Hannigan.     What? Oh, you mean—?     Yeah. The kid was right, you know. He done it.     His sleeve, you mean. Well, it was an accident, said Greg. It couldhave happened to anyone. And he made a good landing. Consideringeverything. Anyhow— Again he was Gregory Malcolm, serious-faced,efficient secretary. Anyhow, we have been thrust into an extremelyprecarious circumstance. It would be silly to take umbrage at a man'snervous anger. We must have no quarreling, no bickering—     Umbrage! snorted Sparks. Bickering! They're big words. I ain't sureI know what they mean. I ain't exactly sure they mean      anything     . Heglanced at Greg oddly. You're a queer jasper, Malcolm. Back thereon the ship, I figured you for a sort of a stuffed-shirt. Yes-man tothe boss. And then in the show-down, you come through like a moviehero—for a little while. Then you let that Breadon guy give you thespur without a squawk—     Malcolm adjusted his plasta-rimmed spectacles. He said, almoststubbornly, Our situation is grave. There must be no bickering.     Bickering your Aunt Jenny! What do you call that?     Sparks jerked a contemptuous thumb toward the group from which theywere separated. Upon disembarking, only Greg and Sparks had moved tomake a careful examination of their damaged craft. The others, moreor less under the direction of Breadon, were making gestures towardremoving certain necessaries from the skiff. Their efforts, slight anduncertain as they were, had already embroiled them in argument.     The gist of their argument, so far as Greg Malcolm could determine, wasthat everyone wanted something to be done, but no two could agree asto just what that something was, and no one seemed to have any burstingdesire to participate in actual physical labor.     J. Foster Andrews, all traces of his former panic and confusion fled,was planted firmly, Napoleonically, some few yards from the open portof the life-skiff, barking impatient orders at little Tommy O'Doulwho—as Greg watched—stumbled from the port bearing a huge armload ofedibles.     'Tina, the maid, was in a frenzy of motion, trying to administer to thecomplaints and demands of Mrs. Andrews (whose immaculate hair-do hadsuffered in the frenetic minutes of their flight) and Crystal Andrews(who knew perfectly well there were sweaters in the life-skiff) andMiss Maud (who wanted a can of prepared dog-food and a can-openerimmediately, and look at poor Cuddles, momsy's 'ittle pet was      so     hungry)!     Bert Andrews was sulkily insisting that it was nonsense to leave thewarmth and security of the skiff anyway, and he wished he had a drink,while the harassed, self-appointed commander of the refugee corps wasshouting at whomever happened, at any given moment, to capture hisdivided and completely frantic attention. His orders were masterpiecesof confusion, developing around one premise that the castaway crewshould immediately set up a camp. Where, how, or with what nonexistentequipment, Breadon did not venture to say.     You see what I mean? demanded Sparks disgustedly.  Greg Malcolm saw. He also saw other things. That their landing-spot,while excellent for its purpose, was not by any manner of means anideal campsite. It was a small, flat basin of sandy soil, rimmed byshallow mountains. His gaze sought these hills, looked approvingly ontheir greenness, upon the multitude of dark pock-marks dotting them.These caves, were they not the habitations of potential enemies, mightwell become the sanctuaries of spacewrecked men.     He saw, also, a thin ribbon of silver sheering the face of the northernhills. His gaze, rising still skyward, saw other things—     He nodded. He knew, now, where they were. Or approximately. There wasbut one planet in the solar system which boasted such a phenomenon. Theapparent distance of the Sun, judged by its diminished disc, arguedhis judgment to be correct. The fact that they had surged through anatmospheric belt for some length of time before finally meeting withdisaster.     Titan, he said. Hyperion possibly. But probably Titan.     Sparks' gaze, following Greg's upward, contracted in an expression ofdismay.     Dirty cow! You mean that's where we are?     I believe so. There's Saturn, our mother planet, looming above us aslarge as a dinner plate. And the grav-drag here is almost Earth norm.Titan has a 3,000 mile diameter. That, combined with the Saturniantractile constant, would give us a strong pull.     Sparks wailed, But Titan! Great morning, Malcolm, nobody ever comesto Titan! There ain't no mines here, no colonies, no— He stoppedsuddenly, his eyes widening yet farther. And, hey—this place is      dangerous     ! There are—     I know it, said Greg swiftly, quietly. Shut up, Sparks. No usetelling the others. If they don't guess it themselves, what they don'tknow won't alarm them. We've got to do something, though. Get ourselvesorganized into a defensive community. That's the only way—     Ralph Breadon's sharp, dictatorial voice interrupted him. Well,Malcolm, stop soldiering and make yourself useful!     And J. Foster, not to have his authority usurped, supplemented theorder. Yes, Malcolm, let's get going! No time for day-dreaming, myman. We want action!     Sparks said, Maybe you'll get it now, fatty! under his breath, andlooked at Malcolm hopefully. But his companion merely nodded, movedforward toward the others, quietly obedient to the command.     Yes, sir, he said.     Hannigan groaned and followed him.      III     Breadon said, All right, Tommy, dump them here. I have a few words tosay. He glanced about him pompously. Now, folks, naturally we wantto get away from here as soon as possible. Therefore I delegate you,Sparks, to immediately get a message off. An SOS to the nearest spacecruiser.     Hannigan grinned. It was not a pleasant grin. He took his timeanswering. He spat thoughtfully on the ground before him, lifted hishead. He said, A message, huh?     That's what I said.     And what'll I send it with? drawled Sparks. Tom-toms?     Breadon flushed darkly.     I believe the life-skiff was equipped with a radio? And theoreticallyyou are a radio operator?     Finest radio money can buy! interpolated J. Foster Andrews proudly.Put a million credits into the      Carefree     . Best equipment throughout.     Sparks looked from one to another of them, grinned insolently. You'reboth right. I      am     a radio operator, and there      was     a radio. But wecrashed, remember? On account of some dope's sleeve got caught in themaster switch—     That will do! snapped Breadon angrily. He stared at the bandy-leggedlittle redhead. You mean the radio was broken?     It wasn't helped none. The tubes was made out of glass, and glassdon't bounce so good.     Greg Malcolm said thoughtfully, Sparks, can't you fix it?     Well, mebbe. But not in five minutes. Maybe not in five years. I won'tknow till I get going on it.     Breadon frowned.     I'll handle this, Malcolm, he crisped. Again to the radioman, Well,you get to work on it immediately. And as soon as you get it fixed,send out an SOS advising the patrol where we are—     Speaking of which, insinuated Sparks, where are we?     Breadon glared at him wrathfully.     Why—why on one of the satellites of Saturn, of course. Any fool cansee that!     O.Q. But does any fool know which one? Or shall I tell you it's Titan?And when you know that, then what? Titan wasn't named that on accountof it was a pimple. It's a big place. What'll I tell the Patrol?      SOS.Stranded in the middle of we-don't-know-where, somewhere on Titan,maybe.     They'll be hunting for us till we've got whiskers down to ourknees.     Breadon's irate look vanished. He looked stricken. He said, I—I don'tknow. We have a compass—     Once again it was Gregory Malcolm who entered into the conversation. Hehad been toying, almost absentmindedly, with a funnel taken from theskiff's stores. Into this he had poured a small portion of water; hisright forefinger was pressed to the bottom of the tube, closing it. Hesaid, I can answer part of that question now. Enough to cut the searchin half, anyway. We're in the northern hemisphere of the satellite.     Maud Andrews looked at him sharply as if noticing him for the firsttime in her life.     How, she asked, did you know that, Malcolm?  ","Generally, the Andrews family is dismissive of their household staff, which include Gregory Malcolm, ‘Tina Laney, Sparks, and a cabin-boy. J. Foster Andrews, the head of the family, impatiently calls for his secretary, Gregory Malcolm, to complain about the quality of their morning honey. J. Foster learns that Malcolm doesn’t know that state of the Galactic market, but dismisses the reason that Malcolm provides, instead concluding that the radio technician Sparks is drunk. 	During the evacuation to the life skiff, Crystal Andrews, J. Foster’s daughter, remembers her maid ‘Tina Laney and asks where she is, apparently paying mind to her safety. In contrast, her fiancé Ralph Breadon is dismissive of Malcolm, and later blames him for the life skiff’s crashing into Titan. Upon the cabin-boy’s revelation that it was, in fact, Breadon who inadvertently caused the skiff’s malfunction, Breadon strikes the cabin-boy. 	On Titan, ‘Tina is instructed to remove things from the skiff by the women of the Andrews family, who do not help, and Sparks and Malcolm are harshly instructed to make themselves useful. "
"Where does the story take place? </s>    Wanderers of the Wolf Moon     By NELSON S. BOND     They were marooned on Titan, their ship wrecked,     the radio smashed. Yet they had to exist, had     to build a new life on a hostile world. And the     man who assumed command was Gregory Malcolm, the     bespectacled secretary—whose only adventures     had come through the pages of a book.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Spring 1944.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Sparks snapped off the switches and followed him to the door of theradio turret. Sparks was a stunted, usually-grinning, little redheadnamed Hannigan. But he wasn't grinning now. He laid an anxious hand onGreg's arm. If I was you, he said, if I was you, Malcolm, I don'tthink I'd say nothing to the boss about this. Not just yet, anyhow.     Greg said, Why not?     Sparks spluttered and fussed and made heavy weather of answering.     Well, for one thing, it ain't important. It would only worry him. Andthen there's the womenfolks, they scare easy. Which of course theyain't no cause to. Atmospherics don't mean nothing. I've rode outworse storms than this—plenty of times. And in worse crates than the      Carefree     .     Greg studied him carefully from behind trim plasta-rimmed spectacles.He drew a deep breath. He said levelly, So it's      that     bad, eh,Sparks?     What bad? I just told you—     I know. Sparks, I'm not a professional spaceman. But I've studiedastrogation as few Earthlubbers have. It's been my hobby for years. AndI think I know what we're up against.     We hit a warp-eddy last night. We've been trapped in a vortex formore than eight hours. Lord only knows how many hundreds of thousandsof miles we've been borne off our course. And now we've blasted into asuper-ionized belt of atmospherics. Your radio signals are blanketed.You can't get signals in or out. We're a deaf-mute speck of metal beingwhirled headlong through space. Isn't that it?     I don't know what— began Sparks hotly. Then he stopped, studied hiscompanion thoughtfully, nodded. O.Q., he confessed, that's it. Butwe ain't licked yet. We got three good men on the bridge. Townsend ...Graves ... Langhorn. They'll pull out of this if anybody can. And theyain't no sense in scaring the Old Man and his family.     I won't tell them, said Greg. I won't tell them unless I have to.But between you and me, what are the odds against us, Sparks?     The radioman shrugged.     Who knows? Vortices are unpredictable. Maybe the damn thing will tossus out on the very spot it picked us up. Maybe it will give us the oldchuckeroo a million miles the other side of Pluto. Maybe it will crackus up on an asteroid or satellite. No way of telling till it happens.     And the controls?     As useless, said Sparks, as a cow in a cyclone.     So?     We sit tight, said Sparks succinctly, and hope.     Malcolm nodded quietly. He took off his spectacles, breathed on them,wiped them, replaced them. He was tall and fair; in his neat, crisplypressed business suit he appeared even slimmer than he was. But therewas no nervousness in his movements. He moved measuredly. Well, hesaid, that appears to be that. I'm going up to the dining dome.     Sparks stared at him querulously.     You're a queer duck, Malcolm. I don't think you've got a nerve in yourbody.     Nerves are a luxury I can't afford, replied Greg. If anythinghappens—and if there's time to do so—let me know. He paused at thedoor. Good luck, he said.     Clear ether! said Sparks mechanically. He stared after the other manwonderingly for a long moment, then went back to his control banks,shaking his head and muttering.  Gregory Malcolm climbed down the Jacob's-ladder and strode brisklythrough the labyrinthine corridors that were the entrails of thespace yacht      Carefree     . He paused once to peer through a      perilens     set into the ship's port plates. It was a weird sight that met hisgaze. Not space, ebony-black and bejewelled with a myriad flamingsplotches of color; not the old, familiar constellations treadingtheir ever-lasting, inexorable paths about the perimeter of Sol'stiny universe, but a shimmering webwork of light, so tortured-violetthat the eyes ached to look upon it. This was the mad typhoon ofspace-atmospherics through which the      Carefree     was now being twisted,topsy-turvy, toward a nameless goal.     He moved on, approaching at last the quartzite-paned observationrotunda which was the dining dome of the ship.     His footsteps slowed as he composed himself to face those within. Ashe hesitated in the dimly-lighted passage, a trick of lights on glassmirrored to him the room beyond. He could see the others while theywere as yet unaware of his presence. Their voices reached him clearly.     J. Foster Andrews, his employer and the employer of the ten thousandor more men and women who worked for Galactic Metals Corporation,dominated the head of the table. He was a plump, impatient littleNapoleon. Opposite him, calm, graceful, serene, tastefully garbed andelaborately coiffured even here in deep space, three weeks from thenearest beauty shop, sat his wife, Enid.     On Andrews' right sat his sister, Maud. Not young, features plain as amud fence, but charming despite her age and homeliness simply becauseof her eyes; puckish, shrewdly intelligent eyes, constantly aglint withsuppressed humor at—guessed Greg—the amusing foibles and frailties ofthose about her.     She gave her breakfast the enthusiastic attention of one too old andshapeless to be concerned with such folderol as calories and dietetics,pausing only from time to time to share smidgeons of food with awatery-eyed scrap of white, curly fluff beside her chair. Her petpoodle, whom she called by the opprobrious title of Cuddles.     On J. Foster's left sat his daughter, Crystal. She it was who causedGregory Malcolm's staid, respectable heart to give a little lurch ashe glimpsed her reflected vision—all gold and crimson and cream—inthe glistening walls. If Crystal was her name, so, too, was crystal herloveliness.     But—Greg shook his head—but she was not for him. She was alreadypledged to the young man seated beside her. Ralph Breadon. He turnedto murmur something to her as Greg watched; Greg saw and admired anddisliked his rangy height, his sturdy, well-knit strength, the richbrownness of his skin, his hair, his eyes.     The sound of his own name startled Greg.     Malcolm! called the man at the head of the table. Malcolm! Now wherein blazes is he, anyhow? he demanded of no one in particular, everyonein general. He spooned a dab of liquid gold from a Limoges preservejar, tongued it suspiciously, frowned. Bitter! he complained.     It's the very      best     Martian honey, said his wife.     Drylands clover, added Crystal.     It's still bitter, said J. Foster petulantly.     His sister sniffed. Nonsense! It's delightful.     I say it's bitter, repeated Andrews sulkily. And lifted his voiceagain.       Malcolm!     Where      are     you?     You called me, sir? said Malcolm, moving into the room. He noddedpolitely to the others. Good morning, Mrs. Andrews ... MissAndrews ... Mr. Breadon....     Oh, sit down! snapped J. Foster. Sit down here and stop bobbing yourhead like a teetotum! Had your breakfast? The honey's no good; it'sbitter. He glared at his sister challengingly. Where have you been,anyway? What kind of secretary are you? Have you been up to the radioturret? How's the market today? Is Galactic up or down?     Malcolm said, I don't know, sir.     Fine! Fine! Andrews rattled on automatically before the wordsregistered. Then he started, his face turning red. Eh? What's that?Don't know! What do you mean, you don't know? I pay you to—     There's no transmission, sir, said Greg quietly.     No trans—nonsense! Of course there's transmission! I put a millioncredits into this ship. Finest space-yacht ever built. Latest equipmentthroughout. Sparks is drunk, that's what you mean! Well, you hop rightup there and—  Maud Andrews put down her fork with a clatter. Oh, for goodness sakes,Jonathan, shut up and give the boy time to explain! He's standingthere with his mouth gaping like a rain-spout, trying to get a word inedgewise! What's the trouble, Gregory? She turned to Greg, as JonathanFoster Andrews wheezed into startled silence.       That?          She glanced at the quartzite dome, beyond which the veil of iridescencewove and cross-wove and shimmered like a pallid aurora.     Greg nodded. Yes, Miss Andrews.     Enid Andrews spoke languidly from the other end of the table.     But what is it, Gregory? A local phenomenon?     You might call it that, said Greg, selecting his words cautiously.It's an ionized field into which we've blasted. It—it—shouldn't staywith us long. But while it persists, our radio will be blanketed out.     Breadon's chestnut head came up suddenly, sharply.     Ionization! That means atmosphere!     Greg said, Yes.     And an atmosphere means a body in space somewhere near— Breadonstopped, bit his lip before the appeal in Malcolm's eyes, tried to passit off easily. Oh, well—a change of scenery, what?     But the moment of alarm in his voice had not passed unnoticed. CrystalAndrews spoke for all of them, her voice preternaturally quiet.     You're hiding something, Malcolm. What is it? Is there—danger?     But Greg didn't have to answer that question. From the doorway a harsh,defiantly strident voice answered for him. The voice of Bert Andrews,Crystal's older brother.     Danger? You're damn right there's danger! What's the matter withyou folks—are you all deaf, dumb and blind? We've been caught in aspace-vortex for hours. Now we're in the H-layer of a planet we can'teven see—and in fifteen minutes or fifteen seconds we may all besmashed as flat as pancakes!     The proclamation brought them out of their chairs. Greg's heart sank;his vain plea, Mr. Andrews— was lost in the medley of Crystal'ssudden gasp, Enid Andrews' short, choking scream, J. Foster's bellowingroar at his only son.     Bert—you're drunk!     Bert weaved precariously from the doorway, laughed in his father's face.     Sure I'm drunk! Why not? If you're smart you'll get drunk, too. Thewhole damn lot of you! He flicked a derisive hand toward Greg. Youtoo, Boy Scout! What were you trying to do—hide the bad news fromthem? Well, it's no use. Everybody might as well know the worst. We'regone gooses ... geeses ... aw, what the hell! Dead ducks! He fellinto a chair, sprawled there laughing mirthlessly with fear riding thetoo-high notes of his laughter.     J. Foster turned to his secretary slowly. His ire had faded; there wasonly deep concern in his voice.     Is he telling the truth, Malcolm?     Greg said soberly, Partly, sir. He's overstating the danger—butthere is danger. We are caught in a space-vortex, and as Mr.Breadon realized, the presence of these ionics means we're in theHeaviside-layer of some heavenly body. But we may not crack up.     Maud Andrews glanced at him shrewdly.     Is there anything we can do?     Not a thing. The officers on the bridge are doing everything possible.     In that case, said the older woman, we might as well finish ourbreakfast. Here, Cuddles! Come to momsy! She sat down again. Greglooked at her admiringly. Ralph Breadon stroked his brown jaw. He said,The life-skiffs?     A last resort, said Greg. Sparks promised he'd let me know if itwere necessary. We'll hope it's not—     But it was a vain hope, vainly spoken in the last, vain moment. Foreven as he phrased the hopeful words, came the sound of swift, racingfootsteps up the corridor. Into the dining dome burst Hannigan, eyeshot with excitement. And his cry dispelled Greg's final hopes forsafety.     Everybody—the Number Four life-skiff—      quick     ! We've been caught in agrav-drag and we're going to crash!      II     Those next hectic moments were never afterward very clear in GregMalcolm's memory. He had a confused recollection of hearing Sparks'warning punctuated by a loud, shrill scream which he vaguely identifiedas emanating from Mrs. Andrews' throat ... he was conscious of feeling,suddenly, beneath his feet the sickening, quickening lurch of a shipout of control, gripped by gravitational forces beyond its power toallay ... he recalled his own voice dinning in his ears as, incredibly,with Sparks, he took command of the hasty flight from the dining domedown the corridor to the aft ramp, up the ramp, across girdered beamsin the super-structure to the small, independently motored rocket-skiffcradled there.     He was aware, too, of strangely disconnected incidents happening aroundhim, he being a part of them but seeming to be only a disinterestedspectator to their strangeness. Of his forcing Maud Andrews towardthe door of the dome ... of her pushing back against him with all theweight of her body ... of her irate voice, Cuddles! I forgot him!Then the shrill excited yapping of the poodle cradled against her asthey charged on down the corridor.     J. Foster waddling beside him, tugging at his arm, panting, Theofficers? and his own unfelt assurance. They can take care ofthemselves. It's a general 'bandon ship. Enid Andrews stumbling overthe hem of a filmy peignoir ... himself bending to lift her boldly andbodily, sweating palms feeling the warm animal heat of her excitedbody hot beneath them ... Crystal Andrews stopping suddenly, crying,'Tina! ... and Hannigan's reply, Your maid? I woke her. She's in thelife-skiff. Bert Andrews stopping suddenly, being sick in the middleof the corridor, his drunkenness losing itself in the thick, surenausea of the ever-increasing unsteadiness beneath their feet.     Then the life-skiff, the clang of metal as Hannigan slammed theport behind the last of them, the fumbling for a lock-stud, thequick, grateful pant of the miniature hypos, and a weird feeling ofweightlessness, rushingness, hurtlingness as his eardrums throbbed andhis mouth tasted brassy and bloody with the fierce velocity of theirescape.     Sense and meaning returned only when all this ended. As one waking froma nightmare dream, Greg Malcolm returned to a world he could recognize.A tiny world, encased within the walls of a forty-foot life-skiff. Aworld peopled too scantily. Andrews, his wife and sister, his son anddaughter; 'Tina Laney, the maid; Breadon, Hannigan, young Tommy O'Doul,the cabin-boy (though where he had come from, or when, Greg did notknow). And himself. In a life-skiff. In space.     Somewhere in space. He looked through the      perilens     . What he saw thenhe might better never have seen. For that shimmering pink-ochre veilhad wisped away, now, and in the clean, cold, bitter-clear light of adistant sun he watched the death-dive of the yacht      Carefree     .     Like a vast silver top, spinning heedlessly, wildly, it streaked towarda mottled gray and green, brown and dun, hard and crushing-brutalterrain below. Still at its helm stood someone, for even in that lastdreadful moment burst from its nose-jets a ruddy mushroom of flame thattried to, but could not, brake the dizzy fall.     For an instant Greg's eyes, stingingly blinded and wet, thought theyglimpsed a wee black mote dancing from the bowels of the      Carefree     ; amote that might be another skiff like their own. But he could not besure, and then the      Carefree     was accelerating with such violence andspeed that the eye could see it only as a flaming silver lance againstthe ugly earth-carcase beneath, and then it struck and a carmine bud offlame burst and flowered for an instant, and that was all....     And Greg Malcolm turned from the      perilens     , shaken.     Hannigan said, It's over? and Greg nodded.     Hannigan said, The other skiffs? Did they break free, or were theycaught?     I don't know. I couldn't see for sure.     You must have seen. Are we the only ones?     I couldn't see for sure. Maybe. Maybe not.     Then a body scrambled forward, pressing through the tightness of otherhuddled bodies, and there was a hand upon his elbow. I'll take overnow, Malcolm.  It was Ralph Breadon. Gregory looked at him slowly, uncomprehendinglyat first. His hand was reluctant to leave the guiding-gear of thesmall ship which was, now, all that remained to them of civilizationand civilization's wondrous accomplishments. He had not realized untilthis moment that for a while ... for a short, eager, pulse-quickeningwhile ... on his alertness, in his hands, had depended the destiniesof ten men and women. But he knew, suddenly and completely, that itwas for this single moment his whole lifetime had waited. It was forthis brief moment of command that some intuition, some instinct greaterthan knowledge, had prepared him. This was why he, an Earthlubber, hadstudied astrogation, made a hobby of the empire of the stars. That hemight be fitted to command when all others failed. And now—     And now the moment was past, and he was once again Gregory Malcolm,mild, lean, pale, bespectacled secretary to J. Foster Andrews. And theman at his side was Ralph Breadon, socialite and gentleman sportsman,trained pilot. And in Malcolm the habit of obedience was strong....     Very well, sir, he said. And he turned over the controls.     What happened then was unfortunate. It might just as well have happenedto Malcolm, though afterward no one could ever say with certainty.However that was, either by carelessness or malfortune or inefficiency,once-thwarted disaster struck again at the little party on thelife-skiff. At the instant Breadon's hand seized the controls the skiffjerked suddenly as though struck with a ponderous fist, its throbbingmotors choked and snarled in a high, rising crescendo of torment thatlost itself in supersonic heights, and the ship that had been driftingeasily and under control to the planet beneath now dipped viciously.     The misfortune was that too many huddled in the tiny space understoodthe operation of the life-skiff, and what must be done instantly. Andthat neither pilot was as yet in control of the ship. Breadon's handleaped for the Dixie rod, so, too, did Malcolm's—and across both theirbodies came the arm of Sparks Hannigan, searching the controls.     In the scramble someone's sleeve brushed the banks of control-keys. Themotors, killed, soughed into silence. The ship rocked into a spin. Gregcried out, his voice a strange harshness in his ears; Breadon cursed;one of the women bleated fearfully.     Then Breadon, still cursing, fought all hands from the controls but hisown. And the man was not without courage. For all could see plainly,in the illumined      perilens     , how near to swift death that moment ofuncertainty had led them. The skiff, which an instant before had beenhigh in the stratosphere of this unknown planet ... or satelliteor whatever it might be ... was now flashing toward hard ground atlightning speed.  Only a miracle, Greg knew, could save them now. An impulse spun hishead, he looked at Crystal Andrews. There was no fear in her eyes. Justa hotness and an inexplicable anger. Beside her was the other girl, themaid, 'Tina; she was frankly afraid. Her teeth were clenched in hernether lip, and her eyes were wide and anxious, but she did not cry out.     Only a miracle could save them now. But Breadon's hands performedthat miracle; his quick, nerveless, trained hands. A stud here ...a lever there ... a swift wrenching toss of the shoulders. His facetwisted back over his shoulder, and his straining lips pulled tautand bloodless away from his teeth. Hold tight, folks! We're going tobounce—     Then they struck!     But they struck glancingly, as Breadon had hoped, and planned for,and gambled on. They struck and bounced. The frail craft shiveredand groaned in metal agony, jarred across harsh soil, bounced again,settled, nosed over and rocked to a standstill. Somewhere forwardsomething snapped with a shrill, high      ping!     of stress; somewhere aftwas the metallic flap-clanging of broken gear trailing behind them. Butthey were safe.     Breath, held so long that he could not remember its inhalation, escapedGreg's lungs in a long sigh. Nice work, Mr. Breadon! he cried. Oh,nice work!     But surprisingly, savagely, Breadon turned on him.     It would have been      better     work, Malcolm, if you'd kept your damnedhands off the controls! Now see what you've done? Smashed up our skiff!Our only—     He didn't do it! piped the shrill voice of Tommy O'Doul. You done ityourself, Mr. Breadon. Your sleeve. It caught the switch.     Quiet! Breadon, cheeks flushed, reached out smartly, stilledthe youngster's defense with a swift, ungentle slap. And you,Malcolm—after this, do as you're told, and don't try to assumeresponsibilities too great for you. All right, everybody. Let's get outand see how bad the damage is.     Instinctively Greg had surged a half step forward as Breadon silencedthe cabin boy. Now old habit and common-sense halted him. He'soverwrought, he reasoned. We're all excited and on edge. We've been toBedlam. Our nerves are shot. In a little while we'll all be back tonormal.     He said quietly, Very well, Mr. Breadon. And he climbed from thebroken skiff.  Hannigan said, Looks bad, don't it?     Very, said Malcolm. He fingered a shard of loose metal flapping likea fin from the stern of the skiff. Not hopeless, though. There shouldbe an acetylene torch in the tool locker. With that—     You ought to of poked him, said Hannigan.     What? Oh, you mean—?     Yeah. The kid was right, you know. He done it.     His sleeve, you mean. Well, it was an accident, said Greg. It couldhave happened to anyone. And he made a good landing. Consideringeverything. Anyhow— Again he was Gregory Malcolm, serious-faced,efficient secretary. Anyhow, we have been thrust into an extremelyprecarious circumstance. It would be silly to take umbrage at a man'snervous anger. We must have no quarreling, no bickering—     Umbrage! snorted Sparks. Bickering! They're big words. I ain't sureI know what they mean. I ain't exactly sure they mean      anything     . Heglanced at Greg oddly. You're a queer jasper, Malcolm. Back thereon the ship, I figured you for a sort of a stuffed-shirt. Yes-man tothe boss. And then in the show-down, you come through like a moviehero—for a little while. Then you let that Breadon guy give you thespur without a squawk—     Malcolm adjusted his plasta-rimmed spectacles. He said, almoststubbornly, Our situation is grave. There must be no bickering.     Bickering your Aunt Jenny! What do you call that?     Sparks jerked a contemptuous thumb toward the group from which theywere separated. Upon disembarking, only Greg and Sparks had moved tomake a careful examination of their damaged craft. The others, moreor less under the direction of Breadon, were making gestures towardremoving certain necessaries from the skiff. Their efforts, slight anduncertain as they were, had already embroiled them in argument.     The gist of their argument, so far as Greg Malcolm could determine, wasthat everyone wanted something to be done, but no two could agree asto just what that something was, and no one seemed to have any burstingdesire to participate in actual physical labor.     J. Foster Andrews, all traces of his former panic and confusion fled,was planted firmly, Napoleonically, some few yards from the open portof the life-skiff, barking impatient orders at little Tommy O'Doulwho—as Greg watched—stumbled from the port bearing a huge armload ofedibles.     'Tina, the maid, was in a frenzy of motion, trying to administer to thecomplaints and demands of Mrs. Andrews (whose immaculate hair-do hadsuffered in the frenetic minutes of their flight) and Crystal Andrews(who knew perfectly well there were sweaters in the life-skiff) andMiss Maud (who wanted a can of prepared dog-food and a can-openerimmediately, and look at poor Cuddles, momsy's 'ittle pet was      so     hungry)!     Bert Andrews was sulkily insisting that it was nonsense to leave thewarmth and security of the skiff anyway, and he wished he had a drink,while the harassed, self-appointed commander of the refugee corps wasshouting at whomever happened, at any given moment, to capture hisdivided and completely frantic attention. His orders were masterpiecesof confusion, developing around one premise that the castaway crewshould immediately set up a camp. Where, how, or with what nonexistentequipment, Breadon did not venture to say.     You see what I mean? demanded Sparks disgustedly.  Greg Malcolm saw. He also saw other things. That their landing-spot,while excellent for its purpose, was not by any manner of means anideal campsite. It was a small, flat basin of sandy soil, rimmed byshallow mountains. His gaze sought these hills, looked approvingly ontheir greenness, upon the multitude of dark pock-marks dotting them.These caves, were they not the habitations of potential enemies, mightwell become the sanctuaries of spacewrecked men.     He saw, also, a thin ribbon of silver sheering the face of the northernhills. His gaze, rising still skyward, saw other things—     He nodded. He knew, now, where they were. Or approximately. There wasbut one planet in the solar system which boasted such a phenomenon. Theapparent distance of the Sun, judged by its diminished disc, arguedhis judgment to be correct. The fact that they had surged through anatmospheric belt for some length of time before finally meeting withdisaster.     Titan, he said. Hyperion possibly. But probably Titan.     Sparks' gaze, following Greg's upward, contracted in an expression ofdismay.     Dirty cow! You mean that's where we are?     I believe so. There's Saturn, our mother planet, looming above us aslarge as a dinner plate. And the grav-drag here is almost Earth norm.Titan has a 3,000 mile diameter. That, combined with the Saturniantractile constant, would give us a strong pull.     Sparks wailed, But Titan! Great morning, Malcolm, nobody ever comesto Titan! There ain't no mines here, no colonies, no— He stoppedsuddenly, his eyes widening yet farther. And, hey—this place is      dangerous     ! There are—     I know it, said Greg swiftly, quietly. Shut up, Sparks. No usetelling the others. If they don't guess it themselves, what they don'tknow won't alarm them. We've got to do something, though. Get ourselvesorganized into a defensive community. That's the only way—     Ralph Breadon's sharp, dictatorial voice interrupted him. Well,Malcolm, stop soldiering and make yourself useful!     And J. Foster, not to have his authority usurped, supplemented theorder. Yes, Malcolm, let's get going! No time for day-dreaming, myman. We want action!     Sparks said, Maybe you'll get it now, fatty! under his breath, andlooked at Malcolm hopefully. But his companion merely nodded, movedforward toward the others, quietly obedient to the command.     Yes, sir, he said.     Hannigan groaned and followed him.      III     Breadon said, All right, Tommy, dump them here. I have a few words tosay. He glanced about him pompously. Now, folks, naturally we wantto get away from here as soon as possible. Therefore I delegate you,Sparks, to immediately get a message off. An SOS to the nearest spacecruiser.     Hannigan grinned. It was not a pleasant grin. He took his timeanswering. He spat thoughtfully on the ground before him, lifted hishead. He said, A message, huh?     That's what I said.     And what'll I send it with? drawled Sparks. Tom-toms?     Breadon flushed darkly.     I believe the life-skiff was equipped with a radio? And theoreticallyyou are a radio operator?     Finest radio money can buy! interpolated J. Foster Andrews proudly.Put a million credits into the      Carefree     . Best equipment throughout.     Sparks looked from one to another of them, grinned insolently. You'reboth right. I      am     a radio operator, and there      was     a radio. But wecrashed, remember? On account of some dope's sleeve got caught in themaster switch—     That will do! snapped Breadon angrily. He stared at the bandy-leggedlittle redhead. You mean the radio was broken?     It wasn't helped none. The tubes was made out of glass, and glassdon't bounce so good.     Greg Malcolm said thoughtfully, Sparks, can't you fix it?     Well, mebbe. But not in five minutes. Maybe not in five years. I won'tknow till I get going on it.     Breadon frowned.     I'll handle this, Malcolm, he crisped. Again to the radioman, Well,you get to work on it immediately. And as soon as you get it fixed,send out an SOS advising the patrol where we are—     Speaking of which, insinuated Sparks, where are we?     Breadon glared at him wrathfully.     Why—why on one of the satellites of Saturn, of course. Any fool cansee that!     O.Q. But does any fool know which one? Or shall I tell you it's Titan?And when you know that, then what? Titan wasn't named that on accountof it was a pimple. It's a big place. What'll I tell the Patrol?      SOS.Stranded in the middle of we-don't-know-where, somewhere on Titan,maybe.     They'll be hunting for us till we've got whiskers down to ourknees.     Breadon's irate look vanished. He looked stricken. He said, I—I don'tknow. We have a compass—     Once again it was Gregory Malcolm who entered into the conversation. Hehad been toying, almost absentmindedly, with a funnel taken from theskiff's stores. Into this he had poured a small portion of water; hisright forefinger was pressed to the bottom of the tube, closing it. Hesaid, I can answer part of that question now. Enough to cut the searchin half, anyway. We're in the northern hemisphere of the satellite.     Maud Andrews looked at him sharply as if noticing him for the firsttime in her life.     How, she asked, did you know that, Malcolm?  ","	The story begins in the control room of J. Foster Andrews’s space yacht the Carefree, and then proceeds to the dining room. Outside of the Carefreem is a dynamic, glittering web of bright violet light, in stark contrast to the typical black of space. 	As the members of the Andrews family and their household staff escape the Carefree onto a life skiff, the setting changes to the atmosphere of the moon Titan. Now free of the vortex which caused the shimmering lights, the space around their skiff is dark. 	After their uncontrolled descent onto Titan, the passengers of the skiff find themselves at the foot of a ring of shallow mountains, standing on rough soil. The mountains above are green and lush, with periodic caves along their face. In the sky is an image of Saturn, which causes the gravitational pull on the planet to be similar to Earth’s. More broadly, Titan, the moon they are on, is uninhabited and rarely visited. "
"What is the plot of the story? </s>     DELAY IN TRANSIT     By F. L. WALLACE     Illustrated by SIBLEY     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction September 1952.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        An unprovoked, meaningless night attack is       terrifying enough on your own home planet, worse       on a world across the Galaxy. But the horror       is the offer of help that cannot be accepted!        Muscles tense, said Dimanche. Neural index 1.76, unusually high.Adrenalin squirting through his system. In effect, he's stalking you.Intent: probably assault with a deadly weapon.     Not interested, said Cassal firmly, his subvocalization inaudibleto anyone but Dimanche. I'm not the victim type. He was standing onthe walkway near the brink of the thoroughfare. I'm going back to thehabitat hotel and sit tight.     First you have to get there, Dimanche pointed out. I mean, is itsafe for a stranger to walk through the city?     Now that you mention it, no, answered Cassal. He looked aroundapprehensively. Where is he?       Behind you. At the moment he's pretending interest in a merchandisedisplay.     A native stamped by, eyes brown and incurious. Apparently he wasaccustomed to the sight of an Earthman standing alone, Adam's applebobbing up and down silently. It was a Godolphian axiom that alltravelers were crazy.     Cassal looked up. Not an air taxi in sight; Godolph shut down at dusk.It would be pure luck if he found a taxi before morning. Of course he      could     walk back to the hotel, but was that such a good idea?     A Godolphian city was peculiar. And, though not intended, it waspeculiarly suited to certain kinds of violence. A human pedestrian wasat a definite disadvantage.     Correction, said Dimanche. Not simple assault. He has murder inmind.     It still doesn't appeal to me, said Cassal. Striving to lookunconcerned, he strolled toward the building side of the walkway andstared into the interior of a small cafe. Warm, bright and dry. Inside,he might find safety for a time.     Damn the man who was following him! It would be easy enough to eludehim in a normal city. On Godolph, nothing was normal. In an hour thestreets would be brightly lighted—for native eyes. A human wouldconsider it dim.     Why did he choose me? asked Cassal plaintively. There must besomething he hopes to gain.     I'm working on it, said Dimanche. But remember, I have limitations.At short distances I can scan nervous systems, collect and interpretphysiological data. I can't read minds. The best I can do is reportwhat a person says or subvocalizes. If you're really interested infinding out why he wants to kill you, I suggest you turn the problemover to the godawful police.     Godolph, not godawful, corrected Cassal absently.     That was advice he couldn't follow, good as it seemed. He could givethe police no evidence save through Dimanche. There were variousreasons, many of them involving the law, for leaving the device calledDimanche out of it. The police would act if they found a body. His own,say, floating face-down on some quiet street. That didn't seem theproper approach, either.     Weapons?     The first thing I searched him for. Nothing very dangerous. A longknife, a hard striking object. Both concealed on his person.     Cassal strangled slightly. Dimanche needed a good stiff course insemantics. A knife was still the most silent of weapons. A man coulddie from it. His hand strayed toward his pocket. He had a measure ofprotection himself.     Report, said Dimanche. Not necessarily final. Based, perhaps, ontenuous evidence.     Let's have it anyway.     His motivation is connected somehow with your being marooned here. Forsome reason you can't get off this planet.     That was startling information, though not strictly true. A thousandstar systems were waiting for him, and a ship to take him to each one.     Of course, the one ship he wanted hadn't come in. Godolph was atransfer point for stars nearer the center of the Galaxy. When hehad left Earth, he had known he would have to wait a few days here.He hadn't expected a delay of nearly three weeks. Still, it wasn'tunusual. Interstellar schedules over great distances were not asreliable as they might be.     Was this man, whoever and whatever he might be, connected withthat delay? According to Dimanche, the man thought he was. He wasself-deluded or did he have access to information that Cassal didn't?  Denton Cassal, sales engineer, paused for a mental survey of himself.He was a good engineer and, because he was exceptionally well matchedto his instrument, the best salesman that Neuronics, Inc., had. On thebasis of these qualifications, he had been selected to make a longjourney, the first part of which already lay behind him. He had to goto Tunney 21 to see a man. That man wasn't important to anyone save thecompany that employed him, and possibly not even to them.     The thug trailing him wouldn't be interested in Cassal himself, hismission, which was a commercial one, nor the man on Tunney. And moneywasn't the objective, if Dimanche's analysis was right. What      did     thethug want?     Secrets? Cassal had none, except, in a sense, Dimanche. And that wastoo well kept on Earth, where the instrument was invented and made, foranyone this far away to have learned about it.     And yet the thug wanted to kill him. Wanted to? Regarded him as good asdead. It might pay him to investigate the matter further, if it didn'tinvolve too much risk.     Better start moving. That was Dimanche. He's getting suspicious.     Cassal went slowly along the narrow walkway that bordered each side ofthat boulevard, the transport tide. It was raining again. It usuallywas on Godolph, which was a weather-controlled planet where the nativeslike rain.     He adjusted the controls of the weak force field that repelled therain. He widened the angle of the field until water slanted through itunhindered. He narrowed it around him until it approached visibilityand the drops bounced away. He swore at the miserable climate and thenear amphibians who created it.     A few hundred feet away, a Godolphian girl waded out of the transporttide and climbed to the walkway. It was this sort of thing that madelife dangerous for a human—Venice revised, brought up to date in afaster-than-light age.     Water. It was a perfect engineering material. Simple, cheap, infinitelyflexible. With a minimum of mechanism and at break-neck speed, theribbon of the transport tide flowed at different levels throughoutthe city. The Godolphian merely plunged in and was carried swiftlyand noiselessly to his destination. Whereas a human—Cassal shivered.If he were found drowned, it would be considered an accident. Noinvestigation would be made. The thug who was trailing him hadcertainly picked the right place.     The Godolphian girl passed. She wore a sleek brown fur, her own. Cassalwas almost positive she muttered a polite Arf? as she sloshed by.What she meant by that, he didn't know and didn't intend to find out.     Follow her, instructed Dimanche. We've got to investigate our man atcloser range.  Obediently, Cassal turned and began walking after the girl. Attractivein an anthropomorphic, seal-like way, even from behind. Not gracefulout of her element, though.     The would-be assassin was still looking at merchandise as Cassalretraced his steps. A man, or at least man type. A big fellow,physically quite capable of violence, if size had anything to do withit. The face, though, was out of character. Mild, almost meek. Ascientist or scholar. It didn't fit with murder.     Nothing, said Dimanche disgustedly. His mind froze when we gotclose. I could feel his shoulderblades twitching as we passed.Anticipated guilt, of course. Projecting to you the action he plans.That makes the knife definite.     Well beyond the window at which the thug watched and waited, Cassalstopped. Shakily he produced a cigarette and fumbled for a lighter.     Excellent thinking, commended Dimanche. He won't attempt anythingon this street. Too dangerous. Turn aside at the next desertedintersection and let him follow the glow of your cigarette.     The lighter flared in his hand. That's one way of finding out, saidCassal. But wouldn't I be a lot safer if I just concentrated ongetting back to the hotel?     I'm curious. Turn here.     Go to hell, said Cassal nervously. Nevertheless, when he came to thatintersection, he turned there.     It was a Godolphian equivalent of an alley, narrow and dark, oilyslow-moving water gurgling at one side, high cavernous walls looming onthe other.     He would have to adjust the curiosity factor of Dimanche. It was allvery well to be interested in the man who trailed him, but there wasalso the problem of coming out of this adventure alive. Dimanche, anelectronic instrument, naturally wouldn't consider that.     Easy, warned Dimanche. He's at the entrance to the alley, walkingfast. He's surprised and pleased that you took this route.     I'm surprised, too, remarked Cassal. But I wouldn't say I'm pleased.Not just now.     Careful. Even subvocalized conversation is distracting. The mechanismconcealed within his body was silent for an instant and then continued:His blood pressure is rising, breathing is faster. At a time likethis, he may be ready to verbalize why he wants to murder you. This iscritical.     That's no lie, agreed Cassal bitterly. The lighter was in his hand.He clutched it grimly. It was difficult not to look back. The darknessassumed an even more sinister quality.     Quiet, said Dimanche. He's verbalizing about you.     He's decided I'm a nice fellow after all. He's going to stop and askme for a light.     I don't think so, answered Dimanche. He's whispering: 'Poor devil. Ihate to do it. But it's really his life or mine'.     He's more right than he knows. Why all this violence, though? Isn'tthere any clue?     None at all, admitted Dimanche. He's very close. You'd better turnaround.  Cassal turned, pressed the stud on the lighter. It should have made himfeel more secure, but it didn't. He could see very little.     A dim shadow rushed at him. He jumped away from the water side of thealley, barely in time. He could feel the rush of air as the assailantshot by.     Hey! shouted Cassal.     Echoes answered; nothing else did. He had the uncomfortable feelingthat no one was going to come to his assistance.     He wasn't expecting that reaction, explained Dimanche. That's why hemissed. He's turned around and is coming back.     I'm armed! shouted Cassal.     That won't stop him. He doesn't believe you.     Cassal grasped the lighter. That is, it had been a lighter a fewseconds before. Now a needle-thin blade had snapped out and projectedstiffly. Originally it had been designed as an emergency surgicalinstrument. A little imagination and a few changes had altered itsfunction, converting it into a compact, efficient stiletto.     Twenty feet away, advised Dimanche. He knows you can't see him, buthe can see your silhouette by the light from the main thoroughfare.What he doesn't know is that I can detect every move he makes and keepyou posted below the level of his hearing.     Stay on him, growled Cassal nervously. He flattened himself againstthe wall.     To the right, whispered Dimanche. Lunge forward. About five feet.Low.     Sickly, he did so. He didn't care to consider the possible effects ofa miscalculation. In the darkness, how far was five feet? Fortunately,his estimate was correct. The rapier encountered yielding resistance,the soggy kind: flesh. The tough blade bent, but did not break. Hisopponent gasped and broke away.     Attack! howled Dimanche against the bone behind his ear. You've gothim. He can't imagine how you know where he is in the darkness. He'safraid.     Attack he did, slicing about wildly. Some of the thrusts landed; somedidn't. The percentage was low, the total amount high. His opponentfell to the ground, gasped and was silent.     Cassal fumbled in his pockets and flipped on a light. The man lay nearthe water side of the alley. One leg was crumpled under him. He didn'tmove.     Heartbeat slow, said Dimanche solemnly. Breathing barelyperceptible.     Then he's not dead, said Cassal in relief.     Foam flecked from the still lips and ran down the chin. Blood oozedfrom cuts on the face.     Respiration none, heartbeat absent, stated Dimanche.  Horrified, Cassal gazed at the body. Self-defense, of course, butwould the police believe it? Assuming they did, they'd still have toinvestigate. The rapier was an illegal concealed weapon. And they wouldquestion him until they discovered Dimanche. Regrettable, but whatcould he do about it?     Suppose he were detained long enough to miss the ship bound for Tunney21?     Grimly, he laid down the rapier. He might as well get to the bottom ofthis. Why had the man attacked? What did he want?     I don't know, replied Dimanche irritably. I can interpret bodydata—a live body. I can't work on a piece of meat.     Cassal searched the body thoroughly. Miscellaneous personal articlesof no value in identifying the man. A clip with a startling amountof money in it. A small white card with something scribbled on it. Apicture of a woman and a small child posed against a background whichresembled no world Cassal had ever seen. That was all.     Cassal stood up in bewilderment. Dimanche to the contrary, there seemedto be no connection between this dead man and his own problem ofgetting to Tunney 21.     Right now, though, he had to dispose of the body. He glanced toward theboulevard. So far no one had been attracted by the violence.     He bent down to retrieve the lighter-rapier. Dimanche shouted at him.Before he could react, someone landed on him. He fell forward, vainlytrying to grasp the weapon. Strong fingers felt for his throat as hewas forced to the ground.     He threw the attacker off and staggered to his feet. He heard footstepsrushing away. A slight splash followed. Whoever it was, he was escapingby way of water.     Whoever it was. The man he had thought he had slain was no longer insight.     Interpret body data, do you? muttered Cassal. Liveliest dead manI've ever been strangled by.     It's just possible there are some breeds of men who can control thebasic functions of their body, said Dimanche defensively. When Ichecked him, he had no heartbeat.     Remind me not to accept your next evaluation so completely, gruntedCassal. Nevertheless, he was relieved, in a fashion. He hadn't      wanted     to kill the man. And now there was nothing he'd have to explain to thepolice.     He needed the cigarette he stuck between his lips. For the secondtime he attempted to pick up the rapier-lighter. This time he wassuccessful. Smoke swirled into his lungs and quieted his nerves. Hesqueezed the weapon into the shape of a lighter and put it away.     Something, however, was missing—his wallet.     The thug had relieved him of it in the second round of the scuffle.Persistent fellow. Damned persistent.     It really didn't matter. He fingered the clip he had taken from thesupposedly dead body. He had intended to turn it over to the police.Now he might as well keep it to reimburse him for his loss. Itcontained more money than his wallet had.     Except for the identification tab he always carried in his wallet, itwas more than a fair exchange. The identification, a rectangular pieceof plastic, was useful in establishing credit, but with the money henow had, he wouldn't need credit. If he did, he could always send foranother tab.     A white card fluttered from the clip. He caught it as it fell.Curiously he examined it. Blank except for one crudely printed word,STAB. His unknown assailant certainly had tried.  The old man stared at the door, an obsolete visual projector wobblingprecariously on his head. He closed his eyes and the lettering on thedoor disappeared. Cassal was too far away to see what it had been. Thetechnician opened his eyes and concentrated. Slowly a new sign formedon the door.     TRAVELERS AID BUREAU     Murra Foray, First Counselor     It was a drab sign, but, then, it was a dismal, backward planet. Theold technician passed on to the next door and closed his eyes again.     With a sinking feeling, Cassal walked toward the entrance. He neededhelp and he had to find it in this dingy rathole.     Inside, though, it wasn't dingy and it wasn't a rathole. More like amaze, an approved scientific one. Efficient, though not comfortable.Travelers Aid was busier than he thought it would be. Eventually hemanaged to squeeze into one of the many small counseling rooms.     A woman appeared on the screen, crisp and cool. Please answereverything the machine asks. When the tape is complete, I'll beavailable for consultation.     Cassal wasn't sure he was going to like her. Is this necessary? heasked. It's merely a matter of information.     We have certain regulations we abide by. The woman smiled frostily.I can't give you any information until you comply with them.     Sometimes regulations are silly, said Cassal firmly. Let me speak tothe first counselor.     You are speaking to her, she said. Her face disappeared from thescreen.     Cassal sighed. So far he hadn't made a good impression.     Travelers Aid Bureau, in addition to regulations, was abundantlysupplied with official curiosity. When the machine finished with him,Cassal had the feeling he could be recreated from the record it had ofhim. His individuality had been capsuled into a series of questions andanswers. One thing he drew the line at—why he wanted to go to Tunney21 was his own business.     The first counselor reappeared. Age, indeterminate. Not, he supposed,that anyone would be curious about it. Slightly taller than average,rather on the slender side. Face was broad at the brow, narrow at thechin and her eyes were enigmatic. A dangerous woman.  She glanced down at the data. Denton Cassal, native of Earth.Destination, Tunney 21. She looked up at him. Occupation, salesengineer. Isn't that an odd combination? Her smile was quite superior.     Not at all. Scientific training as an engineer. Special knowledge ofcustomer relations.     Special knowledge of a thousand races? How convenient. Her eyebrowsarched.     I think so, he agreed blandly. Anything else you'd like to know?     Sorry. I didn't mean to offend you.     He could believe that or not as he wished. He didn't.     You refused to answer why you were going to Tunney 21. Perhaps I canguess. They're the best scientists in the Galaxy. You wish to studyunder them.     Close—but wrong on two counts. They were good scientists, though notnecessarily the best. For instance, it was doubtful that they couldbuild Dimanche, even if they had ever thought of it, which was evenless likely.     There was, however, one relatively obscure research worker on Tunney 21that Neuronics wanted on their staff. If the fragments of his studiesthat had reached Earth across the vast distance meant anything, hecould help Neuronics perfect instantaneous radio. The company thatcould build a radio to span the reaches of the Galaxy with no time lagcould set its own price, which could be control of all communications,transport, trade—a galactic monopoly. Cassal's share would be a cut ofall that.     His part was simple, on the surface. He was to persuade that researcherto come to Earth,      if he could     . Literally, he had to guess theTunnesian's price before the Tunnesian himself knew it. In addition,the reputation of Tunnesian scientists being exceeded only by theirarrogance, Cassal had to convince him that he wouldn't be workingfor ignorant Earth savages. The existence of such an instrument asDimanche was a key factor.     Her voice broke through his thoughts. Now, then, what's your problem?     I was told on Earth I might have to wait a few days on Godolph. I'vebeen here three weeks. I want information on the ship bound for Tunney21.     Just a moment. She glanced at something below the angle of thescreen. She looked up and her eyes were grave.       Rickrock C     arrivedyesterday. Departed for Tunney early this morning.     Departed? He got up and sat down again, swallowing hard. When willthe next ship arrive?     Do you know how many stars there are in the Galaxy? she asked.     He didn't answer.  That's right, she said. Billions. Tunney, according to the notation,is near the center of the Galaxy, inside the third ring. You'vecovered about a third of the distance to it. Local traffic, anythingwithin a thousand light-years, is relatively easy to manage. At longerdistances, you take a chance. You've had yours and missed it. Frankly,Cassal, I don't know when another ship bound for Tunney will show up onor near Godolph. Within the next five years—maybe.  He blanched. How long would it take to get there using localtransportation, star-hopping?     Take my advice: don't try it. Five years, if you're lucky.     I don't need that kind of luck.     I suppose not. She hesitated. You're determined to go on? At theemphatic nod, she sighed. If that's your decision, we'll try to helpyou. To start things moving, we'll need a print of your identificationtab.     There's something funny about her, Dimanche decided. It was the usualspeaking voice of the instrument, no louder than the noise the bloodmade in coursing through arteries and veins. Cassal could hear itplainly, because it was virtually inside his ear.     Cassal ignored his private voice. Identification tab? I don't have itwith me. In fact, I may have lost it.     She smiled in instant disbelief. We're not trying to pry into anypart of your past you may wish concealed. However, it's much easierfor us to help you if you have your identification. Now if you can't      remember     your real name and where you put your identification— Shearose and left the screen. Just a moment.     He glared uneasily at the spot where the first counselor wasn't. His      real     name!     Relax, Dimanche suggested. She didn't mean it as a personal insult.     Presently she returned.     I have news for you, whoever you are.     Cassal, he said firmly. Denton Cassal, sales engineer, Earth. If youdon't believe it, send back to— He stopped. It had taken him fourmonths to get to Godolph, non-stop, plus a six-month wait on Earth fora ship to show up that was bound in the right direction. Over distancessuch as these, it just wasn't practical to send back to Earth foranything.     I see you understand. She glanced at the card in her hand. Thespaceport records indicate that when      Rickrock C     took off thismorning, there was a Denton Cassal on board, bound for Tunney 21.     It wasn't I, he said dazedly. He knew who it was, though. The man whohad tried to kill him last night. The reason for the attack now becameclear. The thug had wanted his identification tab. Worse, he had gottenit.     No doubt it wasn't, she said wearily. Outsiders don't seem tounderstand what galactic travel entails.     Outsiders? Evidently what she called those who lived beyond the secondtransfer ring. Were those who lived at the edge of the Galaxy, beyondthe first ring, called Rimmers? Probably.  She was still speaking: Ten years to cross the Galaxy, withoutstopping. At present, no ship is capable of that. Real scheduling isimpossible. Populations shift and have to be supplied. A ship is takenoff a run for repairs and is never put back on. It's more urgentlyneeded elsewhere. The man who depended on it is left waiting; yearspass before he learns it's never coming.     If we had instantaneous radio, that would help. Confusion wouldn'tvanish overnight, but it would diminish. We wouldn't have to dependon ships for all the news. Reservations could be made ahead of time,credit established, lost identification replaced—     I've traveled before, he interrupted stiffly. I've never had anytrouble.     She seemed to be exaggerating the difficulties. True, the center wasmore congested. Taking each star as the starting point for a limitednumber of ships and using statistical probability as a guide—why, noman would arrive at his predetermined destination.     But that wasn't the way it worked. Manifestly, you couldn't comparegalactic transportation to the erratic paths of air molecules in agiant room. Or could you?     For the average man, anyone who didn't have his own inter-stellar ship,was the comparison too apt? It might be.     You've traveled outside, where there are still free planets waiting tobe settled. Where a man is welcome, if he's able to work. She paused.The center is different. Populations are excessive. Inside the thirdring, no man is allowed off a ship without an identification tab. Theydon't encourage immigration.     In effect, that meant no ship bound for the center would take apassenger without identification. No ship owner would run the risk ofhaving a permanent guest on board, someone who couldn't be rid of whenhis money was gone.     Cassal held his head in his hands. Tunney 21 was inside the third ring.     Next time, she said, don't let anyone take your identification.     I won't, he promised grimly.  The woman looked directly at him. Her eyes were bright. He revised hisestimate of her age drastically downward. She couldn't be as old as he.Nothing outward had happened, but she no longer seemed dowdy. Not thathe was interested. Still, it might pay him to be friendly to the firstcounselor.     We're a philanthropic agency, said Murra Foray. Your case isspecial, though—     I understand, he said gruffly. You accept contributions.     She nodded. If the donor is able to give. We don't ask so much thatyou'll have to compromise your standard of living. But she named a sumthat would force him to do just that if getting to Tunney 21 took anyappreciable time.     He stared at her unhappily. I suppose it's worth it. I can alwayswork, if I have to.     As a salesman? she asked. I'm afraid you'll find it difficult to dobusiness with Godolphians.     Irony wasn't called for at a time like this, he thought reproachfully.     Not just another salesman, he answered definitely. I have specialknowledge of customer reactions. I can tell exactly—     He stopped abruptly. Was she baiting him? For what reason? Theinstrument he called Dimanche was not known to the Galaxy at large.From the business angle, it would be poor policy to hand out thatinformation at random. Aside from that, he needed every advantage hecould get. Dimanche was his special advantage.     Anyway, he finished lamely, I'm a first class engineer. I canalways find something in that line.     A scientist, maybe, murmured Murra Foray. But in this part of theMilky Way, an engineer is regarded as merely a technician who hasn'tyet gained practical experience. She shook her head. You'll do betteras a salesman.     He got up, glowering. If that's all—     It is. We'll keep you informed. Drop your contribution in the slotprovided for that purpose as you leave.     A door, which he hadn't noticed in entering the counselling cubicle,swung open. The agency was efficient.     Remember, the counselor called out as he left, identification ishard to work with. Don't accept a crude forgery.     He didn't answer, but it was an idea worth considering. The agency wasalso eminently practical.     The exit path guided him firmly to an inconspicuous and yet inescapablecontribution station. He began to doubt the philanthropic aspect of thebureau.  I've got it, said Dimanche as Cassal gloomily counted out the sum thefirst counselor had named.     Got what? asked Cassal. He rolled the currency into a neat bundle,attached his name, and dropped it into the chute.     The woman, Murra Foray, the first counselor. She's a Huntner.     What's a Huntner?     A sub-race of men on the other side of the Galaxy. She was vocalizingabout her home planet when I managed to locate her.     Any other information?     None. Electronic guards were sliding into place as soon as I reachedher. I got out as fast as I could.     I see. The significance of that, if any, escaped him. Nevertheless,it sounded depressing.     What I want to know is, said Dimanche, why such precautions aselectronic guards? What does Travelers Aid have that's so secret?     Cassal grunted and didn't answer. Dimanche could be annoyinglyinquisitive at times.     Cassal had entered one side of a block-square building. He came out onthe other side. The agency was larger than he had thought. The old manwas staring at a door as Cassal came out. He had apparently changedevery sign in the building. His work finished, the technician wasremoving the visual projector from his head as Cassal came up to him.He turned and peered.     You stuck here, too? he asked in the uneven voice of the aged.     Stuck? repeated Cassal. I suppose you can call it that. I'm waitingfor my ship. He frowned. He was the one who wanted to ask questions.Why all the redecoration? I thought Travelers Aid was an old agency.Why did you change so many signs? I could understand it if the agencywere new.     The old man chuckled. Re-organization. The previous first counselorresigned suddenly, in the middle of the night, they say. The new onedidn't like the name of the agency, so she ordered it changed.     She would do just that, thought Cassal. What about this Murra Foray?     The old man winked mysteriously. He opened his mouth and then seemedovercome with senile fright. Hurriedly he shuffled away.     Cassal gazed after him, baffled. The old man was afraid for his job,afraid of the first counselor. Why he should be, Cassal didn't know. Heshrugged and went on. The agency was now in motion in his behalf, buthe didn't intend to depend on that alone.  ","Denton Cassal is a sales engineer of Neuronics, Inc., from Earth. On a business trip to Tunney 21, he awaits his next ship on the planet of Godolph. One evening, Cassal is warned by Dimanche, an informative electronic companion, that he is being stalked by a man. The man's motives are not completely known, but according to Dimanche, the man is intending to murder Cassal. One thing is known, which is that the man's objective is related to Cassal being stranded on Godolph. As it begins to rain heavily, Cassal attempts to evade the man with the help of Dimanche; he follows a Godolphian girl and turns into an alleyway. As they pass by the man, Dimanche notes that he is becoming increasingly suspicious. Cassal leads the man into an alleyway, and as the dusk turns to darkness, Dimanche assists him in dodging and fighting the man. With a lighter-turned-knife, Cassal is able to attack the man and stab him several times. According to Dimanche, the man is presumed dead, although moments later the man strangles Cassal and steals his wallet. The next day, Cassal visits the Travelers Aid Bureau, where Murra Foray, the First Counselor, prods him for information, including why he is on his way to Tunney 21. Avoiding the question, Cassal asks about the status of the next ship to Tunney 21. He learns that the ship departed from Godolph that morning, and that someone named Denton Cassal did board it; he then realizes that the man who attacked him the night before used the identification from his wallet to board that ship. Stranded and uncertain of how long he would have to wait for another ship, Cassal is out of options. He contributes a donation to the bureau as he leaves. Dimanche reports that he tried to gather information on Foray, but only got her home planet, as electronic guards were blocking the rest of the information, which Dimanche finds suspicious. On his way out of the agency, Cassal encounters a man that works for Traveler's Aid, but flees after being asked about Murra Foray. Cassal continues on as he remains stranded on Godolph. "
"Who is Dimanche, and how is he used in the story? </s>     DELAY IN TRANSIT     By F. L. WALLACE     Illustrated by SIBLEY     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction September 1952.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        An unprovoked, meaningless night attack is       terrifying enough on your own home planet, worse       on a world across the Galaxy. But the horror       is the offer of help that cannot be accepted!        Muscles tense, said Dimanche. Neural index 1.76, unusually high.Adrenalin squirting through his system. In effect, he's stalking you.Intent: probably assault with a deadly weapon.     Not interested, said Cassal firmly, his subvocalization inaudibleto anyone but Dimanche. I'm not the victim type. He was standing onthe walkway near the brink of the thoroughfare. I'm going back to thehabitat hotel and sit tight.     First you have to get there, Dimanche pointed out. I mean, is itsafe for a stranger to walk through the city?     Now that you mention it, no, answered Cassal. He looked aroundapprehensively. Where is he?       Behind you. At the moment he's pretending interest in a merchandisedisplay.     A native stamped by, eyes brown and incurious. Apparently he wasaccustomed to the sight of an Earthman standing alone, Adam's applebobbing up and down silently. It was a Godolphian axiom that alltravelers were crazy.     Cassal looked up. Not an air taxi in sight; Godolph shut down at dusk.It would be pure luck if he found a taxi before morning. Of course he      could     walk back to the hotel, but was that such a good idea?     A Godolphian city was peculiar. And, though not intended, it waspeculiarly suited to certain kinds of violence. A human pedestrian wasat a definite disadvantage.     Correction, said Dimanche. Not simple assault. He has murder inmind.     It still doesn't appeal to me, said Cassal. Striving to lookunconcerned, he strolled toward the building side of the walkway andstared into the interior of a small cafe. Warm, bright and dry. Inside,he might find safety for a time.     Damn the man who was following him! It would be easy enough to eludehim in a normal city. On Godolph, nothing was normal. In an hour thestreets would be brightly lighted—for native eyes. A human wouldconsider it dim.     Why did he choose me? asked Cassal plaintively. There must besomething he hopes to gain.     I'm working on it, said Dimanche. But remember, I have limitations.At short distances I can scan nervous systems, collect and interpretphysiological data. I can't read minds. The best I can do is reportwhat a person says or subvocalizes. If you're really interested infinding out why he wants to kill you, I suggest you turn the problemover to the godawful police.     Godolph, not godawful, corrected Cassal absently.     That was advice he couldn't follow, good as it seemed. He could givethe police no evidence save through Dimanche. There were variousreasons, many of them involving the law, for leaving the device calledDimanche out of it. The police would act if they found a body. His own,say, floating face-down on some quiet street. That didn't seem theproper approach, either.     Weapons?     The first thing I searched him for. Nothing very dangerous. A longknife, a hard striking object. Both concealed on his person.     Cassal strangled slightly. Dimanche needed a good stiff course insemantics. A knife was still the most silent of weapons. A man coulddie from it. His hand strayed toward his pocket. He had a measure ofprotection himself.     Report, said Dimanche. Not necessarily final. Based, perhaps, ontenuous evidence.     Let's have it anyway.     His motivation is connected somehow with your being marooned here. Forsome reason you can't get off this planet.     That was startling information, though not strictly true. A thousandstar systems were waiting for him, and a ship to take him to each one.     Of course, the one ship he wanted hadn't come in. Godolph was atransfer point for stars nearer the center of the Galaxy. When hehad left Earth, he had known he would have to wait a few days here.He hadn't expected a delay of nearly three weeks. Still, it wasn'tunusual. Interstellar schedules over great distances were not asreliable as they might be.     Was this man, whoever and whatever he might be, connected withthat delay? According to Dimanche, the man thought he was. He wasself-deluded or did he have access to information that Cassal didn't?  Denton Cassal, sales engineer, paused for a mental survey of himself.He was a good engineer and, because he was exceptionally well matchedto his instrument, the best salesman that Neuronics, Inc., had. On thebasis of these qualifications, he had been selected to make a longjourney, the first part of which already lay behind him. He had to goto Tunney 21 to see a man. That man wasn't important to anyone save thecompany that employed him, and possibly not even to them.     The thug trailing him wouldn't be interested in Cassal himself, hismission, which was a commercial one, nor the man on Tunney. And moneywasn't the objective, if Dimanche's analysis was right. What      did     thethug want?     Secrets? Cassal had none, except, in a sense, Dimanche. And that wastoo well kept on Earth, where the instrument was invented and made, foranyone this far away to have learned about it.     And yet the thug wanted to kill him. Wanted to? Regarded him as good asdead. It might pay him to investigate the matter further, if it didn'tinvolve too much risk.     Better start moving. That was Dimanche. He's getting suspicious.     Cassal went slowly along the narrow walkway that bordered each side ofthat boulevard, the transport tide. It was raining again. It usuallywas on Godolph, which was a weather-controlled planet where the nativeslike rain.     He adjusted the controls of the weak force field that repelled therain. He widened the angle of the field until water slanted through itunhindered. He narrowed it around him until it approached visibilityand the drops bounced away. He swore at the miserable climate and thenear amphibians who created it.     A few hundred feet away, a Godolphian girl waded out of the transporttide and climbed to the walkway. It was this sort of thing that madelife dangerous for a human—Venice revised, brought up to date in afaster-than-light age.     Water. It was a perfect engineering material. Simple, cheap, infinitelyflexible. With a minimum of mechanism and at break-neck speed, theribbon of the transport tide flowed at different levels throughoutthe city. The Godolphian merely plunged in and was carried swiftlyand noiselessly to his destination. Whereas a human—Cassal shivered.If he were found drowned, it would be considered an accident. Noinvestigation would be made. The thug who was trailing him hadcertainly picked the right place.     The Godolphian girl passed. She wore a sleek brown fur, her own. Cassalwas almost positive she muttered a polite Arf? as she sloshed by.What she meant by that, he didn't know and didn't intend to find out.     Follow her, instructed Dimanche. We've got to investigate our man atcloser range.  Obediently, Cassal turned and began walking after the girl. Attractivein an anthropomorphic, seal-like way, even from behind. Not gracefulout of her element, though.     The would-be assassin was still looking at merchandise as Cassalretraced his steps. A man, or at least man type. A big fellow,physically quite capable of violence, if size had anything to do withit. The face, though, was out of character. Mild, almost meek. Ascientist or scholar. It didn't fit with murder.     Nothing, said Dimanche disgustedly. His mind froze when we gotclose. I could feel his shoulderblades twitching as we passed.Anticipated guilt, of course. Projecting to you the action he plans.That makes the knife definite.     Well beyond the window at which the thug watched and waited, Cassalstopped. Shakily he produced a cigarette and fumbled for a lighter.     Excellent thinking, commended Dimanche. He won't attempt anythingon this street. Too dangerous. Turn aside at the next desertedintersection and let him follow the glow of your cigarette.     The lighter flared in his hand. That's one way of finding out, saidCassal. But wouldn't I be a lot safer if I just concentrated ongetting back to the hotel?     I'm curious. Turn here.     Go to hell, said Cassal nervously. Nevertheless, when he came to thatintersection, he turned there.     It was a Godolphian equivalent of an alley, narrow and dark, oilyslow-moving water gurgling at one side, high cavernous walls looming onthe other.     He would have to adjust the curiosity factor of Dimanche. It was allvery well to be interested in the man who trailed him, but there wasalso the problem of coming out of this adventure alive. Dimanche, anelectronic instrument, naturally wouldn't consider that.     Easy, warned Dimanche. He's at the entrance to the alley, walkingfast. He's surprised and pleased that you took this route.     I'm surprised, too, remarked Cassal. But I wouldn't say I'm pleased.Not just now.     Careful. Even subvocalized conversation is distracting. The mechanismconcealed within his body was silent for an instant and then continued:His blood pressure is rising, breathing is faster. At a time likethis, he may be ready to verbalize why he wants to murder you. This iscritical.     That's no lie, agreed Cassal bitterly. The lighter was in his hand.He clutched it grimly. It was difficult not to look back. The darknessassumed an even more sinister quality.     Quiet, said Dimanche. He's verbalizing about you.     He's decided I'm a nice fellow after all. He's going to stop and askme for a light.     I don't think so, answered Dimanche. He's whispering: 'Poor devil. Ihate to do it. But it's really his life or mine'.     He's more right than he knows. Why all this violence, though? Isn'tthere any clue?     None at all, admitted Dimanche. He's very close. You'd better turnaround.  Cassal turned, pressed the stud on the lighter. It should have made himfeel more secure, but it didn't. He could see very little.     A dim shadow rushed at him. He jumped away from the water side of thealley, barely in time. He could feel the rush of air as the assailantshot by.     Hey! shouted Cassal.     Echoes answered; nothing else did. He had the uncomfortable feelingthat no one was going to come to his assistance.     He wasn't expecting that reaction, explained Dimanche. That's why hemissed. He's turned around and is coming back.     I'm armed! shouted Cassal.     That won't stop him. He doesn't believe you.     Cassal grasped the lighter. That is, it had been a lighter a fewseconds before. Now a needle-thin blade had snapped out and projectedstiffly. Originally it had been designed as an emergency surgicalinstrument. A little imagination and a few changes had altered itsfunction, converting it into a compact, efficient stiletto.     Twenty feet away, advised Dimanche. He knows you can't see him, buthe can see your silhouette by the light from the main thoroughfare.What he doesn't know is that I can detect every move he makes and keepyou posted below the level of his hearing.     Stay on him, growled Cassal nervously. He flattened himself againstthe wall.     To the right, whispered Dimanche. Lunge forward. About five feet.Low.     Sickly, he did so. He didn't care to consider the possible effects ofa miscalculation. In the darkness, how far was five feet? Fortunately,his estimate was correct. The rapier encountered yielding resistance,the soggy kind: flesh. The tough blade bent, but did not break. Hisopponent gasped and broke away.     Attack! howled Dimanche against the bone behind his ear. You've gothim. He can't imagine how you know where he is in the darkness. He'safraid.     Attack he did, slicing about wildly. Some of the thrusts landed; somedidn't. The percentage was low, the total amount high. His opponentfell to the ground, gasped and was silent.     Cassal fumbled in his pockets and flipped on a light. The man lay nearthe water side of the alley. One leg was crumpled under him. He didn'tmove.     Heartbeat slow, said Dimanche solemnly. Breathing barelyperceptible.     Then he's not dead, said Cassal in relief.     Foam flecked from the still lips and ran down the chin. Blood oozedfrom cuts on the face.     Respiration none, heartbeat absent, stated Dimanche.  Horrified, Cassal gazed at the body. Self-defense, of course, butwould the police believe it? Assuming they did, they'd still have toinvestigate. The rapier was an illegal concealed weapon. And they wouldquestion him until they discovered Dimanche. Regrettable, but whatcould he do about it?     Suppose he were detained long enough to miss the ship bound for Tunney21?     Grimly, he laid down the rapier. He might as well get to the bottom ofthis. Why had the man attacked? What did he want?     I don't know, replied Dimanche irritably. I can interpret bodydata—a live body. I can't work on a piece of meat.     Cassal searched the body thoroughly. Miscellaneous personal articlesof no value in identifying the man. A clip with a startling amountof money in it. A small white card with something scribbled on it. Apicture of a woman and a small child posed against a background whichresembled no world Cassal had ever seen. That was all.     Cassal stood up in bewilderment. Dimanche to the contrary, there seemedto be no connection between this dead man and his own problem ofgetting to Tunney 21.     Right now, though, he had to dispose of the body. He glanced toward theboulevard. So far no one had been attracted by the violence.     He bent down to retrieve the lighter-rapier. Dimanche shouted at him.Before he could react, someone landed on him. He fell forward, vainlytrying to grasp the weapon. Strong fingers felt for his throat as hewas forced to the ground.     He threw the attacker off and staggered to his feet. He heard footstepsrushing away. A slight splash followed. Whoever it was, he was escapingby way of water.     Whoever it was. The man he had thought he had slain was no longer insight.     Interpret body data, do you? muttered Cassal. Liveliest dead manI've ever been strangled by.     It's just possible there are some breeds of men who can control thebasic functions of their body, said Dimanche defensively. When Ichecked him, he had no heartbeat.     Remind me not to accept your next evaluation so completely, gruntedCassal. Nevertheless, he was relieved, in a fashion. He hadn't      wanted     to kill the man. And now there was nothing he'd have to explain to thepolice.     He needed the cigarette he stuck between his lips. For the secondtime he attempted to pick up the rapier-lighter. This time he wassuccessful. Smoke swirled into his lungs and quieted his nerves. Hesqueezed the weapon into the shape of a lighter and put it away.     Something, however, was missing—his wallet.     The thug had relieved him of it in the second round of the scuffle.Persistent fellow. Damned persistent.     It really didn't matter. He fingered the clip he had taken from thesupposedly dead body. He had intended to turn it over to the police.Now he might as well keep it to reimburse him for his loss. Itcontained more money than his wallet had.     Except for the identification tab he always carried in his wallet, itwas more than a fair exchange. The identification, a rectangular pieceof plastic, was useful in establishing credit, but with the money henow had, he wouldn't need credit. If he did, he could always send foranother tab.     A white card fluttered from the clip. He caught it as it fell.Curiously he examined it. Blank except for one crudely printed word,STAB. His unknown assailant certainly had tried.  The old man stared at the door, an obsolete visual projector wobblingprecariously on his head. He closed his eyes and the lettering on thedoor disappeared. Cassal was too far away to see what it had been. Thetechnician opened his eyes and concentrated. Slowly a new sign formedon the door.     TRAVELERS AID BUREAU     Murra Foray, First Counselor     It was a drab sign, but, then, it was a dismal, backward planet. Theold technician passed on to the next door and closed his eyes again.     With a sinking feeling, Cassal walked toward the entrance. He neededhelp and he had to find it in this dingy rathole.     Inside, though, it wasn't dingy and it wasn't a rathole. More like amaze, an approved scientific one. Efficient, though not comfortable.Travelers Aid was busier than he thought it would be. Eventually hemanaged to squeeze into one of the many small counseling rooms.     A woman appeared on the screen, crisp and cool. Please answereverything the machine asks. When the tape is complete, I'll beavailable for consultation.     Cassal wasn't sure he was going to like her. Is this necessary? heasked. It's merely a matter of information.     We have certain regulations we abide by. The woman smiled frostily.I can't give you any information until you comply with them.     Sometimes regulations are silly, said Cassal firmly. Let me speak tothe first counselor.     You are speaking to her, she said. Her face disappeared from thescreen.     Cassal sighed. So far he hadn't made a good impression.     Travelers Aid Bureau, in addition to regulations, was abundantlysupplied with official curiosity. When the machine finished with him,Cassal had the feeling he could be recreated from the record it had ofhim. His individuality had been capsuled into a series of questions andanswers. One thing he drew the line at—why he wanted to go to Tunney21 was his own business.     The first counselor reappeared. Age, indeterminate. Not, he supposed,that anyone would be curious about it. Slightly taller than average,rather on the slender side. Face was broad at the brow, narrow at thechin and her eyes were enigmatic. A dangerous woman.  She glanced down at the data. Denton Cassal, native of Earth.Destination, Tunney 21. She looked up at him. Occupation, salesengineer. Isn't that an odd combination? Her smile was quite superior.     Not at all. Scientific training as an engineer. Special knowledge ofcustomer relations.     Special knowledge of a thousand races? How convenient. Her eyebrowsarched.     I think so, he agreed blandly. Anything else you'd like to know?     Sorry. I didn't mean to offend you.     He could believe that or not as he wished. He didn't.     You refused to answer why you were going to Tunney 21. Perhaps I canguess. They're the best scientists in the Galaxy. You wish to studyunder them.     Close—but wrong on two counts. They were good scientists, though notnecessarily the best. For instance, it was doubtful that they couldbuild Dimanche, even if they had ever thought of it, which was evenless likely.     There was, however, one relatively obscure research worker on Tunney 21that Neuronics wanted on their staff. If the fragments of his studiesthat had reached Earth across the vast distance meant anything, hecould help Neuronics perfect instantaneous radio. The company thatcould build a radio to span the reaches of the Galaxy with no time lagcould set its own price, which could be control of all communications,transport, trade—a galactic monopoly. Cassal's share would be a cut ofall that.     His part was simple, on the surface. He was to persuade that researcherto come to Earth,      if he could     . Literally, he had to guess theTunnesian's price before the Tunnesian himself knew it. In addition,the reputation of Tunnesian scientists being exceeded only by theirarrogance, Cassal had to convince him that he wouldn't be workingfor ignorant Earth savages. The existence of such an instrument asDimanche was a key factor.     Her voice broke through his thoughts. Now, then, what's your problem?     I was told on Earth I might have to wait a few days on Godolph. I'vebeen here three weeks. I want information on the ship bound for Tunney21.     Just a moment. She glanced at something below the angle of thescreen. She looked up and her eyes were grave.       Rickrock C     arrivedyesterday. Departed for Tunney early this morning.     Departed? He got up and sat down again, swallowing hard. When willthe next ship arrive?     Do you know how many stars there are in the Galaxy? she asked.     He didn't answer.  That's right, she said. Billions. Tunney, according to the notation,is near the center of the Galaxy, inside the third ring. You'vecovered about a third of the distance to it. Local traffic, anythingwithin a thousand light-years, is relatively easy to manage. At longerdistances, you take a chance. You've had yours and missed it. Frankly,Cassal, I don't know when another ship bound for Tunney will show up onor near Godolph. Within the next five years—maybe.  He blanched. How long would it take to get there using localtransportation, star-hopping?     Take my advice: don't try it. Five years, if you're lucky.     I don't need that kind of luck.     I suppose not. She hesitated. You're determined to go on? At theemphatic nod, she sighed. If that's your decision, we'll try to helpyou. To start things moving, we'll need a print of your identificationtab.     There's something funny about her, Dimanche decided. It was the usualspeaking voice of the instrument, no louder than the noise the bloodmade in coursing through arteries and veins. Cassal could hear itplainly, because it was virtually inside his ear.     Cassal ignored his private voice. Identification tab? I don't have itwith me. In fact, I may have lost it.     She smiled in instant disbelief. We're not trying to pry into anypart of your past you may wish concealed. However, it's much easierfor us to help you if you have your identification. Now if you can't      remember     your real name and where you put your identification— Shearose and left the screen. Just a moment.     He glared uneasily at the spot where the first counselor wasn't. His      real     name!     Relax, Dimanche suggested. She didn't mean it as a personal insult.     Presently she returned.     I have news for you, whoever you are.     Cassal, he said firmly. Denton Cassal, sales engineer, Earth. If youdon't believe it, send back to— He stopped. It had taken him fourmonths to get to Godolph, non-stop, plus a six-month wait on Earth fora ship to show up that was bound in the right direction. Over distancessuch as these, it just wasn't practical to send back to Earth foranything.     I see you understand. She glanced at the card in her hand. Thespaceport records indicate that when      Rickrock C     took off thismorning, there was a Denton Cassal on board, bound for Tunney 21.     It wasn't I, he said dazedly. He knew who it was, though. The man whohad tried to kill him last night. The reason for the attack now becameclear. The thug had wanted his identification tab. Worse, he had gottenit.     No doubt it wasn't, she said wearily. Outsiders don't seem tounderstand what galactic travel entails.     Outsiders? Evidently what she called those who lived beyond the secondtransfer ring. Were those who lived at the edge of the Galaxy, beyondthe first ring, called Rimmers? Probably.  She was still speaking: Ten years to cross the Galaxy, withoutstopping. At present, no ship is capable of that. Real scheduling isimpossible. Populations shift and have to be supplied. A ship is takenoff a run for repairs and is never put back on. It's more urgentlyneeded elsewhere. The man who depended on it is left waiting; yearspass before he learns it's never coming.     If we had instantaneous radio, that would help. Confusion wouldn'tvanish overnight, but it would diminish. We wouldn't have to dependon ships for all the news. Reservations could be made ahead of time,credit established, lost identification replaced—     I've traveled before, he interrupted stiffly. I've never had anytrouble.     She seemed to be exaggerating the difficulties. True, the center wasmore congested. Taking each star as the starting point for a limitednumber of ships and using statistical probability as a guide—why, noman would arrive at his predetermined destination.     But that wasn't the way it worked. Manifestly, you couldn't comparegalactic transportation to the erratic paths of air molecules in agiant room. Or could you?     For the average man, anyone who didn't have his own inter-stellar ship,was the comparison too apt? It might be.     You've traveled outside, where there are still free planets waiting tobe settled. Where a man is welcome, if he's able to work. She paused.The center is different. Populations are excessive. Inside the thirdring, no man is allowed off a ship without an identification tab. Theydon't encourage immigration.     In effect, that meant no ship bound for the center would take apassenger without identification. No ship owner would run the risk ofhaving a permanent guest on board, someone who couldn't be rid of whenhis money was gone.     Cassal held his head in his hands. Tunney 21 was inside the third ring.     Next time, she said, don't let anyone take your identification.     I won't, he promised grimly.  The woman looked directly at him. Her eyes were bright. He revised hisestimate of her age drastically downward. She couldn't be as old as he.Nothing outward had happened, but she no longer seemed dowdy. Not thathe was interested. Still, it might pay him to be friendly to the firstcounselor.     We're a philanthropic agency, said Murra Foray. Your case isspecial, though—     I understand, he said gruffly. You accept contributions.     She nodded. If the donor is able to give. We don't ask so much thatyou'll have to compromise your standard of living. But she named a sumthat would force him to do just that if getting to Tunney 21 took anyappreciable time.     He stared at her unhappily. I suppose it's worth it. I can alwayswork, if I have to.     As a salesman? she asked. I'm afraid you'll find it difficult to dobusiness with Godolphians.     Irony wasn't called for at a time like this, he thought reproachfully.     Not just another salesman, he answered definitely. I have specialknowledge of customer reactions. I can tell exactly—     He stopped abruptly. Was she baiting him? For what reason? Theinstrument he called Dimanche was not known to the Galaxy at large.From the business angle, it would be poor policy to hand out thatinformation at random. Aside from that, he needed every advantage hecould get. Dimanche was his special advantage.     Anyway, he finished lamely, I'm a first class engineer. I canalways find something in that line.     A scientist, maybe, murmured Murra Foray. But in this part of theMilky Way, an engineer is regarded as merely a technician who hasn'tyet gained practical experience. She shook her head. You'll do betteras a salesman.     He got up, glowering. If that's all—     It is. We'll keep you informed. Drop your contribution in the slotprovided for that purpose as you leave.     A door, which he hadn't noticed in entering the counselling cubicle,swung open. The agency was efficient.     Remember, the counselor called out as he left, identification ishard to work with. Don't accept a crude forgery.     He didn't answer, but it was an idea worth considering. The agency wasalso eminently practical.     The exit path guided him firmly to an inconspicuous and yet inescapablecontribution station. He began to doubt the philanthropic aspect of thebureau.  I've got it, said Dimanche as Cassal gloomily counted out the sum thefirst counselor had named.     Got what? asked Cassal. He rolled the currency into a neat bundle,attached his name, and dropped it into the chute.     The woman, Murra Foray, the first counselor. She's a Huntner.     What's a Huntner?     A sub-race of men on the other side of the Galaxy. She was vocalizingabout her home planet when I managed to locate her.     Any other information?     None. Electronic guards were sliding into place as soon as I reachedher. I got out as fast as I could.     I see. The significance of that, if any, escaped him. Nevertheless,it sounded depressing.     What I want to know is, said Dimanche, why such precautions aselectronic guards? What does Travelers Aid have that's so secret?     Cassal grunted and didn't answer. Dimanche could be annoyinglyinquisitive at times.     Cassal had entered one side of a block-square building. He came out onthe other side. The agency was larger than he had thought. The old manwas staring at a door as Cassal came out. He had apparently changedevery sign in the building. His work finished, the technician wasremoving the visual projector from his head as Cassal came up to him.He turned and peered.     You stuck here, too? he asked in the uneven voice of the aged.     Stuck? repeated Cassal. I suppose you can call it that. I'm waitingfor my ship. He frowned. He was the one who wanted to ask questions.Why all the redecoration? I thought Travelers Aid was an old agency.Why did you change so many signs? I could understand it if the agencywere new.     The old man chuckled. Re-organization. The previous first counselorresigned suddenly, in the middle of the night, they say. The new onedidn't like the name of the agency, so she ordered it changed.     She would do just that, thought Cassal. What about this Murra Foray?     The old man winked mysteriously. He opened his mouth and then seemedovercome with senile fright. Hurriedly he shuffled away.     Cassal gazed after him, baffled. The old man was afraid for his job,afraid of the first counselor. Why he should be, Cassal didn't know. Heshrugged and went on. The agency was now in motion in his behalf, buthe didn't intend to depend on that alone.  ","Dimanche is a device attached to Cassal's ear that is able to collect physiological data on a person, including nervous systems and physical reactions to stimuli. In addition, Dimanche is able to understand what people ""subvocalize"", or think to themselves in their subconscious. In the story, Dimanche's abilities are shown when he is able to read the thoughts of Cassal's attacker as well as his body's reactions to Cassal's movements, such as his heart rate and blood pressure. Dimanche's features also give Cassal an advantage in his work as a salesperson, as he is able to gauge people's thoughts, motives, and desires. Dimanche is a secret kept from the rest of the galaxy, and Cassal is hesitant to tell others about his abilities."
"Why is Cassal on his way to Tunney 21? </s>     DELAY IN TRANSIT     By F. L. WALLACE     Illustrated by SIBLEY     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction September 1952.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        An unprovoked, meaningless night attack is       terrifying enough on your own home planet, worse       on a world across the Galaxy. But the horror       is the offer of help that cannot be accepted!        Muscles tense, said Dimanche. Neural index 1.76, unusually high.Adrenalin squirting through his system. In effect, he's stalking you.Intent: probably assault with a deadly weapon.     Not interested, said Cassal firmly, his subvocalization inaudibleto anyone but Dimanche. I'm not the victim type. He was standing onthe walkway near the brink of the thoroughfare. I'm going back to thehabitat hotel and sit tight.     First you have to get there, Dimanche pointed out. I mean, is itsafe for a stranger to walk through the city?     Now that you mention it, no, answered Cassal. He looked aroundapprehensively. Where is he?       Behind you. At the moment he's pretending interest in a merchandisedisplay.     A native stamped by, eyes brown and incurious. Apparently he wasaccustomed to the sight of an Earthman standing alone, Adam's applebobbing up and down silently. It was a Godolphian axiom that alltravelers were crazy.     Cassal looked up. Not an air taxi in sight; Godolph shut down at dusk.It would be pure luck if he found a taxi before morning. Of course he      could     walk back to the hotel, but was that such a good idea?     A Godolphian city was peculiar. And, though not intended, it waspeculiarly suited to certain kinds of violence. A human pedestrian wasat a definite disadvantage.     Correction, said Dimanche. Not simple assault. He has murder inmind.     It still doesn't appeal to me, said Cassal. Striving to lookunconcerned, he strolled toward the building side of the walkway andstared into the interior of a small cafe. Warm, bright and dry. Inside,he might find safety for a time.     Damn the man who was following him! It would be easy enough to eludehim in a normal city. On Godolph, nothing was normal. In an hour thestreets would be brightly lighted—for native eyes. A human wouldconsider it dim.     Why did he choose me? asked Cassal plaintively. There must besomething he hopes to gain.     I'm working on it, said Dimanche. But remember, I have limitations.At short distances I can scan nervous systems, collect and interpretphysiological data. I can't read minds. The best I can do is reportwhat a person says or subvocalizes. If you're really interested infinding out why he wants to kill you, I suggest you turn the problemover to the godawful police.     Godolph, not godawful, corrected Cassal absently.     That was advice he couldn't follow, good as it seemed. He could givethe police no evidence save through Dimanche. There were variousreasons, many of them involving the law, for leaving the device calledDimanche out of it. The police would act if they found a body. His own,say, floating face-down on some quiet street. That didn't seem theproper approach, either.     Weapons?     The first thing I searched him for. Nothing very dangerous. A longknife, a hard striking object. Both concealed on his person.     Cassal strangled slightly. Dimanche needed a good stiff course insemantics. A knife was still the most silent of weapons. A man coulddie from it. His hand strayed toward his pocket. He had a measure ofprotection himself.     Report, said Dimanche. Not necessarily final. Based, perhaps, ontenuous evidence.     Let's have it anyway.     His motivation is connected somehow with your being marooned here. Forsome reason you can't get off this planet.     That was startling information, though not strictly true. A thousandstar systems were waiting for him, and a ship to take him to each one.     Of course, the one ship he wanted hadn't come in. Godolph was atransfer point for stars nearer the center of the Galaxy. When hehad left Earth, he had known he would have to wait a few days here.He hadn't expected a delay of nearly three weeks. Still, it wasn'tunusual. Interstellar schedules over great distances were not asreliable as they might be.     Was this man, whoever and whatever he might be, connected withthat delay? According to Dimanche, the man thought he was. He wasself-deluded or did he have access to information that Cassal didn't?  Denton Cassal, sales engineer, paused for a mental survey of himself.He was a good engineer and, because he was exceptionally well matchedto his instrument, the best salesman that Neuronics, Inc., had. On thebasis of these qualifications, he had been selected to make a longjourney, the first part of which already lay behind him. He had to goto Tunney 21 to see a man. That man wasn't important to anyone save thecompany that employed him, and possibly not even to them.     The thug trailing him wouldn't be interested in Cassal himself, hismission, which was a commercial one, nor the man on Tunney. And moneywasn't the objective, if Dimanche's analysis was right. What      did     thethug want?     Secrets? Cassal had none, except, in a sense, Dimanche. And that wastoo well kept on Earth, where the instrument was invented and made, foranyone this far away to have learned about it.     And yet the thug wanted to kill him. Wanted to? Regarded him as good asdead. It might pay him to investigate the matter further, if it didn'tinvolve too much risk.     Better start moving. That was Dimanche. He's getting suspicious.     Cassal went slowly along the narrow walkway that bordered each side ofthat boulevard, the transport tide. It was raining again. It usuallywas on Godolph, which was a weather-controlled planet where the nativeslike rain.     He adjusted the controls of the weak force field that repelled therain. He widened the angle of the field until water slanted through itunhindered. He narrowed it around him until it approached visibilityand the drops bounced away. He swore at the miserable climate and thenear amphibians who created it.     A few hundred feet away, a Godolphian girl waded out of the transporttide and climbed to the walkway. It was this sort of thing that madelife dangerous for a human—Venice revised, brought up to date in afaster-than-light age.     Water. It was a perfect engineering material. Simple, cheap, infinitelyflexible. With a minimum of mechanism and at break-neck speed, theribbon of the transport tide flowed at different levels throughoutthe city. The Godolphian merely plunged in and was carried swiftlyand noiselessly to his destination. Whereas a human—Cassal shivered.If he were found drowned, it would be considered an accident. Noinvestigation would be made. The thug who was trailing him hadcertainly picked the right place.     The Godolphian girl passed. She wore a sleek brown fur, her own. Cassalwas almost positive she muttered a polite Arf? as she sloshed by.What she meant by that, he didn't know and didn't intend to find out.     Follow her, instructed Dimanche. We've got to investigate our man atcloser range.  Obediently, Cassal turned and began walking after the girl. Attractivein an anthropomorphic, seal-like way, even from behind. Not gracefulout of her element, though.     The would-be assassin was still looking at merchandise as Cassalretraced his steps. A man, or at least man type. A big fellow,physically quite capable of violence, if size had anything to do withit. The face, though, was out of character. Mild, almost meek. Ascientist or scholar. It didn't fit with murder.     Nothing, said Dimanche disgustedly. His mind froze when we gotclose. I could feel his shoulderblades twitching as we passed.Anticipated guilt, of course. Projecting to you the action he plans.That makes the knife definite.     Well beyond the window at which the thug watched and waited, Cassalstopped. Shakily he produced a cigarette and fumbled for a lighter.     Excellent thinking, commended Dimanche. He won't attempt anythingon this street. Too dangerous. Turn aside at the next desertedintersection and let him follow the glow of your cigarette.     The lighter flared in his hand. That's one way of finding out, saidCassal. But wouldn't I be a lot safer if I just concentrated ongetting back to the hotel?     I'm curious. Turn here.     Go to hell, said Cassal nervously. Nevertheless, when he came to thatintersection, he turned there.     It was a Godolphian equivalent of an alley, narrow and dark, oilyslow-moving water gurgling at one side, high cavernous walls looming onthe other.     He would have to adjust the curiosity factor of Dimanche. It was allvery well to be interested in the man who trailed him, but there wasalso the problem of coming out of this adventure alive. Dimanche, anelectronic instrument, naturally wouldn't consider that.     Easy, warned Dimanche. He's at the entrance to the alley, walkingfast. He's surprised and pleased that you took this route.     I'm surprised, too, remarked Cassal. But I wouldn't say I'm pleased.Not just now.     Careful. Even subvocalized conversation is distracting. The mechanismconcealed within his body was silent for an instant and then continued:His blood pressure is rising, breathing is faster. At a time likethis, he may be ready to verbalize why he wants to murder you. This iscritical.     That's no lie, agreed Cassal bitterly. The lighter was in his hand.He clutched it grimly. It was difficult not to look back. The darknessassumed an even more sinister quality.     Quiet, said Dimanche. He's verbalizing about you.     He's decided I'm a nice fellow after all. He's going to stop and askme for a light.     I don't think so, answered Dimanche. He's whispering: 'Poor devil. Ihate to do it. But it's really his life or mine'.     He's more right than he knows. Why all this violence, though? Isn'tthere any clue?     None at all, admitted Dimanche. He's very close. You'd better turnaround.  Cassal turned, pressed the stud on the lighter. It should have made himfeel more secure, but it didn't. He could see very little.     A dim shadow rushed at him. He jumped away from the water side of thealley, barely in time. He could feel the rush of air as the assailantshot by.     Hey! shouted Cassal.     Echoes answered; nothing else did. He had the uncomfortable feelingthat no one was going to come to his assistance.     He wasn't expecting that reaction, explained Dimanche. That's why hemissed. He's turned around and is coming back.     I'm armed! shouted Cassal.     That won't stop him. He doesn't believe you.     Cassal grasped the lighter. That is, it had been a lighter a fewseconds before. Now a needle-thin blade had snapped out and projectedstiffly. Originally it had been designed as an emergency surgicalinstrument. A little imagination and a few changes had altered itsfunction, converting it into a compact, efficient stiletto.     Twenty feet away, advised Dimanche. He knows you can't see him, buthe can see your silhouette by the light from the main thoroughfare.What he doesn't know is that I can detect every move he makes and keepyou posted below the level of his hearing.     Stay on him, growled Cassal nervously. He flattened himself againstthe wall.     To the right, whispered Dimanche. Lunge forward. About five feet.Low.     Sickly, he did so. He didn't care to consider the possible effects ofa miscalculation. In the darkness, how far was five feet? Fortunately,his estimate was correct. The rapier encountered yielding resistance,the soggy kind: flesh. The tough blade bent, but did not break. Hisopponent gasped and broke away.     Attack! howled Dimanche against the bone behind his ear. You've gothim. He can't imagine how you know where he is in the darkness. He'safraid.     Attack he did, slicing about wildly. Some of the thrusts landed; somedidn't. The percentage was low, the total amount high. His opponentfell to the ground, gasped and was silent.     Cassal fumbled in his pockets and flipped on a light. The man lay nearthe water side of the alley. One leg was crumpled under him. He didn'tmove.     Heartbeat slow, said Dimanche solemnly. Breathing barelyperceptible.     Then he's not dead, said Cassal in relief.     Foam flecked from the still lips and ran down the chin. Blood oozedfrom cuts on the face.     Respiration none, heartbeat absent, stated Dimanche.  Horrified, Cassal gazed at the body. Self-defense, of course, butwould the police believe it? Assuming they did, they'd still have toinvestigate. The rapier was an illegal concealed weapon. And they wouldquestion him until they discovered Dimanche. Regrettable, but whatcould he do about it?     Suppose he were detained long enough to miss the ship bound for Tunney21?     Grimly, he laid down the rapier. He might as well get to the bottom ofthis. Why had the man attacked? What did he want?     I don't know, replied Dimanche irritably. I can interpret bodydata—a live body. I can't work on a piece of meat.     Cassal searched the body thoroughly. Miscellaneous personal articlesof no value in identifying the man. A clip with a startling amountof money in it. A small white card with something scribbled on it. Apicture of a woman and a small child posed against a background whichresembled no world Cassal had ever seen. That was all.     Cassal stood up in bewilderment. Dimanche to the contrary, there seemedto be no connection between this dead man and his own problem ofgetting to Tunney 21.     Right now, though, he had to dispose of the body. He glanced toward theboulevard. So far no one had been attracted by the violence.     He bent down to retrieve the lighter-rapier. Dimanche shouted at him.Before he could react, someone landed on him. He fell forward, vainlytrying to grasp the weapon. Strong fingers felt for his throat as hewas forced to the ground.     He threw the attacker off and staggered to his feet. He heard footstepsrushing away. A slight splash followed. Whoever it was, he was escapingby way of water.     Whoever it was. The man he had thought he had slain was no longer insight.     Interpret body data, do you? muttered Cassal. Liveliest dead manI've ever been strangled by.     It's just possible there are some breeds of men who can control thebasic functions of their body, said Dimanche defensively. When Ichecked him, he had no heartbeat.     Remind me not to accept your next evaluation so completely, gruntedCassal. Nevertheless, he was relieved, in a fashion. He hadn't      wanted     to kill the man. And now there was nothing he'd have to explain to thepolice.     He needed the cigarette he stuck between his lips. For the secondtime he attempted to pick up the rapier-lighter. This time he wassuccessful. Smoke swirled into his lungs and quieted his nerves. Hesqueezed the weapon into the shape of a lighter and put it away.     Something, however, was missing—his wallet.     The thug had relieved him of it in the second round of the scuffle.Persistent fellow. Damned persistent.     It really didn't matter. He fingered the clip he had taken from thesupposedly dead body. He had intended to turn it over to the police.Now he might as well keep it to reimburse him for his loss. Itcontained more money than his wallet had.     Except for the identification tab he always carried in his wallet, itwas more than a fair exchange. The identification, a rectangular pieceof plastic, was useful in establishing credit, but with the money henow had, he wouldn't need credit. If he did, he could always send foranother tab.     A white card fluttered from the clip. He caught it as it fell.Curiously he examined it. Blank except for one crudely printed word,STAB. His unknown assailant certainly had tried.  The old man stared at the door, an obsolete visual projector wobblingprecariously on his head. He closed his eyes and the lettering on thedoor disappeared. Cassal was too far away to see what it had been. Thetechnician opened his eyes and concentrated. Slowly a new sign formedon the door.     TRAVELERS AID BUREAU     Murra Foray, First Counselor     It was a drab sign, but, then, it was a dismal, backward planet. Theold technician passed on to the next door and closed his eyes again.     With a sinking feeling, Cassal walked toward the entrance. He neededhelp and he had to find it in this dingy rathole.     Inside, though, it wasn't dingy and it wasn't a rathole. More like amaze, an approved scientific one. Efficient, though not comfortable.Travelers Aid was busier than he thought it would be. Eventually hemanaged to squeeze into one of the many small counseling rooms.     A woman appeared on the screen, crisp and cool. Please answereverything the machine asks. When the tape is complete, I'll beavailable for consultation.     Cassal wasn't sure he was going to like her. Is this necessary? heasked. It's merely a matter of information.     We have certain regulations we abide by. The woman smiled frostily.I can't give you any information until you comply with them.     Sometimes regulations are silly, said Cassal firmly. Let me speak tothe first counselor.     You are speaking to her, she said. Her face disappeared from thescreen.     Cassal sighed. So far he hadn't made a good impression.     Travelers Aid Bureau, in addition to regulations, was abundantlysupplied with official curiosity. When the machine finished with him,Cassal had the feeling he could be recreated from the record it had ofhim. His individuality had been capsuled into a series of questions andanswers. One thing he drew the line at—why he wanted to go to Tunney21 was his own business.     The first counselor reappeared. Age, indeterminate. Not, he supposed,that anyone would be curious about it. Slightly taller than average,rather on the slender side. Face was broad at the brow, narrow at thechin and her eyes were enigmatic. A dangerous woman.  She glanced down at the data. Denton Cassal, native of Earth.Destination, Tunney 21. She looked up at him. Occupation, salesengineer. Isn't that an odd combination? Her smile was quite superior.     Not at all. Scientific training as an engineer. Special knowledge ofcustomer relations.     Special knowledge of a thousand races? How convenient. Her eyebrowsarched.     I think so, he agreed blandly. Anything else you'd like to know?     Sorry. I didn't mean to offend you.     He could believe that or not as he wished. He didn't.     You refused to answer why you were going to Tunney 21. Perhaps I canguess. They're the best scientists in the Galaxy. You wish to studyunder them.     Close—but wrong on two counts. They were good scientists, though notnecessarily the best. For instance, it was doubtful that they couldbuild Dimanche, even if they had ever thought of it, which was evenless likely.     There was, however, one relatively obscure research worker on Tunney 21that Neuronics wanted on their staff. If the fragments of his studiesthat had reached Earth across the vast distance meant anything, hecould help Neuronics perfect instantaneous radio. The company thatcould build a radio to span the reaches of the Galaxy with no time lagcould set its own price, which could be control of all communications,transport, trade—a galactic monopoly. Cassal's share would be a cut ofall that.     His part was simple, on the surface. He was to persuade that researcherto come to Earth,      if he could     . Literally, he had to guess theTunnesian's price before the Tunnesian himself knew it. In addition,the reputation of Tunnesian scientists being exceeded only by theirarrogance, Cassal had to convince him that he wouldn't be workingfor ignorant Earth savages. The existence of such an instrument asDimanche was a key factor.     Her voice broke through his thoughts. Now, then, what's your problem?     I was told on Earth I might have to wait a few days on Godolph. I'vebeen here three weeks. I want information on the ship bound for Tunney21.     Just a moment. She glanced at something below the angle of thescreen. She looked up and her eyes were grave.       Rickrock C     arrivedyesterday. Departed for Tunney early this morning.     Departed? He got up and sat down again, swallowing hard. When willthe next ship arrive?     Do you know how many stars there are in the Galaxy? she asked.     He didn't answer.  That's right, she said. Billions. Tunney, according to the notation,is near the center of the Galaxy, inside the third ring. You'vecovered about a third of the distance to it. Local traffic, anythingwithin a thousand light-years, is relatively easy to manage. At longerdistances, you take a chance. You've had yours and missed it. Frankly,Cassal, I don't know when another ship bound for Tunney will show up onor near Godolph. Within the next five years—maybe.  He blanched. How long would it take to get there using localtransportation, star-hopping?     Take my advice: don't try it. Five years, if you're lucky.     I don't need that kind of luck.     I suppose not. She hesitated. You're determined to go on? At theemphatic nod, she sighed. If that's your decision, we'll try to helpyou. To start things moving, we'll need a print of your identificationtab.     There's something funny about her, Dimanche decided. It was the usualspeaking voice of the instrument, no louder than the noise the bloodmade in coursing through arteries and veins. Cassal could hear itplainly, because it was virtually inside his ear.     Cassal ignored his private voice. Identification tab? I don't have itwith me. In fact, I may have lost it.     She smiled in instant disbelief. We're not trying to pry into anypart of your past you may wish concealed. However, it's much easierfor us to help you if you have your identification. Now if you can't      remember     your real name and where you put your identification— Shearose and left the screen. Just a moment.     He glared uneasily at the spot where the first counselor wasn't. His      real     name!     Relax, Dimanche suggested. She didn't mean it as a personal insult.     Presently she returned.     I have news for you, whoever you are.     Cassal, he said firmly. Denton Cassal, sales engineer, Earth. If youdon't believe it, send back to— He stopped. It had taken him fourmonths to get to Godolph, non-stop, plus a six-month wait on Earth fora ship to show up that was bound in the right direction. Over distancessuch as these, it just wasn't practical to send back to Earth foranything.     I see you understand. She glanced at the card in her hand. Thespaceport records indicate that when      Rickrock C     took off thismorning, there was a Denton Cassal on board, bound for Tunney 21.     It wasn't I, he said dazedly. He knew who it was, though. The man whohad tried to kill him last night. The reason for the attack now becameclear. The thug had wanted his identification tab. Worse, he had gottenit.     No doubt it wasn't, she said wearily. Outsiders don't seem tounderstand what galactic travel entails.     Outsiders? Evidently what she called those who lived beyond the secondtransfer ring. Were those who lived at the edge of the Galaxy, beyondthe first ring, called Rimmers? Probably.  She was still speaking: Ten years to cross the Galaxy, withoutstopping. At present, no ship is capable of that. Real scheduling isimpossible. Populations shift and have to be supplied. A ship is takenoff a run for repairs and is never put back on. It's more urgentlyneeded elsewhere. The man who depended on it is left waiting; yearspass before he learns it's never coming.     If we had instantaneous radio, that would help. Confusion wouldn'tvanish overnight, but it would diminish. We wouldn't have to dependon ships for all the news. Reservations could be made ahead of time,credit established, lost identification replaced—     I've traveled before, he interrupted stiffly. I've never had anytrouble.     She seemed to be exaggerating the difficulties. True, the center wasmore congested. Taking each star as the starting point for a limitednumber of ships and using statistical probability as a guide—why, noman would arrive at his predetermined destination.     But that wasn't the way it worked. Manifestly, you couldn't comparegalactic transportation to the erratic paths of air molecules in agiant room. Or could you?     For the average man, anyone who didn't have his own inter-stellar ship,was the comparison too apt? It might be.     You've traveled outside, where there are still free planets waiting tobe settled. Where a man is welcome, if he's able to work. She paused.The center is different. Populations are excessive. Inside the thirdring, no man is allowed off a ship without an identification tab. Theydon't encourage immigration.     In effect, that meant no ship bound for the center would take apassenger without identification. No ship owner would run the risk ofhaving a permanent guest on board, someone who couldn't be rid of whenhis money was gone.     Cassal held his head in his hands. Tunney 21 was inside the third ring.     Next time, she said, don't let anyone take your identification.     I won't, he promised grimly.  The woman looked directly at him. Her eyes were bright. He revised hisestimate of her age drastically downward. She couldn't be as old as he.Nothing outward had happened, but she no longer seemed dowdy. Not thathe was interested. Still, it might pay him to be friendly to the firstcounselor.     We're a philanthropic agency, said Murra Foray. Your case isspecial, though—     I understand, he said gruffly. You accept contributions.     She nodded. If the donor is able to give. We don't ask so much thatyou'll have to compromise your standard of living. But she named a sumthat would force him to do just that if getting to Tunney 21 took anyappreciable time.     He stared at her unhappily. I suppose it's worth it. I can alwayswork, if I have to.     As a salesman? she asked. I'm afraid you'll find it difficult to dobusiness with Godolphians.     Irony wasn't called for at a time like this, he thought reproachfully.     Not just another salesman, he answered definitely. I have specialknowledge of customer reactions. I can tell exactly—     He stopped abruptly. Was she baiting him? For what reason? Theinstrument he called Dimanche was not known to the Galaxy at large.From the business angle, it would be poor policy to hand out thatinformation at random. Aside from that, he needed every advantage hecould get. Dimanche was his special advantage.     Anyway, he finished lamely, I'm a first class engineer. I canalways find something in that line.     A scientist, maybe, murmured Murra Foray. But in this part of theMilky Way, an engineer is regarded as merely a technician who hasn'tyet gained practical experience. She shook her head. You'll do betteras a salesman.     He got up, glowering. If that's all—     It is. We'll keep you informed. Drop your contribution in the slotprovided for that purpose as you leave.     A door, which he hadn't noticed in entering the counselling cubicle,swung open. The agency was efficient.     Remember, the counselor called out as he left, identification ishard to work with. Don't accept a crude forgery.     He didn't answer, but it was an idea worth considering. The agency wasalso eminently practical.     The exit path guided him firmly to an inconspicuous and yet inescapablecontribution station. He began to doubt the philanthropic aspect of thebureau.  I've got it, said Dimanche as Cassal gloomily counted out the sum thefirst counselor had named.     Got what? asked Cassal. He rolled the currency into a neat bundle,attached his name, and dropped it into the chute.     The woman, Murra Foray, the first counselor. She's a Huntner.     What's a Huntner?     A sub-race of men on the other side of the Galaxy. She was vocalizingabout her home planet when I managed to locate her.     Any other information?     None. Electronic guards were sliding into place as soon as I reachedher. I got out as fast as I could.     I see. The significance of that, if any, escaped him. Nevertheless,it sounded depressing.     What I want to know is, said Dimanche, why such precautions aselectronic guards? What does Travelers Aid have that's so secret?     Cassal grunted and didn't answer. Dimanche could be annoyinglyinquisitive at times.     Cassal had entered one side of a block-square building. He came out onthe other side. The agency was larger than he had thought. The old manwas staring at a door as Cassal came out. He had apparently changedevery sign in the building. His work finished, the technician wasremoving the visual projector from his head as Cassal came up to him.He turned and peered.     You stuck here, too? he asked in the uneven voice of the aged.     Stuck? repeated Cassal. I suppose you can call it that. I'm waitingfor my ship. He frowned. He was the one who wanted to ask questions.Why all the redecoration? I thought Travelers Aid was an old agency.Why did you change so many signs? I could understand it if the agencywere new.     The old man chuckled. Re-organization. The previous first counselorresigned suddenly, in the middle of the night, they say. The new onedidn't like the name of the agency, so she ordered it changed.     She would do just that, thought Cassal. What about this Murra Foray?     The old man winked mysteriously. He opened his mouth and then seemedovercome with senile fright. Hurriedly he shuffled away.     Cassal gazed after him, baffled. The old man was afraid for his job,afraid of the first counselor. Why he should be, Cassal didn't know. Heshrugged and went on. The agency was now in motion in his behalf, buthe didn't intend to depend on that alone.  ","Cassal is sent on a business trip by Neuronics, Inc., to visit Tunney 21 to see a man. Tunney 21, according to the first counselor, is home to some of the galaxy's most genius scientists. It is later revealed that Neuronics, Inc. wants that man on their staff back on Earth. The man would work towards the company's goal of developing instantaneous radio; this radio system would impact the entire galaxy, technology that could share information with every planet with no time delay. This radio would dominate means of transportation, communications, and commerce. For these reasons, Cassal is not eager to disclose his plans for going to Tunney 21."
"Who is Murra Foray and how is she significant to the story? </s>     DELAY IN TRANSIT     By F. L. WALLACE     Illustrated by SIBLEY     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction September 1952.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        An unprovoked, meaningless night attack is       terrifying enough on your own home planet, worse       on a world across the Galaxy. But the horror       is the offer of help that cannot be accepted!        Muscles tense, said Dimanche. Neural index 1.76, unusually high.Adrenalin squirting through his system. In effect, he's stalking you.Intent: probably assault with a deadly weapon.     Not interested, said Cassal firmly, his subvocalization inaudibleto anyone but Dimanche. I'm not the victim type. He was standing onthe walkway near the brink of the thoroughfare. I'm going back to thehabitat hotel and sit tight.     First you have to get there, Dimanche pointed out. I mean, is itsafe for a stranger to walk through the city?     Now that you mention it, no, answered Cassal. He looked aroundapprehensively. Where is he?       Behind you. At the moment he's pretending interest in a merchandisedisplay.     A native stamped by, eyes brown and incurious. Apparently he wasaccustomed to the sight of an Earthman standing alone, Adam's applebobbing up and down silently. It was a Godolphian axiom that alltravelers were crazy.     Cassal looked up. Not an air taxi in sight; Godolph shut down at dusk.It would be pure luck if he found a taxi before morning. Of course he      could     walk back to the hotel, but was that such a good idea?     A Godolphian city was peculiar. And, though not intended, it waspeculiarly suited to certain kinds of violence. A human pedestrian wasat a definite disadvantage.     Correction, said Dimanche. Not simple assault. He has murder inmind.     It still doesn't appeal to me, said Cassal. Striving to lookunconcerned, he strolled toward the building side of the walkway andstared into the interior of a small cafe. Warm, bright and dry. Inside,he might find safety for a time.     Damn the man who was following him! It would be easy enough to eludehim in a normal city. On Godolph, nothing was normal. In an hour thestreets would be brightly lighted—for native eyes. A human wouldconsider it dim.     Why did he choose me? asked Cassal plaintively. There must besomething he hopes to gain.     I'm working on it, said Dimanche. But remember, I have limitations.At short distances I can scan nervous systems, collect and interpretphysiological data. I can't read minds. The best I can do is reportwhat a person says or subvocalizes. If you're really interested infinding out why he wants to kill you, I suggest you turn the problemover to the godawful police.     Godolph, not godawful, corrected Cassal absently.     That was advice he couldn't follow, good as it seemed. He could givethe police no evidence save through Dimanche. There were variousreasons, many of them involving the law, for leaving the device calledDimanche out of it. The police would act if they found a body. His own,say, floating face-down on some quiet street. That didn't seem theproper approach, either.     Weapons?     The first thing I searched him for. Nothing very dangerous. A longknife, a hard striking object. Both concealed on his person.     Cassal strangled slightly. Dimanche needed a good stiff course insemantics. A knife was still the most silent of weapons. A man coulddie from it. His hand strayed toward his pocket. He had a measure ofprotection himself.     Report, said Dimanche. Not necessarily final. Based, perhaps, ontenuous evidence.     Let's have it anyway.     His motivation is connected somehow with your being marooned here. Forsome reason you can't get off this planet.     That was startling information, though not strictly true. A thousandstar systems were waiting for him, and a ship to take him to each one.     Of course, the one ship he wanted hadn't come in. Godolph was atransfer point for stars nearer the center of the Galaxy. When hehad left Earth, he had known he would have to wait a few days here.He hadn't expected a delay of nearly three weeks. Still, it wasn'tunusual. Interstellar schedules over great distances were not asreliable as they might be.     Was this man, whoever and whatever he might be, connected withthat delay? According to Dimanche, the man thought he was. He wasself-deluded or did he have access to information that Cassal didn't?  Denton Cassal, sales engineer, paused for a mental survey of himself.He was a good engineer and, because he was exceptionally well matchedto his instrument, the best salesman that Neuronics, Inc., had. On thebasis of these qualifications, he had been selected to make a longjourney, the first part of which already lay behind him. He had to goto Tunney 21 to see a man. That man wasn't important to anyone save thecompany that employed him, and possibly not even to them.     The thug trailing him wouldn't be interested in Cassal himself, hismission, which was a commercial one, nor the man on Tunney. And moneywasn't the objective, if Dimanche's analysis was right. What      did     thethug want?     Secrets? Cassal had none, except, in a sense, Dimanche. And that wastoo well kept on Earth, where the instrument was invented and made, foranyone this far away to have learned about it.     And yet the thug wanted to kill him. Wanted to? Regarded him as good asdead. It might pay him to investigate the matter further, if it didn'tinvolve too much risk.     Better start moving. That was Dimanche. He's getting suspicious.     Cassal went slowly along the narrow walkway that bordered each side ofthat boulevard, the transport tide. It was raining again. It usuallywas on Godolph, which was a weather-controlled planet where the nativeslike rain.     He adjusted the controls of the weak force field that repelled therain. He widened the angle of the field until water slanted through itunhindered. He narrowed it around him until it approached visibilityand the drops bounced away. He swore at the miserable climate and thenear amphibians who created it.     A few hundred feet away, a Godolphian girl waded out of the transporttide and climbed to the walkway. It was this sort of thing that madelife dangerous for a human—Venice revised, brought up to date in afaster-than-light age.     Water. It was a perfect engineering material. Simple, cheap, infinitelyflexible. With a minimum of mechanism and at break-neck speed, theribbon of the transport tide flowed at different levels throughoutthe city. The Godolphian merely plunged in and was carried swiftlyand noiselessly to his destination. Whereas a human—Cassal shivered.If he were found drowned, it would be considered an accident. Noinvestigation would be made. The thug who was trailing him hadcertainly picked the right place.     The Godolphian girl passed. She wore a sleek brown fur, her own. Cassalwas almost positive she muttered a polite Arf? as she sloshed by.What she meant by that, he didn't know and didn't intend to find out.     Follow her, instructed Dimanche. We've got to investigate our man atcloser range.  Obediently, Cassal turned and began walking after the girl. Attractivein an anthropomorphic, seal-like way, even from behind. Not gracefulout of her element, though.     The would-be assassin was still looking at merchandise as Cassalretraced his steps. A man, or at least man type. A big fellow,physically quite capable of violence, if size had anything to do withit. The face, though, was out of character. Mild, almost meek. Ascientist or scholar. It didn't fit with murder.     Nothing, said Dimanche disgustedly. His mind froze when we gotclose. I could feel his shoulderblades twitching as we passed.Anticipated guilt, of course. Projecting to you the action he plans.That makes the knife definite.     Well beyond the window at which the thug watched and waited, Cassalstopped. Shakily he produced a cigarette and fumbled for a lighter.     Excellent thinking, commended Dimanche. He won't attempt anythingon this street. Too dangerous. Turn aside at the next desertedintersection and let him follow the glow of your cigarette.     The lighter flared in his hand. That's one way of finding out, saidCassal. But wouldn't I be a lot safer if I just concentrated ongetting back to the hotel?     I'm curious. Turn here.     Go to hell, said Cassal nervously. Nevertheless, when he came to thatintersection, he turned there.     It was a Godolphian equivalent of an alley, narrow and dark, oilyslow-moving water gurgling at one side, high cavernous walls looming onthe other.     He would have to adjust the curiosity factor of Dimanche. It was allvery well to be interested in the man who trailed him, but there wasalso the problem of coming out of this adventure alive. Dimanche, anelectronic instrument, naturally wouldn't consider that.     Easy, warned Dimanche. He's at the entrance to the alley, walkingfast. He's surprised and pleased that you took this route.     I'm surprised, too, remarked Cassal. But I wouldn't say I'm pleased.Not just now.     Careful. Even subvocalized conversation is distracting. The mechanismconcealed within his body was silent for an instant and then continued:His blood pressure is rising, breathing is faster. At a time likethis, he may be ready to verbalize why he wants to murder you. This iscritical.     That's no lie, agreed Cassal bitterly. The lighter was in his hand.He clutched it grimly. It was difficult not to look back. The darknessassumed an even more sinister quality.     Quiet, said Dimanche. He's verbalizing about you.     He's decided I'm a nice fellow after all. He's going to stop and askme for a light.     I don't think so, answered Dimanche. He's whispering: 'Poor devil. Ihate to do it. But it's really his life or mine'.     He's more right than he knows. Why all this violence, though? Isn'tthere any clue?     None at all, admitted Dimanche. He's very close. You'd better turnaround.  Cassal turned, pressed the stud on the lighter. It should have made himfeel more secure, but it didn't. He could see very little.     A dim shadow rushed at him. He jumped away from the water side of thealley, barely in time. He could feel the rush of air as the assailantshot by.     Hey! shouted Cassal.     Echoes answered; nothing else did. He had the uncomfortable feelingthat no one was going to come to his assistance.     He wasn't expecting that reaction, explained Dimanche. That's why hemissed. He's turned around and is coming back.     I'm armed! shouted Cassal.     That won't stop him. He doesn't believe you.     Cassal grasped the lighter. That is, it had been a lighter a fewseconds before. Now a needle-thin blade had snapped out and projectedstiffly. Originally it had been designed as an emergency surgicalinstrument. A little imagination and a few changes had altered itsfunction, converting it into a compact, efficient stiletto.     Twenty feet away, advised Dimanche. He knows you can't see him, buthe can see your silhouette by the light from the main thoroughfare.What he doesn't know is that I can detect every move he makes and keepyou posted below the level of his hearing.     Stay on him, growled Cassal nervously. He flattened himself againstthe wall.     To the right, whispered Dimanche. Lunge forward. About five feet.Low.     Sickly, he did so. He didn't care to consider the possible effects ofa miscalculation. In the darkness, how far was five feet? Fortunately,his estimate was correct. The rapier encountered yielding resistance,the soggy kind: flesh. The tough blade bent, but did not break. Hisopponent gasped and broke away.     Attack! howled Dimanche against the bone behind his ear. You've gothim. He can't imagine how you know where he is in the darkness. He'safraid.     Attack he did, slicing about wildly. Some of the thrusts landed; somedidn't. The percentage was low, the total amount high. His opponentfell to the ground, gasped and was silent.     Cassal fumbled in his pockets and flipped on a light. The man lay nearthe water side of the alley. One leg was crumpled under him. He didn'tmove.     Heartbeat slow, said Dimanche solemnly. Breathing barelyperceptible.     Then he's not dead, said Cassal in relief.     Foam flecked from the still lips and ran down the chin. Blood oozedfrom cuts on the face.     Respiration none, heartbeat absent, stated Dimanche.  Horrified, Cassal gazed at the body. Self-defense, of course, butwould the police believe it? Assuming they did, they'd still have toinvestigate. The rapier was an illegal concealed weapon. And they wouldquestion him until they discovered Dimanche. Regrettable, but whatcould he do about it?     Suppose he were detained long enough to miss the ship bound for Tunney21?     Grimly, he laid down the rapier. He might as well get to the bottom ofthis. Why had the man attacked? What did he want?     I don't know, replied Dimanche irritably. I can interpret bodydata—a live body. I can't work on a piece of meat.     Cassal searched the body thoroughly. Miscellaneous personal articlesof no value in identifying the man. A clip with a startling amountof money in it. A small white card with something scribbled on it. Apicture of a woman and a small child posed against a background whichresembled no world Cassal had ever seen. That was all.     Cassal stood up in bewilderment. Dimanche to the contrary, there seemedto be no connection between this dead man and his own problem ofgetting to Tunney 21.     Right now, though, he had to dispose of the body. He glanced toward theboulevard. So far no one had been attracted by the violence.     He bent down to retrieve the lighter-rapier. Dimanche shouted at him.Before he could react, someone landed on him. He fell forward, vainlytrying to grasp the weapon. Strong fingers felt for his throat as hewas forced to the ground.     He threw the attacker off and staggered to his feet. He heard footstepsrushing away. A slight splash followed. Whoever it was, he was escapingby way of water.     Whoever it was. The man he had thought he had slain was no longer insight.     Interpret body data, do you? muttered Cassal. Liveliest dead manI've ever been strangled by.     It's just possible there are some breeds of men who can control thebasic functions of their body, said Dimanche defensively. When Ichecked him, he had no heartbeat.     Remind me not to accept your next evaluation so completely, gruntedCassal. Nevertheless, he was relieved, in a fashion. He hadn't      wanted     to kill the man. And now there was nothing he'd have to explain to thepolice.     He needed the cigarette he stuck between his lips. For the secondtime he attempted to pick up the rapier-lighter. This time he wassuccessful. Smoke swirled into his lungs and quieted his nerves. Hesqueezed the weapon into the shape of a lighter and put it away.     Something, however, was missing—his wallet.     The thug had relieved him of it in the second round of the scuffle.Persistent fellow. Damned persistent.     It really didn't matter. He fingered the clip he had taken from thesupposedly dead body. He had intended to turn it over to the police.Now he might as well keep it to reimburse him for his loss. Itcontained more money than his wallet had.     Except for the identification tab he always carried in his wallet, itwas more than a fair exchange. The identification, a rectangular pieceof plastic, was useful in establishing credit, but with the money henow had, he wouldn't need credit. If he did, he could always send foranother tab.     A white card fluttered from the clip. He caught it as it fell.Curiously he examined it. Blank except for one crudely printed word,STAB. His unknown assailant certainly had tried.  The old man stared at the door, an obsolete visual projector wobblingprecariously on his head. He closed his eyes and the lettering on thedoor disappeared. Cassal was too far away to see what it had been. Thetechnician opened his eyes and concentrated. Slowly a new sign formedon the door.     TRAVELERS AID BUREAU     Murra Foray, First Counselor     It was a drab sign, but, then, it was a dismal, backward planet. Theold technician passed on to the next door and closed his eyes again.     With a sinking feeling, Cassal walked toward the entrance. He neededhelp and he had to find it in this dingy rathole.     Inside, though, it wasn't dingy and it wasn't a rathole. More like amaze, an approved scientific one. Efficient, though not comfortable.Travelers Aid was busier than he thought it would be. Eventually hemanaged to squeeze into one of the many small counseling rooms.     A woman appeared on the screen, crisp and cool. Please answereverything the machine asks. When the tape is complete, I'll beavailable for consultation.     Cassal wasn't sure he was going to like her. Is this necessary? heasked. It's merely a matter of information.     We have certain regulations we abide by. The woman smiled frostily.I can't give you any information until you comply with them.     Sometimes regulations are silly, said Cassal firmly. Let me speak tothe first counselor.     You are speaking to her, she said. Her face disappeared from thescreen.     Cassal sighed. So far he hadn't made a good impression.     Travelers Aid Bureau, in addition to regulations, was abundantlysupplied with official curiosity. When the machine finished with him,Cassal had the feeling he could be recreated from the record it had ofhim. His individuality had been capsuled into a series of questions andanswers. One thing he drew the line at—why he wanted to go to Tunney21 was his own business.     The first counselor reappeared. Age, indeterminate. Not, he supposed,that anyone would be curious about it. Slightly taller than average,rather on the slender side. Face was broad at the brow, narrow at thechin and her eyes were enigmatic. A dangerous woman.  She glanced down at the data. Denton Cassal, native of Earth.Destination, Tunney 21. She looked up at him. Occupation, salesengineer. Isn't that an odd combination? Her smile was quite superior.     Not at all. Scientific training as an engineer. Special knowledge ofcustomer relations.     Special knowledge of a thousand races? How convenient. Her eyebrowsarched.     I think so, he agreed blandly. Anything else you'd like to know?     Sorry. I didn't mean to offend you.     He could believe that or not as he wished. He didn't.     You refused to answer why you were going to Tunney 21. Perhaps I canguess. They're the best scientists in the Galaxy. You wish to studyunder them.     Close—but wrong on two counts. They were good scientists, though notnecessarily the best. For instance, it was doubtful that they couldbuild Dimanche, even if they had ever thought of it, which was evenless likely.     There was, however, one relatively obscure research worker on Tunney 21that Neuronics wanted on their staff. If the fragments of his studiesthat had reached Earth across the vast distance meant anything, hecould help Neuronics perfect instantaneous radio. The company thatcould build a radio to span the reaches of the Galaxy with no time lagcould set its own price, which could be control of all communications,transport, trade—a galactic monopoly. Cassal's share would be a cut ofall that.     His part was simple, on the surface. He was to persuade that researcherto come to Earth,      if he could     . Literally, he had to guess theTunnesian's price before the Tunnesian himself knew it. In addition,the reputation of Tunnesian scientists being exceeded only by theirarrogance, Cassal had to convince him that he wouldn't be workingfor ignorant Earth savages. The existence of such an instrument asDimanche was a key factor.     Her voice broke through his thoughts. Now, then, what's your problem?     I was told on Earth I might have to wait a few days on Godolph. I'vebeen here three weeks. I want information on the ship bound for Tunney21.     Just a moment. She glanced at something below the angle of thescreen. She looked up and her eyes were grave.       Rickrock C     arrivedyesterday. Departed for Tunney early this morning.     Departed? He got up and sat down again, swallowing hard. When willthe next ship arrive?     Do you know how many stars there are in the Galaxy? she asked.     He didn't answer.  That's right, she said. Billions. Tunney, according to the notation,is near the center of the Galaxy, inside the third ring. You'vecovered about a third of the distance to it. Local traffic, anythingwithin a thousand light-years, is relatively easy to manage. At longerdistances, you take a chance. You've had yours and missed it. Frankly,Cassal, I don't know when another ship bound for Tunney will show up onor near Godolph. Within the next five years—maybe.  He blanched. How long would it take to get there using localtransportation, star-hopping?     Take my advice: don't try it. Five years, if you're lucky.     I don't need that kind of luck.     I suppose not. She hesitated. You're determined to go on? At theemphatic nod, she sighed. If that's your decision, we'll try to helpyou. To start things moving, we'll need a print of your identificationtab.     There's something funny about her, Dimanche decided. It was the usualspeaking voice of the instrument, no louder than the noise the bloodmade in coursing through arteries and veins. Cassal could hear itplainly, because it was virtually inside his ear.     Cassal ignored his private voice. Identification tab? I don't have itwith me. In fact, I may have lost it.     She smiled in instant disbelief. We're not trying to pry into anypart of your past you may wish concealed. However, it's much easierfor us to help you if you have your identification. Now if you can't      remember     your real name and where you put your identification— Shearose and left the screen. Just a moment.     He glared uneasily at the spot where the first counselor wasn't. His      real     name!     Relax, Dimanche suggested. She didn't mean it as a personal insult.     Presently she returned.     I have news for you, whoever you are.     Cassal, he said firmly. Denton Cassal, sales engineer, Earth. If youdon't believe it, send back to— He stopped. It had taken him fourmonths to get to Godolph, non-stop, plus a six-month wait on Earth fora ship to show up that was bound in the right direction. Over distancessuch as these, it just wasn't practical to send back to Earth foranything.     I see you understand. She glanced at the card in her hand. Thespaceport records indicate that when      Rickrock C     took off thismorning, there was a Denton Cassal on board, bound for Tunney 21.     It wasn't I, he said dazedly. He knew who it was, though. The man whohad tried to kill him last night. The reason for the attack now becameclear. The thug had wanted his identification tab. Worse, he had gottenit.     No doubt it wasn't, she said wearily. Outsiders don't seem tounderstand what galactic travel entails.     Outsiders? Evidently what she called those who lived beyond the secondtransfer ring. Were those who lived at the edge of the Galaxy, beyondthe first ring, called Rimmers? Probably.  She was still speaking: Ten years to cross the Galaxy, withoutstopping. At present, no ship is capable of that. Real scheduling isimpossible. Populations shift and have to be supplied. A ship is takenoff a run for repairs and is never put back on. It's more urgentlyneeded elsewhere. The man who depended on it is left waiting; yearspass before he learns it's never coming.     If we had instantaneous radio, that would help. Confusion wouldn'tvanish overnight, but it would diminish. We wouldn't have to dependon ships for all the news. Reservations could be made ahead of time,credit established, lost identification replaced—     I've traveled before, he interrupted stiffly. I've never had anytrouble.     She seemed to be exaggerating the difficulties. True, the center wasmore congested. Taking each star as the starting point for a limitednumber of ships and using statistical probability as a guide—why, noman would arrive at his predetermined destination.     But that wasn't the way it worked. Manifestly, you couldn't comparegalactic transportation to the erratic paths of air molecules in agiant room. Or could you?     For the average man, anyone who didn't have his own inter-stellar ship,was the comparison too apt? It might be.     You've traveled outside, where there are still free planets waiting tobe settled. Where a man is welcome, if he's able to work. She paused.The center is different. Populations are excessive. Inside the thirdring, no man is allowed off a ship without an identification tab. Theydon't encourage immigration.     In effect, that meant no ship bound for the center would take apassenger without identification. No ship owner would run the risk ofhaving a permanent guest on board, someone who couldn't be rid of whenhis money was gone.     Cassal held his head in his hands. Tunney 21 was inside the third ring.     Next time, she said, don't let anyone take your identification.     I won't, he promised grimly.  The woman looked directly at him. Her eyes were bright. He revised hisestimate of her age drastically downward. She couldn't be as old as he.Nothing outward had happened, but she no longer seemed dowdy. Not thathe was interested. Still, it might pay him to be friendly to the firstcounselor.     We're a philanthropic agency, said Murra Foray. Your case isspecial, though—     I understand, he said gruffly. You accept contributions.     She nodded. If the donor is able to give. We don't ask so much thatyou'll have to compromise your standard of living. But she named a sumthat would force him to do just that if getting to Tunney 21 took anyappreciable time.     He stared at her unhappily. I suppose it's worth it. I can alwayswork, if I have to.     As a salesman? she asked. I'm afraid you'll find it difficult to dobusiness with Godolphians.     Irony wasn't called for at a time like this, he thought reproachfully.     Not just another salesman, he answered definitely. I have specialknowledge of customer reactions. I can tell exactly—     He stopped abruptly. Was she baiting him? For what reason? Theinstrument he called Dimanche was not known to the Galaxy at large.From the business angle, it would be poor policy to hand out thatinformation at random. Aside from that, he needed every advantage hecould get. Dimanche was his special advantage.     Anyway, he finished lamely, I'm a first class engineer. I canalways find something in that line.     A scientist, maybe, murmured Murra Foray. But in this part of theMilky Way, an engineer is regarded as merely a technician who hasn'tyet gained practical experience. She shook her head. You'll do betteras a salesman.     He got up, glowering. If that's all—     It is. We'll keep you informed. Drop your contribution in the slotprovided for that purpose as you leave.     A door, which he hadn't noticed in entering the counselling cubicle,swung open. The agency was efficient.     Remember, the counselor called out as he left, identification ishard to work with. Don't accept a crude forgery.     He didn't answer, but it was an idea worth considering. The agency wasalso eminently practical.     The exit path guided him firmly to an inconspicuous and yet inescapablecontribution station. He began to doubt the philanthropic aspect of thebureau.  I've got it, said Dimanche as Cassal gloomily counted out the sum thefirst counselor had named.     Got what? asked Cassal. He rolled the currency into a neat bundle,attached his name, and dropped it into the chute.     The woman, Murra Foray, the first counselor. She's a Huntner.     What's a Huntner?     A sub-race of men on the other side of the Galaxy. She was vocalizingabout her home planet when I managed to locate her.     Any other information?     None. Electronic guards were sliding into place as soon as I reachedher. I got out as fast as I could.     I see. The significance of that, if any, escaped him. Nevertheless,it sounded depressing.     What I want to know is, said Dimanche, why such precautions aselectronic guards? What does Travelers Aid have that's so secret?     Cassal grunted and didn't answer. Dimanche could be annoyinglyinquisitive at times.     Cassal had entered one side of a block-square building. He came out onthe other side. The agency was larger than he had thought. The old manwas staring at a door as Cassal came out. He had apparently changedevery sign in the building. His work finished, the technician wasremoving the visual projector from his head as Cassal came up to him.He turned and peered.     You stuck here, too? he asked in the uneven voice of the aged.     Stuck? repeated Cassal. I suppose you can call it that. I'm waitingfor my ship. He frowned. He was the one who wanted to ask questions.Why all the redecoration? I thought Travelers Aid was an old agency.Why did you change so many signs? I could understand it if the agencywere new.     The old man chuckled. Re-organization. The previous first counselorresigned suddenly, in the middle of the night, they say. The new onedidn't like the name of the agency, so she ordered it changed.     She would do just that, thought Cassal. What about this Murra Foray?     The old man winked mysteriously. He opened his mouth and then seemedovercome with senile fright. Hurriedly he shuffled away.     Cassal gazed after him, baffled. The old man was afraid for his job,afraid of the first counselor. Why he should be, Cassal didn't know. Heshrugged and went on. The agency was now in motion in his behalf, buthe didn't intend to depend on that alone.  ","Murra Foray is the First Counselor of the Traveler's Aid Bureau on Godolph. Little is known about her personally, other than the fact that she is a Huntner, a people from across the Galaxy. Foray was an intimidating, cold woman, who was particularly curious about Cassal. Upon Cassal's arrival, she interrogates him about his personal life before offering help. Additionally, once Cassal realizes he had missed the ship to Tunney 21, and is stranded on Godolph, Murra Foray offers little support or sympathy. Instead, she reprimands him for lack of identification and nevertheless presses for a financial contribution. Foray is a mysterious character, whose motives are questioned, especially by Dimanche; while Dimanche is usually able to read people, Foray had electronic guards protecting information, indicating that the Traveler's Aid Bureau is hiding something."
"Describe the setting of the story. </s>     DELAY IN TRANSIT     By F. L. WALLACE     Illustrated by SIBLEY     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction September 1952.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        An unprovoked, meaningless night attack is       terrifying enough on your own home planet, worse       on a world across the Galaxy. But the horror       is the offer of help that cannot be accepted!        Muscles tense, said Dimanche. Neural index 1.76, unusually high.Adrenalin squirting through his system. In effect, he's stalking you.Intent: probably assault with a deadly weapon.     Not interested, said Cassal firmly, his subvocalization inaudibleto anyone but Dimanche. I'm not the victim type. He was standing onthe walkway near the brink of the thoroughfare. I'm going back to thehabitat hotel and sit tight.     First you have to get there, Dimanche pointed out. I mean, is itsafe for a stranger to walk through the city?     Now that you mention it, no, answered Cassal. He looked aroundapprehensively. Where is he?       Behind you. At the moment he's pretending interest in a merchandisedisplay.     A native stamped by, eyes brown and incurious. Apparently he wasaccustomed to the sight of an Earthman standing alone, Adam's applebobbing up and down silently. It was a Godolphian axiom that alltravelers were crazy.     Cassal looked up. Not an air taxi in sight; Godolph shut down at dusk.It would be pure luck if he found a taxi before morning. Of course he      could     walk back to the hotel, but was that such a good idea?     A Godolphian city was peculiar. And, though not intended, it waspeculiarly suited to certain kinds of violence. A human pedestrian wasat a definite disadvantage.     Correction, said Dimanche. Not simple assault. He has murder inmind.     It still doesn't appeal to me, said Cassal. Striving to lookunconcerned, he strolled toward the building side of the walkway andstared into the interior of a small cafe. Warm, bright and dry. Inside,he might find safety for a time.     Damn the man who was following him! It would be easy enough to eludehim in a normal city. On Godolph, nothing was normal. In an hour thestreets would be brightly lighted—for native eyes. A human wouldconsider it dim.     Why did he choose me? asked Cassal plaintively. There must besomething he hopes to gain.     I'm working on it, said Dimanche. But remember, I have limitations.At short distances I can scan nervous systems, collect and interpretphysiological data. I can't read minds. The best I can do is reportwhat a person says or subvocalizes. If you're really interested infinding out why he wants to kill you, I suggest you turn the problemover to the godawful police.     Godolph, not godawful, corrected Cassal absently.     That was advice he couldn't follow, good as it seemed. He could givethe police no evidence save through Dimanche. There were variousreasons, many of them involving the law, for leaving the device calledDimanche out of it. The police would act if they found a body. His own,say, floating face-down on some quiet street. That didn't seem theproper approach, either.     Weapons?     The first thing I searched him for. Nothing very dangerous. A longknife, a hard striking object. Both concealed on his person.     Cassal strangled slightly. Dimanche needed a good stiff course insemantics. A knife was still the most silent of weapons. A man coulddie from it. His hand strayed toward his pocket. He had a measure ofprotection himself.     Report, said Dimanche. Not necessarily final. Based, perhaps, ontenuous evidence.     Let's have it anyway.     His motivation is connected somehow with your being marooned here. Forsome reason you can't get off this planet.     That was startling information, though not strictly true. A thousandstar systems were waiting for him, and a ship to take him to each one.     Of course, the one ship he wanted hadn't come in. Godolph was atransfer point for stars nearer the center of the Galaxy. When hehad left Earth, he had known he would have to wait a few days here.He hadn't expected a delay of nearly three weeks. Still, it wasn'tunusual. Interstellar schedules over great distances were not asreliable as they might be.     Was this man, whoever and whatever he might be, connected withthat delay? According to Dimanche, the man thought he was. He wasself-deluded or did he have access to information that Cassal didn't?  Denton Cassal, sales engineer, paused for a mental survey of himself.He was a good engineer and, because he was exceptionally well matchedto his instrument, the best salesman that Neuronics, Inc., had. On thebasis of these qualifications, he had been selected to make a longjourney, the first part of which already lay behind him. He had to goto Tunney 21 to see a man. That man wasn't important to anyone save thecompany that employed him, and possibly not even to them.     The thug trailing him wouldn't be interested in Cassal himself, hismission, which was a commercial one, nor the man on Tunney. And moneywasn't the objective, if Dimanche's analysis was right. What      did     thethug want?     Secrets? Cassal had none, except, in a sense, Dimanche. And that wastoo well kept on Earth, where the instrument was invented and made, foranyone this far away to have learned about it.     And yet the thug wanted to kill him. Wanted to? Regarded him as good asdead. It might pay him to investigate the matter further, if it didn'tinvolve too much risk.     Better start moving. That was Dimanche. He's getting suspicious.     Cassal went slowly along the narrow walkway that bordered each side ofthat boulevard, the transport tide. It was raining again. It usuallywas on Godolph, which was a weather-controlled planet where the nativeslike rain.     He adjusted the controls of the weak force field that repelled therain. He widened the angle of the field until water slanted through itunhindered. He narrowed it around him until it approached visibilityand the drops bounced away. He swore at the miserable climate and thenear amphibians who created it.     A few hundred feet away, a Godolphian girl waded out of the transporttide and climbed to the walkway. It was this sort of thing that madelife dangerous for a human—Venice revised, brought up to date in afaster-than-light age.     Water. It was a perfect engineering material. Simple, cheap, infinitelyflexible. With a minimum of mechanism and at break-neck speed, theribbon of the transport tide flowed at different levels throughoutthe city. The Godolphian merely plunged in and was carried swiftlyand noiselessly to his destination. Whereas a human—Cassal shivered.If he were found drowned, it would be considered an accident. Noinvestigation would be made. The thug who was trailing him hadcertainly picked the right place.     The Godolphian girl passed. She wore a sleek brown fur, her own. Cassalwas almost positive she muttered a polite Arf? as she sloshed by.What she meant by that, he didn't know and didn't intend to find out.     Follow her, instructed Dimanche. We've got to investigate our man atcloser range.  Obediently, Cassal turned and began walking after the girl. Attractivein an anthropomorphic, seal-like way, even from behind. Not gracefulout of her element, though.     The would-be assassin was still looking at merchandise as Cassalretraced his steps. A man, or at least man type. A big fellow,physically quite capable of violence, if size had anything to do withit. The face, though, was out of character. Mild, almost meek. Ascientist or scholar. It didn't fit with murder.     Nothing, said Dimanche disgustedly. His mind froze when we gotclose. I could feel his shoulderblades twitching as we passed.Anticipated guilt, of course. Projecting to you the action he plans.That makes the knife definite.     Well beyond the window at which the thug watched and waited, Cassalstopped. Shakily he produced a cigarette and fumbled for a lighter.     Excellent thinking, commended Dimanche. He won't attempt anythingon this street. Too dangerous. Turn aside at the next desertedintersection and let him follow the glow of your cigarette.     The lighter flared in his hand. That's one way of finding out, saidCassal. But wouldn't I be a lot safer if I just concentrated ongetting back to the hotel?     I'm curious. Turn here.     Go to hell, said Cassal nervously. Nevertheless, when he came to thatintersection, he turned there.     It was a Godolphian equivalent of an alley, narrow and dark, oilyslow-moving water gurgling at one side, high cavernous walls looming onthe other.     He would have to adjust the curiosity factor of Dimanche. It was allvery well to be interested in the man who trailed him, but there wasalso the problem of coming out of this adventure alive. Dimanche, anelectronic instrument, naturally wouldn't consider that.     Easy, warned Dimanche. He's at the entrance to the alley, walkingfast. He's surprised and pleased that you took this route.     I'm surprised, too, remarked Cassal. But I wouldn't say I'm pleased.Not just now.     Careful. Even subvocalized conversation is distracting. The mechanismconcealed within his body was silent for an instant and then continued:His blood pressure is rising, breathing is faster. At a time likethis, he may be ready to verbalize why he wants to murder you. This iscritical.     That's no lie, agreed Cassal bitterly. The lighter was in his hand.He clutched it grimly. It was difficult not to look back. The darknessassumed an even more sinister quality.     Quiet, said Dimanche. He's verbalizing about you.     He's decided I'm a nice fellow after all. He's going to stop and askme for a light.     I don't think so, answered Dimanche. He's whispering: 'Poor devil. Ihate to do it. But it's really his life or mine'.     He's more right than he knows. Why all this violence, though? Isn'tthere any clue?     None at all, admitted Dimanche. He's very close. You'd better turnaround.  Cassal turned, pressed the stud on the lighter. It should have made himfeel more secure, but it didn't. He could see very little.     A dim shadow rushed at him. He jumped away from the water side of thealley, barely in time. He could feel the rush of air as the assailantshot by.     Hey! shouted Cassal.     Echoes answered; nothing else did. He had the uncomfortable feelingthat no one was going to come to his assistance.     He wasn't expecting that reaction, explained Dimanche. That's why hemissed. He's turned around and is coming back.     I'm armed! shouted Cassal.     That won't stop him. He doesn't believe you.     Cassal grasped the lighter. That is, it had been a lighter a fewseconds before. Now a needle-thin blade had snapped out and projectedstiffly. Originally it had been designed as an emergency surgicalinstrument. A little imagination and a few changes had altered itsfunction, converting it into a compact, efficient stiletto.     Twenty feet away, advised Dimanche. He knows you can't see him, buthe can see your silhouette by the light from the main thoroughfare.What he doesn't know is that I can detect every move he makes and keepyou posted below the level of his hearing.     Stay on him, growled Cassal nervously. He flattened himself againstthe wall.     To the right, whispered Dimanche. Lunge forward. About five feet.Low.     Sickly, he did so. He didn't care to consider the possible effects ofa miscalculation. In the darkness, how far was five feet? Fortunately,his estimate was correct. The rapier encountered yielding resistance,the soggy kind: flesh. The tough blade bent, but did not break. Hisopponent gasped and broke away.     Attack! howled Dimanche against the bone behind his ear. You've gothim. He can't imagine how you know where he is in the darkness. He'safraid.     Attack he did, slicing about wildly. Some of the thrusts landed; somedidn't. The percentage was low, the total amount high. His opponentfell to the ground, gasped and was silent.     Cassal fumbled in his pockets and flipped on a light. The man lay nearthe water side of the alley. One leg was crumpled under him. He didn'tmove.     Heartbeat slow, said Dimanche solemnly. Breathing barelyperceptible.     Then he's not dead, said Cassal in relief.     Foam flecked from the still lips and ran down the chin. Blood oozedfrom cuts on the face.     Respiration none, heartbeat absent, stated Dimanche.  Horrified, Cassal gazed at the body. Self-defense, of course, butwould the police believe it? Assuming they did, they'd still have toinvestigate. The rapier was an illegal concealed weapon. And they wouldquestion him until they discovered Dimanche. Regrettable, but whatcould he do about it?     Suppose he were detained long enough to miss the ship bound for Tunney21?     Grimly, he laid down the rapier. He might as well get to the bottom ofthis. Why had the man attacked? What did he want?     I don't know, replied Dimanche irritably. I can interpret bodydata—a live body. I can't work on a piece of meat.     Cassal searched the body thoroughly. Miscellaneous personal articlesof no value in identifying the man. A clip with a startling amountof money in it. A small white card with something scribbled on it. Apicture of a woman and a small child posed against a background whichresembled no world Cassal had ever seen. That was all.     Cassal stood up in bewilderment. Dimanche to the contrary, there seemedto be no connection between this dead man and his own problem ofgetting to Tunney 21.     Right now, though, he had to dispose of the body. He glanced toward theboulevard. So far no one had been attracted by the violence.     He bent down to retrieve the lighter-rapier. Dimanche shouted at him.Before he could react, someone landed on him. He fell forward, vainlytrying to grasp the weapon. Strong fingers felt for his throat as hewas forced to the ground.     He threw the attacker off and staggered to his feet. He heard footstepsrushing away. A slight splash followed. Whoever it was, he was escapingby way of water.     Whoever it was. The man he had thought he had slain was no longer insight.     Interpret body data, do you? muttered Cassal. Liveliest dead manI've ever been strangled by.     It's just possible there are some breeds of men who can control thebasic functions of their body, said Dimanche defensively. When Ichecked him, he had no heartbeat.     Remind me not to accept your next evaluation so completely, gruntedCassal. Nevertheless, he was relieved, in a fashion. He hadn't      wanted     to kill the man. And now there was nothing he'd have to explain to thepolice.     He needed the cigarette he stuck between his lips. For the secondtime he attempted to pick up the rapier-lighter. This time he wassuccessful. Smoke swirled into his lungs and quieted his nerves. Hesqueezed the weapon into the shape of a lighter and put it away.     Something, however, was missing—his wallet.     The thug had relieved him of it in the second round of the scuffle.Persistent fellow. Damned persistent.     It really didn't matter. He fingered the clip he had taken from thesupposedly dead body. He had intended to turn it over to the police.Now he might as well keep it to reimburse him for his loss. Itcontained more money than his wallet had.     Except for the identification tab he always carried in his wallet, itwas more than a fair exchange. The identification, a rectangular pieceof plastic, was useful in establishing credit, but with the money henow had, he wouldn't need credit. If he did, he could always send foranother tab.     A white card fluttered from the clip. He caught it as it fell.Curiously he examined it. Blank except for one crudely printed word,STAB. His unknown assailant certainly had tried.  The old man stared at the door, an obsolete visual projector wobblingprecariously on his head. He closed his eyes and the lettering on thedoor disappeared. Cassal was too far away to see what it had been. Thetechnician opened his eyes and concentrated. Slowly a new sign formedon the door.     TRAVELERS AID BUREAU     Murra Foray, First Counselor     It was a drab sign, but, then, it was a dismal, backward planet. Theold technician passed on to the next door and closed his eyes again.     With a sinking feeling, Cassal walked toward the entrance. He neededhelp and he had to find it in this dingy rathole.     Inside, though, it wasn't dingy and it wasn't a rathole. More like amaze, an approved scientific one. Efficient, though not comfortable.Travelers Aid was busier than he thought it would be. Eventually hemanaged to squeeze into one of the many small counseling rooms.     A woman appeared on the screen, crisp and cool. Please answereverything the machine asks. When the tape is complete, I'll beavailable for consultation.     Cassal wasn't sure he was going to like her. Is this necessary? heasked. It's merely a matter of information.     We have certain regulations we abide by. The woman smiled frostily.I can't give you any information until you comply with them.     Sometimes regulations are silly, said Cassal firmly. Let me speak tothe first counselor.     You are speaking to her, she said. Her face disappeared from thescreen.     Cassal sighed. So far he hadn't made a good impression.     Travelers Aid Bureau, in addition to regulations, was abundantlysupplied with official curiosity. When the machine finished with him,Cassal had the feeling he could be recreated from the record it had ofhim. His individuality had been capsuled into a series of questions andanswers. One thing he drew the line at—why he wanted to go to Tunney21 was his own business.     The first counselor reappeared. Age, indeterminate. Not, he supposed,that anyone would be curious about it. Slightly taller than average,rather on the slender side. Face was broad at the brow, narrow at thechin and her eyes were enigmatic. A dangerous woman.  She glanced down at the data. Denton Cassal, native of Earth.Destination, Tunney 21. She looked up at him. Occupation, salesengineer. Isn't that an odd combination? Her smile was quite superior.     Not at all. Scientific training as an engineer. Special knowledge ofcustomer relations.     Special knowledge of a thousand races? How convenient. Her eyebrowsarched.     I think so, he agreed blandly. Anything else you'd like to know?     Sorry. I didn't mean to offend you.     He could believe that or not as he wished. He didn't.     You refused to answer why you were going to Tunney 21. Perhaps I canguess. They're the best scientists in the Galaxy. You wish to studyunder them.     Close—but wrong on two counts. They were good scientists, though notnecessarily the best. For instance, it was doubtful that they couldbuild Dimanche, even if they had ever thought of it, which was evenless likely.     There was, however, one relatively obscure research worker on Tunney 21that Neuronics wanted on their staff. If the fragments of his studiesthat had reached Earth across the vast distance meant anything, hecould help Neuronics perfect instantaneous radio. The company thatcould build a radio to span the reaches of the Galaxy with no time lagcould set its own price, which could be control of all communications,transport, trade—a galactic monopoly. Cassal's share would be a cut ofall that.     His part was simple, on the surface. He was to persuade that researcherto come to Earth,      if he could     . Literally, he had to guess theTunnesian's price before the Tunnesian himself knew it. In addition,the reputation of Tunnesian scientists being exceeded only by theirarrogance, Cassal had to convince him that he wouldn't be workingfor ignorant Earth savages. The existence of such an instrument asDimanche was a key factor.     Her voice broke through his thoughts. Now, then, what's your problem?     I was told on Earth I might have to wait a few days on Godolph. I'vebeen here three weeks. I want information on the ship bound for Tunney21.     Just a moment. She glanced at something below the angle of thescreen. She looked up and her eyes were grave.       Rickrock C     arrivedyesterday. Departed for Tunney early this morning.     Departed? He got up and sat down again, swallowing hard. When willthe next ship arrive?     Do you know how many stars there are in the Galaxy? she asked.     He didn't answer.  That's right, she said. Billions. Tunney, according to the notation,is near the center of the Galaxy, inside the third ring. You'vecovered about a third of the distance to it. Local traffic, anythingwithin a thousand light-years, is relatively easy to manage. At longerdistances, you take a chance. You've had yours and missed it. Frankly,Cassal, I don't know when another ship bound for Tunney will show up onor near Godolph. Within the next five years—maybe.  He blanched. How long would it take to get there using localtransportation, star-hopping?     Take my advice: don't try it. Five years, if you're lucky.     I don't need that kind of luck.     I suppose not. She hesitated. You're determined to go on? At theemphatic nod, she sighed. If that's your decision, we'll try to helpyou. To start things moving, we'll need a print of your identificationtab.     There's something funny about her, Dimanche decided. It was the usualspeaking voice of the instrument, no louder than the noise the bloodmade in coursing through arteries and veins. Cassal could hear itplainly, because it was virtually inside his ear.     Cassal ignored his private voice. Identification tab? I don't have itwith me. In fact, I may have lost it.     She smiled in instant disbelief. We're not trying to pry into anypart of your past you may wish concealed. However, it's much easierfor us to help you if you have your identification. Now if you can't      remember     your real name and where you put your identification— Shearose and left the screen. Just a moment.     He glared uneasily at the spot where the first counselor wasn't. His      real     name!     Relax, Dimanche suggested. She didn't mean it as a personal insult.     Presently she returned.     I have news for you, whoever you are.     Cassal, he said firmly. Denton Cassal, sales engineer, Earth. If youdon't believe it, send back to— He stopped. It had taken him fourmonths to get to Godolph, non-stop, plus a six-month wait on Earth fora ship to show up that was bound in the right direction. Over distancessuch as these, it just wasn't practical to send back to Earth foranything.     I see you understand. She glanced at the card in her hand. Thespaceport records indicate that when      Rickrock C     took off thismorning, there was a Denton Cassal on board, bound for Tunney 21.     It wasn't I, he said dazedly. He knew who it was, though. The man whohad tried to kill him last night. The reason for the attack now becameclear. The thug had wanted his identification tab. Worse, he had gottenit.     No doubt it wasn't, she said wearily. Outsiders don't seem tounderstand what galactic travel entails.     Outsiders? Evidently what she called those who lived beyond the secondtransfer ring. Were those who lived at the edge of the Galaxy, beyondthe first ring, called Rimmers? Probably.  She was still speaking: Ten years to cross the Galaxy, withoutstopping. At present, no ship is capable of that. Real scheduling isimpossible. Populations shift and have to be supplied. A ship is takenoff a run for repairs and is never put back on. It's more urgentlyneeded elsewhere. The man who depended on it is left waiting; yearspass before he learns it's never coming.     If we had instantaneous radio, that would help. Confusion wouldn'tvanish overnight, but it would diminish. We wouldn't have to dependon ships for all the news. Reservations could be made ahead of time,credit established, lost identification replaced—     I've traveled before, he interrupted stiffly. I've never had anytrouble.     She seemed to be exaggerating the difficulties. True, the center wasmore congested. Taking each star as the starting point for a limitednumber of ships and using statistical probability as a guide—why, noman would arrive at his predetermined destination.     But that wasn't the way it worked. Manifestly, you couldn't comparegalactic transportation to the erratic paths of air molecules in agiant room. Or could you?     For the average man, anyone who didn't have his own inter-stellar ship,was the comparison too apt? It might be.     You've traveled outside, where there are still free planets waiting tobe settled. Where a man is welcome, if he's able to work. She paused.The center is different. Populations are excessive. Inside the thirdring, no man is allowed off a ship without an identification tab. Theydon't encourage immigration.     In effect, that meant no ship bound for the center would take apassenger without identification. No ship owner would run the risk ofhaving a permanent guest on board, someone who couldn't be rid of whenhis money was gone.     Cassal held his head in his hands. Tunney 21 was inside the third ring.     Next time, she said, don't let anyone take your identification.     I won't, he promised grimly.  The woman looked directly at him. Her eyes were bright. He revised hisestimate of her age drastically downward. She couldn't be as old as he.Nothing outward had happened, but she no longer seemed dowdy. Not thathe was interested. Still, it might pay him to be friendly to the firstcounselor.     We're a philanthropic agency, said Murra Foray. Your case isspecial, though—     I understand, he said gruffly. You accept contributions.     She nodded. If the donor is able to give. We don't ask so much thatyou'll have to compromise your standard of living. But she named a sumthat would force him to do just that if getting to Tunney 21 took anyappreciable time.     He stared at her unhappily. I suppose it's worth it. I can alwayswork, if I have to.     As a salesman? she asked. I'm afraid you'll find it difficult to dobusiness with Godolphians.     Irony wasn't called for at a time like this, he thought reproachfully.     Not just another salesman, he answered definitely. I have specialknowledge of customer reactions. I can tell exactly—     He stopped abruptly. Was she baiting him? For what reason? Theinstrument he called Dimanche was not known to the Galaxy at large.From the business angle, it would be poor policy to hand out thatinformation at random. Aside from that, he needed every advantage hecould get. Dimanche was his special advantage.     Anyway, he finished lamely, I'm a first class engineer. I canalways find something in that line.     A scientist, maybe, murmured Murra Foray. But in this part of theMilky Way, an engineer is regarded as merely a technician who hasn'tyet gained practical experience. She shook her head. You'll do betteras a salesman.     He got up, glowering. If that's all—     It is. We'll keep you informed. Drop your contribution in the slotprovided for that purpose as you leave.     A door, which he hadn't noticed in entering the counselling cubicle,swung open. The agency was efficient.     Remember, the counselor called out as he left, identification ishard to work with. Don't accept a crude forgery.     He didn't answer, but it was an idea worth considering. The agency wasalso eminently practical.     The exit path guided him firmly to an inconspicuous and yet inescapablecontribution station. He began to doubt the philanthropic aspect of thebureau.  I've got it, said Dimanche as Cassal gloomily counted out the sum thefirst counselor had named.     Got what? asked Cassal. He rolled the currency into a neat bundle,attached his name, and dropped it into the chute.     The woman, Murra Foray, the first counselor. She's a Huntner.     What's a Huntner?     A sub-race of men on the other side of the Galaxy. She was vocalizingabout her home planet when I managed to locate her.     Any other information?     None. Electronic guards were sliding into place as soon as I reachedher. I got out as fast as I could.     I see. The significance of that, if any, escaped him. Nevertheless,it sounded depressing.     What I want to know is, said Dimanche, why such precautions aselectronic guards? What does Travelers Aid have that's so secret?     Cassal grunted and didn't answer. Dimanche could be annoyinglyinquisitive at times.     Cassal had entered one side of a block-square building. He came out onthe other side. The agency was larger than he had thought. The old manwas staring at a door as Cassal came out. He had apparently changedevery sign in the building. His work finished, the technician wasremoving the visual projector from his head as Cassal came up to him.He turned and peered.     You stuck here, too? he asked in the uneven voice of the aged.     Stuck? repeated Cassal. I suppose you can call it that. I'm waitingfor my ship. He frowned. He was the one who wanted to ask questions.Why all the redecoration? I thought Travelers Aid was an old agency.Why did you change so many signs? I could understand it if the agencywere new.     The old man chuckled. Re-organization. The previous first counselorresigned suddenly, in the middle of the night, they say. The new onedidn't like the name of the agency, so she ordered it changed.     She would do just that, thought Cassal. What about this Murra Foray?     The old man winked mysteriously. He opened his mouth and then seemedovercome with senile fright. Hurriedly he shuffled away.     Cassal gazed after him, baffled. The old man was afraid for his job,afraid of the first counselor. Why he should be, Cassal didn't know. Heshrugged and went on. The agency was now in motion in his behalf, buthe didn't intend to depend on that alone.  ","The story takes place in a city on Godolph, a planet that acts as a transfer location in between stars. Godolph is a threatening and violent city, not safe for ordinary humans. A unique feature of Godolph is that its environment is specifically catered to natives, where the weather is controlled, often with heavy rain. The city is compared to Venice, where water is used as a mode of transport and essential to engineering. Additionally, at dusk the city becomes dark for travelers, but bright for its natives. "
"What is the plot of the story? </s>     Appointment in Tomorrow     BY FRITZ LEIBER     Illustrated by ED ALEXANDER     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction July 1951.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]       Is it possible to have a world without moral values?     Or does lack of morality become a moral value, also?      The first angry rays of the sun—which, startlingly enough, still rosein the east at 24 hour intervals—pierced the lacy tops of Atlanticcombers and touched thousands of sleeping Americans with unconsciousfear, because of their unpleasant similarity to the rays from World WarIII's atomic bombs.     They turned to blood the witch-circle of rusty steel skeletons aroundInferno in Manhattan. Without comment, they pointed a cosmic finger atthe tarnished brass plaque commemorating the martyrdom of the ThreePhysicists after the dropping of the Hell Bomb. They tenderly touchedthe rosy skin and strawberry bruises on the naked shoulders of agirl sleeping off a drunk on the furry and radiantly heated floor ofa nearby roof garden. They struck green magic from the glassy blotthat was Old Washington. Twelve hours before, they had revealed thingsas eerily beautiful, and as ravaged, in Asia and Russia. They pinkedthe white walls of the Colonial dwelling of Morton Opperly near theInstitute for Advanced Studies; upstairs they slanted impartiallyacross the Pharoahlike and open-eyed face of the elderly physicist andthe ugly, sleep-surly one of young Willard Farquar in the next room.And in nearby New Washington they made of the spire of the Thinkers'Foundation a blue and optimistic glory that outshone White House, Jr.     It was America approaching the end of the Twentieth Century. Americaof juke-box burlesque and your local radiation hospital. Americaof the mask-fad for women and Mystic Christianity. America of theoff-the-bosom dress and the New Blue Laws. America of the Endless Warand the loyalty detector. America of marvelous Maizie and the monthlyrocket to Mars. America of the Thinkers and (a few remembered) theInstitute. Knock on titanium, Whadya do for black-outs, Please,lover, don't think when I'm around, America, as combat-shocked andcrippled as the rest of the bomb-shattered planet.     Not one impudent photon of the sunlight penetrated the triple-paned,polarizing windows of Jorj Helmuth's bedroom in the Thinker'sFoundation, yet the clock in his brain awakened him to the minute,or almost. Switching off the Educational Sandman in the midst of thephrase, ... applying tensor calculus to the nucleus, he took adeep, even breath and cast his mind to the limits of the world andhis knowledge. It was a somewhat shadowy vision, but, he noted withimpartial approval, definitely less shadowy than yesterday morning.     Employing a rapid mental scanning technique, he next cleared his memorychains of false associations, including those acquired while asleep.These chores completed, he held his finger on a bedside button, whichrotated the polarizing window panes until the room slowly filled with amuted daylight. Then, still flat on his back, he turned his head untilhe could look at the remarkably beautiful blonde girl asleep beside him.  Remembering last night, he felt a pang of exasperation, which heinstantly quelled by taking his mind to a higher and dispassionatelevel from which he could look down on the girl and even himself asquaint, clumsy animals. Still, he grumbled silently, Caddy might havehad enough consideration to clear out before he awoke. He wonderedif he shouldn't have used his hypnotic control of the girl to smooththeir relationship last night, and for a moment the word that wouldsend her into deep trance trembled on the tip of his tongue. But no,that special power of his over her was reserved for far more importantpurposes.     Pumping dynamic tension into his 20-year-old muscles and confidenceinto his 60-year-old mind, the 40-year-old Thinker rose from bed.No covers had to be thrown off; the nuclear heating unit made themunnecessary. He stepped into his clothing—the severe tunic, tights andsockassins of the modern business man. Next he glanced at the messagetape beside his phone, washed down with ginger ale a vita-amino-enzymetablet, and walked to the window. There, gazing along the rows of newlyplanted mutant oaks lining Decontamination Avenue, his smooth facebroke into a smile.     It had come to him, the next big move in the intricate game makingup his life—and mankind's. Come to him during sleep, as so many ofhis best decisions did, because he regularly employed the time-savingtechnique of somno-thought, which could function at the same time assomno-learning.     He set his who?-where? robot for Rocket Physicist and Genius Class.While it worked, he dictated to his steno-robot the following briefmessage:     Dear Fellow Scientist:     A project is contemplated that will have a crucial bearing on man'sfuture in deep space. Ample non-military Government funds areavailable. There was a time when professional men scoffed at theThinkers. Then there was a time when the Thinkers perforce neglectedthe professional men. Now both times are past. May they never return!I would like to consult you this afternoon, three o'clock sharp,Thinkers' Foundation I.     Jorj Helmuth     Meanwhile the who?-where? had tossed out a dozen cards. He glancedthrough them, hesitated at the name Willard Farquar, looked at thesleeping girl, then quickly tossed them all into the addresso-robot andplugged in the steno-robot.     The buzz-light blinked green and he switched the phone to audio.     The President is waiting to see Maizie, sir, a clear feminine voiceannounced. He has the general staff with him.     Martian peace to him, Jorj Helmuth said. Tell him I'll be down in afew minutes.  Huge as a primitive nuclear reactor, the great electronic brain loomedabove the knot of hush-voiced men. It almost filled a two-story room inthe Thinkers' Foundation. Its front was an orderly expanse of controls,indicators, telltales, and terminals, the upper ones reached by a chairon a boom.     Although, as far as anyone knew, it could sense only the informationand questions fed into it on a tape, the human visitors could notresist the impulse to talk in whispers and glance uneasily at the greatcryptic cube. After all, it had lately taken to moving some of itsown controls—the permissible ones—and could doubtless improvise ahearing apparatus if it wanted to.     For this was the thinking machine beside which the Marks and Eniacs andManiacs and Maddidas and Minervas and Mimirs were less than Morons.This was the machine with a million times as many synapses as the humanbrain, the machine that remembered by cutting delicate notches in therims of molecules (instead of kindergarten paper-punching or the ConeyIsland shimmying of columns of mercury). This was the machine that hadgiven instructions on building the last three-quarters of itself. Thiswas the goal, perhaps, toward which fallible human reasoning and biasedhuman judgment and feeble human ambition had evolved.       This was the machine that really thought—a million-plus!       This was the machine that the timid cyberneticists and stuffyprofessional scientists had said could not be built. Yet this was themachine that the Thinkers, with characteristic Yankee push,      had     built. And nicknamed, with characteristic Yankee irreverence andgirl-fondness, Maizie.     Gazing up at it, the President of the United States felt a chordplucked within him that hadn't been sounded for decades, the dark andshivery organ chord of his Baptist childhood. Here, in a strange sense,although his reason rejected it, he felt he stood face to face withthe living God: infinitely stern with the sternness of reality, yetinfinitely just. No tiniest error or wilful misstep could ever escapethe scrutiny of this vast mentality. He shivered.  The grizzled general—there was also one who was gray—was thinkingthat this was a very odd link in the chain of command. Some shadowy andusually well-controlled memories from World War II faintly stirred hisire. Here he was giving orders to a being immeasurably more intelligentthan himself. And always orders of the Tell me how to kill that manrather than the Kill that man sort. The distinction bothered himobscurely. It relieved him to know that Maizie had built-in controlswhich made her always the servant of humanity, or of humanity'sright-minded leaders—even the Thinkers weren't certain which.     The gray general was thinking uneasily, and, like the President, at amore turbid level, of the resemblance between Papal infallibility andthe dictates of the machine. Suddenly his bony wrists began to tremble.He asked himself: Was this the Second Coming? Mightn't an incarnationbe in metal rather than flesh?     The austere Secretary of State was remembering what he'd taken suchpains to make everyone forget: his youthful flirtation at Lake Successwith Buddhism. Sitting before his      guru     , his teacher, feeling theOccidental's awe at the wisdom of the East, or its pretense, he hadfelt a little like this.     The burly Secretary of Space, who had come up through United Rockets,was thanking his stars that at any rate the professional scientistsweren't responsible for this job. Like the grizzled general, he'dalways felt suspicious of men who kept telling you how to do things,rather than doing them themselves. In World War III he'd had his fillof the professional physicists, with their eternal taint of a mistysort of radicalism and free-thinking. The Thinkers were better—moredisciplined, more human. They'd called their brain-machine Maizie,which helped take the curse off her. Somewhat.  The President's Secretary, a paunchy veteran of party caucuses, wasalso glad that it was the Thinkers who had created the machine, thoughhe trembled at the power that it gave them over the Administration.Still, you could do business with the Thinkers. And nobody (not eventhe Thinkers) could do business (that sort of business) with Maizie!     Before that great square face with its thousands of tiny metalfeatures, only Jorj Helmuth seemed at ease, busily entering on thetape the complex Questions of the Day that the high officials hadhanded him: logistics for the Endless War in Pakistan, optimum size fornext year's sugar-corn crop, current thought trends in average Sovietminds—profound questions, yet many of them phrased with surprisingsimplicity. For figures, technical jargon, and layman's language werealike to Maizie; there was no need to translate into mathematicalshorthand, as with the lesser brain-machines.     The click of the taper went on until the Secretary of State had twicenervously fired a cigaret with his ultrasonic lighter and twice quicklyput it away. No one spoke.     Jorj looked up at the Secretary of Space. Section Five, QuestionFour—whom would that come from?     The burly man frowned. That would be the physics boys, Opperly'sgroup. Is anything wrong?     Jorj did not answer. A bit later he quit taping and began to adjustcontrols, going up on the boom-chair to reach some of them. Eventuallyhe came down and touched a few more, then stood waiting.     From the great cube came a profound, steady purring. Involuntarily thesix officials backed off a bit. Somehow it was impossible for a man toget used to the sound of Maizie starting to think.  Jorj turned, smiling. And now, gentlemen, while we wait for Maizieto celebrate, there should be just enough time for us to watch thetakeoff of the Mars rocket. He switched on a giant television screen.The others made a quarter turn, and there before them glowed the richochres and blues of a New Mexico sunrise and, in the middle distance, asilvery mighty spindle.     Like the generals, the Secretary of Space suppressed a scowl. Herewas something that ought to be spang in the center of his officialterritory, and the Thinkers had locked him completely out of it. Thatrocket there—just an ordinary Earth satellite vehicle commandeeredfrom the Army, but equipped by the Thinkers with Maizie-designednuclear motors capable of the Mars journey and more. The firstspaceship—and the Secretary of Space was not in on it!     Still, he told himself, Maizie had decreed it that way. And whenhe remembered what the Thinkers had done for him in rescuing himfrom breakdown with their mental science, in rescuing the wholeAdministration from collapse he realized he had to be satisfied. Andthat was without taking into consideration the amazing additionalmental discoveries that the Thinkers were bringing down from Mars.     Lord, the President said to Jorj as if voicing the Secretary'sfeeling, I wish you people could bring a couple of those wise littledevils back with you this trip. Be a good thing for the country.     Jorj looked at him a bit coldly. It's quite unthinkable, he said.The telepathic abilities of the Martians make them extremelysensitive. The conflicts of ordinary Earth minds would impinge on thempsychotically, even fatally. As you know, the Thinkers were able tocontact them only because of our degree of learned mental poise anderrorless memory-chains. So for the present it must be our task aloneto glean from the Martians their astounding mental skills. Of course,some day in the future, when we have discovered how to armor the mindsof the Martians—     Sure, I know, the President said hastily. Shouldn't have mentionedit, Jorj.     Conversation ceased. They waited with growing tension for the greatviolet flames to bloom from the base of the silvery shaft.  Meanwhile the question tape, like a New Year's streamer tossed outa high window into the night, sped on its dark way along spinningrollers. Curling with an intricate aimlessness curiously like thatof such a streamer, it tantalized the silvery fingers of a thousandrelays, saucily evaded the glances of ten thousand electric eyes,impishly darted down a narrow black alleyway of memory banks, and,reaching the center of the cube, suddenly emerged into a small roomwhere a suave fat man in shorts sat drinking beer.     He flipped the tape over to him with practiced finger, eyeing it asa stockbroker might have studied a ticker tape. He read the firstquestion, closed his eyes and frowned for five seconds. Then with thestaccato self-confidence of a hack writer, he began to tape out theanswer.     For many minutes the only sounds were the rustle of the paper ribbonand the click of the taper, except for the seconds the fat man took toclose his eyes, or to drink or pour beer. Once, too, he lifted a phone,asked a concise question, waited half a minute, listened to an answer,then went back to the grind.     Until he came to Section Five, Question Four. That time he did histhinking with his eyes open.     The question was: Does Maizie stand for Maelzel?     He sat for a while slowly scratching his thigh. His loose, persuasivelips tightened, without closing, into the shape of a snarl.     Suddenly he began to tape again.     Maizie does not stand for Maelzel. Maizie stands for amazing,humorously given the form of a girl's name. Section Six, Answer One:The mid-term election viewcasts should be spaced as follows....     But his lips didn't lose the shape of a snarl.  Five hundred miles above the ionosphere, the Mars rocket cut offits fuel and slumped gratefully into an orbit that would carry iteffortlessly around the world at that altitude. The pilot unstrappedhimself and stretched, but he didn't look out the viewport at thedried-mud disc that was Earth, cloaked in its haze of blue sky. He knewhe had two maddening months ahead of him in which to do little morethan that. Instead, he unstrapped Sappho.     Used to free fall from two previous experiences, and loving it, thefluffy little cat was soon bounding about the cabin in curves andgyrations that would have made her the envy of all back-alley andparlor felines on the planet below. A miracle cat in the dream world offree fall. For a long time she played with a string that the man wouldtoss out lazily. Sometimes she caught the string on the fly, sometimesshe swam for it frantically.     After a while the man grew bored with the game. He unlocked a drawerand began to study the details of the wisdom he would discover onMars this trip—priceless spiritual insights that would be balm towar-battered mankind.     The cat carefully selected a spot three feet off the floor, curled upon the air, and went to sleep.  Jorj Helmuth snipped the emerging answer tape into sections and handedeach to the appropriate man. Most of them carefully tucked theirs awaywith little more than a glance, but the Secretary of Space puzzled overhis.     Who the devil would Maelzel be? he asked.     A remote look came into the eyes of the Secretary of State. EdgarAllen Poe, he said frowningly, with eyes half-closed.     The grizzled general snapped his fingers. Sure! Maelzel's Chessplayer. Read it when I was a kid. About an automaton that was supposedto play chess. Poe proved it hid a man inside it.     The Secretary of Space frowned. Now what's the point in a foolquestion like that?     You said it came from Opperly's group? Jorj asked sharply.     The Secretary of Space nodded. The others looked at the two menpuzzledly.     Who would that be? Jorj pressed. The group, I mean.     The Secretary of Space shrugged. Oh, the usual little bunch over atthe Institute. Hindeman, Gregory, Opperly himself. Oh, yes, and youngFarquar.     Sounds like Opperly's getting senile, Jorj commented coldly. I'dinvestigate.     The Secretary of Space nodded. He suddenly looked tough. I will. Rightaway.  Sunlight striking through French windows spotlighted a ballet of dustmotes untroubled by air-conditioning. Morton Opperly's living room waswell-kept but worn and quite behind the times. Instead of reading tapesthere were books; instead of steno-robots, pen and ink; while in placeof a four by six TV screen, a Picasso hung on the wall. Only Opperlyknew that the painting was still faintly radioactive, that it had beenriskily so when he'd smuggled it out of his bomb-singed apartment inNew York City.     The two physicists fronted each other across a coffee table. The faceof the elder was cadaverous, large-eyed, and tender—fined down bya long life of abstract thought. That of the younger was forceful,sensuous, bulky as his body, and exceptionally ugly. He looked ratherlike a bear.     Opperly was saying, So when he asked who was responsible for theMaelzel question, I said I didn't remember. He smiled. They stillallow me my absent-mindedness, since it nourishes their contempt.Almost my sole remaining privilege. The smile faded. Why do you keepon teasing the zoo animals, Willard? he asked without rancor. I'vemaintained many times that we shouldn't truckle to them by yieldingto their demand that we ask Maizie questions. You and the rest haveoverruled me. But then to use those questions to convey veiled insultsisn't reasonable. Apparently the Secretary of Space was bothered enoughabout this last one to pay me a 'copter call within twenty minutes ofthis morning's meeting at the Foundation. Why do you do it, Willard?     The features of the other convulsed unpleasantly. Because theThinkers are charlatans who must be exposed, he rapped out. We knowtheir Maizie is no more than a tealeaf-reading fake. We've traced theirMars rockets and found they go nowhere. We know their Martian mentalscience is bunk.     But we've already exposed the Thinkers very thoroughly, Opperlyinterposed quietly. You know the good it did.     Farquar hunched his Japanese-wrestler shoulders. Then it's got to bedone until it takes.     Opperly studied the bowl of mutated flowers by the coffee pot. I thinkyou just want to tease the animals, for some personal reason of whichyou probably aren't aware.     Farquar scowled. We're the ones in the cages.  Opperly continued his inspection of the flowers' bells. All the morereason not to poke sticks through the bars at the lions and tigersstrolling outside. No, Willard, I'm not counseling appeasement. Butconsider the age in which we live. It wants magicians. His voice grewespecially tranquil. A scientist tells people the truth. When timesare good—that is, when the truth offers no threat—people don't mind.But when times are very, very bad.... A shadow darkened his eyes.Well, we all know what happened to— And he mentioned three namesthat had been household words in the middle of the century. Theywere the names on the brass plaque dedicated to the martyred threephysicists.     He went on, A magician, on the other hand, tells people what theywish were true—that perpetual motion works, that cancer can be curedby colored lights, that a psychosis is no worse than a head cold, thatthey'll live forever. In good times magicians are laughed at. They're aluxury of the spoiled wealthy few. But in bad times people sell theirsouls for magic cures, and buy perpetual motion machines to power theirwar rockets.     Farquar clenched his fist. All the more reason to keep chipping awayat the Thinkers. Are we supposed to beg off from a job because it'sdifficult and dangerous?     Opperly shook his head. We're to keep clear of the infection ofviolence. In my day, Willard, I was one of the Frightened Men. Later Iwas one of the Angry Men and then one of the Minds of Despair. Now I'mconvinced that all my reactions were futile.     Exactly! Farquar agreed harshly. You reacted. You didn't act. Ifyou men who discovered atomic energy had only formed a secret league,if you'd only had the foresight and the guts to use your tremendousbargaining position to demand the power to shape mankind's future....     By the time you were born, Willard, Opperly interrupted dreamily,Hitler was merely a name in the history books. We scientists weren'tthe stuff out of which cloak-and-dagger men are made. Can you imagineOppenheimer wearing a mask or Einstein sneaking into the Old WhiteHouse with a bomb in his briefcase? He smiled. Besides, that's notthe way power is seized. New ideas aren't useful to the man bargainingfor power—only established facts or lies are.     Just the same, it would have been a good thing if you'd had a littleviolence in you.     No, Opperly said.     I've got violence in me, Farquar announced, shoving himself to hisfeet.  Opperly looked up from the flowers. I think you have, he agreed.     But what are we to do? Farquar demanded. Surrender the world tocharlatans without a struggle?     Opperly mused for a while. I don't know what the world needs now.Everyone knows Newton as the great scientist. Few remember thathe spent half his life muddling with alchemy, looking for thephilosopher's stone. Which Newton did the world need then?     Now you are justifying the Thinkers!     No, I leave that to history.     And history consists of the actions of men, Farquar concluded. Iintend to act. The Thinkers are vulnerable, their power fantasticallyprecarious. What's it based on? A few lucky guesses. Faith-healing.Some science hocus-pocus, on the level of those juke-box burlesque actsbetween the strips. Dubious mental comfort given to a few nerve-tornneurotics in the Inner Cabinet—and their wives. The fact that theThinkers' clever stage-managing won the President a doubtful election.The erroneous belief that the Soviets pulled out of Iraq and Iranbecause of the Thinkers' Mind Bomb threat. A brain-machine that's justa cover for Jan Tregarron's guesswork. Oh, yes, and that hogwash of'Martian wisdom.' All of it mere bluff! A few pushes at the right timesand points are all that are needed—and the Thinkers know it! I'll betthey're terrified already, and will be more so when they find thatwe're gunning for them. Eventually they'll be making overtures to us,turning to us for help. You wait and see.     I am thinking again of Hitler, Opperly interposed quietly. On hisfirst half dozen big steps, he had nothing but bluff. His generalswere against him. They knew they were in a cardboard fort. Yet he wonevery battle, until the last. Moreover, he pressed on, cutting Farquarshort, the power of the Thinkers isn't based on what they've got, buton what the world hasn't got—peace, honor, a good conscience....     The front-door knocker clanked. Farquar answered it. A skinny old manwith a radiation scar twisting across his temple handed him a tinycylinder. Radiogram for you, Willard. He grinned across the hall atOpperly. When are you going to get a phone put in, Mr. Opperly?     The physicist waved to him. Next year, perhaps, Mr. Berry.     The old man snorted with good-humored incredulity and trudged off.     What did I tell you about the Thinkers making overtures? Farquarchortled suddenly. It's come sooner than I expected. Look at this.     He held out the radiogram, but the older man didn't take it. Instead heasked, Who's it from? Tregarron?     No, from Helmuth. There's a lot of sugar corn about man's future indeep space, but the real reason is clear. They know that they're goingto have to produce an actual nuclear rocket pretty soon, and for thatthey'll need our help.     An invitation?     Farquar nodded. For this afternoon. He noticed Opperly's anxiousthough distant frown. What's the matter? he asked. Are you botheredabout my going? Are you thinking it might be a trap—that after theMaelzel question they may figure I'm better rubbed out?     The older man shook his head. I'm not afraid for your life, Willard.That's yours to risk as you choose. No, I'm worried about other thingsthey might do to you.     What do you mean? Farquar asked.  Opperly looked at him with a gentle appraisal. You're a strong andvital man, Willard, with a strong man's prides and desires. His voicetrailed off for a bit. Then, Excuse me, Willard, but wasn't there agirl once? A Miss Arkady?     Farquar's ungainly figure froze. He nodded curtly, face averted.     And didn't she go off with a Thinker?     If girls find me ugly, that's their business, Farquar said harshly,still not looking at Opperly. What's that got to do with thisinvitation?     Opperly didn't answer the question. His eyes got more distant. Finallyhe said, In my day we had it a lot easier. A scientist was anacademician, cushioned by tradition.     Willard snorted. Science had already entered the era of the policeinspectors, with laboratory directors and political appointees stiflingenterprise.     Perhaps, Opperly agreed. Still, the scientist lived the safe,restricted, highly respectable life of a university man. He wasn'texposed to the temptations of the world.     Farquar turned on him. Are you implying that the Thinkers will somehowbe able to buy me off?     Not exactly.     You think I'll be persuaded to change my aims? Farquar demandedangrily.     Opperly shrugged his helplessness. No, I don't think you'll changeyour aims.     Clouds encroaching from the west blotted the parallelogram of sunlightbetween the two men.  As the slideway whisked him gently along the corridor toward hisapartment, Jorj was thinking of his spaceship. For a moment thesilver-winged vision crowded everything else out of his mind.     Just think, a spaceship with sails! He smiled a bit, marveling at theparadox.     Direct atomic power. Direct utilization of the force of the flyingneutrons. No more ridiculous business of using a reactor to drive asteam engine, or boil off something for a jet exhaust—processes thatwere as primitive and wasteful as burning gunpowder to keep yourselfwarm.     Chemical jets would carry his spaceship above the atmosphere. Thenwould come the thrilling order, Set sail for Mars! The vast umbrellawould unfold and open out around the stern, its rear or Earthward sidea gleaming expanse of radioactive ribbon perhaps only an atom thickand backed with a material that would reflect neutrons. Atoms in theribbon would split, blasting neutrons astern at fantastic velocities.Reaction would send the spaceship hurtling forward.     In airless space, the expanse of sails would naturally not retard theship. More radioactive ribbon, manufactured as needed in the shipitself, would feed out onto the sail as that already there becameexhausted.     A spaceship with direct nuclear drive—and he, a Thinker, hadconceived it completely except for the technical details! Havingstrengthened his mind by hard years of somno-learning, mind-casting,memory-straightening, and sensory training, he had assured himselfof the executive power to control the technicians and direct theirspecialized abilities. Together they would build the true Mars rocket.     But that would only be a beginning. They would build the true MindBomb. They would build the true Selective Microbe Slayer. They woulddiscover the true laws of ESP and the inner life. They would even—hisimagination hesitated a moment, then strode boldly forward—build thetrue Maizie!     And then ... then the Thinkers would be on even terms with thescientists. Rather, they'd be far ahead. No more deception.     He was so exalted by this thought that he almost let the slideway carryhim past his door. He stepped inside and called, Caddy! He waited amoment, then walked through the apartment, but she wasn't there.  Confound the girl, he couldn't help thinking. This morning, when sheshould have made herself scarce, she'd sprawled about sleeping. Now,when he felt like seeing her, when her presence would have added apleasant final touch to his glowing mood, she chose to be absent. Hereally should use his hypnotic control on her, he decided, and againthere sprang into his mind the word—a pet form of her name—that wouldsend her into obedient trance.     No, he told himself again, that was to be reserved for some momentof crisis or desperate danger, when he would need someone to strikesuddenly and unquestioningly for himself and mankind. Caddy was merelya wilful and rather silly girl, incapable at present of understandingthe tremendous tensions under which he operated. When he had time forit, he would train her up to be a fitting companion without hypnosis.     Yet the fact of her absence had a subtly disquieting effect. It shookhis perfect self-confidence just a fraction. He asked himself ifhe'd been wise in summoning the rocket physicists without consultingTregarron.     But this mood, too, he conquered quickly. Tregarron wasn't hisboss, but just the Thinker's most clever salesman, an expert in themumbo-jumbo so necessary for social control in this chaotic era. Hehimself, Jorj Helmuth, was the real leader in theoretics and all-overstrategy, the mind behind the mind behind Maizie.     He stretched himself on the bed, almost instantly achieved maximumrelaxation, turned on the somno-learner, and began the two hour rest heknew would be desirable before the big conference.  ","Following World War III at the end of the 20th century, American society is dependent upon a machine created by the Thinker's Foundation; this machine, named Maizie, has the ability to answer any question posed to it, and it is used often by politicians and public figures for societal decision making. Jorj Helmuth, a Thinker with hypnotic abilities, awakes with a girl, Caddy, asleep beside him. Jorj is struck with a revelation about new developments in his work towards space domination, and he sends a letter to a group of physicists calling for a meeting later that afternoon. Jorj is then alerted that the President has arrived to consult Maizie. He commences the daily procedure of feeding the machine questions through a tape, and meanwhile attention turns to a broadcast of a rocket taking off to Mars. The Secretary of Space, who joined the President, is wary of his exclusion in this project, but disregards it as he credits Maizie for the decision. Jorj discloses that the Thinkers plan to find ways to gain access to and control of Martian minds. As Maizie begins answering questions, one of them sparks curiosity, asking whether Maizie is short for Maelzel. The machine responds with ""no"" as the officials are perplexed by the question, which references a character in a story by Edgar Allen Poe in which a machine was found to be fake and operated by a man. Apparently, the question came from a member of Opperly's group, a team of physicists; Jorj advises that the issue be looked into. Later, scientists Opperly and Farquar discuss the previous events. Opperly says that he covered for Farquar, who submitted the question, but still disagrees with his decision to dig at the Thinkers. Farquar believes that the Thinkers, along with Maizie, are fakes and ought to be exposed. Farquar and Opperly go back and forth, debating whether or not exposing the Thinkers is worth violence or energy, when Farquar receives a message from Jorj regarding the meeting about his space project. Opperly is skeptical of Jorj's motives, but Farquar plans to go anyway. On his way home, Jorj ponders the future of the Thinkers with excitement, eagerly awaiting a future where they would be on the same level of the Scientists, and where they would build the true Maizie."
"How does Maizie work, and how is this significant to the story? </s>     Appointment in Tomorrow     BY FRITZ LEIBER     Illustrated by ED ALEXANDER     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction July 1951.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]       Is it possible to have a world without moral values?     Or does lack of morality become a moral value, also?      The first angry rays of the sun—which, startlingly enough, still rosein the east at 24 hour intervals—pierced the lacy tops of Atlanticcombers and touched thousands of sleeping Americans with unconsciousfear, because of their unpleasant similarity to the rays from World WarIII's atomic bombs.     They turned to blood the witch-circle of rusty steel skeletons aroundInferno in Manhattan. Without comment, they pointed a cosmic finger atthe tarnished brass plaque commemorating the martyrdom of the ThreePhysicists after the dropping of the Hell Bomb. They tenderly touchedthe rosy skin and strawberry bruises on the naked shoulders of agirl sleeping off a drunk on the furry and radiantly heated floor ofa nearby roof garden. They struck green magic from the glassy blotthat was Old Washington. Twelve hours before, they had revealed thingsas eerily beautiful, and as ravaged, in Asia and Russia. They pinkedthe white walls of the Colonial dwelling of Morton Opperly near theInstitute for Advanced Studies; upstairs they slanted impartiallyacross the Pharoahlike and open-eyed face of the elderly physicist andthe ugly, sleep-surly one of young Willard Farquar in the next room.And in nearby New Washington they made of the spire of the Thinkers'Foundation a blue and optimistic glory that outshone White House, Jr.     It was America approaching the end of the Twentieth Century. Americaof juke-box burlesque and your local radiation hospital. Americaof the mask-fad for women and Mystic Christianity. America of theoff-the-bosom dress and the New Blue Laws. America of the Endless Warand the loyalty detector. America of marvelous Maizie and the monthlyrocket to Mars. America of the Thinkers and (a few remembered) theInstitute. Knock on titanium, Whadya do for black-outs, Please,lover, don't think when I'm around, America, as combat-shocked andcrippled as the rest of the bomb-shattered planet.     Not one impudent photon of the sunlight penetrated the triple-paned,polarizing windows of Jorj Helmuth's bedroom in the Thinker'sFoundation, yet the clock in his brain awakened him to the minute,or almost. Switching off the Educational Sandman in the midst of thephrase, ... applying tensor calculus to the nucleus, he took adeep, even breath and cast his mind to the limits of the world andhis knowledge. It was a somewhat shadowy vision, but, he noted withimpartial approval, definitely less shadowy than yesterday morning.     Employing a rapid mental scanning technique, he next cleared his memorychains of false associations, including those acquired while asleep.These chores completed, he held his finger on a bedside button, whichrotated the polarizing window panes until the room slowly filled with amuted daylight. Then, still flat on his back, he turned his head untilhe could look at the remarkably beautiful blonde girl asleep beside him.  Remembering last night, he felt a pang of exasperation, which heinstantly quelled by taking his mind to a higher and dispassionatelevel from which he could look down on the girl and even himself asquaint, clumsy animals. Still, he grumbled silently, Caddy might havehad enough consideration to clear out before he awoke. He wonderedif he shouldn't have used his hypnotic control of the girl to smooththeir relationship last night, and for a moment the word that wouldsend her into deep trance trembled on the tip of his tongue. But no,that special power of his over her was reserved for far more importantpurposes.     Pumping dynamic tension into his 20-year-old muscles and confidenceinto his 60-year-old mind, the 40-year-old Thinker rose from bed.No covers had to be thrown off; the nuclear heating unit made themunnecessary. He stepped into his clothing—the severe tunic, tights andsockassins of the modern business man. Next he glanced at the messagetape beside his phone, washed down with ginger ale a vita-amino-enzymetablet, and walked to the window. There, gazing along the rows of newlyplanted mutant oaks lining Decontamination Avenue, his smooth facebroke into a smile.     It had come to him, the next big move in the intricate game makingup his life—and mankind's. Come to him during sleep, as so many ofhis best decisions did, because he regularly employed the time-savingtechnique of somno-thought, which could function at the same time assomno-learning.     He set his who?-where? robot for Rocket Physicist and Genius Class.While it worked, he dictated to his steno-robot the following briefmessage:     Dear Fellow Scientist:     A project is contemplated that will have a crucial bearing on man'sfuture in deep space. Ample non-military Government funds areavailable. There was a time when professional men scoffed at theThinkers. Then there was a time when the Thinkers perforce neglectedthe professional men. Now both times are past. May they never return!I would like to consult you this afternoon, three o'clock sharp,Thinkers' Foundation I.     Jorj Helmuth     Meanwhile the who?-where? had tossed out a dozen cards. He glancedthrough them, hesitated at the name Willard Farquar, looked at thesleeping girl, then quickly tossed them all into the addresso-robot andplugged in the steno-robot.     The buzz-light blinked green and he switched the phone to audio.     The President is waiting to see Maizie, sir, a clear feminine voiceannounced. He has the general staff with him.     Martian peace to him, Jorj Helmuth said. Tell him I'll be down in afew minutes.  Huge as a primitive nuclear reactor, the great electronic brain loomedabove the knot of hush-voiced men. It almost filled a two-story room inthe Thinkers' Foundation. Its front was an orderly expanse of controls,indicators, telltales, and terminals, the upper ones reached by a chairon a boom.     Although, as far as anyone knew, it could sense only the informationand questions fed into it on a tape, the human visitors could notresist the impulse to talk in whispers and glance uneasily at the greatcryptic cube. After all, it had lately taken to moving some of itsown controls—the permissible ones—and could doubtless improvise ahearing apparatus if it wanted to.     For this was the thinking machine beside which the Marks and Eniacs andManiacs and Maddidas and Minervas and Mimirs were less than Morons.This was the machine with a million times as many synapses as the humanbrain, the machine that remembered by cutting delicate notches in therims of molecules (instead of kindergarten paper-punching or the ConeyIsland shimmying of columns of mercury). This was the machine that hadgiven instructions on building the last three-quarters of itself. Thiswas the goal, perhaps, toward which fallible human reasoning and biasedhuman judgment and feeble human ambition had evolved.       This was the machine that really thought—a million-plus!       This was the machine that the timid cyberneticists and stuffyprofessional scientists had said could not be built. Yet this was themachine that the Thinkers, with characteristic Yankee push,      had     built. And nicknamed, with characteristic Yankee irreverence andgirl-fondness, Maizie.     Gazing up at it, the President of the United States felt a chordplucked within him that hadn't been sounded for decades, the dark andshivery organ chord of his Baptist childhood. Here, in a strange sense,although his reason rejected it, he felt he stood face to face withthe living God: infinitely stern with the sternness of reality, yetinfinitely just. No tiniest error or wilful misstep could ever escapethe scrutiny of this vast mentality. He shivered.  The grizzled general—there was also one who was gray—was thinkingthat this was a very odd link in the chain of command. Some shadowy andusually well-controlled memories from World War II faintly stirred hisire. Here he was giving orders to a being immeasurably more intelligentthan himself. And always orders of the Tell me how to kill that manrather than the Kill that man sort. The distinction bothered himobscurely. It relieved him to know that Maizie had built-in controlswhich made her always the servant of humanity, or of humanity'sright-minded leaders—even the Thinkers weren't certain which.     The gray general was thinking uneasily, and, like the President, at amore turbid level, of the resemblance between Papal infallibility andthe dictates of the machine. Suddenly his bony wrists began to tremble.He asked himself: Was this the Second Coming? Mightn't an incarnationbe in metal rather than flesh?     The austere Secretary of State was remembering what he'd taken suchpains to make everyone forget: his youthful flirtation at Lake Successwith Buddhism. Sitting before his      guru     , his teacher, feeling theOccidental's awe at the wisdom of the East, or its pretense, he hadfelt a little like this.     The burly Secretary of Space, who had come up through United Rockets,was thanking his stars that at any rate the professional scientistsweren't responsible for this job. Like the grizzled general, he'dalways felt suspicious of men who kept telling you how to do things,rather than doing them themselves. In World War III he'd had his fillof the professional physicists, with their eternal taint of a mistysort of radicalism and free-thinking. The Thinkers were better—moredisciplined, more human. They'd called their brain-machine Maizie,which helped take the curse off her. Somewhat.  The President's Secretary, a paunchy veteran of party caucuses, wasalso glad that it was the Thinkers who had created the machine, thoughhe trembled at the power that it gave them over the Administration.Still, you could do business with the Thinkers. And nobody (not eventhe Thinkers) could do business (that sort of business) with Maizie!     Before that great square face with its thousands of tiny metalfeatures, only Jorj Helmuth seemed at ease, busily entering on thetape the complex Questions of the Day that the high officials hadhanded him: logistics for the Endless War in Pakistan, optimum size fornext year's sugar-corn crop, current thought trends in average Sovietminds—profound questions, yet many of them phrased with surprisingsimplicity. For figures, technical jargon, and layman's language werealike to Maizie; there was no need to translate into mathematicalshorthand, as with the lesser brain-machines.     The click of the taper went on until the Secretary of State had twicenervously fired a cigaret with his ultrasonic lighter and twice quicklyput it away. No one spoke.     Jorj looked up at the Secretary of Space. Section Five, QuestionFour—whom would that come from?     The burly man frowned. That would be the physics boys, Opperly'sgroup. Is anything wrong?     Jorj did not answer. A bit later he quit taping and began to adjustcontrols, going up on the boom-chair to reach some of them. Eventuallyhe came down and touched a few more, then stood waiting.     From the great cube came a profound, steady purring. Involuntarily thesix officials backed off a bit. Somehow it was impossible for a man toget used to the sound of Maizie starting to think.  Jorj turned, smiling. And now, gentlemen, while we wait for Maizieto celebrate, there should be just enough time for us to watch thetakeoff of the Mars rocket. He switched on a giant television screen.The others made a quarter turn, and there before them glowed the richochres and blues of a New Mexico sunrise and, in the middle distance, asilvery mighty spindle.     Like the generals, the Secretary of Space suppressed a scowl. Herewas something that ought to be spang in the center of his officialterritory, and the Thinkers had locked him completely out of it. Thatrocket there—just an ordinary Earth satellite vehicle commandeeredfrom the Army, but equipped by the Thinkers with Maizie-designednuclear motors capable of the Mars journey and more. The firstspaceship—and the Secretary of Space was not in on it!     Still, he told himself, Maizie had decreed it that way. And whenhe remembered what the Thinkers had done for him in rescuing himfrom breakdown with their mental science, in rescuing the wholeAdministration from collapse he realized he had to be satisfied. Andthat was without taking into consideration the amazing additionalmental discoveries that the Thinkers were bringing down from Mars.     Lord, the President said to Jorj as if voicing the Secretary'sfeeling, I wish you people could bring a couple of those wise littledevils back with you this trip. Be a good thing for the country.     Jorj looked at him a bit coldly. It's quite unthinkable, he said.The telepathic abilities of the Martians make them extremelysensitive. The conflicts of ordinary Earth minds would impinge on thempsychotically, even fatally. As you know, the Thinkers were able tocontact them only because of our degree of learned mental poise anderrorless memory-chains. So for the present it must be our task aloneto glean from the Martians their astounding mental skills. Of course,some day in the future, when we have discovered how to armor the mindsof the Martians—     Sure, I know, the President said hastily. Shouldn't have mentionedit, Jorj.     Conversation ceased. They waited with growing tension for the greatviolet flames to bloom from the base of the silvery shaft.  Meanwhile the question tape, like a New Year's streamer tossed outa high window into the night, sped on its dark way along spinningrollers. Curling with an intricate aimlessness curiously like thatof such a streamer, it tantalized the silvery fingers of a thousandrelays, saucily evaded the glances of ten thousand electric eyes,impishly darted down a narrow black alleyway of memory banks, and,reaching the center of the cube, suddenly emerged into a small roomwhere a suave fat man in shorts sat drinking beer.     He flipped the tape over to him with practiced finger, eyeing it asa stockbroker might have studied a ticker tape. He read the firstquestion, closed his eyes and frowned for five seconds. Then with thestaccato self-confidence of a hack writer, he began to tape out theanswer.     For many minutes the only sounds were the rustle of the paper ribbonand the click of the taper, except for the seconds the fat man took toclose his eyes, or to drink or pour beer. Once, too, he lifted a phone,asked a concise question, waited half a minute, listened to an answer,then went back to the grind.     Until he came to Section Five, Question Four. That time he did histhinking with his eyes open.     The question was: Does Maizie stand for Maelzel?     He sat for a while slowly scratching his thigh. His loose, persuasivelips tightened, without closing, into the shape of a snarl.     Suddenly he began to tape again.     Maizie does not stand for Maelzel. Maizie stands for amazing,humorously given the form of a girl's name. Section Six, Answer One:The mid-term election viewcasts should be spaced as follows....     But his lips didn't lose the shape of a snarl.  Five hundred miles above the ionosphere, the Mars rocket cut offits fuel and slumped gratefully into an orbit that would carry iteffortlessly around the world at that altitude. The pilot unstrappedhimself and stretched, but he didn't look out the viewport at thedried-mud disc that was Earth, cloaked in its haze of blue sky. He knewhe had two maddening months ahead of him in which to do little morethan that. Instead, he unstrapped Sappho.     Used to free fall from two previous experiences, and loving it, thefluffy little cat was soon bounding about the cabin in curves andgyrations that would have made her the envy of all back-alley andparlor felines on the planet below. A miracle cat in the dream world offree fall. For a long time she played with a string that the man wouldtoss out lazily. Sometimes she caught the string on the fly, sometimesshe swam for it frantically.     After a while the man grew bored with the game. He unlocked a drawerand began to study the details of the wisdom he would discover onMars this trip—priceless spiritual insights that would be balm towar-battered mankind.     The cat carefully selected a spot three feet off the floor, curled upon the air, and went to sleep.  Jorj Helmuth snipped the emerging answer tape into sections and handedeach to the appropriate man. Most of them carefully tucked theirs awaywith little more than a glance, but the Secretary of Space puzzled overhis.     Who the devil would Maelzel be? he asked.     A remote look came into the eyes of the Secretary of State. EdgarAllen Poe, he said frowningly, with eyes half-closed.     The grizzled general snapped his fingers. Sure! Maelzel's Chessplayer. Read it when I was a kid. About an automaton that was supposedto play chess. Poe proved it hid a man inside it.     The Secretary of Space frowned. Now what's the point in a foolquestion like that?     You said it came from Opperly's group? Jorj asked sharply.     The Secretary of Space nodded. The others looked at the two menpuzzledly.     Who would that be? Jorj pressed. The group, I mean.     The Secretary of Space shrugged. Oh, the usual little bunch over atthe Institute. Hindeman, Gregory, Opperly himself. Oh, yes, and youngFarquar.     Sounds like Opperly's getting senile, Jorj commented coldly. I'dinvestigate.     The Secretary of Space nodded. He suddenly looked tough. I will. Rightaway.  Sunlight striking through French windows spotlighted a ballet of dustmotes untroubled by air-conditioning. Morton Opperly's living room waswell-kept but worn and quite behind the times. Instead of reading tapesthere were books; instead of steno-robots, pen and ink; while in placeof a four by six TV screen, a Picasso hung on the wall. Only Opperlyknew that the painting was still faintly radioactive, that it had beenriskily so when he'd smuggled it out of his bomb-singed apartment inNew York City.     The two physicists fronted each other across a coffee table. The faceof the elder was cadaverous, large-eyed, and tender—fined down bya long life of abstract thought. That of the younger was forceful,sensuous, bulky as his body, and exceptionally ugly. He looked ratherlike a bear.     Opperly was saying, So when he asked who was responsible for theMaelzel question, I said I didn't remember. He smiled. They stillallow me my absent-mindedness, since it nourishes their contempt.Almost my sole remaining privilege. The smile faded. Why do you keepon teasing the zoo animals, Willard? he asked without rancor. I'vemaintained many times that we shouldn't truckle to them by yieldingto their demand that we ask Maizie questions. You and the rest haveoverruled me. But then to use those questions to convey veiled insultsisn't reasonable. Apparently the Secretary of Space was bothered enoughabout this last one to pay me a 'copter call within twenty minutes ofthis morning's meeting at the Foundation. Why do you do it, Willard?     The features of the other convulsed unpleasantly. Because theThinkers are charlatans who must be exposed, he rapped out. We knowtheir Maizie is no more than a tealeaf-reading fake. We've traced theirMars rockets and found they go nowhere. We know their Martian mentalscience is bunk.     But we've already exposed the Thinkers very thoroughly, Opperlyinterposed quietly. You know the good it did.     Farquar hunched his Japanese-wrestler shoulders. Then it's got to bedone until it takes.     Opperly studied the bowl of mutated flowers by the coffee pot. I thinkyou just want to tease the animals, for some personal reason of whichyou probably aren't aware.     Farquar scowled. We're the ones in the cages.  Opperly continued his inspection of the flowers' bells. All the morereason not to poke sticks through the bars at the lions and tigersstrolling outside. No, Willard, I'm not counseling appeasement. Butconsider the age in which we live. It wants magicians. His voice grewespecially tranquil. A scientist tells people the truth. When timesare good—that is, when the truth offers no threat—people don't mind.But when times are very, very bad.... A shadow darkened his eyes.Well, we all know what happened to— And he mentioned three namesthat had been household words in the middle of the century. Theywere the names on the brass plaque dedicated to the martyred threephysicists.     He went on, A magician, on the other hand, tells people what theywish were true—that perpetual motion works, that cancer can be curedby colored lights, that a psychosis is no worse than a head cold, thatthey'll live forever. In good times magicians are laughed at. They're aluxury of the spoiled wealthy few. But in bad times people sell theirsouls for magic cures, and buy perpetual motion machines to power theirwar rockets.     Farquar clenched his fist. All the more reason to keep chipping awayat the Thinkers. Are we supposed to beg off from a job because it'sdifficult and dangerous?     Opperly shook his head. We're to keep clear of the infection ofviolence. In my day, Willard, I was one of the Frightened Men. Later Iwas one of the Angry Men and then one of the Minds of Despair. Now I'mconvinced that all my reactions were futile.     Exactly! Farquar agreed harshly. You reacted. You didn't act. Ifyou men who discovered atomic energy had only formed a secret league,if you'd only had the foresight and the guts to use your tremendousbargaining position to demand the power to shape mankind's future....     By the time you were born, Willard, Opperly interrupted dreamily,Hitler was merely a name in the history books. We scientists weren'tthe stuff out of which cloak-and-dagger men are made. Can you imagineOppenheimer wearing a mask or Einstein sneaking into the Old WhiteHouse with a bomb in his briefcase? He smiled. Besides, that's notthe way power is seized. New ideas aren't useful to the man bargainingfor power—only established facts or lies are.     Just the same, it would have been a good thing if you'd had a littleviolence in you.     No, Opperly said.     I've got violence in me, Farquar announced, shoving himself to hisfeet.  Opperly looked up from the flowers. I think you have, he agreed.     But what are we to do? Farquar demanded. Surrender the world tocharlatans without a struggle?     Opperly mused for a while. I don't know what the world needs now.Everyone knows Newton as the great scientist. Few remember thathe spent half his life muddling with alchemy, looking for thephilosopher's stone. Which Newton did the world need then?     Now you are justifying the Thinkers!     No, I leave that to history.     And history consists of the actions of men, Farquar concluded. Iintend to act. The Thinkers are vulnerable, their power fantasticallyprecarious. What's it based on? A few lucky guesses. Faith-healing.Some science hocus-pocus, on the level of those juke-box burlesque actsbetween the strips. Dubious mental comfort given to a few nerve-tornneurotics in the Inner Cabinet—and their wives. The fact that theThinkers' clever stage-managing won the President a doubtful election.The erroneous belief that the Soviets pulled out of Iraq and Iranbecause of the Thinkers' Mind Bomb threat. A brain-machine that's justa cover for Jan Tregarron's guesswork. Oh, yes, and that hogwash of'Martian wisdom.' All of it mere bluff! A few pushes at the right timesand points are all that are needed—and the Thinkers know it! I'll betthey're terrified already, and will be more so when they find thatwe're gunning for them. Eventually they'll be making overtures to us,turning to us for help. You wait and see.     I am thinking again of Hitler, Opperly interposed quietly. On hisfirst half dozen big steps, he had nothing but bluff. His generalswere against him. They knew they were in a cardboard fort. Yet he wonevery battle, until the last. Moreover, he pressed on, cutting Farquarshort, the power of the Thinkers isn't based on what they've got, buton what the world hasn't got—peace, honor, a good conscience....     The front-door knocker clanked. Farquar answered it. A skinny old manwith a radiation scar twisting across his temple handed him a tinycylinder. Radiogram for you, Willard. He grinned across the hall atOpperly. When are you going to get a phone put in, Mr. Opperly?     The physicist waved to him. Next year, perhaps, Mr. Berry.     The old man snorted with good-humored incredulity and trudged off.     What did I tell you about the Thinkers making overtures? Farquarchortled suddenly. It's come sooner than I expected. Look at this.     He held out the radiogram, but the older man didn't take it. Instead heasked, Who's it from? Tregarron?     No, from Helmuth. There's a lot of sugar corn about man's future indeep space, but the real reason is clear. They know that they're goingto have to produce an actual nuclear rocket pretty soon, and for thatthey'll need our help.     An invitation?     Farquar nodded. For this afternoon. He noticed Opperly's anxiousthough distant frown. What's the matter? he asked. Are you botheredabout my going? Are you thinking it might be a trap—that after theMaelzel question they may figure I'm better rubbed out?     The older man shook his head. I'm not afraid for your life, Willard.That's yours to risk as you choose. No, I'm worried about other thingsthey might do to you.     What do you mean? Farquar asked.  Opperly looked at him with a gentle appraisal. You're a strong andvital man, Willard, with a strong man's prides and desires. His voicetrailed off for a bit. Then, Excuse me, Willard, but wasn't there agirl once? A Miss Arkady?     Farquar's ungainly figure froze. He nodded curtly, face averted.     And didn't she go off with a Thinker?     If girls find me ugly, that's their business, Farquar said harshly,still not looking at Opperly. What's that got to do with thisinvitation?     Opperly didn't answer the question. His eyes got more distant. Finallyhe said, In my day we had it a lot easier. A scientist was anacademician, cushioned by tradition.     Willard snorted. Science had already entered the era of the policeinspectors, with laboratory directors and political appointees stiflingenterprise.     Perhaps, Opperly agreed. Still, the scientist lived the safe,restricted, highly respectable life of a university man. He wasn'texposed to the temptations of the world.     Farquar turned on him. Are you implying that the Thinkers will somehowbe able to buy me off?     Not exactly.     You think I'll be persuaded to change my aims? Farquar demandedangrily.     Opperly shrugged his helplessness. No, I don't think you'll changeyour aims.     Clouds encroaching from the west blotted the parallelogram of sunlightbetween the two men.  As the slideway whisked him gently along the corridor toward hisapartment, Jorj was thinking of his spaceship. For a moment thesilver-winged vision crowded everything else out of his mind.     Just think, a spaceship with sails! He smiled a bit, marveling at theparadox.     Direct atomic power. Direct utilization of the force of the flyingneutrons. No more ridiculous business of using a reactor to drive asteam engine, or boil off something for a jet exhaust—processes thatwere as primitive and wasteful as burning gunpowder to keep yourselfwarm.     Chemical jets would carry his spaceship above the atmosphere. Thenwould come the thrilling order, Set sail for Mars! The vast umbrellawould unfold and open out around the stern, its rear or Earthward sidea gleaming expanse of radioactive ribbon perhaps only an atom thickand backed with a material that would reflect neutrons. Atoms in theribbon would split, blasting neutrons astern at fantastic velocities.Reaction would send the spaceship hurtling forward.     In airless space, the expanse of sails would naturally not retard theship. More radioactive ribbon, manufactured as needed in the shipitself, would feed out onto the sail as that already there becameexhausted.     A spaceship with direct nuclear drive—and he, a Thinker, hadconceived it completely except for the technical details! Havingstrengthened his mind by hard years of somno-learning, mind-casting,memory-straightening, and sensory training, he had assured himselfof the executive power to control the technicians and direct theirspecialized abilities. Together they would build the true Mars rocket.     But that would only be a beginning. They would build the true MindBomb. They would build the true Selective Microbe Slayer. They woulddiscover the true laws of ESP and the inner life. They would even—hisimagination hesitated a moment, then strode boldly forward—build thetrue Maizie!     And then ... then the Thinkers would be on even terms with thescientists. Rather, they'd be far ahead. No more deception.     He was so exalted by this thought that he almost let the slideway carryhim past his door. He stepped inside and called, Caddy! He waited amoment, then walked through the apartment, but she wasn't there.  Confound the girl, he couldn't help thinking. This morning, when sheshould have made herself scarce, she'd sprawled about sleeping. Now,when he felt like seeing her, when her presence would have added apleasant final touch to his glowing mood, she chose to be absent. Hereally should use his hypnotic control on her, he decided, and againthere sprang into his mind the word—a pet form of her name—that wouldsend her into obedient trance.     No, he told himself again, that was to be reserved for some momentof crisis or desperate danger, when he would need someone to strikesuddenly and unquestioningly for himself and mankind. Caddy was merelya wilful and rather silly girl, incapable at present of understandingthe tremendous tensions under which he operated. When he had time forit, he would train her up to be a fitting companion without hypnosis.     Yet the fact of her absence had a subtly disquieting effect. It shookhis perfect self-confidence just a fraction. He asked himself ifhe'd been wise in summoning the rocket physicists without consultingTregarron.     But this mood, too, he conquered quickly. Tregarron wasn't hisboss, but just the Thinker's most clever salesman, an expert in themumbo-jumbo so necessary for social control in this chaotic era. Hehimself, Jorj Helmuth, was the real leader in theoretics and all-overstrategy, the mind behind the mind behind Maizie.     He stretched himself on the bed, almost instantly achieved maximumrelaxation, turned on the somno-learner, and began the two hour rest heknew would be desirable before the big conference.  ","Maizie is a large contraption that occupies a room in the Thinker's Foundation. It consists of various controls, cables, and synapses, more than the human brain. It reads questions through information fed on a tape. Once Maizie processes the questions and conjures up answers, it delivers information back through a man who translates the tape into an answer. The main point regarding Maizie is that little to no one knows how it truly works, which is why it is regarded even by the President as a superior guide for intelligence. Maizie appears to be intimidating with its incomprehensible parts and gadgets, but the process in which it delivers simple answers to questions allows the public to trust it with decisions."
"Who are the Thinkers and how are they significant to the story? </s>     Appointment in Tomorrow     BY FRITZ LEIBER     Illustrated by ED ALEXANDER     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction July 1951.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]       Is it possible to have a world without moral values?     Or does lack of morality become a moral value, also?      The first angry rays of the sun—which, startlingly enough, still rosein the east at 24 hour intervals—pierced the lacy tops of Atlanticcombers and touched thousands of sleeping Americans with unconsciousfear, because of their unpleasant similarity to the rays from World WarIII's atomic bombs.     They turned to blood the witch-circle of rusty steel skeletons aroundInferno in Manhattan. Without comment, they pointed a cosmic finger atthe tarnished brass plaque commemorating the martyrdom of the ThreePhysicists after the dropping of the Hell Bomb. They tenderly touchedthe rosy skin and strawberry bruises on the naked shoulders of agirl sleeping off a drunk on the furry and radiantly heated floor ofa nearby roof garden. They struck green magic from the glassy blotthat was Old Washington. Twelve hours before, they had revealed thingsas eerily beautiful, and as ravaged, in Asia and Russia. They pinkedthe white walls of the Colonial dwelling of Morton Opperly near theInstitute for Advanced Studies; upstairs they slanted impartiallyacross the Pharoahlike and open-eyed face of the elderly physicist andthe ugly, sleep-surly one of young Willard Farquar in the next room.And in nearby New Washington they made of the spire of the Thinkers'Foundation a blue and optimistic glory that outshone White House, Jr.     It was America approaching the end of the Twentieth Century. Americaof juke-box burlesque and your local radiation hospital. Americaof the mask-fad for women and Mystic Christianity. America of theoff-the-bosom dress and the New Blue Laws. America of the Endless Warand the loyalty detector. America of marvelous Maizie and the monthlyrocket to Mars. America of the Thinkers and (a few remembered) theInstitute. Knock on titanium, Whadya do for black-outs, Please,lover, don't think when I'm around, America, as combat-shocked andcrippled as the rest of the bomb-shattered planet.     Not one impudent photon of the sunlight penetrated the triple-paned,polarizing windows of Jorj Helmuth's bedroom in the Thinker'sFoundation, yet the clock in his brain awakened him to the minute,or almost. Switching off the Educational Sandman in the midst of thephrase, ... applying tensor calculus to the nucleus, he took adeep, even breath and cast his mind to the limits of the world andhis knowledge. It was a somewhat shadowy vision, but, he noted withimpartial approval, definitely less shadowy than yesterday morning.     Employing a rapid mental scanning technique, he next cleared his memorychains of false associations, including those acquired while asleep.These chores completed, he held his finger on a bedside button, whichrotated the polarizing window panes until the room slowly filled with amuted daylight. Then, still flat on his back, he turned his head untilhe could look at the remarkably beautiful blonde girl asleep beside him.  Remembering last night, he felt a pang of exasperation, which heinstantly quelled by taking his mind to a higher and dispassionatelevel from which he could look down on the girl and even himself asquaint, clumsy animals. Still, he grumbled silently, Caddy might havehad enough consideration to clear out before he awoke. He wonderedif he shouldn't have used his hypnotic control of the girl to smooththeir relationship last night, and for a moment the word that wouldsend her into deep trance trembled on the tip of his tongue. But no,that special power of his over her was reserved for far more importantpurposes.     Pumping dynamic tension into his 20-year-old muscles and confidenceinto his 60-year-old mind, the 40-year-old Thinker rose from bed.No covers had to be thrown off; the nuclear heating unit made themunnecessary. He stepped into his clothing—the severe tunic, tights andsockassins of the modern business man. Next he glanced at the messagetape beside his phone, washed down with ginger ale a vita-amino-enzymetablet, and walked to the window. There, gazing along the rows of newlyplanted mutant oaks lining Decontamination Avenue, his smooth facebroke into a smile.     It had come to him, the next big move in the intricate game makingup his life—and mankind's. Come to him during sleep, as so many ofhis best decisions did, because he regularly employed the time-savingtechnique of somno-thought, which could function at the same time assomno-learning.     He set his who?-where? robot for Rocket Physicist and Genius Class.While it worked, he dictated to his steno-robot the following briefmessage:     Dear Fellow Scientist:     A project is contemplated that will have a crucial bearing on man'sfuture in deep space. Ample non-military Government funds areavailable. There was a time when professional men scoffed at theThinkers. Then there was a time when the Thinkers perforce neglectedthe professional men. Now both times are past. May they never return!I would like to consult you this afternoon, three o'clock sharp,Thinkers' Foundation I.     Jorj Helmuth     Meanwhile the who?-where? had tossed out a dozen cards. He glancedthrough them, hesitated at the name Willard Farquar, looked at thesleeping girl, then quickly tossed them all into the addresso-robot andplugged in the steno-robot.     The buzz-light blinked green and he switched the phone to audio.     The President is waiting to see Maizie, sir, a clear feminine voiceannounced. He has the general staff with him.     Martian peace to him, Jorj Helmuth said. Tell him I'll be down in afew minutes.  Huge as a primitive nuclear reactor, the great electronic brain loomedabove the knot of hush-voiced men. It almost filled a two-story room inthe Thinkers' Foundation. Its front was an orderly expanse of controls,indicators, telltales, and terminals, the upper ones reached by a chairon a boom.     Although, as far as anyone knew, it could sense only the informationand questions fed into it on a tape, the human visitors could notresist the impulse to talk in whispers and glance uneasily at the greatcryptic cube. After all, it had lately taken to moving some of itsown controls—the permissible ones—and could doubtless improvise ahearing apparatus if it wanted to.     For this was the thinking machine beside which the Marks and Eniacs andManiacs and Maddidas and Minervas and Mimirs were less than Morons.This was the machine with a million times as many synapses as the humanbrain, the machine that remembered by cutting delicate notches in therims of molecules (instead of kindergarten paper-punching or the ConeyIsland shimmying of columns of mercury). This was the machine that hadgiven instructions on building the last three-quarters of itself. Thiswas the goal, perhaps, toward which fallible human reasoning and biasedhuman judgment and feeble human ambition had evolved.       This was the machine that really thought—a million-plus!       This was the machine that the timid cyberneticists and stuffyprofessional scientists had said could not be built. Yet this was themachine that the Thinkers, with characteristic Yankee push,      had     built. And nicknamed, with characteristic Yankee irreverence andgirl-fondness, Maizie.     Gazing up at it, the President of the United States felt a chordplucked within him that hadn't been sounded for decades, the dark andshivery organ chord of his Baptist childhood. Here, in a strange sense,although his reason rejected it, he felt he stood face to face withthe living God: infinitely stern with the sternness of reality, yetinfinitely just. No tiniest error or wilful misstep could ever escapethe scrutiny of this vast mentality. He shivered.  The grizzled general—there was also one who was gray—was thinkingthat this was a very odd link in the chain of command. Some shadowy andusually well-controlled memories from World War II faintly stirred hisire. Here he was giving orders to a being immeasurably more intelligentthan himself. And always orders of the Tell me how to kill that manrather than the Kill that man sort. The distinction bothered himobscurely. It relieved him to know that Maizie had built-in controlswhich made her always the servant of humanity, or of humanity'sright-minded leaders—even the Thinkers weren't certain which.     The gray general was thinking uneasily, and, like the President, at amore turbid level, of the resemblance between Papal infallibility andthe dictates of the machine. Suddenly his bony wrists began to tremble.He asked himself: Was this the Second Coming? Mightn't an incarnationbe in metal rather than flesh?     The austere Secretary of State was remembering what he'd taken suchpains to make everyone forget: his youthful flirtation at Lake Successwith Buddhism. Sitting before his      guru     , his teacher, feeling theOccidental's awe at the wisdom of the East, or its pretense, he hadfelt a little like this.     The burly Secretary of Space, who had come up through United Rockets,was thanking his stars that at any rate the professional scientistsweren't responsible for this job. Like the grizzled general, he'dalways felt suspicious of men who kept telling you how to do things,rather than doing them themselves. In World War III he'd had his fillof the professional physicists, with their eternal taint of a mistysort of radicalism and free-thinking. The Thinkers were better—moredisciplined, more human. They'd called their brain-machine Maizie,which helped take the curse off her. Somewhat.  The President's Secretary, a paunchy veteran of party caucuses, wasalso glad that it was the Thinkers who had created the machine, thoughhe trembled at the power that it gave them over the Administration.Still, you could do business with the Thinkers. And nobody (not eventhe Thinkers) could do business (that sort of business) with Maizie!     Before that great square face with its thousands of tiny metalfeatures, only Jorj Helmuth seemed at ease, busily entering on thetape the complex Questions of the Day that the high officials hadhanded him: logistics for the Endless War in Pakistan, optimum size fornext year's sugar-corn crop, current thought trends in average Sovietminds—profound questions, yet many of them phrased with surprisingsimplicity. For figures, technical jargon, and layman's language werealike to Maizie; there was no need to translate into mathematicalshorthand, as with the lesser brain-machines.     The click of the taper went on until the Secretary of State had twicenervously fired a cigaret with his ultrasonic lighter and twice quicklyput it away. No one spoke.     Jorj looked up at the Secretary of Space. Section Five, QuestionFour—whom would that come from?     The burly man frowned. That would be the physics boys, Opperly'sgroup. Is anything wrong?     Jorj did not answer. A bit later he quit taping and began to adjustcontrols, going up on the boom-chair to reach some of them. Eventuallyhe came down and touched a few more, then stood waiting.     From the great cube came a profound, steady purring. Involuntarily thesix officials backed off a bit. Somehow it was impossible for a man toget used to the sound of Maizie starting to think.  Jorj turned, smiling. And now, gentlemen, while we wait for Maizieto celebrate, there should be just enough time for us to watch thetakeoff of the Mars rocket. He switched on a giant television screen.The others made a quarter turn, and there before them glowed the richochres and blues of a New Mexico sunrise and, in the middle distance, asilvery mighty spindle.     Like the generals, the Secretary of Space suppressed a scowl. Herewas something that ought to be spang in the center of his officialterritory, and the Thinkers had locked him completely out of it. Thatrocket there—just an ordinary Earth satellite vehicle commandeeredfrom the Army, but equipped by the Thinkers with Maizie-designednuclear motors capable of the Mars journey and more. The firstspaceship—and the Secretary of Space was not in on it!     Still, he told himself, Maizie had decreed it that way. And whenhe remembered what the Thinkers had done for him in rescuing himfrom breakdown with their mental science, in rescuing the wholeAdministration from collapse he realized he had to be satisfied. Andthat was without taking into consideration the amazing additionalmental discoveries that the Thinkers were bringing down from Mars.     Lord, the President said to Jorj as if voicing the Secretary'sfeeling, I wish you people could bring a couple of those wise littledevils back with you this trip. Be a good thing for the country.     Jorj looked at him a bit coldly. It's quite unthinkable, he said.The telepathic abilities of the Martians make them extremelysensitive. The conflicts of ordinary Earth minds would impinge on thempsychotically, even fatally. As you know, the Thinkers were able tocontact them only because of our degree of learned mental poise anderrorless memory-chains. So for the present it must be our task aloneto glean from the Martians their astounding mental skills. Of course,some day in the future, when we have discovered how to armor the mindsof the Martians—     Sure, I know, the President said hastily. Shouldn't have mentionedit, Jorj.     Conversation ceased. They waited with growing tension for the greatviolet flames to bloom from the base of the silvery shaft.  Meanwhile the question tape, like a New Year's streamer tossed outa high window into the night, sped on its dark way along spinningrollers. Curling with an intricate aimlessness curiously like thatof such a streamer, it tantalized the silvery fingers of a thousandrelays, saucily evaded the glances of ten thousand electric eyes,impishly darted down a narrow black alleyway of memory banks, and,reaching the center of the cube, suddenly emerged into a small roomwhere a suave fat man in shorts sat drinking beer.     He flipped the tape over to him with practiced finger, eyeing it asa stockbroker might have studied a ticker tape. He read the firstquestion, closed his eyes and frowned for five seconds. Then with thestaccato self-confidence of a hack writer, he began to tape out theanswer.     For many minutes the only sounds were the rustle of the paper ribbonand the click of the taper, except for the seconds the fat man took toclose his eyes, or to drink or pour beer. Once, too, he lifted a phone,asked a concise question, waited half a minute, listened to an answer,then went back to the grind.     Until he came to Section Five, Question Four. That time he did histhinking with his eyes open.     The question was: Does Maizie stand for Maelzel?     He sat for a while slowly scratching his thigh. His loose, persuasivelips tightened, without closing, into the shape of a snarl.     Suddenly he began to tape again.     Maizie does not stand for Maelzel. Maizie stands for amazing,humorously given the form of a girl's name. Section Six, Answer One:The mid-term election viewcasts should be spaced as follows....     But his lips didn't lose the shape of a snarl.  Five hundred miles above the ionosphere, the Mars rocket cut offits fuel and slumped gratefully into an orbit that would carry iteffortlessly around the world at that altitude. The pilot unstrappedhimself and stretched, but he didn't look out the viewport at thedried-mud disc that was Earth, cloaked in its haze of blue sky. He knewhe had two maddening months ahead of him in which to do little morethan that. Instead, he unstrapped Sappho.     Used to free fall from two previous experiences, and loving it, thefluffy little cat was soon bounding about the cabin in curves andgyrations that would have made her the envy of all back-alley andparlor felines on the planet below. A miracle cat in the dream world offree fall. For a long time she played with a string that the man wouldtoss out lazily. Sometimes she caught the string on the fly, sometimesshe swam for it frantically.     After a while the man grew bored with the game. He unlocked a drawerand began to study the details of the wisdom he would discover onMars this trip—priceless spiritual insights that would be balm towar-battered mankind.     The cat carefully selected a spot three feet off the floor, curled upon the air, and went to sleep.  Jorj Helmuth snipped the emerging answer tape into sections and handedeach to the appropriate man. Most of them carefully tucked theirs awaywith little more than a glance, but the Secretary of Space puzzled overhis.     Who the devil would Maelzel be? he asked.     A remote look came into the eyes of the Secretary of State. EdgarAllen Poe, he said frowningly, with eyes half-closed.     The grizzled general snapped his fingers. Sure! Maelzel's Chessplayer. Read it when I was a kid. About an automaton that was supposedto play chess. Poe proved it hid a man inside it.     The Secretary of Space frowned. Now what's the point in a foolquestion like that?     You said it came from Opperly's group? Jorj asked sharply.     The Secretary of Space nodded. The others looked at the two menpuzzledly.     Who would that be? Jorj pressed. The group, I mean.     The Secretary of Space shrugged. Oh, the usual little bunch over atthe Institute. Hindeman, Gregory, Opperly himself. Oh, yes, and youngFarquar.     Sounds like Opperly's getting senile, Jorj commented coldly. I'dinvestigate.     The Secretary of Space nodded. He suddenly looked tough. I will. Rightaway.  Sunlight striking through French windows spotlighted a ballet of dustmotes untroubled by air-conditioning. Morton Opperly's living room waswell-kept but worn and quite behind the times. Instead of reading tapesthere were books; instead of steno-robots, pen and ink; while in placeof a four by six TV screen, a Picasso hung on the wall. Only Opperlyknew that the painting was still faintly radioactive, that it had beenriskily so when he'd smuggled it out of his bomb-singed apartment inNew York City.     The two physicists fronted each other across a coffee table. The faceof the elder was cadaverous, large-eyed, and tender—fined down bya long life of abstract thought. That of the younger was forceful,sensuous, bulky as his body, and exceptionally ugly. He looked ratherlike a bear.     Opperly was saying, So when he asked who was responsible for theMaelzel question, I said I didn't remember. He smiled. They stillallow me my absent-mindedness, since it nourishes their contempt.Almost my sole remaining privilege. The smile faded. Why do you keepon teasing the zoo animals, Willard? he asked without rancor. I'vemaintained many times that we shouldn't truckle to them by yieldingto their demand that we ask Maizie questions. You and the rest haveoverruled me. But then to use those questions to convey veiled insultsisn't reasonable. Apparently the Secretary of Space was bothered enoughabout this last one to pay me a 'copter call within twenty minutes ofthis morning's meeting at the Foundation. Why do you do it, Willard?     The features of the other convulsed unpleasantly. Because theThinkers are charlatans who must be exposed, he rapped out. We knowtheir Maizie is no more than a tealeaf-reading fake. We've traced theirMars rockets and found they go nowhere. We know their Martian mentalscience is bunk.     But we've already exposed the Thinkers very thoroughly, Opperlyinterposed quietly. You know the good it did.     Farquar hunched his Japanese-wrestler shoulders. Then it's got to bedone until it takes.     Opperly studied the bowl of mutated flowers by the coffee pot. I thinkyou just want to tease the animals, for some personal reason of whichyou probably aren't aware.     Farquar scowled. We're the ones in the cages.  Opperly continued his inspection of the flowers' bells. All the morereason not to poke sticks through the bars at the lions and tigersstrolling outside. No, Willard, I'm not counseling appeasement. Butconsider the age in which we live. It wants magicians. His voice grewespecially tranquil. A scientist tells people the truth. When timesare good—that is, when the truth offers no threat—people don't mind.But when times are very, very bad.... A shadow darkened his eyes.Well, we all know what happened to— And he mentioned three namesthat had been household words in the middle of the century. Theywere the names on the brass plaque dedicated to the martyred threephysicists.     He went on, A magician, on the other hand, tells people what theywish were true—that perpetual motion works, that cancer can be curedby colored lights, that a psychosis is no worse than a head cold, thatthey'll live forever. In good times magicians are laughed at. They're aluxury of the spoiled wealthy few. But in bad times people sell theirsouls for magic cures, and buy perpetual motion machines to power theirwar rockets.     Farquar clenched his fist. All the more reason to keep chipping awayat the Thinkers. Are we supposed to beg off from a job because it'sdifficult and dangerous?     Opperly shook his head. We're to keep clear of the infection ofviolence. In my day, Willard, I was one of the Frightened Men. Later Iwas one of the Angry Men and then one of the Minds of Despair. Now I'mconvinced that all my reactions were futile.     Exactly! Farquar agreed harshly. You reacted. You didn't act. Ifyou men who discovered atomic energy had only formed a secret league,if you'd only had the foresight and the guts to use your tremendousbargaining position to demand the power to shape mankind's future....     By the time you were born, Willard, Opperly interrupted dreamily,Hitler was merely a name in the history books. We scientists weren'tthe stuff out of which cloak-and-dagger men are made. Can you imagineOppenheimer wearing a mask or Einstein sneaking into the Old WhiteHouse with a bomb in his briefcase? He smiled. Besides, that's notthe way power is seized. New ideas aren't useful to the man bargainingfor power—only established facts or lies are.     Just the same, it would have been a good thing if you'd had a littleviolence in you.     No, Opperly said.     I've got violence in me, Farquar announced, shoving himself to hisfeet.  Opperly looked up from the flowers. I think you have, he agreed.     But what are we to do? Farquar demanded. Surrender the world tocharlatans without a struggle?     Opperly mused for a while. I don't know what the world needs now.Everyone knows Newton as the great scientist. Few remember thathe spent half his life muddling with alchemy, looking for thephilosopher's stone. Which Newton did the world need then?     Now you are justifying the Thinkers!     No, I leave that to history.     And history consists of the actions of men, Farquar concluded. Iintend to act. The Thinkers are vulnerable, their power fantasticallyprecarious. What's it based on? A few lucky guesses. Faith-healing.Some science hocus-pocus, on the level of those juke-box burlesque actsbetween the strips. Dubious mental comfort given to a few nerve-tornneurotics in the Inner Cabinet—and their wives. The fact that theThinkers' clever stage-managing won the President a doubtful election.The erroneous belief that the Soviets pulled out of Iraq and Iranbecause of the Thinkers' Mind Bomb threat. A brain-machine that's justa cover for Jan Tregarron's guesswork. Oh, yes, and that hogwash of'Martian wisdom.' All of it mere bluff! A few pushes at the right timesand points are all that are needed—and the Thinkers know it! I'll betthey're terrified already, and will be more so when they find thatwe're gunning for them. Eventually they'll be making overtures to us,turning to us for help. You wait and see.     I am thinking again of Hitler, Opperly interposed quietly. On hisfirst half dozen big steps, he had nothing but bluff. His generalswere against him. They knew they were in a cardboard fort. Yet he wonevery battle, until the last. Moreover, he pressed on, cutting Farquarshort, the power of the Thinkers isn't based on what they've got, buton what the world hasn't got—peace, honor, a good conscience....     The front-door knocker clanked. Farquar answered it. A skinny old manwith a radiation scar twisting across his temple handed him a tinycylinder. Radiogram for you, Willard. He grinned across the hall atOpperly. When are you going to get a phone put in, Mr. Opperly?     The physicist waved to him. Next year, perhaps, Mr. Berry.     The old man snorted with good-humored incredulity and trudged off.     What did I tell you about the Thinkers making overtures? Farquarchortled suddenly. It's come sooner than I expected. Look at this.     He held out the radiogram, but the older man didn't take it. Instead heasked, Who's it from? Tregarron?     No, from Helmuth. There's a lot of sugar corn about man's future indeep space, but the real reason is clear. They know that they're goingto have to produce an actual nuclear rocket pretty soon, and for thatthey'll need our help.     An invitation?     Farquar nodded. For this afternoon. He noticed Opperly's anxiousthough distant frown. What's the matter? he asked. Are you botheredabout my going? Are you thinking it might be a trap—that after theMaelzel question they may figure I'm better rubbed out?     The older man shook his head. I'm not afraid for your life, Willard.That's yours to risk as you choose. No, I'm worried about other thingsthey might do to you.     What do you mean? Farquar asked.  Opperly looked at him with a gentle appraisal. You're a strong andvital man, Willard, with a strong man's prides and desires. His voicetrailed off for a bit. Then, Excuse me, Willard, but wasn't there agirl once? A Miss Arkady?     Farquar's ungainly figure froze. He nodded curtly, face averted.     And didn't she go off with a Thinker?     If girls find me ugly, that's their business, Farquar said harshly,still not looking at Opperly. What's that got to do with thisinvitation?     Opperly didn't answer the question. His eyes got more distant. Finallyhe said, In my day we had it a lot easier. A scientist was anacademician, cushioned by tradition.     Willard snorted. Science had already entered the era of the policeinspectors, with laboratory directors and political appointees stiflingenterprise.     Perhaps, Opperly agreed. Still, the scientist lived the safe,restricted, highly respectable life of a university man. He wasn'texposed to the temptations of the world.     Farquar turned on him. Are you implying that the Thinkers will somehowbe able to buy me off?     Not exactly.     You think I'll be persuaded to change my aims? Farquar demandedangrily.     Opperly shrugged his helplessness. No, I don't think you'll changeyour aims.     Clouds encroaching from the west blotted the parallelogram of sunlightbetween the two men.  As the slideway whisked him gently along the corridor toward hisapartment, Jorj was thinking of his spaceship. For a moment thesilver-winged vision crowded everything else out of his mind.     Just think, a spaceship with sails! He smiled a bit, marveling at theparadox.     Direct atomic power. Direct utilization of the force of the flyingneutrons. No more ridiculous business of using a reactor to drive asteam engine, or boil off something for a jet exhaust—processes thatwere as primitive and wasteful as burning gunpowder to keep yourselfwarm.     Chemical jets would carry his spaceship above the atmosphere. Thenwould come the thrilling order, Set sail for Mars! The vast umbrellawould unfold and open out around the stern, its rear or Earthward sidea gleaming expanse of radioactive ribbon perhaps only an atom thickand backed with a material that would reflect neutrons. Atoms in theribbon would split, blasting neutrons astern at fantastic velocities.Reaction would send the spaceship hurtling forward.     In airless space, the expanse of sails would naturally not retard theship. More radioactive ribbon, manufactured as needed in the shipitself, would feed out onto the sail as that already there becameexhausted.     A spaceship with direct nuclear drive—and he, a Thinker, hadconceived it completely except for the technical details! Havingstrengthened his mind by hard years of somno-learning, mind-casting,memory-straightening, and sensory training, he had assured himselfof the executive power to control the technicians and direct theirspecialized abilities. Together they would build the true Mars rocket.     But that would only be a beginning. They would build the true MindBomb. They would build the true Selective Microbe Slayer. They woulddiscover the true laws of ESP and the inner life. They would even—hisimagination hesitated a moment, then strode boldly forward—build thetrue Maizie!     And then ... then the Thinkers would be on even terms with thescientists. Rather, they'd be far ahead. No more deception.     He was so exalted by this thought that he almost let the slideway carryhim past his door. He stepped inside and called, Caddy! He waited amoment, then walked through the apartment, but she wasn't there.  Confound the girl, he couldn't help thinking. This morning, when sheshould have made herself scarce, she'd sprawled about sleeping. Now,when he felt like seeing her, when her presence would have added apleasant final touch to his glowing mood, she chose to be absent. Hereally should use his hypnotic control on her, he decided, and againthere sprang into his mind the word—a pet form of her name—that wouldsend her into obedient trance.     No, he told himself again, that was to be reserved for some momentof crisis or desperate danger, when he would need someone to strikesuddenly and unquestioningly for himself and mankind. Caddy was merelya wilful and rather silly girl, incapable at present of understandingthe tremendous tensions under which he operated. When he had time forit, he would train her up to be a fitting companion without hypnosis.     Yet the fact of her absence had a subtly disquieting effect. It shookhis perfect self-confidence just a fraction. He asked himself ifhe'd been wise in summoning the rocket physicists without consultingTregarron.     But this mood, too, he conquered quickly. Tregarron wasn't hisboss, but just the Thinker's most clever salesman, an expert in themumbo-jumbo so necessary for social control in this chaotic era. Hehimself, Jorj Helmuth, was the real leader in theoretics and all-overstrategy, the mind behind the mind behind Maizie.     He stretched himself on the bed, almost instantly achieved maximumrelaxation, turned on the somno-learner, and began the two hour rest heknew would be desirable before the big conference.  ","The Thinkers are magicians who dominate the current society. When America was in crisis post-World War III, they provided solutions to problems and questions, and acted as a more structured, moral, ""human"" group for leadership than physicists prior. The Thinkers are the creators of Maizie, a brain-like computer that answers any question; Maizie is used by many in government to make drastic decisions with the goal of preserving humanity. The Thinkers are also working towards a larger plan of moving their work to Mars, ultimately dominating Martians the same way they dominated Earth. There is also controversy surrounding the Thinkers, mainly from the Physicists, who believe that their work relies on the desperation of society and is fraudulent."
"What effect does Farquar have on the story? </s>     Appointment in Tomorrow     BY FRITZ LEIBER     Illustrated by ED ALEXANDER     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction July 1951.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]       Is it possible to have a world without moral values?     Or does lack of morality become a moral value, also?      The first angry rays of the sun—which, startlingly enough, still rosein the east at 24 hour intervals—pierced the lacy tops of Atlanticcombers and touched thousands of sleeping Americans with unconsciousfear, because of their unpleasant similarity to the rays from World WarIII's atomic bombs.     They turned to blood the witch-circle of rusty steel skeletons aroundInferno in Manhattan. Without comment, they pointed a cosmic finger atthe tarnished brass plaque commemorating the martyrdom of the ThreePhysicists after the dropping of the Hell Bomb. They tenderly touchedthe rosy skin and strawberry bruises on the naked shoulders of agirl sleeping off a drunk on the furry and radiantly heated floor ofa nearby roof garden. They struck green magic from the glassy blotthat was Old Washington. Twelve hours before, they had revealed thingsas eerily beautiful, and as ravaged, in Asia and Russia. They pinkedthe white walls of the Colonial dwelling of Morton Opperly near theInstitute for Advanced Studies; upstairs they slanted impartiallyacross the Pharoahlike and open-eyed face of the elderly physicist andthe ugly, sleep-surly one of young Willard Farquar in the next room.And in nearby New Washington they made of the spire of the Thinkers'Foundation a blue and optimistic glory that outshone White House, Jr.     It was America approaching the end of the Twentieth Century. Americaof juke-box burlesque and your local radiation hospital. Americaof the mask-fad for women and Mystic Christianity. America of theoff-the-bosom dress and the New Blue Laws. America of the Endless Warand the loyalty detector. America of marvelous Maizie and the monthlyrocket to Mars. America of the Thinkers and (a few remembered) theInstitute. Knock on titanium, Whadya do for black-outs, Please,lover, don't think when I'm around, America, as combat-shocked andcrippled as the rest of the bomb-shattered planet.     Not one impudent photon of the sunlight penetrated the triple-paned,polarizing windows of Jorj Helmuth's bedroom in the Thinker'sFoundation, yet the clock in his brain awakened him to the minute,or almost. Switching off the Educational Sandman in the midst of thephrase, ... applying tensor calculus to the nucleus, he took adeep, even breath and cast his mind to the limits of the world andhis knowledge. It was a somewhat shadowy vision, but, he noted withimpartial approval, definitely less shadowy than yesterday morning.     Employing a rapid mental scanning technique, he next cleared his memorychains of false associations, including those acquired while asleep.These chores completed, he held his finger on a bedside button, whichrotated the polarizing window panes until the room slowly filled with amuted daylight. Then, still flat on his back, he turned his head untilhe could look at the remarkably beautiful blonde girl asleep beside him.  Remembering last night, he felt a pang of exasperation, which heinstantly quelled by taking his mind to a higher and dispassionatelevel from which he could look down on the girl and even himself asquaint, clumsy animals. Still, he grumbled silently, Caddy might havehad enough consideration to clear out before he awoke. He wonderedif he shouldn't have used his hypnotic control of the girl to smooththeir relationship last night, and for a moment the word that wouldsend her into deep trance trembled on the tip of his tongue. But no,that special power of his over her was reserved for far more importantpurposes.     Pumping dynamic tension into his 20-year-old muscles and confidenceinto his 60-year-old mind, the 40-year-old Thinker rose from bed.No covers had to be thrown off; the nuclear heating unit made themunnecessary. He stepped into his clothing—the severe tunic, tights andsockassins of the modern business man. Next he glanced at the messagetape beside his phone, washed down with ginger ale a vita-amino-enzymetablet, and walked to the window. There, gazing along the rows of newlyplanted mutant oaks lining Decontamination Avenue, his smooth facebroke into a smile.     It had come to him, the next big move in the intricate game makingup his life—and mankind's. Come to him during sleep, as so many ofhis best decisions did, because he regularly employed the time-savingtechnique of somno-thought, which could function at the same time assomno-learning.     He set his who?-where? robot for Rocket Physicist and Genius Class.While it worked, he dictated to his steno-robot the following briefmessage:     Dear Fellow Scientist:     A project is contemplated that will have a crucial bearing on man'sfuture in deep space. Ample non-military Government funds areavailable. There was a time when professional men scoffed at theThinkers. Then there was a time when the Thinkers perforce neglectedthe professional men. Now both times are past. May they never return!I would like to consult you this afternoon, three o'clock sharp,Thinkers' Foundation I.     Jorj Helmuth     Meanwhile the who?-where? had tossed out a dozen cards. He glancedthrough them, hesitated at the name Willard Farquar, looked at thesleeping girl, then quickly tossed them all into the addresso-robot andplugged in the steno-robot.     The buzz-light blinked green and he switched the phone to audio.     The President is waiting to see Maizie, sir, a clear feminine voiceannounced. He has the general staff with him.     Martian peace to him, Jorj Helmuth said. Tell him I'll be down in afew minutes.  Huge as a primitive nuclear reactor, the great electronic brain loomedabove the knot of hush-voiced men. It almost filled a two-story room inthe Thinkers' Foundation. Its front was an orderly expanse of controls,indicators, telltales, and terminals, the upper ones reached by a chairon a boom.     Although, as far as anyone knew, it could sense only the informationand questions fed into it on a tape, the human visitors could notresist the impulse to talk in whispers and glance uneasily at the greatcryptic cube. After all, it had lately taken to moving some of itsown controls—the permissible ones—and could doubtless improvise ahearing apparatus if it wanted to.     For this was the thinking machine beside which the Marks and Eniacs andManiacs and Maddidas and Minervas and Mimirs were less than Morons.This was the machine with a million times as many synapses as the humanbrain, the machine that remembered by cutting delicate notches in therims of molecules (instead of kindergarten paper-punching or the ConeyIsland shimmying of columns of mercury). This was the machine that hadgiven instructions on building the last three-quarters of itself. Thiswas the goal, perhaps, toward which fallible human reasoning and biasedhuman judgment and feeble human ambition had evolved.       This was the machine that really thought—a million-plus!       This was the machine that the timid cyberneticists and stuffyprofessional scientists had said could not be built. Yet this was themachine that the Thinkers, with characteristic Yankee push,      had     built. And nicknamed, with characteristic Yankee irreverence andgirl-fondness, Maizie.     Gazing up at it, the President of the United States felt a chordplucked within him that hadn't been sounded for decades, the dark andshivery organ chord of his Baptist childhood. Here, in a strange sense,although his reason rejected it, he felt he stood face to face withthe living God: infinitely stern with the sternness of reality, yetinfinitely just. No tiniest error or wilful misstep could ever escapethe scrutiny of this vast mentality. He shivered.  The grizzled general—there was also one who was gray—was thinkingthat this was a very odd link in the chain of command. Some shadowy andusually well-controlled memories from World War II faintly stirred hisire. Here he was giving orders to a being immeasurably more intelligentthan himself. And always orders of the Tell me how to kill that manrather than the Kill that man sort. The distinction bothered himobscurely. It relieved him to know that Maizie had built-in controlswhich made her always the servant of humanity, or of humanity'sright-minded leaders—even the Thinkers weren't certain which.     The gray general was thinking uneasily, and, like the President, at amore turbid level, of the resemblance between Papal infallibility andthe dictates of the machine. Suddenly his bony wrists began to tremble.He asked himself: Was this the Second Coming? Mightn't an incarnationbe in metal rather than flesh?     The austere Secretary of State was remembering what he'd taken suchpains to make everyone forget: his youthful flirtation at Lake Successwith Buddhism. Sitting before his      guru     , his teacher, feeling theOccidental's awe at the wisdom of the East, or its pretense, he hadfelt a little like this.     The burly Secretary of Space, who had come up through United Rockets,was thanking his stars that at any rate the professional scientistsweren't responsible for this job. Like the grizzled general, he'dalways felt suspicious of men who kept telling you how to do things,rather than doing them themselves. In World War III he'd had his fillof the professional physicists, with their eternal taint of a mistysort of radicalism and free-thinking. The Thinkers were better—moredisciplined, more human. They'd called their brain-machine Maizie,which helped take the curse off her. Somewhat.  The President's Secretary, a paunchy veteran of party caucuses, wasalso glad that it was the Thinkers who had created the machine, thoughhe trembled at the power that it gave them over the Administration.Still, you could do business with the Thinkers. And nobody (not eventhe Thinkers) could do business (that sort of business) with Maizie!     Before that great square face with its thousands of tiny metalfeatures, only Jorj Helmuth seemed at ease, busily entering on thetape the complex Questions of the Day that the high officials hadhanded him: logistics for the Endless War in Pakistan, optimum size fornext year's sugar-corn crop, current thought trends in average Sovietminds—profound questions, yet many of them phrased with surprisingsimplicity. For figures, technical jargon, and layman's language werealike to Maizie; there was no need to translate into mathematicalshorthand, as with the lesser brain-machines.     The click of the taper went on until the Secretary of State had twicenervously fired a cigaret with his ultrasonic lighter and twice quicklyput it away. No one spoke.     Jorj looked up at the Secretary of Space. Section Five, QuestionFour—whom would that come from?     The burly man frowned. That would be the physics boys, Opperly'sgroup. Is anything wrong?     Jorj did not answer. A bit later he quit taping and began to adjustcontrols, going up on the boom-chair to reach some of them. Eventuallyhe came down and touched a few more, then stood waiting.     From the great cube came a profound, steady purring. Involuntarily thesix officials backed off a bit. Somehow it was impossible for a man toget used to the sound of Maizie starting to think.  Jorj turned, smiling. And now, gentlemen, while we wait for Maizieto celebrate, there should be just enough time for us to watch thetakeoff of the Mars rocket. He switched on a giant television screen.The others made a quarter turn, and there before them glowed the richochres and blues of a New Mexico sunrise and, in the middle distance, asilvery mighty spindle.     Like the generals, the Secretary of Space suppressed a scowl. Herewas something that ought to be spang in the center of his officialterritory, and the Thinkers had locked him completely out of it. Thatrocket there—just an ordinary Earth satellite vehicle commandeeredfrom the Army, but equipped by the Thinkers with Maizie-designednuclear motors capable of the Mars journey and more. The firstspaceship—and the Secretary of Space was not in on it!     Still, he told himself, Maizie had decreed it that way. And whenhe remembered what the Thinkers had done for him in rescuing himfrom breakdown with their mental science, in rescuing the wholeAdministration from collapse he realized he had to be satisfied. Andthat was without taking into consideration the amazing additionalmental discoveries that the Thinkers were bringing down from Mars.     Lord, the President said to Jorj as if voicing the Secretary'sfeeling, I wish you people could bring a couple of those wise littledevils back with you this trip. Be a good thing for the country.     Jorj looked at him a bit coldly. It's quite unthinkable, he said.The telepathic abilities of the Martians make them extremelysensitive. The conflicts of ordinary Earth minds would impinge on thempsychotically, even fatally. As you know, the Thinkers were able tocontact them only because of our degree of learned mental poise anderrorless memory-chains. So for the present it must be our task aloneto glean from the Martians their astounding mental skills. Of course,some day in the future, when we have discovered how to armor the mindsof the Martians—     Sure, I know, the President said hastily. Shouldn't have mentionedit, Jorj.     Conversation ceased. They waited with growing tension for the greatviolet flames to bloom from the base of the silvery shaft.  Meanwhile the question tape, like a New Year's streamer tossed outa high window into the night, sped on its dark way along spinningrollers. Curling with an intricate aimlessness curiously like thatof such a streamer, it tantalized the silvery fingers of a thousandrelays, saucily evaded the glances of ten thousand electric eyes,impishly darted down a narrow black alleyway of memory banks, and,reaching the center of the cube, suddenly emerged into a small roomwhere a suave fat man in shorts sat drinking beer.     He flipped the tape over to him with practiced finger, eyeing it asa stockbroker might have studied a ticker tape. He read the firstquestion, closed his eyes and frowned for five seconds. Then with thestaccato self-confidence of a hack writer, he began to tape out theanswer.     For many minutes the only sounds were the rustle of the paper ribbonand the click of the taper, except for the seconds the fat man took toclose his eyes, or to drink or pour beer. Once, too, he lifted a phone,asked a concise question, waited half a minute, listened to an answer,then went back to the grind.     Until he came to Section Five, Question Four. That time he did histhinking with his eyes open.     The question was: Does Maizie stand for Maelzel?     He sat for a while slowly scratching his thigh. His loose, persuasivelips tightened, without closing, into the shape of a snarl.     Suddenly he began to tape again.     Maizie does not stand for Maelzel. Maizie stands for amazing,humorously given the form of a girl's name. Section Six, Answer One:The mid-term election viewcasts should be spaced as follows....     But his lips didn't lose the shape of a snarl.  Five hundred miles above the ionosphere, the Mars rocket cut offits fuel and slumped gratefully into an orbit that would carry iteffortlessly around the world at that altitude. The pilot unstrappedhimself and stretched, but he didn't look out the viewport at thedried-mud disc that was Earth, cloaked in its haze of blue sky. He knewhe had two maddening months ahead of him in which to do little morethan that. Instead, he unstrapped Sappho.     Used to free fall from two previous experiences, and loving it, thefluffy little cat was soon bounding about the cabin in curves andgyrations that would have made her the envy of all back-alley andparlor felines on the planet below. A miracle cat in the dream world offree fall. For a long time she played with a string that the man wouldtoss out lazily. Sometimes she caught the string on the fly, sometimesshe swam for it frantically.     After a while the man grew bored with the game. He unlocked a drawerand began to study the details of the wisdom he would discover onMars this trip—priceless spiritual insights that would be balm towar-battered mankind.     The cat carefully selected a spot three feet off the floor, curled upon the air, and went to sleep.  Jorj Helmuth snipped the emerging answer tape into sections and handedeach to the appropriate man. Most of them carefully tucked theirs awaywith little more than a glance, but the Secretary of Space puzzled overhis.     Who the devil would Maelzel be? he asked.     A remote look came into the eyes of the Secretary of State. EdgarAllen Poe, he said frowningly, with eyes half-closed.     The grizzled general snapped his fingers. Sure! Maelzel's Chessplayer. Read it when I was a kid. About an automaton that was supposedto play chess. Poe proved it hid a man inside it.     The Secretary of Space frowned. Now what's the point in a foolquestion like that?     You said it came from Opperly's group? Jorj asked sharply.     The Secretary of Space nodded. The others looked at the two menpuzzledly.     Who would that be? Jorj pressed. The group, I mean.     The Secretary of Space shrugged. Oh, the usual little bunch over atthe Institute. Hindeman, Gregory, Opperly himself. Oh, yes, and youngFarquar.     Sounds like Opperly's getting senile, Jorj commented coldly. I'dinvestigate.     The Secretary of Space nodded. He suddenly looked tough. I will. Rightaway.  Sunlight striking through French windows spotlighted a ballet of dustmotes untroubled by air-conditioning. Morton Opperly's living room waswell-kept but worn and quite behind the times. Instead of reading tapesthere were books; instead of steno-robots, pen and ink; while in placeof a four by six TV screen, a Picasso hung on the wall. Only Opperlyknew that the painting was still faintly radioactive, that it had beenriskily so when he'd smuggled it out of his bomb-singed apartment inNew York City.     The two physicists fronted each other across a coffee table. The faceof the elder was cadaverous, large-eyed, and tender—fined down bya long life of abstract thought. That of the younger was forceful,sensuous, bulky as his body, and exceptionally ugly. He looked ratherlike a bear.     Opperly was saying, So when he asked who was responsible for theMaelzel question, I said I didn't remember. He smiled. They stillallow me my absent-mindedness, since it nourishes their contempt.Almost my sole remaining privilege. The smile faded. Why do you keepon teasing the zoo animals, Willard? he asked without rancor. I'vemaintained many times that we shouldn't truckle to them by yieldingto their demand that we ask Maizie questions. You and the rest haveoverruled me. But then to use those questions to convey veiled insultsisn't reasonable. Apparently the Secretary of Space was bothered enoughabout this last one to pay me a 'copter call within twenty minutes ofthis morning's meeting at the Foundation. Why do you do it, Willard?     The features of the other convulsed unpleasantly. Because theThinkers are charlatans who must be exposed, he rapped out. We knowtheir Maizie is no more than a tealeaf-reading fake. We've traced theirMars rockets and found they go nowhere. We know their Martian mentalscience is bunk.     But we've already exposed the Thinkers very thoroughly, Opperlyinterposed quietly. You know the good it did.     Farquar hunched his Japanese-wrestler shoulders. Then it's got to bedone until it takes.     Opperly studied the bowl of mutated flowers by the coffee pot. I thinkyou just want to tease the animals, for some personal reason of whichyou probably aren't aware.     Farquar scowled. We're the ones in the cages.  Opperly continued his inspection of the flowers' bells. All the morereason not to poke sticks through the bars at the lions and tigersstrolling outside. No, Willard, I'm not counseling appeasement. Butconsider the age in which we live. It wants magicians. His voice grewespecially tranquil. A scientist tells people the truth. When timesare good—that is, when the truth offers no threat—people don't mind.But when times are very, very bad.... A shadow darkened his eyes.Well, we all know what happened to— And he mentioned three namesthat had been household words in the middle of the century. Theywere the names on the brass plaque dedicated to the martyred threephysicists.     He went on, A magician, on the other hand, tells people what theywish were true—that perpetual motion works, that cancer can be curedby colored lights, that a psychosis is no worse than a head cold, thatthey'll live forever. In good times magicians are laughed at. They're aluxury of the spoiled wealthy few. But in bad times people sell theirsouls for magic cures, and buy perpetual motion machines to power theirwar rockets.     Farquar clenched his fist. All the more reason to keep chipping awayat the Thinkers. Are we supposed to beg off from a job because it'sdifficult and dangerous?     Opperly shook his head. We're to keep clear of the infection ofviolence. In my day, Willard, I was one of the Frightened Men. Later Iwas one of the Angry Men and then one of the Minds of Despair. Now I'mconvinced that all my reactions were futile.     Exactly! Farquar agreed harshly. You reacted. You didn't act. Ifyou men who discovered atomic energy had only formed a secret league,if you'd only had the foresight and the guts to use your tremendousbargaining position to demand the power to shape mankind's future....     By the time you were born, Willard, Opperly interrupted dreamily,Hitler was merely a name in the history books. We scientists weren'tthe stuff out of which cloak-and-dagger men are made. Can you imagineOppenheimer wearing a mask or Einstein sneaking into the Old WhiteHouse with a bomb in his briefcase? He smiled. Besides, that's notthe way power is seized. New ideas aren't useful to the man bargainingfor power—only established facts or lies are.     Just the same, it would have been a good thing if you'd had a littleviolence in you.     No, Opperly said.     I've got violence in me, Farquar announced, shoving himself to hisfeet.  Opperly looked up from the flowers. I think you have, he agreed.     But what are we to do? Farquar demanded. Surrender the world tocharlatans without a struggle?     Opperly mused for a while. I don't know what the world needs now.Everyone knows Newton as the great scientist. Few remember thathe spent half his life muddling with alchemy, looking for thephilosopher's stone. Which Newton did the world need then?     Now you are justifying the Thinkers!     No, I leave that to history.     And history consists of the actions of men, Farquar concluded. Iintend to act. The Thinkers are vulnerable, their power fantasticallyprecarious. What's it based on? A few lucky guesses. Faith-healing.Some science hocus-pocus, on the level of those juke-box burlesque actsbetween the strips. Dubious mental comfort given to a few nerve-tornneurotics in the Inner Cabinet—and their wives. The fact that theThinkers' clever stage-managing won the President a doubtful election.The erroneous belief that the Soviets pulled out of Iraq and Iranbecause of the Thinkers' Mind Bomb threat. A brain-machine that's justa cover for Jan Tregarron's guesswork. Oh, yes, and that hogwash of'Martian wisdom.' All of it mere bluff! A few pushes at the right timesand points are all that are needed—and the Thinkers know it! I'll betthey're terrified already, and will be more so when they find thatwe're gunning for them. Eventually they'll be making overtures to us,turning to us for help. You wait and see.     I am thinking again of Hitler, Opperly interposed quietly. On hisfirst half dozen big steps, he had nothing but bluff. His generalswere against him. They knew they were in a cardboard fort. Yet he wonevery battle, until the last. Moreover, he pressed on, cutting Farquarshort, the power of the Thinkers isn't based on what they've got, buton what the world hasn't got—peace, honor, a good conscience....     The front-door knocker clanked. Farquar answered it. A skinny old manwith a radiation scar twisting across his temple handed him a tinycylinder. Radiogram for you, Willard. He grinned across the hall atOpperly. When are you going to get a phone put in, Mr. Opperly?     The physicist waved to him. Next year, perhaps, Mr. Berry.     The old man snorted with good-humored incredulity and trudged off.     What did I tell you about the Thinkers making overtures? Farquarchortled suddenly. It's come sooner than I expected. Look at this.     He held out the radiogram, but the older man didn't take it. Instead heasked, Who's it from? Tregarron?     No, from Helmuth. There's a lot of sugar corn about man's future indeep space, but the real reason is clear. They know that they're goingto have to produce an actual nuclear rocket pretty soon, and for thatthey'll need our help.     An invitation?     Farquar nodded. For this afternoon. He noticed Opperly's anxiousthough distant frown. What's the matter? he asked. Are you botheredabout my going? Are you thinking it might be a trap—that after theMaelzel question they may figure I'm better rubbed out?     The older man shook his head. I'm not afraid for your life, Willard.That's yours to risk as you choose. No, I'm worried about other thingsthey might do to you.     What do you mean? Farquar asked.  Opperly looked at him with a gentle appraisal. You're a strong andvital man, Willard, with a strong man's prides and desires. His voicetrailed off for a bit. Then, Excuse me, Willard, but wasn't there agirl once? A Miss Arkady?     Farquar's ungainly figure froze. He nodded curtly, face averted.     And didn't she go off with a Thinker?     If girls find me ugly, that's their business, Farquar said harshly,still not looking at Opperly. What's that got to do with thisinvitation?     Opperly didn't answer the question. His eyes got more distant. Finallyhe said, In my day we had it a lot easier. A scientist was anacademician, cushioned by tradition.     Willard snorted. Science had already entered the era of the policeinspectors, with laboratory directors and political appointees stiflingenterprise.     Perhaps, Opperly agreed. Still, the scientist lived the safe,restricted, highly respectable life of a university man. He wasn'texposed to the temptations of the world.     Farquar turned on him. Are you implying that the Thinkers will somehowbe able to buy me off?     Not exactly.     You think I'll be persuaded to change my aims? Farquar demandedangrily.     Opperly shrugged his helplessness. No, I don't think you'll changeyour aims.     Clouds encroaching from the west blotted the parallelogram of sunlightbetween the two men.  As the slideway whisked him gently along the corridor toward hisapartment, Jorj was thinking of his spaceship. For a moment thesilver-winged vision crowded everything else out of his mind.     Just think, a spaceship with sails! He smiled a bit, marveling at theparadox.     Direct atomic power. Direct utilization of the force of the flyingneutrons. No more ridiculous business of using a reactor to drive asteam engine, or boil off something for a jet exhaust—processes thatwere as primitive and wasteful as burning gunpowder to keep yourselfwarm.     Chemical jets would carry his spaceship above the atmosphere. Thenwould come the thrilling order, Set sail for Mars! The vast umbrellawould unfold and open out around the stern, its rear or Earthward sidea gleaming expanse of radioactive ribbon perhaps only an atom thickand backed with a material that would reflect neutrons. Atoms in theribbon would split, blasting neutrons astern at fantastic velocities.Reaction would send the spaceship hurtling forward.     In airless space, the expanse of sails would naturally not retard theship. More radioactive ribbon, manufactured as needed in the shipitself, would feed out onto the sail as that already there becameexhausted.     A spaceship with direct nuclear drive—and he, a Thinker, hadconceived it completely except for the technical details! Havingstrengthened his mind by hard years of somno-learning, mind-casting,memory-straightening, and sensory training, he had assured himselfof the executive power to control the technicians and direct theirspecialized abilities. Together they would build the true Mars rocket.     But that would only be a beginning. They would build the true MindBomb. They would build the true Selective Microbe Slayer. They woulddiscover the true laws of ESP and the inner life. They would even—hisimagination hesitated a moment, then strode boldly forward—build thetrue Maizie!     And then ... then the Thinkers would be on even terms with thescientists. Rather, they'd be far ahead. No more deception.     He was so exalted by this thought that he almost let the slideway carryhim past his door. He stepped inside and called, Caddy! He waited amoment, then walked through the apartment, but she wasn't there.  Confound the girl, he couldn't help thinking. This morning, when sheshould have made herself scarce, she'd sprawled about sleeping. Now,when he felt like seeing her, when her presence would have added apleasant final touch to his glowing mood, she chose to be absent. Hereally should use his hypnotic control on her, he decided, and againthere sprang into his mind the word—a pet form of her name—that wouldsend her into obedient trance.     No, he told himself again, that was to be reserved for some momentof crisis or desperate danger, when he would need someone to strikesuddenly and unquestioningly for himself and mankind. Caddy was merelya wilful and rather silly girl, incapable at present of understandingthe tremendous tensions under which he operated. When he had time forit, he would train her up to be a fitting companion without hypnosis.     Yet the fact of her absence had a subtly disquieting effect. It shookhis perfect self-confidence just a fraction. He asked himself ifhe'd been wise in summoning the rocket physicists without consultingTregarron.     But this mood, too, he conquered quickly. Tregarron wasn't hisboss, but just the Thinker's most clever salesman, an expert in themumbo-jumbo so necessary for social control in this chaotic era. Hehimself, Jorj Helmuth, was the real leader in theoretics and all-overstrategy, the mind behind the mind behind Maizie.     He stretched himself on the bed, almost instantly achieved maximumrelaxation, turned on the somno-learner, and began the two hour rest heknew would be desirable before the big conference.  ","Farquar sparks the driving conflict of the story; the question he submits threatens the authority and legitimacy of the Thinkers, implying that the machine that guides society's decisions is a fake. This question disturbs the officials present at Maizie's event. Farquar also attempts to convince Opperly, a major Scientist, that the Thinkers should be exposed and called out for their deception. He is eager to take action against them. Farquar plays an additional role in the story as someone who Jorj must turn to for help; he is a skilled physician that the Thinkers need in order to develop their idea for a nuclear rocket. Farquar determines the fate of Jorj and the Thinkers as someone who both poses a threat to them and is needed by them."
"How are Opperly and Farquar alike and different? </s>     Appointment in Tomorrow     BY FRITZ LEIBER     Illustrated by ED ALEXANDER     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction July 1951.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]       Is it possible to have a world without moral values?     Or does lack of morality become a moral value, also?      The first angry rays of the sun—which, startlingly enough, still rosein the east at 24 hour intervals—pierced the lacy tops of Atlanticcombers and touched thousands of sleeping Americans with unconsciousfear, because of their unpleasant similarity to the rays from World WarIII's atomic bombs.     They turned to blood the witch-circle of rusty steel skeletons aroundInferno in Manhattan. Without comment, they pointed a cosmic finger atthe tarnished brass plaque commemorating the martyrdom of the ThreePhysicists after the dropping of the Hell Bomb. They tenderly touchedthe rosy skin and strawberry bruises on the naked shoulders of agirl sleeping off a drunk on the furry and radiantly heated floor ofa nearby roof garden. They struck green magic from the glassy blotthat was Old Washington. Twelve hours before, they had revealed thingsas eerily beautiful, and as ravaged, in Asia and Russia. They pinkedthe white walls of the Colonial dwelling of Morton Opperly near theInstitute for Advanced Studies; upstairs they slanted impartiallyacross the Pharoahlike and open-eyed face of the elderly physicist andthe ugly, sleep-surly one of young Willard Farquar in the next room.And in nearby New Washington they made of the spire of the Thinkers'Foundation a blue and optimistic glory that outshone White House, Jr.     It was America approaching the end of the Twentieth Century. Americaof juke-box burlesque and your local radiation hospital. Americaof the mask-fad for women and Mystic Christianity. America of theoff-the-bosom dress and the New Blue Laws. America of the Endless Warand the loyalty detector. America of marvelous Maizie and the monthlyrocket to Mars. America of the Thinkers and (a few remembered) theInstitute. Knock on titanium, Whadya do for black-outs, Please,lover, don't think when I'm around, America, as combat-shocked andcrippled as the rest of the bomb-shattered planet.     Not one impudent photon of the sunlight penetrated the triple-paned,polarizing windows of Jorj Helmuth's bedroom in the Thinker'sFoundation, yet the clock in his brain awakened him to the minute,or almost. Switching off the Educational Sandman in the midst of thephrase, ... applying tensor calculus to the nucleus, he took adeep, even breath and cast his mind to the limits of the world andhis knowledge. It was a somewhat shadowy vision, but, he noted withimpartial approval, definitely less shadowy than yesterday morning.     Employing a rapid mental scanning technique, he next cleared his memorychains of false associations, including those acquired while asleep.These chores completed, he held his finger on a bedside button, whichrotated the polarizing window panes until the room slowly filled with amuted daylight. Then, still flat on his back, he turned his head untilhe could look at the remarkably beautiful blonde girl asleep beside him.  Remembering last night, he felt a pang of exasperation, which heinstantly quelled by taking his mind to a higher and dispassionatelevel from which he could look down on the girl and even himself asquaint, clumsy animals. Still, he grumbled silently, Caddy might havehad enough consideration to clear out before he awoke. He wonderedif he shouldn't have used his hypnotic control of the girl to smooththeir relationship last night, and for a moment the word that wouldsend her into deep trance trembled on the tip of his tongue. But no,that special power of his over her was reserved for far more importantpurposes.     Pumping dynamic tension into his 20-year-old muscles and confidenceinto his 60-year-old mind, the 40-year-old Thinker rose from bed.No covers had to be thrown off; the nuclear heating unit made themunnecessary. He stepped into his clothing—the severe tunic, tights andsockassins of the modern business man. Next he glanced at the messagetape beside his phone, washed down with ginger ale a vita-amino-enzymetablet, and walked to the window. There, gazing along the rows of newlyplanted mutant oaks lining Decontamination Avenue, his smooth facebroke into a smile.     It had come to him, the next big move in the intricate game makingup his life—and mankind's. Come to him during sleep, as so many ofhis best decisions did, because he regularly employed the time-savingtechnique of somno-thought, which could function at the same time assomno-learning.     He set his who?-where? robot for Rocket Physicist and Genius Class.While it worked, he dictated to his steno-robot the following briefmessage:     Dear Fellow Scientist:     A project is contemplated that will have a crucial bearing on man'sfuture in deep space. Ample non-military Government funds areavailable. There was a time when professional men scoffed at theThinkers. Then there was a time when the Thinkers perforce neglectedthe professional men. Now both times are past. May they never return!I would like to consult you this afternoon, three o'clock sharp,Thinkers' Foundation I.     Jorj Helmuth     Meanwhile the who?-where? had tossed out a dozen cards. He glancedthrough them, hesitated at the name Willard Farquar, looked at thesleeping girl, then quickly tossed them all into the addresso-robot andplugged in the steno-robot.     The buzz-light blinked green and he switched the phone to audio.     The President is waiting to see Maizie, sir, a clear feminine voiceannounced. He has the general staff with him.     Martian peace to him, Jorj Helmuth said. Tell him I'll be down in afew minutes.  Huge as a primitive nuclear reactor, the great electronic brain loomedabove the knot of hush-voiced men. It almost filled a two-story room inthe Thinkers' Foundation. Its front was an orderly expanse of controls,indicators, telltales, and terminals, the upper ones reached by a chairon a boom.     Although, as far as anyone knew, it could sense only the informationand questions fed into it on a tape, the human visitors could notresist the impulse to talk in whispers and glance uneasily at the greatcryptic cube. After all, it had lately taken to moving some of itsown controls—the permissible ones—and could doubtless improvise ahearing apparatus if it wanted to.     For this was the thinking machine beside which the Marks and Eniacs andManiacs and Maddidas and Minervas and Mimirs were less than Morons.This was the machine with a million times as many synapses as the humanbrain, the machine that remembered by cutting delicate notches in therims of molecules (instead of kindergarten paper-punching or the ConeyIsland shimmying of columns of mercury). This was the machine that hadgiven instructions on building the last three-quarters of itself. Thiswas the goal, perhaps, toward which fallible human reasoning and biasedhuman judgment and feeble human ambition had evolved.       This was the machine that really thought—a million-plus!       This was the machine that the timid cyberneticists and stuffyprofessional scientists had said could not be built. Yet this was themachine that the Thinkers, with characteristic Yankee push,      had     built. And nicknamed, with characteristic Yankee irreverence andgirl-fondness, Maizie.     Gazing up at it, the President of the United States felt a chordplucked within him that hadn't been sounded for decades, the dark andshivery organ chord of his Baptist childhood. Here, in a strange sense,although his reason rejected it, he felt he stood face to face withthe living God: infinitely stern with the sternness of reality, yetinfinitely just. No tiniest error or wilful misstep could ever escapethe scrutiny of this vast mentality. He shivered.  The grizzled general—there was also one who was gray—was thinkingthat this was a very odd link in the chain of command. Some shadowy andusually well-controlled memories from World War II faintly stirred hisire. Here he was giving orders to a being immeasurably more intelligentthan himself. And always orders of the Tell me how to kill that manrather than the Kill that man sort. The distinction bothered himobscurely. It relieved him to know that Maizie had built-in controlswhich made her always the servant of humanity, or of humanity'sright-minded leaders—even the Thinkers weren't certain which.     The gray general was thinking uneasily, and, like the President, at amore turbid level, of the resemblance between Papal infallibility andthe dictates of the machine. Suddenly his bony wrists began to tremble.He asked himself: Was this the Second Coming? Mightn't an incarnationbe in metal rather than flesh?     The austere Secretary of State was remembering what he'd taken suchpains to make everyone forget: his youthful flirtation at Lake Successwith Buddhism. Sitting before his      guru     , his teacher, feeling theOccidental's awe at the wisdom of the East, or its pretense, he hadfelt a little like this.     The burly Secretary of Space, who had come up through United Rockets,was thanking his stars that at any rate the professional scientistsweren't responsible for this job. Like the grizzled general, he'dalways felt suspicious of men who kept telling you how to do things,rather than doing them themselves. In World War III he'd had his fillof the professional physicists, with their eternal taint of a mistysort of radicalism and free-thinking. The Thinkers were better—moredisciplined, more human. They'd called their brain-machine Maizie,which helped take the curse off her. Somewhat.  The President's Secretary, a paunchy veteran of party caucuses, wasalso glad that it was the Thinkers who had created the machine, thoughhe trembled at the power that it gave them over the Administration.Still, you could do business with the Thinkers. And nobody (not eventhe Thinkers) could do business (that sort of business) with Maizie!     Before that great square face with its thousands of tiny metalfeatures, only Jorj Helmuth seemed at ease, busily entering on thetape the complex Questions of the Day that the high officials hadhanded him: logistics for the Endless War in Pakistan, optimum size fornext year's sugar-corn crop, current thought trends in average Sovietminds—profound questions, yet many of them phrased with surprisingsimplicity. For figures, technical jargon, and layman's language werealike to Maizie; there was no need to translate into mathematicalshorthand, as with the lesser brain-machines.     The click of the taper went on until the Secretary of State had twicenervously fired a cigaret with his ultrasonic lighter and twice quicklyput it away. No one spoke.     Jorj looked up at the Secretary of Space. Section Five, QuestionFour—whom would that come from?     The burly man frowned. That would be the physics boys, Opperly'sgroup. Is anything wrong?     Jorj did not answer. A bit later he quit taping and began to adjustcontrols, going up on the boom-chair to reach some of them. Eventuallyhe came down and touched a few more, then stood waiting.     From the great cube came a profound, steady purring. Involuntarily thesix officials backed off a bit. Somehow it was impossible for a man toget used to the sound of Maizie starting to think.  Jorj turned, smiling. And now, gentlemen, while we wait for Maizieto celebrate, there should be just enough time for us to watch thetakeoff of the Mars rocket. He switched on a giant television screen.The others made a quarter turn, and there before them glowed the richochres and blues of a New Mexico sunrise and, in the middle distance, asilvery mighty spindle.     Like the generals, the Secretary of Space suppressed a scowl. Herewas something that ought to be spang in the center of his officialterritory, and the Thinkers had locked him completely out of it. Thatrocket there—just an ordinary Earth satellite vehicle commandeeredfrom the Army, but equipped by the Thinkers with Maizie-designednuclear motors capable of the Mars journey and more. The firstspaceship—and the Secretary of Space was not in on it!     Still, he told himself, Maizie had decreed it that way. And whenhe remembered what the Thinkers had done for him in rescuing himfrom breakdown with their mental science, in rescuing the wholeAdministration from collapse he realized he had to be satisfied. Andthat was without taking into consideration the amazing additionalmental discoveries that the Thinkers were bringing down from Mars.     Lord, the President said to Jorj as if voicing the Secretary'sfeeling, I wish you people could bring a couple of those wise littledevils back with you this trip. Be a good thing for the country.     Jorj looked at him a bit coldly. It's quite unthinkable, he said.The telepathic abilities of the Martians make them extremelysensitive. The conflicts of ordinary Earth minds would impinge on thempsychotically, even fatally. As you know, the Thinkers were able tocontact them only because of our degree of learned mental poise anderrorless memory-chains. So for the present it must be our task aloneto glean from the Martians their astounding mental skills. Of course,some day in the future, when we have discovered how to armor the mindsof the Martians—     Sure, I know, the President said hastily. Shouldn't have mentionedit, Jorj.     Conversation ceased. They waited with growing tension for the greatviolet flames to bloom from the base of the silvery shaft.  Meanwhile the question tape, like a New Year's streamer tossed outa high window into the night, sped on its dark way along spinningrollers. Curling with an intricate aimlessness curiously like thatof such a streamer, it tantalized the silvery fingers of a thousandrelays, saucily evaded the glances of ten thousand electric eyes,impishly darted down a narrow black alleyway of memory banks, and,reaching the center of the cube, suddenly emerged into a small roomwhere a suave fat man in shorts sat drinking beer.     He flipped the tape over to him with practiced finger, eyeing it asa stockbroker might have studied a ticker tape. He read the firstquestion, closed his eyes and frowned for five seconds. Then with thestaccato self-confidence of a hack writer, he began to tape out theanswer.     For many minutes the only sounds were the rustle of the paper ribbonand the click of the taper, except for the seconds the fat man took toclose his eyes, or to drink or pour beer. Once, too, he lifted a phone,asked a concise question, waited half a minute, listened to an answer,then went back to the grind.     Until he came to Section Five, Question Four. That time he did histhinking with his eyes open.     The question was: Does Maizie stand for Maelzel?     He sat for a while slowly scratching his thigh. His loose, persuasivelips tightened, without closing, into the shape of a snarl.     Suddenly he began to tape again.     Maizie does not stand for Maelzel. Maizie stands for amazing,humorously given the form of a girl's name. Section Six, Answer One:The mid-term election viewcasts should be spaced as follows....     But his lips didn't lose the shape of a snarl.  Five hundred miles above the ionosphere, the Mars rocket cut offits fuel and slumped gratefully into an orbit that would carry iteffortlessly around the world at that altitude. The pilot unstrappedhimself and stretched, but he didn't look out the viewport at thedried-mud disc that was Earth, cloaked in its haze of blue sky. He knewhe had two maddening months ahead of him in which to do little morethan that. Instead, he unstrapped Sappho.     Used to free fall from two previous experiences, and loving it, thefluffy little cat was soon bounding about the cabin in curves andgyrations that would have made her the envy of all back-alley andparlor felines on the planet below. A miracle cat in the dream world offree fall. For a long time she played with a string that the man wouldtoss out lazily. Sometimes she caught the string on the fly, sometimesshe swam for it frantically.     After a while the man grew bored with the game. He unlocked a drawerand began to study the details of the wisdom he would discover onMars this trip—priceless spiritual insights that would be balm towar-battered mankind.     The cat carefully selected a spot three feet off the floor, curled upon the air, and went to sleep.  Jorj Helmuth snipped the emerging answer tape into sections and handedeach to the appropriate man. Most of them carefully tucked theirs awaywith little more than a glance, but the Secretary of Space puzzled overhis.     Who the devil would Maelzel be? he asked.     A remote look came into the eyes of the Secretary of State. EdgarAllen Poe, he said frowningly, with eyes half-closed.     The grizzled general snapped his fingers. Sure! Maelzel's Chessplayer. Read it when I was a kid. About an automaton that was supposedto play chess. Poe proved it hid a man inside it.     The Secretary of Space frowned. Now what's the point in a foolquestion like that?     You said it came from Opperly's group? Jorj asked sharply.     The Secretary of Space nodded. The others looked at the two menpuzzledly.     Who would that be? Jorj pressed. The group, I mean.     The Secretary of Space shrugged. Oh, the usual little bunch over atthe Institute. Hindeman, Gregory, Opperly himself. Oh, yes, and youngFarquar.     Sounds like Opperly's getting senile, Jorj commented coldly. I'dinvestigate.     The Secretary of Space nodded. He suddenly looked tough. I will. Rightaway.  Sunlight striking through French windows spotlighted a ballet of dustmotes untroubled by air-conditioning. Morton Opperly's living room waswell-kept but worn and quite behind the times. Instead of reading tapesthere were books; instead of steno-robots, pen and ink; while in placeof a four by six TV screen, a Picasso hung on the wall. Only Opperlyknew that the painting was still faintly radioactive, that it had beenriskily so when he'd smuggled it out of his bomb-singed apartment inNew York City.     The two physicists fronted each other across a coffee table. The faceof the elder was cadaverous, large-eyed, and tender—fined down bya long life of abstract thought. That of the younger was forceful,sensuous, bulky as his body, and exceptionally ugly. He looked ratherlike a bear.     Opperly was saying, So when he asked who was responsible for theMaelzel question, I said I didn't remember. He smiled. They stillallow me my absent-mindedness, since it nourishes their contempt.Almost my sole remaining privilege. The smile faded. Why do you keepon teasing the zoo animals, Willard? he asked without rancor. I'vemaintained many times that we shouldn't truckle to them by yieldingto their demand that we ask Maizie questions. You and the rest haveoverruled me. But then to use those questions to convey veiled insultsisn't reasonable. Apparently the Secretary of Space was bothered enoughabout this last one to pay me a 'copter call within twenty minutes ofthis morning's meeting at the Foundation. Why do you do it, Willard?     The features of the other convulsed unpleasantly. Because theThinkers are charlatans who must be exposed, he rapped out. We knowtheir Maizie is no more than a tealeaf-reading fake. We've traced theirMars rockets and found they go nowhere. We know their Martian mentalscience is bunk.     But we've already exposed the Thinkers very thoroughly, Opperlyinterposed quietly. You know the good it did.     Farquar hunched his Japanese-wrestler shoulders. Then it's got to bedone until it takes.     Opperly studied the bowl of mutated flowers by the coffee pot. I thinkyou just want to tease the animals, for some personal reason of whichyou probably aren't aware.     Farquar scowled. We're the ones in the cages.  Opperly continued his inspection of the flowers' bells. All the morereason not to poke sticks through the bars at the lions and tigersstrolling outside. No, Willard, I'm not counseling appeasement. Butconsider the age in which we live. It wants magicians. His voice grewespecially tranquil. A scientist tells people the truth. When timesare good—that is, when the truth offers no threat—people don't mind.But when times are very, very bad.... A shadow darkened his eyes.Well, we all know what happened to— And he mentioned three namesthat had been household words in the middle of the century. Theywere the names on the brass plaque dedicated to the martyred threephysicists.     He went on, A magician, on the other hand, tells people what theywish were true—that perpetual motion works, that cancer can be curedby colored lights, that a psychosis is no worse than a head cold, thatthey'll live forever. In good times magicians are laughed at. They're aluxury of the spoiled wealthy few. But in bad times people sell theirsouls for magic cures, and buy perpetual motion machines to power theirwar rockets.     Farquar clenched his fist. All the more reason to keep chipping awayat the Thinkers. Are we supposed to beg off from a job because it'sdifficult and dangerous?     Opperly shook his head. We're to keep clear of the infection ofviolence. In my day, Willard, I was one of the Frightened Men. Later Iwas one of the Angry Men and then one of the Minds of Despair. Now I'mconvinced that all my reactions were futile.     Exactly! Farquar agreed harshly. You reacted. You didn't act. Ifyou men who discovered atomic energy had only formed a secret league,if you'd only had the foresight and the guts to use your tremendousbargaining position to demand the power to shape mankind's future....     By the time you were born, Willard, Opperly interrupted dreamily,Hitler was merely a name in the history books. We scientists weren'tthe stuff out of which cloak-and-dagger men are made. Can you imagineOppenheimer wearing a mask or Einstein sneaking into the Old WhiteHouse with a bomb in his briefcase? He smiled. Besides, that's notthe way power is seized. New ideas aren't useful to the man bargainingfor power—only established facts or lies are.     Just the same, it would have been a good thing if you'd had a littleviolence in you.     No, Opperly said.     I've got violence in me, Farquar announced, shoving himself to hisfeet.  Opperly looked up from the flowers. I think you have, he agreed.     But what are we to do? Farquar demanded. Surrender the world tocharlatans without a struggle?     Opperly mused for a while. I don't know what the world needs now.Everyone knows Newton as the great scientist. Few remember thathe spent half his life muddling with alchemy, looking for thephilosopher's stone. Which Newton did the world need then?     Now you are justifying the Thinkers!     No, I leave that to history.     And history consists of the actions of men, Farquar concluded. Iintend to act. The Thinkers are vulnerable, their power fantasticallyprecarious. What's it based on? A few lucky guesses. Faith-healing.Some science hocus-pocus, on the level of those juke-box burlesque actsbetween the strips. Dubious mental comfort given to a few nerve-tornneurotics in the Inner Cabinet—and their wives. The fact that theThinkers' clever stage-managing won the President a doubtful election.The erroneous belief that the Soviets pulled out of Iraq and Iranbecause of the Thinkers' Mind Bomb threat. A brain-machine that's justa cover for Jan Tregarron's guesswork. Oh, yes, and that hogwash of'Martian wisdom.' All of it mere bluff! A few pushes at the right timesand points are all that are needed—and the Thinkers know it! I'll betthey're terrified already, and will be more so when they find thatwe're gunning for them. Eventually they'll be making overtures to us,turning to us for help. You wait and see.     I am thinking again of Hitler, Opperly interposed quietly. On hisfirst half dozen big steps, he had nothing but bluff. His generalswere against him. They knew they were in a cardboard fort. Yet he wonevery battle, until the last. Moreover, he pressed on, cutting Farquarshort, the power of the Thinkers isn't based on what they've got, buton what the world hasn't got—peace, honor, a good conscience....     The front-door knocker clanked. Farquar answered it. A skinny old manwith a radiation scar twisting across his temple handed him a tinycylinder. Radiogram for you, Willard. He grinned across the hall atOpperly. When are you going to get a phone put in, Mr. Opperly?     The physicist waved to him. Next year, perhaps, Mr. Berry.     The old man snorted with good-humored incredulity and trudged off.     What did I tell you about the Thinkers making overtures? Farquarchortled suddenly. It's come sooner than I expected. Look at this.     He held out the radiogram, but the older man didn't take it. Instead heasked, Who's it from? Tregarron?     No, from Helmuth. There's a lot of sugar corn about man's future indeep space, but the real reason is clear. They know that they're goingto have to produce an actual nuclear rocket pretty soon, and for thatthey'll need our help.     An invitation?     Farquar nodded. For this afternoon. He noticed Opperly's anxiousthough distant frown. What's the matter? he asked. Are you botheredabout my going? Are you thinking it might be a trap—that after theMaelzel question they may figure I'm better rubbed out?     The older man shook his head. I'm not afraid for your life, Willard.That's yours to risk as you choose. No, I'm worried about other thingsthey might do to you.     What do you mean? Farquar asked.  Opperly looked at him with a gentle appraisal. You're a strong andvital man, Willard, with a strong man's prides and desires. His voicetrailed off for a bit. Then, Excuse me, Willard, but wasn't there agirl once? A Miss Arkady?     Farquar's ungainly figure froze. He nodded curtly, face averted.     And didn't she go off with a Thinker?     If girls find me ugly, that's their business, Farquar said harshly,still not looking at Opperly. What's that got to do with thisinvitation?     Opperly didn't answer the question. His eyes got more distant. Finallyhe said, In my day we had it a lot easier. A scientist was anacademician, cushioned by tradition.     Willard snorted. Science had already entered the era of the policeinspectors, with laboratory directors and political appointees stiflingenterprise.     Perhaps, Opperly agreed. Still, the scientist lived the safe,restricted, highly respectable life of a university man. He wasn'texposed to the temptations of the world.     Farquar turned on him. Are you implying that the Thinkers will somehowbe able to buy me off?     Not exactly.     You think I'll be persuaded to change my aims? Farquar demandedangrily.     Opperly shrugged his helplessness. No, I don't think you'll changeyour aims.     Clouds encroaching from the west blotted the parallelogram of sunlightbetween the two men.  As the slideway whisked him gently along the corridor toward hisapartment, Jorj was thinking of his spaceship. For a moment thesilver-winged vision crowded everything else out of his mind.     Just think, a spaceship with sails! He smiled a bit, marveling at theparadox.     Direct atomic power. Direct utilization of the force of the flyingneutrons. No more ridiculous business of using a reactor to drive asteam engine, or boil off something for a jet exhaust—processes thatwere as primitive and wasteful as burning gunpowder to keep yourselfwarm.     Chemical jets would carry his spaceship above the atmosphere. Thenwould come the thrilling order, Set sail for Mars! The vast umbrellawould unfold and open out around the stern, its rear or Earthward sidea gleaming expanse of radioactive ribbon perhaps only an atom thickand backed with a material that would reflect neutrons. Atoms in theribbon would split, blasting neutrons astern at fantastic velocities.Reaction would send the spaceship hurtling forward.     In airless space, the expanse of sails would naturally not retard theship. More radioactive ribbon, manufactured as needed in the shipitself, would feed out onto the sail as that already there becameexhausted.     A spaceship with direct nuclear drive—and he, a Thinker, hadconceived it completely except for the technical details! Havingstrengthened his mind by hard years of somno-learning, mind-casting,memory-straightening, and sensory training, he had assured himselfof the executive power to control the technicians and direct theirspecialized abilities. Together they would build the true Mars rocket.     But that would only be a beginning. They would build the true MindBomb. They would build the true Selective Microbe Slayer. They woulddiscover the true laws of ESP and the inner life. They would even—hisimagination hesitated a moment, then strode boldly forward—build thetrue Maizie!     And then ... then the Thinkers would be on even terms with thescientists. Rather, they'd be far ahead. No more deception.     He was so exalted by this thought that he almost let the slideway carryhim past his door. He stepped inside and called, Caddy! He waited amoment, then walked through the apartment, but she wasn't there.  Confound the girl, he couldn't help thinking. This morning, when sheshould have made herself scarce, she'd sprawled about sleeping. Now,when he felt like seeing her, when her presence would have added apleasant final touch to his glowing mood, she chose to be absent. Hereally should use his hypnotic control on her, he decided, and againthere sprang into his mind the word—a pet form of her name—that wouldsend her into obedient trance.     No, he told himself again, that was to be reserved for some momentof crisis or desperate danger, when he would need someone to strikesuddenly and unquestioningly for himself and mankind. Caddy was merelya wilful and rather silly girl, incapable at present of understandingthe tremendous tensions under which he operated. When he had time forit, he would train her up to be a fitting companion without hypnosis.     Yet the fact of her absence had a subtly disquieting effect. It shookhis perfect self-confidence just a fraction. He asked himself ifhe'd been wise in summoning the rocket physicists without consultingTregarron.     But this mood, too, he conquered quickly. Tregarron wasn't hisboss, but just the Thinker's most clever salesman, an expert in themumbo-jumbo so necessary for social control in this chaotic era. Hehimself, Jorj Helmuth, was the real leader in theoretics and all-overstrategy, the mind behind the mind behind Maizie.     He stretched himself on the bed, almost instantly achieved maximumrelaxation, turned on the somno-learner, and began the two hour rest heknew would be desirable before the big conference.  ","Opperly and Farquar are both physicists. They both have the same role in society as possessing knowledge and abilities to create technology and machinery. However, despite their similar titles, they are drastically different, both in appearance and character. Opperly is an elderly man, who looks timid and meek, though wise, next to the young, large, and impulsive Farquar. Opperly acts as a rational voice, discouraging Farquar from his rebellious and violent nature, specifically towards the Thinkers. Opperly, having lived through history, is hesitant to threaten the authority of the Thinkers and instead understands that society is in need of them. He believes that scientists should not have a place in taking action and being violent, and instead should allow the Thinkers to uphold the nation. Farquar, on the other hand, is a man of action who believes the Thinkers are immoral and inauthentic. He contrasts Opperly's reasonable nature with passion and free thinking."
"What is the plot of the story? </s>    Transcriber's Note:   This etext was produced from Analog March 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.    ILLUSTRATED     BY     KRENKEL        HIS MASTER'S VOICE     ANALOG SCIENCE FACT · SCIENCE FICTION       Spaceship McGuire had lots of knowledge—but no wisdom. He wassmart—but incredibly foolish. And, as a natural consequence, tended toask questions too profound for any philosopher—questions like Who areyou?     By RANDALL GARRETT      I'd been in Ravenhurst's office on the mountain-sized planetoid calledRaven's Rest only twice before. The third time was no better; ShalimarRavenhurst was one of the smartest operators in the Belt, but when itcame to personal relationships, he was utterly incompetent. He couldmake anyone dislike him without trying.     When I entered the office, he was  [3]  sitting behind his mahogany desk,his eyes focused on the operation he was going through with a wineglassand a decanter. He didn't look up at me as he said:     Sit down, Mr. Oak. Will you have some Madeira?     I decided I might as well observe the pleasantries. There was no pointin my getting nasty until he did. Thank you, Mr. Ravenhurst, I will.     He kept his eyes focused on his work: It isn't easy to pour wine on aplanetoid where the gee-pull is measured in fractions of a centimeterper second squared. It moves slowly, like ropy molasses, but you haveto be careful not to be fooled by that. The viscosity is just as lowas ever, and if you pour it from any great height, it will go scootingright out of the glass  [4]  again. The momentum it builds up is enough tomake it splash right out again in a slow-motion gush which gets it allover the place.     Besides which, even if it didn't splash, it would take it so long tofall a few inches that you'd die of thirst waiting for it.     Ravenhurst had evolved a technique from long years of practice.He tilted the glass and the bottle toward each other, their edgestouching, like you do when you're trying to pour beer without putting ahead on it. As soon as the wine wet the glass, the adhesive forces atwork would pull more wine into the wine glass. To get capillary actionon a low-gee asteroid, you don't need a capillary, by any means. Thenegative meniscus on the wine was something to see; the first timeyou see it, you get the eerie feeling that the glass is spinning andthrowing the wine up against the walls by centrifugal force.     I took the glass he offered me (Careful! Don't slosh!) and sipped atit. Using squirt tubes would have been a hell of a lot easier andneater, but Ravenhurst liked to do things his way.     He put the stopper back in the decanter, picked up his own glass andsipped appreciatively. Not until he put it back down on the desk againdid he raise his eyes and look at me for the first time since I'd comein.     Mr. Oak, you have caused me considerable trouble.     I thought we'd hashed all that out, Mr. Ravenhurst, I said, keepingmy voice level.     [5]     So had I. But it appears that there were more ramifications to youraction than we had at first supposed. His voice had the texture ofheavy linseed oil.     He waited, as if he expected me to make some reply to that. WhenI didn't, he sighed slightly and went on. I fear that you haveinadvertently sabotaged McGuire. You were commissioned to preventsabotage, Mr. Oak, and I'm afraid that you abrogated your contract.     I just continued to keep my voice calm. If you are trying to get backthe fee you gave me, we can always take it to court. I don't thinkyou'd win.     Mr. Oak, he said heavily, I am not a fool, regardless of what yourown impression may be. If I were trying to get back that fee, I wouldhardly offer to pay you another one.     I didn't think he was a fool. You don't get into the managerialbusiness and climb to the top and stay there unless you have brains.Ravenhurst was smart, all right; it was just that, when it came topersonal relationships, he wasn't very wise.     Then stop all this yak about an abrogated contract and get to thepoint, I told him.     I shall. I was merely trying to point out to you that it is throughyour own actions that I find myself in a very trying position, and thatyour sense of honor and ethics should induce you to rectify the damage.     My honor and ethics are in fine shape, I said, but my interpretationof the concepts might not be quite  [6]  the same as yours. Get to thepoint.     He took another sip of Madeira. The robotocists at Viking tellme that, in order to prevent any further ... ah ... sabotage byunauthorized persons, the MGYR-7 was constructed so that, afteractivation, the first man who addressed orders to it would thenceforthbe considered its ... ah ... master.     As I understand it, the problem of defining the term 'human being'unambiguously to a robot is still unsolved. The robotocists felt thatit would be much easier to define a single individual. That wouldprevent the issuing of conflicting orders to a robot, provided thesingle individual were careful in giving orders himself.     Now, it appears that      you     , Mr. Oak, were the first man to speak toMcGuire after he had been activated. Is that correct?     Is that question purely rhetorical, I asked him, putting on my bestexpression of innocent interest. Or are you losing your memory? I hadexplained all that to him two weeks before, when I'd brought McGuireand the girl here, so that Ravenhurst would have a chance to cover upwhat had really happened.  My sarcasm didn't faze him in the least. Rhetorical. It follows thatyou are the only man whose orders McGuire will obey.     Your robotocists can change that, I said. This time, I was giving himmy version of genuine innocence.  [7]  A man has to be a good actor to bea competent double agent, and I didn't want Ravenhurst to know that Iknew a great deal more about the problem than he did.     He shook his head, making his jowls wobble. No, they cannot. Theyrealize now that there should be some way of making that change, butthey failed to see that it would be necessary. Only by completelydraining McGuire's memory banks and refilling them with new data canthis bias be eliminated.     Then why don't they do that?     There are two very good reasons, he said. And there was a shade ofanger in his tone. In the first place, that sort of operation takestime, and it costs money. If we do that, we might as well go ahead andmake the slight changes in structure necessary to incorporate some ofthe improvements that the robotocists now feel are necessary. In otherwords, they might as well go ahead and build the MGYR-8, which isprecisely the thing I hired you to prevent.     It seems you have a point there, Mr. Ravenhurst. He'd hired mebecause things were shaky at Viking. If he lost too much more money onthe McGuire experiment, he stood a good chance of losing his positionas manager. If that happened some of his other managerial contractsmight be canceled, too. Things like that can begin to snowball, andRavenhurst might find himself out of the managerial business entirely.     But, I went on, hasn't the additional wasted time already cost you  [8]  money?     It has. I was reluctant to call you in again—understandably enough, Ithink.     Perfectly. It's mutual.     He ignored me. I even considered going through with the rebuildingwork, now that we have traced down the source of failure of the firstsix models. Unfortunately, that isn't feasible, either. He scowled atme.     It seems, he went on, that McGuire refuses to allow his brain tobe tampered with. The self-preservation 'instinct' has come to thefore. He has refused to let the technicians and robotocists enter hishull, and he has threatened to take off and leave Ceres if any furtherattempts are made to ... ah ... disrupt his thinking processes.     I can't say that I blame him, I said. What do you want me to do? Goto Ceres and tell him to submit like a good boy?     It is too late for that, Mr. Oak. Viking cannot stand any more ofthat kind of drain on its financial resources. I have been banking onthe McGuire-type ships to put Viking Spacecraft ahead of every otherspacecraft company in the System. He looked suddenly very grim andvery determined. Mr. Oak, I am      certain     that the robot ship is theanswer to the transportation problems in the Solar System. For the sakeof every human being in the Solar System, we must get the bugs out ofMcGuire!       What's good for General Bull-moose is good for everybody     , I quotedto myself. I'd have said it out loud,  [9]  but I was fairly certain thatShalimar Ravenhurst was not a student of the classics.     Mr. Oak, I would like you to go to Ceres and co-operate with therobotocists at Viking. When the MGYR-8 is finally built, I want it tobe the prototype for a fast, safe, functional robot spaceship that canbe turned out commercially. You can be of great service, Mr. Oak.     In other words, I've got you over a barrel.     I don't deny it.     You know what my fees are, Mr. Ravenhurst. That's what you'll becharged. I'll expect to be paid weekly; if Viking goes broke, I don'twant to lose more than a week's pay. On the other hand, if the MGYR-8is successful, I will expect a substantial bonus.     How much?     Exactly half of the cost of rebuilding. Half what it would take tobuild a Model 8 right now, and taking a chance on there being no bugsin it.     He considered that, looking grimmer than ever. Then he said: I willdo it on the condition that the bonus be paid off in installments, oneeach six months for three years after the first successful commercialship is built by Viking.     My lawyer will nail you down on that wording, I said, but it's adeal. Is there anything else?     No.     Then I think I'll leave for Ceres before you break a blood vessel.     You continue to amaze me, Mr. Oak, he said. And the soft oiliness  [10]  ofhis voice was the oil of vitriol. Your compassion for your fellowmanis a facet of your personality that I had not seen before. I shallwelcome the opportunity to relax and allow my blood pressure tosubside.     I could almost see Shalimar Ravenhurst suddenly exploding and addinghis own touch of color to the room.     And, on that gladsome thought, I left. I let him have his small verbaltriumph; if he'd known that I'd have taken on the job for almostnothing, he'd really have blown up.  Ten minutes later, I was in my vacuum suit, walking across the glaring,rough-polished rectangle of metal that was the landing field ofRaven's Rest. The sun was near the zenith in the black, diamond-dustedsky, and the shadow of my flitterboat stood out like an inkblot ona bridal gown. I climbed in, started the engine, and released themagnetic anchor that held the little boat to the surface of thenickel-iron planetoid. I lifted her gently, worked her around until Iwas stationary in relation to the spinning planetoid, oriented myselfagainst the stellar background, and headed toward the first blinkerbeacon on my way to Ceres.     For obvious economical reasons, it it impracticable to use full-sizedspaceships in the Belt. A flitterboat, with a single gravitoinertialengine and the few necessities of life—air, some water, and a verylittle food—still costs more than a Rolls-Royce  [11]  automobile does onEarth, but there has to be some sort of individual transportation inthe Belt.     They can't be used for any great distances because a man can't stayin a vac suit very long without getting uncomfortable. You have tohop from beacon to beacon, which means that your      average     velocitydoesn't amount to much, since you spend too much time acceleratingand decelerating. But a flitterboat is enough to get around theneighborhood in, and that's all that's needed.     I got the GM-187 blinker in my sights, eased the acceleration up to onegee, relaxed to watch the radar screen while I thought over my comingordeal with McGuire.     Testing spaceships, robotic or any other kind, is strictly not mybusiness. The sign on the door of my office in New York says:      DANIELOAK, Confidential Expediter     ; I'm hired to help other people Get ThingsDone. Usually, if someone came to me with the problem of getting aspaceship test-piloted, I'd simply dig up the best test pilot in thebusiness, hire him for my client, and forget about everything butcollecting my fee. But I couldn't have refused this case if I'd wantedto. I'd already been assigned to it by someone a lot more importantthan Shalimar Ravenhurst.     Every schoolchild who has taken a course in Government Organization andFunction can tell you that the Political Survey Division is a branch ofthe System Census Bureau of the UN Government, and that its job is toevaluate the political activities of  [12]  various sub-governments all overthe System.     And every one of those poor tykes would be dead wrong.     The Political Survey Division      does     evaluate political activity, allright, but it is the Secret Service of the UN Government. The vastmajority of  [13]  the System's citizens don't even know the Government hasa Secret Service. I happen to know only because I'm an agent of thePolitical Survey Division.     The PSD was vitally interested in the whole McGuire project. Robots ofMcGuire's complexity had been built before; the robot that runs thetraffic patterns of the American Eastern Seaboard is just as capableas McGuire when it comes to handling a tremendous number of variablesand making decisions on them. But that robot didn't have to be givenorders except in extreme emergencies. Keeping a few million cars movingand safe at the same time is actually pretty routine stuff for a robot.And a traffic robot isn't given orders verbally; it is given any ordersthat may be necessary via teletype by a trained programming technician.Those orders are usually in reference to a change of routing due torepair work on the highways or the like. The robot itself can take careof such emergencies as bad weather or even an accident caused by themalfunctioning of an individual automobile.     McGuire was different. In the first place, he was mobile. He was incommand of a spacecraft. In a sense, he      was     the spacecraft, since itserved him in a way that was analogous to the way a human body servesthe human mind. And he wasn't in charge of millions of objects with atop velocity of a hundred and fifty miles an hour; he was in chargeof a single object that moved at velocities of thousands of miles persecond. Nor  [14]  did he have a set, unmoving highway as his path; his pathswere variable and led through the emptiness of space.     Unforeseen emergencies can happen at any time in space, most of themhaving to do with the lives of passengers. A cargo ship would besomewhat less susceptible to such emergencies if there were no humansaboard; it doesn't matter much to a robot if he has no air in his hull.     But with passengers aboard, there may be times when it would benecessary to give orders—      fast     ! And that means verbal orders, ordersthat can be given anywhere in the ship and relayed immediately bymicrophone to the robot's brain. A man doesn't have time to run to ateletyper and type out orders when there's an emergency in space.     That meant that McGuire had to understand English, and, since there hasto be feedback in communication, he had to be able to speak it as well.     And that made McGuire more than somewhat difficult to deal with.  For more than a century, robotocists have been trying to build Asimov'sfamous Three Laws of Robotics into a robot brain.       First Law: A robot shall not, either through action or inaction, allowharm to come to a human being.         Second Law: A robot shall obey the orders of a human being, exceptwhen such orders conflict with the First Law     .     [15]       Third Law: A robot shall strive to protect its own existence, exceptwhen this conflicts with the First or Second Law.       Nobody has succeeded yet, because nobody has yet succeeded in definingthe term human being in such a way that the logical mind of a robotcan encompass the concept.     A traffic robot is useful only because the definition has been rigidlynarrowed down. As far as a traffic robot is concerned, human beingsare the automobiles on its highways. Woe betide any poor sap who tries,illegally, to cross a robot-controlled highway on foot. The robot'sonly concern would be with the safety of the automobiles, and if theonly way to avoid destruction of an automobile were to be by nudgingthe pedestrian aside with a fender, that's what would happen.     And, since its orders only come from one place, I suppose that atraffic robot thinks that the guy who uses that typer is an automobile.     With the first six models of the McGuire ships, the robotocistsattempted to build in the Three Laws exactly as stated. And the firstsix went insane.     If one human being says jump left, and another says jump right,the robot is unable to evaluate which human being has given the morevalid order. Feed enough confusing and conflicting data into a robotbrain, and it can begin behaving in ways that, in a human being, wouldbe called paranoia or schizophrenia or catatonia or what-have-you,depending  [16]  on the symptoms. And an insane robot is fully as dangerousas an insane human being controlling the same mechanical equipment, ifnot more so.     So the seventh model had been modified. The present McGuire's brain wasimpressed with slight modifications of the First and Second Laws.     If it is difficult to define a human being, it is much more difficultto define a      responsible     human being. One, in other words, who canbe relied upon to give wise and proper orders to a robot, who can berelied upon not to drive the robot insane.     The robotocists at Viking Spacecraft had decided to take anothertack. Very well, they'd said, if we can't define all the membersof a group, we can certainly define an individual. We'll pick oneresponsible person and build McGuire so that he will take orders onlyfrom that person.     As it turned out, I was that person. Just substitute Daniel Oakfor human being in the First and Second Laws, and you'll see howimportant I was to a certain spaceship named McGuire.  When I finally caught the beam from Ceres and set my flitterboat downon the huge landing field that had been carved from the nickel-ironof the asteroid with a focused sun beam, I was itchy with my ownperspiration and groggy tired. I don't like riding in flitterboats,sitting on a  [17]  bucket seat, astride the drive tube, like a witch on abroomstick, with nothing but a near-invisible transite hull between meand the stars, all cooped up in a vac suit. Unlike driving a car, youcan't pull a flitterboat over and take a nap; you have to wait untilyou hit the next beacon station.     Ceres, the biggest rock in the Belt, is a lot more than just a beaconstation. Like Eros and a few others, it's a city in its own right. Andexcept for the Government Reservation, Viking Spacecraft owned Ceres,lock, stock, and mining rights.     Part of the reason for Viking's troubles was envy of that ownership.There were other companies in the Belt that would like to get theirhands on that plum, and there were those who were doing everythingshort of cutting throats to get it. The PSD was afraid it might come tothat, too, before very long.     Ceres is fifty-eight million cubic miles of nickel-iron, but nobodywould cut her up for that. Nickel-iron is almost exactly as cheap asdirt on Earth, and, considering shipping costs, Earth soil costs agreat deal more than nickel-iron in the Belt.     But, as an operations base, Ceres is second to none. Its surfacegravity averages .0294 Standard Gee, as compared with Earth's .981,and that's enough to give a slight feeling of weight without undulyhampering the body with too much load. I weigh just under six poundson Ceres, and after I've been there a while, going back to Earth is astrain that takes a  [18]  week to get used to. Kids that are brought up inthe Belt are forced to exercise in a room with a one-gee spin on it atleast an hour a day. They don't like it at first, but it keeps themfrom growing up with the strength of mice. And an adult with any sensetakes a spin now and then, too. Traveling in a flitterboat will giveyou a one-gee pull, all right, but you don't get much exercise.     I parked my flitterboat in the space that had been assigned to me byLanding Control, and went over to the nearest air-lock dome.     After I'd cycled through and had shucked my vac suit, I went into theinner room to find Colonel Brock waiting for me.     Have a good trip, Oak? he asked, trying to put a smile on hisscarred, battered face.     I got here alive, if that makes it a good flitterboat trip, I said,shaking his extended hand.     That's the definition of a good trip, he told me.     Then the question was superfluous. Seriously, what I need is a bathand some sleep.     You'll get that, but first let's go somewhere where we can talk. Wanta drink?     I could use one, I guess. Your treat?     My treat, he said. Come on.     I followed him out and down a ladder to a corridor that led north. Bydefinition, any asteroid spins toward the east, and all directionsfollow from that, regardless of which way the axis may point.     [19]     Colonel Harrington Brock was dressed in the black-and-gold unionsuit that was the uniform of Ravenhurst's Security Guard. My own wasa tasteful green, but some of the other people in the public corridorseemed to go for more flashiness; besides silver and gold, there wereshocking pinks and violent mauves, with stripes and blazes of othercolors.     A crowd wearing skin-tight cover-alls might shock the gentle people ofMidwich-on-the-Moor, England, but they are normal dress in the Belt.You can't climb into a vac suit with bulky clothing on, and, if youdid, you'd hate yourself within an hour, with a curse for every wrinklethat chafed your skin. And, in the Belt, you never know when you mighthave to get into a vac suit fast. In a safe area like the tunnelsinside Ceres, there isn't much chance of losing air, but there areplaces where no one but a fool would ever be more than ten seconds awayfrom his vac suit.     I read an article by a psychologist a few months back, in which heclaimed that the taste for loud colors in union suits was actuallydue to modesty. He claimed that the bright patterns drew attention tothe colors themselves, and away from the base the colors were laidover. The observer, he said, tends to see the color and pattern of thesuit, rather than the body it clings to so closely. Maybe he's right;I wouldn't know, not being a psychologist. I      have     spent summers innudist resorts, though, and I never noticed anyone painting themselveswith lavender  [20]  and chartreuse checks. On the other hand, the people whogo to nudist resorts are a self-screened group. So are the people whogo to the Belt, for that matter, but the type of screening is different.     I'll just leave that problem in the hands of the psychologists, and goon wearing my immodestly quiet solid-color union suits.  Brock pushed open the inch-thick metal door beneath a sign that saidO'Banion's Bar, and I followed him in. We sat down at a table andordered drinks when the waiter bustled over. A cop in uniform isn'tsupposed to drink, but Brock figures that the head of the SecurityGuard ought to be able to get away with a breach of his own rules.     We had our drinks in front of us and our cigarettes lit before Brockopened up with his troubles.     Oak, he said, I wanted to intercept you before you went to the plantbecause I want you to know that there may be trouble.     Yeah? What kind? Sometimes it's a pain to play ignorant.     Thurston's outfit is trying to oust Ravenhurst from the managership ofViking and take over the job. Baedecker Metals & Mining Corporation,which is managed by Baedecker himself, wants to force Viking out ofbusiness so that BM&M can take over Ceres for large-scale processing ofprecious metals.     Between the two of 'em, they're raising all sorts of minor hellaround  [21]  here, and it's liable to become major hell at any time. And wecan't stand any hell—or sabotage—around this planetoid just now!     Now wait a minute, I said, still playing ignorant, I thought we'dpretty well established that the 'sabotage' of the McGuire series wasJack Ravenhurst's fault. She was the one who was driving them nuts, notThurston's agents.     Perfectly true, he said agreeably. We managed to block any attemptsof sabotage by other company agents, even though it looked as though wehadn't for a while. He chuckled wryly. We went all out to keep theMcGuires safe, and all the time the boss' daughter was giving them theworks. Then he looked sharply at me. I covered that, of course. Noone in the Security Guard but me knows that Jack was responsible.     Good. But what about the Thurston and Baedecker agents, then?     He took a hefty slug of his drink. They're around, all right. We haveour eyes on the ones we know, but those outfits are as sharp as weare, and they may have a few agents here on Ceres that we know nothingabout.     So? What does this have to do with me?     He put his drink on the table. Oak, I want you to help me. Hisonyx-brown eyes, only a shade darker than his skin, looked directlyinto my own. I know it isn't part of your assignment, and you know Ican't afford to pay you anything near what you're worth. It will haveto come out of my  [22]  pocket because I couldn't possibly justify it fromoperating funds. Ravenhurst specifically told me that he doesn't wantyou messing around with the espionage and sabotage problem because hedoesn't like your methods of operation.     And you're going to go against his orders?     I am. Ravenhurst is sore at you personally because you showed himthat Jack was responsible for the McGuire sabotage. It's an irrationaldislike, and I am not going to let it interfere with my job. I'm goingto protect Ravenhurst's interests to the best of my ability, and thatmeans that I'll use the best of other people's abilities if I can.     I grinned at him. The last I heard, you were sore at me for blattingit all over Ceres that Jaqueline Ravenhurst was missing, when shesneaked aboard McGuire.     He nodded perfunctorily. I was. I still think you should have told mewhat you were up to. But you did it, and you got results that I'd beenunable to get. I'm not going to let a momentary pique hang on as anirrational dislike. I like to think I have more sense than that.     Thanks. There wasn't much else I could say.     Now, I've got a little dough put away; it's not much, but I couldoffer you—     I shook my head, cutting him off. Nope. Sorry, Brock. For two reasons.In the first place, there would be a conflict of interest. I'm workingfor Ravenhurst, and if he doesn't want  [23]  me to work for you, then itwould be unethical for me to take the job.     In the second place, my fees are standardized. Oh, I can allow acertain amount of fluctuation, but I'm not a physician or a lawyer; myservices are  [24]  not necessary to the survival of the individual, exceptin very rare cases, and those cases are generally arranged through alawyer when it's a charity case.     No, colonel, I'm afraid I couldn't  [25]  possibly work for you.     He thought that over for a long time. Finally, he nodded his head veryslowly. I see. Yeah, I get your point. He scowled down at his drink.           But     , I said, it would be a pleasure  [26]  to work      with     you.     He looked up quickly. How's that?     Well, let's look at it this way: You can't hire me because I'm alreadyworking for Ravenhurst; I can't hire  [27]  you because      you're     working forRavenhurst. But since we may need each other, and since we're bothworking for Ravenhurst, there would be no conflict of interest if weco-operate.     Or, to put it another way, I can't take money for any service I mayrender you, but you can pay off in services. Am I coming through?     His broad smile made the scars on his face fold in and deepen. Loudand clear. It's a deal.     I held up a hand, palm toward him. Ah, ah, ah! There's no 'deal'involved. We're just old buddies helping each other. This is forfriendship, not business. I scratch your back; you scratch mine. Fair?     Fair. Come on down to my office; I want to give you a headful of factsand figures.     Will do. Let me finish my guzzle.  ","The story begins with Daniel Oak going into Ravenhurst’s office to talk with him about another job. Ravenhurst tells Daniel that there is an issue with the robot McGuire because the robot will only listen to Daniel’s commands. This happened because of the way the robot was programmed and Daniel happened to trigger the programming that attaches the robot to whoever the first person was to speak to it. Ravenhurst does not like Daniel’s methods but hires him anyways to fix the situation. Daniel believes that he is hired because Ravenhurst is afraid of losing his manager position. Ravenhurst hires and sends Daniel to the planet Ceres to work with the roboticists at Viking. Daniel puts on his vacuum suit and boards a flitterboat to Ceres. The reader learns that Daniel is a double agent as he actually works for the UN government’s Secret Service agency, also known as the Political Survey Division.Daniel is sent to Ceres to help with the robot McGuire. When he arrives at Ceres he is met by Colonel Harrington Brock. He goes to have a drink with Colonel Brock and they create a separate plan from Ravenhurst and team up to implement their own solution to the McGuire problem. "
"What is Daniel Oak’s job? </s>    Transcriber's Note:   This etext was produced from Analog March 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.    ILLUSTRATED     BY     KRENKEL        HIS MASTER'S VOICE     ANALOG SCIENCE FACT · SCIENCE FICTION       Spaceship McGuire had lots of knowledge—but no wisdom. He wassmart—but incredibly foolish. And, as a natural consequence, tended toask questions too profound for any philosopher—questions like Who areyou?     By RANDALL GARRETT      I'd been in Ravenhurst's office on the mountain-sized planetoid calledRaven's Rest only twice before. The third time was no better; ShalimarRavenhurst was one of the smartest operators in the Belt, but when itcame to personal relationships, he was utterly incompetent. He couldmake anyone dislike him without trying.     When I entered the office, he was  [3]  sitting behind his mahogany desk,his eyes focused on the operation he was going through with a wineglassand a decanter. He didn't look up at me as he said:     Sit down, Mr. Oak. Will you have some Madeira?     I decided I might as well observe the pleasantries. There was no pointin my getting nasty until he did. Thank you, Mr. Ravenhurst, I will.     He kept his eyes focused on his work: It isn't easy to pour wine on aplanetoid where the gee-pull is measured in fractions of a centimeterper second squared. It moves slowly, like ropy molasses, but you haveto be careful not to be fooled by that. The viscosity is just as lowas ever, and if you pour it from any great height, it will go scootingright out of the glass  [4]  again. The momentum it builds up is enough tomake it splash right out again in a slow-motion gush which gets it allover the place.     Besides which, even if it didn't splash, it would take it so long tofall a few inches that you'd die of thirst waiting for it.     Ravenhurst had evolved a technique from long years of practice.He tilted the glass and the bottle toward each other, their edgestouching, like you do when you're trying to pour beer without putting ahead on it. As soon as the wine wet the glass, the adhesive forces atwork would pull more wine into the wine glass. To get capillary actionon a low-gee asteroid, you don't need a capillary, by any means. Thenegative meniscus on the wine was something to see; the first timeyou see it, you get the eerie feeling that the glass is spinning andthrowing the wine up against the walls by centrifugal force.     I took the glass he offered me (Careful! Don't slosh!) and sipped atit. Using squirt tubes would have been a hell of a lot easier andneater, but Ravenhurst liked to do things his way.     He put the stopper back in the decanter, picked up his own glass andsipped appreciatively. Not until he put it back down on the desk againdid he raise his eyes and look at me for the first time since I'd comein.     Mr. Oak, you have caused me considerable trouble.     I thought we'd hashed all that out, Mr. Ravenhurst, I said, keepingmy voice level.     [5]     So had I. But it appears that there were more ramifications to youraction than we had at first supposed. His voice had the texture ofheavy linseed oil.     He waited, as if he expected me to make some reply to that. WhenI didn't, he sighed slightly and went on. I fear that you haveinadvertently sabotaged McGuire. You were commissioned to preventsabotage, Mr. Oak, and I'm afraid that you abrogated your contract.     I just continued to keep my voice calm. If you are trying to get backthe fee you gave me, we can always take it to court. I don't thinkyou'd win.     Mr. Oak, he said heavily, I am not a fool, regardless of what yourown impression may be. If I were trying to get back that fee, I wouldhardly offer to pay you another one.     I didn't think he was a fool. You don't get into the managerialbusiness and climb to the top and stay there unless you have brains.Ravenhurst was smart, all right; it was just that, when it came topersonal relationships, he wasn't very wise.     Then stop all this yak about an abrogated contract and get to thepoint, I told him.     I shall. I was merely trying to point out to you that it is throughyour own actions that I find myself in a very trying position, and thatyour sense of honor and ethics should induce you to rectify the damage.     My honor and ethics are in fine shape, I said, but my interpretationof the concepts might not be quite  [6]  the same as yours. Get to thepoint.     He took another sip of Madeira. The robotocists at Viking tellme that, in order to prevent any further ... ah ... sabotage byunauthorized persons, the MGYR-7 was constructed so that, afteractivation, the first man who addressed orders to it would thenceforthbe considered its ... ah ... master.     As I understand it, the problem of defining the term 'human being'unambiguously to a robot is still unsolved. The robotocists felt thatit would be much easier to define a single individual. That wouldprevent the issuing of conflicting orders to a robot, provided thesingle individual were careful in giving orders himself.     Now, it appears that      you     , Mr. Oak, were the first man to speak toMcGuire after he had been activated. Is that correct?     Is that question purely rhetorical, I asked him, putting on my bestexpression of innocent interest. Or are you losing your memory? I hadexplained all that to him two weeks before, when I'd brought McGuireand the girl here, so that Ravenhurst would have a chance to cover upwhat had really happened.  My sarcasm didn't faze him in the least. Rhetorical. It follows thatyou are the only man whose orders McGuire will obey.     Your robotocists can change that, I said. This time, I was giving himmy version of genuine innocence.  [7]  A man has to be a good actor to bea competent double agent, and I didn't want Ravenhurst to know that Iknew a great deal more about the problem than he did.     He shook his head, making his jowls wobble. No, they cannot. Theyrealize now that there should be some way of making that change, butthey failed to see that it would be necessary. Only by completelydraining McGuire's memory banks and refilling them with new data canthis bias be eliminated.     Then why don't they do that?     There are two very good reasons, he said. And there was a shade ofanger in his tone. In the first place, that sort of operation takestime, and it costs money. If we do that, we might as well go ahead andmake the slight changes in structure necessary to incorporate some ofthe improvements that the robotocists now feel are necessary. In otherwords, they might as well go ahead and build the MGYR-8, which isprecisely the thing I hired you to prevent.     It seems you have a point there, Mr. Ravenhurst. He'd hired mebecause things were shaky at Viking. If he lost too much more money onthe McGuire experiment, he stood a good chance of losing his positionas manager. If that happened some of his other managerial contractsmight be canceled, too. Things like that can begin to snowball, andRavenhurst might find himself out of the managerial business entirely.     But, I went on, hasn't the additional wasted time already cost you  [8]  money?     It has. I was reluctant to call you in again—understandably enough, Ithink.     Perfectly. It's mutual.     He ignored me. I even considered going through with the rebuildingwork, now that we have traced down the source of failure of the firstsix models. Unfortunately, that isn't feasible, either. He scowled atme.     It seems, he went on, that McGuire refuses to allow his brain tobe tampered with. The self-preservation 'instinct' has come to thefore. He has refused to let the technicians and robotocists enter hishull, and he has threatened to take off and leave Ceres if any furtherattempts are made to ... ah ... disrupt his thinking processes.     I can't say that I blame him, I said. What do you want me to do? Goto Ceres and tell him to submit like a good boy?     It is too late for that, Mr. Oak. Viking cannot stand any more ofthat kind of drain on its financial resources. I have been banking onthe McGuire-type ships to put Viking Spacecraft ahead of every otherspacecraft company in the System. He looked suddenly very grim andvery determined. Mr. Oak, I am      certain     that the robot ship is theanswer to the transportation problems in the Solar System. For the sakeof every human being in the Solar System, we must get the bugs out ofMcGuire!       What's good for General Bull-moose is good for everybody     , I quotedto myself. I'd have said it out loud,  [9]  but I was fairly certain thatShalimar Ravenhurst was not a student of the classics.     Mr. Oak, I would like you to go to Ceres and co-operate with therobotocists at Viking. When the MGYR-8 is finally built, I want it tobe the prototype for a fast, safe, functional robot spaceship that canbe turned out commercially. You can be of great service, Mr. Oak.     In other words, I've got you over a barrel.     I don't deny it.     You know what my fees are, Mr. Ravenhurst. That's what you'll becharged. I'll expect to be paid weekly; if Viking goes broke, I don'twant to lose more than a week's pay. On the other hand, if the MGYR-8is successful, I will expect a substantial bonus.     How much?     Exactly half of the cost of rebuilding. Half what it would take tobuild a Model 8 right now, and taking a chance on there being no bugsin it.     He considered that, looking grimmer than ever. Then he said: I willdo it on the condition that the bonus be paid off in installments, oneeach six months for three years after the first successful commercialship is built by Viking.     My lawyer will nail you down on that wording, I said, but it's adeal. Is there anything else?     No.     Then I think I'll leave for Ceres before you break a blood vessel.     You continue to amaze me, Mr. Oak, he said. And the soft oiliness  [10]  ofhis voice was the oil of vitriol. Your compassion for your fellowmanis a facet of your personality that I had not seen before. I shallwelcome the opportunity to relax and allow my blood pressure tosubside.     I could almost see Shalimar Ravenhurst suddenly exploding and addinghis own touch of color to the room.     And, on that gladsome thought, I left. I let him have his small verbaltriumph; if he'd known that I'd have taken on the job for almostnothing, he'd really have blown up.  Ten minutes later, I was in my vacuum suit, walking across the glaring,rough-polished rectangle of metal that was the landing field ofRaven's Rest. The sun was near the zenith in the black, diamond-dustedsky, and the shadow of my flitterboat stood out like an inkblot ona bridal gown. I climbed in, started the engine, and released themagnetic anchor that held the little boat to the surface of thenickel-iron planetoid. I lifted her gently, worked her around until Iwas stationary in relation to the spinning planetoid, oriented myselfagainst the stellar background, and headed toward the first blinkerbeacon on my way to Ceres.     For obvious economical reasons, it it impracticable to use full-sizedspaceships in the Belt. A flitterboat, with a single gravitoinertialengine and the few necessities of life—air, some water, and a verylittle food—still costs more than a Rolls-Royce  [11]  automobile does onEarth, but there has to be some sort of individual transportation inthe Belt.     They can't be used for any great distances because a man can't stayin a vac suit very long without getting uncomfortable. You have tohop from beacon to beacon, which means that your      average     velocitydoesn't amount to much, since you spend too much time acceleratingand decelerating. But a flitterboat is enough to get around theneighborhood in, and that's all that's needed.     I got the GM-187 blinker in my sights, eased the acceleration up to onegee, relaxed to watch the radar screen while I thought over my comingordeal with McGuire.     Testing spaceships, robotic or any other kind, is strictly not mybusiness. The sign on the door of my office in New York says:      DANIELOAK, Confidential Expediter     ; I'm hired to help other people Get ThingsDone. Usually, if someone came to me with the problem of getting aspaceship test-piloted, I'd simply dig up the best test pilot in thebusiness, hire him for my client, and forget about everything butcollecting my fee. But I couldn't have refused this case if I'd wantedto. I'd already been assigned to it by someone a lot more importantthan Shalimar Ravenhurst.     Every schoolchild who has taken a course in Government Organization andFunction can tell you that the Political Survey Division is a branch ofthe System Census Bureau of the UN Government, and that its job is toevaluate the political activities of  [12]  various sub-governments all overthe System.     And every one of those poor tykes would be dead wrong.     The Political Survey Division      does     evaluate political activity, allright, but it is the Secret Service of the UN Government. The vastmajority of  [13]  the System's citizens don't even know the Government hasa Secret Service. I happen to know only because I'm an agent of thePolitical Survey Division.     The PSD was vitally interested in the whole McGuire project. Robots ofMcGuire's complexity had been built before; the robot that runs thetraffic patterns of the American Eastern Seaboard is just as capableas McGuire when it comes to handling a tremendous number of variablesand making decisions on them. But that robot didn't have to be givenorders except in extreme emergencies. Keeping a few million cars movingand safe at the same time is actually pretty routine stuff for a robot.And a traffic robot isn't given orders verbally; it is given any ordersthat may be necessary via teletype by a trained programming technician.Those orders are usually in reference to a change of routing due torepair work on the highways or the like. The robot itself can take careof such emergencies as bad weather or even an accident caused by themalfunctioning of an individual automobile.     McGuire was different. In the first place, he was mobile. He was incommand of a spacecraft. In a sense, he      was     the spacecraft, since itserved him in a way that was analogous to the way a human body servesthe human mind. And he wasn't in charge of millions of objects with atop velocity of a hundred and fifty miles an hour; he was in chargeof a single object that moved at velocities of thousands of miles persecond. Nor  [14]  did he have a set, unmoving highway as his path; his pathswere variable and led through the emptiness of space.     Unforeseen emergencies can happen at any time in space, most of themhaving to do with the lives of passengers. A cargo ship would besomewhat less susceptible to such emergencies if there were no humansaboard; it doesn't matter much to a robot if he has no air in his hull.     But with passengers aboard, there may be times when it would benecessary to give orders—      fast     ! And that means verbal orders, ordersthat can be given anywhere in the ship and relayed immediately bymicrophone to the robot's brain. A man doesn't have time to run to ateletyper and type out orders when there's an emergency in space.     That meant that McGuire had to understand English, and, since there hasto be feedback in communication, he had to be able to speak it as well.     And that made McGuire more than somewhat difficult to deal with.  For more than a century, robotocists have been trying to build Asimov'sfamous Three Laws of Robotics into a robot brain.       First Law: A robot shall not, either through action or inaction, allowharm to come to a human being.         Second Law: A robot shall obey the orders of a human being, exceptwhen such orders conflict with the First Law     .     [15]       Third Law: A robot shall strive to protect its own existence, exceptwhen this conflicts with the First or Second Law.       Nobody has succeeded yet, because nobody has yet succeeded in definingthe term human being in such a way that the logical mind of a robotcan encompass the concept.     A traffic robot is useful only because the definition has been rigidlynarrowed down. As far as a traffic robot is concerned, human beingsare the automobiles on its highways. Woe betide any poor sap who tries,illegally, to cross a robot-controlled highway on foot. The robot'sonly concern would be with the safety of the automobiles, and if theonly way to avoid destruction of an automobile were to be by nudgingthe pedestrian aside with a fender, that's what would happen.     And, since its orders only come from one place, I suppose that atraffic robot thinks that the guy who uses that typer is an automobile.     With the first six models of the McGuire ships, the robotocistsattempted to build in the Three Laws exactly as stated. And the firstsix went insane.     If one human being says jump left, and another says jump right,the robot is unable to evaluate which human being has given the morevalid order. Feed enough confusing and conflicting data into a robotbrain, and it can begin behaving in ways that, in a human being, wouldbe called paranoia or schizophrenia or catatonia or what-have-you,depending  [16]  on the symptoms. And an insane robot is fully as dangerousas an insane human being controlling the same mechanical equipment, ifnot more so.     So the seventh model had been modified. The present McGuire's brain wasimpressed with slight modifications of the First and Second Laws.     If it is difficult to define a human being, it is much more difficultto define a      responsible     human being. One, in other words, who canbe relied upon to give wise and proper orders to a robot, who can berelied upon not to drive the robot insane.     The robotocists at Viking Spacecraft had decided to take anothertack. Very well, they'd said, if we can't define all the membersof a group, we can certainly define an individual. We'll pick oneresponsible person and build McGuire so that he will take orders onlyfrom that person.     As it turned out, I was that person. Just substitute Daniel Oakfor human being in the First and Second Laws, and you'll see howimportant I was to a certain spaceship named McGuire.  When I finally caught the beam from Ceres and set my flitterboat downon the huge landing field that had been carved from the nickel-ironof the asteroid with a focused sun beam, I was itchy with my ownperspiration and groggy tired. I don't like riding in flitterboats,sitting on a  [17]  bucket seat, astride the drive tube, like a witch on abroomstick, with nothing but a near-invisible transite hull between meand the stars, all cooped up in a vac suit. Unlike driving a car, youcan't pull a flitterboat over and take a nap; you have to wait untilyou hit the next beacon station.     Ceres, the biggest rock in the Belt, is a lot more than just a beaconstation. Like Eros and a few others, it's a city in its own right. Andexcept for the Government Reservation, Viking Spacecraft owned Ceres,lock, stock, and mining rights.     Part of the reason for Viking's troubles was envy of that ownership.There were other companies in the Belt that would like to get theirhands on that plum, and there were those who were doing everythingshort of cutting throats to get it. The PSD was afraid it might come tothat, too, before very long.     Ceres is fifty-eight million cubic miles of nickel-iron, but nobodywould cut her up for that. Nickel-iron is almost exactly as cheap asdirt on Earth, and, considering shipping costs, Earth soil costs agreat deal more than nickel-iron in the Belt.     But, as an operations base, Ceres is second to none. Its surfacegravity averages .0294 Standard Gee, as compared with Earth's .981,and that's enough to give a slight feeling of weight without undulyhampering the body with too much load. I weigh just under six poundson Ceres, and after I've been there a while, going back to Earth is astrain that takes a  [18]  week to get used to. Kids that are brought up inthe Belt are forced to exercise in a room with a one-gee spin on it atleast an hour a day. They don't like it at first, but it keeps themfrom growing up with the strength of mice. And an adult with any sensetakes a spin now and then, too. Traveling in a flitterboat will giveyou a one-gee pull, all right, but you don't get much exercise.     I parked my flitterboat in the space that had been assigned to me byLanding Control, and went over to the nearest air-lock dome.     After I'd cycled through and had shucked my vac suit, I went into theinner room to find Colonel Brock waiting for me.     Have a good trip, Oak? he asked, trying to put a smile on hisscarred, battered face.     I got here alive, if that makes it a good flitterboat trip, I said,shaking his extended hand.     That's the definition of a good trip, he told me.     Then the question was superfluous. Seriously, what I need is a bathand some sleep.     You'll get that, but first let's go somewhere where we can talk. Wanta drink?     I could use one, I guess. Your treat?     My treat, he said. Come on.     I followed him out and down a ladder to a corridor that led north. Bydefinition, any asteroid spins toward the east, and all directionsfollow from that, regardless of which way the axis may point.     [19]     Colonel Harrington Brock was dressed in the black-and-gold unionsuit that was the uniform of Ravenhurst's Security Guard. My own wasa tasteful green, but some of the other people in the public corridorseemed to go for more flashiness; besides silver and gold, there wereshocking pinks and violent mauves, with stripes and blazes of othercolors.     A crowd wearing skin-tight cover-alls might shock the gentle people ofMidwich-on-the-Moor, England, but they are normal dress in the Belt.You can't climb into a vac suit with bulky clothing on, and, if youdid, you'd hate yourself within an hour, with a curse for every wrinklethat chafed your skin. And, in the Belt, you never know when you mighthave to get into a vac suit fast. In a safe area like the tunnelsinside Ceres, there isn't much chance of losing air, but there areplaces where no one but a fool would ever be more than ten seconds awayfrom his vac suit.     I read an article by a psychologist a few months back, in which heclaimed that the taste for loud colors in union suits was actuallydue to modesty. He claimed that the bright patterns drew attention tothe colors themselves, and away from the base the colors were laidover. The observer, he said, tends to see the color and pattern of thesuit, rather than the body it clings to so closely. Maybe he's right;I wouldn't know, not being a psychologist. I      have     spent summers innudist resorts, though, and I never noticed anyone painting themselveswith lavender  [20]  and chartreuse checks. On the other hand, the people whogo to nudist resorts are a self-screened group. So are the people whogo to the Belt, for that matter, but the type of screening is different.     I'll just leave that problem in the hands of the psychologists, and goon wearing my immodestly quiet solid-color union suits.  Brock pushed open the inch-thick metal door beneath a sign that saidO'Banion's Bar, and I followed him in. We sat down at a table andordered drinks when the waiter bustled over. A cop in uniform isn'tsupposed to drink, but Brock figures that the head of the SecurityGuard ought to be able to get away with a breach of his own rules.     We had our drinks in front of us and our cigarettes lit before Brockopened up with his troubles.     Oak, he said, I wanted to intercept you before you went to the plantbecause I want you to know that there may be trouble.     Yeah? What kind? Sometimes it's a pain to play ignorant.     Thurston's outfit is trying to oust Ravenhurst from the managership ofViking and take over the job. Baedecker Metals & Mining Corporation,which is managed by Baedecker himself, wants to force Viking out ofbusiness so that BM&M can take over Ceres for large-scale processing ofprecious metals.     Between the two of 'em, they're raising all sorts of minor hellaround  [21]  here, and it's liable to become major hell at any time. And wecan't stand any hell—or sabotage—around this planetoid just now!     Now wait a minute, I said, still playing ignorant, I thought we'dpretty well established that the 'sabotage' of the McGuire series wasJack Ravenhurst's fault. She was the one who was driving them nuts, notThurston's agents.     Perfectly true, he said agreeably. We managed to block any attemptsof sabotage by other company agents, even though it looked as though wehadn't for a while. He chuckled wryly. We went all out to keep theMcGuires safe, and all the time the boss' daughter was giving them theworks. Then he looked sharply at me. I covered that, of course. Noone in the Security Guard but me knows that Jack was responsible.     Good. But what about the Thurston and Baedecker agents, then?     He took a hefty slug of his drink. They're around, all right. We haveour eyes on the ones we know, but those outfits are as sharp as weare, and they may have a few agents here on Ceres that we know nothingabout.     So? What does this have to do with me?     He put his drink on the table. Oak, I want you to help me. Hisonyx-brown eyes, only a shade darker than his skin, looked directlyinto my own. I know it isn't part of your assignment, and you know Ican't afford to pay you anything near what you're worth. It will haveto come out of my  [22]  pocket because I couldn't possibly justify it fromoperating funds. Ravenhurst specifically told me that he doesn't wantyou messing around with the espionage and sabotage problem because hedoesn't like your methods of operation.     And you're going to go against his orders?     I am. Ravenhurst is sore at you personally because you showed himthat Jack was responsible for the McGuire sabotage. It's an irrationaldislike, and I am not going to let it interfere with my job. I'm goingto protect Ravenhurst's interests to the best of my ability, and thatmeans that I'll use the best of other people's abilities if I can.     I grinned at him. The last I heard, you were sore at me for blattingit all over Ceres that Jaqueline Ravenhurst was missing, when shesneaked aboard McGuire.     He nodded perfunctorily. I was. I still think you should have told mewhat you were up to. But you did it, and you got results that I'd beenunable to get. I'm not going to let a momentary pique hang on as anirrational dislike. I like to think I have more sense than that.     Thanks. There wasn't much else I could say.     Now, I've got a little dough put away; it's not much, but I couldoffer you—     I shook my head, cutting him off. Nope. Sorry, Brock. For two reasons.In the first place, there would be a conflict of interest. I'm workingfor Ravenhurst, and if he doesn't want  [23]  me to work for you, then itwould be unethical for me to take the job.     In the second place, my fees are standardized. Oh, I can allow acertain amount of fluctuation, but I'm not a physician or a lawyer; myservices are  [24]  not necessary to the survival of the individual, exceptin very rare cases, and those cases are generally arranged through alawyer when it's a charity case.     No, colonel, I'm afraid I couldn't  [25]  possibly work for you.     He thought that over for a long time. Finally, he nodded his head veryslowly. I see. Yeah, I get your point. He scowled down at his drink.           But     , I said, it would be a pleasure  [26]  to work      with     you.     He looked up quickly. How's that?     Well, let's look at it this way: You can't hire me because I'm alreadyworking for Ravenhurst; I can't hire  [27]  you because      you're     working forRavenhurst. But since we may need each other, and since we're bothworking for Ravenhurst, there would be no conflict of interest if weco-operate.     Or, to put it another way, I can't take money for any service I mayrender you, but you can pay off in services. Am I coming through?     His broad smile made the scars on his face fold in and deepen. Loudand clear. It's a deal.     I held up a hand, palm toward him. Ah, ah, ah! There's no 'deal'involved. We're just old buddies helping each other. This is forfriendship, not business. I scratch your back; you scratch mine. Fair?     Fair. Come on down to my office; I want to give you a headful of factsand figures.     Will do. Let me finish my guzzle.  ","Daniel Oak states that he has an office in New York and describes himself as a Confidential Expediter. He has worked with Ravenhurst before and the story begins with an understanding that Daniel recently completed a job for Ravenhurst. He later mentions that he is a double agent. Daniel works for the Political Survey Division branch of the System Census Bureau for the UN government. Unbeknownst to most of the System’s citizens, the Political Survey Division is the Secret Service arm of the UN government. A flitterboat is a more economical option than a full spaceship. It is described as having a single gravitoinertial engine. It is meant to have the most basic necessities that are needed for a person to survive their journey, which includes oxygen, water, and the requirement of food necessary. The flitterboat is not necessarily more affordable, but it does provide the purpose of transporting from one Belt to another Belt. Daniel Oak details how a vacuum suit is needed to be worn in a flitterboat."
"What is the relationship between Ravenhurst and Daniel Oak? </s>    Transcriber's Note:   This etext was produced from Analog March 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.    ILLUSTRATED     BY     KRENKEL        HIS MASTER'S VOICE     ANALOG SCIENCE FACT · SCIENCE FICTION       Spaceship McGuire had lots of knowledge—but no wisdom. He wassmart—but incredibly foolish. And, as a natural consequence, tended toask questions too profound for any philosopher—questions like Who areyou?     By RANDALL GARRETT      I'd been in Ravenhurst's office on the mountain-sized planetoid calledRaven's Rest only twice before. The third time was no better; ShalimarRavenhurst was one of the smartest operators in the Belt, but when itcame to personal relationships, he was utterly incompetent. He couldmake anyone dislike him without trying.     When I entered the office, he was  [3]  sitting behind his mahogany desk,his eyes focused on the operation he was going through with a wineglassand a decanter. He didn't look up at me as he said:     Sit down, Mr. Oak. Will you have some Madeira?     I decided I might as well observe the pleasantries. There was no pointin my getting nasty until he did. Thank you, Mr. Ravenhurst, I will.     He kept his eyes focused on his work: It isn't easy to pour wine on aplanetoid where the gee-pull is measured in fractions of a centimeterper second squared. It moves slowly, like ropy molasses, but you haveto be careful not to be fooled by that. The viscosity is just as lowas ever, and if you pour it from any great height, it will go scootingright out of the glass  [4]  again. The momentum it builds up is enough tomake it splash right out again in a slow-motion gush which gets it allover the place.     Besides which, even if it didn't splash, it would take it so long tofall a few inches that you'd die of thirst waiting for it.     Ravenhurst had evolved a technique from long years of practice.He tilted the glass and the bottle toward each other, their edgestouching, like you do when you're trying to pour beer without putting ahead on it. As soon as the wine wet the glass, the adhesive forces atwork would pull more wine into the wine glass. To get capillary actionon a low-gee asteroid, you don't need a capillary, by any means. Thenegative meniscus on the wine was something to see; the first timeyou see it, you get the eerie feeling that the glass is spinning andthrowing the wine up against the walls by centrifugal force.     I took the glass he offered me (Careful! Don't slosh!) and sipped atit. Using squirt tubes would have been a hell of a lot easier andneater, but Ravenhurst liked to do things his way.     He put the stopper back in the decanter, picked up his own glass andsipped appreciatively. Not until he put it back down on the desk againdid he raise his eyes and look at me for the first time since I'd comein.     Mr. Oak, you have caused me considerable trouble.     I thought we'd hashed all that out, Mr. Ravenhurst, I said, keepingmy voice level.     [5]     So had I. But it appears that there were more ramifications to youraction than we had at first supposed. His voice had the texture ofheavy linseed oil.     He waited, as if he expected me to make some reply to that. WhenI didn't, he sighed slightly and went on. I fear that you haveinadvertently sabotaged McGuire. You were commissioned to preventsabotage, Mr. Oak, and I'm afraid that you abrogated your contract.     I just continued to keep my voice calm. If you are trying to get backthe fee you gave me, we can always take it to court. I don't thinkyou'd win.     Mr. Oak, he said heavily, I am not a fool, regardless of what yourown impression may be. If I were trying to get back that fee, I wouldhardly offer to pay you another one.     I didn't think he was a fool. You don't get into the managerialbusiness and climb to the top and stay there unless you have brains.Ravenhurst was smart, all right; it was just that, when it came topersonal relationships, he wasn't very wise.     Then stop all this yak about an abrogated contract and get to thepoint, I told him.     I shall. I was merely trying to point out to you that it is throughyour own actions that I find myself in a very trying position, and thatyour sense of honor and ethics should induce you to rectify the damage.     My honor and ethics are in fine shape, I said, but my interpretationof the concepts might not be quite  [6]  the same as yours. Get to thepoint.     He took another sip of Madeira. The robotocists at Viking tellme that, in order to prevent any further ... ah ... sabotage byunauthorized persons, the MGYR-7 was constructed so that, afteractivation, the first man who addressed orders to it would thenceforthbe considered its ... ah ... master.     As I understand it, the problem of defining the term 'human being'unambiguously to a robot is still unsolved. The robotocists felt thatit would be much easier to define a single individual. That wouldprevent the issuing of conflicting orders to a robot, provided thesingle individual were careful in giving orders himself.     Now, it appears that      you     , Mr. Oak, were the first man to speak toMcGuire after he had been activated. Is that correct?     Is that question purely rhetorical, I asked him, putting on my bestexpression of innocent interest. Or are you losing your memory? I hadexplained all that to him two weeks before, when I'd brought McGuireand the girl here, so that Ravenhurst would have a chance to cover upwhat had really happened.  My sarcasm didn't faze him in the least. Rhetorical. It follows thatyou are the only man whose orders McGuire will obey.     Your robotocists can change that, I said. This time, I was giving himmy version of genuine innocence.  [7]  A man has to be a good actor to bea competent double agent, and I didn't want Ravenhurst to know that Iknew a great deal more about the problem than he did.     He shook his head, making his jowls wobble. No, they cannot. Theyrealize now that there should be some way of making that change, butthey failed to see that it would be necessary. Only by completelydraining McGuire's memory banks and refilling them with new data canthis bias be eliminated.     Then why don't they do that?     There are two very good reasons, he said. And there was a shade ofanger in his tone. In the first place, that sort of operation takestime, and it costs money. If we do that, we might as well go ahead andmake the slight changes in structure necessary to incorporate some ofthe improvements that the robotocists now feel are necessary. In otherwords, they might as well go ahead and build the MGYR-8, which isprecisely the thing I hired you to prevent.     It seems you have a point there, Mr. Ravenhurst. He'd hired mebecause things were shaky at Viking. If he lost too much more money onthe McGuire experiment, he stood a good chance of losing his positionas manager. If that happened some of his other managerial contractsmight be canceled, too. Things like that can begin to snowball, andRavenhurst might find himself out of the managerial business entirely.     But, I went on, hasn't the additional wasted time already cost you  [8]  money?     It has. I was reluctant to call you in again—understandably enough, Ithink.     Perfectly. It's mutual.     He ignored me. I even considered going through with the rebuildingwork, now that we have traced down the source of failure of the firstsix models. Unfortunately, that isn't feasible, either. He scowled atme.     It seems, he went on, that McGuire refuses to allow his brain tobe tampered with. The self-preservation 'instinct' has come to thefore. He has refused to let the technicians and robotocists enter hishull, and he has threatened to take off and leave Ceres if any furtherattempts are made to ... ah ... disrupt his thinking processes.     I can't say that I blame him, I said. What do you want me to do? Goto Ceres and tell him to submit like a good boy?     It is too late for that, Mr. Oak. Viking cannot stand any more ofthat kind of drain on its financial resources. I have been banking onthe McGuire-type ships to put Viking Spacecraft ahead of every otherspacecraft company in the System. He looked suddenly very grim andvery determined. Mr. Oak, I am      certain     that the robot ship is theanswer to the transportation problems in the Solar System. For the sakeof every human being in the Solar System, we must get the bugs out ofMcGuire!       What's good for General Bull-moose is good for everybody     , I quotedto myself. I'd have said it out loud,  [9]  but I was fairly certain thatShalimar Ravenhurst was not a student of the classics.     Mr. Oak, I would like you to go to Ceres and co-operate with therobotocists at Viking. When the MGYR-8 is finally built, I want it tobe the prototype for a fast, safe, functional robot spaceship that canbe turned out commercially. You can be of great service, Mr. Oak.     In other words, I've got you over a barrel.     I don't deny it.     You know what my fees are, Mr. Ravenhurst. That's what you'll becharged. I'll expect to be paid weekly; if Viking goes broke, I don'twant to lose more than a week's pay. On the other hand, if the MGYR-8is successful, I will expect a substantial bonus.     How much?     Exactly half of the cost of rebuilding. Half what it would take tobuild a Model 8 right now, and taking a chance on there being no bugsin it.     He considered that, looking grimmer than ever. Then he said: I willdo it on the condition that the bonus be paid off in installments, oneeach six months for three years after the first successful commercialship is built by Viking.     My lawyer will nail you down on that wording, I said, but it's adeal. Is there anything else?     No.     Then I think I'll leave for Ceres before you break a blood vessel.     You continue to amaze me, Mr. Oak, he said. And the soft oiliness  [10]  ofhis voice was the oil of vitriol. Your compassion for your fellowmanis a facet of your personality that I had not seen before. I shallwelcome the opportunity to relax and allow my blood pressure tosubside.     I could almost see Shalimar Ravenhurst suddenly exploding and addinghis own touch of color to the room.     And, on that gladsome thought, I left. I let him have his small verbaltriumph; if he'd known that I'd have taken on the job for almostnothing, he'd really have blown up.  Ten minutes later, I was in my vacuum suit, walking across the glaring,rough-polished rectangle of metal that was the landing field ofRaven's Rest. The sun was near the zenith in the black, diamond-dustedsky, and the shadow of my flitterboat stood out like an inkblot ona bridal gown. I climbed in, started the engine, and released themagnetic anchor that held the little boat to the surface of thenickel-iron planetoid. I lifted her gently, worked her around until Iwas stationary in relation to the spinning planetoid, oriented myselfagainst the stellar background, and headed toward the first blinkerbeacon on my way to Ceres.     For obvious economical reasons, it it impracticable to use full-sizedspaceships in the Belt. A flitterboat, with a single gravitoinertialengine and the few necessities of life—air, some water, and a verylittle food—still costs more than a Rolls-Royce  [11]  automobile does onEarth, but there has to be some sort of individual transportation inthe Belt.     They can't be used for any great distances because a man can't stayin a vac suit very long without getting uncomfortable. You have tohop from beacon to beacon, which means that your      average     velocitydoesn't amount to much, since you spend too much time acceleratingand decelerating. But a flitterboat is enough to get around theneighborhood in, and that's all that's needed.     I got the GM-187 blinker in my sights, eased the acceleration up to onegee, relaxed to watch the radar screen while I thought over my comingordeal with McGuire.     Testing spaceships, robotic or any other kind, is strictly not mybusiness. The sign on the door of my office in New York says:      DANIELOAK, Confidential Expediter     ; I'm hired to help other people Get ThingsDone. Usually, if someone came to me with the problem of getting aspaceship test-piloted, I'd simply dig up the best test pilot in thebusiness, hire him for my client, and forget about everything butcollecting my fee. But I couldn't have refused this case if I'd wantedto. I'd already been assigned to it by someone a lot more importantthan Shalimar Ravenhurst.     Every schoolchild who has taken a course in Government Organization andFunction can tell you that the Political Survey Division is a branch ofthe System Census Bureau of the UN Government, and that its job is toevaluate the political activities of  [12]  various sub-governments all overthe System.     And every one of those poor tykes would be dead wrong.     The Political Survey Division      does     evaluate political activity, allright, but it is the Secret Service of the UN Government. The vastmajority of  [13]  the System's citizens don't even know the Government hasa Secret Service. I happen to know only because I'm an agent of thePolitical Survey Division.     The PSD was vitally interested in the whole McGuire project. Robots ofMcGuire's complexity had been built before; the robot that runs thetraffic patterns of the American Eastern Seaboard is just as capableas McGuire when it comes to handling a tremendous number of variablesand making decisions on them. But that robot didn't have to be givenorders except in extreme emergencies. Keeping a few million cars movingand safe at the same time is actually pretty routine stuff for a robot.And a traffic robot isn't given orders verbally; it is given any ordersthat may be necessary via teletype by a trained programming technician.Those orders are usually in reference to a change of routing due torepair work on the highways or the like. The robot itself can take careof such emergencies as bad weather or even an accident caused by themalfunctioning of an individual automobile.     McGuire was different. In the first place, he was mobile. He was incommand of a spacecraft. In a sense, he      was     the spacecraft, since itserved him in a way that was analogous to the way a human body servesthe human mind. And he wasn't in charge of millions of objects with atop velocity of a hundred and fifty miles an hour; he was in chargeof a single object that moved at velocities of thousands of miles persecond. Nor  [14]  did he have a set, unmoving highway as his path; his pathswere variable and led through the emptiness of space.     Unforeseen emergencies can happen at any time in space, most of themhaving to do with the lives of passengers. A cargo ship would besomewhat less susceptible to such emergencies if there were no humansaboard; it doesn't matter much to a robot if he has no air in his hull.     But with passengers aboard, there may be times when it would benecessary to give orders—      fast     ! And that means verbal orders, ordersthat can be given anywhere in the ship and relayed immediately bymicrophone to the robot's brain. A man doesn't have time to run to ateletyper and type out orders when there's an emergency in space.     That meant that McGuire had to understand English, and, since there hasto be feedback in communication, he had to be able to speak it as well.     And that made McGuire more than somewhat difficult to deal with.  For more than a century, robotocists have been trying to build Asimov'sfamous Three Laws of Robotics into a robot brain.       First Law: A robot shall not, either through action or inaction, allowharm to come to a human being.         Second Law: A robot shall obey the orders of a human being, exceptwhen such orders conflict with the First Law     .     [15]       Third Law: A robot shall strive to protect its own existence, exceptwhen this conflicts with the First or Second Law.       Nobody has succeeded yet, because nobody has yet succeeded in definingthe term human being in such a way that the logical mind of a robotcan encompass the concept.     A traffic robot is useful only because the definition has been rigidlynarrowed down. As far as a traffic robot is concerned, human beingsare the automobiles on its highways. Woe betide any poor sap who tries,illegally, to cross a robot-controlled highway on foot. The robot'sonly concern would be with the safety of the automobiles, and if theonly way to avoid destruction of an automobile were to be by nudgingthe pedestrian aside with a fender, that's what would happen.     And, since its orders only come from one place, I suppose that atraffic robot thinks that the guy who uses that typer is an automobile.     With the first six models of the McGuire ships, the robotocistsattempted to build in the Three Laws exactly as stated. And the firstsix went insane.     If one human being says jump left, and another says jump right,the robot is unable to evaluate which human being has given the morevalid order. Feed enough confusing and conflicting data into a robotbrain, and it can begin behaving in ways that, in a human being, wouldbe called paranoia or schizophrenia or catatonia or what-have-you,depending  [16]  on the symptoms. And an insane robot is fully as dangerousas an insane human being controlling the same mechanical equipment, ifnot more so.     So the seventh model had been modified. The present McGuire's brain wasimpressed with slight modifications of the First and Second Laws.     If it is difficult to define a human being, it is much more difficultto define a      responsible     human being. One, in other words, who canbe relied upon to give wise and proper orders to a robot, who can berelied upon not to drive the robot insane.     The robotocists at Viking Spacecraft had decided to take anothertack. Very well, they'd said, if we can't define all the membersof a group, we can certainly define an individual. We'll pick oneresponsible person and build McGuire so that he will take orders onlyfrom that person.     As it turned out, I was that person. Just substitute Daniel Oakfor human being in the First and Second Laws, and you'll see howimportant I was to a certain spaceship named McGuire.  When I finally caught the beam from Ceres and set my flitterboat downon the huge landing field that had been carved from the nickel-ironof the asteroid with a focused sun beam, I was itchy with my ownperspiration and groggy tired. I don't like riding in flitterboats,sitting on a  [17]  bucket seat, astride the drive tube, like a witch on abroomstick, with nothing but a near-invisible transite hull between meand the stars, all cooped up in a vac suit. Unlike driving a car, youcan't pull a flitterboat over and take a nap; you have to wait untilyou hit the next beacon station.     Ceres, the biggest rock in the Belt, is a lot more than just a beaconstation. Like Eros and a few others, it's a city in its own right. Andexcept for the Government Reservation, Viking Spacecraft owned Ceres,lock, stock, and mining rights.     Part of the reason for Viking's troubles was envy of that ownership.There were other companies in the Belt that would like to get theirhands on that plum, and there were those who were doing everythingshort of cutting throats to get it. The PSD was afraid it might come tothat, too, before very long.     Ceres is fifty-eight million cubic miles of nickel-iron, but nobodywould cut her up for that. Nickel-iron is almost exactly as cheap asdirt on Earth, and, considering shipping costs, Earth soil costs agreat deal more than nickel-iron in the Belt.     But, as an operations base, Ceres is second to none. Its surfacegravity averages .0294 Standard Gee, as compared with Earth's .981,and that's enough to give a slight feeling of weight without undulyhampering the body with too much load. I weigh just under six poundson Ceres, and after I've been there a while, going back to Earth is astrain that takes a  [18]  week to get used to. Kids that are brought up inthe Belt are forced to exercise in a room with a one-gee spin on it atleast an hour a day. They don't like it at first, but it keeps themfrom growing up with the strength of mice. And an adult with any sensetakes a spin now and then, too. Traveling in a flitterboat will giveyou a one-gee pull, all right, but you don't get much exercise.     I parked my flitterboat in the space that had been assigned to me byLanding Control, and went over to the nearest air-lock dome.     After I'd cycled through and had shucked my vac suit, I went into theinner room to find Colonel Brock waiting for me.     Have a good trip, Oak? he asked, trying to put a smile on hisscarred, battered face.     I got here alive, if that makes it a good flitterboat trip, I said,shaking his extended hand.     That's the definition of a good trip, he told me.     Then the question was superfluous. Seriously, what I need is a bathand some sleep.     You'll get that, but first let's go somewhere where we can talk. Wanta drink?     I could use one, I guess. Your treat?     My treat, he said. Come on.     I followed him out and down a ladder to a corridor that led north. Bydefinition, any asteroid spins toward the east, and all directionsfollow from that, regardless of which way the axis may point.     [19]     Colonel Harrington Brock was dressed in the black-and-gold unionsuit that was the uniform of Ravenhurst's Security Guard. My own wasa tasteful green, but some of the other people in the public corridorseemed to go for more flashiness; besides silver and gold, there wereshocking pinks and violent mauves, with stripes and blazes of othercolors.     A crowd wearing skin-tight cover-alls might shock the gentle people ofMidwich-on-the-Moor, England, but they are normal dress in the Belt.You can't climb into a vac suit with bulky clothing on, and, if youdid, you'd hate yourself within an hour, with a curse for every wrinklethat chafed your skin. And, in the Belt, you never know when you mighthave to get into a vac suit fast. In a safe area like the tunnelsinside Ceres, there isn't much chance of losing air, but there areplaces where no one but a fool would ever be more than ten seconds awayfrom his vac suit.     I read an article by a psychologist a few months back, in which heclaimed that the taste for loud colors in union suits was actuallydue to modesty. He claimed that the bright patterns drew attention tothe colors themselves, and away from the base the colors were laidover. The observer, he said, tends to see the color and pattern of thesuit, rather than the body it clings to so closely. Maybe he's right;I wouldn't know, not being a psychologist. I      have     spent summers innudist resorts, though, and I never noticed anyone painting themselveswith lavender  [20]  and chartreuse checks. On the other hand, the people whogo to nudist resorts are a self-screened group. So are the people whogo to the Belt, for that matter, but the type of screening is different.     I'll just leave that problem in the hands of the psychologists, and goon wearing my immodestly quiet solid-color union suits.  Brock pushed open the inch-thick metal door beneath a sign that saidO'Banion's Bar, and I followed him in. We sat down at a table andordered drinks when the waiter bustled over. A cop in uniform isn'tsupposed to drink, but Brock figures that the head of the SecurityGuard ought to be able to get away with a breach of his own rules.     We had our drinks in front of us and our cigarettes lit before Brockopened up with his troubles.     Oak, he said, I wanted to intercept you before you went to the plantbecause I want you to know that there may be trouble.     Yeah? What kind? Sometimes it's a pain to play ignorant.     Thurston's outfit is trying to oust Ravenhurst from the managership ofViking and take over the job. Baedecker Metals & Mining Corporation,which is managed by Baedecker himself, wants to force Viking out ofbusiness so that BM&M can take over Ceres for large-scale processing ofprecious metals.     Between the two of 'em, they're raising all sorts of minor hellaround  [21]  here, and it's liable to become major hell at any time. And wecan't stand any hell—or sabotage—around this planetoid just now!     Now wait a minute, I said, still playing ignorant, I thought we'dpretty well established that the 'sabotage' of the McGuire series wasJack Ravenhurst's fault. She was the one who was driving them nuts, notThurston's agents.     Perfectly true, he said agreeably. We managed to block any attemptsof sabotage by other company agents, even though it looked as though wehadn't for a while. He chuckled wryly. We went all out to keep theMcGuires safe, and all the time the boss' daughter was giving them theworks. Then he looked sharply at me. I covered that, of course. Noone in the Security Guard but me knows that Jack was responsible.     Good. But what about the Thurston and Baedecker agents, then?     He took a hefty slug of his drink. They're around, all right. We haveour eyes on the ones we know, but those outfits are as sharp as weare, and they may have a few agents here on Ceres that we know nothingabout.     So? What does this have to do with me?     He put his drink on the table. Oak, I want you to help me. Hisonyx-brown eyes, only a shade darker than his skin, looked directlyinto my own. I know it isn't part of your assignment, and you know Ican't afford to pay you anything near what you're worth. It will haveto come out of my  [22]  pocket because I couldn't possibly justify it fromoperating funds. Ravenhurst specifically told me that he doesn't wantyou messing around with the espionage and sabotage problem because hedoesn't like your methods of operation.     And you're going to go against his orders?     I am. Ravenhurst is sore at you personally because you showed himthat Jack was responsible for the McGuire sabotage. It's an irrationaldislike, and I am not going to let it interfere with my job. I'm goingto protect Ravenhurst's interests to the best of my ability, and thatmeans that I'll use the best of other people's abilities if I can.     I grinned at him. The last I heard, you were sore at me for blattingit all over Ceres that Jaqueline Ravenhurst was missing, when shesneaked aboard McGuire.     He nodded perfunctorily. I was. I still think you should have told mewhat you were up to. But you did it, and you got results that I'd beenunable to get. I'm not going to let a momentary pique hang on as anirrational dislike. I like to think I have more sense than that.     Thanks. There wasn't much else I could say.     Now, I've got a little dough put away; it's not much, but I couldoffer you—     I shook my head, cutting him off. Nope. Sorry, Brock. For two reasons.In the first place, there would be a conflict of interest. I'm workingfor Ravenhurst, and if he doesn't want  [23]  me to work for you, then itwould be unethical for me to take the job.     In the second place, my fees are standardized. Oh, I can allow acertain amount of fluctuation, but I'm not a physician or a lawyer; myservices are  [24]  not necessary to the survival of the individual, exceptin very rare cases, and those cases are generally arranged through alawyer when it's a charity case.     No, colonel, I'm afraid I couldn't  [25]  possibly work for you.     He thought that over for a long time. Finally, he nodded his head veryslowly. I see. Yeah, I get your point. He scowled down at his drink.           But     , I said, it would be a pleasure  [26]  to work      with     you.     He looked up quickly. How's that?     Well, let's look at it this way: You can't hire me because I'm alreadyworking for Ravenhurst; I can't hire  [27]  you because      you're     working forRavenhurst. But since we may need each other, and since we're bothworking for Ravenhurst, there would be no conflict of interest if weco-operate.     Or, to put it another way, I can't take money for any service I mayrender you, but you can pay off in services. Am I coming through?     His broad smile made the scars on his face fold in and deepen. Loudand clear. It's a deal.     I held up a hand, palm toward him. Ah, ah, ah! There's no 'deal'involved. We're just old buddies helping each other. This is forfriendship, not business. I scratch your back; you scratch mine. Fair?     Fair. Come on down to my office; I want to give you a headful of factsand figures.     Will do. Let me finish my guzzle.  ","Ravenhurst and Oak do not have a friendly relationship with each other. Occasionally, Ravenhurst occasionally hires Daniel to complete certain jobs for him. Ravenhurst is a high executive at a company that makes robots. He has recently hired Daniel to fix a problem with a robot and has to rehire him to fix a problem that Daniel caused on the previous job. Daniel is not loyal to Ravenhurst because he has acknowledged that he is a double agent working for the UN government and not just Ravenhurst. In addition, Daniel decides to team up with Colonel Harrington Brock to tackle the problem at hand. The Colonel says that he is doing it in Ravenhurst’s best interests. "
"Describe a flitterboat and when it is used. </s>    Transcriber's Note:   This etext was produced from Analog March 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.    ILLUSTRATED     BY     KRENKEL        HIS MASTER'S VOICE     ANALOG SCIENCE FACT · SCIENCE FICTION       Spaceship McGuire had lots of knowledge—but no wisdom. He wassmart—but incredibly foolish. And, as a natural consequence, tended toask questions too profound for any philosopher—questions like Who areyou?     By RANDALL GARRETT      I'd been in Ravenhurst's office on the mountain-sized planetoid calledRaven's Rest only twice before. The third time was no better; ShalimarRavenhurst was one of the smartest operators in the Belt, but when itcame to personal relationships, he was utterly incompetent. He couldmake anyone dislike him without trying.     When I entered the office, he was  [3]  sitting behind his mahogany desk,his eyes focused on the operation he was going through with a wineglassand a decanter. He didn't look up at me as he said:     Sit down, Mr. Oak. Will you have some Madeira?     I decided I might as well observe the pleasantries. There was no pointin my getting nasty until he did. Thank you, Mr. Ravenhurst, I will.     He kept his eyes focused on his work: It isn't easy to pour wine on aplanetoid where the gee-pull is measured in fractions of a centimeterper second squared. It moves slowly, like ropy molasses, but you haveto be careful not to be fooled by that. The viscosity is just as lowas ever, and if you pour it from any great height, it will go scootingright out of the glass  [4]  again. The momentum it builds up is enough tomake it splash right out again in a slow-motion gush which gets it allover the place.     Besides which, even if it didn't splash, it would take it so long tofall a few inches that you'd die of thirst waiting for it.     Ravenhurst had evolved a technique from long years of practice.He tilted the glass and the bottle toward each other, their edgestouching, like you do when you're trying to pour beer without putting ahead on it. As soon as the wine wet the glass, the adhesive forces atwork would pull more wine into the wine glass. To get capillary actionon a low-gee asteroid, you don't need a capillary, by any means. Thenegative meniscus on the wine was something to see; the first timeyou see it, you get the eerie feeling that the glass is spinning andthrowing the wine up against the walls by centrifugal force.     I took the glass he offered me (Careful! Don't slosh!) and sipped atit. Using squirt tubes would have been a hell of a lot easier andneater, but Ravenhurst liked to do things his way.     He put the stopper back in the decanter, picked up his own glass andsipped appreciatively. Not until he put it back down on the desk againdid he raise his eyes and look at me for the first time since I'd comein.     Mr. Oak, you have caused me considerable trouble.     I thought we'd hashed all that out, Mr. Ravenhurst, I said, keepingmy voice level.     [5]     So had I. But it appears that there were more ramifications to youraction than we had at first supposed. His voice had the texture ofheavy linseed oil.     He waited, as if he expected me to make some reply to that. WhenI didn't, he sighed slightly and went on. I fear that you haveinadvertently sabotaged McGuire. You were commissioned to preventsabotage, Mr. Oak, and I'm afraid that you abrogated your contract.     I just continued to keep my voice calm. If you are trying to get backthe fee you gave me, we can always take it to court. I don't thinkyou'd win.     Mr. Oak, he said heavily, I am not a fool, regardless of what yourown impression may be. If I were trying to get back that fee, I wouldhardly offer to pay you another one.     I didn't think he was a fool. You don't get into the managerialbusiness and climb to the top and stay there unless you have brains.Ravenhurst was smart, all right; it was just that, when it came topersonal relationships, he wasn't very wise.     Then stop all this yak about an abrogated contract and get to thepoint, I told him.     I shall. I was merely trying to point out to you that it is throughyour own actions that I find myself in a very trying position, and thatyour sense of honor and ethics should induce you to rectify the damage.     My honor and ethics are in fine shape, I said, but my interpretationof the concepts might not be quite  [6]  the same as yours. Get to thepoint.     He took another sip of Madeira. The robotocists at Viking tellme that, in order to prevent any further ... ah ... sabotage byunauthorized persons, the MGYR-7 was constructed so that, afteractivation, the first man who addressed orders to it would thenceforthbe considered its ... ah ... master.     As I understand it, the problem of defining the term 'human being'unambiguously to a robot is still unsolved. The robotocists felt thatit would be much easier to define a single individual. That wouldprevent the issuing of conflicting orders to a robot, provided thesingle individual were careful in giving orders himself.     Now, it appears that      you     , Mr. Oak, were the first man to speak toMcGuire after he had been activated. Is that correct?     Is that question purely rhetorical, I asked him, putting on my bestexpression of innocent interest. Or are you losing your memory? I hadexplained all that to him two weeks before, when I'd brought McGuireand the girl here, so that Ravenhurst would have a chance to cover upwhat had really happened.  My sarcasm didn't faze him in the least. Rhetorical. It follows thatyou are the only man whose orders McGuire will obey.     Your robotocists can change that, I said. This time, I was giving himmy version of genuine innocence.  [7]  A man has to be a good actor to bea competent double agent, and I didn't want Ravenhurst to know that Iknew a great deal more about the problem than he did.     He shook his head, making his jowls wobble. No, they cannot. Theyrealize now that there should be some way of making that change, butthey failed to see that it would be necessary. Only by completelydraining McGuire's memory banks and refilling them with new data canthis bias be eliminated.     Then why don't they do that?     There are two very good reasons, he said. And there was a shade ofanger in his tone. In the first place, that sort of operation takestime, and it costs money. If we do that, we might as well go ahead andmake the slight changes in structure necessary to incorporate some ofthe improvements that the robotocists now feel are necessary. In otherwords, they might as well go ahead and build the MGYR-8, which isprecisely the thing I hired you to prevent.     It seems you have a point there, Mr. Ravenhurst. He'd hired mebecause things were shaky at Viking. If he lost too much more money onthe McGuire experiment, he stood a good chance of losing his positionas manager. If that happened some of his other managerial contractsmight be canceled, too. Things like that can begin to snowball, andRavenhurst might find himself out of the managerial business entirely.     But, I went on, hasn't the additional wasted time already cost you  [8]  money?     It has. I was reluctant to call you in again—understandably enough, Ithink.     Perfectly. It's mutual.     He ignored me. I even considered going through with the rebuildingwork, now that we have traced down the source of failure of the firstsix models. Unfortunately, that isn't feasible, either. He scowled atme.     It seems, he went on, that McGuire refuses to allow his brain tobe tampered with. The self-preservation 'instinct' has come to thefore. He has refused to let the technicians and robotocists enter hishull, and he has threatened to take off and leave Ceres if any furtherattempts are made to ... ah ... disrupt his thinking processes.     I can't say that I blame him, I said. What do you want me to do? Goto Ceres and tell him to submit like a good boy?     It is too late for that, Mr. Oak. Viking cannot stand any more ofthat kind of drain on its financial resources. I have been banking onthe McGuire-type ships to put Viking Spacecraft ahead of every otherspacecraft company in the System. He looked suddenly very grim andvery determined. Mr. Oak, I am      certain     that the robot ship is theanswer to the transportation problems in the Solar System. For the sakeof every human being in the Solar System, we must get the bugs out ofMcGuire!       What's good for General Bull-moose is good for everybody     , I quotedto myself. I'd have said it out loud,  [9]  but I was fairly certain thatShalimar Ravenhurst was not a student of the classics.     Mr. Oak, I would like you to go to Ceres and co-operate with therobotocists at Viking. When the MGYR-8 is finally built, I want it tobe the prototype for a fast, safe, functional robot spaceship that canbe turned out commercially. You can be of great service, Mr. Oak.     In other words, I've got you over a barrel.     I don't deny it.     You know what my fees are, Mr. Ravenhurst. That's what you'll becharged. I'll expect to be paid weekly; if Viking goes broke, I don'twant to lose more than a week's pay. On the other hand, if the MGYR-8is successful, I will expect a substantial bonus.     How much?     Exactly half of the cost of rebuilding. Half what it would take tobuild a Model 8 right now, and taking a chance on there being no bugsin it.     He considered that, looking grimmer than ever. Then he said: I willdo it on the condition that the bonus be paid off in installments, oneeach six months for three years after the first successful commercialship is built by Viking.     My lawyer will nail you down on that wording, I said, but it's adeal. Is there anything else?     No.     Then I think I'll leave for Ceres before you break a blood vessel.     You continue to amaze me, Mr. Oak, he said. And the soft oiliness  [10]  ofhis voice was the oil of vitriol. Your compassion for your fellowmanis a facet of your personality that I had not seen before. I shallwelcome the opportunity to relax and allow my blood pressure tosubside.     I could almost see Shalimar Ravenhurst suddenly exploding and addinghis own touch of color to the room.     And, on that gladsome thought, I left. I let him have his small verbaltriumph; if he'd known that I'd have taken on the job for almostnothing, he'd really have blown up.  Ten minutes later, I was in my vacuum suit, walking across the glaring,rough-polished rectangle of metal that was the landing field ofRaven's Rest. The sun was near the zenith in the black, diamond-dustedsky, and the shadow of my flitterboat stood out like an inkblot ona bridal gown. I climbed in, started the engine, and released themagnetic anchor that held the little boat to the surface of thenickel-iron planetoid. I lifted her gently, worked her around until Iwas stationary in relation to the spinning planetoid, oriented myselfagainst the stellar background, and headed toward the first blinkerbeacon on my way to Ceres.     For obvious economical reasons, it it impracticable to use full-sizedspaceships in the Belt. A flitterboat, with a single gravitoinertialengine and the few necessities of life—air, some water, and a verylittle food—still costs more than a Rolls-Royce  [11]  automobile does onEarth, but there has to be some sort of individual transportation inthe Belt.     They can't be used for any great distances because a man can't stayin a vac suit very long without getting uncomfortable. You have tohop from beacon to beacon, which means that your      average     velocitydoesn't amount to much, since you spend too much time acceleratingand decelerating. But a flitterboat is enough to get around theneighborhood in, and that's all that's needed.     I got the GM-187 blinker in my sights, eased the acceleration up to onegee, relaxed to watch the radar screen while I thought over my comingordeal with McGuire.     Testing spaceships, robotic or any other kind, is strictly not mybusiness. The sign on the door of my office in New York says:      DANIELOAK, Confidential Expediter     ; I'm hired to help other people Get ThingsDone. Usually, if someone came to me with the problem of getting aspaceship test-piloted, I'd simply dig up the best test pilot in thebusiness, hire him for my client, and forget about everything butcollecting my fee. But I couldn't have refused this case if I'd wantedto. I'd already been assigned to it by someone a lot more importantthan Shalimar Ravenhurst.     Every schoolchild who has taken a course in Government Organization andFunction can tell you that the Political Survey Division is a branch ofthe System Census Bureau of the UN Government, and that its job is toevaluate the political activities of  [12]  various sub-governments all overthe System.     And every one of those poor tykes would be dead wrong.     The Political Survey Division      does     evaluate political activity, allright, but it is the Secret Service of the UN Government. The vastmajority of  [13]  the System's citizens don't even know the Government hasa Secret Service. I happen to know only because I'm an agent of thePolitical Survey Division.     The PSD was vitally interested in the whole McGuire project. Robots ofMcGuire's complexity had been built before; the robot that runs thetraffic patterns of the American Eastern Seaboard is just as capableas McGuire when it comes to handling a tremendous number of variablesand making decisions on them. But that robot didn't have to be givenorders except in extreme emergencies. Keeping a few million cars movingand safe at the same time is actually pretty routine stuff for a robot.And a traffic robot isn't given orders verbally; it is given any ordersthat may be necessary via teletype by a trained programming technician.Those orders are usually in reference to a change of routing due torepair work on the highways or the like. The robot itself can take careof such emergencies as bad weather or even an accident caused by themalfunctioning of an individual automobile.     McGuire was different. In the first place, he was mobile. He was incommand of a spacecraft. In a sense, he      was     the spacecraft, since itserved him in a way that was analogous to the way a human body servesthe human mind. And he wasn't in charge of millions of objects with atop velocity of a hundred and fifty miles an hour; he was in chargeof a single object that moved at velocities of thousands of miles persecond. Nor  [14]  did he have a set, unmoving highway as his path; his pathswere variable and led through the emptiness of space.     Unforeseen emergencies can happen at any time in space, most of themhaving to do with the lives of passengers. A cargo ship would besomewhat less susceptible to such emergencies if there were no humansaboard; it doesn't matter much to a robot if he has no air in his hull.     But with passengers aboard, there may be times when it would benecessary to give orders—      fast     ! And that means verbal orders, ordersthat can be given anywhere in the ship and relayed immediately bymicrophone to the robot's brain. A man doesn't have time to run to ateletyper and type out orders when there's an emergency in space.     That meant that McGuire had to understand English, and, since there hasto be feedback in communication, he had to be able to speak it as well.     And that made McGuire more than somewhat difficult to deal with.  For more than a century, robotocists have been trying to build Asimov'sfamous Three Laws of Robotics into a robot brain.       First Law: A robot shall not, either through action or inaction, allowharm to come to a human being.         Second Law: A robot shall obey the orders of a human being, exceptwhen such orders conflict with the First Law     .     [15]       Third Law: A robot shall strive to protect its own existence, exceptwhen this conflicts with the First or Second Law.       Nobody has succeeded yet, because nobody has yet succeeded in definingthe term human being in such a way that the logical mind of a robotcan encompass the concept.     A traffic robot is useful only because the definition has been rigidlynarrowed down. As far as a traffic robot is concerned, human beingsare the automobiles on its highways. Woe betide any poor sap who tries,illegally, to cross a robot-controlled highway on foot. The robot'sonly concern would be with the safety of the automobiles, and if theonly way to avoid destruction of an automobile were to be by nudgingthe pedestrian aside with a fender, that's what would happen.     And, since its orders only come from one place, I suppose that atraffic robot thinks that the guy who uses that typer is an automobile.     With the first six models of the McGuire ships, the robotocistsattempted to build in the Three Laws exactly as stated. And the firstsix went insane.     If one human being says jump left, and another says jump right,the robot is unable to evaluate which human being has given the morevalid order. Feed enough confusing and conflicting data into a robotbrain, and it can begin behaving in ways that, in a human being, wouldbe called paranoia or schizophrenia or catatonia or what-have-you,depending  [16]  on the symptoms. And an insane robot is fully as dangerousas an insane human being controlling the same mechanical equipment, ifnot more so.     So the seventh model had been modified. The present McGuire's brain wasimpressed with slight modifications of the First and Second Laws.     If it is difficult to define a human being, it is much more difficultto define a      responsible     human being. One, in other words, who canbe relied upon to give wise and proper orders to a robot, who can berelied upon not to drive the robot insane.     The robotocists at Viking Spacecraft had decided to take anothertack. Very well, they'd said, if we can't define all the membersof a group, we can certainly define an individual. We'll pick oneresponsible person and build McGuire so that he will take orders onlyfrom that person.     As it turned out, I was that person. Just substitute Daniel Oakfor human being in the First and Second Laws, and you'll see howimportant I was to a certain spaceship named McGuire.  When I finally caught the beam from Ceres and set my flitterboat downon the huge landing field that had been carved from the nickel-ironof the asteroid with a focused sun beam, I was itchy with my ownperspiration and groggy tired. I don't like riding in flitterboats,sitting on a  [17]  bucket seat, astride the drive tube, like a witch on abroomstick, with nothing but a near-invisible transite hull between meand the stars, all cooped up in a vac suit. Unlike driving a car, youcan't pull a flitterboat over and take a nap; you have to wait untilyou hit the next beacon station.     Ceres, the biggest rock in the Belt, is a lot more than just a beaconstation. Like Eros and a few others, it's a city in its own right. Andexcept for the Government Reservation, Viking Spacecraft owned Ceres,lock, stock, and mining rights.     Part of the reason for Viking's troubles was envy of that ownership.There were other companies in the Belt that would like to get theirhands on that plum, and there were those who were doing everythingshort of cutting throats to get it. The PSD was afraid it might come tothat, too, before very long.     Ceres is fifty-eight million cubic miles of nickel-iron, but nobodywould cut her up for that. Nickel-iron is almost exactly as cheap asdirt on Earth, and, considering shipping costs, Earth soil costs agreat deal more than nickel-iron in the Belt.     But, as an operations base, Ceres is second to none. Its surfacegravity averages .0294 Standard Gee, as compared with Earth's .981,and that's enough to give a slight feeling of weight without undulyhampering the body with too much load. I weigh just under six poundson Ceres, and after I've been there a while, going back to Earth is astrain that takes a  [18]  week to get used to. Kids that are brought up inthe Belt are forced to exercise in a room with a one-gee spin on it atleast an hour a day. They don't like it at first, but it keeps themfrom growing up with the strength of mice. And an adult with any sensetakes a spin now and then, too. Traveling in a flitterboat will giveyou a one-gee pull, all right, but you don't get much exercise.     I parked my flitterboat in the space that had been assigned to me byLanding Control, and went over to the nearest air-lock dome.     After I'd cycled through and had shucked my vac suit, I went into theinner room to find Colonel Brock waiting for me.     Have a good trip, Oak? he asked, trying to put a smile on hisscarred, battered face.     I got here alive, if that makes it a good flitterboat trip, I said,shaking his extended hand.     That's the definition of a good trip, he told me.     Then the question was superfluous. Seriously, what I need is a bathand some sleep.     You'll get that, but first let's go somewhere where we can talk. Wanta drink?     I could use one, I guess. Your treat?     My treat, he said. Come on.     I followed him out and down a ladder to a corridor that led north. Bydefinition, any asteroid spins toward the east, and all directionsfollow from that, regardless of which way the axis may point.     [19]     Colonel Harrington Brock was dressed in the black-and-gold unionsuit that was the uniform of Ravenhurst's Security Guard. My own wasa tasteful green, but some of the other people in the public corridorseemed to go for more flashiness; besides silver and gold, there wereshocking pinks and violent mauves, with stripes and blazes of othercolors.     A crowd wearing skin-tight cover-alls might shock the gentle people ofMidwich-on-the-Moor, England, but they are normal dress in the Belt.You can't climb into a vac suit with bulky clothing on, and, if youdid, you'd hate yourself within an hour, with a curse for every wrinklethat chafed your skin. And, in the Belt, you never know when you mighthave to get into a vac suit fast. In a safe area like the tunnelsinside Ceres, there isn't much chance of losing air, but there areplaces where no one but a fool would ever be more than ten seconds awayfrom his vac suit.     I read an article by a psychologist a few months back, in which heclaimed that the taste for loud colors in union suits was actuallydue to modesty. He claimed that the bright patterns drew attention tothe colors themselves, and away from the base the colors were laidover. The observer, he said, tends to see the color and pattern of thesuit, rather than the body it clings to so closely. Maybe he's right;I wouldn't know, not being a psychologist. I      have     spent summers innudist resorts, though, and I never noticed anyone painting themselveswith lavender  [20]  and chartreuse checks. On the other hand, the people whogo to nudist resorts are a self-screened group. So are the people whogo to the Belt, for that matter, but the type of screening is different.     I'll just leave that problem in the hands of the psychologists, and goon wearing my immodestly quiet solid-color union suits.  Brock pushed open the inch-thick metal door beneath a sign that saidO'Banion's Bar, and I followed him in. We sat down at a table andordered drinks when the waiter bustled over. A cop in uniform isn'tsupposed to drink, but Brock figures that the head of the SecurityGuard ought to be able to get away with a breach of his own rules.     We had our drinks in front of us and our cigarettes lit before Brockopened up with his troubles.     Oak, he said, I wanted to intercept you before you went to the plantbecause I want you to know that there may be trouble.     Yeah? What kind? Sometimes it's a pain to play ignorant.     Thurston's outfit is trying to oust Ravenhurst from the managership ofViking and take over the job. Baedecker Metals & Mining Corporation,which is managed by Baedecker himself, wants to force Viking out ofbusiness so that BM&M can take over Ceres for large-scale processing ofprecious metals.     Between the two of 'em, they're raising all sorts of minor hellaround  [21]  here, and it's liable to become major hell at any time. And wecan't stand any hell—or sabotage—around this planetoid just now!     Now wait a minute, I said, still playing ignorant, I thought we'dpretty well established that the 'sabotage' of the McGuire series wasJack Ravenhurst's fault. She was the one who was driving them nuts, notThurston's agents.     Perfectly true, he said agreeably. We managed to block any attemptsof sabotage by other company agents, even though it looked as though wehadn't for a while. He chuckled wryly. We went all out to keep theMcGuires safe, and all the time the boss' daughter was giving them theworks. Then he looked sharply at me. I covered that, of course. Noone in the Security Guard but me knows that Jack was responsible.     Good. But what about the Thurston and Baedecker agents, then?     He took a hefty slug of his drink. They're around, all right. We haveour eyes on the ones we know, but those outfits are as sharp as weare, and they may have a few agents here on Ceres that we know nothingabout.     So? What does this have to do with me?     He put his drink on the table. Oak, I want you to help me. Hisonyx-brown eyes, only a shade darker than his skin, looked directlyinto my own. I know it isn't part of your assignment, and you know Ican't afford to pay you anything near what you're worth. It will haveto come out of my  [22]  pocket because I couldn't possibly justify it fromoperating funds. Ravenhurst specifically told me that he doesn't wantyou messing around with the espionage and sabotage problem because hedoesn't like your methods of operation.     And you're going to go against his orders?     I am. Ravenhurst is sore at you personally because you showed himthat Jack was responsible for the McGuire sabotage. It's an irrationaldislike, and I am not going to let it interfere with my job. I'm goingto protect Ravenhurst's interests to the best of my ability, and thatmeans that I'll use the best of other people's abilities if I can.     I grinned at him. The last I heard, you were sore at me for blattingit all over Ceres that Jaqueline Ravenhurst was missing, when shesneaked aboard McGuire.     He nodded perfunctorily. I was. I still think you should have told mewhat you were up to. But you did it, and you got results that I'd beenunable to get. I'm not going to let a momentary pique hang on as anirrational dislike. I like to think I have more sense than that.     Thanks. There wasn't much else I could say.     Now, I've got a little dough put away; it's not much, but I couldoffer you—     I shook my head, cutting him off. Nope. Sorry, Brock. For two reasons.In the first place, there would be a conflict of interest. I'm workingfor Ravenhurst, and if he doesn't want  [23]  me to work for you, then itwould be unethical for me to take the job.     In the second place, my fees are standardized. Oh, I can allow acertain amount of fluctuation, but I'm not a physician or a lawyer; myservices are  [24]  not necessary to the survival of the individual, exceptin very rare cases, and those cases are generally arranged through alawyer when it's a charity case.     No, colonel, I'm afraid I couldn't  [25]  possibly work for you.     He thought that over for a long time. Finally, he nodded his head veryslowly. I see. Yeah, I get your point. He scowled down at his drink.           But     , I said, it would be a pleasure  [26]  to work      with     you.     He looked up quickly. How's that?     Well, let's look at it this way: You can't hire me because I'm alreadyworking for Ravenhurst; I can't hire  [27]  you because      you're     working forRavenhurst. But since we may need each other, and since we're bothworking for Ravenhurst, there would be no conflict of interest if weco-operate.     Or, to put it another way, I can't take money for any service I mayrender you, but you can pay off in services. Am I coming through?     His broad smile made the scars on his face fold in and deepen. Loudand clear. It's a deal.     I held up a hand, palm toward him. Ah, ah, ah! There's no 'deal'involved. We're just old buddies helping each other. This is forfriendship, not business. I scratch your back; you scratch mine. Fair?     Fair. Come on down to my office; I want to give you a headful of factsand figures.     Will do. Let me finish my guzzle.  ","A flitterboat is a more economical option than a full spaceship. It is described as having a single gravitoinertial engine. It is meant to have the most basic necessities that are needed for a person to survive their journey, which includes oxygen, water, and the requirement of food necessary. The flitterboat is not necessarily more affordable, but it does provide the purpose of transporting from one Belt to another Belt. Daniel Oak details how a vacuum suit is needed to be worn in a flitterboat. Daniel describes the flitterboat as a tool that does its job, but is not comfortable. "
"How is the current McGuire version different from the previous versions and why is that important? </s>    Transcriber's Note:   This etext was produced from Analog March 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.    ILLUSTRATED     BY     KRENKEL        HIS MASTER'S VOICE     ANALOG SCIENCE FACT · SCIENCE FICTION       Spaceship McGuire had lots of knowledge—but no wisdom. He wassmart—but incredibly foolish. And, as a natural consequence, tended toask questions too profound for any philosopher—questions like Who areyou?     By RANDALL GARRETT      I'd been in Ravenhurst's office on the mountain-sized planetoid calledRaven's Rest only twice before. The third time was no better; ShalimarRavenhurst was one of the smartest operators in the Belt, but when itcame to personal relationships, he was utterly incompetent. He couldmake anyone dislike him without trying.     When I entered the office, he was  [3]  sitting behind his mahogany desk,his eyes focused on the operation he was going through with a wineglassand a decanter. He didn't look up at me as he said:     Sit down, Mr. Oak. Will you have some Madeira?     I decided I might as well observe the pleasantries. There was no pointin my getting nasty until he did. Thank you, Mr. Ravenhurst, I will.     He kept his eyes focused on his work: It isn't easy to pour wine on aplanetoid where the gee-pull is measured in fractions of a centimeterper second squared. It moves slowly, like ropy molasses, but you haveto be careful not to be fooled by that. The viscosity is just as lowas ever, and if you pour it from any great height, it will go scootingright out of the glass  [4]  again. The momentum it builds up is enough tomake it splash right out again in a slow-motion gush which gets it allover the place.     Besides which, even if it didn't splash, it would take it so long tofall a few inches that you'd die of thirst waiting for it.     Ravenhurst had evolved a technique from long years of practice.He tilted the glass and the bottle toward each other, their edgestouching, like you do when you're trying to pour beer without putting ahead on it. As soon as the wine wet the glass, the adhesive forces atwork would pull more wine into the wine glass. To get capillary actionon a low-gee asteroid, you don't need a capillary, by any means. Thenegative meniscus on the wine was something to see; the first timeyou see it, you get the eerie feeling that the glass is spinning andthrowing the wine up against the walls by centrifugal force.     I took the glass he offered me (Careful! Don't slosh!) and sipped atit. Using squirt tubes would have been a hell of a lot easier andneater, but Ravenhurst liked to do things his way.     He put the stopper back in the decanter, picked up his own glass andsipped appreciatively. Not until he put it back down on the desk againdid he raise his eyes and look at me for the first time since I'd comein.     Mr. Oak, you have caused me considerable trouble.     I thought we'd hashed all that out, Mr. Ravenhurst, I said, keepingmy voice level.     [5]     So had I. But it appears that there were more ramifications to youraction than we had at first supposed. His voice had the texture ofheavy linseed oil.     He waited, as if he expected me to make some reply to that. WhenI didn't, he sighed slightly and went on. I fear that you haveinadvertently sabotaged McGuire. You were commissioned to preventsabotage, Mr. Oak, and I'm afraid that you abrogated your contract.     I just continued to keep my voice calm. If you are trying to get backthe fee you gave me, we can always take it to court. I don't thinkyou'd win.     Mr. Oak, he said heavily, I am not a fool, regardless of what yourown impression may be. If I were trying to get back that fee, I wouldhardly offer to pay you another one.     I didn't think he was a fool. You don't get into the managerialbusiness and climb to the top and stay there unless you have brains.Ravenhurst was smart, all right; it was just that, when it came topersonal relationships, he wasn't very wise.     Then stop all this yak about an abrogated contract and get to thepoint, I told him.     I shall. I was merely trying to point out to you that it is throughyour own actions that I find myself in a very trying position, and thatyour sense of honor and ethics should induce you to rectify the damage.     My honor and ethics are in fine shape, I said, but my interpretationof the concepts might not be quite  [6]  the same as yours. Get to thepoint.     He took another sip of Madeira. The robotocists at Viking tellme that, in order to prevent any further ... ah ... sabotage byunauthorized persons, the MGYR-7 was constructed so that, afteractivation, the first man who addressed orders to it would thenceforthbe considered its ... ah ... master.     As I understand it, the problem of defining the term 'human being'unambiguously to a robot is still unsolved. The robotocists felt thatit would be much easier to define a single individual. That wouldprevent the issuing of conflicting orders to a robot, provided thesingle individual were careful in giving orders himself.     Now, it appears that      you     , Mr. Oak, were the first man to speak toMcGuire after he had been activated. Is that correct?     Is that question purely rhetorical, I asked him, putting on my bestexpression of innocent interest. Or are you losing your memory? I hadexplained all that to him two weeks before, when I'd brought McGuireand the girl here, so that Ravenhurst would have a chance to cover upwhat had really happened.  My sarcasm didn't faze him in the least. Rhetorical. It follows thatyou are the only man whose orders McGuire will obey.     Your robotocists can change that, I said. This time, I was giving himmy version of genuine innocence.  [7]  A man has to be a good actor to bea competent double agent, and I didn't want Ravenhurst to know that Iknew a great deal more about the problem than he did.     He shook his head, making his jowls wobble. No, they cannot. Theyrealize now that there should be some way of making that change, butthey failed to see that it would be necessary. Only by completelydraining McGuire's memory banks and refilling them with new data canthis bias be eliminated.     Then why don't they do that?     There are two very good reasons, he said. And there was a shade ofanger in his tone. In the first place, that sort of operation takestime, and it costs money. If we do that, we might as well go ahead andmake the slight changes in structure necessary to incorporate some ofthe improvements that the robotocists now feel are necessary. In otherwords, they might as well go ahead and build the MGYR-8, which isprecisely the thing I hired you to prevent.     It seems you have a point there, Mr. Ravenhurst. He'd hired mebecause things were shaky at Viking. If he lost too much more money onthe McGuire experiment, he stood a good chance of losing his positionas manager. If that happened some of his other managerial contractsmight be canceled, too. Things like that can begin to snowball, andRavenhurst might find himself out of the managerial business entirely.     But, I went on, hasn't the additional wasted time already cost you  [8]  money?     It has. I was reluctant to call you in again—understandably enough, Ithink.     Perfectly. It's mutual.     He ignored me. I even considered going through with the rebuildingwork, now that we have traced down the source of failure of the firstsix models. Unfortunately, that isn't feasible, either. He scowled atme.     It seems, he went on, that McGuire refuses to allow his brain tobe tampered with. The self-preservation 'instinct' has come to thefore. He has refused to let the technicians and robotocists enter hishull, and he has threatened to take off and leave Ceres if any furtherattempts are made to ... ah ... disrupt his thinking processes.     I can't say that I blame him, I said. What do you want me to do? Goto Ceres and tell him to submit like a good boy?     It is too late for that, Mr. Oak. Viking cannot stand any more ofthat kind of drain on its financial resources. I have been banking onthe McGuire-type ships to put Viking Spacecraft ahead of every otherspacecraft company in the System. He looked suddenly very grim andvery determined. Mr. Oak, I am      certain     that the robot ship is theanswer to the transportation problems in the Solar System. For the sakeof every human being in the Solar System, we must get the bugs out ofMcGuire!       What's good for General Bull-moose is good for everybody     , I quotedto myself. I'd have said it out loud,  [9]  but I was fairly certain thatShalimar Ravenhurst was not a student of the classics.     Mr. Oak, I would like you to go to Ceres and co-operate with therobotocists at Viking. When the MGYR-8 is finally built, I want it tobe the prototype for a fast, safe, functional robot spaceship that canbe turned out commercially. You can be of great service, Mr. Oak.     In other words, I've got you over a barrel.     I don't deny it.     You know what my fees are, Mr. Ravenhurst. That's what you'll becharged. I'll expect to be paid weekly; if Viking goes broke, I don'twant to lose more than a week's pay. On the other hand, if the MGYR-8is successful, I will expect a substantial bonus.     How much?     Exactly half of the cost of rebuilding. Half what it would take tobuild a Model 8 right now, and taking a chance on there being no bugsin it.     He considered that, looking grimmer than ever. Then he said: I willdo it on the condition that the bonus be paid off in installments, oneeach six months for three years after the first successful commercialship is built by Viking.     My lawyer will nail you down on that wording, I said, but it's adeal. Is there anything else?     No.     Then I think I'll leave for Ceres before you break a blood vessel.     You continue to amaze me, Mr. Oak, he said. And the soft oiliness  [10]  ofhis voice was the oil of vitriol. Your compassion for your fellowmanis a facet of your personality that I had not seen before. I shallwelcome the opportunity to relax and allow my blood pressure tosubside.     I could almost see Shalimar Ravenhurst suddenly exploding and addinghis own touch of color to the room.     And, on that gladsome thought, I left. I let him have his small verbaltriumph; if he'd known that I'd have taken on the job for almostnothing, he'd really have blown up.  Ten minutes later, I was in my vacuum suit, walking across the glaring,rough-polished rectangle of metal that was the landing field ofRaven's Rest. The sun was near the zenith in the black, diamond-dustedsky, and the shadow of my flitterboat stood out like an inkblot ona bridal gown. I climbed in, started the engine, and released themagnetic anchor that held the little boat to the surface of thenickel-iron planetoid. I lifted her gently, worked her around until Iwas stationary in relation to the spinning planetoid, oriented myselfagainst the stellar background, and headed toward the first blinkerbeacon on my way to Ceres.     For obvious economical reasons, it it impracticable to use full-sizedspaceships in the Belt. A flitterboat, with a single gravitoinertialengine and the few necessities of life—air, some water, and a verylittle food—still costs more than a Rolls-Royce  [11]  automobile does onEarth, but there has to be some sort of individual transportation inthe Belt.     They can't be used for any great distances because a man can't stayin a vac suit very long without getting uncomfortable. You have tohop from beacon to beacon, which means that your      average     velocitydoesn't amount to much, since you spend too much time acceleratingand decelerating. But a flitterboat is enough to get around theneighborhood in, and that's all that's needed.     I got the GM-187 blinker in my sights, eased the acceleration up to onegee, relaxed to watch the radar screen while I thought over my comingordeal with McGuire.     Testing spaceships, robotic or any other kind, is strictly not mybusiness. The sign on the door of my office in New York says:      DANIELOAK, Confidential Expediter     ; I'm hired to help other people Get ThingsDone. Usually, if someone came to me with the problem of getting aspaceship test-piloted, I'd simply dig up the best test pilot in thebusiness, hire him for my client, and forget about everything butcollecting my fee. But I couldn't have refused this case if I'd wantedto. I'd already been assigned to it by someone a lot more importantthan Shalimar Ravenhurst.     Every schoolchild who has taken a course in Government Organization andFunction can tell you that the Political Survey Division is a branch ofthe System Census Bureau of the UN Government, and that its job is toevaluate the political activities of  [12]  various sub-governments all overthe System.     And every one of those poor tykes would be dead wrong.     The Political Survey Division      does     evaluate political activity, allright, but it is the Secret Service of the UN Government. The vastmajority of  [13]  the System's citizens don't even know the Government hasa Secret Service. I happen to know only because I'm an agent of thePolitical Survey Division.     The PSD was vitally interested in the whole McGuire project. Robots ofMcGuire's complexity had been built before; the robot that runs thetraffic patterns of the American Eastern Seaboard is just as capableas McGuire when it comes to handling a tremendous number of variablesand making decisions on them. But that robot didn't have to be givenorders except in extreme emergencies. Keeping a few million cars movingand safe at the same time is actually pretty routine stuff for a robot.And a traffic robot isn't given orders verbally; it is given any ordersthat may be necessary via teletype by a trained programming technician.Those orders are usually in reference to a change of routing due torepair work on the highways or the like. The robot itself can take careof such emergencies as bad weather or even an accident caused by themalfunctioning of an individual automobile.     McGuire was different. In the first place, he was mobile. He was incommand of a spacecraft. In a sense, he      was     the spacecraft, since itserved him in a way that was analogous to the way a human body servesthe human mind. And he wasn't in charge of millions of objects with atop velocity of a hundred and fifty miles an hour; he was in chargeof a single object that moved at velocities of thousands of miles persecond. Nor  [14]  did he have a set, unmoving highway as his path; his pathswere variable and led through the emptiness of space.     Unforeseen emergencies can happen at any time in space, most of themhaving to do with the lives of passengers. A cargo ship would besomewhat less susceptible to such emergencies if there were no humansaboard; it doesn't matter much to a robot if he has no air in his hull.     But with passengers aboard, there may be times when it would benecessary to give orders—      fast     ! And that means verbal orders, ordersthat can be given anywhere in the ship and relayed immediately bymicrophone to the robot's brain. A man doesn't have time to run to ateletyper and type out orders when there's an emergency in space.     That meant that McGuire had to understand English, and, since there hasto be feedback in communication, he had to be able to speak it as well.     And that made McGuire more than somewhat difficult to deal with.  For more than a century, robotocists have been trying to build Asimov'sfamous Three Laws of Robotics into a robot brain.       First Law: A robot shall not, either through action or inaction, allowharm to come to a human being.         Second Law: A robot shall obey the orders of a human being, exceptwhen such orders conflict with the First Law     .     [15]       Third Law: A robot shall strive to protect its own existence, exceptwhen this conflicts with the First or Second Law.       Nobody has succeeded yet, because nobody has yet succeeded in definingthe term human being in such a way that the logical mind of a robotcan encompass the concept.     A traffic robot is useful only because the definition has been rigidlynarrowed down. As far as a traffic robot is concerned, human beingsare the automobiles on its highways. Woe betide any poor sap who tries,illegally, to cross a robot-controlled highway on foot. The robot'sonly concern would be with the safety of the automobiles, and if theonly way to avoid destruction of an automobile were to be by nudgingthe pedestrian aside with a fender, that's what would happen.     And, since its orders only come from one place, I suppose that atraffic robot thinks that the guy who uses that typer is an automobile.     With the first six models of the McGuire ships, the robotocistsattempted to build in the Three Laws exactly as stated. And the firstsix went insane.     If one human being says jump left, and another says jump right,the robot is unable to evaluate which human being has given the morevalid order. Feed enough confusing and conflicting data into a robotbrain, and it can begin behaving in ways that, in a human being, wouldbe called paranoia or schizophrenia or catatonia or what-have-you,depending  [16]  on the symptoms. And an insane robot is fully as dangerousas an insane human being controlling the same mechanical equipment, ifnot more so.     So the seventh model had been modified. The present McGuire's brain wasimpressed with slight modifications of the First and Second Laws.     If it is difficult to define a human being, it is much more difficultto define a      responsible     human being. One, in other words, who canbe relied upon to give wise and proper orders to a robot, who can berelied upon not to drive the robot insane.     The robotocists at Viking Spacecraft had decided to take anothertack. Very well, they'd said, if we can't define all the membersof a group, we can certainly define an individual. We'll pick oneresponsible person and build McGuire so that he will take orders onlyfrom that person.     As it turned out, I was that person. Just substitute Daniel Oakfor human being in the First and Second Laws, and you'll see howimportant I was to a certain spaceship named McGuire.  When I finally caught the beam from Ceres and set my flitterboat downon the huge landing field that had been carved from the nickel-ironof the asteroid with a focused sun beam, I was itchy with my ownperspiration and groggy tired. I don't like riding in flitterboats,sitting on a  [17]  bucket seat, astride the drive tube, like a witch on abroomstick, with nothing but a near-invisible transite hull between meand the stars, all cooped up in a vac suit. Unlike driving a car, youcan't pull a flitterboat over and take a nap; you have to wait untilyou hit the next beacon station.     Ceres, the biggest rock in the Belt, is a lot more than just a beaconstation. Like Eros and a few others, it's a city in its own right. Andexcept for the Government Reservation, Viking Spacecraft owned Ceres,lock, stock, and mining rights.     Part of the reason for Viking's troubles was envy of that ownership.There were other companies in the Belt that would like to get theirhands on that plum, and there were those who were doing everythingshort of cutting throats to get it. The PSD was afraid it might come tothat, too, before very long.     Ceres is fifty-eight million cubic miles of nickel-iron, but nobodywould cut her up for that. Nickel-iron is almost exactly as cheap asdirt on Earth, and, considering shipping costs, Earth soil costs agreat deal more than nickel-iron in the Belt.     But, as an operations base, Ceres is second to none. Its surfacegravity averages .0294 Standard Gee, as compared with Earth's .981,and that's enough to give a slight feeling of weight without undulyhampering the body with too much load. I weigh just under six poundson Ceres, and after I've been there a while, going back to Earth is astrain that takes a  [18]  week to get used to. Kids that are brought up inthe Belt are forced to exercise in a room with a one-gee spin on it atleast an hour a day. They don't like it at first, but it keeps themfrom growing up with the strength of mice. And an adult with any sensetakes a spin now and then, too. Traveling in a flitterboat will giveyou a one-gee pull, all right, but you don't get much exercise.     I parked my flitterboat in the space that had been assigned to me byLanding Control, and went over to the nearest air-lock dome.     After I'd cycled through and had shucked my vac suit, I went into theinner room to find Colonel Brock waiting for me.     Have a good trip, Oak? he asked, trying to put a smile on hisscarred, battered face.     I got here alive, if that makes it a good flitterboat trip, I said,shaking his extended hand.     That's the definition of a good trip, he told me.     Then the question was superfluous. Seriously, what I need is a bathand some sleep.     You'll get that, but first let's go somewhere where we can talk. Wanta drink?     I could use one, I guess. Your treat?     My treat, he said. Come on.     I followed him out and down a ladder to a corridor that led north. Bydefinition, any asteroid spins toward the east, and all directionsfollow from that, regardless of which way the axis may point.     [19]     Colonel Harrington Brock was dressed in the black-and-gold unionsuit that was the uniform of Ravenhurst's Security Guard. My own wasa tasteful green, but some of the other people in the public corridorseemed to go for more flashiness; besides silver and gold, there wereshocking pinks and violent mauves, with stripes and blazes of othercolors.     A crowd wearing skin-tight cover-alls might shock the gentle people ofMidwich-on-the-Moor, England, but they are normal dress in the Belt.You can't climb into a vac suit with bulky clothing on, and, if youdid, you'd hate yourself within an hour, with a curse for every wrinklethat chafed your skin. And, in the Belt, you never know when you mighthave to get into a vac suit fast. In a safe area like the tunnelsinside Ceres, there isn't much chance of losing air, but there areplaces where no one but a fool would ever be more than ten seconds awayfrom his vac suit.     I read an article by a psychologist a few months back, in which heclaimed that the taste for loud colors in union suits was actuallydue to modesty. He claimed that the bright patterns drew attention tothe colors themselves, and away from the base the colors were laidover. The observer, he said, tends to see the color and pattern of thesuit, rather than the body it clings to so closely. Maybe he's right;I wouldn't know, not being a psychologist. I      have     spent summers innudist resorts, though, and I never noticed anyone painting themselveswith lavender  [20]  and chartreuse checks. On the other hand, the people whogo to nudist resorts are a self-screened group. So are the people whogo to the Belt, for that matter, but the type of screening is different.     I'll just leave that problem in the hands of the psychologists, and goon wearing my immodestly quiet solid-color union suits.  Brock pushed open the inch-thick metal door beneath a sign that saidO'Banion's Bar, and I followed him in. We sat down at a table andordered drinks when the waiter bustled over. A cop in uniform isn'tsupposed to drink, but Brock figures that the head of the SecurityGuard ought to be able to get away with a breach of his own rules.     We had our drinks in front of us and our cigarettes lit before Brockopened up with his troubles.     Oak, he said, I wanted to intercept you before you went to the plantbecause I want you to know that there may be trouble.     Yeah? What kind? Sometimes it's a pain to play ignorant.     Thurston's outfit is trying to oust Ravenhurst from the managership ofViking and take over the job. Baedecker Metals & Mining Corporation,which is managed by Baedecker himself, wants to force Viking out ofbusiness so that BM&M can take over Ceres for large-scale processing ofprecious metals.     Between the two of 'em, they're raising all sorts of minor hellaround  [21]  here, and it's liable to become major hell at any time. And wecan't stand any hell—or sabotage—around this planetoid just now!     Now wait a minute, I said, still playing ignorant, I thought we'dpretty well established that the 'sabotage' of the McGuire series wasJack Ravenhurst's fault. She was the one who was driving them nuts, notThurston's agents.     Perfectly true, he said agreeably. We managed to block any attemptsof sabotage by other company agents, even though it looked as though wehadn't for a while. He chuckled wryly. We went all out to keep theMcGuires safe, and all the time the boss' daughter was giving them theworks. Then he looked sharply at me. I covered that, of course. Noone in the Security Guard but me knows that Jack was responsible.     Good. But what about the Thurston and Baedecker agents, then?     He took a hefty slug of his drink. They're around, all right. We haveour eyes on the ones we know, but those outfits are as sharp as weare, and they may have a few agents here on Ceres that we know nothingabout.     So? What does this have to do with me?     He put his drink on the table. Oak, I want you to help me. Hisonyx-brown eyes, only a shade darker than his skin, looked directlyinto my own. I know it isn't part of your assignment, and you know Ican't afford to pay you anything near what you're worth. It will haveto come out of my  [22]  pocket because I couldn't possibly justify it fromoperating funds. Ravenhurst specifically told me that he doesn't wantyou messing around with the espionage and sabotage problem because hedoesn't like your methods of operation.     And you're going to go against his orders?     I am. Ravenhurst is sore at you personally because you showed himthat Jack was responsible for the McGuire sabotage. It's an irrationaldislike, and I am not going to let it interfere with my job. I'm goingto protect Ravenhurst's interests to the best of my ability, and thatmeans that I'll use the best of other people's abilities if I can.     I grinned at him. The last I heard, you were sore at me for blattingit all over Ceres that Jaqueline Ravenhurst was missing, when shesneaked aboard McGuire.     He nodded perfunctorily. I was. I still think you should have told mewhat you were up to. But you did it, and you got results that I'd beenunable to get. I'm not going to let a momentary pique hang on as anirrational dislike. I like to think I have more sense than that.     Thanks. There wasn't much else I could say.     Now, I've got a little dough put away; it's not much, but I couldoffer you—     I shook my head, cutting him off. Nope. Sorry, Brock. For two reasons.In the first place, there would be a conflict of interest. I'm workingfor Ravenhurst, and if he doesn't want  [23]  me to work for you, then itwould be unethical for me to take the job.     In the second place, my fees are standardized. Oh, I can allow acertain amount of fluctuation, but I'm not a physician or a lawyer; myservices are  [24]  not necessary to the survival of the individual, exceptin very rare cases, and those cases are generally arranged through alawyer when it's a charity case.     No, colonel, I'm afraid I couldn't  [25]  possibly work for you.     He thought that over for a long time. Finally, he nodded his head veryslowly. I see. Yeah, I get your point. He scowled down at his drink.           But     , I said, it would be a pleasure  [26]  to work      with     you.     He looked up quickly. How's that?     Well, let's look at it this way: You can't hire me because I'm alreadyworking for Ravenhurst; I can't hire  [27]  you because      you're     working forRavenhurst. But since we may need each other, and since we're bothworking for Ravenhurst, there would be no conflict of interest if weco-operate.     Or, to put it another way, I can't take money for any service I mayrender you, but you can pay off in services. Am I coming through?     His broad smile made the scars on his face fold in and deepen. Loudand clear. It's a deal.     I held up a hand, palm toward him. Ah, ah, ah! There's no 'deal'involved. We're just old buddies helping each other. This is forfriendship, not business. I scratch your back; you scratch mine. Fair?     Fair. Come on down to my office; I want to give you a headful of factsand figures.     Will do. Let me finish my guzzle.  ",The most recent McGuire is the seventh edition. It is described as being more mobile as it is a spacecraft. It is potentially dangerous because it can move at thousands of miles per second. The most recent version is different from the previous six because it follows Asimov’s famous Three Laws of Robotics more closely than the other versions. The laws emphasize that a robot should define a human being and making sure the robot does not hurt a human. That has previously proven difficult. McGuire version 7 circumnavigated the issue by defining whatever first awoken the robot as a human and its controller.
"What is the plot of the story? </s>    DEATH STAR     By TOM PACE     Trapped by the most feared of space pirates     Devil Garrett, Starrett Blade was fighting for     his life. Weaponless, his ship gone, he was     pinning his hopes on a girl—who wanted him dead.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Spring 1945.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Starrett Blade crouched in the rocks by the tiny Centaurian lake. Itwas only about two or three hundred feet across, but probably thousandsof feet deep. This lake, and hundreds of others like it, were theonly things to break the monotony of the flat, rocky surface of AlphaCentauri III—called the most barren planet in space.     Ten minutes ago, Star Blade's ship had spun into the stagnant watersbefore him. An emergency release had flung the air-lock doors open, andthe air pressure had flung Star out. And now he was waiting for DevilGarrett to come down to the water's edge to search for him.     For eight years, Devil Garrett had been the top space pirate in thevoid. For a year, Star himself had personally been hunting him. And ona tour over Alpha III, a Barden energy-beam had stabbed up at Blade'sship, and Star Blade had crashed into the lake.     That Barden Beam had Star worried and puzzled. It took a million voltsof power for a split-second flash of the beam. Garrett didn't have anatomics plant on Alpha III—if he had, escaping rays would point itout, no matter how well it was camouflaged. There was no water power,for there was no running water. There were only the lakes ... and tidalpower was out, for Alpha III had no moon.     However, that could wait. Star slid the electron knife from hiswater-proof sheath, gripped it firmly. He could hear quick footsteps asa man came down the trail that led directly past his hiding place.     It wasn't Garrett, which was disappointing. But it was one of his men,and he was heavily armed. That didn't worry Star.     His fighting had earned Starrett Blade the nickname of Death Star.     The man walked to the water's edge, and peered out over the pool. Hesaw the bubbles that were coming up from the sinking ship, and henodded, grunted in satisfaction, and started to turn back.     Star landed on him, knocking him sprawling on the rock. The piratejerked up an arm, holding the jet-gun.     The stabbing lance of blue fire cracked from the electron knife, duginto the man's heart.     Star tossed the dead pirate's cloak over his shoulders, and thrust bothelectron blade and jet-gun into his belt. He straightened, and saw theleveled gun from the corner of his eye.     He got the jet in his right hand, the knife in his left, and went intoa dive that flipped him behind a rock. The three actions took only asplit-second, and the blast from the jet-gun flaked rock where he hadbeen standing.     While a jet-gun is the most deadly weapon known, you have to press aloading stud to slide another blast-capsule into place. Death Star knewthis very well. So he knew he was safe in coming up from behind thespur of stone to fire his own gun.     If his reflexes hadn't been as quick as they were, he would haveblasted the girl.  He stopped, and stood for a second, staring at the girl. She wassomething to invite stares, too. In the moment that lasted between hernext move, he had time to register that she was about five feet fivetall, black-haired—the kind of black hair that looks like silken spundarkness—dark-eyed, and possessing both a face and a form that wouldmake anyone stop and gulp.     Then the moment of half-awed survey was over, and she leveled the jeton him, and said in a trembling voice, Drop those weapons, or I'llblast you ...      pirate     !     Death Star said, That jet-gun is empty. I can see the register on themagazine. And I'm not a pirate. I'm Starrett Blade.     The useless jet-gun slid out of the girl's hand, and she gave ahalf-gasp. Starrett Blade! I—I don't believe ... she broke offabruptly. So you're Death Star! A fine story for a hired killer, apirate.     Star reddened. Look, he snapped, I don't know who's been talking toyou, but ... he whirled, and his hand whipped the jet-gun from hisbelt. As he did so, the girl jerked up the jet-gun she had dropped, andflung it with all her strength. The blow landed on his arm and side,and paralyzed him long enough for the man who had leaped out behind himto land a stunning blow against his head. As Star went down, he dizzilycursed himself for becoming interested in the argument with the girl,so that he did not heed his reflexes in time ... and dimly, he wonderedwhy it had seemed so important to convince the lovely dark-haired girl.     Then a bit of the cosmos seemed to fall on Star's head, and he washurled into blackness.     An eternity seemed to pass.     Deep in the blackness, a light was born. It leaped toward him, afar-away comet rocketing along, coming from some far, unknown cornerof the galaxy. It became a flaming sun in a gray-green space, andstrangely, there seemed to be several odd planets circling about thesun. Some of them were vast pieces of queer electronic machinery. Somewere vague, villainous-looking men. One was the dark-haired girl, andthere was lovely contempt in her dark-star pools of eyes.     Then into the midst of this queer universe, there swam a new planet. Itwas the face of a man, and the man was Devil Garrett.     That brought Star up, out of his daze, onto his feet as though he hadbeen doused with cold water. He stood there, not staring, just lookingat Garrett.     The most famous killer in the void was big. He was six feet three, andtwice as strong as he looked. He wore a huge high-velocity jet-gun, anda set of electron knives, all of the finest workmanship. He was sittingon a laboratory chair of steel, and the chair bent slightly under hisgreat weight.     He smiled at Star, and there was a touch of hell in the smile. He said,Ah, Mr. Garrett.     Star's jaw dropped. Garrett? What do you— he broke off. A glance atthe girl told him what the purpose was.     Look, Mr. Devil Garrett, said the pirate, still smiling softly, MissHinton is aware of your identity. There is no need to attempt to foolus.... I've known it was you ever since I flashed that beam at yourship. And you needn't flatter yourself that the Devil's luck is goingto hold out as far as you are concerned. For in a very short while,I'm going to have you executed ... before a stellar vision screen,connected with Section Void Headquarters! I wish the authorities to seeDevil Garrett die, so that I might collect the reward that is offeredon you!     Star stood quiet, and looked straight into Garrett's eyes. After aminute of silence, Garrett's lips twisted into a smile, and he saidmockingly, Well, pirate? What are you thinking of?     Star said, in a low, cold voice, I'm thinking of putting an electronfire-blade into your face, Devil Garrett!     Garrett laughed ... huge, rather evil, bluff laughter. The mirth of aperson who is both powerful and dangerous. And then the girl leapedforward, shaking with rage.     You beast! Murderer! To accuse this man ... you fool, you might havebeen able to complete any scheme of escape you had, if you hadn'tcalled yourself Starrett Blade! Mr. Blade.... She gestured towardGarrett, who made a mocking, sardonic bow. ... has given me ampleproof that he is who he says! And this long before you came. He's shownme papers giving a description and showing a tri-dimension picture ofyou....     Fire leaped in Star's eyes. Listen ... he snapped furiously, as hestarted to step forward. Then Garrett made a signal with his hand, andsomeone drove a fist against the base of Star's skull.  When Star came to, he was in a cell of sorts. A man standing by thedoor told him that he was to be executed, ... after Mr. Blade and thelady have eaten. Starrett swore at him, and the man went out, with amocking Goodbye, Mr. Garrett!     Star got up. His head spun, and he almost fell at first, but the dazeleft in his head from the two blows quickly cleared away. He felt forvarious weapons which he had hidden about him ... and found them gone.Garrett's men had searched carefully.     Star sat down, his head spinning more now from mystery than fromphysical pain. He had to keep himself in a whole skin, of course. Thatwas most important right now. But other things were bothering him,tugging at his mind like waves slapping around a swamped ship, eachtrying to shove it in a different direction.     There was the girl. Star wondered why she always leaped into his mindfirst. And there was the way Garrett was trying to leave the impressionthat he was Blade, so that he could kill Blade as Garrett.     Obviously, the reason for that was the girl, Miss Hinton, Garrett hadcalled her. She had been shown faked papers by Garrett, papers provingthat the two were ... were whatever Garrett had twisted the story into!     Star clutched at his head. He was in a mess. He was going to be killed,and he was going to die without knowing the score. And he didn't likethat. Nor did he like dying as Star Blade shouldn't die; executed asa wolf's-head pirate. The girl would be watching, and he felt as ifthat would make it far worse.     His head came up, and he smiled flintily. He still had an ace card! Onehand felt for it, and he shook his head slowly. It was a gamble ... butall the others had been found.     Blade looked up quickly, as the door opened. Two men came into thecell, carrying jet-guns. They motioned Blade to his feet. Come on,Blade. One began, when the other hit him across the mouth.     You fool! he hissed. You better not call him that; suppose thatgirl was to hear it? Until the boss gets what he wants on Earth, thatgirl has got to think that he's Blade! We're killing this guy as DevilGarrett! And a loud-mouthed fool like you ... look out!     Blade had landed on the bickering men, and was grappling with the onewho had called him by name. As the other leaped forward, swinging aclubbing blow with a jet-gun, Star tripped one man into the corner, andducked under the gun. He hit the man in the stomach, drove a shoulderup under his arms, and smashed the man's face in with a series of sharpblows. The man went reeling backward across the room, and Star's handleaped toward that ace card which he still held.     Devil Garrett stepped in the door, and made a mock out of a courteousbow. As he did so, Star snarled in rage, but stood very still, for theelectron knife in Garrett's hand did not waver.     Garrett gestured silently toward the door, and Star, equally silent,walked over and out, at the point of the weapon.  Star Blade stood before a transmitter, and thought about death.     He was very close to it. Garrett stood five yards away, a gun inhis hand, and the muzzle trained on Blade's chest. The gun was theuniversally used weapon of execution, an old projectile-firing weapon.     Star did not doubt that Devil Garrett was an excellent shot with it.     The girl, very round-eyed and nervous, sat by Garrett. He had explainedto her that Garrett was the type of pirate that it is law to kill, orhave executed, by anyone. Which was very true.     A man stepped away from the transmitter, and nodded to Garrett. Starfelt a surge of hope, as he saw that it was a two-way transmitter. Ifthe image of an Interstellar Command headquarters was tuned in—Garrettwould undoubtedly do it, if only to show the police that he had killedStarrett Blade—then Garrett could not kill him and cut the beam intime to prevent one of the police from giving a cry that would echoover the sub-space beam arriving almost instantly in this room, and letthe girl know that she had been tricked. And Garrett would not wantthat. Not that it would matter to Starrett Blade.     Then Star saw what kind of a transmitter it was, and he groaned. Itwas not a Hineson Sub-space beamer ... it was an old-style transmitterwhich had different wave speeds, because of the different space-bridgerunits in it.     The visual image would arrive many seconds before the sound did. Thusthe girl would not hear Garrett revealed, but would see only Blade'sdeath. And then ... whatever Garrett had planned, Blade wished heartilythat he could have the chance to interfere.     The beam was coming in. Star saw the mists swimming on the screenchange, solidify into a figure ... the figure of District CommanderWeddel seated at a desk. He saw Weddel's eyebrows rise, saw his lipsmove—then Garrett stepped over a pace, and Weddel saw him, saw the gunin his hand....     The police officer yelled, silently, and came to his feet, anexpression of shocked surprise on his face—surprise, Blade thoughtdesperately, that the girl might interpret as shock at seeing DevilGarrett.     Which was right, in a way.     Then, as Commander Weddel leapt to his feet, as Devil Garrett'sfinger tightened on the trigger, as the girl sucked in her breathinvoluntarily, Star Blade scooped up a bit of metal—a fork—and flungit at the vision transmitter.     Not at the screen. But at the equipment behind the dial-board. At acertain small unit, which was almost covered by wires and braces forthe large tubes. And the fork struck it, bit deep, and caused result.     Result in the form of a burned-out set. If television equipment cancurse, that set cursed them. Its spitting of sparks and blue electricflame mingled with a strange, high-pitched whine.     It was the diversion that caused Garrett to miss Star, which gave himtime to pull three or four of Garrett's men onto the floor with him.One of the men drove the butt of a jet-gun into the side of Star'shead, and for the third time, he went very limp. The last thing he sawwas the girl.     Somehow, the expression on her face was different from what it hadbeen. He was searching for the difference, when the blow struckhim. Somewhere in the space that lies between consciousness andunconsciousness, he reflected bitterly that if he kept staring at thegirl when he should be fighting, he might not recover some day. Thiswas the third time that he had been knocked out that way. It was notgetting monotonous. He still felt it a novelty.     Star awoke in the same prison cell, facing the wall away from the door.He wondered if he were still alive, tried to move his head, and decidedthat he wasn't. He didn't even get up or look around when he dimlyheard the door being opened.     But when he heard the girl's voice, he came up and around very swiftly,despite his head.     It was the girl all right. Even through the tumbled mists of his brain,he could see that she was not a dream. And as he reeled and fellagainst the wall, she was beside him in a flash, her arm supporting him.  At first he tried to push himself erect, his head whirling with sickdizziness, and bewilderment. Through a twisting haze, he peered up atthe girl's face. It reflected a look that, amazingly, was one of—withno other phrase to do—compassion. Star half-sighed, and laid his headon the girl's breast, and closed his eyes.     In a minute or two, she said tensely, Are you all right? Star lookedup at her.     I guess so. Here—give a hand while I get my balance. She held him ashe tried a step or two, and then he straightened. I guess I'll be allright, now, he smiled. My head feels like—say! How come you're doingthis? What made you change your mind? And who are you?     She said quickly, breathlessly, I know you're Star Blade, now. Thattransmission set.... I can read lips! I      knew     what that officer wassaying! It was just as if I had      heard     him say that ... that you wereStarrett Blade and that man out there is Devil Garrett! she made achoking sound. And I've been here, alone, for a month! For a month!     A month? Huh—please—you...?     Star took a breath, and started over. You.... Who      are     you? What areyou doing here?     She said, I'm Anne Hinton. My father is Old John Hinton. Have youheard of him?     Of course! said Star. He manufactures most of the equipment '      BladeCosmian     ' uses. Weapons, Hineson Sub-Spacers, Star-Traveler craft ...the ship I was in when Garrett brought me down was a Hinton craft. Ishould have recognized the name. But go on. What—     Garrett communicated with dad, secretly. He posed as StarrettBlade, as you, and told dad that he was developing certain new powerprocesses. And he is! He has a new—or maybe it isn't so new—way ofelectrolyzing water to liberate hydrogen and oxygen.     I think I understand, said Star quickly. When the oxygen andhydrogen are allowed to combine, and produce an explosion which drivea turbine-generator. Then that could be hitched up to a cyclotron, andeven the most barren of Alpha's lake-rock planets could be....     No, she shook her head puzzledly. It's just electric power. He saidthat atomics would release stray rays that would attract pirates.     I know, Star nodded, abstractedly. I was thinking of anotherapplication of it ... hmm. But say! What was Garrett after? I know thathe wouldn't do this just to get a secret process sold. He must have hadanother plan behind it. Got any idea?     Anne shook her head slowly. I don't know. I can't see....     Perhaps I could help you? Devil Garrett asked smoothly from the door.     Star whirled, thrust Anne behind him, but there was no way out. Garrettstood in the door, and there were men behind him. The jet in his handcould kill both of the two at one shot. And they had no weapons toresist with.     Devil Garrett stepped them out of the room, and down the corridor,through a large door Star had noticed at the end of the passage, andinto a huge room.     It must have been a thousand feet long, and half that wide. It was atleast a hundred yards deep. And it was almost filled with giganticmachines.     Between the machinery, the spaces were almost filled with steel laddersand cat-walks. Crews of men swarmed over them. It was the largest massof equipment Starrett had ever seen.     His eyes began to pick out details. Those huge vat-like things downat the far end, with the large cables running into them, and themighty pumps connected to them ... they were probably the electrolysischambers.     And those great pipes, they must carry the hydrogen and oxygen fromthe electro chambers to the large replicas of engines, which could benothing else but the explosion chambers, where the gases were allowedto re-unite, and explode. And there by the giant engines, those must beturbines, which in turn connected with the vast-sized generators justunder the platforms on which they stood.  Star Blade whistled softly through his teeth. A huge enterprise! Itcould be ... but for a moment he had forgotten Devil Garrett.     The girl standing by his side, Star turned toward Garrett. Well?     Garrett smiled his mocking grin. You grasp the principle, of course.But let me show you ... you see those pipes that run from the turbinesafter the wheels?     Yes. They carry the gases off. Where do they lead?     Into giant subterranean caverns beneath the surface! Garrett said.Now look over there, on the platforms across from us. Can yourecognize a Barden energy-beamer, Blade? Run by power from my littleplant here, which is run by water from a thousand lakes!     Just imagine, if you can, hundreds of those plants all over AlphaIII. And each one with dozens of high-powered Barden beams to protectit! And Hinton ray screens to protect us from radio-controlled rocketshells from space, or Barden Rays, or any other weapon of offence, orto warn if anyone lands on this planet! Garrett leaned forward, hiseyes aglow.     Blade, I'll take over the few governing posts on this little planet,and I'll rule an entire world, a whole planet to myself! It'll be thefirst time in history! And it won't be the last. With the Hinton secretpatents, the plans of all John Hinton's inventions and processes....     Star twisted, and got his ace card out of its hiding place.     It was a jet weapon, little more than a jet-blast capsule for ajet-gun. The sides were thicker and stronger, and there was a devicefixed on it so it could be fired. Altogether, it was somewhat smallerthan an old-style fountain pen.     He twisted up from the floor, and moved faster than he had moved everbefore. Star was famous for his speed and the quickness and alertnessof his reflexes. He earned his fame a score of times over in that oneinstant.       And Devil Garrett died.     There was perhaps an eighth of a second between the staff of blue whitefire from the tiny jet in Star's hand and the huge broadsword of firefrom Garrett's gun. But in the split-second Star's fire knifed intoGarrett's vitals, and Garrett gave a convulsive jerk, and fired even ashis muscles started the jerking movement.     And the flame went over Star's head, singeing his scalp.     Of the four men with Garrett, one let go of the struggling Anne, andswore as he snatched at an electron knife in his belt. Anne's handhad already whipped the knife out, and without bothering to press theelectron stud, she buried the knife in his back.     Two of the remaining men whirled, and went for the door as though adevil was after them. The other tried to get a jet-gun out. It was hisfinal mistake. A blue lance from Anne's knife whipped close enough tohim to make him dodge, and then Star got his hand on Garrett's jet.     The other two men had, in their flight, taken a door which led, notinto the large corridor, but into a small room at one side, a roomfilled with instruments and recording devices for the machinery in theroom below. Star leaped to the side of the door, and called, Are yougoing to come out, or am I coming in to get you?     There was a short silence, in which Anne heard one say hoarsely, Hecan't get us ... we could get him if he came in the door.     Oh, yes? was the answer. Do you know who that guy is? He's the onethey call 'Death Star.' I'm not facing Starrett Blade in a gun fight.You can do what you like, but I'm leaving. Then he lifted his voice.Hey, Blade! I'm coming out. Don't shoot.  Okay, threw back Star and the man appeared in the doorway, emptyhands held high. After a second, the other joined him.     Anne turned to Star. Now I know why they call you 'Death Star' Blade,she said, and gestured toward the men who had surrendered, and the twowhom Starrett had shot down.     He mused there for a minute. Then Anne broke the silence with, Star,what are we going to do now? Garrett's men will be up here in a littlewhile. We can't get to a sub-space beam. What are we going to do whenthey come up to investigate?     Starrett Blade laughed. Do? Well, we could turn them over to CommanderWeddel!           What?          Grinning broadly, Star pointed, with a flourish, at the door. Annespun about, and found Commander Weddel grinning in the door from thecorridor.     Very simple, said Star across the lounge to Anne. When I smashedthe vision set with that dinner fork, I broke a small unit which isincluded in all sets. You know, a direction finder doesn't work, exceptin the liner-beam principle, in space, because of the diffusing effectof unrestricted cosmic rays.     Yes, I knew that, said Anne. But how—     Starrett grinned again. A type of beam has been found which it isimpossible for cosmics to disturb. But you can't send messages onit, so it is made in a little unit on every set. If that unit isbroken, the set automatically releases a signal beam. This is adistress signal, and the location of the set that sent out the signalis recorded at the Section Headquarters. When Commander Weddel sawme throw something at the set, and it went dead, he looked at theautomatic record, and found out that a signal had been sent in froma location on Alpha Cen's third planet. Then he had a high-velocitycruiser brought out and dropped in, in time to pick up some pieces. Hestopped, and idly toyed with a sheaf of papers, then held them up. Seethese papers?     Uh-huh. What are they, Star?     They are the main plans of Devil Garrett's power plant, and they'rethe one good thing he's ever done. These plans are going to bring thebarren, rocky Centauri planets to life!     He got up, and paced to the window, and stood there, looking out, andup through the plastic port. The planets of Centauri! he murmuredsoftly. Seven circling Alpha alone. And all seven are barren, rocky,level except for the thousands of lakes ... lakes that are going to bethe life of Centauri!  He turned back to the window. And all because a pirate named DevilGarrett built a vast power plant to use to garner more power!     You know, Anne, as a mockery, and a warning, I think I'll propose thatthis planet be officially named ... 'Garrett'!     She looked up at him, and there was laughter bright in her eyes, andtugging at her mouth. Yes, there ought to be a reason, she murmured.Star wavered. She was so darn close.     After a minute, she turned her head, and looked up at him. Star, howsoon will there be those gardens and woods you described? I mean,how long before Garrett can be turned into that kind of world youdescribed?     Why ... under pressure, we can do it in six months. Why?     Not half quick enough, she murmured happily, but it'll have to do,Star. Laughing, she turned her face up to his. Have you ever thoughtthat planet Garrett will be wonderful for a honeymoon?   ","The story starts with Starrett (Star) Blade’s ship falling into one of the lakes on Alpha Centauri III. We then learns that Currently Star is trying to hunt Devil Garrett down, but his ship was hit by an energy-beam shot by Garrett, who is the top space pirate for years. After he fell, he hopes that Garrett himself will come here to look for him, but only one of Garrett’s men appears and he is killed by Star. He also notices a person with another gun right after he murders that man. He almost kills this person as well, but is able to stop in time due to his strong reflex skills. The reason that he stopped is because she is a girl. She has beautiful dark colored hair and eyes. But she does not stop trying to capture him. Before he can explain himself, he is knocked out. When Star has finally waken up, he is already in a lab chair with Garrett is right in front of him. To his surprise, Garrett calls him Garrett, instead of Star. The girl clearly believes Garrett that Star is actually Garrett. However, again, before he can explain his situation to the girl, he is knocked out. Right after he wakes up, he learns that he will be executed. Then, he starts thinking of the girl again, but he does not really understand why he is thinking of her. Before he can do anything, he is taken from his cell. Standing 5 yards away from the gun that Garrett is holding, he tries to find a way that he could escape. He is glad to see that it is a two way transmitter, but loses his hope again when he realizes that it is an old-style transmitter. Then as the visual image started to form, Garrett is ready to perform the execution. Star cunningly kicks the metal fork onto the vision transmitter, which diverts Garrett’s attention, and causes him to miss the shot. But because he is outnumbered by Garrett’s men, he is caught and knocked out again. After he wake up, the girl finds him and tells him that she is capable of reading lips. Even though the visual images has no sound, she knows what the Section Void Headquarters said, and that he is the actual Star. Garrett enters the cell after he finds out that the girl knows the real identity of him and Star. So he brings them to a room filled with machines. He imagines to have hundreds of those on Alpha III and he will be able to rule an entire world. Then suddenly the girl takes Garrett’s weapon and Star is able to kill him very quickly. And Commander Weddel, getting the signal that Star tried to send using the metal fork, gets here just on time to capture Garrett’s men. "
"Who is Garrett and what happens to him in the story? </s>    DEATH STAR     By TOM PACE     Trapped by the most feared of space pirates     Devil Garrett, Starrett Blade was fighting for     his life. Weaponless, his ship gone, he was     pinning his hopes on a girl—who wanted him dead.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Spring 1945.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Starrett Blade crouched in the rocks by the tiny Centaurian lake. Itwas only about two or three hundred feet across, but probably thousandsof feet deep. This lake, and hundreds of others like it, were theonly things to break the monotony of the flat, rocky surface of AlphaCentauri III—called the most barren planet in space.     Ten minutes ago, Star Blade's ship had spun into the stagnant watersbefore him. An emergency release had flung the air-lock doors open, andthe air pressure had flung Star out. And now he was waiting for DevilGarrett to come down to the water's edge to search for him.     For eight years, Devil Garrett had been the top space pirate in thevoid. For a year, Star himself had personally been hunting him. And ona tour over Alpha III, a Barden energy-beam had stabbed up at Blade'sship, and Star Blade had crashed into the lake.     That Barden Beam had Star worried and puzzled. It took a million voltsof power for a split-second flash of the beam. Garrett didn't have anatomics plant on Alpha III—if he had, escaping rays would point itout, no matter how well it was camouflaged. There was no water power,for there was no running water. There were only the lakes ... and tidalpower was out, for Alpha III had no moon.     However, that could wait. Star slid the electron knife from hiswater-proof sheath, gripped it firmly. He could hear quick footsteps asa man came down the trail that led directly past his hiding place.     It wasn't Garrett, which was disappointing. But it was one of his men,and he was heavily armed. That didn't worry Star.     His fighting had earned Starrett Blade the nickname of Death Star.     The man walked to the water's edge, and peered out over the pool. Hesaw the bubbles that were coming up from the sinking ship, and henodded, grunted in satisfaction, and started to turn back.     Star landed on him, knocking him sprawling on the rock. The piratejerked up an arm, holding the jet-gun.     The stabbing lance of blue fire cracked from the electron knife, duginto the man's heart.     Star tossed the dead pirate's cloak over his shoulders, and thrust bothelectron blade and jet-gun into his belt. He straightened, and saw theleveled gun from the corner of his eye.     He got the jet in his right hand, the knife in his left, and went intoa dive that flipped him behind a rock. The three actions took only asplit-second, and the blast from the jet-gun flaked rock where he hadbeen standing.     While a jet-gun is the most deadly weapon known, you have to press aloading stud to slide another blast-capsule into place. Death Star knewthis very well. So he knew he was safe in coming up from behind thespur of stone to fire his own gun.     If his reflexes hadn't been as quick as they were, he would haveblasted the girl.  He stopped, and stood for a second, staring at the girl. She wassomething to invite stares, too. In the moment that lasted between hernext move, he had time to register that she was about five feet fivetall, black-haired—the kind of black hair that looks like silken spundarkness—dark-eyed, and possessing both a face and a form that wouldmake anyone stop and gulp.     Then the moment of half-awed survey was over, and she leveled the jeton him, and said in a trembling voice, Drop those weapons, or I'llblast you ...      pirate     !     Death Star said, That jet-gun is empty. I can see the register on themagazine. And I'm not a pirate. I'm Starrett Blade.     The useless jet-gun slid out of the girl's hand, and she gave ahalf-gasp. Starrett Blade! I—I don't believe ... she broke offabruptly. So you're Death Star! A fine story for a hired killer, apirate.     Star reddened. Look, he snapped, I don't know who's been talking toyou, but ... he whirled, and his hand whipped the jet-gun from hisbelt. As he did so, the girl jerked up the jet-gun she had dropped, andflung it with all her strength. The blow landed on his arm and side,and paralyzed him long enough for the man who had leaped out behind himto land a stunning blow against his head. As Star went down, he dizzilycursed himself for becoming interested in the argument with the girl,so that he did not heed his reflexes in time ... and dimly, he wonderedwhy it had seemed so important to convince the lovely dark-haired girl.     Then a bit of the cosmos seemed to fall on Star's head, and he washurled into blackness.     An eternity seemed to pass.     Deep in the blackness, a light was born. It leaped toward him, afar-away comet rocketing along, coming from some far, unknown cornerof the galaxy. It became a flaming sun in a gray-green space, andstrangely, there seemed to be several odd planets circling about thesun. Some of them were vast pieces of queer electronic machinery. Somewere vague, villainous-looking men. One was the dark-haired girl, andthere was lovely contempt in her dark-star pools of eyes.     Then into the midst of this queer universe, there swam a new planet. Itwas the face of a man, and the man was Devil Garrett.     That brought Star up, out of his daze, onto his feet as though he hadbeen doused with cold water. He stood there, not staring, just lookingat Garrett.     The most famous killer in the void was big. He was six feet three, andtwice as strong as he looked. He wore a huge high-velocity jet-gun, anda set of electron knives, all of the finest workmanship. He was sittingon a laboratory chair of steel, and the chair bent slightly under hisgreat weight.     He smiled at Star, and there was a touch of hell in the smile. He said,Ah, Mr. Garrett.     Star's jaw dropped. Garrett? What do you— he broke off. A glance atthe girl told him what the purpose was.     Look, Mr. Devil Garrett, said the pirate, still smiling softly, MissHinton is aware of your identity. There is no need to attempt to foolus.... I've known it was you ever since I flashed that beam at yourship. And you needn't flatter yourself that the Devil's luck is goingto hold out as far as you are concerned. For in a very short while,I'm going to have you executed ... before a stellar vision screen,connected with Section Void Headquarters! I wish the authorities to seeDevil Garrett die, so that I might collect the reward that is offeredon you!     Star stood quiet, and looked straight into Garrett's eyes. After aminute of silence, Garrett's lips twisted into a smile, and he saidmockingly, Well, pirate? What are you thinking of?     Star said, in a low, cold voice, I'm thinking of putting an electronfire-blade into your face, Devil Garrett!     Garrett laughed ... huge, rather evil, bluff laughter. The mirth of aperson who is both powerful and dangerous. And then the girl leapedforward, shaking with rage.     You beast! Murderer! To accuse this man ... you fool, you might havebeen able to complete any scheme of escape you had, if you hadn'tcalled yourself Starrett Blade! Mr. Blade.... She gestured towardGarrett, who made a mocking, sardonic bow. ... has given me ampleproof that he is who he says! And this long before you came. He's shownme papers giving a description and showing a tri-dimension picture ofyou....     Fire leaped in Star's eyes. Listen ... he snapped furiously, as hestarted to step forward. Then Garrett made a signal with his hand, andsomeone drove a fist against the base of Star's skull.  When Star came to, he was in a cell of sorts. A man standing by thedoor told him that he was to be executed, ... after Mr. Blade and thelady have eaten. Starrett swore at him, and the man went out, with amocking Goodbye, Mr. Garrett!     Star got up. His head spun, and he almost fell at first, but the dazeleft in his head from the two blows quickly cleared away. He felt forvarious weapons which he had hidden about him ... and found them gone.Garrett's men had searched carefully.     Star sat down, his head spinning more now from mystery than fromphysical pain. He had to keep himself in a whole skin, of course. Thatwas most important right now. But other things were bothering him,tugging at his mind like waves slapping around a swamped ship, eachtrying to shove it in a different direction.     There was the girl. Star wondered why she always leaped into his mindfirst. And there was the way Garrett was trying to leave the impressionthat he was Blade, so that he could kill Blade as Garrett.     Obviously, the reason for that was the girl, Miss Hinton, Garrett hadcalled her. She had been shown faked papers by Garrett, papers provingthat the two were ... were whatever Garrett had twisted the story into!     Star clutched at his head. He was in a mess. He was going to be killed,and he was going to die without knowing the score. And he didn't likethat. Nor did he like dying as Star Blade shouldn't die; executed asa wolf's-head pirate. The girl would be watching, and he felt as ifthat would make it far worse.     His head came up, and he smiled flintily. He still had an ace card! Onehand felt for it, and he shook his head slowly. It was a gamble ... butall the others had been found.     Blade looked up quickly, as the door opened. Two men came into thecell, carrying jet-guns. They motioned Blade to his feet. Come on,Blade. One began, when the other hit him across the mouth.     You fool! he hissed. You better not call him that; suppose thatgirl was to hear it? Until the boss gets what he wants on Earth, thatgirl has got to think that he's Blade! We're killing this guy as DevilGarrett! And a loud-mouthed fool like you ... look out!     Blade had landed on the bickering men, and was grappling with the onewho had called him by name. As the other leaped forward, swinging aclubbing blow with a jet-gun, Star tripped one man into the corner, andducked under the gun. He hit the man in the stomach, drove a shoulderup under his arms, and smashed the man's face in with a series of sharpblows. The man went reeling backward across the room, and Star's handleaped toward that ace card which he still held.     Devil Garrett stepped in the door, and made a mock out of a courteousbow. As he did so, Star snarled in rage, but stood very still, for theelectron knife in Garrett's hand did not waver.     Garrett gestured silently toward the door, and Star, equally silent,walked over and out, at the point of the weapon.  Star Blade stood before a transmitter, and thought about death.     He was very close to it. Garrett stood five yards away, a gun inhis hand, and the muzzle trained on Blade's chest. The gun was theuniversally used weapon of execution, an old projectile-firing weapon.     Star did not doubt that Devil Garrett was an excellent shot with it.     The girl, very round-eyed and nervous, sat by Garrett. He had explainedto her that Garrett was the type of pirate that it is law to kill, orhave executed, by anyone. Which was very true.     A man stepped away from the transmitter, and nodded to Garrett. Starfelt a surge of hope, as he saw that it was a two-way transmitter. Ifthe image of an Interstellar Command headquarters was tuned in—Garrettwould undoubtedly do it, if only to show the police that he had killedStarrett Blade—then Garrett could not kill him and cut the beam intime to prevent one of the police from giving a cry that would echoover the sub-space beam arriving almost instantly in this room, and letthe girl know that she had been tricked. And Garrett would not wantthat. Not that it would matter to Starrett Blade.     Then Star saw what kind of a transmitter it was, and he groaned. Itwas not a Hineson Sub-space beamer ... it was an old-style transmitterwhich had different wave speeds, because of the different space-bridgerunits in it.     The visual image would arrive many seconds before the sound did. Thusthe girl would not hear Garrett revealed, but would see only Blade'sdeath. And then ... whatever Garrett had planned, Blade wished heartilythat he could have the chance to interfere.     The beam was coming in. Star saw the mists swimming on the screenchange, solidify into a figure ... the figure of District CommanderWeddel seated at a desk. He saw Weddel's eyebrows rise, saw his lipsmove—then Garrett stepped over a pace, and Weddel saw him, saw the gunin his hand....     The police officer yelled, silently, and came to his feet, anexpression of shocked surprise on his face—surprise, Blade thoughtdesperately, that the girl might interpret as shock at seeing DevilGarrett.     Which was right, in a way.     Then, as Commander Weddel leapt to his feet, as Devil Garrett'sfinger tightened on the trigger, as the girl sucked in her breathinvoluntarily, Star Blade scooped up a bit of metal—a fork—and flungit at the vision transmitter.     Not at the screen. But at the equipment behind the dial-board. At acertain small unit, which was almost covered by wires and braces forthe large tubes. And the fork struck it, bit deep, and caused result.     Result in the form of a burned-out set. If television equipment cancurse, that set cursed them. Its spitting of sparks and blue electricflame mingled with a strange, high-pitched whine.     It was the diversion that caused Garrett to miss Star, which gave himtime to pull three or four of Garrett's men onto the floor with him.One of the men drove the butt of a jet-gun into the side of Star'shead, and for the third time, he went very limp. The last thing he sawwas the girl.     Somehow, the expression on her face was different from what it hadbeen. He was searching for the difference, when the blow struckhim. Somewhere in the space that lies between consciousness andunconsciousness, he reflected bitterly that if he kept staring at thegirl when he should be fighting, he might not recover some day. Thiswas the third time that he had been knocked out that way. It was notgetting monotonous. He still felt it a novelty.     Star awoke in the same prison cell, facing the wall away from the door.He wondered if he were still alive, tried to move his head, and decidedthat he wasn't. He didn't even get up or look around when he dimlyheard the door being opened.     But when he heard the girl's voice, he came up and around very swiftly,despite his head.     It was the girl all right. Even through the tumbled mists of his brain,he could see that she was not a dream. And as he reeled and fellagainst the wall, she was beside him in a flash, her arm supporting him.  At first he tried to push himself erect, his head whirling with sickdizziness, and bewilderment. Through a twisting haze, he peered up atthe girl's face. It reflected a look that, amazingly, was one of—withno other phrase to do—compassion. Star half-sighed, and laid his headon the girl's breast, and closed his eyes.     In a minute or two, she said tensely, Are you all right? Star lookedup at her.     I guess so. Here—give a hand while I get my balance. She held him ashe tried a step or two, and then he straightened. I guess I'll be allright, now, he smiled. My head feels like—say! How come you're doingthis? What made you change your mind? And who are you?     She said quickly, breathlessly, I know you're Star Blade, now. Thattransmission set.... I can read lips! I      knew     what that officer wassaying! It was just as if I had      heard     him say that ... that you wereStarrett Blade and that man out there is Devil Garrett! she made achoking sound. And I've been here, alone, for a month! For a month!     A month? Huh—please—you...?     Star took a breath, and started over. You.... Who      are     you? What areyou doing here?     She said, I'm Anne Hinton. My father is Old John Hinton. Have youheard of him?     Of course! said Star. He manufactures most of the equipment '      BladeCosmian     ' uses. Weapons, Hineson Sub-Spacers, Star-Traveler craft ...the ship I was in when Garrett brought me down was a Hinton craft. Ishould have recognized the name. But go on. What—     Garrett communicated with dad, secretly. He posed as StarrettBlade, as you, and told dad that he was developing certain new powerprocesses. And he is! He has a new—or maybe it isn't so new—way ofelectrolyzing water to liberate hydrogen and oxygen.     I think I understand, said Star quickly. When the oxygen andhydrogen are allowed to combine, and produce an explosion which drivea turbine-generator. Then that could be hitched up to a cyclotron, andeven the most barren of Alpha's lake-rock planets could be....     No, she shook her head puzzledly. It's just electric power. He saidthat atomics would release stray rays that would attract pirates.     I know, Star nodded, abstractedly. I was thinking of anotherapplication of it ... hmm. But say! What was Garrett after? I know thathe wouldn't do this just to get a secret process sold. He must have hadanother plan behind it. Got any idea?     Anne shook her head slowly. I don't know. I can't see....     Perhaps I could help you? Devil Garrett asked smoothly from the door.     Star whirled, thrust Anne behind him, but there was no way out. Garrettstood in the door, and there were men behind him. The jet in his handcould kill both of the two at one shot. And they had no weapons toresist with.     Devil Garrett stepped them out of the room, and down the corridor,through a large door Star had noticed at the end of the passage, andinto a huge room.     It must have been a thousand feet long, and half that wide. It was atleast a hundred yards deep. And it was almost filled with giganticmachines.     Between the machinery, the spaces were almost filled with steel laddersand cat-walks. Crews of men swarmed over them. It was the largest massof equipment Starrett had ever seen.     His eyes began to pick out details. Those huge vat-like things downat the far end, with the large cables running into them, and themighty pumps connected to them ... they were probably the electrolysischambers.     And those great pipes, they must carry the hydrogen and oxygen fromthe electro chambers to the large replicas of engines, which could benothing else but the explosion chambers, where the gases were allowedto re-unite, and explode. And there by the giant engines, those must beturbines, which in turn connected with the vast-sized generators justunder the platforms on which they stood.  Star Blade whistled softly through his teeth. A huge enterprise! Itcould be ... but for a moment he had forgotten Devil Garrett.     The girl standing by his side, Star turned toward Garrett. Well?     Garrett smiled his mocking grin. You grasp the principle, of course.But let me show you ... you see those pipes that run from the turbinesafter the wheels?     Yes. They carry the gases off. Where do they lead?     Into giant subterranean caverns beneath the surface! Garrett said.Now look over there, on the platforms across from us. Can yourecognize a Barden energy-beamer, Blade? Run by power from my littleplant here, which is run by water from a thousand lakes!     Just imagine, if you can, hundreds of those plants all over AlphaIII. And each one with dozens of high-powered Barden beams to protectit! And Hinton ray screens to protect us from radio-controlled rocketshells from space, or Barden Rays, or any other weapon of offence, orto warn if anyone lands on this planet! Garrett leaned forward, hiseyes aglow.     Blade, I'll take over the few governing posts on this little planet,and I'll rule an entire world, a whole planet to myself! It'll be thefirst time in history! And it won't be the last. With the Hinton secretpatents, the plans of all John Hinton's inventions and processes....     Star twisted, and got his ace card out of its hiding place.     It was a jet weapon, little more than a jet-blast capsule for ajet-gun. The sides were thicker and stronger, and there was a devicefixed on it so it could be fired. Altogether, it was somewhat smallerthan an old-style fountain pen.     He twisted up from the floor, and moved faster than he had moved everbefore. Star was famous for his speed and the quickness and alertnessof his reflexes. He earned his fame a score of times over in that oneinstant.       And Devil Garrett died.     There was perhaps an eighth of a second between the staff of blue whitefire from the tiny jet in Star's hand and the huge broadsword of firefrom Garrett's gun. But in the split-second Star's fire knifed intoGarrett's vitals, and Garrett gave a convulsive jerk, and fired even ashis muscles started the jerking movement.     And the flame went over Star's head, singeing his scalp.     Of the four men with Garrett, one let go of the struggling Anne, andswore as he snatched at an electron knife in his belt. Anne's handhad already whipped the knife out, and without bothering to press theelectron stud, she buried the knife in his back.     Two of the remaining men whirled, and went for the door as though adevil was after them. The other tried to get a jet-gun out. It was hisfinal mistake. A blue lance from Anne's knife whipped close enough tohim to make him dodge, and then Star got his hand on Garrett's jet.     The other two men had, in their flight, taken a door which led, notinto the large corridor, but into a small room at one side, a roomfilled with instruments and recording devices for the machinery in theroom below. Star leaped to the side of the door, and called, Are yougoing to come out, or am I coming in to get you?     There was a short silence, in which Anne heard one say hoarsely, Hecan't get us ... we could get him if he came in the door.     Oh, yes? was the answer. Do you know who that guy is? He's the onethey call 'Death Star.' I'm not facing Starrett Blade in a gun fight.You can do what you like, but I'm leaving. Then he lifted his voice.Hey, Blade! I'm coming out. Don't shoot.  Okay, threw back Star and the man appeared in the doorway, emptyhands held high. After a second, the other joined him.     Anne turned to Star. Now I know why they call you 'Death Star' Blade,she said, and gestured toward the men who had surrendered, and the twowhom Starrett had shot down.     He mused there for a minute. Then Anne broke the silence with, Star,what are we going to do now? Garrett's men will be up here in a littlewhile. We can't get to a sub-space beam. What are we going to do whenthey come up to investigate?     Starrett Blade laughed. Do? Well, we could turn them over to CommanderWeddel!           What?          Grinning broadly, Star pointed, with a flourish, at the door. Annespun about, and found Commander Weddel grinning in the door from thecorridor.     Very simple, said Star across the lounge to Anne. When I smashedthe vision set with that dinner fork, I broke a small unit which isincluded in all sets. You know, a direction finder doesn't work, exceptin the liner-beam principle, in space, because of the diffusing effectof unrestricted cosmic rays.     Yes, I knew that, said Anne. But how—     Starrett grinned again. A type of beam has been found which it isimpossible for cosmics to disturb. But you can't send messages onit, so it is made in a little unit on every set. If that unit isbroken, the set automatically releases a signal beam. This is adistress signal, and the location of the set that sent out the signalis recorded at the Section Headquarters. When Commander Weddel sawme throw something at the set, and it went dead, he looked at theautomatic record, and found out that a signal had been sent in froma location on Alpha Cen's third planet. Then he had a high-velocitycruiser brought out and dropped in, in time to pick up some pieces. Hestopped, and idly toyed with a sheaf of papers, then held them up. Seethese papers?     Uh-huh. What are they, Star?     They are the main plans of Devil Garrett's power plant, and they'rethe one good thing he's ever done. These plans are going to bring thebarren, rocky Centauri planets to life!     He got up, and paced to the window, and stood there, looking out, andup through the plastic port. The planets of Centauri! he murmuredsoftly. Seven circling Alpha alone. And all seven are barren, rocky,level except for the thousands of lakes ... lakes that are going to bethe life of Centauri!  He turned back to the window. And all because a pirate named DevilGarrett built a vast power plant to use to garner more power!     You know, Anne, as a mockery, and a warning, I think I'll propose thatthis planet be officially named ... 'Garrett'!     She looked up at him, and there was laughter bright in her eyes, andtugging at her mouth. Yes, there ought to be a reason, she murmured.Star wavered. She was so darn close.     After a minute, she turned her head, and looked up at him. Star, howsoon will there be those gardens and woods you described? I mean,how long before Garrett can be turned into that kind of world youdescribed?     Why ... under pressure, we can do it in six months. Why?     Not half quick enough, she murmured happily, but it'll have to do,Star. Laughing, she turned her face up to his. Have you ever thoughtthat planet Garrett will be wonderful for a honeymoon?   ","Devil Garrett had been the top space pirate for many years, and Star is currently trying to hunt him down. We learn that Garrett has been secretly building machines on Alpha III which, if combine with Hinton ray screens, gives Garrett the power to rule the entire world. A month ago, Garrett captured Anne Hinton and started to pretend that he is Star. He was communicating with Anna’s father about new power processes. Then a month later, Star’s ship gets hit by the energy-beam. However, he survives after his ship fells into the lake, instead he is captured and Garrett wants to execute him. Luckily, he is able to divert Garret’s attention when he is shooting Star, leading him to miss it. Also, since the girl is able to read lips, she realizes that Garrett has been lying to her. She learns Garrett’s true identity as well as Star’s. In the end, as Garrett is showing them his great enterprise and explaining how he will be able to rule the world, he gets careless and Anna takes his weapon. Even though he tries to run, Star is quicker and has better reflexes. Without his weapons, Star easily had him killed."
"Describe the setting of the story? </s>    DEATH STAR     By TOM PACE     Trapped by the most feared of space pirates     Devil Garrett, Starrett Blade was fighting for     his life. Weaponless, his ship gone, he was     pinning his hopes on a girl—who wanted him dead.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Spring 1945.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Starrett Blade crouched in the rocks by the tiny Centaurian lake. Itwas only about two or three hundred feet across, but probably thousandsof feet deep. This lake, and hundreds of others like it, were theonly things to break the monotony of the flat, rocky surface of AlphaCentauri III—called the most barren planet in space.     Ten minutes ago, Star Blade's ship had spun into the stagnant watersbefore him. An emergency release had flung the air-lock doors open, andthe air pressure had flung Star out. And now he was waiting for DevilGarrett to come down to the water's edge to search for him.     For eight years, Devil Garrett had been the top space pirate in thevoid. For a year, Star himself had personally been hunting him. And ona tour over Alpha III, a Barden energy-beam had stabbed up at Blade'sship, and Star Blade had crashed into the lake.     That Barden Beam had Star worried and puzzled. It took a million voltsof power for a split-second flash of the beam. Garrett didn't have anatomics plant on Alpha III—if he had, escaping rays would point itout, no matter how well it was camouflaged. There was no water power,for there was no running water. There were only the lakes ... and tidalpower was out, for Alpha III had no moon.     However, that could wait. Star slid the electron knife from hiswater-proof sheath, gripped it firmly. He could hear quick footsteps asa man came down the trail that led directly past his hiding place.     It wasn't Garrett, which was disappointing. But it was one of his men,and he was heavily armed. That didn't worry Star.     His fighting had earned Starrett Blade the nickname of Death Star.     The man walked to the water's edge, and peered out over the pool. Hesaw the bubbles that were coming up from the sinking ship, and henodded, grunted in satisfaction, and started to turn back.     Star landed on him, knocking him sprawling on the rock. The piratejerked up an arm, holding the jet-gun.     The stabbing lance of blue fire cracked from the electron knife, duginto the man's heart.     Star tossed the dead pirate's cloak over his shoulders, and thrust bothelectron blade and jet-gun into his belt. He straightened, and saw theleveled gun from the corner of his eye.     He got the jet in his right hand, the knife in his left, and went intoa dive that flipped him behind a rock. The three actions took only asplit-second, and the blast from the jet-gun flaked rock where he hadbeen standing.     While a jet-gun is the most deadly weapon known, you have to press aloading stud to slide another blast-capsule into place. Death Star knewthis very well. So he knew he was safe in coming up from behind thespur of stone to fire his own gun.     If his reflexes hadn't been as quick as they were, he would haveblasted the girl.  He stopped, and stood for a second, staring at the girl. She wassomething to invite stares, too. In the moment that lasted between hernext move, he had time to register that she was about five feet fivetall, black-haired—the kind of black hair that looks like silken spundarkness—dark-eyed, and possessing both a face and a form that wouldmake anyone stop and gulp.     Then the moment of half-awed survey was over, and she leveled the jeton him, and said in a trembling voice, Drop those weapons, or I'llblast you ...      pirate     !     Death Star said, That jet-gun is empty. I can see the register on themagazine. And I'm not a pirate. I'm Starrett Blade.     The useless jet-gun slid out of the girl's hand, and she gave ahalf-gasp. Starrett Blade! I—I don't believe ... she broke offabruptly. So you're Death Star! A fine story for a hired killer, apirate.     Star reddened. Look, he snapped, I don't know who's been talking toyou, but ... he whirled, and his hand whipped the jet-gun from hisbelt. As he did so, the girl jerked up the jet-gun she had dropped, andflung it with all her strength. The blow landed on his arm and side,and paralyzed him long enough for the man who had leaped out behind himto land a stunning blow against his head. As Star went down, he dizzilycursed himself for becoming interested in the argument with the girl,so that he did not heed his reflexes in time ... and dimly, he wonderedwhy it had seemed so important to convince the lovely dark-haired girl.     Then a bit of the cosmos seemed to fall on Star's head, and he washurled into blackness.     An eternity seemed to pass.     Deep in the blackness, a light was born. It leaped toward him, afar-away comet rocketing along, coming from some far, unknown cornerof the galaxy. It became a flaming sun in a gray-green space, andstrangely, there seemed to be several odd planets circling about thesun. Some of them were vast pieces of queer electronic machinery. Somewere vague, villainous-looking men. One was the dark-haired girl, andthere was lovely contempt in her dark-star pools of eyes.     Then into the midst of this queer universe, there swam a new planet. Itwas the face of a man, and the man was Devil Garrett.     That brought Star up, out of his daze, onto his feet as though he hadbeen doused with cold water. He stood there, not staring, just lookingat Garrett.     The most famous killer in the void was big. He was six feet three, andtwice as strong as he looked. He wore a huge high-velocity jet-gun, anda set of electron knives, all of the finest workmanship. He was sittingon a laboratory chair of steel, and the chair bent slightly under hisgreat weight.     He smiled at Star, and there was a touch of hell in the smile. He said,Ah, Mr. Garrett.     Star's jaw dropped. Garrett? What do you— he broke off. A glance atthe girl told him what the purpose was.     Look, Mr. Devil Garrett, said the pirate, still smiling softly, MissHinton is aware of your identity. There is no need to attempt to foolus.... I've known it was you ever since I flashed that beam at yourship. And you needn't flatter yourself that the Devil's luck is goingto hold out as far as you are concerned. For in a very short while,I'm going to have you executed ... before a stellar vision screen,connected with Section Void Headquarters! I wish the authorities to seeDevil Garrett die, so that I might collect the reward that is offeredon you!     Star stood quiet, and looked straight into Garrett's eyes. After aminute of silence, Garrett's lips twisted into a smile, and he saidmockingly, Well, pirate? What are you thinking of?     Star said, in a low, cold voice, I'm thinking of putting an electronfire-blade into your face, Devil Garrett!     Garrett laughed ... huge, rather evil, bluff laughter. The mirth of aperson who is both powerful and dangerous. And then the girl leapedforward, shaking with rage.     You beast! Murderer! To accuse this man ... you fool, you might havebeen able to complete any scheme of escape you had, if you hadn'tcalled yourself Starrett Blade! Mr. Blade.... She gestured towardGarrett, who made a mocking, sardonic bow. ... has given me ampleproof that he is who he says! And this long before you came. He's shownme papers giving a description and showing a tri-dimension picture ofyou....     Fire leaped in Star's eyes. Listen ... he snapped furiously, as hestarted to step forward. Then Garrett made a signal with his hand, andsomeone drove a fist against the base of Star's skull.  When Star came to, he was in a cell of sorts. A man standing by thedoor told him that he was to be executed, ... after Mr. Blade and thelady have eaten. Starrett swore at him, and the man went out, with amocking Goodbye, Mr. Garrett!     Star got up. His head spun, and he almost fell at first, but the dazeleft in his head from the two blows quickly cleared away. He felt forvarious weapons which he had hidden about him ... and found them gone.Garrett's men had searched carefully.     Star sat down, his head spinning more now from mystery than fromphysical pain. He had to keep himself in a whole skin, of course. Thatwas most important right now. But other things were bothering him,tugging at his mind like waves slapping around a swamped ship, eachtrying to shove it in a different direction.     There was the girl. Star wondered why she always leaped into his mindfirst. And there was the way Garrett was trying to leave the impressionthat he was Blade, so that he could kill Blade as Garrett.     Obviously, the reason for that was the girl, Miss Hinton, Garrett hadcalled her. She had been shown faked papers by Garrett, papers provingthat the two were ... were whatever Garrett had twisted the story into!     Star clutched at his head. He was in a mess. He was going to be killed,and he was going to die without knowing the score. And he didn't likethat. Nor did he like dying as Star Blade shouldn't die; executed asa wolf's-head pirate. The girl would be watching, and he felt as ifthat would make it far worse.     His head came up, and he smiled flintily. He still had an ace card! Onehand felt for it, and he shook his head slowly. It was a gamble ... butall the others had been found.     Blade looked up quickly, as the door opened. Two men came into thecell, carrying jet-guns. They motioned Blade to his feet. Come on,Blade. One began, when the other hit him across the mouth.     You fool! he hissed. You better not call him that; suppose thatgirl was to hear it? Until the boss gets what he wants on Earth, thatgirl has got to think that he's Blade! We're killing this guy as DevilGarrett! And a loud-mouthed fool like you ... look out!     Blade had landed on the bickering men, and was grappling with the onewho had called him by name. As the other leaped forward, swinging aclubbing blow with a jet-gun, Star tripped one man into the corner, andducked under the gun. He hit the man in the stomach, drove a shoulderup under his arms, and smashed the man's face in with a series of sharpblows. The man went reeling backward across the room, and Star's handleaped toward that ace card which he still held.     Devil Garrett stepped in the door, and made a mock out of a courteousbow. As he did so, Star snarled in rage, but stood very still, for theelectron knife in Garrett's hand did not waver.     Garrett gestured silently toward the door, and Star, equally silent,walked over and out, at the point of the weapon.  Star Blade stood before a transmitter, and thought about death.     He was very close to it. Garrett stood five yards away, a gun inhis hand, and the muzzle trained on Blade's chest. The gun was theuniversally used weapon of execution, an old projectile-firing weapon.     Star did not doubt that Devil Garrett was an excellent shot with it.     The girl, very round-eyed and nervous, sat by Garrett. He had explainedto her that Garrett was the type of pirate that it is law to kill, orhave executed, by anyone. Which was very true.     A man stepped away from the transmitter, and nodded to Garrett. Starfelt a surge of hope, as he saw that it was a two-way transmitter. Ifthe image of an Interstellar Command headquarters was tuned in—Garrettwould undoubtedly do it, if only to show the police that he had killedStarrett Blade—then Garrett could not kill him and cut the beam intime to prevent one of the police from giving a cry that would echoover the sub-space beam arriving almost instantly in this room, and letthe girl know that she had been tricked. And Garrett would not wantthat. Not that it would matter to Starrett Blade.     Then Star saw what kind of a transmitter it was, and he groaned. Itwas not a Hineson Sub-space beamer ... it was an old-style transmitterwhich had different wave speeds, because of the different space-bridgerunits in it.     The visual image would arrive many seconds before the sound did. Thusthe girl would not hear Garrett revealed, but would see only Blade'sdeath. And then ... whatever Garrett had planned, Blade wished heartilythat he could have the chance to interfere.     The beam was coming in. Star saw the mists swimming on the screenchange, solidify into a figure ... the figure of District CommanderWeddel seated at a desk. He saw Weddel's eyebrows rise, saw his lipsmove—then Garrett stepped over a pace, and Weddel saw him, saw the gunin his hand....     The police officer yelled, silently, and came to his feet, anexpression of shocked surprise on his face—surprise, Blade thoughtdesperately, that the girl might interpret as shock at seeing DevilGarrett.     Which was right, in a way.     Then, as Commander Weddel leapt to his feet, as Devil Garrett'sfinger tightened on the trigger, as the girl sucked in her breathinvoluntarily, Star Blade scooped up a bit of metal—a fork—and flungit at the vision transmitter.     Not at the screen. But at the equipment behind the dial-board. At acertain small unit, which was almost covered by wires and braces forthe large tubes. And the fork struck it, bit deep, and caused result.     Result in the form of a burned-out set. If television equipment cancurse, that set cursed them. Its spitting of sparks and blue electricflame mingled with a strange, high-pitched whine.     It was the diversion that caused Garrett to miss Star, which gave himtime to pull three or four of Garrett's men onto the floor with him.One of the men drove the butt of a jet-gun into the side of Star'shead, and for the third time, he went very limp. The last thing he sawwas the girl.     Somehow, the expression on her face was different from what it hadbeen. He was searching for the difference, when the blow struckhim. Somewhere in the space that lies between consciousness andunconsciousness, he reflected bitterly that if he kept staring at thegirl when he should be fighting, he might not recover some day. Thiswas the third time that he had been knocked out that way. It was notgetting monotonous. He still felt it a novelty.     Star awoke in the same prison cell, facing the wall away from the door.He wondered if he were still alive, tried to move his head, and decidedthat he wasn't. He didn't even get up or look around when he dimlyheard the door being opened.     But when he heard the girl's voice, he came up and around very swiftly,despite his head.     It was the girl all right. Even through the tumbled mists of his brain,he could see that she was not a dream. And as he reeled and fellagainst the wall, she was beside him in a flash, her arm supporting him.  At first he tried to push himself erect, his head whirling with sickdizziness, and bewilderment. Through a twisting haze, he peered up atthe girl's face. It reflected a look that, amazingly, was one of—withno other phrase to do—compassion. Star half-sighed, and laid his headon the girl's breast, and closed his eyes.     In a minute or two, she said tensely, Are you all right? Star lookedup at her.     I guess so. Here—give a hand while I get my balance. She held him ashe tried a step or two, and then he straightened. I guess I'll be allright, now, he smiled. My head feels like—say! How come you're doingthis? What made you change your mind? And who are you?     She said quickly, breathlessly, I know you're Star Blade, now. Thattransmission set.... I can read lips! I      knew     what that officer wassaying! It was just as if I had      heard     him say that ... that you wereStarrett Blade and that man out there is Devil Garrett! she made achoking sound. And I've been here, alone, for a month! For a month!     A month? Huh—please—you...?     Star took a breath, and started over. You.... Who      are     you? What areyou doing here?     She said, I'm Anne Hinton. My father is Old John Hinton. Have youheard of him?     Of course! said Star. He manufactures most of the equipment '      BladeCosmian     ' uses. Weapons, Hineson Sub-Spacers, Star-Traveler craft ...the ship I was in when Garrett brought me down was a Hinton craft. Ishould have recognized the name. But go on. What—     Garrett communicated with dad, secretly. He posed as StarrettBlade, as you, and told dad that he was developing certain new powerprocesses. And he is! He has a new—or maybe it isn't so new—way ofelectrolyzing water to liberate hydrogen and oxygen.     I think I understand, said Star quickly. When the oxygen andhydrogen are allowed to combine, and produce an explosion which drivea turbine-generator. Then that could be hitched up to a cyclotron, andeven the most barren of Alpha's lake-rock planets could be....     No, she shook her head puzzledly. It's just electric power. He saidthat atomics would release stray rays that would attract pirates.     I know, Star nodded, abstractedly. I was thinking of anotherapplication of it ... hmm. But say! What was Garrett after? I know thathe wouldn't do this just to get a secret process sold. He must have hadanother plan behind it. Got any idea?     Anne shook her head slowly. I don't know. I can't see....     Perhaps I could help you? Devil Garrett asked smoothly from the door.     Star whirled, thrust Anne behind him, but there was no way out. Garrettstood in the door, and there were men behind him. The jet in his handcould kill both of the two at one shot. And they had no weapons toresist with.     Devil Garrett stepped them out of the room, and down the corridor,through a large door Star had noticed at the end of the passage, andinto a huge room.     It must have been a thousand feet long, and half that wide. It was atleast a hundred yards deep. And it was almost filled with giganticmachines.     Between the machinery, the spaces were almost filled with steel laddersand cat-walks. Crews of men swarmed over them. It was the largest massof equipment Starrett had ever seen.     His eyes began to pick out details. Those huge vat-like things downat the far end, with the large cables running into them, and themighty pumps connected to them ... they were probably the electrolysischambers.     And those great pipes, they must carry the hydrogen and oxygen fromthe electro chambers to the large replicas of engines, which could benothing else but the explosion chambers, where the gases were allowedto re-unite, and explode. And there by the giant engines, those must beturbines, which in turn connected with the vast-sized generators justunder the platforms on which they stood.  Star Blade whistled softly through his teeth. A huge enterprise! Itcould be ... but for a moment he had forgotten Devil Garrett.     The girl standing by his side, Star turned toward Garrett. Well?     Garrett smiled his mocking grin. You grasp the principle, of course.But let me show you ... you see those pipes that run from the turbinesafter the wheels?     Yes. They carry the gases off. Where do they lead?     Into giant subterranean caverns beneath the surface! Garrett said.Now look over there, on the platforms across from us. Can yourecognize a Barden energy-beamer, Blade? Run by power from my littleplant here, which is run by water from a thousand lakes!     Just imagine, if you can, hundreds of those plants all over AlphaIII. And each one with dozens of high-powered Barden beams to protectit! And Hinton ray screens to protect us from radio-controlled rocketshells from space, or Barden Rays, or any other weapon of offence, orto warn if anyone lands on this planet! Garrett leaned forward, hiseyes aglow.     Blade, I'll take over the few governing posts on this little planet,and I'll rule an entire world, a whole planet to myself! It'll be thefirst time in history! And it won't be the last. With the Hinton secretpatents, the plans of all John Hinton's inventions and processes....     Star twisted, and got his ace card out of its hiding place.     It was a jet weapon, little more than a jet-blast capsule for ajet-gun. The sides were thicker and stronger, and there was a devicefixed on it so it could be fired. Altogether, it was somewhat smallerthan an old-style fountain pen.     He twisted up from the floor, and moved faster than he had moved everbefore. Star was famous for his speed and the quickness and alertnessof his reflexes. He earned his fame a score of times over in that oneinstant.       And Devil Garrett died.     There was perhaps an eighth of a second between the staff of blue whitefire from the tiny jet in Star's hand and the huge broadsword of firefrom Garrett's gun. But in the split-second Star's fire knifed intoGarrett's vitals, and Garrett gave a convulsive jerk, and fired even ashis muscles started the jerking movement.     And the flame went over Star's head, singeing his scalp.     Of the four men with Garrett, one let go of the struggling Anne, andswore as he snatched at an electron knife in his belt. Anne's handhad already whipped the knife out, and without bothering to press theelectron stud, she buried the knife in his back.     Two of the remaining men whirled, and went for the door as though adevil was after them. The other tried to get a jet-gun out. It was hisfinal mistake. A blue lance from Anne's knife whipped close enough tohim to make him dodge, and then Star got his hand on Garrett's jet.     The other two men had, in their flight, taken a door which led, notinto the large corridor, but into a small room at one side, a roomfilled with instruments and recording devices for the machinery in theroom below. Star leaped to the side of the door, and called, Are yougoing to come out, or am I coming in to get you?     There was a short silence, in which Anne heard one say hoarsely, Hecan't get us ... we could get him if he came in the door.     Oh, yes? was the answer. Do you know who that guy is? He's the onethey call 'Death Star.' I'm not facing Starrett Blade in a gun fight.You can do what you like, but I'm leaving. Then he lifted his voice.Hey, Blade! I'm coming out. Don't shoot.  Okay, threw back Star and the man appeared in the doorway, emptyhands held high. After a second, the other joined him.     Anne turned to Star. Now I know why they call you 'Death Star' Blade,she said, and gestured toward the men who had surrendered, and the twowhom Starrett had shot down.     He mused there for a minute. Then Anne broke the silence with, Star,what are we going to do now? Garrett's men will be up here in a littlewhile. We can't get to a sub-space beam. What are we going to do whenthey come up to investigate?     Starrett Blade laughed. Do? Well, we could turn them over to CommanderWeddel!           What?          Grinning broadly, Star pointed, with a flourish, at the door. Annespun about, and found Commander Weddel grinning in the door from thecorridor.     Very simple, said Star across the lounge to Anne. When I smashedthe vision set with that dinner fork, I broke a small unit which isincluded in all sets. You know, a direction finder doesn't work, exceptin the liner-beam principle, in space, because of the diffusing effectof unrestricted cosmic rays.     Yes, I knew that, said Anne. But how—     Starrett grinned again. A type of beam has been found which it isimpossible for cosmics to disturb. But you can't send messages onit, so it is made in a little unit on every set. If that unit isbroken, the set automatically releases a signal beam. This is adistress signal, and the location of the set that sent out the signalis recorded at the Section Headquarters. When Commander Weddel sawme throw something at the set, and it went dead, he looked at theautomatic record, and found out that a signal had been sent in froma location on Alpha Cen's third planet. Then he had a high-velocitycruiser brought out and dropped in, in time to pick up some pieces. Hestopped, and idly toyed with a sheaf of papers, then held them up. Seethese papers?     Uh-huh. What are they, Star?     They are the main plans of Devil Garrett's power plant, and they'rethe one good thing he's ever done. These plans are going to bring thebarren, rocky Centauri planets to life!     He got up, and paced to the window, and stood there, looking out, andup through the plastic port. The planets of Centauri! he murmuredsoftly. Seven circling Alpha alone. And all seven are barren, rocky,level except for the thousands of lakes ... lakes that are going to bethe life of Centauri!  He turned back to the window. And all because a pirate named DevilGarrett built a vast power plant to use to garner more power!     You know, Anne, as a mockery, and a warning, I think I'll propose thatthis planet be officially named ... 'Garrett'!     She looked up at him, and there was laughter bright in her eyes, andtugging at her mouth. Yes, there ought to be a reason, she murmured.Star wavered. She was so darn close.     After a minute, she turned her head, and looked up at him. Star, howsoon will there be those gardens and woods you described? I mean,how long before Garrett can be turned into that kind of world youdescribed?     Why ... under pressure, we can do it in six months. Why?     Not half quick enough, she murmured happily, but it'll have to do,Star. Laughing, she turned her face up to his. Have you ever thoughtthat planet Garrett will be wonderful for a honeymoon?   ","The story takes place on Alpha Centauri III, a planet that has many stagnant lakes that are only a few hundred feet across, but a few thousand feet deep. After Star’s ship fells into one of the lakes, he is knocked out and is captured by the girl and Garrett’s people to their craft. He is sitting on a lab chair where he realizes that he is being called “Garrett” instead of Star. He is still super surprised, but then is knocked out again. He wakes up in some kind of cell and is told he will be executed. He is brought to a room to be executed streaming to the Section Void Headquarters with a stellar vision screen. After some distraction, Garrett misses the shot. But Star is knocked out again to be brought back to the cell again. After acknowledging that the girl knows his true identity, Garrett notices them and brought them to see his grand operation that will allow him to rule over the world. However, he dies before he was able to finish introducing the rest of the machineries. "
"What did Garrett do to make the girl believe that he is Star and Star is Garrett? </s>    DEATH STAR     By TOM PACE     Trapped by the most feared of space pirates     Devil Garrett, Starrett Blade was fighting for     his life. Weaponless, his ship gone, he was     pinning his hopes on a girl—who wanted him dead.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Spring 1945.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Starrett Blade crouched in the rocks by the tiny Centaurian lake. Itwas only about two or three hundred feet across, but probably thousandsof feet deep. This lake, and hundreds of others like it, were theonly things to break the monotony of the flat, rocky surface of AlphaCentauri III—called the most barren planet in space.     Ten minutes ago, Star Blade's ship had spun into the stagnant watersbefore him. An emergency release had flung the air-lock doors open, andthe air pressure had flung Star out. And now he was waiting for DevilGarrett to come down to the water's edge to search for him.     For eight years, Devil Garrett had been the top space pirate in thevoid. For a year, Star himself had personally been hunting him. And ona tour over Alpha III, a Barden energy-beam had stabbed up at Blade'sship, and Star Blade had crashed into the lake.     That Barden Beam had Star worried and puzzled. It took a million voltsof power for a split-second flash of the beam. Garrett didn't have anatomics plant on Alpha III—if he had, escaping rays would point itout, no matter how well it was camouflaged. There was no water power,for there was no running water. There were only the lakes ... and tidalpower was out, for Alpha III had no moon.     However, that could wait. Star slid the electron knife from hiswater-proof sheath, gripped it firmly. He could hear quick footsteps asa man came down the trail that led directly past his hiding place.     It wasn't Garrett, which was disappointing. But it was one of his men,and he was heavily armed. That didn't worry Star.     His fighting had earned Starrett Blade the nickname of Death Star.     The man walked to the water's edge, and peered out over the pool. Hesaw the bubbles that were coming up from the sinking ship, and henodded, grunted in satisfaction, and started to turn back.     Star landed on him, knocking him sprawling on the rock. The piratejerked up an arm, holding the jet-gun.     The stabbing lance of blue fire cracked from the electron knife, duginto the man's heart.     Star tossed the dead pirate's cloak over his shoulders, and thrust bothelectron blade and jet-gun into his belt. He straightened, and saw theleveled gun from the corner of his eye.     He got the jet in his right hand, the knife in his left, and went intoa dive that flipped him behind a rock. The three actions took only asplit-second, and the blast from the jet-gun flaked rock where he hadbeen standing.     While a jet-gun is the most deadly weapon known, you have to press aloading stud to slide another blast-capsule into place. Death Star knewthis very well. So he knew he was safe in coming up from behind thespur of stone to fire his own gun.     If his reflexes hadn't been as quick as they were, he would haveblasted the girl.  He stopped, and stood for a second, staring at the girl. She wassomething to invite stares, too. In the moment that lasted between hernext move, he had time to register that she was about five feet fivetall, black-haired—the kind of black hair that looks like silken spundarkness—dark-eyed, and possessing both a face and a form that wouldmake anyone stop and gulp.     Then the moment of half-awed survey was over, and she leveled the jeton him, and said in a trembling voice, Drop those weapons, or I'llblast you ...      pirate     !     Death Star said, That jet-gun is empty. I can see the register on themagazine. And I'm not a pirate. I'm Starrett Blade.     The useless jet-gun slid out of the girl's hand, and she gave ahalf-gasp. Starrett Blade! I—I don't believe ... she broke offabruptly. So you're Death Star! A fine story for a hired killer, apirate.     Star reddened. Look, he snapped, I don't know who's been talking toyou, but ... he whirled, and his hand whipped the jet-gun from hisbelt. As he did so, the girl jerked up the jet-gun she had dropped, andflung it with all her strength. The blow landed on his arm and side,and paralyzed him long enough for the man who had leaped out behind himto land a stunning blow against his head. As Star went down, he dizzilycursed himself for becoming interested in the argument with the girl,so that he did not heed his reflexes in time ... and dimly, he wonderedwhy it had seemed so important to convince the lovely dark-haired girl.     Then a bit of the cosmos seemed to fall on Star's head, and he washurled into blackness.     An eternity seemed to pass.     Deep in the blackness, a light was born. It leaped toward him, afar-away comet rocketing along, coming from some far, unknown cornerof the galaxy. It became a flaming sun in a gray-green space, andstrangely, there seemed to be several odd planets circling about thesun. Some of them were vast pieces of queer electronic machinery. Somewere vague, villainous-looking men. One was the dark-haired girl, andthere was lovely contempt in her dark-star pools of eyes.     Then into the midst of this queer universe, there swam a new planet. Itwas the face of a man, and the man was Devil Garrett.     That brought Star up, out of his daze, onto his feet as though he hadbeen doused with cold water. He stood there, not staring, just lookingat Garrett.     The most famous killer in the void was big. He was six feet three, andtwice as strong as he looked. He wore a huge high-velocity jet-gun, anda set of electron knives, all of the finest workmanship. He was sittingon a laboratory chair of steel, and the chair bent slightly under hisgreat weight.     He smiled at Star, and there was a touch of hell in the smile. He said,Ah, Mr. Garrett.     Star's jaw dropped. Garrett? What do you— he broke off. A glance atthe girl told him what the purpose was.     Look, Mr. Devil Garrett, said the pirate, still smiling softly, MissHinton is aware of your identity. There is no need to attempt to foolus.... I've known it was you ever since I flashed that beam at yourship. And you needn't flatter yourself that the Devil's luck is goingto hold out as far as you are concerned. For in a very short while,I'm going to have you executed ... before a stellar vision screen,connected with Section Void Headquarters! I wish the authorities to seeDevil Garrett die, so that I might collect the reward that is offeredon you!     Star stood quiet, and looked straight into Garrett's eyes. After aminute of silence, Garrett's lips twisted into a smile, and he saidmockingly, Well, pirate? What are you thinking of?     Star said, in a low, cold voice, I'm thinking of putting an electronfire-blade into your face, Devil Garrett!     Garrett laughed ... huge, rather evil, bluff laughter. The mirth of aperson who is both powerful and dangerous. And then the girl leapedforward, shaking with rage.     You beast! Murderer! To accuse this man ... you fool, you might havebeen able to complete any scheme of escape you had, if you hadn'tcalled yourself Starrett Blade! Mr. Blade.... She gestured towardGarrett, who made a mocking, sardonic bow. ... has given me ampleproof that he is who he says! And this long before you came. He's shownme papers giving a description and showing a tri-dimension picture ofyou....     Fire leaped in Star's eyes. Listen ... he snapped furiously, as hestarted to step forward. Then Garrett made a signal with his hand, andsomeone drove a fist against the base of Star's skull.  When Star came to, he was in a cell of sorts. A man standing by thedoor told him that he was to be executed, ... after Mr. Blade and thelady have eaten. Starrett swore at him, and the man went out, with amocking Goodbye, Mr. Garrett!     Star got up. His head spun, and he almost fell at first, but the dazeleft in his head from the two blows quickly cleared away. He felt forvarious weapons which he had hidden about him ... and found them gone.Garrett's men had searched carefully.     Star sat down, his head spinning more now from mystery than fromphysical pain. He had to keep himself in a whole skin, of course. Thatwas most important right now. But other things were bothering him,tugging at his mind like waves slapping around a swamped ship, eachtrying to shove it in a different direction.     There was the girl. Star wondered why she always leaped into his mindfirst. And there was the way Garrett was trying to leave the impressionthat he was Blade, so that he could kill Blade as Garrett.     Obviously, the reason for that was the girl, Miss Hinton, Garrett hadcalled her. She had been shown faked papers by Garrett, papers provingthat the two were ... were whatever Garrett had twisted the story into!     Star clutched at his head. He was in a mess. He was going to be killed,and he was going to die without knowing the score. And he didn't likethat. Nor did he like dying as Star Blade shouldn't die; executed asa wolf's-head pirate. The girl would be watching, and he felt as ifthat would make it far worse.     His head came up, and he smiled flintily. He still had an ace card! Onehand felt for it, and he shook his head slowly. It was a gamble ... butall the others had been found.     Blade looked up quickly, as the door opened. Two men came into thecell, carrying jet-guns. They motioned Blade to his feet. Come on,Blade. One began, when the other hit him across the mouth.     You fool! he hissed. You better not call him that; suppose thatgirl was to hear it? Until the boss gets what he wants on Earth, thatgirl has got to think that he's Blade! We're killing this guy as DevilGarrett! And a loud-mouthed fool like you ... look out!     Blade had landed on the bickering men, and was grappling with the onewho had called him by name. As the other leaped forward, swinging aclubbing blow with a jet-gun, Star tripped one man into the corner, andducked under the gun. He hit the man in the stomach, drove a shoulderup under his arms, and smashed the man's face in with a series of sharpblows. The man went reeling backward across the room, and Star's handleaped toward that ace card which he still held.     Devil Garrett stepped in the door, and made a mock out of a courteousbow. As he did so, Star snarled in rage, but stood very still, for theelectron knife in Garrett's hand did not waver.     Garrett gestured silently toward the door, and Star, equally silent,walked over and out, at the point of the weapon.  Star Blade stood before a transmitter, and thought about death.     He was very close to it. Garrett stood five yards away, a gun inhis hand, and the muzzle trained on Blade's chest. The gun was theuniversally used weapon of execution, an old projectile-firing weapon.     Star did not doubt that Devil Garrett was an excellent shot with it.     The girl, very round-eyed and nervous, sat by Garrett. He had explainedto her that Garrett was the type of pirate that it is law to kill, orhave executed, by anyone. Which was very true.     A man stepped away from the transmitter, and nodded to Garrett. Starfelt a surge of hope, as he saw that it was a two-way transmitter. Ifthe image of an Interstellar Command headquarters was tuned in—Garrettwould undoubtedly do it, if only to show the police that he had killedStarrett Blade—then Garrett could not kill him and cut the beam intime to prevent one of the police from giving a cry that would echoover the sub-space beam arriving almost instantly in this room, and letthe girl know that she had been tricked. And Garrett would not wantthat. Not that it would matter to Starrett Blade.     Then Star saw what kind of a transmitter it was, and he groaned. Itwas not a Hineson Sub-space beamer ... it was an old-style transmitterwhich had different wave speeds, because of the different space-bridgerunits in it.     The visual image would arrive many seconds before the sound did. Thusthe girl would not hear Garrett revealed, but would see only Blade'sdeath. And then ... whatever Garrett had planned, Blade wished heartilythat he could have the chance to interfere.     The beam was coming in. Star saw the mists swimming on the screenchange, solidify into a figure ... the figure of District CommanderWeddel seated at a desk. He saw Weddel's eyebrows rise, saw his lipsmove—then Garrett stepped over a pace, and Weddel saw him, saw the gunin his hand....     The police officer yelled, silently, and came to his feet, anexpression of shocked surprise on his face—surprise, Blade thoughtdesperately, that the girl might interpret as shock at seeing DevilGarrett.     Which was right, in a way.     Then, as Commander Weddel leapt to his feet, as Devil Garrett'sfinger tightened on the trigger, as the girl sucked in her breathinvoluntarily, Star Blade scooped up a bit of metal—a fork—and flungit at the vision transmitter.     Not at the screen. But at the equipment behind the dial-board. At acertain small unit, which was almost covered by wires and braces forthe large tubes. And the fork struck it, bit deep, and caused result.     Result in the form of a burned-out set. If television equipment cancurse, that set cursed them. Its spitting of sparks and blue electricflame mingled with a strange, high-pitched whine.     It was the diversion that caused Garrett to miss Star, which gave himtime to pull three or four of Garrett's men onto the floor with him.One of the men drove the butt of a jet-gun into the side of Star'shead, and for the third time, he went very limp. The last thing he sawwas the girl.     Somehow, the expression on her face was different from what it hadbeen. He was searching for the difference, when the blow struckhim. Somewhere in the space that lies between consciousness andunconsciousness, he reflected bitterly that if he kept staring at thegirl when he should be fighting, he might not recover some day. Thiswas the third time that he had been knocked out that way. It was notgetting monotonous. He still felt it a novelty.     Star awoke in the same prison cell, facing the wall away from the door.He wondered if he were still alive, tried to move his head, and decidedthat he wasn't. He didn't even get up or look around when he dimlyheard the door being opened.     But when he heard the girl's voice, he came up and around very swiftly,despite his head.     It was the girl all right. Even through the tumbled mists of his brain,he could see that she was not a dream. And as he reeled and fellagainst the wall, she was beside him in a flash, her arm supporting him.  At first he tried to push himself erect, his head whirling with sickdizziness, and bewilderment. Through a twisting haze, he peered up atthe girl's face. It reflected a look that, amazingly, was one of—withno other phrase to do—compassion. Star half-sighed, and laid his headon the girl's breast, and closed his eyes.     In a minute or two, she said tensely, Are you all right? Star lookedup at her.     I guess so. Here—give a hand while I get my balance. She held him ashe tried a step or two, and then he straightened. I guess I'll be allright, now, he smiled. My head feels like—say! How come you're doingthis? What made you change your mind? And who are you?     She said quickly, breathlessly, I know you're Star Blade, now. Thattransmission set.... I can read lips! I      knew     what that officer wassaying! It was just as if I had      heard     him say that ... that you wereStarrett Blade and that man out there is Devil Garrett! she made achoking sound. And I've been here, alone, for a month! For a month!     A month? Huh—please—you...?     Star took a breath, and started over. You.... Who      are     you? What areyou doing here?     She said, I'm Anne Hinton. My father is Old John Hinton. Have youheard of him?     Of course! said Star. He manufactures most of the equipment '      BladeCosmian     ' uses. Weapons, Hineson Sub-Spacers, Star-Traveler craft ...the ship I was in when Garrett brought me down was a Hinton craft. Ishould have recognized the name. But go on. What—     Garrett communicated with dad, secretly. He posed as StarrettBlade, as you, and told dad that he was developing certain new powerprocesses. And he is! He has a new—or maybe it isn't so new—way ofelectrolyzing water to liberate hydrogen and oxygen.     I think I understand, said Star quickly. When the oxygen andhydrogen are allowed to combine, and produce an explosion which drivea turbine-generator. Then that could be hitched up to a cyclotron, andeven the most barren of Alpha's lake-rock planets could be....     No, she shook her head puzzledly. It's just electric power. He saidthat atomics would release stray rays that would attract pirates.     I know, Star nodded, abstractedly. I was thinking of anotherapplication of it ... hmm. But say! What was Garrett after? I know thathe wouldn't do this just to get a secret process sold. He must have hadanother plan behind it. Got any idea?     Anne shook her head slowly. I don't know. I can't see....     Perhaps I could help you? Devil Garrett asked smoothly from the door.     Star whirled, thrust Anne behind him, but there was no way out. Garrettstood in the door, and there were men behind him. The jet in his handcould kill both of the two at one shot. And they had no weapons toresist with.     Devil Garrett stepped them out of the room, and down the corridor,through a large door Star had noticed at the end of the passage, andinto a huge room.     It must have been a thousand feet long, and half that wide. It was atleast a hundred yards deep. And it was almost filled with giganticmachines.     Between the machinery, the spaces were almost filled with steel laddersand cat-walks. Crews of men swarmed over them. It was the largest massof equipment Starrett had ever seen.     His eyes began to pick out details. Those huge vat-like things downat the far end, with the large cables running into them, and themighty pumps connected to them ... they were probably the electrolysischambers.     And those great pipes, they must carry the hydrogen and oxygen fromthe electro chambers to the large replicas of engines, which could benothing else but the explosion chambers, where the gases were allowedto re-unite, and explode. And there by the giant engines, those must beturbines, which in turn connected with the vast-sized generators justunder the platforms on which they stood.  Star Blade whistled softly through his teeth. A huge enterprise! Itcould be ... but for a moment he had forgotten Devil Garrett.     The girl standing by his side, Star turned toward Garrett. Well?     Garrett smiled his mocking grin. You grasp the principle, of course.But let me show you ... you see those pipes that run from the turbinesafter the wheels?     Yes. They carry the gases off. Where do they lead?     Into giant subterranean caverns beneath the surface! Garrett said.Now look over there, on the platforms across from us. Can yourecognize a Barden energy-beamer, Blade? Run by power from my littleplant here, which is run by water from a thousand lakes!     Just imagine, if you can, hundreds of those plants all over AlphaIII. And each one with dozens of high-powered Barden beams to protectit! And Hinton ray screens to protect us from radio-controlled rocketshells from space, or Barden Rays, or any other weapon of offence, orto warn if anyone lands on this planet! Garrett leaned forward, hiseyes aglow.     Blade, I'll take over the few governing posts on this little planet,and I'll rule an entire world, a whole planet to myself! It'll be thefirst time in history! And it won't be the last. With the Hinton secretpatents, the plans of all John Hinton's inventions and processes....     Star twisted, and got his ace card out of its hiding place.     It was a jet weapon, little more than a jet-blast capsule for ajet-gun. The sides were thicker and stronger, and there was a devicefixed on it so it could be fired. Altogether, it was somewhat smallerthan an old-style fountain pen.     He twisted up from the floor, and moved faster than he had moved everbefore. Star was famous for his speed and the quickness and alertnessof his reflexes. He earned his fame a score of times over in that oneinstant.       And Devil Garrett died.     There was perhaps an eighth of a second between the staff of blue whitefire from the tiny jet in Star's hand and the huge broadsword of firefrom Garrett's gun. But in the split-second Star's fire knifed intoGarrett's vitals, and Garrett gave a convulsive jerk, and fired even ashis muscles started the jerking movement.     And the flame went over Star's head, singeing his scalp.     Of the four men with Garrett, one let go of the struggling Anne, andswore as he snatched at an electron knife in his belt. Anne's handhad already whipped the knife out, and without bothering to press theelectron stud, she buried the knife in his back.     Two of the remaining men whirled, and went for the door as though adevil was after them. The other tried to get a jet-gun out. It was hisfinal mistake. A blue lance from Anne's knife whipped close enough tohim to make him dodge, and then Star got his hand on Garrett's jet.     The other two men had, in their flight, taken a door which led, notinto the large corridor, but into a small room at one side, a roomfilled with instruments and recording devices for the machinery in theroom below. Star leaped to the side of the door, and called, Are yougoing to come out, or am I coming in to get you?     There was a short silence, in which Anne heard one say hoarsely, Hecan't get us ... we could get him if he came in the door.     Oh, yes? was the answer. Do you know who that guy is? He's the onethey call 'Death Star.' I'm not facing Starrett Blade in a gun fight.You can do what you like, but I'm leaving. Then he lifted his voice.Hey, Blade! I'm coming out. Don't shoot.  Okay, threw back Star and the man appeared in the doorway, emptyhands held high. After a second, the other joined him.     Anne turned to Star. Now I know why they call you 'Death Star' Blade,she said, and gestured toward the men who had surrendered, and the twowhom Starrett had shot down.     He mused there for a minute. Then Anne broke the silence with, Star,what are we going to do now? Garrett's men will be up here in a littlewhile. We can't get to a sub-space beam. What are we going to do whenthey come up to investigate?     Starrett Blade laughed. Do? Well, we could turn them over to CommanderWeddel!           What?          Grinning broadly, Star pointed, with a flourish, at the door. Annespun about, and found Commander Weddel grinning in the door from thecorridor.     Very simple, said Star across the lounge to Anne. When I smashedthe vision set with that dinner fork, I broke a small unit which isincluded in all sets. You know, a direction finder doesn't work, exceptin the liner-beam principle, in space, because of the diffusing effectof unrestricted cosmic rays.     Yes, I knew that, said Anne. But how—     Starrett grinned again. A type of beam has been found which it isimpossible for cosmics to disturb. But you can't send messages onit, so it is made in a little unit on every set. If that unit isbroken, the set automatically releases a signal beam. This is adistress signal, and the location of the set that sent out the signalis recorded at the Section Headquarters. When Commander Weddel sawme throw something at the set, and it went dead, he looked at theautomatic record, and found out that a signal had been sent in froma location on Alpha Cen's third planet. Then he had a high-velocitycruiser brought out and dropped in, in time to pick up some pieces. Hestopped, and idly toyed with a sheaf of papers, then held them up. Seethese papers?     Uh-huh. What are they, Star?     They are the main plans of Devil Garrett's power plant, and they'rethe one good thing he's ever done. These plans are going to bring thebarren, rocky Centauri planets to life!     He got up, and paced to the window, and stood there, looking out, andup through the plastic port. The planets of Centauri! he murmuredsoftly. Seven circling Alpha alone. And all seven are barren, rocky,level except for the thousands of lakes ... lakes that are going to bethe life of Centauri!  He turned back to the window. And all because a pirate named DevilGarrett built a vast power plant to use to garner more power!     You know, Anne, as a mockery, and a warning, I think I'll propose thatthis planet be officially named ... 'Garrett'!     She looked up at him, and there was laughter bright in her eyes, andtugging at her mouth. Yes, there ought to be a reason, she murmured.Star wavered. She was so darn close.     After a minute, she turned her head, and looked up at him. Star, howsoon will there be those gardens and woods you described? I mean,how long before Garrett can be turned into that kind of world youdescribed?     Why ... under pressure, we can do it in six months. Why?     Not half quick enough, she murmured happily, but it'll have to do,Star. Laughing, she turned her face up to his. Have you ever thoughtthat planet Garrett will be wonderful for a honeymoon?   ","Firstly, a month ago, Garrett pretends to be Star and successfully deceived the girl’s father and was communicating with him about his development on some power processes. And according to the girl, she was captured by Garrett and brought to the craft around a month ago. Note that no one knows what he is really hoping to accomplish by pretending to be Star. Secondly, for the past month, he has been using 3-dimensional images and detailed description of Star as Garrett to make the girl believe his made-up identity. This also finishes successfully and the girl was sure that Star was Garrett, Garret as Star. Thirdly, during the execution, Garrett uses the delay in voice from the visual images to make sure that the girl will not be able to hear anything that the Section Void Headquarters would say when they see Garrett murdering Star. But he lets her see the images so that when their faces are filled with surprises to see Star being captured, the visual images will lead the girl to believe that they are shocked because they see Garret. However, this part of the plan failed. The girl is able to read lips, thus from the visuals, she knows exactly what the headquarters are saying. Hence she learns the truth of Garrett and Star’s identity. She also learns that he has been lying to him and her father. "
"What equipment does Star possess and use throughout the story? </s>    DEATH STAR     By TOM PACE     Trapped by the most feared of space pirates     Devil Garrett, Starrett Blade was fighting for     his life. Weaponless, his ship gone, he was     pinning his hopes on a girl—who wanted him dead.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Spring 1945.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Starrett Blade crouched in the rocks by the tiny Centaurian lake. Itwas only about two or three hundred feet across, but probably thousandsof feet deep. This lake, and hundreds of others like it, were theonly things to break the monotony of the flat, rocky surface of AlphaCentauri III—called the most barren planet in space.     Ten minutes ago, Star Blade's ship had spun into the stagnant watersbefore him. An emergency release had flung the air-lock doors open, andthe air pressure had flung Star out. And now he was waiting for DevilGarrett to come down to the water's edge to search for him.     For eight years, Devil Garrett had been the top space pirate in thevoid. For a year, Star himself had personally been hunting him. And ona tour over Alpha III, a Barden energy-beam had stabbed up at Blade'sship, and Star Blade had crashed into the lake.     That Barden Beam had Star worried and puzzled. It took a million voltsof power for a split-second flash of the beam. Garrett didn't have anatomics plant on Alpha III—if he had, escaping rays would point itout, no matter how well it was camouflaged. There was no water power,for there was no running water. There were only the lakes ... and tidalpower was out, for Alpha III had no moon.     However, that could wait. Star slid the electron knife from hiswater-proof sheath, gripped it firmly. He could hear quick footsteps asa man came down the trail that led directly past his hiding place.     It wasn't Garrett, which was disappointing. But it was one of his men,and he was heavily armed. That didn't worry Star.     His fighting had earned Starrett Blade the nickname of Death Star.     The man walked to the water's edge, and peered out over the pool. Hesaw the bubbles that were coming up from the sinking ship, and henodded, grunted in satisfaction, and started to turn back.     Star landed on him, knocking him sprawling on the rock. The piratejerked up an arm, holding the jet-gun.     The stabbing lance of blue fire cracked from the electron knife, duginto the man's heart.     Star tossed the dead pirate's cloak over his shoulders, and thrust bothelectron blade and jet-gun into his belt. He straightened, and saw theleveled gun from the corner of his eye.     He got the jet in his right hand, the knife in his left, and went intoa dive that flipped him behind a rock. The three actions took only asplit-second, and the blast from the jet-gun flaked rock where he hadbeen standing.     While a jet-gun is the most deadly weapon known, you have to press aloading stud to slide another blast-capsule into place. Death Star knewthis very well. So he knew he was safe in coming up from behind thespur of stone to fire his own gun.     If his reflexes hadn't been as quick as they were, he would haveblasted the girl.  He stopped, and stood for a second, staring at the girl. She wassomething to invite stares, too. In the moment that lasted between hernext move, he had time to register that she was about five feet fivetall, black-haired—the kind of black hair that looks like silken spundarkness—dark-eyed, and possessing both a face and a form that wouldmake anyone stop and gulp.     Then the moment of half-awed survey was over, and she leveled the jeton him, and said in a trembling voice, Drop those weapons, or I'llblast you ...      pirate     !     Death Star said, That jet-gun is empty. I can see the register on themagazine. And I'm not a pirate. I'm Starrett Blade.     The useless jet-gun slid out of the girl's hand, and she gave ahalf-gasp. Starrett Blade! I—I don't believe ... she broke offabruptly. So you're Death Star! A fine story for a hired killer, apirate.     Star reddened. Look, he snapped, I don't know who's been talking toyou, but ... he whirled, and his hand whipped the jet-gun from hisbelt. As he did so, the girl jerked up the jet-gun she had dropped, andflung it with all her strength. The blow landed on his arm and side,and paralyzed him long enough for the man who had leaped out behind himto land a stunning blow against his head. As Star went down, he dizzilycursed himself for becoming interested in the argument with the girl,so that he did not heed his reflexes in time ... and dimly, he wonderedwhy it had seemed so important to convince the lovely dark-haired girl.     Then a bit of the cosmos seemed to fall on Star's head, and he washurled into blackness.     An eternity seemed to pass.     Deep in the blackness, a light was born. It leaped toward him, afar-away comet rocketing along, coming from some far, unknown cornerof the galaxy. It became a flaming sun in a gray-green space, andstrangely, there seemed to be several odd planets circling about thesun. Some of them were vast pieces of queer electronic machinery. Somewere vague, villainous-looking men. One was the dark-haired girl, andthere was lovely contempt in her dark-star pools of eyes.     Then into the midst of this queer universe, there swam a new planet. Itwas the face of a man, and the man was Devil Garrett.     That brought Star up, out of his daze, onto his feet as though he hadbeen doused with cold water. He stood there, not staring, just lookingat Garrett.     The most famous killer in the void was big. He was six feet three, andtwice as strong as he looked. He wore a huge high-velocity jet-gun, anda set of electron knives, all of the finest workmanship. He was sittingon a laboratory chair of steel, and the chair bent slightly under hisgreat weight.     He smiled at Star, and there was a touch of hell in the smile. He said,Ah, Mr. Garrett.     Star's jaw dropped. Garrett? What do you— he broke off. A glance atthe girl told him what the purpose was.     Look, Mr. Devil Garrett, said the pirate, still smiling softly, MissHinton is aware of your identity. There is no need to attempt to foolus.... I've known it was you ever since I flashed that beam at yourship. And you needn't flatter yourself that the Devil's luck is goingto hold out as far as you are concerned. For in a very short while,I'm going to have you executed ... before a stellar vision screen,connected with Section Void Headquarters! I wish the authorities to seeDevil Garrett die, so that I might collect the reward that is offeredon you!     Star stood quiet, and looked straight into Garrett's eyes. After aminute of silence, Garrett's lips twisted into a smile, and he saidmockingly, Well, pirate? What are you thinking of?     Star said, in a low, cold voice, I'm thinking of putting an electronfire-blade into your face, Devil Garrett!     Garrett laughed ... huge, rather evil, bluff laughter. The mirth of aperson who is both powerful and dangerous. And then the girl leapedforward, shaking with rage.     You beast! Murderer! To accuse this man ... you fool, you might havebeen able to complete any scheme of escape you had, if you hadn'tcalled yourself Starrett Blade! Mr. Blade.... She gestured towardGarrett, who made a mocking, sardonic bow. ... has given me ampleproof that he is who he says! And this long before you came. He's shownme papers giving a description and showing a tri-dimension picture ofyou....     Fire leaped in Star's eyes. Listen ... he snapped furiously, as hestarted to step forward. Then Garrett made a signal with his hand, andsomeone drove a fist against the base of Star's skull.  When Star came to, he was in a cell of sorts. A man standing by thedoor told him that he was to be executed, ... after Mr. Blade and thelady have eaten. Starrett swore at him, and the man went out, with amocking Goodbye, Mr. Garrett!     Star got up. His head spun, and he almost fell at first, but the dazeleft in his head from the two blows quickly cleared away. He felt forvarious weapons which he had hidden about him ... and found them gone.Garrett's men had searched carefully.     Star sat down, his head spinning more now from mystery than fromphysical pain. He had to keep himself in a whole skin, of course. Thatwas most important right now. But other things were bothering him,tugging at his mind like waves slapping around a swamped ship, eachtrying to shove it in a different direction.     There was the girl. Star wondered why she always leaped into his mindfirst. And there was the way Garrett was trying to leave the impressionthat he was Blade, so that he could kill Blade as Garrett.     Obviously, the reason for that was the girl, Miss Hinton, Garrett hadcalled her. She had been shown faked papers by Garrett, papers provingthat the two were ... were whatever Garrett had twisted the story into!     Star clutched at his head. He was in a mess. He was going to be killed,and he was going to die without knowing the score. And he didn't likethat. Nor did he like dying as Star Blade shouldn't die; executed asa wolf's-head pirate. The girl would be watching, and he felt as ifthat would make it far worse.     His head came up, and he smiled flintily. He still had an ace card! Onehand felt for it, and he shook his head slowly. It was a gamble ... butall the others had been found.     Blade looked up quickly, as the door opened. Two men came into thecell, carrying jet-guns. They motioned Blade to his feet. Come on,Blade. One began, when the other hit him across the mouth.     You fool! he hissed. You better not call him that; suppose thatgirl was to hear it? Until the boss gets what he wants on Earth, thatgirl has got to think that he's Blade! We're killing this guy as DevilGarrett! And a loud-mouthed fool like you ... look out!     Blade had landed on the bickering men, and was grappling with the onewho had called him by name. As the other leaped forward, swinging aclubbing blow with a jet-gun, Star tripped one man into the corner, andducked under the gun. He hit the man in the stomach, drove a shoulderup under his arms, and smashed the man's face in with a series of sharpblows. The man went reeling backward across the room, and Star's handleaped toward that ace card which he still held.     Devil Garrett stepped in the door, and made a mock out of a courteousbow. As he did so, Star snarled in rage, but stood very still, for theelectron knife in Garrett's hand did not waver.     Garrett gestured silently toward the door, and Star, equally silent,walked over and out, at the point of the weapon.  Star Blade stood before a transmitter, and thought about death.     He was very close to it. Garrett stood five yards away, a gun inhis hand, and the muzzle trained on Blade's chest. The gun was theuniversally used weapon of execution, an old projectile-firing weapon.     Star did not doubt that Devil Garrett was an excellent shot with it.     The girl, very round-eyed and nervous, sat by Garrett. He had explainedto her that Garrett was the type of pirate that it is law to kill, orhave executed, by anyone. Which was very true.     A man stepped away from the transmitter, and nodded to Garrett. Starfelt a surge of hope, as he saw that it was a two-way transmitter. Ifthe image of an Interstellar Command headquarters was tuned in—Garrettwould undoubtedly do it, if only to show the police that he had killedStarrett Blade—then Garrett could not kill him and cut the beam intime to prevent one of the police from giving a cry that would echoover the sub-space beam arriving almost instantly in this room, and letthe girl know that she had been tricked. And Garrett would not wantthat. Not that it would matter to Starrett Blade.     Then Star saw what kind of a transmitter it was, and he groaned. Itwas not a Hineson Sub-space beamer ... it was an old-style transmitterwhich had different wave speeds, because of the different space-bridgerunits in it.     The visual image would arrive many seconds before the sound did. Thusthe girl would not hear Garrett revealed, but would see only Blade'sdeath. And then ... whatever Garrett had planned, Blade wished heartilythat he could have the chance to interfere.     The beam was coming in. Star saw the mists swimming on the screenchange, solidify into a figure ... the figure of District CommanderWeddel seated at a desk. He saw Weddel's eyebrows rise, saw his lipsmove—then Garrett stepped over a pace, and Weddel saw him, saw the gunin his hand....     The police officer yelled, silently, and came to his feet, anexpression of shocked surprise on his face—surprise, Blade thoughtdesperately, that the girl might interpret as shock at seeing DevilGarrett.     Which was right, in a way.     Then, as Commander Weddel leapt to his feet, as Devil Garrett'sfinger tightened on the trigger, as the girl sucked in her breathinvoluntarily, Star Blade scooped up a bit of metal—a fork—and flungit at the vision transmitter.     Not at the screen. But at the equipment behind the dial-board. At acertain small unit, which was almost covered by wires and braces forthe large tubes. And the fork struck it, bit deep, and caused result.     Result in the form of a burned-out set. If television equipment cancurse, that set cursed them. Its spitting of sparks and blue electricflame mingled with a strange, high-pitched whine.     It was the diversion that caused Garrett to miss Star, which gave himtime to pull three or four of Garrett's men onto the floor with him.One of the men drove the butt of a jet-gun into the side of Star'shead, and for the third time, he went very limp. The last thing he sawwas the girl.     Somehow, the expression on her face was different from what it hadbeen. He was searching for the difference, when the blow struckhim. Somewhere in the space that lies between consciousness andunconsciousness, he reflected bitterly that if he kept staring at thegirl when he should be fighting, he might not recover some day. Thiswas the third time that he had been knocked out that way. It was notgetting monotonous. He still felt it a novelty.     Star awoke in the same prison cell, facing the wall away from the door.He wondered if he were still alive, tried to move his head, and decidedthat he wasn't. He didn't even get up or look around when he dimlyheard the door being opened.     But when he heard the girl's voice, he came up and around very swiftly,despite his head.     It was the girl all right. Even through the tumbled mists of his brain,he could see that she was not a dream. And as he reeled and fellagainst the wall, she was beside him in a flash, her arm supporting him.  At first he tried to push himself erect, his head whirling with sickdizziness, and bewilderment. Through a twisting haze, he peered up atthe girl's face. It reflected a look that, amazingly, was one of—withno other phrase to do—compassion. Star half-sighed, and laid his headon the girl's breast, and closed his eyes.     In a minute or two, she said tensely, Are you all right? Star lookedup at her.     I guess so. Here—give a hand while I get my balance. She held him ashe tried a step or two, and then he straightened. I guess I'll be allright, now, he smiled. My head feels like—say! How come you're doingthis? What made you change your mind? And who are you?     She said quickly, breathlessly, I know you're Star Blade, now. Thattransmission set.... I can read lips! I      knew     what that officer wassaying! It was just as if I had      heard     him say that ... that you wereStarrett Blade and that man out there is Devil Garrett! she made achoking sound. And I've been here, alone, for a month! For a month!     A month? Huh—please—you...?     Star took a breath, and started over. You.... Who      are     you? What areyou doing here?     She said, I'm Anne Hinton. My father is Old John Hinton. Have youheard of him?     Of course! said Star. He manufactures most of the equipment '      BladeCosmian     ' uses. Weapons, Hineson Sub-Spacers, Star-Traveler craft ...the ship I was in when Garrett brought me down was a Hinton craft. Ishould have recognized the name. But go on. What—     Garrett communicated with dad, secretly. He posed as StarrettBlade, as you, and told dad that he was developing certain new powerprocesses. And he is! He has a new—or maybe it isn't so new—way ofelectrolyzing water to liberate hydrogen and oxygen.     I think I understand, said Star quickly. When the oxygen andhydrogen are allowed to combine, and produce an explosion which drivea turbine-generator. Then that could be hitched up to a cyclotron, andeven the most barren of Alpha's lake-rock planets could be....     No, she shook her head puzzledly. It's just electric power. He saidthat atomics would release stray rays that would attract pirates.     I know, Star nodded, abstractedly. I was thinking of anotherapplication of it ... hmm. But say! What was Garrett after? I know thathe wouldn't do this just to get a secret process sold. He must have hadanother plan behind it. Got any idea?     Anne shook her head slowly. I don't know. I can't see....     Perhaps I could help you? Devil Garrett asked smoothly from the door.     Star whirled, thrust Anne behind him, but there was no way out. Garrettstood in the door, and there were men behind him. The jet in his handcould kill both of the two at one shot. And they had no weapons toresist with.     Devil Garrett stepped them out of the room, and down the corridor,through a large door Star had noticed at the end of the passage, andinto a huge room.     It must have been a thousand feet long, and half that wide. It was atleast a hundred yards deep. And it was almost filled with giganticmachines.     Between the machinery, the spaces were almost filled with steel laddersand cat-walks. Crews of men swarmed over them. It was the largest massof equipment Starrett had ever seen.     His eyes began to pick out details. Those huge vat-like things downat the far end, with the large cables running into them, and themighty pumps connected to them ... they were probably the electrolysischambers.     And those great pipes, they must carry the hydrogen and oxygen fromthe electro chambers to the large replicas of engines, which could benothing else but the explosion chambers, where the gases were allowedto re-unite, and explode. And there by the giant engines, those must beturbines, which in turn connected with the vast-sized generators justunder the platforms on which they stood.  Star Blade whistled softly through his teeth. A huge enterprise! Itcould be ... but for a moment he had forgotten Devil Garrett.     The girl standing by his side, Star turned toward Garrett. Well?     Garrett smiled his mocking grin. You grasp the principle, of course.But let me show you ... you see those pipes that run from the turbinesafter the wheels?     Yes. They carry the gases off. Where do they lead?     Into giant subterranean caverns beneath the surface! Garrett said.Now look over there, on the platforms across from us. Can yourecognize a Barden energy-beamer, Blade? Run by power from my littleplant here, which is run by water from a thousand lakes!     Just imagine, if you can, hundreds of those plants all over AlphaIII. And each one with dozens of high-powered Barden beams to protectit! And Hinton ray screens to protect us from radio-controlled rocketshells from space, or Barden Rays, or any other weapon of offence, orto warn if anyone lands on this planet! Garrett leaned forward, hiseyes aglow.     Blade, I'll take over the few governing posts on this little planet,and I'll rule an entire world, a whole planet to myself! It'll be thefirst time in history! And it won't be the last. With the Hinton secretpatents, the plans of all John Hinton's inventions and processes....     Star twisted, and got his ace card out of its hiding place.     It was a jet weapon, little more than a jet-blast capsule for ajet-gun. The sides were thicker and stronger, and there was a devicefixed on it so it could be fired. Altogether, it was somewhat smallerthan an old-style fountain pen.     He twisted up from the floor, and moved faster than he had moved everbefore. Star was famous for his speed and the quickness and alertnessof his reflexes. He earned his fame a score of times over in that oneinstant.       And Devil Garrett died.     There was perhaps an eighth of a second between the staff of blue whitefire from the tiny jet in Star's hand and the huge broadsword of firefrom Garrett's gun. But in the split-second Star's fire knifed intoGarrett's vitals, and Garrett gave a convulsive jerk, and fired even ashis muscles started the jerking movement.     And the flame went over Star's head, singeing his scalp.     Of the four men with Garrett, one let go of the struggling Anne, andswore as he snatched at an electron knife in his belt. Anne's handhad already whipped the knife out, and without bothering to press theelectron stud, she buried the knife in his back.     Two of the remaining men whirled, and went for the door as though adevil was after them. The other tried to get a jet-gun out. It was hisfinal mistake. A blue lance from Anne's knife whipped close enough tohim to make him dodge, and then Star got his hand on Garrett's jet.     The other two men had, in their flight, taken a door which led, notinto the large corridor, but into a small room at one side, a roomfilled with instruments and recording devices for the machinery in theroom below. Star leaped to the side of the door, and called, Are yougoing to come out, or am I coming in to get you?     There was a short silence, in which Anne heard one say hoarsely, Hecan't get us ... we could get him if he came in the door.     Oh, yes? was the answer. Do you know who that guy is? He's the onethey call 'Death Star.' I'm not facing Starrett Blade in a gun fight.You can do what you like, but I'm leaving. Then he lifted his voice.Hey, Blade! I'm coming out. Don't shoot.  Okay, threw back Star and the man appeared in the doorway, emptyhands held high. After a second, the other joined him.     Anne turned to Star. Now I know why they call you 'Death Star' Blade,she said, and gestured toward the men who had surrendered, and the twowhom Starrett had shot down.     He mused there for a minute. Then Anne broke the silence with, Star,what are we going to do now? Garrett's men will be up here in a littlewhile. We can't get to a sub-space beam. What are we going to do whenthey come up to investigate?     Starrett Blade laughed. Do? Well, we could turn them over to CommanderWeddel!           What?          Grinning broadly, Star pointed, with a flourish, at the door. Annespun about, and found Commander Weddel grinning in the door from thecorridor.     Very simple, said Star across the lounge to Anne. When I smashedthe vision set with that dinner fork, I broke a small unit which isincluded in all sets. You know, a direction finder doesn't work, exceptin the liner-beam principle, in space, because of the diffusing effectof unrestricted cosmic rays.     Yes, I knew that, said Anne. But how—     Starrett grinned again. A type of beam has been found which it isimpossible for cosmics to disturb. But you can't send messages onit, so it is made in a little unit on every set. If that unit isbroken, the set automatically releases a signal beam. This is adistress signal, and the location of the set that sent out the signalis recorded at the Section Headquarters. When Commander Weddel sawme throw something at the set, and it went dead, he looked at theautomatic record, and found out that a signal had been sent in froma location on Alpha Cen's third planet. Then he had a high-velocitycruiser brought out and dropped in, in time to pick up some pieces. Hestopped, and idly toyed with a sheaf of papers, then held them up. Seethese papers?     Uh-huh. What are they, Star?     They are the main plans of Devil Garrett's power plant, and they'rethe one good thing he's ever done. These plans are going to bring thebarren, rocky Centauri planets to life!     He got up, and paced to the window, and stood there, looking out, andup through the plastic port. The planets of Centauri! he murmuredsoftly. Seven circling Alpha alone. And all seven are barren, rocky,level except for the thousands of lakes ... lakes that are going to bethe life of Centauri!  He turned back to the window. And all because a pirate named DevilGarrett built a vast power plant to use to garner more power!     You know, Anne, as a mockery, and a warning, I think I'll propose thatthis planet be officially named ... 'Garrett'!     She looked up at him, and there was laughter bright in her eyes, andtugging at her mouth. Yes, there ought to be a reason, she murmured.Star wavered. She was so darn close.     After a minute, she turned her head, and looked up at him. Star, howsoon will there be those gardens and woods you described? I mean,how long before Garrett can be turned into that kind of world youdescribed?     Why ... under pressure, we can do it in six months. Why?     Not half quick enough, she murmured happily, but it'll have to do,Star. Laughing, she turned her face up to his. Have you ever thoughtthat planet Garrett will be wonderful for a honeymoon?   ","When Star’s ship is hit by the electric beam, he has an electron knife with him. And when he heard footsteps coming his way, he holds onto it firmly. When the man gets near the water and sees the ship sink, Star quickly kills him with the electron knife by stabbing right to his heart. He takes the man’s jet-gun with him as well. He is also going to use the jet-gun on the girl, but his great reflexes are able to stop him from doing so, however, she paralyzes him first. After he is knocked out and brought to the cell, he looks for his weapons, but they are all taken by Garrett’s men except one. At the place that execution is supposed to take place, Star kicks the metal fork towards the visual transmitter, which will send signals for help. When Garrett takes them to the machinery room, the girl takes the jet weapon from Garrett, Star uses a tiny jet to shoot Garret right before Garret shot him. While Star’s scalp gets injured, he is able to shoot right at Garret’s vitals with his quickness and alertness, thus making him die almost immediately."
"What is the plot of the story? </s>     The Snare     By RICHARD R. SMITH     Illustrated by WEISS     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy January 1956.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright     on this publication was renewed.]        It's easy to find a solution when there is one—the trick is to do itif there is none!        I glanced at the path we had made across the      Mare Serenitatis     . TheLatin translated as the Sea of Serenity. It was well named because,as far as the eye could see in every direction, there was a smoothlayer of pumice that resembled the surface of a calm sea. Scatteredacross the quiet sea of virgin Moon dust were occasional islandsof rock that jutted abruptly toward the infinity of stars above.Considering everything, our surroundings conveyed a sense of serenitylike none I had ever felt.     Our bounding path across the level expanse was clearly marked. Becauseof the light gravity, we had leaped high into the air with each stepand every time we struck the ground, the impact had raised a cloud ofdustlike pumice. Now the clouds of dust were slowly settling in thelight gravity.     Above us, the stars were cold, motionless and crystal-clear.Indifferently, they sprayed a faint light on our surroundings ... adim glow that was hardly sufficient for normal vision and was too weakto be reflected toward Earth.     We turned our head-lamps on the strange object before us. Five beamsof light illuminated the smooth shape that protruded from the Moon'ssurface.     The incongruity was so awesome that for several minutes, we remainedmotionless and quiet. Miller broke the silence with his quaveringvoice, Strange someone didn't notice it before.  Strange? The object rose a quarter of a mile above us, a huge, curvinghulk of smooth metal. It was featureless and yet conveyed a senseof      alienness     . It was alien and yet it wasn't a natural formation.Something had made the thing, whatever it was. But was it strange thatit hadn't been noticed before? Men had lived on the Moon for over ayear, but the Moon was vast and the      Mare Serenitatis     covered threehundred and forty thousand square miles.     What is it? Marie asked breathlessly.     Her husband grunted his bafflement. Who knows? But see how it curves?If it's a perfect sphere, it must be at least two miles in diameter!     If it's a perfect sphere, Miller suggested, most of it must bebeneath the Moon's surface.     Maybe it isn't a sphere, my wife said. Maybe this is all of it.     Let's call Lunar City and tell the authorities about it. I reachedfor the radio controls on my suit.     Kane grabbed my arm. No. Let's find out whatever we can by ourselves.If we tell the authorities, they'll order us to leave it alone. If wediscover something really important, we'll be famous!     I lowered my arm. His outburst seemed faintly childish to me. And yetit carried a good measure of common sense. If we discovered proof ofan alien race, we would indeed be famous. The more we discovered forourselves, the more famous we'd be. Fame was practically a synonym forprestige and wealth.     All right, I conceded.     Miller stepped forward, moving slowly in the bulk of his spacesuit.Deliberately, he removed a small torch from his side and pressed thebrilliant flame against the metal.     A few minutes later, the elderly mineralogist gave his opinion: It'ssteel ... made thousands of years ago.     Someone gasped over the intercom, Thousands of years! But wouldn't itbe in worse shape than this if it was that old?     Miller pointed at the small cut his torch had made in the metal. Thenotch was only a quarter of an inch deep. I say      steel     because it's      similar     to steel. Actually, it's a much stronger alloy. Besides that,on the Moon, there's been no water or atmosphere to rust it. Not evena wind to disturb its surface. It's      at least     several thousand yearsold.  We slowly circled the alien structure. Several minutes later, Kaneshouted, Look!     A few feet above the ground, the structure's smooth surface was brokenby a circular opening that yawned invitingly. Kane ran ahead andflashed his head-lamp into the dark recess.     There's a small room inside, he told us, and climbed through theopening.     We waited outside and focused our lamps through the five-foot openingto give him as much light as possible.     Come on in, Marie, he called to his wife. This is really something!It      must     be an alien race. There's all kinds of weird drawings on thewalls and gadgets that look like controls for something....     Briefly, my lamp flickered over Marie's pale face. Her featuresstruggled with two conflicting emotions: She was frightened by thealienness of the thing and yet she wanted to be with her husband. Shehesitated momentarily, then climbed through the passage.     You want to go in? my wife asked.     Do you?     Let's.     I helped Verana through the opening, climbed through myself and turnedto help Miller.     Miller was sixty years old. He was an excellent mineralogist, alertmentally, but with a body that was almost feeble. I reached out to helphim as he stepped into the passageway.     For a brief second, he was framed in the opening, a dark silhouetteagainst the star-studded sky.     The next second, he was thrown twenty yards into the air. He gaspedwith pain when he struck the ground.       Something     pushed me!     Are you all right?     Yes.     He had fallen on a spot beyond our angle of vision. I started throughthe passage....     ... and struck an invisible solid wall.  My eyes were on the circular opening. A metal panel emerged from arecess on one side and slid across the passage. The room darkened withthe absence of starlight.           What happened?          The door to this damned place closed, I explained.           What?          Before we could recover from the shock, the room filled with abrilliant glare. We turned off our lamps.     The room was approximately twelve feet long and nine feet wide. Theceiling was only a few inches above our heads and when I looked at thesmooth, hard metal, I felt as if I were trapped in some alien vault.     The walls of the room were covered with strange drawings andinstruments. Here and there, kaleidoscopic lights pulsed rhythmically.     Kane brushed past me and beat his gloved fists against the metal doorthat had imprisoned us.     Miller!     Yes?     See if you can get this thing open from the outside.     I knelt before the door and explored its surface with my fingers. Therewere no visible recesses or controls.     Over the intercom network, everyone's breath mingled and formed arough, harsh sound. I could discern the women's quick, frightenedbreaths that were almost sobs. Kane's breath was deep and strong;Miller's was faltering and weak.     Miller, get help!     I'll— The sound of his breathing ceased. We listened intently.     What happened to him?     I'll phone Lunar City. My fingers fumbled at the radio controls andtrembled beneath the thick gloves.     I turned the dials that would connect my radio with Lunar City....     Static grated against my ear drums.       Static!    I listened to the harsh, erratic sound and my voice was weak bycomparison: Calling Lunar City.     Static! Kane echoed my thoughts. His frown made deep clefts betweenhis eyebrows. There's no static between inter-lunar radio!     Verana's voice was small and frightened. That sounds like the staticwe hear over the bigger radios when we broadcast to Earth.     It does, Marie agreed.     But we wouldn't have that kind of static over      our     radio, unless—Verana's eyes widened until the pupils were surrounded by circles ofwhite—unless we were in outer space!     We stared at the metal door that had imprisoned us, afraid even tospeak of our fantastic suspicion.     I deactivated my radio.     Marie screamed as an inner door opened to disclose a long, narrowcorridor beyond.     Simultaneous with the opening of the second door, I felt air pressagainst my spacesuit. Before, our suits had been puffed outward by thepressure of air inside. Now our spacesuits were slack and dangling onour bodies.     We looked at each other and then at the inviting corridor beyond theopen door.     We went single file, first Kane, then his wife Marie. Verana followednext and I was the last.     We walked slowly, examining the strange construction. The walls werefeatureless but still seemed alien. At various places on the walls werethe outlines of doors without handles or locks.     Kane pressed his shoulder against a door and shoved. The door wasunyielding.     I manipulated the air-vent controls of my spacesuit, allowed a smallamount of the corridor's air into my helmet and inhaled cautiously.It smelled all right. I waited and nothing happened. Gradually, Iincreased the intake, turned off the oxygenating machines and removedmy helmet.     Shut off your oxy, I suggested. We might as well breathe the air inthis place and save our supply. We may need the oxygen in our suitslater.     They saw that I had removed my helmet and was still alive and one byone removed their own helmets.  At the end of the corridor, Kane stopped before a blank wall. The sweaton his face glistened dully; his chest rose and fell rapidly. Kane wasa pilot and one of the prerequisites for the job of guiding tons ofmetal between Earth and the Moon was a good set of nerves. Kane excitedeasily, his temper was fiery, but his nerves were like steel.     The end of the line, he grunted.     As though to disprove the statement, a door on his right side openedsoundlessly.     He went through the doorway as if shoved violently by an invisible hand.     The door closed behind him.     Marie threw herself at the door and beat at the metal. Harry!     Verana rushed to her side. Another door on the opposite side of thecorridor opened silently. The door was behind them; they didn't notice.     Before I could warn them, Marie floated across the corridor, throughthe doorway.     Verana and I stared at the darkness beyond the opening, our musclesfrozen by shock.     The door closed behind Marie's screaming, struggling form.     Verana's face was white with fear. Apprehensively, she glanced at theother doors that lined the hall.     I put my arms around her, held her close.     Antigravity machines, force rays, I suggested worriedly.     For several minutes, we remained motionless and silent. I recalled thepreceding events of the day, searched for a sense of normality in them.The Kanes, Miller, Verana and I lived in Lunar City with hundreds ofother people. Mankind had inhabited the Moon for over a year. Meansof recreation were scarce. Many people explored the place to amusethemselves. After supper, we had decided to take a walk. As simple asthat: a walk on the Moon.     We had expected only the familiar craters, chasms and weird rockformations. A twist of fate and here we were: imprisoned in an alienship.     My legs quivered with fatigue, my heart throbbed heavily, Verana'sperfume dizzied me. No, it wasn't a dream. Despite our incrediblesituation, there was no sensation of unreality.  I took Verana's hand and led her down the long corridor, retracing oursteps.     We had walked not more than two yards when the rest of the doorsopened soundlessly.     Verana's hand flew to her mouth to stifle a gasp.     Six doors were now open. The only two that remained closed were theones that the Kanes had unwillingly entered.     This time, no invisible hand thrust us into any of the rooms.     I entered the nearest one. Verana followed hesitantly.     The walls of the large room were lined with shelves containingthousands of variously colored boxes and bottles. A table and fourchairs were located in the center of the green, plasticlike floor. Eachchair had no back, only a curving platform with a single supportingcolumn.     Ed! I joined Verana on the other side of the room. She pointed atrembling finger at some crude drawings. The things in this room arefood!     The drawings were so simple that anyone could have understood them.The first drawing portrayed a naked man and woman removing boxes andbottles from the shelves. The second picture showed the couple openingthe containers. The third showed the man eating from one of the boxesand the woman drinking from a bottle.       Let's see how it tastes, I said.     I selected an orange-colored box. The lid dissolved at the touch of myfingers.     The only contents were small cubes of a soft orange substance.     I tasted a small piece.     Chocolate! Just like chocolate!     Verana chose a nearby bottle and drank some of the bluish liquid.     Milk! she exclaimed.     Perhaps we'd better look at the other rooms, I told her.  The next room we examined was obviously for recreation. Containers werefilled with dozens of strange games and books of instructions in theform of simple drawings. The games were foreign, but designed in such afashion that they would be interesting to Earthmen.     Two of the rooms were sleeping quarters. The floors were covered with aspongy substance and the lights were dim and soothing.     Another room contained a small bathing pool, running water,waste-disposal units and yellow cakes of soap.     The last room was an observatory. The ceiling and an entire wall weretransparent. Outside, the stars shone clearly for a few seconds, thendisappeared for an equal time, only to reappear in a different position.     Hyper-space drive, Verana whispered softly. She was fascinated bythe movement of the stars. For years, our scientists had sought ahyperspatial drive to conquer the stars.     We selected a comfortable chair facing the transparent wall, litcigarettes and waited.     A few minutes later, Marie entered the room.     I noticed with some surprise that her face was calm. If she wasexcited, her actions didn't betray it.     She sat next to Verana.     What happened? my wife asked.     Marie crossed her legs and began in a rambling manner as if discussinga new recipe, That was really a surprise, wasn't it? I was scaredsilly, at first. That room was dark and I didn't know what to expect.Something touched my head and I heard a telepathic voice—     Telepathic? Verana interrupted.     Yes. Well, this voice said not to worry and that it wasn't going tohurt me. It said it only wanted to learn something about us. It wasthe      oddest     feeling! All the time, this voice kept talking to me ina nice way and made me feel at ease ... and at the same time, I felt      something     search my mind and gather information. I could actually      feel     it search my memories!     What memories? I inquired.     She frowned with concentration. Memories of high school mostly. Itseemed interested in English and history classes. And then it searchedfor memories of our customs and lives in general....  Kane stalked into the room at that moment, his face red with anger.      Do you know where we are?      he demanded. When those damned aliensgot me in that room, they explained what this is all about. We'reguinea pigs!     Did they use telepathy to explain? Verana asked. I suddenlyremembered that she was a member of a club that investigatedextra-sensory perception with the hope of learning how it operated. Shewas probably sorry she hadn't been contacted telepathically.     Yeah, Kane replied. I saw all sorts of mental pictures and theyexplained what they did to us. Those damned aliens want us for theirzoo!     Start at the beginning, I suggested.     He flashed an angry glance at me, but seemed to calm somewhat. Thisship was made by a race from another galaxy. Thousands of years ago,they came to Earth in their spaceships when men were primitives livingin caves. They wanted to know what our civilization would be likewhen we developed space flight. So they put this ship on the Moon as asort of booby-trap. They put it there with the idea that when we madespaceships and went to the Moon, sooner or later, we'd find the shipand enter it—      like rabbits in a snare!          And now the booby-trap is on its way home, I guessed.     Yeah, this ship is taking us to their planet and they're going to keepus there while they study us.     How long will the trip take? I asked.     Six months. We'll be bottled up in this crate for six whole damnedmonths! And when we get there, we'll be prisoners!     Marie's hypnotic spell was fading and once more her face showed theterror inside her.     Don't feel so bad, I told Kane. It could be worse. It should beinteresting to see an alien race. We'll have our wives with us—     Maybe they'll dissect us! Marie gasped.     Verana scoffed. A race intelligent enough to build a ship like this? Arace that was traveling between the stars when we were living in caves?Dissection is primitive. They won't      have to     dissect us in order tostudy us. They'll have more advanced methods.     Maybe we can reach the ship's controls somehow, Kane said excitedly.We've got to try to change the ship's course and get back to theMoon!     It's impossible. Don't waste your time. The voice had no visiblesource and seemed to fill the room.  Verana snapped her fingers. So that's why the aliens read Marie'smind! They wanted to learn our language so they could talk to us!     Kane whirled in a complete circle, glaring at each of the four walls.Where are you?      Who     are you?     I'm located in a part of the ship you can't reach. I'm a machine.     Is anyone else aboard besides ourselves?     No. I control the ship. Although the voice spoke without stiltedphrases, the tone was cold and mechanical.     What are your—your masters going to do with us? Marie askedanxiously.     You won't be harmed. My masters merely wish to question and examineyou. Thousands of years ago, they wondered what your race would be likewhen it developed to the space-flight stage. They left this ship onyour Moon only because they were curious. My masters have no animositytoward your race, only compassion and curiosity.     I remembered the way antigravity rays had shoved Miller from the shipand asked the machine, Why didn't you let our fifth member board theship?     The trip to my makers' planet will take six months. There are food,oxygen and living facilities for four only of your race. I had toprevent the fifth from entering the ship.     Come on, Kane ordered. We'll search this ship room by room and we'llfind some way to make it take us back to Earth.     It's useless, the ship warned us.     For five hours, we minutely examined every room. We had no tools toforce our way through solid metal walls to the engine or control rooms.The only things in the ship that could be lifted and carried about werethe containers of food and alien games. None were sufficiently heavy orhard enough to put even a scratch in the heavy metal.  Six rooms were open to our use. The two rooms in which the Kanes hadbeen imprisoned were locked and there were no controls or locks to workon.     The rooms that we could enter were without doors, except the ones thatopened into the corridor.     After intensive searching, we realized there was      no way     to damage theship or reach any section other than our allotted space.     We gave up.     The women went to the sleeping compartments to rest and Kane I went tothe kitchen.     At random, we sampled the variously colored boxes and bottles anddiscussed our predicament.     Trapped, Kane said angrily. Trapped in a steel prison. He slammedhis fist against the table top. But there must be a way to get out!Every problem has a solution!     You sure? I asked.     What?           Does     every problem have a solution? I don't believe it. Someproblems are too great. Take the problem of a murderer in ourcivilization: John Doe has killed someone and his problem is to escape.Primarily, a murderer's problem is the same principle as ours. Amurderer has to outwit an entire civilization. We have to outwit anentire civilization that was hundreds of times more advanced than oursis now when we were clubbing animals and eating the meat raw. Damnedfew criminals get away these days, even though they've got such crowdsto lose themselves in. All we have is a ship that we can't control. Idon't think we have a chance.     My resignation annoyed him. Each of us had reacted differently: Kane'swife was frightened, Verana was calm because of an inner serenity thatfew people have, I was resigned and Kane was angry.  For several minutes, we sampled the different foods. Every one had adistinctive flavor, comparable to that of a fruit or vegetable on Earth.     Kane lifted a brown bottle to his lips, took a huge gulp and almostchoked.     Whiskey!     My masters realized your race would develop intoxicants and tried tocreate a comparable one, the machine explained.     I selected a brown bottle and sampled the liquid. A little strongerthan our own, I informed the machine.     We drank until Kane was staggering about the room, shouting insults atthe alien race and the mechanical voice that seemed to be everywhere.He beat his fist against a wall until blood trickled from bruisedknuckles.     Please don't hurt yourself, the machine pleaded.           Why?      Kane screamed at the ceiling. Why should you care?     My masters will be displeased with me if you arrive in a damagedcondition.     Kane banged his head against a bulkhead; an ugly bruise formed rapidly.Shtop me, then!     I can't. My masters created no way for me to restrain or contact youother than use of your language.     It took fully fifteen minutes to drag Kane to his sleeping compartment.     After I left Kane in his wife's care, I went to the adjoining room andstretched out on the soft floor beside Verana.     I tried to think of some solution. We were locked in an alien ship atthe start of a six months' journey to a strange planet. We had no toolsor weapons.     Solution? I doubted if two dozen geniuses working steadily for yearscould think of one!     I wondered what the alien race was like. Intelligent, surely: They hadforeseen our conquest of space flight when we hadn't even inventedthe wheel. That thought awed me—somehow they had analyzed our brainsthousands of years ago and calculated what our future accomplishmentswould be.     They had been able to predict our scientific development, but theyhadn't been able to tell how our civilization would develop. They werecurious, so they had left an enormously elaborate piece of bait on theMoon.     The aliens were incredibly more advanced than ourselves. I couldn'thelp thinking,      And to a rabbit in a snare, mankind must seemimpossibly clever     .     I decided to ask the machine about its makers in the morning.  When I awoke, my head was throbbing painfully.     I opened my eyes and blinked several times to make sure they werefunctioning properly. I wasn't in the compartment where I had fallenasleep a few hours before.     I was tied to one of the chairs in the kitchen. Beside me, Verana wasbound to a chair by strips of cloth from her skirt, and across from us,Marie was secured to another chair.     Kane staggered into the room. Although he was visibly drunk, heappeared more sober than the night before. His dark hair was rumpledand his face was flushed, but his eyes gleamed with a growing alertness.     Awake, huh?     What have you done, Harry? his wife screamed at him. Her eyes werered with tears and her lips twisted in an expression of shame when shelooked at him.     Obvious, isn't it? While all of you were asleep, I conked each of youon the head, dragged you in here and tied you up. He smiled crookedly.It's amazing the things a person can do when he's pickled. I'm sorry Ihad to be so rough, but I have a plan and I knew you wouldn't agree orcooperate with me.     What's your plan? I asked.     He grinned wryly and crinkled bloodshot eyes. I don't want to live ina zoo on an alien planet. I want to go home and prove my theory thatthis problem has a solution.     I grunted my disgust.     The solution is simple, he said. We're in a trap so strong that thealiens didn't establish any means to control our actions. When men puta lion in a strong cage, they don't worry about controlling the lionbecause the lion can't get out. We're in the same basic situation.     So what? Verana queried in a sarcastic tone.     The aliens want us transported to their planet so they can examine andquestion us. Right?     Right.     Ed, remember that remark the machine made last night?     What remark?     It said, '      My     masters will be displeased with      me     if you arrive in adamaged condition.' What does that indicate to you?  I assumed a baffled expression. I didn't have the slightest idea ofwhat he was driving at and I told him so.     Ed, he said, if you could build an electronic brain capable ofmaking decisions, how would you build it?     Hell, I don't know, I confessed.     Well, if I could build an electronic brain like the one running thisship, I'd build it with a      conscience     so it'd do its best at alltimes.     Machines always do their best, I argued. Come on, untie us. I'mgetting a crick in my back! I didn't like the idea of being sluggedwhile asleep. If Kane had been sober and if his wife hadn't beenpresent, I would have let him know exactly what I thought of him.           Our     machines always do their best, he argued, because we punchbuttons and they respond in predetermined patterns. But the electronicbrain in this ship isn't automatic. It makes decisions and I'll bet iteven has to decide how much energy and time to put into each process!     So what?     He shrugged muscular shoulders. So this ship is operated by athinking, conscientious machine. It's the first time I've encounteredsuch a machine, but I think I know what will happen. I spent hours lastnight figuring—     What are you talking about? I interrupted. Are you so drunk that youdon't know—     I'll show you, Ed.     He walked around the table and stood behind my chair. I felt his thickfingers around my throat and smelled the alcohol on his breath.     Can you see me, machine? he asked the empty air.     Yes, the electronic brain replied.     Watch!     Kane tightened his fingers around my throat.     Verana and Marie screamed shrilly.     My head seemed to swell like a balloon; my throat gurgled painfully.     Please stop, the machine pleaded.     What will your masters think of you if I kill all of us? You'll returnto them with a cargo of dead people!  The machine didn't answer. I waited for the electronic brain tointerfere and, with a cold knot in my stomach, realized the machine hadsaid it had no way to control our actions!     Your purpose won't be fulfilled, will it? Kane demanded. Not if youreturn with dead specimens!     No, the machine admitted.     If you don't take us back to the Moon, Kane threatened, I'll kill      all of us     !     The alien electronic brain was silent.     By this time, I couldn't see and Kane's voice was a hollow, farawaything that rang in my ears. I tugged at my bindings, but they onlytightened as I struggled.     If you take us back to the Moon, your masters will never know youfailed in your mission. They won't know you failed because you won'tbring them proof of your failure.     My fading consciousness tried to envision the alien mechanical brain asit struggled with the problem.     Look at it this way, Kane persisted. If you carry our corpses toyour masters, all your efforts will have been useless. If you return usto the Moon alive, you'll still have a chance to carry out your missionlater.     A long silence followed. Verana and Marie screamed at Kane to let go.A soft darkness seemed to fill the room, blurring everything, drowningeven their shrieks in strangling blackness.     You win, the machine conceded. I'll return the ship to the Moon.     Kane released his grip on my throat.     See? he asked. Didn't I tell you every problem has a solution?     I didn't answer. I was too busy enjoying breathing again.  ","Ed, along with his wife Verana, and their friends Kane, Miller and Marie are out for a walk on the surface of the Moon. They live there, working in the lunar city. They come across a spherical object, about 2 miles in diameter. Miller, a mineralogist, declares that the metal must be at least a few thousand years old. A circular door opens, revealing a small room inside. Kane enters the room. The rest of the group decide to join Kane, but as Miller tries to cross the threshold, he is thrown back. The door shuts behind the group and they are trapped inside. The group try to intercom back to Miller, and then radio back to Lunar City, but all they get is static. The group realise that they are flying through outer space. An inner door opens to reveal a passageway. They arrive at a dead end at the end of the passageway. Just then, a door opens to the right of Kane, an invisible force pushing him into a separate room, and locking the entrance behind him. Marie, his wife is lifted up and placed into a separate chamber. Ed and Verana search the corridor, the remaining doors opening for them. The couple wander around the rooms for eating, sleeping, recreation, bathing and an observatory. A few minutes later, they are joined by Marie and Kane. The two relay how they were told that this ship belongs to an Alien race which arrived on Earth thousands of years ago, and wanted to study humans once they gained the ability of space flight. They mean no harm and want to take them to their planet to study them. They are met by the voice of a faceless artificial intelligence controlling the ship. It informs them there is no way to turn it's course around. The group search the rooms for tools for escape, but soon realise that there is nothing. Kane tries to think of a solution to their problem. Kane starts to drink a liquid like whiskey, which makes him intoxicated. Kane begins to beat himself up. The machine tells him to stop, and that if it arrives with a damaged crew, it's masters will be disappointed. The machine informs the crew that it has no way to physically interact with or restrain them. *blank* brings Kane to his bunker and goes back to his wife to go to sleep. They wake up later, all tied to chairs in the ""kitchen"". Kane has knocked them out in their sleep and restrained them. Kane starts to choke Ed, asking the machine what will happen if the ship arrives to the alien world, and all the crew are dead. The machine would have failed its assignment. Kane proposes that if the machine takes them back to the Moon, then the computer will not have failed, and it might have the chance again to pick up a crew. The machine agrees and takes them on a course for the Moon. "
"What is the setting of the story </s>     The Snare     By RICHARD R. SMITH     Illustrated by WEISS     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy January 1956.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright     on this publication was renewed.]        It's easy to find a solution when there is one—the trick is to do itif there is none!        I glanced at the path we had made across the      Mare Serenitatis     . TheLatin translated as the Sea of Serenity. It was well named because,as far as the eye could see in every direction, there was a smoothlayer of pumice that resembled the surface of a calm sea. Scatteredacross the quiet sea of virgin Moon dust were occasional islandsof rock that jutted abruptly toward the infinity of stars above.Considering everything, our surroundings conveyed a sense of serenitylike none I had ever felt.     Our bounding path across the level expanse was clearly marked. Becauseof the light gravity, we had leaped high into the air with each stepand every time we struck the ground, the impact had raised a cloud ofdustlike pumice. Now the clouds of dust were slowly settling in thelight gravity.     Above us, the stars were cold, motionless and crystal-clear.Indifferently, they sprayed a faint light on our surroundings ... adim glow that was hardly sufficient for normal vision and was too weakto be reflected toward Earth.     We turned our head-lamps on the strange object before us. Five beamsof light illuminated the smooth shape that protruded from the Moon'ssurface.     The incongruity was so awesome that for several minutes, we remainedmotionless and quiet. Miller broke the silence with his quaveringvoice, Strange someone didn't notice it before.  Strange? The object rose a quarter of a mile above us, a huge, curvinghulk of smooth metal. It was featureless and yet conveyed a senseof      alienness     . It was alien and yet it wasn't a natural formation.Something had made the thing, whatever it was. But was it strange thatit hadn't been noticed before? Men had lived on the Moon for over ayear, but the Moon was vast and the      Mare Serenitatis     covered threehundred and forty thousand square miles.     What is it? Marie asked breathlessly.     Her husband grunted his bafflement. Who knows? But see how it curves?If it's a perfect sphere, it must be at least two miles in diameter!     If it's a perfect sphere, Miller suggested, most of it must bebeneath the Moon's surface.     Maybe it isn't a sphere, my wife said. Maybe this is all of it.     Let's call Lunar City and tell the authorities about it. I reachedfor the radio controls on my suit.     Kane grabbed my arm. No. Let's find out whatever we can by ourselves.If we tell the authorities, they'll order us to leave it alone. If wediscover something really important, we'll be famous!     I lowered my arm. His outburst seemed faintly childish to me. And yetit carried a good measure of common sense. If we discovered proof ofan alien race, we would indeed be famous. The more we discovered forourselves, the more famous we'd be. Fame was practically a synonym forprestige and wealth.     All right, I conceded.     Miller stepped forward, moving slowly in the bulk of his spacesuit.Deliberately, he removed a small torch from his side and pressed thebrilliant flame against the metal.     A few minutes later, the elderly mineralogist gave his opinion: It'ssteel ... made thousands of years ago.     Someone gasped over the intercom, Thousands of years! But wouldn't itbe in worse shape than this if it was that old?     Miller pointed at the small cut his torch had made in the metal. Thenotch was only a quarter of an inch deep. I say      steel     because it's      similar     to steel. Actually, it's a much stronger alloy. Besides that,on the Moon, there's been no water or atmosphere to rust it. Not evena wind to disturb its surface. It's      at least     several thousand yearsold.  We slowly circled the alien structure. Several minutes later, Kaneshouted, Look!     A few feet above the ground, the structure's smooth surface was brokenby a circular opening that yawned invitingly. Kane ran ahead andflashed his head-lamp into the dark recess.     There's a small room inside, he told us, and climbed through theopening.     We waited outside and focused our lamps through the five-foot openingto give him as much light as possible.     Come on in, Marie, he called to his wife. This is really something!It      must     be an alien race. There's all kinds of weird drawings on thewalls and gadgets that look like controls for something....     Briefly, my lamp flickered over Marie's pale face. Her featuresstruggled with two conflicting emotions: She was frightened by thealienness of the thing and yet she wanted to be with her husband. Shehesitated momentarily, then climbed through the passage.     You want to go in? my wife asked.     Do you?     Let's.     I helped Verana through the opening, climbed through myself and turnedto help Miller.     Miller was sixty years old. He was an excellent mineralogist, alertmentally, but with a body that was almost feeble. I reached out to helphim as he stepped into the passageway.     For a brief second, he was framed in the opening, a dark silhouetteagainst the star-studded sky.     The next second, he was thrown twenty yards into the air. He gaspedwith pain when he struck the ground.       Something     pushed me!     Are you all right?     Yes.     He had fallen on a spot beyond our angle of vision. I started throughthe passage....     ... and struck an invisible solid wall.  My eyes were on the circular opening. A metal panel emerged from arecess on one side and slid across the passage. The room darkened withthe absence of starlight.           What happened?          The door to this damned place closed, I explained.           What?          Before we could recover from the shock, the room filled with abrilliant glare. We turned off our lamps.     The room was approximately twelve feet long and nine feet wide. Theceiling was only a few inches above our heads and when I looked at thesmooth, hard metal, I felt as if I were trapped in some alien vault.     The walls of the room were covered with strange drawings andinstruments. Here and there, kaleidoscopic lights pulsed rhythmically.     Kane brushed past me and beat his gloved fists against the metal doorthat had imprisoned us.     Miller!     Yes?     See if you can get this thing open from the outside.     I knelt before the door and explored its surface with my fingers. Therewere no visible recesses or controls.     Over the intercom network, everyone's breath mingled and formed arough, harsh sound. I could discern the women's quick, frightenedbreaths that were almost sobs. Kane's breath was deep and strong;Miller's was faltering and weak.     Miller, get help!     I'll— The sound of his breathing ceased. We listened intently.     What happened to him?     I'll phone Lunar City. My fingers fumbled at the radio controls andtrembled beneath the thick gloves.     I turned the dials that would connect my radio with Lunar City....     Static grated against my ear drums.       Static!    I listened to the harsh, erratic sound and my voice was weak bycomparison: Calling Lunar City.     Static! Kane echoed my thoughts. His frown made deep clefts betweenhis eyebrows. There's no static between inter-lunar radio!     Verana's voice was small and frightened. That sounds like the staticwe hear over the bigger radios when we broadcast to Earth.     It does, Marie agreed.     But we wouldn't have that kind of static over      our     radio, unless—Verana's eyes widened until the pupils were surrounded by circles ofwhite—unless we were in outer space!     We stared at the metal door that had imprisoned us, afraid even tospeak of our fantastic suspicion.     I deactivated my radio.     Marie screamed as an inner door opened to disclose a long, narrowcorridor beyond.     Simultaneous with the opening of the second door, I felt air pressagainst my spacesuit. Before, our suits had been puffed outward by thepressure of air inside. Now our spacesuits were slack and dangling onour bodies.     We looked at each other and then at the inviting corridor beyond theopen door.     We went single file, first Kane, then his wife Marie. Verana followednext and I was the last.     We walked slowly, examining the strange construction. The walls werefeatureless but still seemed alien. At various places on the walls werethe outlines of doors without handles or locks.     Kane pressed his shoulder against a door and shoved. The door wasunyielding.     I manipulated the air-vent controls of my spacesuit, allowed a smallamount of the corridor's air into my helmet and inhaled cautiously.It smelled all right. I waited and nothing happened. Gradually, Iincreased the intake, turned off the oxygenating machines and removedmy helmet.     Shut off your oxy, I suggested. We might as well breathe the air inthis place and save our supply. We may need the oxygen in our suitslater.     They saw that I had removed my helmet and was still alive and one byone removed their own helmets.  At the end of the corridor, Kane stopped before a blank wall. The sweaton his face glistened dully; his chest rose and fell rapidly. Kane wasa pilot and one of the prerequisites for the job of guiding tons ofmetal between Earth and the Moon was a good set of nerves. Kane excitedeasily, his temper was fiery, but his nerves were like steel.     The end of the line, he grunted.     As though to disprove the statement, a door on his right side openedsoundlessly.     He went through the doorway as if shoved violently by an invisible hand.     The door closed behind him.     Marie threw herself at the door and beat at the metal. Harry!     Verana rushed to her side. Another door on the opposite side of thecorridor opened silently. The door was behind them; they didn't notice.     Before I could warn them, Marie floated across the corridor, throughthe doorway.     Verana and I stared at the darkness beyond the opening, our musclesfrozen by shock.     The door closed behind Marie's screaming, struggling form.     Verana's face was white with fear. Apprehensively, she glanced at theother doors that lined the hall.     I put my arms around her, held her close.     Antigravity machines, force rays, I suggested worriedly.     For several minutes, we remained motionless and silent. I recalled thepreceding events of the day, searched for a sense of normality in them.The Kanes, Miller, Verana and I lived in Lunar City with hundreds ofother people. Mankind had inhabited the Moon for over a year. Meansof recreation were scarce. Many people explored the place to amusethemselves. After supper, we had decided to take a walk. As simple asthat: a walk on the Moon.     We had expected only the familiar craters, chasms and weird rockformations. A twist of fate and here we were: imprisoned in an alienship.     My legs quivered with fatigue, my heart throbbed heavily, Verana'sperfume dizzied me. No, it wasn't a dream. Despite our incrediblesituation, there was no sensation of unreality.  I took Verana's hand and led her down the long corridor, retracing oursteps.     We had walked not more than two yards when the rest of the doorsopened soundlessly.     Verana's hand flew to her mouth to stifle a gasp.     Six doors were now open. The only two that remained closed were theones that the Kanes had unwillingly entered.     This time, no invisible hand thrust us into any of the rooms.     I entered the nearest one. Verana followed hesitantly.     The walls of the large room were lined with shelves containingthousands of variously colored boxes and bottles. A table and fourchairs were located in the center of the green, plasticlike floor. Eachchair had no back, only a curving platform with a single supportingcolumn.     Ed! I joined Verana on the other side of the room. She pointed atrembling finger at some crude drawings. The things in this room arefood!     The drawings were so simple that anyone could have understood them.The first drawing portrayed a naked man and woman removing boxes andbottles from the shelves. The second picture showed the couple openingthe containers. The third showed the man eating from one of the boxesand the woman drinking from a bottle.       Let's see how it tastes, I said.     I selected an orange-colored box. The lid dissolved at the touch of myfingers.     The only contents were small cubes of a soft orange substance.     I tasted a small piece.     Chocolate! Just like chocolate!     Verana chose a nearby bottle and drank some of the bluish liquid.     Milk! she exclaimed.     Perhaps we'd better look at the other rooms, I told her.  The next room we examined was obviously for recreation. Containers werefilled with dozens of strange games and books of instructions in theform of simple drawings. The games were foreign, but designed in such afashion that they would be interesting to Earthmen.     Two of the rooms were sleeping quarters. The floors were covered with aspongy substance and the lights were dim and soothing.     Another room contained a small bathing pool, running water,waste-disposal units and yellow cakes of soap.     The last room was an observatory. The ceiling and an entire wall weretransparent. Outside, the stars shone clearly for a few seconds, thendisappeared for an equal time, only to reappear in a different position.     Hyper-space drive, Verana whispered softly. She was fascinated bythe movement of the stars. For years, our scientists had sought ahyperspatial drive to conquer the stars.     We selected a comfortable chair facing the transparent wall, litcigarettes and waited.     A few minutes later, Marie entered the room.     I noticed with some surprise that her face was calm. If she wasexcited, her actions didn't betray it.     She sat next to Verana.     What happened? my wife asked.     Marie crossed her legs and began in a rambling manner as if discussinga new recipe, That was really a surprise, wasn't it? I was scaredsilly, at first. That room was dark and I didn't know what to expect.Something touched my head and I heard a telepathic voice—     Telepathic? Verana interrupted.     Yes. Well, this voice said not to worry and that it wasn't going tohurt me. It said it only wanted to learn something about us. It wasthe      oddest     feeling! All the time, this voice kept talking to me ina nice way and made me feel at ease ... and at the same time, I felt      something     search my mind and gather information. I could actually      feel     it search my memories!     What memories? I inquired.     She frowned with concentration. Memories of high school mostly. Itseemed interested in English and history classes. And then it searchedfor memories of our customs and lives in general....  Kane stalked into the room at that moment, his face red with anger.      Do you know where we are?      he demanded. When those damned aliensgot me in that room, they explained what this is all about. We'reguinea pigs!     Did they use telepathy to explain? Verana asked. I suddenlyremembered that she was a member of a club that investigatedextra-sensory perception with the hope of learning how it operated. Shewas probably sorry she hadn't been contacted telepathically.     Yeah, Kane replied. I saw all sorts of mental pictures and theyexplained what they did to us. Those damned aliens want us for theirzoo!     Start at the beginning, I suggested.     He flashed an angry glance at me, but seemed to calm somewhat. Thisship was made by a race from another galaxy. Thousands of years ago,they came to Earth in their spaceships when men were primitives livingin caves. They wanted to know what our civilization would be likewhen we developed space flight. So they put this ship on the Moon as asort of booby-trap. They put it there with the idea that when we madespaceships and went to the Moon, sooner or later, we'd find the shipand enter it—      like rabbits in a snare!          And now the booby-trap is on its way home, I guessed.     Yeah, this ship is taking us to their planet and they're going to keepus there while they study us.     How long will the trip take? I asked.     Six months. We'll be bottled up in this crate for six whole damnedmonths! And when we get there, we'll be prisoners!     Marie's hypnotic spell was fading and once more her face showed theterror inside her.     Don't feel so bad, I told Kane. It could be worse. It should beinteresting to see an alien race. We'll have our wives with us—     Maybe they'll dissect us! Marie gasped.     Verana scoffed. A race intelligent enough to build a ship like this? Arace that was traveling between the stars when we were living in caves?Dissection is primitive. They won't      have to     dissect us in order tostudy us. They'll have more advanced methods.     Maybe we can reach the ship's controls somehow, Kane said excitedly.We've got to try to change the ship's course and get back to theMoon!     It's impossible. Don't waste your time. The voice had no visiblesource and seemed to fill the room.  Verana snapped her fingers. So that's why the aliens read Marie'smind! They wanted to learn our language so they could talk to us!     Kane whirled in a complete circle, glaring at each of the four walls.Where are you?      Who     are you?     I'm located in a part of the ship you can't reach. I'm a machine.     Is anyone else aboard besides ourselves?     No. I control the ship. Although the voice spoke without stiltedphrases, the tone was cold and mechanical.     What are your—your masters going to do with us? Marie askedanxiously.     You won't be harmed. My masters merely wish to question and examineyou. Thousands of years ago, they wondered what your race would be likewhen it developed to the space-flight stage. They left this ship onyour Moon only because they were curious. My masters have no animositytoward your race, only compassion and curiosity.     I remembered the way antigravity rays had shoved Miller from the shipand asked the machine, Why didn't you let our fifth member board theship?     The trip to my makers' planet will take six months. There are food,oxygen and living facilities for four only of your race. I had toprevent the fifth from entering the ship.     Come on, Kane ordered. We'll search this ship room by room and we'llfind some way to make it take us back to Earth.     It's useless, the ship warned us.     For five hours, we minutely examined every room. We had no tools toforce our way through solid metal walls to the engine or control rooms.The only things in the ship that could be lifted and carried about werethe containers of food and alien games. None were sufficiently heavy orhard enough to put even a scratch in the heavy metal.  Six rooms were open to our use. The two rooms in which the Kanes hadbeen imprisoned were locked and there were no controls or locks to workon.     The rooms that we could enter were without doors, except the ones thatopened into the corridor.     After intensive searching, we realized there was      no way     to damage theship or reach any section other than our allotted space.     We gave up.     The women went to the sleeping compartments to rest and Kane I went tothe kitchen.     At random, we sampled the variously colored boxes and bottles anddiscussed our predicament.     Trapped, Kane said angrily. Trapped in a steel prison. He slammedhis fist against the table top. But there must be a way to get out!Every problem has a solution!     You sure? I asked.     What?           Does     every problem have a solution? I don't believe it. Someproblems are too great. Take the problem of a murderer in ourcivilization: John Doe has killed someone and his problem is to escape.Primarily, a murderer's problem is the same principle as ours. Amurderer has to outwit an entire civilization. We have to outwit anentire civilization that was hundreds of times more advanced than oursis now when we were clubbing animals and eating the meat raw. Damnedfew criminals get away these days, even though they've got such crowdsto lose themselves in. All we have is a ship that we can't control. Idon't think we have a chance.     My resignation annoyed him. Each of us had reacted differently: Kane'swife was frightened, Verana was calm because of an inner serenity thatfew people have, I was resigned and Kane was angry.  For several minutes, we sampled the different foods. Every one had adistinctive flavor, comparable to that of a fruit or vegetable on Earth.     Kane lifted a brown bottle to his lips, took a huge gulp and almostchoked.     Whiskey!     My masters realized your race would develop intoxicants and tried tocreate a comparable one, the machine explained.     I selected a brown bottle and sampled the liquid. A little strongerthan our own, I informed the machine.     We drank until Kane was staggering about the room, shouting insults atthe alien race and the mechanical voice that seemed to be everywhere.He beat his fist against a wall until blood trickled from bruisedknuckles.     Please don't hurt yourself, the machine pleaded.           Why?      Kane screamed at the ceiling. Why should you care?     My masters will be displeased with me if you arrive in a damagedcondition.     Kane banged his head against a bulkhead; an ugly bruise formed rapidly.Shtop me, then!     I can't. My masters created no way for me to restrain or contact youother than use of your language.     It took fully fifteen minutes to drag Kane to his sleeping compartment.     After I left Kane in his wife's care, I went to the adjoining room andstretched out on the soft floor beside Verana.     I tried to think of some solution. We were locked in an alien ship atthe start of a six months' journey to a strange planet. We had no toolsor weapons.     Solution? I doubted if two dozen geniuses working steadily for yearscould think of one!     I wondered what the alien race was like. Intelligent, surely: They hadforeseen our conquest of space flight when we hadn't even inventedthe wheel. That thought awed me—somehow they had analyzed our brainsthousands of years ago and calculated what our future accomplishmentswould be.     They had been able to predict our scientific development, but theyhadn't been able to tell how our civilization would develop. They werecurious, so they had left an enormously elaborate piece of bait on theMoon.     The aliens were incredibly more advanced than ourselves. I couldn'thelp thinking,      And to a rabbit in a snare, mankind must seemimpossibly clever     .     I decided to ask the machine about its makers in the morning.  When I awoke, my head was throbbing painfully.     I opened my eyes and blinked several times to make sure they werefunctioning properly. I wasn't in the compartment where I had fallenasleep a few hours before.     I was tied to one of the chairs in the kitchen. Beside me, Verana wasbound to a chair by strips of cloth from her skirt, and across from us,Marie was secured to another chair.     Kane staggered into the room. Although he was visibly drunk, heappeared more sober than the night before. His dark hair was rumpledand his face was flushed, but his eyes gleamed with a growing alertness.     Awake, huh?     What have you done, Harry? his wife screamed at him. Her eyes werered with tears and her lips twisted in an expression of shame when shelooked at him.     Obvious, isn't it? While all of you were asleep, I conked each of youon the head, dragged you in here and tied you up. He smiled crookedly.It's amazing the things a person can do when he's pickled. I'm sorry Ihad to be so rough, but I have a plan and I knew you wouldn't agree orcooperate with me.     What's your plan? I asked.     He grinned wryly and crinkled bloodshot eyes. I don't want to live ina zoo on an alien planet. I want to go home and prove my theory thatthis problem has a solution.     I grunted my disgust.     The solution is simple, he said. We're in a trap so strong that thealiens didn't establish any means to control our actions. When men puta lion in a strong cage, they don't worry about controlling the lionbecause the lion can't get out. We're in the same basic situation.     So what? Verana queried in a sarcastic tone.     The aliens want us transported to their planet so they can examine andquestion us. Right?     Right.     Ed, remember that remark the machine made last night?     What remark?     It said, '      My     masters will be displeased with      me     if you arrive in adamaged condition.' What does that indicate to you?  I assumed a baffled expression. I didn't have the slightest idea ofwhat he was driving at and I told him so.     Ed, he said, if you could build an electronic brain capable ofmaking decisions, how would you build it?     Hell, I don't know, I confessed.     Well, if I could build an electronic brain like the one running thisship, I'd build it with a      conscience     so it'd do its best at alltimes.     Machines always do their best, I argued. Come on, untie us. I'mgetting a crick in my back! I didn't like the idea of being sluggedwhile asleep. If Kane had been sober and if his wife hadn't beenpresent, I would have let him know exactly what I thought of him.           Our     machines always do their best, he argued, because we punchbuttons and they respond in predetermined patterns. But the electronicbrain in this ship isn't automatic. It makes decisions and I'll bet iteven has to decide how much energy and time to put into each process!     So what?     He shrugged muscular shoulders. So this ship is operated by athinking, conscientious machine. It's the first time I've encounteredsuch a machine, but I think I know what will happen. I spent hours lastnight figuring—     What are you talking about? I interrupted. Are you so drunk that youdon't know—     I'll show you, Ed.     He walked around the table and stood behind my chair. I felt his thickfingers around my throat and smelled the alcohol on his breath.     Can you see me, machine? he asked the empty air.     Yes, the electronic brain replied.     Watch!     Kane tightened his fingers around my throat.     Verana and Marie screamed shrilly.     My head seemed to swell like a balloon; my throat gurgled painfully.     Please stop, the machine pleaded.     What will your masters think of you if I kill all of us? You'll returnto them with a cargo of dead people!  The machine didn't answer. I waited for the electronic brain tointerfere and, with a cold knot in my stomach, realized the machine hadsaid it had no way to control our actions!     Your purpose won't be fulfilled, will it? Kane demanded. Not if youreturn with dead specimens!     No, the machine admitted.     If you don't take us back to the Moon, Kane threatened, I'll kill      all of us     !     The alien electronic brain was silent.     By this time, I couldn't see and Kane's voice was a hollow, farawaything that rang in my ears. I tugged at my bindings, but they onlytightened as I struggled.     If you take us back to the Moon, your masters will never know youfailed in your mission. They won't know you failed because you won'tbring them proof of your failure.     My fading consciousness tried to envision the alien mechanical brain asit struggled with the problem.     Look at it this way, Kane persisted. If you carry our corpses toyour masters, all your efforts will have been useless. If you return usto the Moon alive, you'll still have a chance to carry out your missionlater.     A long silence followed. Verana and Marie screamed at Kane to let go.A soft darkness seemed to fill the room, blurring everything, drowningeven their shrieks in strangling blackness.     You win, the machine conceded. I'll return the ship to the Moon.     Kane released his grip on my throat.     See? he asked. Didn't I tell you every problem has a solution?     I didn't answer. I was too busy enjoying breathing again.  ","The story begins on the surface of the Moon. The group revels in its beauty and the clear, star filled sky. They soon enter into the alien spaceship. The opening chamber's walls are filled with drawings and instruments. There are ""Kaleidoscopic"" lights that flash on and off. A small door opens to reveal a narrow passageway. The passageway is lined with eight doors, with no way to open them. Kane and Marie are pulled by some invisible forces into the first two rooms. Ed and Verana first enter into the ""kitchen"". It's a large room with shelves running along its walls, full of multicoloured containers and bottles. There is a table and four backless chairs in the centre, and the floor is a shiny green. There are drawings of a naked man and woman eating from the contents of the boxes. The second room is dedicated to recreation. There are numerous containers filled with alien games and books. There are more simple drawings to use as instructions to go along with them. They enter the sleeping quarters next, where the floors are squishy and the lights are ambient and relaxing. They go into a bathroom, with a large bath, alien toilets and soap. They finally enter an observatory. On one side is floor to ceiling see through, and the room is furnished with comfortable chairs. "
"What effect does Kane's violent drinking outburst have on the story? </s>     The Snare     By RICHARD R. SMITH     Illustrated by WEISS     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy January 1956.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright     on this publication was renewed.]        It's easy to find a solution when there is one—the trick is to do itif there is none!        I glanced at the path we had made across the      Mare Serenitatis     . TheLatin translated as the Sea of Serenity. It was well named because,as far as the eye could see in every direction, there was a smoothlayer of pumice that resembled the surface of a calm sea. Scatteredacross the quiet sea of virgin Moon dust were occasional islandsof rock that jutted abruptly toward the infinity of stars above.Considering everything, our surroundings conveyed a sense of serenitylike none I had ever felt.     Our bounding path across the level expanse was clearly marked. Becauseof the light gravity, we had leaped high into the air with each stepand every time we struck the ground, the impact had raised a cloud ofdustlike pumice. Now the clouds of dust were slowly settling in thelight gravity.     Above us, the stars were cold, motionless and crystal-clear.Indifferently, they sprayed a faint light on our surroundings ... adim glow that was hardly sufficient for normal vision and was too weakto be reflected toward Earth.     We turned our head-lamps on the strange object before us. Five beamsof light illuminated the smooth shape that protruded from the Moon'ssurface.     The incongruity was so awesome that for several minutes, we remainedmotionless and quiet. Miller broke the silence with his quaveringvoice, Strange someone didn't notice it before.  Strange? The object rose a quarter of a mile above us, a huge, curvinghulk of smooth metal. It was featureless and yet conveyed a senseof      alienness     . It was alien and yet it wasn't a natural formation.Something had made the thing, whatever it was. But was it strange thatit hadn't been noticed before? Men had lived on the Moon for over ayear, but the Moon was vast and the      Mare Serenitatis     covered threehundred and forty thousand square miles.     What is it? Marie asked breathlessly.     Her husband grunted his bafflement. Who knows? But see how it curves?If it's a perfect sphere, it must be at least two miles in diameter!     If it's a perfect sphere, Miller suggested, most of it must bebeneath the Moon's surface.     Maybe it isn't a sphere, my wife said. Maybe this is all of it.     Let's call Lunar City and tell the authorities about it. I reachedfor the radio controls on my suit.     Kane grabbed my arm. No. Let's find out whatever we can by ourselves.If we tell the authorities, they'll order us to leave it alone. If wediscover something really important, we'll be famous!     I lowered my arm. His outburst seemed faintly childish to me. And yetit carried a good measure of common sense. If we discovered proof ofan alien race, we would indeed be famous. The more we discovered forourselves, the more famous we'd be. Fame was practically a synonym forprestige and wealth.     All right, I conceded.     Miller stepped forward, moving slowly in the bulk of his spacesuit.Deliberately, he removed a small torch from his side and pressed thebrilliant flame against the metal.     A few minutes later, the elderly mineralogist gave his opinion: It'ssteel ... made thousands of years ago.     Someone gasped over the intercom, Thousands of years! But wouldn't itbe in worse shape than this if it was that old?     Miller pointed at the small cut his torch had made in the metal. Thenotch was only a quarter of an inch deep. I say      steel     because it's      similar     to steel. Actually, it's a much stronger alloy. Besides that,on the Moon, there's been no water or atmosphere to rust it. Not evena wind to disturb its surface. It's      at least     several thousand yearsold.  We slowly circled the alien structure. Several minutes later, Kaneshouted, Look!     A few feet above the ground, the structure's smooth surface was brokenby a circular opening that yawned invitingly. Kane ran ahead andflashed his head-lamp into the dark recess.     There's a small room inside, he told us, and climbed through theopening.     We waited outside and focused our lamps through the five-foot openingto give him as much light as possible.     Come on in, Marie, he called to his wife. This is really something!It      must     be an alien race. There's all kinds of weird drawings on thewalls and gadgets that look like controls for something....     Briefly, my lamp flickered over Marie's pale face. Her featuresstruggled with two conflicting emotions: She was frightened by thealienness of the thing and yet she wanted to be with her husband. Shehesitated momentarily, then climbed through the passage.     You want to go in? my wife asked.     Do you?     Let's.     I helped Verana through the opening, climbed through myself and turnedto help Miller.     Miller was sixty years old. He was an excellent mineralogist, alertmentally, but with a body that was almost feeble. I reached out to helphim as he stepped into the passageway.     For a brief second, he was framed in the opening, a dark silhouetteagainst the star-studded sky.     The next second, he was thrown twenty yards into the air. He gaspedwith pain when he struck the ground.       Something     pushed me!     Are you all right?     Yes.     He had fallen on a spot beyond our angle of vision. I started throughthe passage....     ... and struck an invisible solid wall.  My eyes were on the circular opening. A metal panel emerged from arecess on one side and slid across the passage. The room darkened withthe absence of starlight.           What happened?          The door to this damned place closed, I explained.           What?          Before we could recover from the shock, the room filled with abrilliant glare. We turned off our lamps.     The room was approximately twelve feet long and nine feet wide. Theceiling was only a few inches above our heads and when I looked at thesmooth, hard metal, I felt as if I were trapped in some alien vault.     The walls of the room were covered with strange drawings andinstruments. Here and there, kaleidoscopic lights pulsed rhythmically.     Kane brushed past me and beat his gloved fists against the metal doorthat had imprisoned us.     Miller!     Yes?     See if you can get this thing open from the outside.     I knelt before the door and explored its surface with my fingers. Therewere no visible recesses or controls.     Over the intercom network, everyone's breath mingled and formed arough, harsh sound. I could discern the women's quick, frightenedbreaths that were almost sobs. Kane's breath was deep and strong;Miller's was faltering and weak.     Miller, get help!     I'll— The sound of his breathing ceased. We listened intently.     What happened to him?     I'll phone Lunar City. My fingers fumbled at the radio controls andtrembled beneath the thick gloves.     I turned the dials that would connect my radio with Lunar City....     Static grated against my ear drums.       Static!    I listened to the harsh, erratic sound and my voice was weak bycomparison: Calling Lunar City.     Static! Kane echoed my thoughts. His frown made deep clefts betweenhis eyebrows. There's no static between inter-lunar radio!     Verana's voice was small and frightened. That sounds like the staticwe hear over the bigger radios when we broadcast to Earth.     It does, Marie agreed.     But we wouldn't have that kind of static over      our     radio, unless—Verana's eyes widened until the pupils were surrounded by circles ofwhite—unless we were in outer space!     We stared at the metal door that had imprisoned us, afraid even tospeak of our fantastic suspicion.     I deactivated my radio.     Marie screamed as an inner door opened to disclose a long, narrowcorridor beyond.     Simultaneous with the opening of the second door, I felt air pressagainst my spacesuit. Before, our suits had been puffed outward by thepressure of air inside. Now our spacesuits were slack and dangling onour bodies.     We looked at each other and then at the inviting corridor beyond theopen door.     We went single file, first Kane, then his wife Marie. Verana followednext and I was the last.     We walked slowly, examining the strange construction. The walls werefeatureless but still seemed alien. At various places on the walls werethe outlines of doors without handles or locks.     Kane pressed his shoulder against a door and shoved. The door wasunyielding.     I manipulated the air-vent controls of my spacesuit, allowed a smallamount of the corridor's air into my helmet and inhaled cautiously.It smelled all right. I waited and nothing happened. Gradually, Iincreased the intake, turned off the oxygenating machines and removedmy helmet.     Shut off your oxy, I suggested. We might as well breathe the air inthis place and save our supply. We may need the oxygen in our suitslater.     They saw that I had removed my helmet and was still alive and one byone removed their own helmets.  At the end of the corridor, Kane stopped before a blank wall. The sweaton his face glistened dully; his chest rose and fell rapidly. Kane wasa pilot and one of the prerequisites for the job of guiding tons ofmetal between Earth and the Moon was a good set of nerves. Kane excitedeasily, his temper was fiery, but his nerves were like steel.     The end of the line, he grunted.     As though to disprove the statement, a door on his right side openedsoundlessly.     He went through the doorway as if shoved violently by an invisible hand.     The door closed behind him.     Marie threw herself at the door and beat at the metal. Harry!     Verana rushed to her side. Another door on the opposite side of thecorridor opened silently. The door was behind them; they didn't notice.     Before I could warn them, Marie floated across the corridor, throughthe doorway.     Verana and I stared at the darkness beyond the opening, our musclesfrozen by shock.     The door closed behind Marie's screaming, struggling form.     Verana's face was white with fear. Apprehensively, she glanced at theother doors that lined the hall.     I put my arms around her, held her close.     Antigravity machines, force rays, I suggested worriedly.     For several minutes, we remained motionless and silent. I recalled thepreceding events of the day, searched for a sense of normality in them.The Kanes, Miller, Verana and I lived in Lunar City with hundreds ofother people. Mankind had inhabited the Moon for over a year. Meansof recreation were scarce. Many people explored the place to amusethemselves. After supper, we had decided to take a walk. As simple asthat: a walk on the Moon.     We had expected only the familiar craters, chasms and weird rockformations. A twist of fate and here we were: imprisoned in an alienship.     My legs quivered with fatigue, my heart throbbed heavily, Verana'sperfume dizzied me. No, it wasn't a dream. Despite our incrediblesituation, there was no sensation of unreality.  I took Verana's hand and led her down the long corridor, retracing oursteps.     We had walked not more than two yards when the rest of the doorsopened soundlessly.     Verana's hand flew to her mouth to stifle a gasp.     Six doors were now open. The only two that remained closed were theones that the Kanes had unwillingly entered.     This time, no invisible hand thrust us into any of the rooms.     I entered the nearest one. Verana followed hesitantly.     The walls of the large room were lined with shelves containingthousands of variously colored boxes and bottles. A table and fourchairs were located in the center of the green, plasticlike floor. Eachchair had no back, only a curving platform with a single supportingcolumn.     Ed! I joined Verana on the other side of the room. She pointed atrembling finger at some crude drawings. The things in this room arefood!     The drawings were so simple that anyone could have understood them.The first drawing portrayed a naked man and woman removing boxes andbottles from the shelves. The second picture showed the couple openingthe containers. The third showed the man eating from one of the boxesand the woman drinking from a bottle.       Let's see how it tastes, I said.     I selected an orange-colored box. The lid dissolved at the touch of myfingers.     The only contents were small cubes of a soft orange substance.     I tasted a small piece.     Chocolate! Just like chocolate!     Verana chose a nearby bottle and drank some of the bluish liquid.     Milk! she exclaimed.     Perhaps we'd better look at the other rooms, I told her.  The next room we examined was obviously for recreation. Containers werefilled with dozens of strange games and books of instructions in theform of simple drawings. The games were foreign, but designed in such afashion that they would be interesting to Earthmen.     Two of the rooms were sleeping quarters. The floors were covered with aspongy substance and the lights were dim and soothing.     Another room contained a small bathing pool, running water,waste-disposal units and yellow cakes of soap.     The last room was an observatory. The ceiling and an entire wall weretransparent. Outside, the stars shone clearly for a few seconds, thendisappeared for an equal time, only to reappear in a different position.     Hyper-space drive, Verana whispered softly. She was fascinated bythe movement of the stars. For years, our scientists had sought ahyperspatial drive to conquer the stars.     We selected a comfortable chair facing the transparent wall, litcigarettes and waited.     A few minutes later, Marie entered the room.     I noticed with some surprise that her face was calm. If she wasexcited, her actions didn't betray it.     She sat next to Verana.     What happened? my wife asked.     Marie crossed her legs and began in a rambling manner as if discussinga new recipe, That was really a surprise, wasn't it? I was scaredsilly, at first. That room was dark and I didn't know what to expect.Something touched my head and I heard a telepathic voice—     Telepathic? Verana interrupted.     Yes. Well, this voice said not to worry and that it wasn't going tohurt me. It said it only wanted to learn something about us. It wasthe      oddest     feeling! All the time, this voice kept talking to me ina nice way and made me feel at ease ... and at the same time, I felt      something     search my mind and gather information. I could actually      feel     it search my memories!     What memories? I inquired.     She frowned with concentration. Memories of high school mostly. Itseemed interested in English and history classes. And then it searchedfor memories of our customs and lives in general....  Kane stalked into the room at that moment, his face red with anger.      Do you know where we are?      he demanded. When those damned aliensgot me in that room, they explained what this is all about. We'reguinea pigs!     Did they use telepathy to explain? Verana asked. I suddenlyremembered that she was a member of a club that investigatedextra-sensory perception with the hope of learning how it operated. Shewas probably sorry she hadn't been contacted telepathically.     Yeah, Kane replied. I saw all sorts of mental pictures and theyexplained what they did to us. Those damned aliens want us for theirzoo!     Start at the beginning, I suggested.     He flashed an angry glance at me, but seemed to calm somewhat. Thisship was made by a race from another galaxy. Thousands of years ago,they came to Earth in their spaceships when men were primitives livingin caves. They wanted to know what our civilization would be likewhen we developed space flight. So they put this ship on the Moon as asort of booby-trap. They put it there with the idea that when we madespaceships and went to the Moon, sooner or later, we'd find the shipand enter it—      like rabbits in a snare!          And now the booby-trap is on its way home, I guessed.     Yeah, this ship is taking us to their planet and they're going to keepus there while they study us.     How long will the trip take? I asked.     Six months. We'll be bottled up in this crate for six whole damnedmonths! And when we get there, we'll be prisoners!     Marie's hypnotic spell was fading and once more her face showed theterror inside her.     Don't feel so bad, I told Kane. It could be worse. It should beinteresting to see an alien race. We'll have our wives with us—     Maybe they'll dissect us! Marie gasped.     Verana scoffed. A race intelligent enough to build a ship like this? Arace that was traveling between the stars when we were living in caves?Dissection is primitive. They won't      have to     dissect us in order tostudy us. They'll have more advanced methods.     Maybe we can reach the ship's controls somehow, Kane said excitedly.We've got to try to change the ship's course and get back to theMoon!     It's impossible. Don't waste your time. The voice had no visiblesource and seemed to fill the room.  Verana snapped her fingers. So that's why the aliens read Marie'smind! They wanted to learn our language so they could talk to us!     Kane whirled in a complete circle, glaring at each of the four walls.Where are you?      Who     are you?     I'm located in a part of the ship you can't reach. I'm a machine.     Is anyone else aboard besides ourselves?     No. I control the ship. Although the voice spoke without stiltedphrases, the tone was cold and mechanical.     What are your—your masters going to do with us? Marie askedanxiously.     You won't be harmed. My masters merely wish to question and examineyou. Thousands of years ago, they wondered what your race would be likewhen it developed to the space-flight stage. They left this ship onyour Moon only because they were curious. My masters have no animositytoward your race, only compassion and curiosity.     I remembered the way antigravity rays had shoved Miller from the shipand asked the machine, Why didn't you let our fifth member board theship?     The trip to my makers' planet will take six months. There are food,oxygen and living facilities for four only of your race. I had toprevent the fifth from entering the ship.     Come on, Kane ordered. We'll search this ship room by room and we'llfind some way to make it take us back to Earth.     It's useless, the ship warned us.     For five hours, we minutely examined every room. We had no tools toforce our way through solid metal walls to the engine or control rooms.The only things in the ship that could be lifted and carried about werethe containers of food and alien games. None were sufficiently heavy orhard enough to put even a scratch in the heavy metal.  Six rooms were open to our use. The two rooms in which the Kanes hadbeen imprisoned were locked and there were no controls or locks to workon.     The rooms that we could enter were without doors, except the ones thatopened into the corridor.     After intensive searching, we realized there was      no way     to damage theship or reach any section other than our allotted space.     We gave up.     The women went to the sleeping compartments to rest and Kane I went tothe kitchen.     At random, we sampled the variously colored boxes and bottles anddiscussed our predicament.     Trapped, Kane said angrily. Trapped in a steel prison. He slammedhis fist against the table top. But there must be a way to get out!Every problem has a solution!     You sure? I asked.     What?           Does     every problem have a solution? I don't believe it. Someproblems are too great. Take the problem of a murderer in ourcivilization: John Doe has killed someone and his problem is to escape.Primarily, a murderer's problem is the same principle as ours. Amurderer has to outwit an entire civilization. We have to outwit anentire civilization that was hundreds of times more advanced than oursis now when we were clubbing animals and eating the meat raw. Damnedfew criminals get away these days, even though they've got such crowdsto lose themselves in. All we have is a ship that we can't control. Idon't think we have a chance.     My resignation annoyed him. Each of us had reacted differently: Kane'swife was frightened, Verana was calm because of an inner serenity thatfew people have, I was resigned and Kane was angry.  For several minutes, we sampled the different foods. Every one had adistinctive flavor, comparable to that of a fruit or vegetable on Earth.     Kane lifted a brown bottle to his lips, took a huge gulp and almostchoked.     Whiskey!     My masters realized your race would develop intoxicants and tried tocreate a comparable one, the machine explained.     I selected a brown bottle and sampled the liquid. A little strongerthan our own, I informed the machine.     We drank until Kane was staggering about the room, shouting insults atthe alien race and the mechanical voice that seemed to be everywhere.He beat his fist against a wall until blood trickled from bruisedknuckles.     Please don't hurt yourself, the machine pleaded.           Why?      Kane screamed at the ceiling. Why should you care?     My masters will be displeased with me if you arrive in a damagedcondition.     Kane banged his head against a bulkhead; an ugly bruise formed rapidly.Shtop me, then!     I can't. My masters created no way for me to restrain or contact youother than use of your language.     It took fully fifteen minutes to drag Kane to his sleeping compartment.     After I left Kane in his wife's care, I went to the adjoining room andstretched out on the soft floor beside Verana.     I tried to think of some solution. We were locked in an alien ship atthe start of a six months' journey to a strange planet. We had no toolsor weapons.     Solution? I doubted if two dozen geniuses working steadily for yearscould think of one!     I wondered what the alien race was like. Intelligent, surely: They hadforeseen our conquest of space flight when we hadn't even inventedthe wheel. That thought awed me—somehow they had analyzed our brainsthousands of years ago and calculated what our future accomplishmentswould be.     They had been able to predict our scientific development, but theyhadn't been able to tell how our civilization would develop. They werecurious, so they had left an enormously elaborate piece of bait on theMoon.     The aliens were incredibly more advanced than ourselves. I couldn'thelp thinking,      And to a rabbit in a snare, mankind must seemimpossibly clever     .     I decided to ask the machine about its makers in the morning.  When I awoke, my head was throbbing painfully.     I opened my eyes and blinked several times to make sure they werefunctioning properly. I wasn't in the compartment where I had fallenasleep a few hours before.     I was tied to one of the chairs in the kitchen. Beside me, Verana wasbound to a chair by strips of cloth from her skirt, and across from us,Marie was secured to another chair.     Kane staggered into the room. Although he was visibly drunk, heappeared more sober than the night before. His dark hair was rumpledand his face was flushed, but his eyes gleamed with a growing alertness.     Awake, huh?     What have you done, Harry? his wife screamed at him. Her eyes werered with tears and her lips twisted in an expression of shame when shelooked at him.     Obvious, isn't it? While all of you were asleep, I conked each of youon the head, dragged you in here and tied you up. He smiled crookedly.It's amazing the things a person can do when he's pickled. I'm sorry Ihad to be so rough, but I have a plan and I knew you wouldn't agree orcooperate with me.     What's your plan? I asked.     He grinned wryly and crinkled bloodshot eyes. I don't want to live ina zoo on an alien planet. I want to go home and prove my theory thatthis problem has a solution.     I grunted my disgust.     The solution is simple, he said. We're in a trap so strong that thealiens didn't establish any means to control our actions. When men puta lion in a strong cage, they don't worry about controlling the lionbecause the lion can't get out. We're in the same basic situation.     So what? Verana queried in a sarcastic tone.     The aliens want us transported to their planet so they can examine andquestion us. Right?     Right.     Ed, remember that remark the machine made last night?     What remark?     It said, '      My     masters will be displeased with      me     if you arrive in adamaged condition.' What does that indicate to you?  I assumed a baffled expression. I didn't have the slightest idea ofwhat he was driving at and I told him so.     Ed, he said, if you could build an electronic brain capable ofmaking decisions, how would you build it?     Hell, I don't know, I confessed.     Well, if I could build an electronic brain like the one running thisship, I'd build it with a      conscience     so it'd do its best at alltimes.     Machines always do their best, I argued. Come on, untie us. I'mgetting a crick in my back! I didn't like the idea of being sluggedwhile asleep. If Kane had been sober and if his wife hadn't beenpresent, I would have let him know exactly what I thought of him.           Our     machines always do their best, he argued, because we punchbuttons and they respond in predetermined patterns. But the electronicbrain in this ship isn't automatic. It makes decisions and I'll bet iteven has to decide how much energy and time to put into each process!     So what?     He shrugged muscular shoulders. So this ship is operated by athinking, conscientious machine. It's the first time I've encounteredsuch a machine, but I think I know what will happen. I spent hours lastnight figuring—     What are you talking about? I interrupted. Are you so drunk that youdon't know—     I'll show you, Ed.     He walked around the table and stood behind my chair. I felt his thickfingers around my throat and smelled the alcohol on his breath.     Can you see me, machine? he asked the empty air.     Yes, the electronic brain replied.     Watch!     Kane tightened his fingers around my throat.     Verana and Marie screamed shrilly.     My head seemed to swell like a balloon; my throat gurgled painfully.     Please stop, the machine pleaded.     What will your masters think of you if I kill all of us? You'll returnto them with a cargo of dead people!  The machine didn't answer. I waited for the electronic brain tointerfere and, with a cold knot in my stomach, realized the machine hadsaid it had no way to control our actions!     Your purpose won't be fulfilled, will it? Kane demanded. Not if youreturn with dead specimens!     No, the machine admitted.     If you don't take us back to the Moon, Kane threatened, I'll kill      all of us     !     The alien electronic brain was silent.     By this time, I couldn't see and Kane's voice was a hollow, farawaything that rang in my ears. I tugged at my bindings, but they onlytightened as I struggled.     If you take us back to the Moon, your masters will never know youfailed in your mission. They won't know you failed because you won'tbring them proof of your failure.     My fading consciousness tried to envision the alien mechanical brain asit struggled with the problem.     Look at it this way, Kane persisted. If you carry our corpses toyour masters, all your efforts will have been useless. If you return usto the Moon alive, you'll still have a chance to carry out your missionlater.     A long silence followed. Verana and Marie screamed at Kane to let go.A soft darkness seemed to fill the room, blurring everything, drowningeven their shrieks in strangling blackness.     You win, the machine conceded. I'll return the ship to the Moon.     Kane released his grip on my throat.     See? he asked. Didn't I tell you every problem has a solution?     I didn't answer. I was too busy enjoying breathing again.  ","Ed and Kane go to the kitchen and start to sample random bottles and foods. Kane finds a brown bottle filled with a strong liquid. The artificial intelligence explains that it is a liquor intended to mimic something like what the alien race presumed would be created on Earth. He starts to drink it and soon becomes intoxicated. He starts to punch himself and then beats his head against the wall. His knuckles become bloody and he gets a bruise on his head. The computer asks him not to hurt himself, as its masters will be disappointed if they arrive in the alien world injured. The computer has no way to physically interfere with the crew. This hatches an idea in Kane's mind. If the computer arrives with a damaged or even dead crew, then the machine will have failed its assignment.  He threatens to kill the entire crew, which would mean that the machine would arrive on the planet empty handed. He offers the machine an alternative. If it drops them back on Mars, then it will not have really failed, because the only way to truly fail would be to arrive with a dead crew. Additionally, if the machine stayed on the Moon's surface, it might have an opportunity to pick up another crew in the future. This plan is all due to a whiskey-like substance. "
"What happens to Marie throughout the story? </s>     The Snare     By RICHARD R. SMITH     Illustrated by WEISS     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy January 1956.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright     on this publication was renewed.]        It's easy to find a solution when there is one—the trick is to do itif there is none!        I glanced at the path we had made across the      Mare Serenitatis     . TheLatin translated as the Sea of Serenity. It was well named because,as far as the eye could see in every direction, there was a smoothlayer of pumice that resembled the surface of a calm sea. Scatteredacross the quiet sea of virgin Moon dust were occasional islandsof rock that jutted abruptly toward the infinity of stars above.Considering everything, our surroundings conveyed a sense of serenitylike none I had ever felt.     Our bounding path across the level expanse was clearly marked. Becauseof the light gravity, we had leaped high into the air with each stepand every time we struck the ground, the impact had raised a cloud ofdustlike pumice. Now the clouds of dust were slowly settling in thelight gravity.     Above us, the stars were cold, motionless and crystal-clear.Indifferently, they sprayed a faint light on our surroundings ... adim glow that was hardly sufficient for normal vision and was too weakto be reflected toward Earth.     We turned our head-lamps on the strange object before us. Five beamsof light illuminated the smooth shape that protruded from the Moon'ssurface.     The incongruity was so awesome that for several minutes, we remainedmotionless and quiet. Miller broke the silence with his quaveringvoice, Strange someone didn't notice it before.  Strange? The object rose a quarter of a mile above us, a huge, curvinghulk of smooth metal. It was featureless and yet conveyed a senseof      alienness     . It was alien and yet it wasn't a natural formation.Something had made the thing, whatever it was. But was it strange thatit hadn't been noticed before? Men had lived on the Moon for over ayear, but the Moon was vast and the      Mare Serenitatis     covered threehundred and forty thousand square miles.     What is it? Marie asked breathlessly.     Her husband grunted his bafflement. Who knows? But see how it curves?If it's a perfect sphere, it must be at least two miles in diameter!     If it's a perfect sphere, Miller suggested, most of it must bebeneath the Moon's surface.     Maybe it isn't a sphere, my wife said. Maybe this is all of it.     Let's call Lunar City and tell the authorities about it. I reachedfor the radio controls on my suit.     Kane grabbed my arm. No. Let's find out whatever we can by ourselves.If we tell the authorities, they'll order us to leave it alone. If wediscover something really important, we'll be famous!     I lowered my arm. His outburst seemed faintly childish to me. And yetit carried a good measure of common sense. If we discovered proof ofan alien race, we would indeed be famous. The more we discovered forourselves, the more famous we'd be. Fame was practically a synonym forprestige and wealth.     All right, I conceded.     Miller stepped forward, moving slowly in the bulk of his spacesuit.Deliberately, he removed a small torch from his side and pressed thebrilliant flame against the metal.     A few minutes later, the elderly mineralogist gave his opinion: It'ssteel ... made thousands of years ago.     Someone gasped over the intercom, Thousands of years! But wouldn't itbe in worse shape than this if it was that old?     Miller pointed at the small cut his torch had made in the metal. Thenotch was only a quarter of an inch deep. I say      steel     because it's      similar     to steel. Actually, it's a much stronger alloy. Besides that,on the Moon, there's been no water or atmosphere to rust it. Not evena wind to disturb its surface. It's      at least     several thousand yearsold.  We slowly circled the alien structure. Several minutes later, Kaneshouted, Look!     A few feet above the ground, the structure's smooth surface was brokenby a circular opening that yawned invitingly. Kane ran ahead andflashed his head-lamp into the dark recess.     There's a small room inside, he told us, and climbed through theopening.     We waited outside and focused our lamps through the five-foot openingto give him as much light as possible.     Come on in, Marie, he called to his wife. This is really something!It      must     be an alien race. There's all kinds of weird drawings on thewalls and gadgets that look like controls for something....     Briefly, my lamp flickered over Marie's pale face. Her featuresstruggled with two conflicting emotions: She was frightened by thealienness of the thing and yet she wanted to be with her husband. Shehesitated momentarily, then climbed through the passage.     You want to go in? my wife asked.     Do you?     Let's.     I helped Verana through the opening, climbed through myself and turnedto help Miller.     Miller was sixty years old. He was an excellent mineralogist, alertmentally, but with a body that was almost feeble. I reached out to helphim as he stepped into the passageway.     For a brief second, he was framed in the opening, a dark silhouetteagainst the star-studded sky.     The next second, he was thrown twenty yards into the air. He gaspedwith pain when he struck the ground.       Something     pushed me!     Are you all right?     Yes.     He had fallen on a spot beyond our angle of vision. I started throughthe passage....     ... and struck an invisible solid wall.  My eyes were on the circular opening. A metal panel emerged from arecess on one side and slid across the passage. The room darkened withthe absence of starlight.           What happened?          The door to this damned place closed, I explained.           What?          Before we could recover from the shock, the room filled with abrilliant glare. We turned off our lamps.     The room was approximately twelve feet long and nine feet wide. Theceiling was only a few inches above our heads and when I looked at thesmooth, hard metal, I felt as if I were trapped in some alien vault.     The walls of the room were covered with strange drawings andinstruments. Here and there, kaleidoscopic lights pulsed rhythmically.     Kane brushed past me and beat his gloved fists against the metal doorthat had imprisoned us.     Miller!     Yes?     See if you can get this thing open from the outside.     I knelt before the door and explored its surface with my fingers. Therewere no visible recesses or controls.     Over the intercom network, everyone's breath mingled and formed arough, harsh sound. I could discern the women's quick, frightenedbreaths that were almost sobs. Kane's breath was deep and strong;Miller's was faltering and weak.     Miller, get help!     I'll— The sound of his breathing ceased. We listened intently.     What happened to him?     I'll phone Lunar City. My fingers fumbled at the radio controls andtrembled beneath the thick gloves.     I turned the dials that would connect my radio with Lunar City....     Static grated against my ear drums.       Static!    I listened to the harsh, erratic sound and my voice was weak bycomparison: Calling Lunar City.     Static! Kane echoed my thoughts. His frown made deep clefts betweenhis eyebrows. There's no static between inter-lunar radio!     Verana's voice was small and frightened. That sounds like the staticwe hear over the bigger radios when we broadcast to Earth.     It does, Marie agreed.     But we wouldn't have that kind of static over      our     radio, unless—Verana's eyes widened until the pupils were surrounded by circles ofwhite—unless we were in outer space!     We stared at the metal door that had imprisoned us, afraid even tospeak of our fantastic suspicion.     I deactivated my radio.     Marie screamed as an inner door opened to disclose a long, narrowcorridor beyond.     Simultaneous with the opening of the second door, I felt air pressagainst my spacesuit. Before, our suits had been puffed outward by thepressure of air inside. Now our spacesuits were slack and dangling onour bodies.     We looked at each other and then at the inviting corridor beyond theopen door.     We went single file, first Kane, then his wife Marie. Verana followednext and I was the last.     We walked slowly, examining the strange construction. The walls werefeatureless but still seemed alien. At various places on the walls werethe outlines of doors without handles or locks.     Kane pressed his shoulder against a door and shoved. The door wasunyielding.     I manipulated the air-vent controls of my spacesuit, allowed a smallamount of the corridor's air into my helmet and inhaled cautiously.It smelled all right. I waited and nothing happened. Gradually, Iincreased the intake, turned off the oxygenating machines and removedmy helmet.     Shut off your oxy, I suggested. We might as well breathe the air inthis place and save our supply. We may need the oxygen in our suitslater.     They saw that I had removed my helmet and was still alive and one byone removed their own helmets.  At the end of the corridor, Kane stopped before a blank wall. The sweaton his face glistened dully; his chest rose and fell rapidly. Kane wasa pilot and one of the prerequisites for the job of guiding tons ofmetal between Earth and the Moon was a good set of nerves. Kane excitedeasily, his temper was fiery, but his nerves were like steel.     The end of the line, he grunted.     As though to disprove the statement, a door on his right side openedsoundlessly.     He went through the doorway as if shoved violently by an invisible hand.     The door closed behind him.     Marie threw herself at the door and beat at the metal. Harry!     Verana rushed to her side. Another door on the opposite side of thecorridor opened silently. The door was behind them; they didn't notice.     Before I could warn them, Marie floated across the corridor, throughthe doorway.     Verana and I stared at the darkness beyond the opening, our musclesfrozen by shock.     The door closed behind Marie's screaming, struggling form.     Verana's face was white with fear. Apprehensively, she glanced at theother doors that lined the hall.     I put my arms around her, held her close.     Antigravity machines, force rays, I suggested worriedly.     For several minutes, we remained motionless and silent. I recalled thepreceding events of the day, searched for a sense of normality in them.The Kanes, Miller, Verana and I lived in Lunar City with hundreds ofother people. Mankind had inhabited the Moon for over a year. Meansof recreation were scarce. Many people explored the place to amusethemselves. After supper, we had decided to take a walk. As simple asthat: a walk on the Moon.     We had expected only the familiar craters, chasms and weird rockformations. A twist of fate and here we were: imprisoned in an alienship.     My legs quivered with fatigue, my heart throbbed heavily, Verana'sperfume dizzied me. No, it wasn't a dream. Despite our incrediblesituation, there was no sensation of unreality.  I took Verana's hand and led her down the long corridor, retracing oursteps.     We had walked not more than two yards when the rest of the doorsopened soundlessly.     Verana's hand flew to her mouth to stifle a gasp.     Six doors were now open. The only two that remained closed were theones that the Kanes had unwillingly entered.     This time, no invisible hand thrust us into any of the rooms.     I entered the nearest one. Verana followed hesitantly.     The walls of the large room were lined with shelves containingthousands of variously colored boxes and bottles. A table and fourchairs were located in the center of the green, plasticlike floor. Eachchair had no back, only a curving platform with a single supportingcolumn.     Ed! I joined Verana on the other side of the room. She pointed atrembling finger at some crude drawings. The things in this room arefood!     The drawings were so simple that anyone could have understood them.The first drawing portrayed a naked man and woman removing boxes andbottles from the shelves. The second picture showed the couple openingthe containers. The third showed the man eating from one of the boxesand the woman drinking from a bottle.       Let's see how it tastes, I said.     I selected an orange-colored box. The lid dissolved at the touch of myfingers.     The only contents were small cubes of a soft orange substance.     I tasted a small piece.     Chocolate! Just like chocolate!     Verana chose a nearby bottle and drank some of the bluish liquid.     Milk! she exclaimed.     Perhaps we'd better look at the other rooms, I told her.  The next room we examined was obviously for recreation. Containers werefilled with dozens of strange games and books of instructions in theform of simple drawings. The games were foreign, but designed in such afashion that they would be interesting to Earthmen.     Two of the rooms were sleeping quarters. The floors were covered with aspongy substance and the lights were dim and soothing.     Another room contained a small bathing pool, running water,waste-disposal units and yellow cakes of soap.     The last room was an observatory. The ceiling and an entire wall weretransparent. Outside, the stars shone clearly for a few seconds, thendisappeared for an equal time, only to reappear in a different position.     Hyper-space drive, Verana whispered softly. She was fascinated bythe movement of the stars. For years, our scientists had sought ahyperspatial drive to conquer the stars.     We selected a comfortable chair facing the transparent wall, litcigarettes and waited.     A few minutes later, Marie entered the room.     I noticed with some surprise that her face was calm. If she wasexcited, her actions didn't betray it.     She sat next to Verana.     What happened? my wife asked.     Marie crossed her legs and began in a rambling manner as if discussinga new recipe, That was really a surprise, wasn't it? I was scaredsilly, at first. That room was dark and I didn't know what to expect.Something touched my head and I heard a telepathic voice—     Telepathic? Verana interrupted.     Yes. Well, this voice said not to worry and that it wasn't going tohurt me. It said it only wanted to learn something about us. It wasthe      oddest     feeling! All the time, this voice kept talking to me ina nice way and made me feel at ease ... and at the same time, I felt      something     search my mind and gather information. I could actually      feel     it search my memories!     What memories? I inquired.     She frowned with concentration. Memories of high school mostly. Itseemed interested in English and history classes. And then it searchedfor memories of our customs and lives in general....  Kane stalked into the room at that moment, his face red with anger.      Do you know where we are?      he demanded. When those damned aliensgot me in that room, they explained what this is all about. We'reguinea pigs!     Did they use telepathy to explain? Verana asked. I suddenlyremembered that she was a member of a club that investigatedextra-sensory perception with the hope of learning how it operated. Shewas probably sorry she hadn't been contacted telepathically.     Yeah, Kane replied. I saw all sorts of mental pictures and theyexplained what they did to us. Those damned aliens want us for theirzoo!     Start at the beginning, I suggested.     He flashed an angry glance at me, but seemed to calm somewhat. Thisship was made by a race from another galaxy. Thousands of years ago,they came to Earth in their spaceships when men were primitives livingin caves. They wanted to know what our civilization would be likewhen we developed space flight. So they put this ship on the Moon as asort of booby-trap. They put it there with the idea that when we madespaceships and went to the Moon, sooner or later, we'd find the shipand enter it—      like rabbits in a snare!          And now the booby-trap is on its way home, I guessed.     Yeah, this ship is taking us to their planet and they're going to keepus there while they study us.     How long will the trip take? I asked.     Six months. We'll be bottled up in this crate for six whole damnedmonths! And when we get there, we'll be prisoners!     Marie's hypnotic spell was fading and once more her face showed theterror inside her.     Don't feel so bad, I told Kane. It could be worse. It should beinteresting to see an alien race. We'll have our wives with us—     Maybe they'll dissect us! Marie gasped.     Verana scoffed. A race intelligent enough to build a ship like this? Arace that was traveling between the stars when we were living in caves?Dissection is primitive. They won't      have to     dissect us in order tostudy us. They'll have more advanced methods.     Maybe we can reach the ship's controls somehow, Kane said excitedly.We've got to try to change the ship's course and get back to theMoon!     It's impossible. Don't waste your time. The voice had no visiblesource and seemed to fill the room.  Verana snapped her fingers. So that's why the aliens read Marie'smind! They wanted to learn our language so they could talk to us!     Kane whirled in a complete circle, glaring at each of the four walls.Where are you?      Who     are you?     I'm located in a part of the ship you can't reach. I'm a machine.     Is anyone else aboard besides ourselves?     No. I control the ship. Although the voice spoke without stiltedphrases, the tone was cold and mechanical.     What are your—your masters going to do with us? Marie askedanxiously.     You won't be harmed. My masters merely wish to question and examineyou. Thousands of years ago, they wondered what your race would be likewhen it developed to the space-flight stage. They left this ship onyour Moon only because they were curious. My masters have no animositytoward your race, only compassion and curiosity.     I remembered the way antigravity rays had shoved Miller from the shipand asked the machine, Why didn't you let our fifth member board theship?     The trip to my makers' planet will take six months. There are food,oxygen and living facilities for four only of your race. I had toprevent the fifth from entering the ship.     Come on, Kane ordered. We'll search this ship room by room and we'llfind some way to make it take us back to Earth.     It's useless, the ship warned us.     For five hours, we minutely examined every room. We had no tools toforce our way through solid metal walls to the engine or control rooms.The only things in the ship that could be lifted and carried about werethe containers of food and alien games. None were sufficiently heavy orhard enough to put even a scratch in the heavy metal.  Six rooms were open to our use. The two rooms in which the Kanes hadbeen imprisoned were locked and there were no controls or locks to workon.     The rooms that we could enter were without doors, except the ones thatopened into the corridor.     After intensive searching, we realized there was      no way     to damage theship or reach any section other than our allotted space.     We gave up.     The women went to the sleeping compartments to rest and Kane I went tothe kitchen.     At random, we sampled the variously colored boxes and bottles anddiscussed our predicament.     Trapped, Kane said angrily. Trapped in a steel prison. He slammedhis fist against the table top. But there must be a way to get out!Every problem has a solution!     You sure? I asked.     What?           Does     every problem have a solution? I don't believe it. Someproblems are too great. Take the problem of a murderer in ourcivilization: John Doe has killed someone and his problem is to escape.Primarily, a murderer's problem is the same principle as ours. Amurderer has to outwit an entire civilization. We have to outwit anentire civilization that was hundreds of times more advanced than oursis now when we were clubbing animals and eating the meat raw. Damnedfew criminals get away these days, even though they've got such crowdsto lose themselves in. All we have is a ship that we can't control. Idon't think we have a chance.     My resignation annoyed him. Each of us had reacted differently: Kane'swife was frightened, Verana was calm because of an inner serenity thatfew people have, I was resigned and Kane was angry.  For several minutes, we sampled the different foods. Every one had adistinctive flavor, comparable to that of a fruit or vegetable on Earth.     Kane lifted a brown bottle to his lips, took a huge gulp and almostchoked.     Whiskey!     My masters realized your race would develop intoxicants and tried tocreate a comparable one, the machine explained.     I selected a brown bottle and sampled the liquid. A little strongerthan our own, I informed the machine.     We drank until Kane was staggering about the room, shouting insults atthe alien race and the mechanical voice that seemed to be everywhere.He beat his fist against a wall until blood trickled from bruisedknuckles.     Please don't hurt yourself, the machine pleaded.           Why?      Kane screamed at the ceiling. Why should you care?     My masters will be displeased with me if you arrive in a damagedcondition.     Kane banged his head against a bulkhead; an ugly bruise formed rapidly.Shtop me, then!     I can't. My masters created no way for me to restrain or contact youother than use of your language.     It took fully fifteen minutes to drag Kane to his sleeping compartment.     After I left Kane in his wife's care, I went to the adjoining room andstretched out on the soft floor beside Verana.     I tried to think of some solution. We were locked in an alien ship atthe start of a six months' journey to a strange planet. We had no toolsor weapons.     Solution? I doubted if two dozen geniuses working steadily for yearscould think of one!     I wondered what the alien race was like. Intelligent, surely: They hadforeseen our conquest of space flight when we hadn't even inventedthe wheel. That thought awed me—somehow they had analyzed our brainsthousands of years ago and calculated what our future accomplishmentswould be.     They had been able to predict our scientific development, but theyhadn't been able to tell how our civilization would develop. They werecurious, so they had left an enormously elaborate piece of bait on theMoon.     The aliens were incredibly more advanced than ourselves. I couldn'thelp thinking,      And to a rabbit in a snare, mankind must seemimpossibly clever     .     I decided to ask the machine about its makers in the morning.  When I awoke, my head was throbbing painfully.     I opened my eyes and blinked several times to make sure they werefunctioning properly. I wasn't in the compartment where I had fallenasleep a few hours before.     I was tied to one of the chairs in the kitchen. Beside me, Verana wasbound to a chair by strips of cloth from her skirt, and across from us,Marie was secured to another chair.     Kane staggered into the room. Although he was visibly drunk, heappeared more sober than the night before. His dark hair was rumpledand his face was flushed, but his eyes gleamed with a growing alertness.     Awake, huh?     What have you done, Harry? his wife screamed at him. Her eyes werered with tears and her lips twisted in an expression of shame when shelooked at him.     Obvious, isn't it? While all of you were asleep, I conked each of youon the head, dragged you in here and tied you up. He smiled crookedly.It's amazing the things a person can do when he's pickled. I'm sorry Ihad to be so rough, but I have a plan and I knew you wouldn't agree orcooperate with me.     What's your plan? I asked.     He grinned wryly and crinkled bloodshot eyes. I don't want to live ina zoo on an alien planet. I want to go home and prove my theory thatthis problem has a solution.     I grunted my disgust.     The solution is simple, he said. We're in a trap so strong that thealiens didn't establish any means to control our actions. When men puta lion in a strong cage, they don't worry about controlling the lionbecause the lion can't get out. We're in the same basic situation.     So what? Verana queried in a sarcastic tone.     The aliens want us transported to their planet so they can examine andquestion us. Right?     Right.     Ed, remember that remark the machine made last night?     What remark?     It said, '      My     masters will be displeased with      me     if you arrive in adamaged condition.' What does that indicate to you?  I assumed a baffled expression. I didn't have the slightest idea ofwhat he was driving at and I told him so.     Ed, he said, if you could build an electronic brain capable ofmaking decisions, how would you build it?     Hell, I don't know, I confessed.     Well, if I could build an electronic brain like the one running thisship, I'd build it with a      conscience     so it'd do its best at alltimes.     Machines always do their best, I argued. Come on, untie us. I'mgetting a crick in my back! I didn't like the idea of being sluggedwhile asleep. If Kane had been sober and if his wife hadn't beenpresent, I would have let him know exactly what I thought of him.           Our     machines always do their best, he argued, because we punchbuttons and they respond in predetermined patterns. But the electronicbrain in this ship isn't automatic. It makes decisions and I'll bet iteven has to decide how much energy and time to put into each process!     So what?     He shrugged muscular shoulders. So this ship is operated by athinking, conscientious machine. It's the first time I've encounteredsuch a machine, but I think I know what will happen. I spent hours lastnight figuring—     What are you talking about? I interrupted. Are you so drunk that youdon't know—     I'll show you, Ed.     He walked around the table and stood behind my chair. I felt his thickfingers around my throat and smelled the alcohol on his breath.     Can you see me, machine? he asked the empty air.     Yes, the electronic brain replied.     Watch!     Kane tightened his fingers around my throat.     Verana and Marie screamed shrilly.     My head seemed to swell like a balloon; my throat gurgled painfully.     Please stop, the machine pleaded.     What will your masters think of you if I kill all of us? You'll returnto them with a cargo of dead people!  The machine didn't answer. I waited for the electronic brain tointerfere and, with a cold knot in my stomach, realized the machine hadsaid it had no way to control our actions!     Your purpose won't be fulfilled, will it? Kane demanded. Not if youreturn with dead specimens!     No, the machine admitted.     If you don't take us back to the Moon, Kane threatened, I'll kill      all of us     !     The alien electronic brain was silent.     By this time, I couldn't see and Kane's voice was a hollow, farawaything that rang in my ears. I tugged at my bindings, but they onlytightened as I struggled.     If you take us back to the Moon, your masters will never know youfailed in your mission. They won't know you failed because you won'tbring them proof of your failure.     My fading consciousness tried to envision the alien mechanical brain asit struggled with the problem.     Look at it this way, Kane persisted. If you carry our corpses toyour masters, all your efforts will have been useless. If you return usto the Moon alive, you'll still have a chance to carry out your missionlater.     A long silence followed. Verana and Marie screamed at Kane to let go.A soft darkness seemed to fill the room, blurring everything, drowningeven their shrieks in strangling blackness.     You win, the machine conceded. I'll return the ship to the Moon.     Kane released his grip on my throat.     See? he asked. Didn't I tell you every problem has a solution?     I didn't answer. I was too busy enjoying breathing again.  ","Marie is the wife of Kane, the sharp, brash anti-hero of the story. She begins on the walk with the rest of the crew, ending up on the alien spaceship. When Kane is thrown into a separate room from the rest of the crew, Marie throws herself against the door and tries with all her strength to get it to open, until she herself is put in a separate room. The room is dark, and she is touched by a telepathic voice that tells her not to worry. They won't hurt her, and they only want to learn something about her. The voice seems to search through her memories, looking at her high school days. It also looked at human customs and their lives in general. The room must be filled with some sort of happiness gas, because she comes out of it to join the rest of the crew in an airy, relaxed mood that soon wears off. She then searches the ship for a way to break out with the rest of the group but finds nothing. She goes to sleep with Verana. She wakes up to Kane having tied them all up. When Kane is strangling Ed, she screams at him to stop. Eventually though, the computer lets them go home. "
"What are Ed and Verana's relationship to each other? </s>     The Snare     By RICHARD R. SMITH     Illustrated by WEISS     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy January 1956.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright     on this publication was renewed.]        It's easy to find a solution when there is one—the trick is to do itif there is none!        I glanced at the path we had made across the      Mare Serenitatis     . TheLatin translated as the Sea of Serenity. It was well named because,as far as the eye could see in every direction, there was a smoothlayer of pumice that resembled the surface of a calm sea. Scatteredacross the quiet sea of virgin Moon dust were occasional islandsof rock that jutted abruptly toward the infinity of stars above.Considering everything, our surroundings conveyed a sense of serenitylike none I had ever felt.     Our bounding path across the level expanse was clearly marked. Becauseof the light gravity, we had leaped high into the air with each stepand every time we struck the ground, the impact had raised a cloud ofdustlike pumice. Now the clouds of dust were slowly settling in thelight gravity.     Above us, the stars were cold, motionless and crystal-clear.Indifferently, they sprayed a faint light on our surroundings ... adim glow that was hardly sufficient for normal vision and was too weakto be reflected toward Earth.     We turned our head-lamps on the strange object before us. Five beamsof light illuminated the smooth shape that protruded from the Moon'ssurface.     The incongruity was so awesome that for several minutes, we remainedmotionless and quiet. Miller broke the silence with his quaveringvoice, Strange someone didn't notice it before.  Strange? The object rose a quarter of a mile above us, a huge, curvinghulk of smooth metal. It was featureless and yet conveyed a senseof      alienness     . It was alien and yet it wasn't a natural formation.Something had made the thing, whatever it was. But was it strange thatit hadn't been noticed before? Men had lived on the Moon for over ayear, but the Moon was vast and the      Mare Serenitatis     covered threehundred and forty thousand square miles.     What is it? Marie asked breathlessly.     Her husband grunted his bafflement. Who knows? But see how it curves?If it's a perfect sphere, it must be at least two miles in diameter!     If it's a perfect sphere, Miller suggested, most of it must bebeneath the Moon's surface.     Maybe it isn't a sphere, my wife said. Maybe this is all of it.     Let's call Lunar City and tell the authorities about it. I reachedfor the radio controls on my suit.     Kane grabbed my arm. No. Let's find out whatever we can by ourselves.If we tell the authorities, they'll order us to leave it alone. If wediscover something really important, we'll be famous!     I lowered my arm. His outburst seemed faintly childish to me. And yetit carried a good measure of common sense. If we discovered proof ofan alien race, we would indeed be famous. The more we discovered forourselves, the more famous we'd be. Fame was practically a synonym forprestige and wealth.     All right, I conceded.     Miller stepped forward, moving slowly in the bulk of his spacesuit.Deliberately, he removed a small torch from his side and pressed thebrilliant flame against the metal.     A few minutes later, the elderly mineralogist gave his opinion: It'ssteel ... made thousands of years ago.     Someone gasped over the intercom, Thousands of years! But wouldn't itbe in worse shape than this if it was that old?     Miller pointed at the small cut his torch had made in the metal. Thenotch was only a quarter of an inch deep. I say      steel     because it's      similar     to steel. Actually, it's a much stronger alloy. Besides that,on the Moon, there's been no water or atmosphere to rust it. Not evena wind to disturb its surface. It's      at least     several thousand yearsold.  We slowly circled the alien structure. Several minutes later, Kaneshouted, Look!     A few feet above the ground, the structure's smooth surface was brokenby a circular opening that yawned invitingly. Kane ran ahead andflashed his head-lamp into the dark recess.     There's a small room inside, he told us, and climbed through theopening.     We waited outside and focused our lamps through the five-foot openingto give him as much light as possible.     Come on in, Marie, he called to his wife. This is really something!It      must     be an alien race. There's all kinds of weird drawings on thewalls and gadgets that look like controls for something....     Briefly, my lamp flickered over Marie's pale face. Her featuresstruggled with two conflicting emotions: She was frightened by thealienness of the thing and yet she wanted to be with her husband. Shehesitated momentarily, then climbed through the passage.     You want to go in? my wife asked.     Do you?     Let's.     I helped Verana through the opening, climbed through myself and turnedto help Miller.     Miller was sixty years old. He was an excellent mineralogist, alertmentally, but with a body that was almost feeble. I reached out to helphim as he stepped into the passageway.     For a brief second, he was framed in the opening, a dark silhouetteagainst the star-studded sky.     The next second, he was thrown twenty yards into the air. He gaspedwith pain when he struck the ground.       Something     pushed me!     Are you all right?     Yes.     He had fallen on a spot beyond our angle of vision. I started throughthe passage....     ... and struck an invisible solid wall.  My eyes were on the circular opening. A metal panel emerged from arecess on one side and slid across the passage. The room darkened withthe absence of starlight.           What happened?          The door to this damned place closed, I explained.           What?          Before we could recover from the shock, the room filled with abrilliant glare. We turned off our lamps.     The room was approximately twelve feet long and nine feet wide. Theceiling was only a few inches above our heads and when I looked at thesmooth, hard metal, I felt as if I were trapped in some alien vault.     The walls of the room were covered with strange drawings andinstruments. Here and there, kaleidoscopic lights pulsed rhythmically.     Kane brushed past me and beat his gloved fists against the metal doorthat had imprisoned us.     Miller!     Yes?     See if you can get this thing open from the outside.     I knelt before the door and explored its surface with my fingers. Therewere no visible recesses or controls.     Over the intercom network, everyone's breath mingled and formed arough, harsh sound. I could discern the women's quick, frightenedbreaths that were almost sobs. Kane's breath was deep and strong;Miller's was faltering and weak.     Miller, get help!     I'll— The sound of his breathing ceased. We listened intently.     What happened to him?     I'll phone Lunar City. My fingers fumbled at the radio controls andtrembled beneath the thick gloves.     I turned the dials that would connect my radio with Lunar City....     Static grated against my ear drums.       Static!    I listened to the harsh, erratic sound and my voice was weak bycomparison: Calling Lunar City.     Static! Kane echoed my thoughts. His frown made deep clefts betweenhis eyebrows. There's no static between inter-lunar radio!     Verana's voice was small and frightened. That sounds like the staticwe hear over the bigger radios when we broadcast to Earth.     It does, Marie agreed.     But we wouldn't have that kind of static over      our     radio, unless—Verana's eyes widened until the pupils were surrounded by circles ofwhite—unless we were in outer space!     We stared at the metal door that had imprisoned us, afraid even tospeak of our fantastic suspicion.     I deactivated my radio.     Marie screamed as an inner door opened to disclose a long, narrowcorridor beyond.     Simultaneous with the opening of the second door, I felt air pressagainst my spacesuit. Before, our suits had been puffed outward by thepressure of air inside. Now our spacesuits were slack and dangling onour bodies.     We looked at each other and then at the inviting corridor beyond theopen door.     We went single file, first Kane, then his wife Marie. Verana followednext and I was the last.     We walked slowly, examining the strange construction. The walls werefeatureless but still seemed alien. At various places on the walls werethe outlines of doors without handles or locks.     Kane pressed his shoulder against a door and shoved. The door wasunyielding.     I manipulated the air-vent controls of my spacesuit, allowed a smallamount of the corridor's air into my helmet and inhaled cautiously.It smelled all right. I waited and nothing happened. Gradually, Iincreased the intake, turned off the oxygenating machines and removedmy helmet.     Shut off your oxy, I suggested. We might as well breathe the air inthis place and save our supply. We may need the oxygen in our suitslater.     They saw that I had removed my helmet and was still alive and one byone removed their own helmets.  At the end of the corridor, Kane stopped before a blank wall. The sweaton his face glistened dully; his chest rose and fell rapidly. Kane wasa pilot and one of the prerequisites for the job of guiding tons ofmetal between Earth and the Moon was a good set of nerves. Kane excitedeasily, his temper was fiery, but his nerves were like steel.     The end of the line, he grunted.     As though to disprove the statement, a door on his right side openedsoundlessly.     He went through the doorway as if shoved violently by an invisible hand.     The door closed behind him.     Marie threw herself at the door and beat at the metal. Harry!     Verana rushed to her side. Another door on the opposite side of thecorridor opened silently. The door was behind them; they didn't notice.     Before I could warn them, Marie floated across the corridor, throughthe doorway.     Verana and I stared at the darkness beyond the opening, our musclesfrozen by shock.     The door closed behind Marie's screaming, struggling form.     Verana's face was white with fear. Apprehensively, she glanced at theother doors that lined the hall.     I put my arms around her, held her close.     Antigravity machines, force rays, I suggested worriedly.     For several minutes, we remained motionless and silent. I recalled thepreceding events of the day, searched for a sense of normality in them.The Kanes, Miller, Verana and I lived in Lunar City with hundreds ofother people. Mankind had inhabited the Moon for over a year. Meansof recreation were scarce. Many people explored the place to amusethemselves. After supper, we had decided to take a walk. As simple asthat: a walk on the Moon.     We had expected only the familiar craters, chasms and weird rockformations. A twist of fate and here we were: imprisoned in an alienship.     My legs quivered with fatigue, my heart throbbed heavily, Verana'sperfume dizzied me. No, it wasn't a dream. Despite our incrediblesituation, there was no sensation of unreality.  I took Verana's hand and led her down the long corridor, retracing oursteps.     We had walked not more than two yards when the rest of the doorsopened soundlessly.     Verana's hand flew to her mouth to stifle a gasp.     Six doors were now open. The only two that remained closed were theones that the Kanes had unwillingly entered.     This time, no invisible hand thrust us into any of the rooms.     I entered the nearest one. Verana followed hesitantly.     The walls of the large room were lined with shelves containingthousands of variously colored boxes and bottles. A table and fourchairs were located in the center of the green, plasticlike floor. Eachchair had no back, only a curving platform with a single supportingcolumn.     Ed! I joined Verana on the other side of the room. She pointed atrembling finger at some crude drawings. The things in this room arefood!     The drawings were so simple that anyone could have understood them.The first drawing portrayed a naked man and woman removing boxes andbottles from the shelves. The second picture showed the couple openingthe containers. The third showed the man eating from one of the boxesand the woman drinking from a bottle.       Let's see how it tastes, I said.     I selected an orange-colored box. The lid dissolved at the touch of myfingers.     The only contents were small cubes of a soft orange substance.     I tasted a small piece.     Chocolate! Just like chocolate!     Verana chose a nearby bottle and drank some of the bluish liquid.     Milk! she exclaimed.     Perhaps we'd better look at the other rooms, I told her.  The next room we examined was obviously for recreation. Containers werefilled with dozens of strange games and books of instructions in theform of simple drawings. The games were foreign, but designed in such afashion that they would be interesting to Earthmen.     Two of the rooms were sleeping quarters. The floors were covered with aspongy substance and the lights were dim and soothing.     Another room contained a small bathing pool, running water,waste-disposal units and yellow cakes of soap.     The last room was an observatory. The ceiling and an entire wall weretransparent. Outside, the stars shone clearly for a few seconds, thendisappeared for an equal time, only to reappear in a different position.     Hyper-space drive, Verana whispered softly. She was fascinated bythe movement of the stars. For years, our scientists had sought ahyperspatial drive to conquer the stars.     We selected a comfortable chair facing the transparent wall, litcigarettes and waited.     A few minutes later, Marie entered the room.     I noticed with some surprise that her face was calm. If she wasexcited, her actions didn't betray it.     She sat next to Verana.     What happened? my wife asked.     Marie crossed her legs and began in a rambling manner as if discussinga new recipe, That was really a surprise, wasn't it? I was scaredsilly, at first. That room was dark and I didn't know what to expect.Something touched my head and I heard a telepathic voice—     Telepathic? Verana interrupted.     Yes. Well, this voice said not to worry and that it wasn't going tohurt me. It said it only wanted to learn something about us. It wasthe      oddest     feeling! All the time, this voice kept talking to me ina nice way and made me feel at ease ... and at the same time, I felt      something     search my mind and gather information. I could actually      feel     it search my memories!     What memories? I inquired.     She frowned with concentration. Memories of high school mostly. Itseemed interested in English and history classes. And then it searchedfor memories of our customs and lives in general....  Kane stalked into the room at that moment, his face red with anger.      Do you know where we are?      he demanded. When those damned aliensgot me in that room, they explained what this is all about. We'reguinea pigs!     Did they use telepathy to explain? Verana asked. I suddenlyremembered that she was a member of a club that investigatedextra-sensory perception with the hope of learning how it operated. Shewas probably sorry she hadn't been contacted telepathically.     Yeah, Kane replied. I saw all sorts of mental pictures and theyexplained what they did to us. Those damned aliens want us for theirzoo!     Start at the beginning, I suggested.     He flashed an angry glance at me, but seemed to calm somewhat. Thisship was made by a race from another galaxy. Thousands of years ago,they came to Earth in their spaceships when men were primitives livingin caves. They wanted to know what our civilization would be likewhen we developed space flight. So they put this ship on the Moon as asort of booby-trap. They put it there with the idea that when we madespaceships and went to the Moon, sooner or later, we'd find the shipand enter it—      like rabbits in a snare!          And now the booby-trap is on its way home, I guessed.     Yeah, this ship is taking us to their planet and they're going to keepus there while they study us.     How long will the trip take? I asked.     Six months. We'll be bottled up in this crate for six whole damnedmonths! And when we get there, we'll be prisoners!     Marie's hypnotic spell was fading and once more her face showed theterror inside her.     Don't feel so bad, I told Kane. It could be worse. It should beinteresting to see an alien race. We'll have our wives with us—     Maybe they'll dissect us! Marie gasped.     Verana scoffed. A race intelligent enough to build a ship like this? Arace that was traveling between the stars when we were living in caves?Dissection is primitive. They won't      have to     dissect us in order tostudy us. They'll have more advanced methods.     Maybe we can reach the ship's controls somehow, Kane said excitedly.We've got to try to change the ship's course and get back to theMoon!     It's impossible. Don't waste your time. The voice had no visiblesource and seemed to fill the room.  Verana snapped her fingers. So that's why the aliens read Marie'smind! They wanted to learn our language so they could talk to us!     Kane whirled in a complete circle, glaring at each of the four walls.Where are you?      Who     are you?     I'm located in a part of the ship you can't reach. I'm a machine.     Is anyone else aboard besides ourselves?     No. I control the ship. Although the voice spoke without stiltedphrases, the tone was cold and mechanical.     What are your—your masters going to do with us? Marie askedanxiously.     You won't be harmed. My masters merely wish to question and examineyou. Thousands of years ago, they wondered what your race would be likewhen it developed to the space-flight stage. They left this ship onyour Moon only because they were curious. My masters have no animositytoward your race, only compassion and curiosity.     I remembered the way antigravity rays had shoved Miller from the shipand asked the machine, Why didn't you let our fifth member board theship?     The trip to my makers' planet will take six months. There are food,oxygen and living facilities for four only of your race. I had toprevent the fifth from entering the ship.     Come on, Kane ordered. We'll search this ship room by room and we'llfind some way to make it take us back to Earth.     It's useless, the ship warned us.     For five hours, we minutely examined every room. We had no tools toforce our way through solid metal walls to the engine or control rooms.The only things in the ship that could be lifted and carried about werethe containers of food and alien games. None were sufficiently heavy orhard enough to put even a scratch in the heavy metal.  Six rooms were open to our use. The two rooms in which the Kanes hadbeen imprisoned were locked and there were no controls or locks to workon.     The rooms that we could enter were without doors, except the ones thatopened into the corridor.     After intensive searching, we realized there was      no way     to damage theship or reach any section other than our allotted space.     We gave up.     The women went to the sleeping compartments to rest and Kane I went tothe kitchen.     At random, we sampled the variously colored boxes and bottles anddiscussed our predicament.     Trapped, Kane said angrily. Trapped in a steel prison. He slammedhis fist against the table top. But there must be a way to get out!Every problem has a solution!     You sure? I asked.     What?           Does     every problem have a solution? I don't believe it. Someproblems are too great. Take the problem of a murderer in ourcivilization: John Doe has killed someone and his problem is to escape.Primarily, a murderer's problem is the same principle as ours. Amurderer has to outwit an entire civilization. We have to outwit anentire civilization that was hundreds of times more advanced than oursis now when we were clubbing animals and eating the meat raw. Damnedfew criminals get away these days, even though they've got such crowdsto lose themselves in. All we have is a ship that we can't control. Idon't think we have a chance.     My resignation annoyed him. Each of us had reacted differently: Kane'swife was frightened, Verana was calm because of an inner serenity thatfew people have, I was resigned and Kane was angry.  For several minutes, we sampled the different foods. Every one had adistinctive flavor, comparable to that of a fruit or vegetable on Earth.     Kane lifted a brown bottle to his lips, took a huge gulp and almostchoked.     Whiskey!     My masters realized your race would develop intoxicants and tried tocreate a comparable one, the machine explained.     I selected a brown bottle and sampled the liquid. A little strongerthan our own, I informed the machine.     We drank until Kane was staggering about the room, shouting insults atthe alien race and the mechanical voice that seemed to be everywhere.He beat his fist against a wall until blood trickled from bruisedknuckles.     Please don't hurt yourself, the machine pleaded.           Why?      Kane screamed at the ceiling. Why should you care?     My masters will be displeased with me if you arrive in a damagedcondition.     Kane banged his head against a bulkhead; an ugly bruise formed rapidly.Shtop me, then!     I can't. My masters created no way for me to restrain or contact youother than use of your language.     It took fully fifteen minutes to drag Kane to his sleeping compartment.     After I left Kane in his wife's care, I went to the adjoining room andstretched out on the soft floor beside Verana.     I tried to think of some solution. We were locked in an alien ship atthe start of a six months' journey to a strange planet. We had no toolsor weapons.     Solution? I doubted if two dozen geniuses working steadily for yearscould think of one!     I wondered what the alien race was like. Intelligent, surely: They hadforeseen our conquest of space flight when we hadn't even inventedthe wheel. That thought awed me—somehow they had analyzed our brainsthousands of years ago and calculated what our future accomplishmentswould be.     They had been able to predict our scientific development, but theyhadn't been able to tell how our civilization would develop. They werecurious, so they had left an enormously elaborate piece of bait on theMoon.     The aliens were incredibly more advanced than ourselves. I couldn'thelp thinking,      And to a rabbit in a snare, mankind must seemimpossibly clever     .     I decided to ask the machine about its makers in the morning.  When I awoke, my head was throbbing painfully.     I opened my eyes and blinked several times to make sure they werefunctioning properly. I wasn't in the compartment where I had fallenasleep a few hours before.     I was tied to one of the chairs in the kitchen. Beside me, Verana wasbound to a chair by strips of cloth from her skirt, and across from us,Marie was secured to another chair.     Kane staggered into the room. Although he was visibly drunk, heappeared more sober than the night before. His dark hair was rumpledand his face was flushed, but his eyes gleamed with a growing alertness.     Awake, huh?     What have you done, Harry? his wife screamed at him. Her eyes werered with tears and her lips twisted in an expression of shame when shelooked at him.     Obvious, isn't it? While all of you were asleep, I conked each of youon the head, dragged you in here and tied you up. He smiled crookedly.It's amazing the things a person can do when he's pickled. I'm sorry Ihad to be so rough, but I have a plan and I knew you wouldn't agree orcooperate with me.     What's your plan? I asked.     He grinned wryly and crinkled bloodshot eyes. I don't want to live ina zoo on an alien planet. I want to go home and prove my theory thatthis problem has a solution.     I grunted my disgust.     The solution is simple, he said. We're in a trap so strong that thealiens didn't establish any means to control our actions. When men puta lion in a strong cage, they don't worry about controlling the lionbecause the lion can't get out. We're in the same basic situation.     So what? Verana queried in a sarcastic tone.     The aliens want us transported to their planet so they can examine andquestion us. Right?     Right.     Ed, remember that remark the machine made last night?     What remark?     It said, '      My     masters will be displeased with      me     if you arrive in adamaged condition.' What does that indicate to you?  I assumed a baffled expression. I didn't have the slightest idea ofwhat he was driving at and I told him so.     Ed, he said, if you could build an electronic brain capable ofmaking decisions, how would you build it?     Hell, I don't know, I confessed.     Well, if I could build an electronic brain like the one running thisship, I'd build it with a      conscience     so it'd do its best at alltimes.     Machines always do their best, I argued. Come on, untie us. I'mgetting a crick in my back! I didn't like the idea of being sluggedwhile asleep. If Kane had been sober and if his wife hadn't beenpresent, I would have let him know exactly what I thought of him.           Our     machines always do their best, he argued, because we punchbuttons and they respond in predetermined patterns. But the electronicbrain in this ship isn't automatic. It makes decisions and I'll bet iteven has to decide how much energy and time to put into each process!     So what?     He shrugged muscular shoulders. So this ship is operated by athinking, conscientious machine. It's the first time I've encounteredsuch a machine, but I think I know what will happen. I spent hours lastnight figuring—     What are you talking about? I interrupted. Are you so drunk that youdon't know—     I'll show you, Ed.     He walked around the table and stood behind my chair. I felt his thickfingers around my throat and smelled the alcohol on his breath.     Can you see me, machine? he asked the empty air.     Yes, the electronic brain replied.     Watch!     Kane tightened his fingers around my throat.     Verana and Marie screamed shrilly.     My head seemed to swell like a balloon; my throat gurgled painfully.     Please stop, the machine pleaded.     What will your masters think of you if I kill all of us? You'll returnto them with a cargo of dead people!  The machine didn't answer. I waited for the electronic brain tointerfere and, with a cold knot in my stomach, realized the machine hadsaid it had no way to control our actions!     Your purpose won't be fulfilled, will it? Kane demanded. Not if youreturn with dead specimens!     No, the machine admitted.     If you don't take us back to the Moon, Kane threatened, I'll kill      all of us     !     The alien electronic brain was silent.     By this time, I couldn't see and Kane's voice was a hollow, farawaything that rang in my ears. I tugged at my bindings, but they onlytightened as I struggled.     If you take us back to the Moon, your masters will never know youfailed in your mission. They won't know you failed because you won'tbring them proof of your failure.     My fading consciousness tried to envision the alien mechanical brain asit struggled with the problem.     Look at it this way, Kane persisted. If you carry our corpses toyour masters, all your efforts will have been useless. If you return usto the Moon alive, you'll still have a chance to carry out your missionlater.     A long silence followed. Verana and Marie screamed at Kane to let go.A soft darkness seemed to fill the room, blurring everything, drowningeven their shrieks in strangling blackness.     You win, the machine conceded. I'll return the ship to the Moon.     Kane released his grip on my throat.     See? he asked. Didn't I tell you every problem has a solution?     I didn't answer. I was too busy enjoying breathing again.  ","Ed and Verana are husband and wife. They live together in ""Lunar City, on the Moon, and have for the past year. Together, they're friends with the rest of the group. After Marie climbs into the star ship, Ed asks Verana if she wants to go in. They act as a team, always doing everything together. They are left in the passageway alone after Kane and Marie are taken. Ed holds Verana's hand as they walk down the corridor, a sign of affection. They explore the ship together first, always working together, discovering the meaning of the instructive drawings and the purpose of the different rooms. They sleep together in the same pod. "
"What is the plot of the story? </s>    SIGNAL RED     By HENRY GUTH     They tried to stop him. Earth Flight 21 was a     suicide run, a coffin ship, they told him.     Uranian death lay athwart the space lanes. But     Shano already knew this was his last ride.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Fall 1949.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Mercurian night settled black and thick over the Q City Spaceport.Tentative fingers of light flicked and probed the sky, and winked out.     Here she comes, somebody in the line ahead said.     Shano coughed, his whole skeletal body jerking. Arthritic joints sentflashes of pain along his limbs. Here she comes, he thought, feelingneither glad nor sad.     He coughed and slipped polarized goggles over his eyes.     The spaceport emerged bathed in infra red. Hangars, cradles, freightercatapults and long runways stood out in sharp, diamond-clear detail.High up, beyond the cone of illumination, a detached triple row ofbright specks—portholes of the liner      Stardust     —sank slowly down.     There was no eagerness in him. Only a tiredness. A relief. Relief froma lifetime of beating around the planets. A life of digging, lifting,lugging and pounding. Like a work-worn Martian camel, he was going hometo die.     As though on oiled pistons the ship sank into the light, its longshark-like hull glowing soft and silvery, and settled with a featherysnuggle into the cradle's ribs.     The passenger line quivered as a loud-speaker boomed:           Stardust, now arrived at Cradle Six! Stardust, Cradle Six! Allpassengers for Venus and Earth prepare to board in ten minutes.          Shano coughed, and wiped phlegm from his thin lips, his hand followingaround the bony contours of his face, feeling the hollows and the beardstubble and loose skin of his neck. He coughed and thought of thevanium mines of Pluto, and his gum-clogged lungs. A vague, pressingdesire for home overwhelmed him. It had been so long.           Attention! Attention, Stardust passengers! The signal is red. Thesignal is red. Refunds now being made. Refunds now. Take-off in fiveminutes.          The man ahead swore and flicked up an arm. Red, he groaned. By theinfinite galaxies, this is the last straw! He charged away, knockingShano aside as he passed.       Red signal.     In bewildered anxiety Shano lifted the goggles from hiseyes and stared into the sudden blackness. The red signal. Danger outthere. Passengers advised to ground themselves, or travel at their ownrisk.     He felt the passengers bump and fumble past him, grumbling vexatiously.     A hot dread assailed him, and he coughed, plucking at his chest.Plucking at an urgency there.     Dropping the goggles to his rheumy eyes, he saw that the passenger linehad dissolved. He moved, shuffling, to the gate, thrust his ticket intothe scanner slot, and pushed through the turnstile when it clicked.           Flight twenty-one, now arriving from Venus     , the loud-speaker saidmonotonously. Shano glanced briefly upward and saw the gleaming bellyof twenty-one sinking into the spaceport cone of light.     He clawed his way up the gangway and thrust out his ticket to thelieutenant standing alone at the air lock. The lieutenant, a sullen,chunky man with a queer nick in his jawbone, refused the ticket.Haven't you heard, mister? Red signal. Go on back.     Shano coughed, and peered through the lenses of his goggles. Please,he said. Want to go home. I've a right. The nicked jaw stirred faintmemories within his glazed mind.     The lieutenant punched his ticket. It's your funeral, old man.     The loud-speaker blared.       Stardust, taking off in thirty seconds. Thesignal is red. Stardust, taking—          With the words dinning in his ears, Shano stepped into the air lock.The officer followed, spun wheels, and the lock closed. The outside wasshut off.     Lifting goggles they entered the hull, through a series of two morelocks, closing each behind them.     We're afloat, the officer said. We've taken off. A fleck of lightdanced far back in his eye. Shano felt the pressure of accelerationgradually increasing, increasing, and hurried in.  Captain Menthlo, a silver-mustached Jupiterian, broad, huge, yetcrushable as a beetle, talked while his hands manipulated a panel ofstuds in the control room. The pilot, his back encased in leather, satin a bucket seat before him, listening into earphones.     Surprised to learn of a passenger aboard, the captain said, glancingbriefly sideways. You're entitled to know of the danger ahead. Heflicked a final stud, spoke to the pilot and at last turned a serious,squared face to Shano. Old man, he said. There's a Uranian fleet outthere. We don't know how many ships in this sector. Flight twenty-one,which just landed, had a skirmish with one, and got away. We may not beso lucky. You know how these Uranian devils are.     Shano coughed, and wiped his mouth. Dirty devils, he said. I wasdriv' off the planet once, before this war started. I know thingsabout them Uranian devils. Heard them in the mines around. Hearsthings, a laborer does.     The captain seemed for the first time to realize the social status ofhis lone passenger, and he became a little gruff.     Want you to sign this waiver, saying you're traveling at your ownrisk. We'll expect you to keep to your cabin as much as possible.When the trouble comes we can't bother with a passenger. In a fewhours we'll shut down the ship entirely, and every mechanical deviceaboard, to try to avoid detection. His mustaches rose like two spearsfrom each side of his squared nose as his face changed to an alertwatchfulness. Going home, eh? he said. You've knocked around some,by the looks of you. Pluto, from the sound of that cough.     Shano scrawled his signature on the waiver. Yeah, he said. Pluto.Where a man's lungs fights gas. He blinked watery eyes. Captain,what's a notched jaw mean to you?     Well, old man, the captain grasped Shano's shoulder and turned himaround. It means somebody cut himself, shaving. You stick tight toyour cabin. He nodded curtly and indicated the door.     Descending the companionway to the next deck Shano observed thenick-jawed lieutenant staring out the viewport, apparently idling. Theman turned and gripped Shano's thin arm.     A light? he said, tapping a cigarette. Shano produced a lighterdisk and the chunky man puffed. He was an Earthman and his jaw seemedcut with a knife, notched like a piece of wood. Across the breast ofhis tunic was a purple band, with the name      Rourke     . Why are you soanxious to get aboard, old man? He searched Shano's face. There'strouble ahead, you know.     Shano coughed, wracking his body, as forgotten memories stirredsluggishly in his mind. Yup, he said, and jerked free and stumbleddown the steel deck.     In his cabin he lay on the bunk, lighted a cigarette and smoked,coughing and staring at the rivet-studded bulkhead. The slow movementof his mind resolved into a struggle, one idea groping for the other.     What were the things he'd heard about nicked jaws? And where hadhe heard them? Digging ore on Pluto; talk in the pits? Secretivesuspicions voiced in smoke-laden saloons of Mars? In the labor gangs ofUranus? Where? Shano smoked and didn't know. But he knew there was arumor, and that it was the talk of ignorant men. The captain had evadedit. Shano smoked and coughed and stared at the steel bulkhead andwaited.  The ship's alarm clanged. Shano jerked from his bunk like a brokenwatch spring. He crouched, trembling, on arthritic joints, as aloud-speaker blared throughout the ship.           All hands! We now maintain dead silence. Close down and stop allmachinery. Power off and lights out. An enemy fleet is out there,listening and watching for mechanical and electronic disturbance.Atmosphere will be maintained from emergency oxygen cylinders. Stoppumps.          Shano crouched and listened as the ship's steady drone ceased and thevibrations ceased. The pumps stopped, the lights went out.     Pressing the cold steel bulkhead, Shano heard oxygen hiss through thepipes. Hiss and hiss and then flow soundlessly, filling the cabin andhis lungs. He choked.     The cabin was like a mine shaft, dark and cold. Feet pounded on thedeck outside.     Shano clawed open the door. He peered out anxiously.     Cold blobs of light, phosphorescent bulbs held in the fists of men,glimmered by. Phosphorescent bulbs, because the power was off. Shanoblinked. He saw officers and men, their faces tight and pinched,hurrying in all directions. Hurrying to shut down the ship.     He acted impulsively. A young ensign strode by, drawn blaster in hand.Shano followed him; followed the bluish glow of his bulb, throughlabyrinthine passages and down a companionway, coughing and leeringagainst the pain in his joints. The blue light winked out in thedistance and Shano stopped.     He was suddenly alarmed. The captain had warned him to stay in hiscabin. He looked back and forth, wondering how to return.     A bell clanged.     Shano saw a cold bulb glowing down the passageway, and he shuffledhopefully toward it. The bulb moved away. He saw an indistinct figuredisappear through a door marked, ENGINE ROOM.     Shano paused uncertainly at the end of the passageway. A thick clusterof vertical pipes filled the corner. He peered at the pipes and saw agray box snuggled behind them. It had two toggle switches and a radiumdial that quivered delicately.     Shano scratched his scalp as boots pounded on the decks, aboveand below. He listened attentively to the ship's familiar noisesdiminishing one by one. And finally even the pounding of feet died out;everything became still. The silence shrieked in his ears.  The ship coasted. Shano could sense it coasting. He couldn't feel itor hear it, but he knew it was sliding ghost-like through space like asubmarine dead under water, slipping quietly past a listening enemy.     The ship's speaker rasped softly.       Emergency. Battle posts.          The captain's voice. Calm, brief. It sent a tremor through Shano'sbody. He heard a quick scuffle of feet again, running feet, directlyoverhead, and the captain's voice, more urgently, Power on. They'veheard us.     The words carried no accusation, but Shano realized what they meant.A slip-up. Something left running. Vibrations picked up quickly bydetectors of the Uranian space fleet.     Shano coughed and heard the ship come to life around him. He pulledhimself out of the spasm, cursing Pluto. Cursing his diseased,gum-clogged lungs. Cursing the Uranian fleet that was trying to preventhis going home—even to die.     This was a strange battle. Strange indeed. It was mostly silence.     Occasionally, as though from another world, came a brief, curt order.Port guns alert. Then hush and tension.     The deck lurched and the ship swung this way and that. Maybe dodging,maybe maneuvering—Shano didn't know. He felt the deck lurch, that wasall.     Fire number seven.     He heard the weird scream of a ray gun, and felt the constrictingterror that seemed to belt the ship like an iron band.     This was a battle in space, and out there were Uranian cruisers tryingto blast the      Stardust     out of the sky. Trying and trying, while thecaptain dodged and fired back—pitted his skill and knowledge againstan enemy Shano couldn't see.     He wanted desperately to help the captain break through, and get toEarth. But he could only cling to the plastic pipes and cough.     The ship jounced and slid beneath his feet, and was filled with sound.It rocked and rolled. Shano caromed off the bulkhead.     Hold fire.     He crawled to his knees on the slippery deck, grabbed the pipes andpulled himself erect, hand over hand. His eyes came level with the graymetal box behind the pipes. He squinted, fascinated, at the quiveringdial needle. Hey! he said.     Stand by.     Shano puzzled it out, his mind groping. He wasn't used to thinking.Only working with his hands.     This box. This needle that had quivered when the ship was closeddown....     It's over. Chased them off. Ready guns before laying to. Third watchon duty.     Shano sighed at the sudden release of tension throughout the spaceliner      Stardust     .     Smoke spewed from his nostrils. His forehead wrinkled withconcentration. Those rumors: Man sells out to Uranus, gets a nick cutin his jaw. Ever see a man with a nick in his jaw? Watch him, he's upto something. The talk of ignorant men. Shano remembered.     He poked behind the pipes and angrily slapped the toggle switches onthe box. The captain would only scoff. He'd never believe there was atraitor aboard who had planted an electronic signal box, giving awaythe ship's position. He'd never believe the babblings of an old man.     He straightened up, glaring angrily. He knew. And the knowledge madehim cold and furious. He watched the engine room emergency exit as itopened cautiously.     A chunky man backed out, holstering a flat blaster. He turned and sawShano, standing smoking. He walked over and nudged Shano, his facedark. Shano blew smoke into the dark face.     Old man, said Rourke. What're you doing down here?     Shano blinked.     Rourke fingered the nick in his jaw, eyes glinting. You're supposed tobe in your cabin, he said. Didn't I warn you we'd run into trouble?     Shano smoked and contemplated the chunky man. Estimated his strengthand youth and felt the anger and frustration mount in him. Devil, hesaid.        Devil, he said and dug his cigarette into the other's face.        He lunged then, clawing. He dug the cigarette into Rourke's flushedface, and clung to his body. Rourke howled. He fell backward to thedeck, slapping at his blistered face. He thrashed around and Shanoclung to him, battered, pressing the cigarette relentlessly, coughing,cursing the pain in his joints.     Shano grasped Rourke's neck with his hands. He twisted the neck withhis gnarled hands. Strong hands that had worked.     He got up when Rourke stopped thrashing. The face was purple and hewas dead. Shano shivered. He crouched in the passageway shivering andcoughing.  A tremendous grinding sounded amid-ships. Loud rending noises ofprotesting metal. The ship bucked like a hooked fish. Then it wasstill. An empty clank echoed through the hull. The captain's voicecame, almost yelling. Emergency! Emergency! Back to your posts. Engineroom—report! Engine room—     Shano picked himself off the deck, his mind muddled. He coughed andput a cigarette to his lips, flicking a lighter disk jerkily from hispocket. He blew smoke from his nostrils and heard the renewed poundingof feet. What was going on now?     Engine room! Your screen is dead! Switch onto loud-speaker system.Engine room!     Giddily, Shano heard clicks and rasps and then a thick voice, atommotors whirring in the background.     Selector's gone, sir. Direct hit. Heat ray through the deck plates.We've sealed the tear. Might repair selector in five hours.     Shano coughed and sent a burst of smoke from his mouth.     Captain! A rasping, grating sound ensued from a grill above Shano'shead, then a disconnected voice. Get the men out of there. It'suseless. Hurry it up! A series of clicks and the heavy voice of thechief engineer. Captain! Somebody's smashed the selector chamber.Engine room's full of toxia gas!     Shano jumped. He prodded the body on the deck with his toe.     The      Stardust's     mechanical voice bellowed: Engine room! Itreproduced the captain's heavy breathing and his tired voice. We'reabout midway to Venus, it said. There were two ships and we drovethem off. But there may be others. They'll be coming back. They knowwe've been hit. We have to get away fast!     Shano could see the captain in his mind, worried, squared face slickwith moisture. Shouting into a control room mike. Trying to find outwhat the matter was with his space ship.     The engineer's answer came from the grill. Impossible, sir. Engineroom full of toxia gas. Not a suit aboard prepared to withstand it. Andwe have to keep it in there. Selector filaments won't function withoutthe gas. Our only chance was to put a man in the engine room to repairthe broken selector valve rods or keep them running by hand.     Blast it! roared the captain. No way of getting in there? Can't youby-pass the selector?     No. It's the heart of the new cosmic drive, sir. The fuels must passthrough selector valves before entering the tube chambers. Filamentswill operate so long as toxia gas is there to burn, and will keeptrying to open the valves and compensate for fluctuating enginetemperature. But the rod pins have melted down, sir—they're commontungsten steel—and when the rods pull a valve open, they slip off anddrop down, useless. It's a mess. If we could only get a man in therehe might lift up the dropped end of a rod and slip it into place eachtime it fell, and keep the valves working and feeding fuel.     The speaker spluttered and Shano smoked thoughtfully, listening to thetalk back and forth, between the captain and the engineer. He didn'tunderstand it, but knew that everything was ended. They were brokendown in space and would never make Earth. Those Uranian devils wouldcome streaking back. Catch them floating, helpless, and blast them tobits. And he would never get home to die.     Shano coughed, and cursed his lungs. Time was when these gum-cloggedlungs had saved his life. In the Plutonian mines. Gas explosions in thetunnels. Toxia gas, seeping in, burning the men's insides. But withgum-clogged lungs he'd been able to work himself clear. Just gettingsick where other men had died, their insides burned out.     Shano smoked and thought.  They wouldn't even know, he told himself, squirming through theemergency exit into the engine room, and sealing it after him. And theywouldn't understand if they did. Pink mist swirled about him. Toxiagas. Shano coughed.     He squinted around at the massive, incomprehensible machinery. The gutsof the space ship.     Then he saw the shattered, gold-gleaming cylinder, gas hissing froma fine nozzle, and filaments glowing bluish inside it, still workingaway. He saw five heavy Carrsteel rods hanging useless, on melted-downpins, and the slots their pronged ends hooked into. He looked at hishands, and shook his head.     One try, he said to himself. One try, Shano. One important thing inyour life. Here's your opportunity. The toxia gas will get you. It'llkill you at this concentration. But you'll last for maybe twelve hours.Another man wouldn't last a minute. Another man's lungs aren't cloggedwith Juno gum.     He grasped a rod and lifted it, sweating under the weight, and slippedthe forked end into its slot. Going home to die, he thought. Well,maybe not going home. Couldn't remember what Earth looked like anyway.     What was that again? Oh yeah—just lift them up, and when they dropoff, lift them up again.     Shano coughed, and lifted the heavy rods into position. One jerked backsuddenly and smoothly, and something went, Pop, pop, behind him andmachinery whirred. He lifted the rod and slipped it back on. Anotherjerked, pulled open a large valve, and dropped off. Shano bent, andlifted, coughing and coughing. He forgot what he was doing, mind blankthe way it went when he worked. Just rhythmically fell into the job,the way a laborer does. He waited for a rod to slip and fall, thenlifted it up and slipped it in place, skin sweating, joints shootingpain along his limbs. He heard the machinery working. He heard thehigh, howling whine of cosmic jets. He, Shano, was making the machinerygo. He was running the cosmic drive.     A bell clanged somewhere. Engine room! Engine room! We're under way!What happened?     Silence, while Shano coughed and made the machinery go, thinking aboutthe Earth he hadn't seen for many years.     Captain! the speaker bawled. There's a man in there! Working thevalve rods! Somebody is in the engine room and the gas isn't....     Shano grinned, feeling good. Feeling happy. Lifting the heavy steelrods, driving the ship. Keeping the jets screaming and hurtling theliner      Stardust     toward Venus. He wondered if they'd found Rourke yet.If he could keep going for twelve hours they would get to Venus. Afterthat....     Home, he coughed. Hell! Who wants to go home?     He plucked at his agitated chest, thinking of a whole damn Uranianfleet swooping down on a spot in space, expecting to find a crippledship there with a spy inside it. And finding nothing. Because of Shano.A useless old man.     Coughing came out all mixed up with laughing.   ","Shano is a sickly old man in line to board the space liner Stardust to go home. There is a red signal announcement for the liner, and guests are given an option to receive a refund. Many guests leave after hearing the danger signal, but Shano sticks his ticket into the scanner and moves to get on the liner. Shano chooses to step in anyways despite the dangers, and the Stardust takes off into space again. Captain Menthlo informs him of the Uranian enemy fleets and the high possibility of running into danger with one of them. When the captain realizes Shano's role as a laborer, he makes him sign a waiver because of the possible danger his life will be when they shut off the ship and mechanical device to avoid the enemies. Once he exits to the next deck, he sees the same lieutenant from earlier speak to him again. The lieutenant's name is  Rourke, and he asks why Shano is so anxious to board the ship. Later, as Shano smokes in his cabin, he tries to remember the specific saying for people with nicked jaws. Later, the ship announces that it will now maintain dead silence mode to avoid the Uranian fleets. Shano leaves his room to follow one of the young ensign, who walks by with a blaster. He then realizes that he cannot go back to his room. However, he sees an indistinguishable figure enter the engine room and notices a grey box with switches. Not soon after, the ship enters an offensive attack mode because the Uranian fleets have noticed them. Shano suddenly remembers the rumors to watch out for a man with a nicked jaw because he sells out information to Uranus. He knows that nobody will believe him about a traitor on the ship, so he faces Rourke himself. Shano digs his cigarette into the other man's body and clings to his body. He then twists Rourke's neck with his hands and kills the traitor. The frantic yelling of the other members catches his attention again, and the Stardust informs everybody on board that the ship is midway to Venus. However, there is toxic gas in the engine room now, and nobody on board can withstand the fumes to fix the engines. Although Shano continues to smoke, he does go into the engine room through the emergency exit to fix the space liner. The other crew on the ship are confused by how the liner continues to fly towards Venus. They realize that Shano is working the valve rods in the engine room. Shano thinks about how the Uranian fleet will come into the area and expect to find the Starliner but only find nothing. The fact that this escape is because of him makes him laugh and cough more. "
"Who is Rourke, and what are his traits in the story? </s>    SIGNAL RED     By HENRY GUTH     They tried to stop him. Earth Flight 21 was a     suicide run, a coffin ship, they told him.     Uranian death lay athwart the space lanes. But     Shano already knew this was his last ride.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Fall 1949.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Mercurian night settled black and thick over the Q City Spaceport.Tentative fingers of light flicked and probed the sky, and winked out.     Here she comes, somebody in the line ahead said.     Shano coughed, his whole skeletal body jerking. Arthritic joints sentflashes of pain along his limbs. Here she comes, he thought, feelingneither glad nor sad.     He coughed and slipped polarized goggles over his eyes.     The spaceport emerged bathed in infra red. Hangars, cradles, freightercatapults and long runways stood out in sharp, diamond-clear detail.High up, beyond the cone of illumination, a detached triple row ofbright specks—portholes of the liner      Stardust     —sank slowly down.     There was no eagerness in him. Only a tiredness. A relief. Relief froma lifetime of beating around the planets. A life of digging, lifting,lugging and pounding. Like a work-worn Martian camel, he was going hometo die.     As though on oiled pistons the ship sank into the light, its longshark-like hull glowing soft and silvery, and settled with a featherysnuggle into the cradle's ribs.     The passenger line quivered as a loud-speaker boomed:           Stardust, now arrived at Cradle Six! Stardust, Cradle Six! Allpassengers for Venus and Earth prepare to board in ten minutes.          Shano coughed, and wiped phlegm from his thin lips, his hand followingaround the bony contours of his face, feeling the hollows and the beardstubble and loose skin of his neck. He coughed and thought of thevanium mines of Pluto, and his gum-clogged lungs. A vague, pressingdesire for home overwhelmed him. It had been so long.           Attention! Attention, Stardust passengers! The signal is red. Thesignal is red. Refunds now being made. Refunds now. Take-off in fiveminutes.          The man ahead swore and flicked up an arm. Red, he groaned. By theinfinite galaxies, this is the last straw! He charged away, knockingShano aside as he passed.       Red signal.     In bewildered anxiety Shano lifted the goggles from hiseyes and stared into the sudden blackness. The red signal. Danger outthere. Passengers advised to ground themselves, or travel at their ownrisk.     He felt the passengers bump and fumble past him, grumbling vexatiously.     A hot dread assailed him, and he coughed, plucking at his chest.Plucking at an urgency there.     Dropping the goggles to his rheumy eyes, he saw that the passenger linehad dissolved. He moved, shuffling, to the gate, thrust his ticket intothe scanner slot, and pushed through the turnstile when it clicked.           Flight twenty-one, now arriving from Venus     , the loud-speaker saidmonotonously. Shano glanced briefly upward and saw the gleaming bellyof twenty-one sinking into the spaceport cone of light.     He clawed his way up the gangway and thrust out his ticket to thelieutenant standing alone at the air lock. The lieutenant, a sullen,chunky man with a queer nick in his jawbone, refused the ticket.Haven't you heard, mister? Red signal. Go on back.     Shano coughed, and peered through the lenses of his goggles. Please,he said. Want to go home. I've a right. The nicked jaw stirred faintmemories within his glazed mind.     The lieutenant punched his ticket. It's your funeral, old man.     The loud-speaker blared.       Stardust, taking off in thirty seconds. Thesignal is red. Stardust, taking—          With the words dinning in his ears, Shano stepped into the air lock.The officer followed, spun wheels, and the lock closed. The outside wasshut off.     Lifting goggles they entered the hull, through a series of two morelocks, closing each behind them.     We're afloat, the officer said. We've taken off. A fleck of lightdanced far back in his eye. Shano felt the pressure of accelerationgradually increasing, increasing, and hurried in.  Captain Menthlo, a silver-mustached Jupiterian, broad, huge, yetcrushable as a beetle, talked while his hands manipulated a panel ofstuds in the control room. The pilot, his back encased in leather, satin a bucket seat before him, listening into earphones.     Surprised to learn of a passenger aboard, the captain said, glancingbriefly sideways. You're entitled to know of the danger ahead. Heflicked a final stud, spoke to the pilot and at last turned a serious,squared face to Shano. Old man, he said. There's a Uranian fleet outthere. We don't know how many ships in this sector. Flight twenty-one,which just landed, had a skirmish with one, and got away. We may not beso lucky. You know how these Uranian devils are.     Shano coughed, and wiped his mouth. Dirty devils, he said. I wasdriv' off the planet once, before this war started. I know thingsabout them Uranian devils. Heard them in the mines around. Hearsthings, a laborer does.     The captain seemed for the first time to realize the social status ofhis lone passenger, and he became a little gruff.     Want you to sign this waiver, saying you're traveling at your ownrisk. We'll expect you to keep to your cabin as much as possible.When the trouble comes we can't bother with a passenger. In a fewhours we'll shut down the ship entirely, and every mechanical deviceaboard, to try to avoid detection. His mustaches rose like two spearsfrom each side of his squared nose as his face changed to an alertwatchfulness. Going home, eh? he said. You've knocked around some,by the looks of you. Pluto, from the sound of that cough.     Shano scrawled his signature on the waiver. Yeah, he said. Pluto.Where a man's lungs fights gas. He blinked watery eyes. Captain,what's a notched jaw mean to you?     Well, old man, the captain grasped Shano's shoulder and turned himaround. It means somebody cut himself, shaving. You stick tight toyour cabin. He nodded curtly and indicated the door.     Descending the companionway to the next deck Shano observed thenick-jawed lieutenant staring out the viewport, apparently idling. Theman turned and gripped Shano's thin arm.     A light? he said, tapping a cigarette. Shano produced a lighterdisk and the chunky man puffed. He was an Earthman and his jaw seemedcut with a knife, notched like a piece of wood. Across the breast ofhis tunic was a purple band, with the name      Rourke     . Why are you soanxious to get aboard, old man? He searched Shano's face. There'strouble ahead, you know.     Shano coughed, wracking his body, as forgotten memories stirredsluggishly in his mind. Yup, he said, and jerked free and stumbleddown the steel deck.     In his cabin he lay on the bunk, lighted a cigarette and smoked,coughing and staring at the rivet-studded bulkhead. The slow movementof his mind resolved into a struggle, one idea groping for the other.     What were the things he'd heard about nicked jaws? And where hadhe heard them? Digging ore on Pluto; talk in the pits? Secretivesuspicions voiced in smoke-laden saloons of Mars? In the labor gangs ofUranus? Where? Shano smoked and didn't know. But he knew there was arumor, and that it was the talk of ignorant men. The captain had evadedit. Shano smoked and coughed and stared at the steel bulkhead andwaited.  The ship's alarm clanged. Shano jerked from his bunk like a brokenwatch spring. He crouched, trembling, on arthritic joints, as aloud-speaker blared throughout the ship.           All hands! We now maintain dead silence. Close down and stop allmachinery. Power off and lights out. An enemy fleet is out there,listening and watching for mechanical and electronic disturbance.Atmosphere will be maintained from emergency oxygen cylinders. Stoppumps.          Shano crouched and listened as the ship's steady drone ceased and thevibrations ceased. The pumps stopped, the lights went out.     Pressing the cold steel bulkhead, Shano heard oxygen hiss through thepipes. Hiss and hiss and then flow soundlessly, filling the cabin andhis lungs. He choked.     The cabin was like a mine shaft, dark and cold. Feet pounded on thedeck outside.     Shano clawed open the door. He peered out anxiously.     Cold blobs of light, phosphorescent bulbs held in the fists of men,glimmered by. Phosphorescent bulbs, because the power was off. Shanoblinked. He saw officers and men, their faces tight and pinched,hurrying in all directions. Hurrying to shut down the ship.     He acted impulsively. A young ensign strode by, drawn blaster in hand.Shano followed him; followed the bluish glow of his bulb, throughlabyrinthine passages and down a companionway, coughing and leeringagainst the pain in his joints. The blue light winked out in thedistance and Shano stopped.     He was suddenly alarmed. The captain had warned him to stay in hiscabin. He looked back and forth, wondering how to return.     A bell clanged.     Shano saw a cold bulb glowing down the passageway, and he shuffledhopefully toward it. The bulb moved away. He saw an indistinct figuredisappear through a door marked, ENGINE ROOM.     Shano paused uncertainly at the end of the passageway. A thick clusterof vertical pipes filled the corner. He peered at the pipes and saw agray box snuggled behind them. It had two toggle switches and a radiumdial that quivered delicately.     Shano scratched his scalp as boots pounded on the decks, aboveand below. He listened attentively to the ship's familiar noisesdiminishing one by one. And finally even the pounding of feet died out;everything became still. The silence shrieked in his ears.  The ship coasted. Shano could sense it coasting. He couldn't feel itor hear it, but he knew it was sliding ghost-like through space like asubmarine dead under water, slipping quietly past a listening enemy.     The ship's speaker rasped softly.       Emergency. Battle posts.          The captain's voice. Calm, brief. It sent a tremor through Shano'sbody. He heard a quick scuffle of feet again, running feet, directlyoverhead, and the captain's voice, more urgently, Power on. They'veheard us.     The words carried no accusation, but Shano realized what they meant.A slip-up. Something left running. Vibrations picked up quickly bydetectors of the Uranian space fleet.     Shano coughed and heard the ship come to life around him. He pulledhimself out of the spasm, cursing Pluto. Cursing his diseased,gum-clogged lungs. Cursing the Uranian fleet that was trying to preventhis going home—even to die.     This was a strange battle. Strange indeed. It was mostly silence.     Occasionally, as though from another world, came a brief, curt order.Port guns alert. Then hush and tension.     The deck lurched and the ship swung this way and that. Maybe dodging,maybe maneuvering—Shano didn't know. He felt the deck lurch, that wasall.     Fire number seven.     He heard the weird scream of a ray gun, and felt the constrictingterror that seemed to belt the ship like an iron band.     This was a battle in space, and out there were Uranian cruisers tryingto blast the      Stardust     out of the sky. Trying and trying, while thecaptain dodged and fired back—pitted his skill and knowledge againstan enemy Shano couldn't see.     He wanted desperately to help the captain break through, and get toEarth. But he could only cling to the plastic pipes and cough.     The ship jounced and slid beneath his feet, and was filled with sound.It rocked and rolled. Shano caromed off the bulkhead.     Hold fire.     He crawled to his knees on the slippery deck, grabbed the pipes andpulled himself erect, hand over hand. His eyes came level with the graymetal box behind the pipes. He squinted, fascinated, at the quiveringdial needle. Hey! he said.     Stand by.     Shano puzzled it out, his mind groping. He wasn't used to thinking.Only working with his hands.     This box. This needle that had quivered when the ship was closeddown....     It's over. Chased them off. Ready guns before laying to. Third watchon duty.     Shano sighed at the sudden release of tension throughout the spaceliner      Stardust     .     Smoke spewed from his nostrils. His forehead wrinkled withconcentration. Those rumors: Man sells out to Uranus, gets a nick cutin his jaw. Ever see a man with a nick in his jaw? Watch him, he's upto something. The talk of ignorant men. Shano remembered.     He poked behind the pipes and angrily slapped the toggle switches onthe box. The captain would only scoff. He'd never believe there was atraitor aboard who had planted an electronic signal box, giving awaythe ship's position. He'd never believe the babblings of an old man.     He straightened up, glaring angrily. He knew. And the knowledge madehim cold and furious. He watched the engine room emergency exit as itopened cautiously.     A chunky man backed out, holstering a flat blaster. He turned and sawShano, standing smoking. He walked over and nudged Shano, his facedark. Shano blew smoke into the dark face.     Old man, said Rourke. What're you doing down here?     Shano blinked.     Rourke fingered the nick in his jaw, eyes glinting. You're supposed tobe in your cabin, he said. Didn't I warn you we'd run into trouble?     Shano smoked and contemplated the chunky man. Estimated his strengthand youth and felt the anger and frustration mount in him. Devil, hesaid.        Devil, he said and dug his cigarette into the other's face.        He lunged then, clawing. He dug the cigarette into Rourke's flushedface, and clung to his body. Rourke howled. He fell backward to thedeck, slapping at his blistered face. He thrashed around and Shanoclung to him, battered, pressing the cigarette relentlessly, coughing,cursing the pain in his joints.     Shano grasped Rourke's neck with his hands. He twisted the neck withhis gnarled hands. Strong hands that had worked.     He got up when Rourke stopped thrashing. The face was purple and hewas dead. Shano shivered. He crouched in the passageway shivering andcoughing.  A tremendous grinding sounded amid-ships. Loud rending noises ofprotesting metal. The ship bucked like a hooked fish. Then it wasstill. An empty clank echoed through the hull. The captain's voicecame, almost yelling. Emergency! Emergency! Back to your posts. Engineroom—report! Engine room—     Shano picked himself off the deck, his mind muddled. He coughed andput a cigarette to his lips, flicking a lighter disk jerkily from hispocket. He blew smoke from his nostrils and heard the renewed poundingof feet. What was going on now?     Engine room! Your screen is dead! Switch onto loud-speaker system.Engine room!     Giddily, Shano heard clicks and rasps and then a thick voice, atommotors whirring in the background.     Selector's gone, sir. Direct hit. Heat ray through the deck plates.We've sealed the tear. Might repair selector in five hours.     Shano coughed and sent a burst of smoke from his mouth.     Captain! A rasping, grating sound ensued from a grill above Shano'shead, then a disconnected voice. Get the men out of there. It'suseless. Hurry it up! A series of clicks and the heavy voice of thechief engineer. Captain! Somebody's smashed the selector chamber.Engine room's full of toxia gas!     Shano jumped. He prodded the body on the deck with his toe.     The      Stardust's     mechanical voice bellowed: Engine room! Itreproduced the captain's heavy breathing and his tired voice. We'reabout midway to Venus, it said. There were two ships and we drovethem off. But there may be others. They'll be coming back. They knowwe've been hit. We have to get away fast!     Shano could see the captain in his mind, worried, squared face slickwith moisture. Shouting into a control room mike. Trying to find outwhat the matter was with his space ship.     The engineer's answer came from the grill. Impossible, sir. Engineroom full of toxia gas. Not a suit aboard prepared to withstand it. Andwe have to keep it in there. Selector filaments won't function withoutthe gas. Our only chance was to put a man in the engine room to repairthe broken selector valve rods or keep them running by hand.     Blast it! roared the captain. No way of getting in there? Can't youby-pass the selector?     No. It's the heart of the new cosmic drive, sir. The fuels must passthrough selector valves before entering the tube chambers. Filamentswill operate so long as toxia gas is there to burn, and will keeptrying to open the valves and compensate for fluctuating enginetemperature. But the rod pins have melted down, sir—they're commontungsten steel—and when the rods pull a valve open, they slip off anddrop down, useless. It's a mess. If we could only get a man in therehe might lift up the dropped end of a rod and slip it into place eachtime it fell, and keep the valves working and feeding fuel.     The speaker spluttered and Shano smoked thoughtfully, listening to thetalk back and forth, between the captain and the engineer. He didn'tunderstand it, but knew that everything was ended. They were brokendown in space and would never make Earth. Those Uranian devils wouldcome streaking back. Catch them floating, helpless, and blast them tobits. And he would never get home to die.     Shano coughed, and cursed his lungs. Time was when these gum-cloggedlungs had saved his life. In the Plutonian mines. Gas explosions in thetunnels. Toxia gas, seeping in, burning the men's insides. But withgum-clogged lungs he'd been able to work himself clear. Just gettingsick where other men had died, their insides burned out.     Shano smoked and thought.  They wouldn't even know, he told himself, squirming through theemergency exit into the engine room, and sealing it after him. And theywouldn't understand if they did. Pink mist swirled about him. Toxiagas. Shano coughed.     He squinted around at the massive, incomprehensible machinery. The gutsof the space ship.     Then he saw the shattered, gold-gleaming cylinder, gas hissing froma fine nozzle, and filaments glowing bluish inside it, still workingaway. He saw five heavy Carrsteel rods hanging useless, on melted-downpins, and the slots their pronged ends hooked into. He looked at hishands, and shook his head.     One try, he said to himself. One try, Shano. One important thing inyour life. Here's your opportunity. The toxia gas will get you. It'llkill you at this concentration. But you'll last for maybe twelve hours.Another man wouldn't last a minute. Another man's lungs aren't cloggedwith Juno gum.     He grasped a rod and lifted it, sweating under the weight, and slippedthe forked end into its slot. Going home to die, he thought. Well,maybe not going home. Couldn't remember what Earth looked like anyway.     What was that again? Oh yeah—just lift them up, and when they dropoff, lift them up again.     Shano coughed, and lifted the heavy rods into position. One jerked backsuddenly and smoothly, and something went, Pop, pop, behind him andmachinery whirred. He lifted the rod and slipped it back on. Anotherjerked, pulled open a large valve, and dropped off. Shano bent, andlifted, coughing and coughing. He forgot what he was doing, mind blankthe way it went when he worked. Just rhythmically fell into the job,the way a laborer does. He waited for a rod to slip and fall, thenlifted it up and slipped it in place, skin sweating, joints shootingpain along his limbs. He heard the machinery working. He heard thehigh, howling whine of cosmic jets. He, Shano, was making the machinerygo. He was running the cosmic drive.     A bell clanged somewhere. Engine room! Engine room! We're under way!What happened?     Silence, while Shano coughed and made the machinery go, thinking aboutthe Earth he hadn't seen for many years.     Captain! the speaker bawled. There's a man in there! Working thevalve rods! Somebody is in the engine room and the gas isn't....     Shano grinned, feeling good. Feeling happy. Lifting the heavy steelrods, driving the ship. Keeping the jets screaming and hurtling theliner      Stardust     toward Venus. He wondered if they'd found Rourke yet.If he could keep going for twelve hours they would get to Venus. Afterthat....     Home, he coughed. Hell! Who wants to go home?     He plucked at his agitated chest, thinking of a whole damn Uranianfleet swooping down on a spot in space, expecting to find a crippledship there with a spy inside it. And finding nothing. Because of Shano.A useless old man.     Coughing came out all mixed up with laughing.   ","Rourke is the lieutenant with the nicked jaw who Shano first meets at the air lock. He initially refuses the ticket and reminds Shano that there is a Red signal placed on the Stardust. He tells Shano that the latter is heading towards his funeral but still ends up punching his ticket. Rourke is indirectly mentioned when Shano asks the captain about nicked jaws, a question to which the captain responds that it happens when somebody has cut himself shaving. Rourke is later revealed to be a traitor loyal to the Uranians and attempts to sabotage the ship so that the Uranian fleet can force the Stardust to surrender. He is a manipulative individual, capable of convincing most crew members that he is innocent and means no harm. He also pretends to act surprised that Shano is on board, knowing that he will betray them to the Uranians. Rourke is also a very sneaky person. When the ship turns off all mechanics to avoid detection, he uses the opportunity to sneak into the engine room and mess up the ship’s controls. He can remain mostly undetected, only seen by Shano as he hurries into the room. "
"What do Shano’s occupation and actions thoughts the story reveal about his traits? </s>    SIGNAL RED     By HENRY GUTH     They tried to stop him. Earth Flight 21 was a     suicide run, a coffin ship, they told him.     Uranian death lay athwart the space lanes. But     Shano already knew this was his last ride.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Fall 1949.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Mercurian night settled black and thick over the Q City Spaceport.Tentative fingers of light flicked and probed the sky, and winked out.     Here she comes, somebody in the line ahead said.     Shano coughed, his whole skeletal body jerking. Arthritic joints sentflashes of pain along his limbs. Here she comes, he thought, feelingneither glad nor sad.     He coughed and slipped polarized goggles over his eyes.     The spaceport emerged bathed in infra red. Hangars, cradles, freightercatapults and long runways stood out in sharp, diamond-clear detail.High up, beyond the cone of illumination, a detached triple row ofbright specks—portholes of the liner      Stardust     —sank slowly down.     There was no eagerness in him. Only a tiredness. A relief. Relief froma lifetime of beating around the planets. A life of digging, lifting,lugging and pounding. Like a work-worn Martian camel, he was going hometo die.     As though on oiled pistons the ship sank into the light, its longshark-like hull glowing soft and silvery, and settled with a featherysnuggle into the cradle's ribs.     The passenger line quivered as a loud-speaker boomed:           Stardust, now arrived at Cradle Six! Stardust, Cradle Six! Allpassengers for Venus and Earth prepare to board in ten minutes.          Shano coughed, and wiped phlegm from his thin lips, his hand followingaround the bony contours of his face, feeling the hollows and the beardstubble and loose skin of his neck. He coughed and thought of thevanium mines of Pluto, and his gum-clogged lungs. A vague, pressingdesire for home overwhelmed him. It had been so long.           Attention! Attention, Stardust passengers! The signal is red. Thesignal is red. Refunds now being made. Refunds now. Take-off in fiveminutes.          The man ahead swore and flicked up an arm. Red, he groaned. By theinfinite galaxies, this is the last straw! He charged away, knockingShano aside as he passed.       Red signal.     In bewildered anxiety Shano lifted the goggles from hiseyes and stared into the sudden blackness. The red signal. Danger outthere. Passengers advised to ground themselves, or travel at their ownrisk.     He felt the passengers bump and fumble past him, grumbling vexatiously.     A hot dread assailed him, and he coughed, plucking at his chest.Plucking at an urgency there.     Dropping the goggles to his rheumy eyes, he saw that the passenger linehad dissolved. He moved, shuffling, to the gate, thrust his ticket intothe scanner slot, and pushed through the turnstile when it clicked.           Flight twenty-one, now arriving from Venus     , the loud-speaker saidmonotonously. Shano glanced briefly upward and saw the gleaming bellyof twenty-one sinking into the spaceport cone of light.     He clawed his way up the gangway and thrust out his ticket to thelieutenant standing alone at the air lock. The lieutenant, a sullen,chunky man with a queer nick in his jawbone, refused the ticket.Haven't you heard, mister? Red signal. Go on back.     Shano coughed, and peered through the lenses of his goggles. Please,he said. Want to go home. I've a right. The nicked jaw stirred faintmemories within his glazed mind.     The lieutenant punched his ticket. It's your funeral, old man.     The loud-speaker blared.       Stardust, taking off in thirty seconds. Thesignal is red. Stardust, taking—          With the words dinning in his ears, Shano stepped into the air lock.The officer followed, spun wheels, and the lock closed. The outside wasshut off.     Lifting goggles they entered the hull, through a series of two morelocks, closing each behind them.     We're afloat, the officer said. We've taken off. A fleck of lightdanced far back in his eye. Shano felt the pressure of accelerationgradually increasing, increasing, and hurried in.  Captain Menthlo, a silver-mustached Jupiterian, broad, huge, yetcrushable as a beetle, talked while his hands manipulated a panel ofstuds in the control room. The pilot, his back encased in leather, satin a bucket seat before him, listening into earphones.     Surprised to learn of a passenger aboard, the captain said, glancingbriefly sideways. You're entitled to know of the danger ahead. Heflicked a final stud, spoke to the pilot and at last turned a serious,squared face to Shano. Old man, he said. There's a Uranian fleet outthere. We don't know how many ships in this sector. Flight twenty-one,which just landed, had a skirmish with one, and got away. We may not beso lucky. You know how these Uranian devils are.     Shano coughed, and wiped his mouth. Dirty devils, he said. I wasdriv' off the planet once, before this war started. I know thingsabout them Uranian devils. Heard them in the mines around. Hearsthings, a laborer does.     The captain seemed for the first time to realize the social status ofhis lone passenger, and he became a little gruff.     Want you to sign this waiver, saying you're traveling at your ownrisk. We'll expect you to keep to your cabin as much as possible.When the trouble comes we can't bother with a passenger. In a fewhours we'll shut down the ship entirely, and every mechanical deviceaboard, to try to avoid detection. His mustaches rose like two spearsfrom each side of his squared nose as his face changed to an alertwatchfulness. Going home, eh? he said. You've knocked around some,by the looks of you. Pluto, from the sound of that cough.     Shano scrawled his signature on the waiver. Yeah, he said. Pluto.Where a man's lungs fights gas. He blinked watery eyes. Captain,what's a notched jaw mean to you?     Well, old man, the captain grasped Shano's shoulder and turned himaround. It means somebody cut himself, shaving. You stick tight toyour cabin. He nodded curtly and indicated the door.     Descending the companionway to the next deck Shano observed thenick-jawed lieutenant staring out the viewport, apparently idling. Theman turned and gripped Shano's thin arm.     A light? he said, tapping a cigarette. Shano produced a lighterdisk and the chunky man puffed. He was an Earthman and his jaw seemedcut with a knife, notched like a piece of wood. Across the breast ofhis tunic was a purple band, with the name      Rourke     . Why are you soanxious to get aboard, old man? He searched Shano's face. There'strouble ahead, you know.     Shano coughed, wracking his body, as forgotten memories stirredsluggishly in his mind. Yup, he said, and jerked free and stumbleddown the steel deck.     In his cabin he lay on the bunk, lighted a cigarette and smoked,coughing and staring at the rivet-studded bulkhead. The slow movementof his mind resolved into a struggle, one idea groping for the other.     What were the things he'd heard about nicked jaws? And where hadhe heard them? Digging ore on Pluto; talk in the pits? Secretivesuspicions voiced in smoke-laden saloons of Mars? In the labor gangs ofUranus? Where? Shano smoked and didn't know. But he knew there was arumor, and that it was the talk of ignorant men. The captain had evadedit. Shano smoked and coughed and stared at the steel bulkhead andwaited.  The ship's alarm clanged. Shano jerked from his bunk like a brokenwatch spring. He crouched, trembling, on arthritic joints, as aloud-speaker blared throughout the ship.           All hands! We now maintain dead silence. Close down and stop allmachinery. Power off and lights out. An enemy fleet is out there,listening and watching for mechanical and electronic disturbance.Atmosphere will be maintained from emergency oxygen cylinders. Stoppumps.          Shano crouched and listened as the ship's steady drone ceased and thevibrations ceased. The pumps stopped, the lights went out.     Pressing the cold steel bulkhead, Shano heard oxygen hiss through thepipes. Hiss and hiss and then flow soundlessly, filling the cabin andhis lungs. He choked.     The cabin was like a mine shaft, dark and cold. Feet pounded on thedeck outside.     Shano clawed open the door. He peered out anxiously.     Cold blobs of light, phosphorescent bulbs held in the fists of men,glimmered by. Phosphorescent bulbs, because the power was off. Shanoblinked. He saw officers and men, their faces tight and pinched,hurrying in all directions. Hurrying to shut down the ship.     He acted impulsively. A young ensign strode by, drawn blaster in hand.Shano followed him; followed the bluish glow of his bulb, throughlabyrinthine passages and down a companionway, coughing and leeringagainst the pain in his joints. The blue light winked out in thedistance and Shano stopped.     He was suddenly alarmed. The captain had warned him to stay in hiscabin. He looked back and forth, wondering how to return.     A bell clanged.     Shano saw a cold bulb glowing down the passageway, and he shuffledhopefully toward it. The bulb moved away. He saw an indistinct figuredisappear through a door marked, ENGINE ROOM.     Shano paused uncertainly at the end of the passageway. A thick clusterof vertical pipes filled the corner. He peered at the pipes and saw agray box snuggled behind them. It had two toggle switches and a radiumdial that quivered delicately.     Shano scratched his scalp as boots pounded on the decks, aboveand below. He listened attentively to the ship's familiar noisesdiminishing one by one. And finally even the pounding of feet died out;everything became still. The silence shrieked in his ears.  The ship coasted. Shano could sense it coasting. He couldn't feel itor hear it, but he knew it was sliding ghost-like through space like asubmarine dead under water, slipping quietly past a listening enemy.     The ship's speaker rasped softly.       Emergency. Battle posts.          The captain's voice. Calm, brief. It sent a tremor through Shano'sbody. He heard a quick scuffle of feet again, running feet, directlyoverhead, and the captain's voice, more urgently, Power on. They'veheard us.     The words carried no accusation, but Shano realized what they meant.A slip-up. Something left running. Vibrations picked up quickly bydetectors of the Uranian space fleet.     Shano coughed and heard the ship come to life around him. He pulledhimself out of the spasm, cursing Pluto. Cursing his diseased,gum-clogged lungs. Cursing the Uranian fleet that was trying to preventhis going home—even to die.     This was a strange battle. Strange indeed. It was mostly silence.     Occasionally, as though from another world, came a brief, curt order.Port guns alert. Then hush and tension.     The deck lurched and the ship swung this way and that. Maybe dodging,maybe maneuvering—Shano didn't know. He felt the deck lurch, that wasall.     Fire number seven.     He heard the weird scream of a ray gun, and felt the constrictingterror that seemed to belt the ship like an iron band.     This was a battle in space, and out there were Uranian cruisers tryingto blast the      Stardust     out of the sky. Trying and trying, while thecaptain dodged and fired back—pitted his skill and knowledge againstan enemy Shano couldn't see.     He wanted desperately to help the captain break through, and get toEarth. But he could only cling to the plastic pipes and cough.     The ship jounced and slid beneath his feet, and was filled with sound.It rocked and rolled. Shano caromed off the bulkhead.     Hold fire.     He crawled to his knees on the slippery deck, grabbed the pipes andpulled himself erect, hand over hand. His eyes came level with the graymetal box behind the pipes. He squinted, fascinated, at the quiveringdial needle. Hey! he said.     Stand by.     Shano puzzled it out, his mind groping. He wasn't used to thinking.Only working with his hands.     This box. This needle that had quivered when the ship was closeddown....     It's over. Chased them off. Ready guns before laying to. Third watchon duty.     Shano sighed at the sudden release of tension throughout the spaceliner      Stardust     .     Smoke spewed from his nostrils. His forehead wrinkled withconcentration. Those rumors: Man sells out to Uranus, gets a nick cutin his jaw. Ever see a man with a nick in his jaw? Watch him, he's upto something. The talk of ignorant men. Shano remembered.     He poked behind the pipes and angrily slapped the toggle switches onthe box. The captain would only scoff. He'd never believe there was atraitor aboard who had planted an electronic signal box, giving awaythe ship's position. He'd never believe the babblings of an old man.     He straightened up, glaring angrily. He knew. And the knowledge madehim cold and furious. He watched the engine room emergency exit as itopened cautiously.     A chunky man backed out, holstering a flat blaster. He turned and sawShano, standing smoking. He walked over and nudged Shano, his facedark. Shano blew smoke into the dark face.     Old man, said Rourke. What're you doing down here?     Shano blinked.     Rourke fingered the nick in his jaw, eyes glinting. You're supposed tobe in your cabin, he said. Didn't I warn you we'd run into trouble?     Shano smoked and contemplated the chunky man. Estimated his strengthand youth and felt the anger and frustration mount in him. Devil, hesaid.        Devil, he said and dug his cigarette into the other's face.        He lunged then, clawing. He dug the cigarette into Rourke's flushedface, and clung to his body. Rourke howled. He fell backward to thedeck, slapping at his blistered face. He thrashed around and Shanoclung to him, battered, pressing the cigarette relentlessly, coughing,cursing the pain in his joints.     Shano grasped Rourke's neck with his hands. He twisted the neck withhis gnarled hands. Strong hands that had worked.     He got up when Rourke stopped thrashing. The face was purple and hewas dead. Shano shivered. He crouched in the passageway shivering andcoughing.  A tremendous grinding sounded amid-ships. Loud rending noises ofprotesting metal. The ship bucked like a hooked fish. Then it wasstill. An empty clank echoed through the hull. The captain's voicecame, almost yelling. Emergency! Emergency! Back to your posts. Engineroom—report! Engine room—     Shano picked himself off the deck, his mind muddled. He coughed andput a cigarette to his lips, flicking a lighter disk jerkily from hispocket. He blew smoke from his nostrils and heard the renewed poundingof feet. What was going on now?     Engine room! Your screen is dead! Switch onto loud-speaker system.Engine room!     Giddily, Shano heard clicks and rasps and then a thick voice, atommotors whirring in the background.     Selector's gone, sir. Direct hit. Heat ray through the deck plates.We've sealed the tear. Might repair selector in five hours.     Shano coughed and sent a burst of smoke from his mouth.     Captain! A rasping, grating sound ensued from a grill above Shano'shead, then a disconnected voice. Get the men out of there. It'suseless. Hurry it up! A series of clicks and the heavy voice of thechief engineer. Captain! Somebody's smashed the selector chamber.Engine room's full of toxia gas!     Shano jumped. He prodded the body on the deck with his toe.     The      Stardust's     mechanical voice bellowed: Engine room! Itreproduced the captain's heavy breathing and his tired voice. We'reabout midway to Venus, it said. There were two ships and we drovethem off. But there may be others. They'll be coming back. They knowwe've been hit. We have to get away fast!     Shano could see the captain in his mind, worried, squared face slickwith moisture. Shouting into a control room mike. Trying to find outwhat the matter was with his space ship.     The engineer's answer came from the grill. Impossible, sir. Engineroom full of toxia gas. Not a suit aboard prepared to withstand it. Andwe have to keep it in there. Selector filaments won't function withoutthe gas. Our only chance was to put a man in the engine room to repairthe broken selector valve rods or keep them running by hand.     Blast it! roared the captain. No way of getting in there? Can't youby-pass the selector?     No. It's the heart of the new cosmic drive, sir. The fuels must passthrough selector valves before entering the tube chambers. Filamentswill operate so long as toxia gas is there to burn, and will keeptrying to open the valves and compensate for fluctuating enginetemperature. But the rod pins have melted down, sir—they're commontungsten steel—and when the rods pull a valve open, they slip off anddrop down, useless. It's a mess. If we could only get a man in therehe might lift up the dropped end of a rod and slip it into place eachtime it fell, and keep the valves working and feeding fuel.     The speaker spluttered and Shano smoked thoughtfully, listening to thetalk back and forth, between the captain and the engineer. He didn'tunderstand it, but knew that everything was ended. They were brokendown in space and would never make Earth. Those Uranian devils wouldcome streaking back. Catch them floating, helpless, and blast them tobits. And he would never get home to die.     Shano coughed, and cursed his lungs. Time was when these gum-cloggedlungs had saved his life. In the Plutonian mines. Gas explosions in thetunnels. Toxia gas, seeping in, burning the men's insides. But withgum-clogged lungs he'd been able to work himself clear. Just gettingsick where other men had died, their insides burned out.     Shano smoked and thought.  They wouldn't even know, he told himself, squirming through theemergency exit into the engine room, and sealing it after him. And theywouldn't understand if they did. Pink mist swirled about him. Toxiagas. Shano coughed.     He squinted around at the massive, incomprehensible machinery. The gutsof the space ship.     Then he saw the shattered, gold-gleaming cylinder, gas hissing froma fine nozzle, and filaments glowing bluish inside it, still workingaway. He saw five heavy Carrsteel rods hanging useless, on melted-downpins, and the slots their pronged ends hooked into. He looked at hishands, and shook his head.     One try, he said to himself. One try, Shano. One important thing inyour life. Here's your opportunity. The toxia gas will get you. It'llkill you at this concentration. But you'll last for maybe twelve hours.Another man wouldn't last a minute. Another man's lungs aren't cloggedwith Juno gum.     He grasped a rod and lifted it, sweating under the weight, and slippedthe forked end into its slot. Going home to die, he thought. Well,maybe not going home. Couldn't remember what Earth looked like anyway.     What was that again? Oh yeah—just lift them up, and when they dropoff, lift them up again.     Shano coughed, and lifted the heavy rods into position. One jerked backsuddenly and smoothly, and something went, Pop, pop, behind him andmachinery whirred. He lifted the rod and slipped it back on. Anotherjerked, pulled open a large valve, and dropped off. Shano bent, andlifted, coughing and coughing. He forgot what he was doing, mind blankthe way it went when he worked. Just rhythmically fell into the job,the way a laborer does. He waited for a rod to slip and fall, thenlifted it up and slipped it in place, skin sweating, joints shootingpain along his limbs. He heard the machinery working. He heard thehigh, howling whine of cosmic jets. He, Shano, was making the machinerygo. He was running the cosmic drive.     A bell clanged somewhere. Engine room! Engine room! We're under way!What happened?     Silence, while Shano coughed and made the machinery go, thinking aboutthe Earth he hadn't seen for many years.     Captain! the speaker bawled. There's a man in there! Working thevalve rods! Somebody is in the engine room and the gas isn't....     Shano grinned, feeling good. Feeling happy. Lifting the heavy steelrods, driving the ship. Keeping the jets screaming and hurtling theliner      Stardust     toward Venus. He wondered if they'd found Rourke yet.If he could keep going for twelve hours they would get to Venus. Afterthat....     Home, he coughed. Hell! Who wants to go home?     He plucked at his agitated chest, thinking of a whole damn Uranianfleet swooping down on a spot in space, expecting to find a crippledship there with a spy inside it. And finding nothing. Because of Shano.A useless old man.     Coughing came out all mixed up with laughing.   ","Shano’s occupation is being a miner and laborer. His time mining on Pluto leaves his lungs permanently damaged, and he has a constant cough that never seems to go away. However, he has been to many other planets as well, including Mars and Uranus. Although Shano is only a lowly miner, his actions also reveal how courageous and righteous he is as a person. His decision to take the liner, despite the red signal, shows that he is willing to take risks to reach his goal. Later, when he remembers why Rourke cannot be trusted, he does not hesitate to take matters into his own hands to deal with the traitor. Shano’s bravery is also shown when he braves the toxic gas to save the liner. He knows that he can last for up to 12 hours at most and that he will most likely die on the trip home. However, this does not deter him if he can get the ship safely to Venus. While Shano’s occupation in the story is not regarded highly, his actions show that he should not be underestimated. "
"What equipment is employed throughout the story? </s>    SIGNAL RED     By HENRY GUTH     They tried to stop him. Earth Flight 21 was a     suicide run, a coffin ship, they told him.     Uranian death lay athwart the space lanes. But     Shano already knew this was his last ride.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Fall 1949.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Mercurian night settled black and thick over the Q City Spaceport.Tentative fingers of light flicked and probed the sky, and winked out.     Here she comes, somebody in the line ahead said.     Shano coughed, his whole skeletal body jerking. Arthritic joints sentflashes of pain along his limbs. Here she comes, he thought, feelingneither glad nor sad.     He coughed and slipped polarized goggles over his eyes.     The spaceport emerged bathed in infra red. Hangars, cradles, freightercatapults and long runways stood out in sharp, diamond-clear detail.High up, beyond the cone of illumination, a detached triple row ofbright specks—portholes of the liner      Stardust     —sank slowly down.     There was no eagerness in him. Only a tiredness. A relief. Relief froma lifetime of beating around the planets. A life of digging, lifting,lugging and pounding. Like a work-worn Martian camel, he was going hometo die.     As though on oiled pistons the ship sank into the light, its longshark-like hull glowing soft and silvery, and settled with a featherysnuggle into the cradle's ribs.     The passenger line quivered as a loud-speaker boomed:           Stardust, now arrived at Cradle Six! Stardust, Cradle Six! Allpassengers for Venus and Earth prepare to board in ten minutes.          Shano coughed, and wiped phlegm from his thin lips, his hand followingaround the bony contours of his face, feeling the hollows and the beardstubble and loose skin of his neck. He coughed and thought of thevanium mines of Pluto, and his gum-clogged lungs. A vague, pressingdesire for home overwhelmed him. It had been so long.           Attention! Attention, Stardust passengers! The signal is red. Thesignal is red. Refunds now being made. Refunds now. Take-off in fiveminutes.          The man ahead swore and flicked up an arm. Red, he groaned. By theinfinite galaxies, this is the last straw! He charged away, knockingShano aside as he passed.       Red signal.     In bewildered anxiety Shano lifted the goggles from hiseyes and stared into the sudden blackness. The red signal. Danger outthere. Passengers advised to ground themselves, or travel at their ownrisk.     He felt the passengers bump and fumble past him, grumbling vexatiously.     A hot dread assailed him, and he coughed, plucking at his chest.Plucking at an urgency there.     Dropping the goggles to his rheumy eyes, he saw that the passenger linehad dissolved. He moved, shuffling, to the gate, thrust his ticket intothe scanner slot, and pushed through the turnstile when it clicked.           Flight twenty-one, now arriving from Venus     , the loud-speaker saidmonotonously. Shano glanced briefly upward and saw the gleaming bellyof twenty-one sinking into the spaceport cone of light.     He clawed his way up the gangway and thrust out his ticket to thelieutenant standing alone at the air lock. The lieutenant, a sullen,chunky man with a queer nick in his jawbone, refused the ticket.Haven't you heard, mister? Red signal. Go on back.     Shano coughed, and peered through the lenses of his goggles. Please,he said. Want to go home. I've a right. The nicked jaw stirred faintmemories within his glazed mind.     The lieutenant punched his ticket. It's your funeral, old man.     The loud-speaker blared.       Stardust, taking off in thirty seconds. Thesignal is red. Stardust, taking—          With the words dinning in his ears, Shano stepped into the air lock.The officer followed, spun wheels, and the lock closed. The outside wasshut off.     Lifting goggles they entered the hull, through a series of two morelocks, closing each behind them.     We're afloat, the officer said. We've taken off. A fleck of lightdanced far back in his eye. Shano felt the pressure of accelerationgradually increasing, increasing, and hurried in.  Captain Menthlo, a silver-mustached Jupiterian, broad, huge, yetcrushable as a beetle, talked while his hands manipulated a panel ofstuds in the control room. The pilot, his back encased in leather, satin a bucket seat before him, listening into earphones.     Surprised to learn of a passenger aboard, the captain said, glancingbriefly sideways. You're entitled to know of the danger ahead. Heflicked a final stud, spoke to the pilot and at last turned a serious,squared face to Shano. Old man, he said. There's a Uranian fleet outthere. We don't know how many ships in this sector. Flight twenty-one,which just landed, had a skirmish with one, and got away. We may not beso lucky. You know how these Uranian devils are.     Shano coughed, and wiped his mouth. Dirty devils, he said. I wasdriv' off the planet once, before this war started. I know thingsabout them Uranian devils. Heard them in the mines around. Hearsthings, a laborer does.     The captain seemed for the first time to realize the social status ofhis lone passenger, and he became a little gruff.     Want you to sign this waiver, saying you're traveling at your ownrisk. We'll expect you to keep to your cabin as much as possible.When the trouble comes we can't bother with a passenger. In a fewhours we'll shut down the ship entirely, and every mechanical deviceaboard, to try to avoid detection. His mustaches rose like two spearsfrom each side of his squared nose as his face changed to an alertwatchfulness. Going home, eh? he said. You've knocked around some,by the looks of you. Pluto, from the sound of that cough.     Shano scrawled his signature on the waiver. Yeah, he said. Pluto.Where a man's lungs fights gas. He blinked watery eyes. Captain,what's a notched jaw mean to you?     Well, old man, the captain grasped Shano's shoulder and turned himaround. It means somebody cut himself, shaving. You stick tight toyour cabin. He nodded curtly and indicated the door.     Descending the companionway to the next deck Shano observed thenick-jawed lieutenant staring out the viewport, apparently idling. Theman turned and gripped Shano's thin arm.     A light? he said, tapping a cigarette. Shano produced a lighterdisk and the chunky man puffed. He was an Earthman and his jaw seemedcut with a knife, notched like a piece of wood. Across the breast ofhis tunic was a purple band, with the name      Rourke     . Why are you soanxious to get aboard, old man? He searched Shano's face. There'strouble ahead, you know.     Shano coughed, wracking his body, as forgotten memories stirredsluggishly in his mind. Yup, he said, and jerked free and stumbleddown the steel deck.     In his cabin he lay on the bunk, lighted a cigarette and smoked,coughing and staring at the rivet-studded bulkhead. The slow movementof his mind resolved into a struggle, one idea groping for the other.     What were the things he'd heard about nicked jaws? And where hadhe heard them? Digging ore on Pluto; talk in the pits? Secretivesuspicions voiced in smoke-laden saloons of Mars? In the labor gangs ofUranus? Where? Shano smoked and didn't know. But he knew there was arumor, and that it was the talk of ignorant men. The captain had evadedit. Shano smoked and coughed and stared at the steel bulkhead andwaited.  The ship's alarm clanged. Shano jerked from his bunk like a brokenwatch spring. He crouched, trembling, on arthritic joints, as aloud-speaker blared throughout the ship.           All hands! We now maintain dead silence. Close down and stop allmachinery. Power off and lights out. An enemy fleet is out there,listening and watching for mechanical and electronic disturbance.Atmosphere will be maintained from emergency oxygen cylinders. Stoppumps.          Shano crouched and listened as the ship's steady drone ceased and thevibrations ceased. The pumps stopped, the lights went out.     Pressing the cold steel bulkhead, Shano heard oxygen hiss through thepipes. Hiss and hiss and then flow soundlessly, filling the cabin andhis lungs. He choked.     The cabin was like a mine shaft, dark and cold. Feet pounded on thedeck outside.     Shano clawed open the door. He peered out anxiously.     Cold blobs of light, phosphorescent bulbs held in the fists of men,glimmered by. Phosphorescent bulbs, because the power was off. Shanoblinked. He saw officers and men, their faces tight and pinched,hurrying in all directions. Hurrying to shut down the ship.     He acted impulsively. A young ensign strode by, drawn blaster in hand.Shano followed him; followed the bluish glow of his bulb, throughlabyrinthine passages and down a companionway, coughing and leeringagainst the pain in his joints. The blue light winked out in thedistance and Shano stopped.     He was suddenly alarmed. The captain had warned him to stay in hiscabin. He looked back and forth, wondering how to return.     A bell clanged.     Shano saw a cold bulb glowing down the passageway, and he shuffledhopefully toward it. The bulb moved away. He saw an indistinct figuredisappear through a door marked, ENGINE ROOM.     Shano paused uncertainly at the end of the passageway. A thick clusterof vertical pipes filled the corner. He peered at the pipes and saw agray box snuggled behind them. It had two toggle switches and a radiumdial that quivered delicately.     Shano scratched his scalp as boots pounded on the decks, aboveand below. He listened attentively to the ship's familiar noisesdiminishing one by one. And finally even the pounding of feet died out;everything became still. The silence shrieked in his ears.  The ship coasted. Shano could sense it coasting. He couldn't feel itor hear it, but he knew it was sliding ghost-like through space like asubmarine dead under water, slipping quietly past a listening enemy.     The ship's speaker rasped softly.       Emergency. Battle posts.          The captain's voice. Calm, brief. It sent a tremor through Shano'sbody. He heard a quick scuffle of feet again, running feet, directlyoverhead, and the captain's voice, more urgently, Power on. They'veheard us.     The words carried no accusation, but Shano realized what they meant.A slip-up. Something left running. Vibrations picked up quickly bydetectors of the Uranian space fleet.     Shano coughed and heard the ship come to life around him. He pulledhimself out of the spasm, cursing Pluto. Cursing his diseased,gum-clogged lungs. Cursing the Uranian fleet that was trying to preventhis going home—even to die.     This was a strange battle. Strange indeed. It was mostly silence.     Occasionally, as though from another world, came a brief, curt order.Port guns alert. Then hush and tension.     The deck lurched and the ship swung this way and that. Maybe dodging,maybe maneuvering—Shano didn't know. He felt the deck lurch, that wasall.     Fire number seven.     He heard the weird scream of a ray gun, and felt the constrictingterror that seemed to belt the ship like an iron band.     This was a battle in space, and out there were Uranian cruisers tryingto blast the      Stardust     out of the sky. Trying and trying, while thecaptain dodged and fired back—pitted his skill and knowledge againstan enemy Shano couldn't see.     He wanted desperately to help the captain break through, and get toEarth. But he could only cling to the plastic pipes and cough.     The ship jounced and slid beneath his feet, and was filled with sound.It rocked and rolled. Shano caromed off the bulkhead.     Hold fire.     He crawled to his knees on the slippery deck, grabbed the pipes andpulled himself erect, hand over hand. His eyes came level with the graymetal box behind the pipes. He squinted, fascinated, at the quiveringdial needle. Hey! he said.     Stand by.     Shano puzzled it out, his mind groping. He wasn't used to thinking.Only working with his hands.     This box. This needle that had quivered when the ship was closeddown....     It's over. Chased them off. Ready guns before laying to. Third watchon duty.     Shano sighed at the sudden release of tension throughout the spaceliner      Stardust     .     Smoke spewed from his nostrils. His forehead wrinkled withconcentration. Those rumors: Man sells out to Uranus, gets a nick cutin his jaw. Ever see a man with a nick in his jaw? Watch him, he's upto something. The talk of ignorant men. Shano remembered.     He poked behind the pipes and angrily slapped the toggle switches onthe box. The captain would only scoff. He'd never believe there was atraitor aboard who had planted an electronic signal box, giving awaythe ship's position. He'd never believe the babblings of an old man.     He straightened up, glaring angrily. He knew. And the knowledge madehim cold and furious. He watched the engine room emergency exit as itopened cautiously.     A chunky man backed out, holstering a flat blaster. He turned and sawShano, standing smoking. He walked over and nudged Shano, his facedark. Shano blew smoke into the dark face.     Old man, said Rourke. What're you doing down here?     Shano blinked.     Rourke fingered the nick in his jaw, eyes glinting. You're supposed tobe in your cabin, he said. Didn't I warn you we'd run into trouble?     Shano smoked and contemplated the chunky man. Estimated his strengthand youth and felt the anger and frustration mount in him. Devil, hesaid.        Devil, he said and dug his cigarette into the other's face.        He lunged then, clawing. He dug the cigarette into Rourke's flushedface, and clung to his body. Rourke howled. He fell backward to thedeck, slapping at his blistered face. He thrashed around and Shanoclung to him, battered, pressing the cigarette relentlessly, coughing,cursing the pain in his joints.     Shano grasped Rourke's neck with his hands. He twisted the neck withhis gnarled hands. Strong hands that had worked.     He got up when Rourke stopped thrashing. The face was purple and hewas dead. Shano shivered. He crouched in the passageway shivering andcoughing.  A tremendous grinding sounded amid-ships. Loud rending noises ofprotesting metal. The ship bucked like a hooked fish. Then it wasstill. An empty clank echoed through the hull. The captain's voicecame, almost yelling. Emergency! Emergency! Back to your posts. Engineroom—report! Engine room—     Shano picked himself off the deck, his mind muddled. He coughed andput a cigarette to his lips, flicking a lighter disk jerkily from hispocket. He blew smoke from his nostrils and heard the renewed poundingof feet. What was going on now?     Engine room! Your screen is dead! Switch onto loud-speaker system.Engine room!     Giddily, Shano heard clicks and rasps and then a thick voice, atommotors whirring in the background.     Selector's gone, sir. Direct hit. Heat ray through the deck plates.We've sealed the tear. Might repair selector in five hours.     Shano coughed and sent a burst of smoke from his mouth.     Captain! A rasping, grating sound ensued from a grill above Shano'shead, then a disconnected voice. Get the men out of there. It'suseless. Hurry it up! A series of clicks and the heavy voice of thechief engineer. Captain! Somebody's smashed the selector chamber.Engine room's full of toxia gas!     Shano jumped. He prodded the body on the deck with his toe.     The      Stardust's     mechanical voice bellowed: Engine room! Itreproduced the captain's heavy breathing and his tired voice. We'reabout midway to Venus, it said. There were two ships and we drovethem off. But there may be others. They'll be coming back. They knowwe've been hit. We have to get away fast!     Shano could see the captain in his mind, worried, squared face slickwith moisture. Shouting into a control room mike. Trying to find outwhat the matter was with his space ship.     The engineer's answer came from the grill. Impossible, sir. Engineroom full of toxia gas. Not a suit aboard prepared to withstand it. Andwe have to keep it in there. Selector filaments won't function withoutthe gas. Our only chance was to put a man in the engine room to repairthe broken selector valve rods or keep them running by hand.     Blast it! roared the captain. No way of getting in there? Can't youby-pass the selector?     No. It's the heart of the new cosmic drive, sir. The fuels must passthrough selector valves before entering the tube chambers. Filamentswill operate so long as toxia gas is there to burn, and will keeptrying to open the valves and compensate for fluctuating enginetemperature. But the rod pins have melted down, sir—they're commontungsten steel—and when the rods pull a valve open, they slip off anddrop down, useless. It's a mess. If we could only get a man in therehe might lift up the dropped end of a rod and slip it into place eachtime it fell, and keep the valves working and feeding fuel.     The speaker spluttered and Shano smoked thoughtfully, listening to thetalk back and forth, between the captain and the engineer. He didn'tunderstand it, but knew that everything was ended. They were brokendown in space and would never make Earth. Those Uranian devils wouldcome streaking back. Catch them floating, helpless, and blast them tobits. And he would never get home to die.     Shano coughed, and cursed his lungs. Time was when these gum-cloggedlungs had saved his life. In the Plutonian mines. Gas explosions in thetunnels. Toxia gas, seeping in, burning the men's insides. But withgum-clogged lungs he'd been able to work himself clear. Just gettingsick where other men had died, their insides burned out.     Shano smoked and thought.  They wouldn't even know, he told himself, squirming through theemergency exit into the engine room, and sealing it after him. And theywouldn't understand if they did. Pink mist swirled about him. Toxiagas. Shano coughed.     He squinted around at the massive, incomprehensible machinery. The gutsof the space ship.     Then he saw the shattered, gold-gleaming cylinder, gas hissing froma fine nozzle, and filaments glowing bluish inside it, still workingaway. He saw five heavy Carrsteel rods hanging useless, on melted-downpins, and the slots their pronged ends hooked into. He looked at hishands, and shook his head.     One try, he said to himself. One try, Shano. One important thing inyour life. Here's your opportunity. The toxia gas will get you. It'llkill you at this concentration. But you'll last for maybe twelve hours.Another man wouldn't last a minute. Another man's lungs aren't cloggedwith Juno gum.     He grasped a rod and lifted it, sweating under the weight, and slippedthe forked end into its slot. Going home to die, he thought. Well,maybe not going home. Couldn't remember what Earth looked like anyway.     What was that again? Oh yeah—just lift them up, and when they dropoff, lift them up again.     Shano coughed, and lifted the heavy rods into position. One jerked backsuddenly and smoothly, and something went, Pop, pop, behind him andmachinery whirred. He lifted the rod and slipped it back on. Anotherjerked, pulled open a large valve, and dropped off. Shano bent, andlifted, coughing and coughing. He forgot what he was doing, mind blankthe way it went when he worked. Just rhythmically fell into the job,the way a laborer does. He waited for a rod to slip and fall, thenlifted it up and slipped it in place, skin sweating, joints shootingpain along his limbs. He heard the machinery working. He heard thehigh, howling whine of cosmic jets. He, Shano, was making the machinerygo. He was running the cosmic drive.     A bell clanged somewhere. Engine room! Engine room! We're under way!What happened?     Silence, while Shano coughed and made the machinery go, thinking aboutthe Earth he hadn't seen for many years.     Captain! the speaker bawled. There's a man in there! Working thevalve rods! Somebody is in the engine room and the gas isn't....     Shano grinned, feeling good. Feeling happy. Lifting the heavy steelrods, driving the ship. Keeping the jets screaming and hurtling theliner      Stardust     toward Venus. He wondered if they'd found Rourke yet.If he could keep going for twelve hours they would get to Venus. Afterthat....     Home, he coughed. Hell! Who wants to go home?     He plucked at his agitated chest, thinking of a whole damn Uranianfleet swooping down on a spot in space, expecting to find a crippledship there with a spy inside it. And finding nothing. Because of Shano.A useless old man.     Coughing came out all mixed up with laughing.   ","One of the main pieces of equipment used on the Stardust liner is a loudspeaker. The primary role of the speaker is to give out instructions to the crew on the ship and makes any important announcements. The men also use phosphorescent bulbs as a light source to navigate their surroundings when the liner goes into total shutdown. Crew members also carry around a blaster for protection, most likely if there is ever a need for self-defense. There is also usage of a ray gun to fight back against the Uranian fleets. To ensure survival, emergency oxygen pipes are used to maintain atmosphere. Shano also carries a pack of cigarettes that do not seem important but later become essential to the story."
"Describe the setting of the story. </s>    SIGNAL RED     By HENRY GUTH     They tried to stop him. Earth Flight 21 was a     suicide run, a coffin ship, they told him.     Uranian death lay athwart the space lanes. But     Shano already knew this was his last ride.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Fall 1949.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Mercurian night settled black and thick over the Q City Spaceport.Tentative fingers of light flicked and probed the sky, and winked out.     Here she comes, somebody in the line ahead said.     Shano coughed, his whole skeletal body jerking. Arthritic joints sentflashes of pain along his limbs. Here she comes, he thought, feelingneither glad nor sad.     He coughed and slipped polarized goggles over his eyes.     The spaceport emerged bathed in infra red. Hangars, cradles, freightercatapults and long runways stood out in sharp, diamond-clear detail.High up, beyond the cone of illumination, a detached triple row ofbright specks—portholes of the liner      Stardust     —sank slowly down.     There was no eagerness in him. Only a tiredness. A relief. Relief froma lifetime of beating around the planets. A life of digging, lifting,lugging and pounding. Like a work-worn Martian camel, he was going hometo die.     As though on oiled pistons the ship sank into the light, its longshark-like hull glowing soft and silvery, and settled with a featherysnuggle into the cradle's ribs.     The passenger line quivered as a loud-speaker boomed:           Stardust, now arrived at Cradle Six! Stardust, Cradle Six! Allpassengers for Venus and Earth prepare to board in ten minutes.          Shano coughed, and wiped phlegm from his thin lips, his hand followingaround the bony contours of his face, feeling the hollows and the beardstubble and loose skin of his neck. He coughed and thought of thevanium mines of Pluto, and his gum-clogged lungs. A vague, pressingdesire for home overwhelmed him. It had been so long.           Attention! Attention, Stardust passengers! The signal is red. Thesignal is red. Refunds now being made. Refunds now. Take-off in fiveminutes.          The man ahead swore and flicked up an arm. Red, he groaned. By theinfinite galaxies, this is the last straw! He charged away, knockingShano aside as he passed.       Red signal.     In bewildered anxiety Shano lifted the goggles from hiseyes and stared into the sudden blackness. The red signal. Danger outthere. Passengers advised to ground themselves, or travel at their ownrisk.     He felt the passengers bump and fumble past him, grumbling vexatiously.     A hot dread assailed him, and he coughed, plucking at his chest.Plucking at an urgency there.     Dropping the goggles to his rheumy eyes, he saw that the passenger linehad dissolved. He moved, shuffling, to the gate, thrust his ticket intothe scanner slot, and pushed through the turnstile when it clicked.           Flight twenty-one, now arriving from Venus     , the loud-speaker saidmonotonously. Shano glanced briefly upward and saw the gleaming bellyof twenty-one sinking into the spaceport cone of light.     He clawed his way up the gangway and thrust out his ticket to thelieutenant standing alone at the air lock. The lieutenant, a sullen,chunky man with a queer nick in his jawbone, refused the ticket.Haven't you heard, mister? Red signal. Go on back.     Shano coughed, and peered through the lenses of his goggles. Please,he said. Want to go home. I've a right. The nicked jaw stirred faintmemories within his glazed mind.     The lieutenant punched his ticket. It's your funeral, old man.     The loud-speaker blared.       Stardust, taking off in thirty seconds. Thesignal is red. Stardust, taking—          With the words dinning in his ears, Shano stepped into the air lock.The officer followed, spun wheels, and the lock closed. The outside wasshut off.     Lifting goggles they entered the hull, through a series of two morelocks, closing each behind them.     We're afloat, the officer said. We've taken off. A fleck of lightdanced far back in his eye. Shano felt the pressure of accelerationgradually increasing, increasing, and hurried in.  Captain Menthlo, a silver-mustached Jupiterian, broad, huge, yetcrushable as a beetle, talked while his hands manipulated a panel ofstuds in the control room. The pilot, his back encased in leather, satin a bucket seat before him, listening into earphones.     Surprised to learn of a passenger aboard, the captain said, glancingbriefly sideways. You're entitled to know of the danger ahead. Heflicked a final stud, spoke to the pilot and at last turned a serious,squared face to Shano. Old man, he said. There's a Uranian fleet outthere. We don't know how many ships in this sector. Flight twenty-one,which just landed, had a skirmish with one, and got away. We may not beso lucky. You know how these Uranian devils are.     Shano coughed, and wiped his mouth. Dirty devils, he said. I wasdriv' off the planet once, before this war started. I know thingsabout them Uranian devils. Heard them in the mines around. Hearsthings, a laborer does.     The captain seemed for the first time to realize the social status ofhis lone passenger, and he became a little gruff.     Want you to sign this waiver, saying you're traveling at your ownrisk. We'll expect you to keep to your cabin as much as possible.When the trouble comes we can't bother with a passenger. In a fewhours we'll shut down the ship entirely, and every mechanical deviceaboard, to try to avoid detection. His mustaches rose like two spearsfrom each side of his squared nose as his face changed to an alertwatchfulness. Going home, eh? he said. You've knocked around some,by the looks of you. Pluto, from the sound of that cough.     Shano scrawled his signature on the waiver. Yeah, he said. Pluto.Where a man's lungs fights gas. He blinked watery eyes. Captain,what's a notched jaw mean to you?     Well, old man, the captain grasped Shano's shoulder and turned himaround. It means somebody cut himself, shaving. You stick tight toyour cabin. He nodded curtly and indicated the door.     Descending the companionway to the next deck Shano observed thenick-jawed lieutenant staring out the viewport, apparently idling. Theman turned and gripped Shano's thin arm.     A light? he said, tapping a cigarette. Shano produced a lighterdisk and the chunky man puffed. He was an Earthman and his jaw seemedcut with a knife, notched like a piece of wood. Across the breast ofhis tunic was a purple band, with the name      Rourke     . Why are you soanxious to get aboard, old man? He searched Shano's face. There'strouble ahead, you know.     Shano coughed, wracking his body, as forgotten memories stirredsluggishly in his mind. Yup, he said, and jerked free and stumbleddown the steel deck.     In his cabin he lay on the bunk, lighted a cigarette and smoked,coughing and staring at the rivet-studded bulkhead. The slow movementof his mind resolved into a struggle, one idea groping for the other.     What were the things he'd heard about nicked jaws? And where hadhe heard them? Digging ore on Pluto; talk in the pits? Secretivesuspicions voiced in smoke-laden saloons of Mars? In the labor gangs ofUranus? Where? Shano smoked and didn't know. But he knew there was arumor, and that it was the talk of ignorant men. The captain had evadedit. Shano smoked and coughed and stared at the steel bulkhead andwaited.  The ship's alarm clanged. Shano jerked from his bunk like a brokenwatch spring. He crouched, trembling, on arthritic joints, as aloud-speaker blared throughout the ship.           All hands! We now maintain dead silence. Close down and stop allmachinery. Power off and lights out. An enemy fleet is out there,listening and watching for mechanical and electronic disturbance.Atmosphere will be maintained from emergency oxygen cylinders. Stoppumps.          Shano crouched and listened as the ship's steady drone ceased and thevibrations ceased. The pumps stopped, the lights went out.     Pressing the cold steel bulkhead, Shano heard oxygen hiss through thepipes. Hiss and hiss and then flow soundlessly, filling the cabin andhis lungs. He choked.     The cabin was like a mine shaft, dark and cold. Feet pounded on thedeck outside.     Shano clawed open the door. He peered out anxiously.     Cold blobs of light, phosphorescent bulbs held in the fists of men,glimmered by. Phosphorescent bulbs, because the power was off. Shanoblinked. He saw officers and men, their faces tight and pinched,hurrying in all directions. Hurrying to shut down the ship.     He acted impulsively. A young ensign strode by, drawn blaster in hand.Shano followed him; followed the bluish glow of his bulb, throughlabyrinthine passages and down a companionway, coughing and leeringagainst the pain in his joints. The blue light winked out in thedistance and Shano stopped.     He was suddenly alarmed. The captain had warned him to stay in hiscabin. He looked back and forth, wondering how to return.     A bell clanged.     Shano saw a cold bulb glowing down the passageway, and he shuffledhopefully toward it. The bulb moved away. He saw an indistinct figuredisappear through a door marked, ENGINE ROOM.     Shano paused uncertainly at the end of the passageway. A thick clusterof vertical pipes filled the corner. He peered at the pipes and saw agray box snuggled behind them. It had two toggle switches and a radiumdial that quivered delicately.     Shano scratched his scalp as boots pounded on the decks, aboveand below. He listened attentively to the ship's familiar noisesdiminishing one by one. And finally even the pounding of feet died out;everything became still. The silence shrieked in his ears.  The ship coasted. Shano could sense it coasting. He couldn't feel itor hear it, but he knew it was sliding ghost-like through space like asubmarine dead under water, slipping quietly past a listening enemy.     The ship's speaker rasped softly.       Emergency. Battle posts.          The captain's voice. Calm, brief. It sent a tremor through Shano'sbody. He heard a quick scuffle of feet again, running feet, directlyoverhead, and the captain's voice, more urgently, Power on. They'veheard us.     The words carried no accusation, but Shano realized what they meant.A slip-up. Something left running. Vibrations picked up quickly bydetectors of the Uranian space fleet.     Shano coughed and heard the ship come to life around him. He pulledhimself out of the spasm, cursing Pluto. Cursing his diseased,gum-clogged lungs. Cursing the Uranian fleet that was trying to preventhis going home—even to die.     This was a strange battle. Strange indeed. It was mostly silence.     Occasionally, as though from another world, came a brief, curt order.Port guns alert. Then hush and tension.     The deck lurched and the ship swung this way and that. Maybe dodging,maybe maneuvering—Shano didn't know. He felt the deck lurch, that wasall.     Fire number seven.     He heard the weird scream of a ray gun, and felt the constrictingterror that seemed to belt the ship like an iron band.     This was a battle in space, and out there were Uranian cruisers tryingto blast the      Stardust     out of the sky. Trying and trying, while thecaptain dodged and fired back—pitted his skill and knowledge againstan enemy Shano couldn't see.     He wanted desperately to help the captain break through, and get toEarth. But he could only cling to the plastic pipes and cough.     The ship jounced and slid beneath his feet, and was filled with sound.It rocked and rolled. Shano caromed off the bulkhead.     Hold fire.     He crawled to his knees on the slippery deck, grabbed the pipes andpulled himself erect, hand over hand. His eyes came level with the graymetal box behind the pipes. He squinted, fascinated, at the quiveringdial needle. Hey! he said.     Stand by.     Shano puzzled it out, his mind groping. He wasn't used to thinking.Only working with his hands.     This box. This needle that had quivered when the ship was closeddown....     It's over. Chased them off. Ready guns before laying to. Third watchon duty.     Shano sighed at the sudden release of tension throughout the spaceliner      Stardust     .     Smoke spewed from his nostrils. His forehead wrinkled withconcentration. Those rumors: Man sells out to Uranus, gets a nick cutin his jaw. Ever see a man with a nick in his jaw? Watch him, he's upto something. The talk of ignorant men. Shano remembered.     He poked behind the pipes and angrily slapped the toggle switches onthe box. The captain would only scoff. He'd never believe there was atraitor aboard who had planted an electronic signal box, giving awaythe ship's position. He'd never believe the babblings of an old man.     He straightened up, glaring angrily. He knew. And the knowledge madehim cold and furious. He watched the engine room emergency exit as itopened cautiously.     A chunky man backed out, holstering a flat blaster. He turned and sawShano, standing smoking. He walked over and nudged Shano, his facedark. Shano blew smoke into the dark face.     Old man, said Rourke. What're you doing down here?     Shano blinked.     Rourke fingered the nick in his jaw, eyes glinting. You're supposed tobe in your cabin, he said. Didn't I warn you we'd run into trouble?     Shano smoked and contemplated the chunky man. Estimated his strengthand youth and felt the anger and frustration mount in him. Devil, hesaid.        Devil, he said and dug his cigarette into the other's face.        He lunged then, clawing. He dug the cigarette into Rourke's flushedface, and clung to his body. Rourke howled. He fell backward to thedeck, slapping at his blistered face. He thrashed around and Shanoclung to him, battered, pressing the cigarette relentlessly, coughing,cursing the pain in his joints.     Shano grasped Rourke's neck with his hands. He twisted the neck withhis gnarled hands. Strong hands that had worked.     He got up when Rourke stopped thrashing. The face was purple and hewas dead. Shano shivered. He crouched in the passageway shivering andcoughing.  A tremendous grinding sounded amid-ships. Loud rending noises ofprotesting metal. The ship bucked like a hooked fish. Then it wasstill. An empty clank echoed through the hull. The captain's voicecame, almost yelling. Emergency! Emergency! Back to your posts. Engineroom—report! Engine room—     Shano picked himself off the deck, his mind muddled. He coughed andput a cigarette to his lips, flicking a lighter disk jerkily from hispocket. He blew smoke from his nostrils and heard the renewed poundingof feet. What was going on now?     Engine room! Your screen is dead! Switch onto loud-speaker system.Engine room!     Giddily, Shano heard clicks and rasps and then a thick voice, atommotors whirring in the background.     Selector's gone, sir. Direct hit. Heat ray through the deck plates.We've sealed the tear. Might repair selector in five hours.     Shano coughed and sent a burst of smoke from his mouth.     Captain! A rasping, grating sound ensued from a grill above Shano'shead, then a disconnected voice. Get the men out of there. It'suseless. Hurry it up! A series of clicks and the heavy voice of thechief engineer. Captain! Somebody's smashed the selector chamber.Engine room's full of toxia gas!     Shano jumped. He prodded the body on the deck with his toe.     The      Stardust's     mechanical voice bellowed: Engine room! Itreproduced the captain's heavy breathing and his tired voice. We'reabout midway to Venus, it said. There were two ships and we drovethem off. But there may be others. They'll be coming back. They knowwe've been hit. We have to get away fast!     Shano could see the captain in his mind, worried, squared face slickwith moisture. Shouting into a control room mike. Trying to find outwhat the matter was with his space ship.     The engineer's answer came from the grill. Impossible, sir. Engineroom full of toxia gas. Not a suit aboard prepared to withstand it. Andwe have to keep it in there. Selector filaments won't function withoutthe gas. Our only chance was to put a man in the engine room to repairthe broken selector valve rods or keep them running by hand.     Blast it! roared the captain. No way of getting in there? Can't youby-pass the selector?     No. It's the heart of the new cosmic drive, sir. The fuels must passthrough selector valves before entering the tube chambers. Filamentswill operate so long as toxia gas is there to burn, and will keeptrying to open the valves and compensate for fluctuating enginetemperature. But the rod pins have melted down, sir—they're commontungsten steel—and when the rods pull a valve open, they slip off anddrop down, useless. It's a mess. If we could only get a man in therehe might lift up the dropped end of a rod and slip it into place eachtime it fell, and keep the valves working and feeding fuel.     The speaker spluttered and Shano smoked thoughtfully, listening to thetalk back and forth, between the captain and the engineer. He didn'tunderstand it, but knew that everything was ended. They were brokendown in space and would never make Earth. Those Uranian devils wouldcome streaking back. Catch them floating, helpless, and blast them tobits. And he would never get home to die.     Shano coughed, and cursed his lungs. Time was when these gum-cloggedlungs had saved his life. In the Plutonian mines. Gas explosions in thetunnels. Toxia gas, seeping in, burning the men's insides. But withgum-clogged lungs he'd been able to work himself clear. Just gettingsick where other men had died, their insides burned out.     Shano smoked and thought.  They wouldn't even know, he told himself, squirming through theemergency exit into the engine room, and sealing it after him. And theywouldn't understand if they did. Pink mist swirled about him. Toxiagas. Shano coughed.     He squinted around at the massive, incomprehensible machinery. The gutsof the space ship.     Then he saw the shattered, gold-gleaming cylinder, gas hissing froma fine nozzle, and filaments glowing bluish inside it, still workingaway. He saw five heavy Carrsteel rods hanging useless, on melted-downpins, and the slots their pronged ends hooked into. He looked at hishands, and shook his head.     One try, he said to himself. One try, Shano. One important thing inyour life. Here's your opportunity. The toxia gas will get you. It'llkill you at this concentration. But you'll last for maybe twelve hours.Another man wouldn't last a minute. Another man's lungs aren't cloggedwith Juno gum.     He grasped a rod and lifted it, sweating under the weight, and slippedthe forked end into its slot. Going home to die, he thought. Well,maybe not going home. Couldn't remember what Earth looked like anyway.     What was that again? Oh yeah—just lift them up, and when they dropoff, lift them up again.     Shano coughed, and lifted the heavy rods into position. One jerked backsuddenly and smoothly, and something went, Pop, pop, behind him andmachinery whirred. He lifted the rod and slipped it back on. Anotherjerked, pulled open a large valve, and dropped off. Shano bent, andlifted, coughing and coughing. He forgot what he was doing, mind blankthe way it went when he worked. Just rhythmically fell into the job,the way a laborer does. He waited for a rod to slip and fall, thenlifted it up and slipped it in place, skin sweating, joints shootingpain along his limbs. He heard the machinery working. He heard thehigh, howling whine of cosmic jets. He, Shano, was making the machinerygo. He was running the cosmic drive.     A bell clanged somewhere. Engine room! Engine room! We're under way!What happened?     Silence, while Shano coughed and made the machinery go, thinking aboutthe Earth he hadn't seen for many years.     Captain! the speaker bawled. There's a man in there! Working thevalve rods! Somebody is in the engine room and the gas isn't....     Shano grinned, feeling good. Feeling happy. Lifting the heavy steelrods, driving the ship. Keeping the jets screaming and hurtling theliner      Stardust     toward Venus. He wondered if they'd found Rourke yet.If he could keep going for twelve hours they would get to Venus. Afterthat....     Home, he coughed. Hell! Who wants to go home?     He plucked at his agitated chest, thinking of a whole damn Uranianfleet swooping down on a spot in space, expecting to find a crippledship there with a spy inside it. And finding nothing. Because of Shano.A useless old man.     Coughing came out all mixed up with laughing.   ","The very first setting of the story is the Q City Spaceport. Many space liners come in and out, making the space very busy. The spaceport also features freighter catapults, long runaways, cradles, and hangars. Inside, there are also ticket scanners and turnstiles that the passengers go through before boarding the ship.The second and primary setting is the Stardust space liner. The space liner has an air lock that closes when the ship begins to fly. There is a control room with buttons and seats for the pilot to sit in as well. Although Shano is the only passenger on board, there are many cabins for the passengers to use. The cabin that Shano stays in also has a bunk to sleep on. Other basic parts include numerous steel decks and companionways. Later, the ship is revealed to have an engine room too, where the most crucial mechanical parts of the ship are. These parts are all advanced technology, including a new cosmic drive, selector valves (Carrsteel rods), and tube chambers to keep the filaments operating. These parts are essential to operate the jets of the liner and keep them running smoothly. "
"What is the plot of the story? </s>      THE FIRST MAN INTO SPACE     Cadet Marshall Farnsworth woke from anightmare of exploding novae and fouling rockets.After recovering from his fright, he laughed contemptuouslyat himself. “Here I was picked as themost stable of a group of two hundred cadets,” hethought, “and chosen to make man’s first trip intospace, yet I’m shaking like a leaf.”     He got out of bed and went over to the window.From his father’s temporary apartment, he couldsee distant Skyharbor, the scene of the plunge intospace tomorrow night. He had been awarded thefrightening honor of making that trip.   10    As he watched teardrop cars whip along Phoenix,Arizona’s, double-decked streets, elevated over oneanother to avoid dangerous intersections and delayingstop lights, he thought back over the years; tothe 1950’s, when mice and monkeys were sent upin Vikings to launch mankind’s first probing of themysterious space beyond Earth, and the first satelliteswere launched; to the 1960’s, when huger,multiple-stage rockets finally conquered the problemof escape velocity; to 1975—today—when manwas finally ready to send one of his own kind intothe uninhabited deeps.     Marsh climbed back into bed, but sleep wouldnot come.     In the adjoining room, he could hear the footstepsof mother and father. By their sound he knewthey were the footsteps of worried people. Thishurt Marsh more than his own uneasiness.     The anxiety had begun for them, he knew, whenhe had first signed up for space-cadet training. Theyhad known there was an extremely high percentageof washouts, and after each test he passed, they hadpretended to be glad. But Marsh knew that inwardlythey had hoped he would fail, for they wereaware of the ultimate goal that the space scientistswere working for—the goal that had just now beenreached.     Marsh finally fell into a troubled sleep that lasteduntil morning.     He woke early, before the alarm rang. He gotup, showered, pulled on his blue-corded cadet uniform,and tugged on the polished gray boots. Hetook one final look around his room as though infarewell, then went out to the kitchen.   11    His folks were up ahead of time too, trying toact as though it were just another day. Dad was pretendingto enjoy his morning paper, nodding onlycasually to Marsh as he came in. Mom was stirringscrambled eggs in the skillet, but she wasn’t a verygood actor, Marsh noticed, for she furtively wipedher eyes with her free hand.     The eggs were cooked too hard and the toast hadto be scraped, but no one seemed to care. The threeof them sat down at the table, still speaking inmonosyllables and of unimportant things. Theymade a pretense of eating.     “Well, Mom,” Dad suddenly said with a forcedjollity that was intended to break the tension, “theFarnsworth family has finally got a celebrity in it.”     “I don’t see why they don’t send an older man!”Mom burst out, as though she had been holding itin as long as she could. “Sending a boy who isn’teven twenty-two—”     “Things are different nowadays, Mom,” Dad explained,still with the assumed calmness thatmasked his real feelings. “These days, men growup faster and mature quicker. They’re stronger andmore alert than older men—” His voice trailed offas if he were unable to convince himself.     “      Some     body has to go,” Marsh said. “Why not ayounger man without family and responsibility?That’s why they’re giving younger men more opportunitiestoday than they used to.”     “It’s not younger men I’m talking about!” Momblurted. “It’s you, Marsh!”   12    Dad leaned over and patted Mom on the shoulder.“Now, Ruth, we promised not to get excitedthis morning.”     “I’m sorry,” Mom said weakly. “But Marsh is tooyoung to—” She caught herself and put her handover her mouth.     “Stop talking like that!” Dad said. “Marsh iscoming back. There’ve been thousands of rocketssent aloft. The space engineers have made sure thatevery bug has been ironed out before risking aman’s life. Why, that rocket which Marsh is goingup in is as safe as our auto in the garage, isn’t it,Marsh?”     “I hope so, Dad,” Marsh murmured.      Later, as Dad drove Marsh to the field, eachbrooded silently. Every scene along the way seemedto take on a new look for Marsh. He saw thingsthat he had never noticed before. It was an uncomfortablefeeling, almost as if he were seeing thesethings for the last as well as the first time.     Finally the airport came into view. The guardsat the gate recognized Marsh and ushered theFarnsworth car through ahead of scores of othersthat crowded the entrance. Some eager news photographersslipped up close and shot off flash bulbsin Marsh’s eyes.     Skyharbor, once a small commercial field, hadbeen taken over by the Air Force in recent yearsand converted into the largest rocket experimentalcenter in the United States.   13    Dad drove up to the building that would be thescene of Marsh’s first exhaustive tests and briefings.He stopped the car, and Marsh jumped out. Theirgood-by was brief. Marsh saw his father’s mouthquiver. There was a tightness in his own throat. Hehad gone through any number of grueling tests toprove that he could take the rigors of space, butnot one of them had prepared him for the hardestmoments of parting.     When Dad had driven off, Marsh reported firstto the psychiatrist who checked his condition.     “Pulse fast, a rise in blood pressure,” he said.“You’re excited, aren’t you, son?”     “Yes, sir,” Marsh admitted. “Maybe they’ve gotthe wrong man, sir. I might fail them.”     The doctor grinned. “They don’t have the wrongman,” he said. “They might have, with a so-callediron-nerved fellow. He could contain his tensionand fears until later, until maybe the moment ofblast-off. Then he’d let go, and when he needed hiscalmest judgment he wouldn’t have it. No, Marshall,there isn’t a man alive who could make thishistory-making flight without some anxiety. Forgetit. You’ll feel better as the day goes on. I’ll see youonce more before the blast-off.”     Marsh felt more at ease already. He went on tothe space surgeon, was given a complete physicalexamination, and was pronounced in perfect condition.Then began his review briefing on everythinghe would encounter during the flight.   14    Blast-off time was for 2230, an hour and a halfbefore midnight. Since at night, in the WesternHemisphere, Earth was masking the sun, the complicationsof excessive temperatures in the outerreaches were avoided during the time Marsh wouldbe outside the ship. Marsh would occupy the smallupper third section of a three-stage rocket. The firsttwo parts would be jettisoned after reaching theirpeak velocities. Top speed of the third stage wouldcarry Marsh into a perpetual-flight orbit aroundEarth, along the route that a permanent space stationwas to be built after the results of the flightwere studied. After spending a little while in thisorbit, Marsh would begin the precarious journeyback to Earth, in gliding flight.     He got a few hours of sleep after sunset. Whenan officer shook him, he rose from the cot he hadbeen lying on in a private room of General Forsythe,Chief of Space Operations.     “It’s almost time, son,” the officer said. “YourCO wants to see you in the outside office.”     Marsh went into the adjoining room and foundhis cadet chief awaiting him. The youth detected anunusual warmth about the severe gentleman whopreviously had shown only a firm, uncompromisingattitude. Colonel Tregasker was past middle age,and his white, sparse hair was smoothed down closeto his head in regulation neatness.   15    “Well, this is it, Marshall,” the colonel said.“How I envy you this honor of being the first humanto enter space. However, I do feel that a partof me is going along too, since I had a small sharein preparing you for the trip. If the training washarsh at times, I believe that shortly you willunderstand the reason for it.”     “I didn’t feel that the Colonel was either too softor strict, sir,” Marsh said diplomatically.     A speaker out on the brilliantly lit field blaredloudly in the cool desert night: “X minus fortyminutes.”     “We can’t talk all night, Marshall,” the colonelsaid briskly. “You’ve got a job to do. But first, a fewof your friends want to wish you luck.” He calledinto the anteroom, “You may come in, gentlemen!”     There filed smartly into the room ten youths whohad survived the hard prespace course with Marshand would be his successors in case he failed tonight.They formed a line and shook hands withMarsh. The first was Armen Norton who had gottensick in the rugged centrifuge at a force of 9 G’s,then had rallied to pass the test.     “Good luck, Marsh,” he said.     Next was lanky Lawrence Egan who had beencertain he would wash out during navigation phasein the planetarium. “All the luck in the world,Marsh,” he added.     Each cadet brought back a special memory of histraining as they passed before him, wishing himsuccess.   16    When they had gone and the speaker outsidehad announced: “X minus thirty minutes,” thecolonel said that he and Marsh had better be leaving.Colonel Tregasker was to be Marsh’s escort tothe ship.     Photographers and newspapermen swarmedabout them as they climbed into the jeep that wasto take them to the launching site farther out onthe field. Questions were flung at the two from allsides, but the colonel deftly maneuvered the jeepthrough the mob and sped off over the asphalt.     At the blast-off site, Marsh could see that thepolice had their hands full keeping out thousandsof spectators who were trying to get into the closed-offarea. The field was choked with a tide of humanitymilling about in wild confusion. Giant searchlights,both at the airport and in other parts ofPhoenix, directed spears of light on the toweringrocket that held the interest of all the world tonight.There was one light, far larger than the rest,with powerful condensing lenses and connected toa giant radar screen, which would guide Marshhome from his trip among the stars.     A high wire fence surrounded the launchingramp and blockhouses. International scientists anddignitaries with priorities formed a ring aroundthe fence, but even they were not allowed insidethe small circle of important activity. The guardswaved the colonel and Marsh through the gate.   17    Marsh had spent many weeks in a mock-up of thetiny third stage in which he was to spend his timealoft, but he had never been close to the completelyassembled ship until this moment. The three stageshad been nicknamed, “Tom,” “Dick,” and “Harry.”Marsh swallowed as his eyes roved up the side ofthe great vessel, part of a project that had cost millionsto perfect and was as high as a four-storybuilding.     The gigantic base, “Big Tom,” was the sectionthat would have the hardest job to do, that ofthrusting the rocket through the densest part of theatmosphere, and this was a great deal larger thanthe other sections. Marsh knew that most of theship’s bulk was made up of the propellant fuel ofhydrazine hydrate and its oxidizer, nitric acid.     “We’re going into that blockhouse over there,”Colonel Tregasker said. “You’ll don your space gearin there.”     First a multitude of gadgets with wires were fastenedto the cadet’s wrists, ankles, nose, and head.Marsh knew this to be one of the most importantphases of the flight—to find out a man’s reaction tospace flight under actual rocketing conditions. Eachwire would telemeter certain information by radioback to the airport. After a tight inner G suit hadbeen put on to prevent blackout, the plastic andrubber outer garment was zipped up around Marsh,and then he was ready except for his helmet, whichwould not be donned until later.   18    Marsh and the colonel went back outside. Theopen-cage elevator was lowered from the top of thebig latticed platform that surrounded the rocket.The two got into the cage, and it rose with them.Marsh had lost most of his anxiety and tensionduring the activities of the day, but his knees feltrubbery in these final moments as the elevator carriedhim high above the noisy confusion of the airport.      This was it.       As they stepped from the cage onto the platformof the third stage, Marsh heard the speaker belowcall out: “X minus twenty minutes.”     There were eleven engineers and workmen onthe platform readying the compartment that Marshwould occupy. Marsh suddenly felt helpless andalone as he faced the small chamber that mightvery well be his death cell. Its intricate dials andwires were staggering in their complexity.     Marsh turned and shook hands with Colonel Tregasker.“Good-by, sir,” he said in a quavering voice.“I hope I remember everything the Corps taughtme.” He tried to smile, but his facial musclestwitched uncontrollably.     “Good luck, son—lots of it,” the officer saidhuskily. Suddenly he leaned forward and embracedthe youth with a firm, fatherly hug. “This is notregulations,” he mumbled gruffly, “but hang regulations!”He turned quickly and asked to be carrieddown to the ground.     A man brought Marsh’s helmet and placed itover his head, then clamped it to the suit. Knobson the suit were twisted, and Marsh felt a warm,pressurized helium-oxygen mixture fill his suit andheadpiece.   19    Marsh stepped through the hatch into the smallcompartment. He reclined in the soft contourchair, and the straps were fastened by one of theengineers over his chest, waist, and legs. The wiresconnected to various parts of his body had beenbrought together into a single unit in the helmet.A wire cable leading from the panel was pluggedinto the outside of the helmet to complete the circuit.     Final tests were run off to make sure everythingwas in proper working order, including the two-wayshort-wave radio that would have to penetrate theelectrical ocean of the ionosphere. Then the double-hatchair lock was closed. Through his helmet receiver,Marsh could hear the final minutes and secondsbeing called off from inside the blockhouse.     “Everything O.K.?” Marsh was asked by someoneon the platform.     “Yes, sir,” Marsh replied.     “Then you’re on your own,” were the final ominouswords.     “X minus five minutes,” called the speaker.   20    It was the longest five minutes that Marsh couldremember. He was painfully aware of his crampedquarters. He thought of the tons of explosive beneathhim that presently would literally blow himsky-high. And he thought of the millions of peoplethe world over who, at this moment, were hoveringat radios and TV’s anxiously awaiting the dawn ofthe space age. Finally he thought of Dad and Mom,lost in that multitude of night watchers, and amongthe few who were not primarily concerned with thescientific aspect of the experiment. He wondered ifhe would ever see them again.     “X minus sixty seconds!”     Marsh knew that a warning flare was being sentup, to be followed by a whistle and a cloud ofsmoke from one of the blockhouses. As he felt feartrying to master him, he began reviewing all thethings he must remember and, above all, what todo in an emergency.     “X minus ten seconds—five—four—three—two—one—FIRE!”     There was a mighty explosion at Skyharbor.     The initial jolt which Marsh felt was much fiercerthan the gradually built up speed of the whirlingcentrifuge in training. He was crushed deeply intohis contour chair. It felt as though someone werepressing on his eyeballs; indeed, as if every organ inhis body were clinging to his backbone. But thesefirst moments would be the worst. A gauge showeda force of 7 G’s on him—equal to half a ton.     He watched the Mach numbers rise on the dialin front of his eyes on an overhead panel. EachMach number represented that much times thespeed of sound, 1,090 feet per second, 740 miles anhour.     Marsh knew “Big Tom” would blast for about aminute and a half under control of the automaticpilot, at which time it would drop free at an altitudeof twenty-five miles and sink Earthward in ametal mesh ’chute.   21    Marsh’s hurting eyes flicked to the outside temperaturegauge. It was on a steady 67 degrees belowzero Fahrenheit, and would be until he reachedtwenty miles. A reflecting prism gave him a squareof view of the sky outside. The clear deep blue ofthe cloud-free stratosphere met his eyes.     Mach 5, Mach 6, Mach 7 passed very quickly. Heheard a rumble and felt a jerk. “Big Tom” wasbreaking free. The first hurdle had been successfullyovercome, and the ship had already begun tiltinginto its trajectory.     There was a new surge of agony on his body asthe second stage picked up the acceleration at aforce of 7 G’s again. Marsh clamped his jaws as theforce pulled his lips back from his teeth anddragged his cheek muscles down. The Mach numberscontinued to rise—11, 12, 13—to altitude 200miles, the outer fringe of the earth’s atmosphere.There was a slight lifting of the pressure on hisbody. The rocket was still in the stratosphere, butthe sky was getting purple.     Mach 14—10,000 miles an hour.     “Dick” would jettison any moment. Marsh hadbeen aloft only about four minutes, but it hadseemed an age, every tortured second of it.   22    There was another rumble as the second stagebroke free. Marsh felt a new surge directly beneathhim as his own occupied section, “Harry,” beganblasting. It was comforting to realize he had successfullyweathered those tons of exploding hydrazineand acid that could have reduced him to nothingif something had gone wrong. Although hisspeed was still building up, the weight on himbegan to ease steadily as his body’s inertia finallyyielded to the sickeningly swift acceleration.     The speedometer needle climbed to Mach 21, thepeak velocity of the rocket, 16,000 miles per hour.His altitude was 350 miles—man’s highest ascent.Slowly then, the speedometer began to drop back.Marsh heard the turbo pumps and jets go silent asthe “lift” fuel was spent and rocket “Harry” beganits free-flight orbit around Earth.     The ship had reached a speed which exactlycounterbalanced the pull of gravity, and it could,theoretically, travel this way forever, provided noother outside force acted upon it. The effect onMarsh now was as if he had stopped moving. Relievedof the viselike pressure, his stomach andchest for a few seconds felt like inflated balloons.     “Cadet Farnsworth,” the voice of General Forsythespoke into his helmet receiver, “are you allright?”     “Yes, sir,” Marsh replied. “That is, I think so.”     It was good to hear a human voice again, somethingto hold onto in this crazy unreal world intowhich he had been hurtled.     “We’re getting the electronic readings from yourgauges O.K.,” the voice went on. “The doctor saysyour pulse is satisfactory under the circumstances.”     It was queer having your pulse read from 350miles up in the air.   23    Marsh realized, of course, that he was not trulyin the “air.” A glance at his air-pressure gauge confirmedthis. He was virtually in a vacuum. The temperatureand wind velocity outside might have astoundedhim if he were not prepared for the readings.The heat was over 2000 degrees Fahrenheit,and the wind velocity was of hurricane force! Butthese figures meant nothing because of the sparsenessof air molecules. Temperature and wind appliedonly to the individual particles, which werethousands of feet apart.     “How is your cosmic-ray count?” asked the general.     Marsh checked the C-ray counter on the panelfrom which clicking sounds were coming. “It’s low,sir. Nothing to worry about.”     Cosmic rays, the most powerful emanationsknown, were the only radiation in space that couldnot be protected against. But in small doses theyhad been found not to be dangerous.     “As soon as our recorders get more of the figuresyour telemeter is giving us,” the operations chiefsaid, “you can leave the rocket.”     When Marsh got the O.K. a few minutes later,he eagerly unstrapped the belts around his body.He could hardly contain his excitement at beingthe first person to view the globe of Earth fromspace. As he struggled to his feet, the lightness ofzero gravity made him momentarily giddy, and ittook some minutes for him to adjust to the terriblystrange sensation.   24    He had disconnected the cable leading from hishelmet to the ship’s transmitter and switched onthe ship’s fast-lens movie camera that would photographthe area covered by “Harry.” Then he wasready to go outside. He pressed a button on thewall, and the first air-lock hatch opened. He floatedinto the narrow alcove and closed the door in thecramped chamber behind him. He watched agauge, and when it showed normal pressure andtemperature again, he opened the outside hatch,closing it behind him. Had Marsh permitted thevacuum of space to contact the interior of theship’s quarters, delicate instruments would havebeen ruined by the sudden decompression and lossof heat. Marsh fastened his safety line to the shipso that there was no chance of his becoming separatedfrom it.     Then he looked “downward,” to experience thethrill of his life. Like a gigantic relief map, thepanorama of Earth stretched across his vision. Adowny blanket of gray atmosphere spread over thewhole of it, and patches of clouds were seen floatinglike phantom shapes beneath the clear vastnessof the stratosphere. It was a stunning sight forMarsh, seeing the pinpoint lights of the night citiesextending from horizon to horizon. It gave himan exhilarating feeling of being a king over it all.   25    Earth appeared to be rotating, but Marsh knewit was largely his own and the rocket’s fast speedthat was responsible for the illusion. As he hungin this region of the exosphere, he was thankful forhis cadet training in zero gravity. A special machine,developed only in recent years, simulatedthe weightlessness of space and trained the cadetsfor endurance in such artificial conditions.     “Describe some of the things you see, Marshall,”General Forsythe said over Marsh’s helmet receiver.“I’ve just cut in a recorder.”     “It’s a scene almost beyond description, sir,”Marsh said into the helmet mike. “The sky isthickly powdered with stars. The Milky Way is verydistinct, and I can make out lots of fuzzy spots thatmust be star clusters and nebulae and comets. Marsis like an extremely bright taillight, and the moonis so strong it hurts my eyes as much as the directsun does on earth.”     Marsh saw a faintly luminous blur pass beyondthe ship. It had been almost too sudden to catch.He believed it to be a meteor diving Earthward ata speed around forty-five miles a second. He reportedthis to the general.     As he brought his eyes down from the more distantfixtures of space to those closer by on Earth, astrange thing happened. He was suddenly seizedwith a fear of falling, although his zero-gravitytraining had been intended to prepare him againstthis very thing. A cold sweat come out over hisbody, and an uncontrollable panic threatened totake hold of him.   26    He made a sudden movement as though to catchhimself. Forgetting the magnification of motion infrictionless space and his own weightlessness, hewas shot quickly to the end of his safety line like acracked whip. His body jerked at the taut end andthen sped swiftly back in reaction toward the ship,head foremost. A collision could crack his helmet,exposing his body to decompression, causing himto swell like a balloon and finally explode.     In the grip of numbing fear, only at the last momentdid he have the presence of mind to fliphis body in a half-cartwheel and bring his boots upin front of him for protection. His feet bumpedagainst the rocket’s side, and the motion sent himhurtling back out to the end of the safety lineagain. This back-and-forth action occurred severaltimes before he could stop completely.     “I’ve got to be careful,” he panted to himself,as he thought of how close his space career hadcome to being ended scarcely before it had begun.     General Forsythe cut in with great concern, wonderingwhat had happened. When Marsh had explainedand the general seemed satisfied that Marshhad recovered himself, he had Marsh go on with hisdescription.     His senseless fear having gone now, Marsh lookeddown calmly, entranced as the features of theUnited States passed below his gaze. He named thecities he could identify, also the mountain ranges,lakes, and rivers, explaining just how they lookedfrom 350 miles up. In only a fraction of an hour’stime, the rocket had traversed the entire countryand was approaching the twinkling phosphorescenceof the Atlantic.   27    Marsh asked if “Tom” and “Dick” had landedsafely.     “‘Tom’ landed near Roswell, New Mexico,” GeneralForsythe told him, “and the ’chute of the secondsection has been reported seen north of Dallas.I think you’d better start back now, Marshall. It’lltake us many months to analyze all the informationwe’ve gotten. We can’t contact you very well on theother side of the world either, and thirdly, I don’twant you exposed to the sun’s rays outside theatmosphere in the Eastern Hemisphere any longerthan can be helped.”     Marsh tugged carefully on his safety line andfloated slowly back toward the ship. He enteredthe air lock. Then, inside, he raised the angle of hiscontour chair to upright position, facing the consoleof the ship’s manual controls for the glideEarthward. He plugged in his telemeter helmetcable and buckled one of the straps across his waist.     Since he was still moving at many thousands ofmiles an hour, it would be suicide to plungestraight downward. He and the glider would beturned into a meteoric torch. Rather, he wouldhave to spend considerable time soaring in and outof the atmosphere in braking ellipses until hereached much lower speed. Then the Earth’s gravitationalpull would do the rest.   28    This was going to be the trickiest part of the operation,and the most dangerous. Where before,Marsh had depended on automatic controls toguide him, now much of the responsibility was onhis own judgment. He remembered the manyhours he had sweated through to log his flyingtime. Now he could look back on that period in histraining and thank his lucky stars for it.     He took the manual controls and angled into theatmosphere. He carefully watched the AHF dial—theatmospheric heat friction gauge. When he hadneared the dangerous incendiary point, with theship having literally become red-hot, he soared intothe frictionless vacuum again. He had to keep thisup a long time in order to reduce his devastatingspeed.     It was something of a shock to him to leave theblack midnight of Earth’s slumbering side for thebrilliant hemisphere where the people of Europeand Asia were going about their daytime tasks. Hewould have liked to study this other half of theworld which he had glimpsed only a few times beforein his supersonic test flights, but he knew thiswould have to wait for future flights.     Finally, after a long time, his velocity was slowedenough so that the tug of gravity was stronger thanthe rocket’s ability to pull up out of the atmosphere.At this point, Marsh cut in “Harry’s” forwardbraking jets to check his falling speed.     “There’s something else to worry about,” hethought to himself. “Will old Harry hold togetheror will he fly apart in the crushing atmosphere?”   29    The directional radio signals from the powerfulSkyharbor transmitter were growing stronger asMarsh neared the shores of California. He couldsee the winking lights of San Diego and LosAngeles, and farther inland the swinging threadthat was the beacon at Skyharbor. All planes in hispath of flight had been grounded for the past fewhours because of the space flight. The only groundlight scanning the skies was the gigantic space beaconin Phoenix.     When Marsh reached Arizona, he began spiralingdownward over the state to kill the rest of hisaltitude and air speed. Even now the plane was ahurtling supersonic metal sliver streaking throughthe night skies like a comet. He topped the snow-cappedsummits of the towering San FranciscoPeaks on the drive southward, and he recognizedthe sprawling serpent of the Grand Canyon. Thenhe was in the lower desert regions of moon-splashedsand and cactus. Although the fire-hot temperatureof the outer skin had subsided, there had been damagedone to the walls and instruments, and possiblyto other parts, too. Marsh was worried lest his outsidecontrols might be too warped to give him agood touchdown, if indeed he could get down safelyat all.     A few thousand feet up, Marsh lowered his landinggear. Now the only problem left was to landhimself and the valuable ship safely inside the narrowparallels of the airstrip. He circled the airportseveral times as his altitude continued to plummet.   30    The meter fell rapidly. His braking rocket fuelwas gone now. From here on in, he would be ongliding power alone.     “Easy does it, Marshall,” the general said quietlyinto his ear. “You’re lining up fine. Level it out alittle and keep straight with the approach lights.That’s fine. You’re just about in.”     The lights of the airport seeming to rush up athim, Marsh felt a jolt as the wheels touched groundon the west end of the runway. He kept the shipsteady as it scurried along the smooth asphalt, losingthe last of its once tremendous velocity. Theplane hit the restraining wire across the strip andcame to a sudden stop, shoving Marsh hard againstthe single safety belt he wore. Finally, incredibly,the ship was still and he was safe.     He unfastened his strap and removed his spacehelmet. The heat of the compartment brought thesweat out on his face. He rose on wobbly legs andpressed the buttons to the hatches. The last doorflew open to admit the cool, bracing air of Earthwhich he had wondered if he would ever inhaleagain.     His aloneness was over then, suddenly and boisterously,as men swarmed over him with congratulations,eager questions, and looks of respect. Reporters’flash bulbs popped, and he felt like a newLindbergh as he was pulled down to the groundand mobbed. Finally the police came to his rescueand pushed back the curiosity seekers and newspapermen.Then only three men were allowedthrough the cordon.  ","Cadet Marshall Farnsworth wakes up at night, frightened by the sound of rockets. He looks in the window and thinks about his upcoming trip to space, as a first man, reflecting upon the history of mankind and space interaction. The next morning he has a short but difficult talk with his anxious parents. Marsh's dad takes him to the Skyharbor, the young man feels uneasy. Then he goes through a check up at psychiatrist's and space surgeon's, revises the route, and takes a nap. Then his Colonel gives him a brief speech, and his cadet friends wish him luck. Thousands of spectators and reporters try to see Marsh on his way to the rocket. Various gadgets are put on Marsh, he rises to the platform, says warm goodbye to the Colonel, and puts the helmet on. Inside the ship Marsh is fastened and final tests take place before he is left alone with his nerves. The last five minutes are long, Marsh thinks about his planet and parents, and then the ship sets off. Minutes seem an eternity, the first phase is behind, and upon reaching the peak velocity the speed starts to drop back. The free-flight orbit is reached and Marsh hears General Forsythe's earthly and calming voice. All the indicators are good and Marsh gets excited to be the first one to leave the rocket and look at the globe from space. He takes all the precautions and the first glance ""downward"" makes him feel like the king of the universe. Suddenly, he feels like he is falling and makes a forbidden movement, which leads to him bouncing from and back to the rocket a couple times, when he has to try hard to stop. When he calms down after the fright, he starts describing what he sees. General orders Marsh to go back and he returns to his cabin. The hardest part begins, as the speed of the ship is high and needs to be reduced. When Marsh succeeds in doing so, the ship heads back to Earth. Marsh has to make a couple spirals and near the airport the braking fuel is gone. Eventually, he manages to exit and breathe the air of Earth and is attacked by the reporters, until he is left with only three men. "
"How do Marsh's emotions change throughout the story? </s>      THE FIRST MAN INTO SPACE     Cadet Marshall Farnsworth woke from anightmare of exploding novae and fouling rockets.After recovering from his fright, he laughed contemptuouslyat himself. “Here I was picked as themost stable of a group of two hundred cadets,” hethought, “and chosen to make man’s first trip intospace, yet I’m shaking like a leaf.”     He got out of bed and went over to the window.From his father’s temporary apartment, he couldsee distant Skyharbor, the scene of the plunge intospace tomorrow night. He had been awarded thefrightening honor of making that trip.   10    As he watched teardrop cars whip along Phoenix,Arizona’s, double-decked streets, elevated over oneanother to avoid dangerous intersections and delayingstop lights, he thought back over the years; tothe 1950’s, when mice and monkeys were sent upin Vikings to launch mankind’s first probing of themysterious space beyond Earth, and the first satelliteswere launched; to the 1960’s, when huger,multiple-stage rockets finally conquered the problemof escape velocity; to 1975—today—when manwas finally ready to send one of his own kind intothe uninhabited deeps.     Marsh climbed back into bed, but sleep wouldnot come.     In the adjoining room, he could hear the footstepsof mother and father. By their sound he knewthey were the footsteps of worried people. Thishurt Marsh more than his own uneasiness.     The anxiety had begun for them, he knew, whenhe had first signed up for space-cadet training. Theyhad known there was an extremely high percentageof washouts, and after each test he passed, they hadpretended to be glad. But Marsh knew that inwardlythey had hoped he would fail, for they wereaware of the ultimate goal that the space scientistswere working for—the goal that had just now beenreached.     Marsh finally fell into a troubled sleep that lasteduntil morning.     He woke early, before the alarm rang. He gotup, showered, pulled on his blue-corded cadet uniform,and tugged on the polished gray boots. Hetook one final look around his room as though infarewell, then went out to the kitchen.   11    His folks were up ahead of time too, trying toact as though it were just another day. Dad was pretendingto enjoy his morning paper, nodding onlycasually to Marsh as he came in. Mom was stirringscrambled eggs in the skillet, but she wasn’t a verygood actor, Marsh noticed, for she furtively wipedher eyes with her free hand.     The eggs were cooked too hard and the toast hadto be scraped, but no one seemed to care. The threeof them sat down at the table, still speaking inmonosyllables and of unimportant things. Theymade a pretense of eating.     “Well, Mom,” Dad suddenly said with a forcedjollity that was intended to break the tension, “theFarnsworth family has finally got a celebrity in it.”     “I don’t see why they don’t send an older man!”Mom burst out, as though she had been holding itin as long as she could. “Sending a boy who isn’teven twenty-two—”     “Things are different nowadays, Mom,” Dad explained,still with the assumed calmness thatmasked his real feelings. “These days, men growup faster and mature quicker. They’re stronger andmore alert than older men—” His voice trailed offas if he were unable to convince himself.     “      Some     body has to go,” Marsh said. “Why not ayounger man without family and responsibility?That’s why they’re giving younger men more opportunitiestoday than they used to.”     “It’s not younger men I’m talking about!” Momblurted. “It’s you, Marsh!”   12    Dad leaned over and patted Mom on the shoulder.“Now, Ruth, we promised not to get excitedthis morning.”     “I’m sorry,” Mom said weakly. “But Marsh is tooyoung to—” She caught herself and put her handover her mouth.     “Stop talking like that!” Dad said. “Marsh iscoming back. There’ve been thousands of rocketssent aloft. The space engineers have made sure thatevery bug has been ironed out before risking aman’s life. Why, that rocket which Marsh is goingup in is as safe as our auto in the garage, isn’t it,Marsh?”     “I hope so, Dad,” Marsh murmured.      Later, as Dad drove Marsh to the field, eachbrooded silently. Every scene along the way seemedto take on a new look for Marsh. He saw thingsthat he had never noticed before. It was an uncomfortablefeeling, almost as if he were seeing thesethings for the last as well as the first time.     Finally the airport came into view. The guardsat the gate recognized Marsh and ushered theFarnsworth car through ahead of scores of othersthat crowded the entrance. Some eager news photographersslipped up close and shot off flash bulbsin Marsh’s eyes.     Skyharbor, once a small commercial field, hadbeen taken over by the Air Force in recent yearsand converted into the largest rocket experimentalcenter in the United States.   13    Dad drove up to the building that would be thescene of Marsh’s first exhaustive tests and briefings.He stopped the car, and Marsh jumped out. Theirgood-by was brief. Marsh saw his father’s mouthquiver. There was a tightness in his own throat. Hehad gone through any number of grueling tests toprove that he could take the rigors of space, butnot one of them had prepared him for the hardestmoments of parting.     When Dad had driven off, Marsh reported firstto the psychiatrist who checked his condition.     “Pulse fast, a rise in blood pressure,” he said.“You’re excited, aren’t you, son?”     “Yes, sir,” Marsh admitted. “Maybe they’ve gotthe wrong man, sir. I might fail them.”     The doctor grinned. “They don’t have the wrongman,” he said. “They might have, with a so-callediron-nerved fellow. He could contain his tensionand fears until later, until maybe the moment ofblast-off. Then he’d let go, and when he needed hiscalmest judgment he wouldn’t have it. No, Marshall,there isn’t a man alive who could make thishistory-making flight without some anxiety. Forgetit. You’ll feel better as the day goes on. I’ll see youonce more before the blast-off.”     Marsh felt more at ease already. He went on tothe space surgeon, was given a complete physicalexamination, and was pronounced in perfect condition.Then began his review briefing on everythinghe would encounter during the flight.   14    Blast-off time was for 2230, an hour and a halfbefore midnight. Since at night, in the WesternHemisphere, Earth was masking the sun, the complicationsof excessive temperatures in the outerreaches were avoided during the time Marsh wouldbe outside the ship. Marsh would occupy the smallupper third section of a three-stage rocket. The firsttwo parts would be jettisoned after reaching theirpeak velocities. Top speed of the third stage wouldcarry Marsh into a perpetual-flight orbit aroundEarth, along the route that a permanent space stationwas to be built after the results of the flightwere studied. After spending a little while in thisorbit, Marsh would begin the precarious journeyback to Earth, in gliding flight.     He got a few hours of sleep after sunset. Whenan officer shook him, he rose from the cot he hadbeen lying on in a private room of General Forsythe,Chief of Space Operations.     “It’s almost time, son,” the officer said. “YourCO wants to see you in the outside office.”     Marsh went into the adjoining room and foundhis cadet chief awaiting him. The youth detected anunusual warmth about the severe gentleman whopreviously had shown only a firm, uncompromisingattitude. Colonel Tregasker was past middle age,and his white, sparse hair was smoothed down closeto his head in regulation neatness.   15    “Well, this is it, Marshall,” the colonel said.“How I envy you this honor of being the first humanto enter space. However, I do feel that a partof me is going along too, since I had a small sharein preparing you for the trip. If the training washarsh at times, I believe that shortly you willunderstand the reason for it.”     “I didn’t feel that the Colonel was either too softor strict, sir,” Marsh said diplomatically.     A speaker out on the brilliantly lit field blaredloudly in the cool desert night: “X minus fortyminutes.”     “We can’t talk all night, Marshall,” the colonelsaid briskly. “You’ve got a job to do. But first, a fewof your friends want to wish you luck.” He calledinto the anteroom, “You may come in, gentlemen!”     There filed smartly into the room ten youths whohad survived the hard prespace course with Marshand would be his successors in case he failed tonight.They formed a line and shook hands withMarsh. The first was Armen Norton who had gottensick in the rugged centrifuge at a force of 9 G’s,then had rallied to pass the test.     “Good luck, Marsh,” he said.     Next was lanky Lawrence Egan who had beencertain he would wash out during navigation phasein the planetarium. “All the luck in the world,Marsh,” he added.     Each cadet brought back a special memory of histraining as they passed before him, wishing himsuccess.   16    When they had gone and the speaker outsidehad announced: “X minus thirty minutes,” thecolonel said that he and Marsh had better be leaving.Colonel Tregasker was to be Marsh’s escort tothe ship.     Photographers and newspapermen swarmedabout them as they climbed into the jeep that wasto take them to the launching site farther out onthe field. Questions were flung at the two from allsides, but the colonel deftly maneuvered the jeepthrough the mob and sped off over the asphalt.     At the blast-off site, Marsh could see that thepolice had their hands full keeping out thousandsof spectators who were trying to get into the closed-offarea. The field was choked with a tide of humanitymilling about in wild confusion. Giant searchlights,both at the airport and in other parts ofPhoenix, directed spears of light on the toweringrocket that held the interest of all the world tonight.There was one light, far larger than the rest,with powerful condensing lenses and connected toa giant radar screen, which would guide Marshhome from his trip among the stars.     A high wire fence surrounded the launchingramp and blockhouses. International scientists anddignitaries with priorities formed a ring aroundthe fence, but even they were not allowed insidethe small circle of important activity. The guardswaved the colonel and Marsh through the gate.   17    Marsh had spent many weeks in a mock-up of thetiny third stage in which he was to spend his timealoft, but he had never been close to the completelyassembled ship until this moment. The three stageshad been nicknamed, “Tom,” “Dick,” and “Harry.”Marsh swallowed as his eyes roved up the side ofthe great vessel, part of a project that had cost millionsto perfect and was as high as a four-storybuilding.     The gigantic base, “Big Tom,” was the sectionthat would have the hardest job to do, that ofthrusting the rocket through the densest part of theatmosphere, and this was a great deal larger thanthe other sections. Marsh knew that most of theship’s bulk was made up of the propellant fuel ofhydrazine hydrate and its oxidizer, nitric acid.     “We’re going into that blockhouse over there,”Colonel Tregasker said. “You’ll don your space gearin there.”     First a multitude of gadgets with wires were fastenedto the cadet’s wrists, ankles, nose, and head.Marsh knew this to be one of the most importantphases of the flight—to find out a man’s reaction tospace flight under actual rocketing conditions. Eachwire would telemeter certain information by radioback to the airport. After a tight inner G suit hadbeen put on to prevent blackout, the plastic andrubber outer garment was zipped up around Marsh,and then he was ready except for his helmet, whichwould not be donned until later.   18    Marsh and the colonel went back outside. Theopen-cage elevator was lowered from the top of thebig latticed platform that surrounded the rocket.The two got into the cage, and it rose with them.Marsh had lost most of his anxiety and tensionduring the activities of the day, but his knees feltrubbery in these final moments as the elevator carriedhim high above the noisy confusion of the airport.      This was it.       As they stepped from the cage onto the platformof the third stage, Marsh heard the speaker belowcall out: “X minus twenty minutes.”     There were eleven engineers and workmen onthe platform readying the compartment that Marshwould occupy. Marsh suddenly felt helpless andalone as he faced the small chamber that mightvery well be his death cell. Its intricate dials andwires were staggering in their complexity.     Marsh turned and shook hands with Colonel Tregasker.“Good-by, sir,” he said in a quavering voice.“I hope I remember everything the Corps taughtme.” He tried to smile, but his facial musclestwitched uncontrollably.     “Good luck, son—lots of it,” the officer saidhuskily. Suddenly he leaned forward and embracedthe youth with a firm, fatherly hug. “This is notregulations,” he mumbled gruffly, “but hang regulations!”He turned quickly and asked to be carrieddown to the ground.     A man brought Marsh’s helmet and placed itover his head, then clamped it to the suit. Knobson the suit were twisted, and Marsh felt a warm,pressurized helium-oxygen mixture fill his suit andheadpiece.   19    Marsh stepped through the hatch into the smallcompartment. He reclined in the soft contourchair, and the straps were fastened by one of theengineers over his chest, waist, and legs. The wiresconnected to various parts of his body had beenbrought together into a single unit in the helmet.A wire cable leading from the panel was pluggedinto the outside of the helmet to complete the circuit.     Final tests were run off to make sure everythingwas in proper working order, including the two-wayshort-wave radio that would have to penetrate theelectrical ocean of the ionosphere. Then the double-hatchair lock was closed. Through his helmet receiver,Marsh could hear the final minutes and secondsbeing called off from inside the blockhouse.     “Everything O.K.?” Marsh was asked by someoneon the platform.     “Yes, sir,” Marsh replied.     “Then you’re on your own,” were the final ominouswords.     “X minus five minutes,” called the speaker.   20    It was the longest five minutes that Marsh couldremember. He was painfully aware of his crampedquarters. He thought of the tons of explosive beneathhim that presently would literally blow himsky-high. And he thought of the millions of peoplethe world over who, at this moment, were hoveringat radios and TV’s anxiously awaiting the dawn ofthe space age. Finally he thought of Dad and Mom,lost in that multitude of night watchers, and amongthe few who were not primarily concerned with thescientific aspect of the experiment. He wondered ifhe would ever see them again.     “X minus sixty seconds!”     Marsh knew that a warning flare was being sentup, to be followed by a whistle and a cloud ofsmoke from one of the blockhouses. As he felt feartrying to master him, he began reviewing all thethings he must remember and, above all, what todo in an emergency.     “X minus ten seconds—five—four—three—two—one—FIRE!”     There was a mighty explosion at Skyharbor.     The initial jolt which Marsh felt was much fiercerthan the gradually built up speed of the whirlingcentrifuge in training. He was crushed deeply intohis contour chair. It felt as though someone werepressing on his eyeballs; indeed, as if every organ inhis body were clinging to his backbone. But thesefirst moments would be the worst. A gauge showeda force of 7 G’s on him—equal to half a ton.     He watched the Mach numbers rise on the dialin front of his eyes on an overhead panel. EachMach number represented that much times thespeed of sound, 1,090 feet per second, 740 miles anhour.     Marsh knew “Big Tom” would blast for about aminute and a half under control of the automaticpilot, at which time it would drop free at an altitudeof twenty-five miles and sink Earthward in ametal mesh ’chute.   21    Marsh’s hurting eyes flicked to the outside temperaturegauge. It was on a steady 67 degrees belowzero Fahrenheit, and would be until he reachedtwenty miles. A reflecting prism gave him a squareof view of the sky outside. The clear deep blue ofthe cloud-free stratosphere met his eyes.     Mach 5, Mach 6, Mach 7 passed very quickly. Heheard a rumble and felt a jerk. “Big Tom” wasbreaking free. The first hurdle had been successfullyovercome, and the ship had already begun tiltinginto its trajectory.     There was a new surge of agony on his body asthe second stage picked up the acceleration at aforce of 7 G’s again. Marsh clamped his jaws as theforce pulled his lips back from his teeth anddragged his cheek muscles down. The Mach numberscontinued to rise—11, 12, 13—to altitude 200miles, the outer fringe of the earth’s atmosphere.There was a slight lifting of the pressure on hisbody. The rocket was still in the stratosphere, butthe sky was getting purple.     Mach 14—10,000 miles an hour.     “Dick” would jettison any moment. Marsh hadbeen aloft only about four minutes, but it hadseemed an age, every tortured second of it.   22    There was another rumble as the second stagebroke free. Marsh felt a new surge directly beneathhim as his own occupied section, “Harry,” beganblasting. It was comforting to realize he had successfullyweathered those tons of exploding hydrazineand acid that could have reduced him to nothingif something had gone wrong. Although hisspeed was still building up, the weight on himbegan to ease steadily as his body’s inertia finallyyielded to the sickeningly swift acceleration.     The speedometer needle climbed to Mach 21, thepeak velocity of the rocket, 16,000 miles per hour.His altitude was 350 miles—man’s highest ascent.Slowly then, the speedometer began to drop back.Marsh heard the turbo pumps and jets go silent asthe “lift” fuel was spent and rocket “Harry” beganits free-flight orbit around Earth.     The ship had reached a speed which exactlycounterbalanced the pull of gravity, and it could,theoretically, travel this way forever, provided noother outside force acted upon it. The effect onMarsh now was as if he had stopped moving. Relievedof the viselike pressure, his stomach andchest for a few seconds felt like inflated balloons.     “Cadet Farnsworth,” the voice of General Forsythespoke into his helmet receiver, “are you allright?”     “Yes, sir,” Marsh replied. “That is, I think so.”     It was good to hear a human voice again, somethingto hold onto in this crazy unreal world intowhich he had been hurtled.     “We’re getting the electronic readings from yourgauges O.K.,” the voice went on. “The doctor saysyour pulse is satisfactory under the circumstances.”     It was queer having your pulse read from 350miles up in the air.   23    Marsh realized, of course, that he was not trulyin the “air.” A glance at his air-pressure gauge confirmedthis. He was virtually in a vacuum. The temperatureand wind velocity outside might have astoundedhim if he were not prepared for the readings.The heat was over 2000 degrees Fahrenheit,and the wind velocity was of hurricane force! Butthese figures meant nothing because of the sparsenessof air molecules. Temperature and wind appliedonly to the individual particles, which werethousands of feet apart.     “How is your cosmic-ray count?” asked the general.     Marsh checked the C-ray counter on the panelfrom which clicking sounds were coming. “It’s low,sir. Nothing to worry about.”     Cosmic rays, the most powerful emanationsknown, were the only radiation in space that couldnot be protected against. But in small doses theyhad been found not to be dangerous.     “As soon as our recorders get more of the figuresyour telemeter is giving us,” the operations chiefsaid, “you can leave the rocket.”     When Marsh got the O.K. a few minutes later,he eagerly unstrapped the belts around his body.He could hardly contain his excitement at beingthe first person to view the globe of Earth fromspace. As he struggled to his feet, the lightness ofzero gravity made him momentarily giddy, and ittook some minutes for him to adjust to the terriblystrange sensation.   24    He had disconnected the cable leading from hishelmet to the ship’s transmitter and switched onthe ship’s fast-lens movie camera that would photographthe area covered by “Harry.” Then he wasready to go outside. He pressed a button on thewall, and the first air-lock hatch opened. He floatedinto the narrow alcove and closed the door in thecramped chamber behind him. He watched agauge, and when it showed normal pressure andtemperature again, he opened the outside hatch,closing it behind him. Had Marsh permitted thevacuum of space to contact the interior of theship’s quarters, delicate instruments would havebeen ruined by the sudden decompression and lossof heat. Marsh fastened his safety line to the shipso that there was no chance of his becoming separatedfrom it.     Then he looked “downward,” to experience thethrill of his life. Like a gigantic relief map, thepanorama of Earth stretched across his vision. Adowny blanket of gray atmosphere spread over thewhole of it, and patches of clouds were seen floatinglike phantom shapes beneath the clear vastnessof the stratosphere. It was a stunning sight forMarsh, seeing the pinpoint lights of the night citiesextending from horizon to horizon. It gave himan exhilarating feeling of being a king over it all.   25    Earth appeared to be rotating, but Marsh knewit was largely his own and the rocket’s fast speedthat was responsible for the illusion. As he hungin this region of the exosphere, he was thankful forhis cadet training in zero gravity. A special machine,developed only in recent years, simulatedthe weightlessness of space and trained the cadetsfor endurance in such artificial conditions.     “Describe some of the things you see, Marshall,”General Forsythe said over Marsh’s helmet receiver.“I’ve just cut in a recorder.”     “It’s a scene almost beyond description, sir,”Marsh said into the helmet mike. “The sky isthickly powdered with stars. The Milky Way is verydistinct, and I can make out lots of fuzzy spots thatmust be star clusters and nebulae and comets. Marsis like an extremely bright taillight, and the moonis so strong it hurts my eyes as much as the directsun does on earth.”     Marsh saw a faintly luminous blur pass beyondthe ship. It had been almost too sudden to catch.He believed it to be a meteor diving Earthward ata speed around forty-five miles a second. He reportedthis to the general.     As he brought his eyes down from the more distantfixtures of space to those closer by on Earth, astrange thing happened. He was suddenly seizedwith a fear of falling, although his zero-gravitytraining had been intended to prepare him againstthis very thing. A cold sweat come out over hisbody, and an uncontrollable panic threatened totake hold of him.   26    He made a sudden movement as though to catchhimself. Forgetting the magnification of motion infrictionless space and his own weightlessness, hewas shot quickly to the end of his safety line like acracked whip. His body jerked at the taut end andthen sped swiftly back in reaction toward the ship,head foremost. A collision could crack his helmet,exposing his body to decompression, causing himto swell like a balloon and finally explode.     In the grip of numbing fear, only at the last momentdid he have the presence of mind to fliphis body in a half-cartwheel and bring his boots upin front of him for protection. His feet bumpedagainst the rocket’s side, and the motion sent himhurtling back out to the end of the safety lineagain. This back-and-forth action occurred severaltimes before he could stop completely.     “I’ve got to be careful,” he panted to himself,as he thought of how close his space career hadcome to being ended scarcely before it had begun.     General Forsythe cut in with great concern, wonderingwhat had happened. When Marsh had explainedand the general seemed satisfied that Marshhad recovered himself, he had Marsh go on with hisdescription.     His senseless fear having gone now, Marsh lookeddown calmly, entranced as the features of theUnited States passed below his gaze. He named thecities he could identify, also the mountain ranges,lakes, and rivers, explaining just how they lookedfrom 350 miles up. In only a fraction of an hour’stime, the rocket had traversed the entire countryand was approaching the twinkling phosphorescenceof the Atlantic.   27    Marsh asked if “Tom” and “Dick” had landedsafely.     “‘Tom’ landed near Roswell, New Mexico,” GeneralForsythe told him, “and the ’chute of the secondsection has been reported seen north of Dallas.I think you’d better start back now, Marshall. It’lltake us many months to analyze all the informationwe’ve gotten. We can’t contact you very well on theother side of the world either, and thirdly, I don’twant you exposed to the sun’s rays outside theatmosphere in the Eastern Hemisphere any longerthan can be helped.”     Marsh tugged carefully on his safety line andfloated slowly back toward the ship. He enteredthe air lock. Then, inside, he raised the angle of hiscontour chair to upright position, facing the consoleof the ship’s manual controls for the glideEarthward. He plugged in his telemeter helmetcable and buckled one of the straps across his waist.     Since he was still moving at many thousands ofmiles an hour, it would be suicide to plungestraight downward. He and the glider would beturned into a meteoric torch. Rather, he wouldhave to spend considerable time soaring in and outof the atmosphere in braking ellipses until hereached much lower speed. Then the Earth’s gravitationalpull would do the rest.   28    This was going to be the trickiest part of the operation,and the most dangerous. Where before,Marsh had depended on automatic controls toguide him, now much of the responsibility was onhis own judgment. He remembered the manyhours he had sweated through to log his flyingtime. Now he could look back on that period in histraining and thank his lucky stars for it.     He took the manual controls and angled into theatmosphere. He carefully watched the AHF dial—theatmospheric heat friction gauge. When he hadneared the dangerous incendiary point, with theship having literally become red-hot, he soared intothe frictionless vacuum again. He had to keep thisup a long time in order to reduce his devastatingspeed.     It was something of a shock to him to leave theblack midnight of Earth’s slumbering side for thebrilliant hemisphere where the people of Europeand Asia were going about their daytime tasks. Hewould have liked to study this other half of theworld which he had glimpsed only a few times beforein his supersonic test flights, but he knew thiswould have to wait for future flights.     Finally, after a long time, his velocity was slowedenough so that the tug of gravity was stronger thanthe rocket’s ability to pull up out of the atmosphere.At this point, Marsh cut in “Harry’s” forwardbraking jets to check his falling speed.     “There’s something else to worry about,” hethought to himself. “Will old Harry hold togetheror will he fly apart in the crushing atmosphere?”   29    The directional radio signals from the powerfulSkyharbor transmitter were growing stronger asMarsh neared the shores of California. He couldsee the winking lights of San Diego and LosAngeles, and farther inland the swinging threadthat was the beacon at Skyharbor. All planes in hispath of flight had been grounded for the past fewhours because of the space flight. The only groundlight scanning the skies was the gigantic space beaconin Phoenix.     When Marsh reached Arizona, he began spiralingdownward over the state to kill the rest of hisaltitude and air speed. Even now the plane was ahurtling supersonic metal sliver streaking throughthe night skies like a comet. He topped the snow-cappedsummits of the towering San FranciscoPeaks on the drive southward, and he recognizedthe sprawling serpent of the Grand Canyon. Thenhe was in the lower desert regions of moon-splashedsand and cactus. Although the fire-hot temperatureof the outer skin had subsided, there had been damagedone to the walls and instruments, and possiblyto other parts, too. Marsh was worried lest his outsidecontrols might be too warped to give him agood touchdown, if indeed he could get down safelyat all.     A few thousand feet up, Marsh lowered his landinggear. Now the only problem left was to landhimself and the valuable ship safely inside the narrowparallels of the airstrip. He circled the airportseveral times as his altitude continued to plummet.   30    The meter fell rapidly. His braking rocket fuelwas gone now. From here on in, he would be ongliding power alone.     “Easy does it, Marshall,” the general said quietlyinto his ear. “You’re lining up fine. Level it out alittle and keep straight with the approach lights.That’s fine. You’re just about in.”     The lights of the airport seeming to rush up athim, Marsh felt a jolt as the wheels touched groundon the west end of the runway. He kept the shipsteady as it scurried along the smooth asphalt, losingthe last of its once tremendous velocity. Theplane hit the restraining wire across the strip andcame to a sudden stop, shoving Marsh hard againstthe single safety belt he wore. Finally, incredibly,the ship was still and he was safe.     He unfastened his strap and removed his spacehelmet. The heat of the compartment brought thesweat out on his face. He rose on wobbly legs andpressed the buttons to the hatches. The last doorflew open to admit the cool, bracing air of Earthwhich he had wondered if he would ever inhaleagain.     His aloneness was over then, suddenly and boisterously,as men swarmed over him with congratulations,eager questions, and looks of respect. Reporters’flash bulbs popped, and he felt like a newLindbergh as he was pulled down to the groundand mobbed. Finally the police came to his rescueand pushed back the curiosity seekers and newspapermen.Then only three men were allowedthrough the cordon.  ","During his last night on Earth, Marsh appears to be tense and scared, blaming himself for not being as strong as he wishes to be. He also feels the anxiety of his parents and is sad to see them like that. All the day before the trip, Marsh looks at everything around as if it is the last time he sees it. He feels unprepared and uneasy about parting. At the same time, he is excited, and his pulse goes up, which makes him feel unworthy of the honor. Then Marsh eases a little and even takes a nap. The atmosphere of goodbyes with his team is warm and full of good memories. When Marsh is left alone in the cabin, he becomes scared and thinks about the spectators and his parents, wondering if he sees his home ever again The countdown adds to his anxiety and the last seconds before departure seem an eternity. Marsh tries to concentrate and distract himself from the thoughts. The voice of the general brings ease and seeing how well things go, Marsh gets excited. He feels proud and extremely impressed with the view, forgetting about caution. Suddenly he is afraid to fall and makes a wrong move, which scares him a lot. Calming down after that, Marsh is able to manage himself and complete the mission. When he gets back to Earth he is full of disbelief that he made it, and he is extremely happy to smell the air of home. "
"What is the impact of the first flight on all the characters in the story? </s>      THE FIRST MAN INTO SPACE     Cadet Marshall Farnsworth woke from anightmare of exploding novae and fouling rockets.After recovering from his fright, he laughed contemptuouslyat himself. “Here I was picked as themost stable of a group of two hundred cadets,” hethought, “and chosen to make man’s first trip intospace, yet I’m shaking like a leaf.”     He got out of bed and went over to the window.From his father’s temporary apartment, he couldsee distant Skyharbor, the scene of the plunge intospace tomorrow night. He had been awarded thefrightening honor of making that trip.   10    As he watched teardrop cars whip along Phoenix,Arizona’s, double-decked streets, elevated over oneanother to avoid dangerous intersections and delayingstop lights, he thought back over the years; tothe 1950’s, when mice and monkeys were sent upin Vikings to launch mankind’s first probing of themysterious space beyond Earth, and the first satelliteswere launched; to the 1960’s, when huger,multiple-stage rockets finally conquered the problemof escape velocity; to 1975—today—when manwas finally ready to send one of his own kind intothe uninhabited deeps.     Marsh climbed back into bed, but sleep wouldnot come.     In the adjoining room, he could hear the footstepsof mother and father. By their sound he knewthey were the footsteps of worried people. Thishurt Marsh more than his own uneasiness.     The anxiety had begun for them, he knew, whenhe had first signed up for space-cadet training. Theyhad known there was an extremely high percentageof washouts, and after each test he passed, they hadpretended to be glad. But Marsh knew that inwardlythey had hoped he would fail, for they wereaware of the ultimate goal that the space scientistswere working for—the goal that had just now beenreached.     Marsh finally fell into a troubled sleep that lasteduntil morning.     He woke early, before the alarm rang. He gotup, showered, pulled on his blue-corded cadet uniform,and tugged on the polished gray boots. Hetook one final look around his room as though infarewell, then went out to the kitchen.   11    His folks were up ahead of time too, trying toact as though it were just another day. Dad was pretendingto enjoy his morning paper, nodding onlycasually to Marsh as he came in. Mom was stirringscrambled eggs in the skillet, but she wasn’t a verygood actor, Marsh noticed, for she furtively wipedher eyes with her free hand.     The eggs were cooked too hard and the toast hadto be scraped, but no one seemed to care. The threeof them sat down at the table, still speaking inmonosyllables and of unimportant things. Theymade a pretense of eating.     “Well, Mom,” Dad suddenly said with a forcedjollity that was intended to break the tension, “theFarnsworth family has finally got a celebrity in it.”     “I don’t see why they don’t send an older man!”Mom burst out, as though she had been holding itin as long as she could. “Sending a boy who isn’teven twenty-two—”     “Things are different nowadays, Mom,” Dad explained,still with the assumed calmness thatmasked his real feelings. “These days, men growup faster and mature quicker. They’re stronger andmore alert than older men—” His voice trailed offas if he were unable to convince himself.     “      Some     body has to go,” Marsh said. “Why not ayounger man without family and responsibility?That’s why they’re giving younger men more opportunitiestoday than they used to.”     “It’s not younger men I’m talking about!” Momblurted. “It’s you, Marsh!”   12    Dad leaned over and patted Mom on the shoulder.“Now, Ruth, we promised not to get excitedthis morning.”     “I’m sorry,” Mom said weakly. “But Marsh is tooyoung to—” She caught herself and put her handover her mouth.     “Stop talking like that!” Dad said. “Marsh iscoming back. There’ve been thousands of rocketssent aloft. The space engineers have made sure thatevery bug has been ironed out before risking aman’s life. Why, that rocket which Marsh is goingup in is as safe as our auto in the garage, isn’t it,Marsh?”     “I hope so, Dad,” Marsh murmured.      Later, as Dad drove Marsh to the field, eachbrooded silently. Every scene along the way seemedto take on a new look for Marsh. He saw thingsthat he had never noticed before. It was an uncomfortablefeeling, almost as if he were seeing thesethings for the last as well as the first time.     Finally the airport came into view. The guardsat the gate recognized Marsh and ushered theFarnsworth car through ahead of scores of othersthat crowded the entrance. Some eager news photographersslipped up close and shot off flash bulbsin Marsh’s eyes.     Skyharbor, once a small commercial field, hadbeen taken over by the Air Force in recent yearsand converted into the largest rocket experimentalcenter in the United States.   13    Dad drove up to the building that would be thescene of Marsh’s first exhaustive tests and briefings.He stopped the car, and Marsh jumped out. Theirgood-by was brief. Marsh saw his father’s mouthquiver. There was a tightness in his own throat. Hehad gone through any number of grueling tests toprove that he could take the rigors of space, butnot one of them had prepared him for the hardestmoments of parting.     When Dad had driven off, Marsh reported firstto the psychiatrist who checked his condition.     “Pulse fast, a rise in blood pressure,” he said.“You’re excited, aren’t you, son?”     “Yes, sir,” Marsh admitted. “Maybe they’ve gotthe wrong man, sir. I might fail them.”     The doctor grinned. “They don’t have the wrongman,” he said. “They might have, with a so-callediron-nerved fellow. He could contain his tensionand fears until later, until maybe the moment ofblast-off. Then he’d let go, and when he needed hiscalmest judgment he wouldn’t have it. No, Marshall,there isn’t a man alive who could make thishistory-making flight without some anxiety. Forgetit. You’ll feel better as the day goes on. I’ll see youonce more before the blast-off.”     Marsh felt more at ease already. He went on tothe space surgeon, was given a complete physicalexamination, and was pronounced in perfect condition.Then began his review briefing on everythinghe would encounter during the flight.   14    Blast-off time was for 2230, an hour and a halfbefore midnight. Since at night, in the WesternHemisphere, Earth was masking the sun, the complicationsof excessive temperatures in the outerreaches were avoided during the time Marsh wouldbe outside the ship. Marsh would occupy the smallupper third section of a three-stage rocket. The firsttwo parts would be jettisoned after reaching theirpeak velocities. Top speed of the third stage wouldcarry Marsh into a perpetual-flight orbit aroundEarth, along the route that a permanent space stationwas to be built after the results of the flightwere studied. After spending a little while in thisorbit, Marsh would begin the precarious journeyback to Earth, in gliding flight.     He got a few hours of sleep after sunset. Whenan officer shook him, he rose from the cot he hadbeen lying on in a private room of General Forsythe,Chief of Space Operations.     “It’s almost time, son,” the officer said. “YourCO wants to see you in the outside office.”     Marsh went into the adjoining room and foundhis cadet chief awaiting him. The youth detected anunusual warmth about the severe gentleman whopreviously had shown only a firm, uncompromisingattitude. Colonel Tregasker was past middle age,and his white, sparse hair was smoothed down closeto his head in regulation neatness.   15    “Well, this is it, Marshall,” the colonel said.“How I envy you this honor of being the first humanto enter space. However, I do feel that a partof me is going along too, since I had a small sharein preparing you for the trip. If the training washarsh at times, I believe that shortly you willunderstand the reason for it.”     “I didn’t feel that the Colonel was either too softor strict, sir,” Marsh said diplomatically.     A speaker out on the brilliantly lit field blaredloudly in the cool desert night: “X minus fortyminutes.”     “We can’t talk all night, Marshall,” the colonelsaid briskly. “You’ve got a job to do. But first, a fewof your friends want to wish you luck.” He calledinto the anteroom, “You may come in, gentlemen!”     There filed smartly into the room ten youths whohad survived the hard prespace course with Marshand would be his successors in case he failed tonight.They formed a line and shook hands withMarsh. The first was Armen Norton who had gottensick in the rugged centrifuge at a force of 9 G’s,then had rallied to pass the test.     “Good luck, Marsh,” he said.     Next was lanky Lawrence Egan who had beencertain he would wash out during navigation phasein the planetarium. “All the luck in the world,Marsh,” he added.     Each cadet brought back a special memory of histraining as they passed before him, wishing himsuccess.   16    When they had gone and the speaker outsidehad announced: “X minus thirty minutes,” thecolonel said that he and Marsh had better be leaving.Colonel Tregasker was to be Marsh’s escort tothe ship.     Photographers and newspapermen swarmedabout them as they climbed into the jeep that wasto take them to the launching site farther out onthe field. Questions were flung at the two from allsides, but the colonel deftly maneuvered the jeepthrough the mob and sped off over the asphalt.     At the blast-off site, Marsh could see that thepolice had their hands full keeping out thousandsof spectators who were trying to get into the closed-offarea. The field was choked with a tide of humanitymilling about in wild confusion. Giant searchlights,both at the airport and in other parts ofPhoenix, directed spears of light on the toweringrocket that held the interest of all the world tonight.There was one light, far larger than the rest,with powerful condensing lenses and connected toa giant radar screen, which would guide Marshhome from his trip among the stars.     A high wire fence surrounded the launchingramp and blockhouses. International scientists anddignitaries with priorities formed a ring aroundthe fence, but even they were not allowed insidethe small circle of important activity. The guardswaved the colonel and Marsh through the gate.   17    Marsh had spent many weeks in a mock-up of thetiny third stage in which he was to spend his timealoft, but he had never been close to the completelyassembled ship until this moment. The three stageshad been nicknamed, “Tom,” “Dick,” and “Harry.”Marsh swallowed as his eyes roved up the side ofthe great vessel, part of a project that had cost millionsto perfect and was as high as a four-storybuilding.     The gigantic base, “Big Tom,” was the sectionthat would have the hardest job to do, that ofthrusting the rocket through the densest part of theatmosphere, and this was a great deal larger thanthe other sections. Marsh knew that most of theship’s bulk was made up of the propellant fuel ofhydrazine hydrate and its oxidizer, nitric acid.     “We’re going into that blockhouse over there,”Colonel Tregasker said. “You’ll don your space gearin there.”     First a multitude of gadgets with wires were fastenedto the cadet’s wrists, ankles, nose, and head.Marsh knew this to be one of the most importantphases of the flight—to find out a man’s reaction tospace flight under actual rocketing conditions. Eachwire would telemeter certain information by radioback to the airport. After a tight inner G suit hadbeen put on to prevent blackout, the plastic andrubber outer garment was zipped up around Marsh,and then he was ready except for his helmet, whichwould not be donned until later.   18    Marsh and the colonel went back outside. Theopen-cage elevator was lowered from the top of thebig latticed platform that surrounded the rocket.The two got into the cage, and it rose with them.Marsh had lost most of his anxiety and tensionduring the activities of the day, but his knees feltrubbery in these final moments as the elevator carriedhim high above the noisy confusion of the airport.      This was it.       As they stepped from the cage onto the platformof the third stage, Marsh heard the speaker belowcall out: “X minus twenty minutes.”     There were eleven engineers and workmen onthe platform readying the compartment that Marshwould occupy. Marsh suddenly felt helpless andalone as he faced the small chamber that mightvery well be his death cell. Its intricate dials andwires were staggering in their complexity.     Marsh turned and shook hands with Colonel Tregasker.“Good-by, sir,” he said in a quavering voice.“I hope I remember everything the Corps taughtme.” He tried to smile, but his facial musclestwitched uncontrollably.     “Good luck, son—lots of it,” the officer saidhuskily. Suddenly he leaned forward and embracedthe youth with a firm, fatherly hug. “This is notregulations,” he mumbled gruffly, “but hang regulations!”He turned quickly and asked to be carrieddown to the ground.     A man brought Marsh’s helmet and placed itover his head, then clamped it to the suit. Knobson the suit were twisted, and Marsh felt a warm,pressurized helium-oxygen mixture fill his suit andheadpiece.   19    Marsh stepped through the hatch into the smallcompartment. He reclined in the soft contourchair, and the straps were fastened by one of theengineers over his chest, waist, and legs. The wiresconnected to various parts of his body had beenbrought together into a single unit in the helmet.A wire cable leading from the panel was pluggedinto the outside of the helmet to complete the circuit.     Final tests were run off to make sure everythingwas in proper working order, including the two-wayshort-wave radio that would have to penetrate theelectrical ocean of the ionosphere. Then the double-hatchair lock was closed. Through his helmet receiver,Marsh could hear the final minutes and secondsbeing called off from inside the blockhouse.     “Everything O.K.?” Marsh was asked by someoneon the platform.     “Yes, sir,” Marsh replied.     “Then you’re on your own,” were the final ominouswords.     “X minus five minutes,” called the speaker.   20    It was the longest five minutes that Marsh couldremember. He was painfully aware of his crampedquarters. He thought of the tons of explosive beneathhim that presently would literally blow himsky-high. And he thought of the millions of peoplethe world over who, at this moment, were hoveringat radios and TV’s anxiously awaiting the dawn ofthe space age. Finally he thought of Dad and Mom,lost in that multitude of night watchers, and amongthe few who were not primarily concerned with thescientific aspect of the experiment. He wondered ifhe would ever see them again.     “X minus sixty seconds!”     Marsh knew that a warning flare was being sentup, to be followed by a whistle and a cloud ofsmoke from one of the blockhouses. As he felt feartrying to master him, he began reviewing all thethings he must remember and, above all, what todo in an emergency.     “X minus ten seconds—five—four—three—two—one—FIRE!”     There was a mighty explosion at Skyharbor.     The initial jolt which Marsh felt was much fiercerthan the gradually built up speed of the whirlingcentrifuge in training. He was crushed deeply intohis contour chair. It felt as though someone werepressing on his eyeballs; indeed, as if every organ inhis body were clinging to his backbone. But thesefirst moments would be the worst. A gauge showeda force of 7 G’s on him—equal to half a ton.     He watched the Mach numbers rise on the dialin front of his eyes on an overhead panel. EachMach number represented that much times thespeed of sound, 1,090 feet per second, 740 miles anhour.     Marsh knew “Big Tom” would blast for about aminute and a half under control of the automaticpilot, at which time it would drop free at an altitudeof twenty-five miles and sink Earthward in ametal mesh ’chute.   21    Marsh’s hurting eyes flicked to the outside temperaturegauge. It was on a steady 67 degrees belowzero Fahrenheit, and would be until he reachedtwenty miles. A reflecting prism gave him a squareof view of the sky outside. The clear deep blue ofthe cloud-free stratosphere met his eyes.     Mach 5, Mach 6, Mach 7 passed very quickly. Heheard a rumble and felt a jerk. “Big Tom” wasbreaking free. The first hurdle had been successfullyovercome, and the ship had already begun tiltinginto its trajectory.     There was a new surge of agony on his body asthe second stage picked up the acceleration at aforce of 7 G’s again. Marsh clamped his jaws as theforce pulled his lips back from his teeth anddragged his cheek muscles down. The Mach numberscontinued to rise—11, 12, 13—to altitude 200miles, the outer fringe of the earth’s atmosphere.There was a slight lifting of the pressure on hisbody. The rocket was still in the stratosphere, butthe sky was getting purple.     Mach 14—10,000 miles an hour.     “Dick” would jettison any moment. Marsh hadbeen aloft only about four minutes, but it hadseemed an age, every tortured second of it.   22    There was another rumble as the second stagebroke free. Marsh felt a new surge directly beneathhim as his own occupied section, “Harry,” beganblasting. It was comforting to realize he had successfullyweathered those tons of exploding hydrazineand acid that could have reduced him to nothingif something had gone wrong. Although hisspeed was still building up, the weight on himbegan to ease steadily as his body’s inertia finallyyielded to the sickeningly swift acceleration.     The speedometer needle climbed to Mach 21, thepeak velocity of the rocket, 16,000 miles per hour.His altitude was 350 miles—man’s highest ascent.Slowly then, the speedometer began to drop back.Marsh heard the turbo pumps and jets go silent asthe “lift” fuel was spent and rocket “Harry” beganits free-flight orbit around Earth.     The ship had reached a speed which exactlycounterbalanced the pull of gravity, and it could,theoretically, travel this way forever, provided noother outside force acted upon it. The effect onMarsh now was as if he had stopped moving. Relievedof the viselike pressure, his stomach andchest for a few seconds felt like inflated balloons.     “Cadet Farnsworth,” the voice of General Forsythespoke into his helmet receiver, “are you allright?”     “Yes, sir,” Marsh replied. “That is, I think so.”     It was good to hear a human voice again, somethingto hold onto in this crazy unreal world intowhich he had been hurtled.     “We’re getting the electronic readings from yourgauges O.K.,” the voice went on. “The doctor saysyour pulse is satisfactory under the circumstances.”     It was queer having your pulse read from 350miles up in the air.   23    Marsh realized, of course, that he was not trulyin the “air.” A glance at his air-pressure gauge confirmedthis. He was virtually in a vacuum. The temperatureand wind velocity outside might have astoundedhim if he were not prepared for the readings.The heat was over 2000 degrees Fahrenheit,and the wind velocity was of hurricane force! Butthese figures meant nothing because of the sparsenessof air molecules. Temperature and wind appliedonly to the individual particles, which werethousands of feet apart.     “How is your cosmic-ray count?” asked the general.     Marsh checked the C-ray counter on the panelfrom which clicking sounds were coming. “It’s low,sir. Nothing to worry about.”     Cosmic rays, the most powerful emanationsknown, were the only radiation in space that couldnot be protected against. But in small doses theyhad been found not to be dangerous.     “As soon as our recorders get more of the figuresyour telemeter is giving us,” the operations chiefsaid, “you can leave the rocket.”     When Marsh got the O.K. a few minutes later,he eagerly unstrapped the belts around his body.He could hardly contain his excitement at beingthe first person to view the globe of Earth fromspace. As he struggled to his feet, the lightness ofzero gravity made him momentarily giddy, and ittook some minutes for him to adjust to the terriblystrange sensation.   24    He had disconnected the cable leading from hishelmet to the ship’s transmitter and switched onthe ship’s fast-lens movie camera that would photographthe area covered by “Harry.” Then he wasready to go outside. He pressed a button on thewall, and the first air-lock hatch opened. He floatedinto the narrow alcove and closed the door in thecramped chamber behind him. He watched agauge, and when it showed normal pressure andtemperature again, he opened the outside hatch,closing it behind him. Had Marsh permitted thevacuum of space to contact the interior of theship’s quarters, delicate instruments would havebeen ruined by the sudden decompression and lossof heat. Marsh fastened his safety line to the shipso that there was no chance of his becoming separatedfrom it.     Then he looked “downward,” to experience thethrill of his life. Like a gigantic relief map, thepanorama of Earth stretched across his vision. Adowny blanket of gray atmosphere spread over thewhole of it, and patches of clouds were seen floatinglike phantom shapes beneath the clear vastnessof the stratosphere. It was a stunning sight forMarsh, seeing the pinpoint lights of the night citiesextending from horizon to horizon. It gave himan exhilarating feeling of being a king over it all.   25    Earth appeared to be rotating, but Marsh knewit was largely his own and the rocket’s fast speedthat was responsible for the illusion. As he hungin this region of the exosphere, he was thankful forhis cadet training in zero gravity. A special machine,developed only in recent years, simulatedthe weightlessness of space and trained the cadetsfor endurance in such artificial conditions.     “Describe some of the things you see, Marshall,”General Forsythe said over Marsh’s helmet receiver.“I’ve just cut in a recorder.”     “It’s a scene almost beyond description, sir,”Marsh said into the helmet mike. “The sky isthickly powdered with stars. The Milky Way is verydistinct, and I can make out lots of fuzzy spots thatmust be star clusters and nebulae and comets. Marsis like an extremely bright taillight, and the moonis so strong it hurts my eyes as much as the directsun does on earth.”     Marsh saw a faintly luminous blur pass beyondthe ship. It had been almost too sudden to catch.He believed it to be a meteor diving Earthward ata speed around forty-five miles a second. He reportedthis to the general.     As he brought his eyes down from the more distantfixtures of space to those closer by on Earth, astrange thing happened. He was suddenly seizedwith a fear of falling, although his zero-gravitytraining had been intended to prepare him againstthis very thing. A cold sweat come out over hisbody, and an uncontrollable panic threatened totake hold of him.   26    He made a sudden movement as though to catchhimself. Forgetting the magnification of motion infrictionless space and his own weightlessness, hewas shot quickly to the end of his safety line like acracked whip. His body jerked at the taut end andthen sped swiftly back in reaction toward the ship,head foremost. A collision could crack his helmet,exposing his body to decompression, causing himto swell like a balloon and finally explode.     In the grip of numbing fear, only at the last momentdid he have the presence of mind to fliphis body in a half-cartwheel and bring his boots upin front of him for protection. His feet bumpedagainst the rocket’s side, and the motion sent himhurtling back out to the end of the safety lineagain. This back-and-forth action occurred severaltimes before he could stop completely.     “I’ve got to be careful,” he panted to himself,as he thought of how close his space career hadcome to being ended scarcely before it had begun.     General Forsythe cut in with great concern, wonderingwhat had happened. When Marsh had explainedand the general seemed satisfied that Marshhad recovered himself, he had Marsh go on with hisdescription.     His senseless fear having gone now, Marsh lookeddown calmly, entranced as the features of theUnited States passed below his gaze. He named thecities he could identify, also the mountain ranges,lakes, and rivers, explaining just how they lookedfrom 350 miles up. In only a fraction of an hour’stime, the rocket had traversed the entire countryand was approaching the twinkling phosphorescenceof the Atlantic.   27    Marsh asked if “Tom” and “Dick” had landedsafely.     “‘Tom’ landed near Roswell, New Mexico,” GeneralForsythe told him, “and the ’chute of the secondsection has been reported seen north of Dallas.I think you’d better start back now, Marshall. It’lltake us many months to analyze all the informationwe’ve gotten. We can’t contact you very well on theother side of the world either, and thirdly, I don’twant you exposed to the sun’s rays outside theatmosphere in the Eastern Hemisphere any longerthan can be helped.”     Marsh tugged carefully on his safety line andfloated slowly back toward the ship. He enteredthe air lock. Then, inside, he raised the angle of hiscontour chair to upright position, facing the consoleof the ship’s manual controls for the glideEarthward. He plugged in his telemeter helmetcable and buckled one of the straps across his waist.     Since he was still moving at many thousands ofmiles an hour, it would be suicide to plungestraight downward. He and the glider would beturned into a meteoric torch. Rather, he wouldhave to spend considerable time soaring in and outof the atmosphere in braking ellipses until hereached much lower speed. Then the Earth’s gravitationalpull would do the rest.   28    This was going to be the trickiest part of the operation,and the most dangerous. Where before,Marsh had depended on automatic controls toguide him, now much of the responsibility was onhis own judgment. He remembered the manyhours he had sweated through to log his flyingtime. Now he could look back on that period in histraining and thank his lucky stars for it.     He took the manual controls and angled into theatmosphere. He carefully watched the AHF dial—theatmospheric heat friction gauge. When he hadneared the dangerous incendiary point, with theship having literally become red-hot, he soared intothe frictionless vacuum again. He had to keep thisup a long time in order to reduce his devastatingspeed.     It was something of a shock to him to leave theblack midnight of Earth’s slumbering side for thebrilliant hemisphere where the people of Europeand Asia were going about their daytime tasks. Hewould have liked to study this other half of theworld which he had glimpsed only a few times beforein his supersonic test flights, but he knew thiswould have to wait for future flights.     Finally, after a long time, his velocity was slowedenough so that the tug of gravity was stronger thanthe rocket’s ability to pull up out of the atmosphere.At this point, Marsh cut in “Harry’s” forwardbraking jets to check his falling speed.     “There’s something else to worry about,” hethought to himself. “Will old Harry hold togetheror will he fly apart in the crushing atmosphere?”   29    The directional radio signals from the powerfulSkyharbor transmitter were growing stronger asMarsh neared the shores of California. He couldsee the winking lights of San Diego and LosAngeles, and farther inland the swinging threadthat was the beacon at Skyharbor. All planes in hispath of flight had been grounded for the past fewhours because of the space flight. The only groundlight scanning the skies was the gigantic space beaconin Phoenix.     When Marsh reached Arizona, he began spiralingdownward over the state to kill the rest of hisaltitude and air speed. Even now the plane was ahurtling supersonic metal sliver streaking throughthe night skies like a comet. He topped the snow-cappedsummits of the towering San FranciscoPeaks on the drive southward, and he recognizedthe sprawling serpent of the Grand Canyon. Thenhe was in the lower desert regions of moon-splashedsand and cactus. Although the fire-hot temperatureof the outer skin had subsided, there had been damagedone to the walls and instruments, and possiblyto other parts, too. Marsh was worried lest his outsidecontrols might be too warped to give him agood touchdown, if indeed he could get down safelyat all.     A few thousand feet up, Marsh lowered his landinggear. Now the only problem left was to landhimself and the valuable ship safely inside the narrowparallels of the airstrip. He circled the airportseveral times as his altitude continued to plummet.   30    The meter fell rapidly. His braking rocket fuelwas gone now. From here on in, he would be ongliding power alone.     “Easy does it, Marshall,” the general said quietlyinto his ear. “You’re lining up fine. Level it out alittle and keep straight with the approach lights.That’s fine. You’re just about in.”     The lights of the airport seeming to rush up athim, Marsh felt a jolt as the wheels touched groundon the west end of the runway. He kept the shipsteady as it scurried along the smooth asphalt, losingthe last of its once tremendous velocity. Theplane hit the restraining wire across the strip andcame to a sudden stop, shoving Marsh hard againstthe single safety belt he wore. Finally, incredibly,the ship was still and he was safe.     He unfastened his strap and removed his spacehelmet. The heat of the compartment brought thesweat out on his face. He rose on wobbly legs andpressed the buttons to the hatches. The last doorflew open to admit the cool, bracing air of Earthwhich he had wondered if he would ever inhaleagain.     His aloneness was over then, suddenly and boisterously,as men swarmed over him with congratulations,eager questions, and looks of respect. Reporters’flash bulbs popped, and he felt like a newLindbergh as he was pulled down to the groundand mobbed. Finally the police came to his rescueand pushed back the curiosity seekers and newspapermen.Then only three men were allowedthrough the cordon.  ","Marsh, the only person who is to fly, is excited and scared at the same time. He can not believe he is to be the first to exit in space, but he thinks himself not brave and worthy enough, and is afraid to fail everyone. He feels the burden of responsibility for being chosen, which is increased by his duty before his parents to come back and the attention of the huge amount of spectators. Marsh's parents are extremely anxious. The mom struggles to understand why such a young boy is sent, the dad tries to joke and calm down the mom, but they are both afraid Marsh won't come back. The spectators and journalists are excited and interested. The whole team working on the project is also excited and anxious, they try to support Marsh. The Colonel is worried for Marsh, all of them take caution, check everything, and cheer Marsh up. They work on detecting every data, controlling every detail. The whole planet watches closely, while Marsh is the only one to really feel like the king of the universe. "
"What is the setting of the story? </s>      THE FIRST MAN INTO SPACE     Cadet Marshall Farnsworth woke from anightmare of exploding novae and fouling rockets.After recovering from his fright, he laughed contemptuouslyat himself. “Here I was picked as themost stable of a group of two hundred cadets,” hethought, “and chosen to make man’s first trip intospace, yet I’m shaking like a leaf.”     He got out of bed and went over to the window.From his father’s temporary apartment, he couldsee distant Skyharbor, the scene of the plunge intospace tomorrow night. He had been awarded thefrightening honor of making that trip.   10    As he watched teardrop cars whip along Phoenix,Arizona’s, double-decked streets, elevated over oneanother to avoid dangerous intersections and delayingstop lights, he thought back over the years; tothe 1950’s, when mice and monkeys were sent upin Vikings to launch mankind’s first probing of themysterious space beyond Earth, and the first satelliteswere launched; to the 1960’s, when huger,multiple-stage rockets finally conquered the problemof escape velocity; to 1975—today—when manwas finally ready to send one of his own kind intothe uninhabited deeps.     Marsh climbed back into bed, but sleep wouldnot come.     In the adjoining room, he could hear the footstepsof mother and father. By their sound he knewthey were the footsteps of worried people. Thishurt Marsh more than his own uneasiness.     The anxiety had begun for them, he knew, whenhe had first signed up for space-cadet training. Theyhad known there was an extremely high percentageof washouts, and after each test he passed, they hadpretended to be glad. But Marsh knew that inwardlythey had hoped he would fail, for they wereaware of the ultimate goal that the space scientistswere working for—the goal that had just now beenreached.     Marsh finally fell into a troubled sleep that lasteduntil morning.     He woke early, before the alarm rang. He gotup, showered, pulled on his blue-corded cadet uniform,and tugged on the polished gray boots. Hetook one final look around his room as though infarewell, then went out to the kitchen.   11    His folks were up ahead of time too, trying toact as though it were just another day. Dad was pretendingto enjoy his morning paper, nodding onlycasually to Marsh as he came in. Mom was stirringscrambled eggs in the skillet, but she wasn’t a verygood actor, Marsh noticed, for she furtively wipedher eyes with her free hand.     The eggs were cooked too hard and the toast hadto be scraped, but no one seemed to care. The threeof them sat down at the table, still speaking inmonosyllables and of unimportant things. Theymade a pretense of eating.     “Well, Mom,” Dad suddenly said with a forcedjollity that was intended to break the tension, “theFarnsworth family has finally got a celebrity in it.”     “I don’t see why they don’t send an older man!”Mom burst out, as though she had been holding itin as long as she could. “Sending a boy who isn’teven twenty-two—”     “Things are different nowadays, Mom,” Dad explained,still with the assumed calmness thatmasked his real feelings. “These days, men growup faster and mature quicker. They’re stronger andmore alert than older men—” His voice trailed offas if he were unable to convince himself.     “      Some     body has to go,” Marsh said. “Why not ayounger man without family and responsibility?That’s why they’re giving younger men more opportunitiestoday than they used to.”     “It’s not younger men I’m talking about!” Momblurted. “It’s you, Marsh!”   12    Dad leaned over and patted Mom on the shoulder.“Now, Ruth, we promised not to get excitedthis morning.”     “I’m sorry,” Mom said weakly. “But Marsh is tooyoung to—” She caught herself and put her handover her mouth.     “Stop talking like that!” Dad said. “Marsh iscoming back. There’ve been thousands of rocketssent aloft. The space engineers have made sure thatevery bug has been ironed out before risking aman’s life. Why, that rocket which Marsh is goingup in is as safe as our auto in the garage, isn’t it,Marsh?”     “I hope so, Dad,” Marsh murmured.      Later, as Dad drove Marsh to the field, eachbrooded silently. Every scene along the way seemedto take on a new look for Marsh. He saw thingsthat he had never noticed before. It was an uncomfortablefeeling, almost as if he were seeing thesethings for the last as well as the first time.     Finally the airport came into view. The guardsat the gate recognized Marsh and ushered theFarnsworth car through ahead of scores of othersthat crowded the entrance. Some eager news photographersslipped up close and shot off flash bulbsin Marsh’s eyes.     Skyharbor, once a small commercial field, hadbeen taken over by the Air Force in recent yearsand converted into the largest rocket experimentalcenter in the United States.   13    Dad drove up to the building that would be thescene of Marsh’s first exhaustive tests and briefings.He stopped the car, and Marsh jumped out. Theirgood-by was brief. Marsh saw his father’s mouthquiver. There was a tightness in his own throat. Hehad gone through any number of grueling tests toprove that he could take the rigors of space, butnot one of them had prepared him for the hardestmoments of parting.     When Dad had driven off, Marsh reported firstto the psychiatrist who checked his condition.     “Pulse fast, a rise in blood pressure,” he said.“You’re excited, aren’t you, son?”     “Yes, sir,” Marsh admitted. “Maybe they’ve gotthe wrong man, sir. I might fail them.”     The doctor grinned. “They don’t have the wrongman,” he said. “They might have, with a so-callediron-nerved fellow. He could contain his tensionand fears until later, until maybe the moment ofblast-off. Then he’d let go, and when he needed hiscalmest judgment he wouldn’t have it. No, Marshall,there isn’t a man alive who could make thishistory-making flight without some anxiety. Forgetit. You’ll feel better as the day goes on. I’ll see youonce more before the blast-off.”     Marsh felt more at ease already. He went on tothe space surgeon, was given a complete physicalexamination, and was pronounced in perfect condition.Then began his review briefing on everythinghe would encounter during the flight.   14    Blast-off time was for 2230, an hour and a halfbefore midnight. Since at night, in the WesternHemisphere, Earth was masking the sun, the complicationsof excessive temperatures in the outerreaches were avoided during the time Marsh wouldbe outside the ship. Marsh would occupy the smallupper third section of a three-stage rocket. The firsttwo parts would be jettisoned after reaching theirpeak velocities. Top speed of the third stage wouldcarry Marsh into a perpetual-flight orbit aroundEarth, along the route that a permanent space stationwas to be built after the results of the flightwere studied. After spending a little while in thisorbit, Marsh would begin the precarious journeyback to Earth, in gliding flight.     He got a few hours of sleep after sunset. Whenan officer shook him, he rose from the cot he hadbeen lying on in a private room of General Forsythe,Chief of Space Operations.     “It’s almost time, son,” the officer said. “YourCO wants to see you in the outside office.”     Marsh went into the adjoining room and foundhis cadet chief awaiting him. The youth detected anunusual warmth about the severe gentleman whopreviously had shown only a firm, uncompromisingattitude. Colonel Tregasker was past middle age,and his white, sparse hair was smoothed down closeto his head in regulation neatness.   15    “Well, this is it, Marshall,” the colonel said.“How I envy you this honor of being the first humanto enter space. However, I do feel that a partof me is going along too, since I had a small sharein preparing you for the trip. If the training washarsh at times, I believe that shortly you willunderstand the reason for it.”     “I didn’t feel that the Colonel was either too softor strict, sir,” Marsh said diplomatically.     A speaker out on the brilliantly lit field blaredloudly in the cool desert night: “X minus fortyminutes.”     “We can’t talk all night, Marshall,” the colonelsaid briskly. “You’ve got a job to do. But first, a fewof your friends want to wish you luck.” He calledinto the anteroom, “You may come in, gentlemen!”     There filed smartly into the room ten youths whohad survived the hard prespace course with Marshand would be his successors in case he failed tonight.They formed a line and shook hands withMarsh. The first was Armen Norton who had gottensick in the rugged centrifuge at a force of 9 G’s,then had rallied to pass the test.     “Good luck, Marsh,” he said.     Next was lanky Lawrence Egan who had beencertain he would wash out during navigation phasein the planetarium. “All the luck in the world,Marsh,” he added.     Each cadet brought back a special memory of histraining as they passed before him, wishing himsuccess.   16    When they had gone and the speaker outsidehad announced: “X minus thirty minutes,” thecolonel said that he and Marsh had better be leaving.Colonel Tregasker was to be Marsh’s escort tothe ship.     Photographers and newspapermen swarmedabout them as they climbed into the jeep that wasto take them to the launching site farther out onthe field. Questions were flung at the two from allsides, but the colonel deftly maneuvered the jeepthrough the mob and sped off over the asphalt.     At the blast-off site, Marsh could see that thepolice had their hands full keeping out thousandsof spectators who were trying to get into the closed-offarea. The field was choked with a tide of humanitymilling about in wild confusion. Giant searchlights,both at the airport and in other parts ofPhoenix, directed spears of light on the toweringrocket that held the interest of all the world tonight.There was one light, far larger than the rest,with powerful condensing lenses and connected toa giant radar screen, which would guide Marshhome from his trip among the stars.     A high wire fence surrounded the launchingramp and blockhouses. International scientists anddignitaries with priorities formed a ring aroundthe fence, but even they were not allowed insidethe small circle of important activity. The guardswaved the colonel and Marsh through the gate.   17    Marsh had spent many weeks in a mock-up of thetiny third stage in which he was to spend his timealoft, but he had never been close to the completelyassembled ship until this moment. The three stageshad been nicknamed, “Tom,” “Dick,” and “Harry.”Marsh swallowed as his eyes roved up the side ofthe great vessel, part of a project that had cost millionsto perfect and was as high as a four-storybuilding.     The gigantic base, “Big Tom,” was the sectionthat would have the hardest job to do, that ofthrusting the rocket through the densest part of theatmosphere, and this was a great deal larger thanthe other sections. Marsh knew that most of theship’s bulk was made up of the propellant fuel ofhydrazine hydrate and its oxidizer, nitric acid.     “We’re going into that blockhouse over there,”Colonel Tregasker said. “You’ll don your space gearin there.”     First a multitude of gadgets with wires were fastenedto the cadet’s wrists, ankles, nose, and head.Marsh knew this to be one of the most importantphases of the flight—to find out a man’s reaction tospace flight under actual rocketing conditions. Eachwire would telemeter certain information by radioback to the airport. After a tight inner G suit hadbeen put on to prevent blackout, the plastic andrubber outer garment was zipped up around Marsh,and then he was ready except for his helmet, whichwould not be donned until later.   18    Marsh and the colonel went back outside. Theopen-cage elevator was lowered from the top of thebig latticed platform that surrounded the rocket.The two got into the cage, and it rose with them.Marsh had lost most of his anxiety and tensionduring the activities of the day, but his knees feltrubbery in these final moments as the elevator carriedhim high above the noisy confusion of the airport.      This was it.       As they stepped from the cage onto the platformof the third stage, Marsh heard the speaker belowcall out: “X minus twenty minutes.”     There were eleven engineers and workmen onthe platform readying the compartment that Marshwould occupy. Marsh suddenly felt helpless andalone as he faced the small chamber that mightvery well be his death cell. Its intricate dials andwires were staggering in their complexity.     Marsh turned and shook hands with Colonel Tregasker.“Good-by, sir,” he said in a quavering voice.“I hope I remember everything the Corps taughtme.” He tried to smile, but his facial musclestwitched uncontrollably.     “Good luck, son—lots of it,” the officer saidhuskily. Suddenly he leaned forward and embracedthe youth with a firm, fatherly hug. “This is notregulations,” he mumbled gruffly, “but hang regulations!”He turned quickly and asked to be carrieddown to the ground.     A man brought Marsh’s helmet and placed itover his head, then clamped it to the suit. Knobson the suit were twisted, and Marsh felt a warm,pressurized helium-oxygen mixture fill his suit andheadpiece.   19    Marsh stepped through the hatch into the smallcompartment. He reclined in the soft contourchair, and the straps were fastened by one of theengineers over his chest, waist, and legs. The wiresconnected to various parts of his body had beenbrought together into a single unit in the helmet.A wire cable leading from the panel was pluggedinto the outside of the helmet to complete the circuit.     Final tests were run off to make sure everythingwas in proper working order, including the two-wayshort-wave radio that would have to penetrate theelectrical ocean of the ionosphere. Then the double-hatchair lock was closed. Through his helmet receiver,Marsh could hear the final minutes and secondsbeing called off from inside the blockhouse.     “Everything O.K.?” Marsh was asked by someoneon the platform.     “Yes, sir,” Marsh replied.     “Then you’re on your own,” were the final ominouswords.     “X minus five minutes,” called the speaker.   20    It was the longest five minutes that Marsh couldremember. He was painfully aware of his crampedquarters. He thought of the tons of explosive beneathhim that presently would literally blow himsky-high. And he thought of the millions of peoplethe world over who, at this moment, were hoveringat radios and TV’s anxiously awaiting the dawn ofthe space age. Finally he thought of Dad and Mom,lost in that multitude of night watchers, and amongthe few who were not primarily concerned with thescientific aspect of the experiment. He wondered ifhe would ever see them again.     “X minus sixty seconds!”     Marsh knew that a warning flare was being sentup, to be followed by a whistle and a cloud ofsmoke from one of the blockhouses. As he felt feartrying to master him, he began reviewing all thethings he must remember and, above all, what todo in an emergency.     “X minus ten seconds—five—four—three—two—one—FIRE!”     There was a mighty explosion at Skyharbor.     The initial jolt which Marsh felt was much fiercerthan the gradually built up speed of the whirlingcentrifuge in training. He was crushed deeply intohis contour chair. It felt as though someone werepressing on his eyeballs; indeed, as if every organ inhis body were clinging to his backbone. But thesefirst moments would be the worst. A gauge showeda force of 7 G’s on him—equal to half a ton.     He watched the Mach numbers rise on the dialin front of his eyes on an overhead panel. EachMach number represented that much times thespeed of sound, 1,090 feet per second, 740 miles anhour.     Marsh knew “Big Tom” would blast for about aminute and a half under control of the automaticpilot, at which time it would drop free at an altitudeof twenty-five miles and sink Earthward in ametal mesh ’chute.   21    Marsh’s hurting eyes flicked to the outside temperaturegauge. It was on a steady 67 degrees belowzero Fahrenheit, and would be until he reachedtwenty miles. A reflecting prism gave him a squareof view of the sky outside. The clear deep blue ofthe cloud-free stratosphere met his eyes.     Mach 5, Mach 6, Mach 7 passed very quickly. Heheard a rumble and felt a jerk. “Big Tom” wasbreaking free. The first hurdle had been successfullyovercome, and the ship had already begun tiltinginto its trajectory.     There was a new surge of agony on his body asthe second stage picked up the acceleration at aforce of 7 G’s again. Marsh clamped his jaws as theforce pulled his lips back from his teeth anddragged his cheek muscles down. The Mach numberscontinued to rise—11, 12, 13—to altitude 200miles, the outer fringe of the earth’s atmosphere.There was a slight lifting of the pressure on hisbody. The rocket was still in the stratosphere, butthe sky was getting purple.     Mach 14—10,000 miles an hour.     “Dick” would jettison any moment. Marsh hadbeen aloft only about four minutes, but it hadseemed an age, every tortured second of it.   22    There was another rumble as the second stagebroke free. Marsh felt a new surge directly beneathhim as his own occupied section, “Harry,” beganblasting. It was comforting to realize he had successfullyweathered those tons of exploding hydrazineand acid that could have reduced him to nothingif something had gone wrong. Although hisspeed was still building up, the weight on himbegan to ease steadily as his body’s inertia finallyyielded to the sickeningly swift acceleration.     The speedometer needle climbed to Mach 21, thepeak velocity of the rocket, 16,000 miles per hour.His altitude was 350 miles—man’s highest ascent.Slowly then, the speedometer began to drop back.Marsh heard the turbo pumps and jets go silent asthe “lift” fuel was spent and rocket “Harry” beganits free-flight orbit around Earth.     The ship had reached a speed which exactlycounterbalanced the pull of gravity, and it could,theoretically, travel this way forever, provided noother outside force acted upon it. The effect onMarsh now was as if he had stopped moving. Relievedof the viselike pressure, his stomach andchest for a few seconds felt like inflated balloons.     “Cadet Farnsworth,” the voice of General Forsythespoke into his helmet receiver, “are you allright?”     “Yes, sir,” Marsh replied. “That is, I think so.”     It was good to hear a human voice again, somethingto hold onto in this crazy unreal world intowhich he had been hurtled.     “We’re getting the electronic readings from yourgauges O.K.,” the voice went on. “The doctor saysyour pulse is satisfactory under the circumstances.”     It was queer having your pulse read from 350miles up in the air.   23    Marsh realized, of course, that he was not trulyin the “air.” A glance at his air-pressure gauge confirmedthis. He was virtually in a vacuum. The temperatureand wind velocity outside might have astoundedhim if he were not prepared for the readings.The heat was over 2000 degrees Fahrenheit,and the wind velocity was of hurricane force! Butthese figures meant nothing because of the sparsenessof air molecules. Temperature and wind appliedonly to the individual particles, which werethousands of feet apart.     “How is your cosmic-ray count?” asked the general.     Marsh checked the C-ray counter on the panelfrom which clicking sounds were coming. “It’s low,sir. Nothing to worry about.”     Cosmic rays, the most powerful emanationsknown, were the only radiation in space that couldnot be protected against. But in small doses theyhad been found not to be dangerous.     “As soon as our recorders get more of the figuresyour telemeter is giving us,” the operations chiefsaid, “you can leave the rocket.”     When Marsh got the O.K. a few minutes later,he eagerly unstrapped the belts around his body.He could hardly contain his excitement at beingthe first person to view the globe of Earth fromspace. As he struggled to his feet, the lightness ofzero gravity made him momentarily giddy, and ittook some minutes for him to adjust to the terriblystrange sensation.   24    He had disconnected the cable leading from hishelmet to the ship’s transmitter and switched onthe ship’s fast-lens movie camera that would photographthe area covered by “Harry.” Then he wasready to go outside. He pressed a button on thewall, and the first air-lock hatch opened. He floatedinto the narrow alcove and closed the door in thecramped chamber behind him. He watched agauge, and when it showed normal pressure andtemperature again, he opened the outside hatch,closing it behind him. Had Marsh permitted thevacuum of space to contact the interior of theship’s quarters, delicate instruments would havebeen ruined by the sudden decompression and lossof heat. Marsh fastened his safety line to the shipso that there was no chance of his becoming separatedfrom it.     Then he looked “downward,” to experience thethrill of his life. Like a gigantic relief map, thepanorama of Earth stretched across his vision. Adowny blanket of gray atmosphere spread over thewhole of it, and patches of clouds were seen floatinglike phantom shapes beneath the clear vastnessof the stratosphere. It was a stunning sight forMarsh, seeing the pinpoint lights of the night citiesextending from horizon to horizon. It gave himan exhilarating feeling of being a king over it all.   25    Earth appeared to be rotating, but Marsh knewit was largely his own and the rocket’s fast speedthat was responsible for the illusion. As he hungin this region of the exosphere, he was thankful forhis cadet training in zero gravity. A special machine,developed only in recent years, simulatedthe weightlessness of space and trained the cadetsfor endurance in such artificial conditions.     “Describe some of the things you see, Marshall,”General Forsythe said over Marsh’s helmet receiver.“I’ve just cut in a recorder.”     “It’s a scene almost beyond description, sir,”Marsh said into the helmet mike. “The sky isthickly powdered with stars. The Milky Way is verydistinct, and I can make out lots of fuzzy spots thatmust be star clusters and nebulae and comets. Marsis like an extremely bright taillight, and the moonis so strong it hurts my eyes as much as the directsun does on earth.”     Marsh saw a faintly luminous blur pass beyondthe ship. It had been almost too sudden to catch.He believed it to be a meteor diving Earthward ata speed around forty-five miles a second. He reportedthis to the general.     As he brought his eyes down from the more distantfixtures of space to those closer by on Earth, astrange thing happened. He was suddenly seizedwith a fear of falling, although his zero-gravitytraining had been intended to prepare him againstthis very thing. A cold sweat come out over hisbody, and an uncontrollable panic threatened totake hold of him.   26    He made a sudden movement as though to catchhimself. Forgetting the magnification of motion infrictionless space and his own weightlessness, hewas shot quickly to the end of his safety line like acracked whip. His body jerked at the taut end andthen sped swiftly back in reaction toward the ship,head foremost. A collision could crack his helmet,exposing his body to decompression, causing himto swell like a balloon and finally explode.     In the grip of numbing fear, only at the last momentdid he have the presence of mind to fliphis body in a half-cartwheel and bring his boots upin front of him for protection. His feet bumpedagainst the rocket’s side, and the motion sent himhurtling back out to the end of the safety lineagain. This back-and-forth action occurred severaltimes before he could stop completely.     “I’ve got to be careful,” he panted to himself,as he thought of how close his space career hadcome to being ended scarcely before it had begun.     General Forsythe cut in with great concern, wonderingwhat had happened. When Marsh had explainedand the general seemed satisfied that Marshhad recovered himself, he had Marsh go on with hisdescription.     His senseless fear having gone now, Marsh lookeddown calmly, entranced as the features of theUnited States passed below his gaze. He named thecities he could identify, also the mountain ranges,lakes, and rivers, explaining just how they lookedfrom 350 miles up. In only a fraction of an hour’stime, the rocket had traversed the entire countryand was approaching the twinkling phosphorescenceof the Atlantic.   27    Marsh asked if “Tom” and “Dick” had landedsafely.     “‘Tom’ landed near Roswell, New Mexico,” GeneralForsythe told him, “and the ’chute of the secondsection has been reported seen north of Dallas.I think you’d better start back now, Marshall. It’lltake us many months to analyze all the informationwe’ve gotten. We can’t contact you very well on theother side of the world either, and thirdly, I don’twant you exposed to the sun’s rays outside theatmosphere in the Eastern Hemisphere any longerthan can be helped.”     Marsh tugged carefully on his safety line andfloated slowly back toward the ship. He enteredthe air lock. Then, inside, he raised the angle of hiscontour chair to upright position, facing the consoleof the ship’s manual controls for the glideEarthward. He plugged in his telemeter helmetcable and buckled one of the straps across his waist.     Since he was still moving at many thousands ofmiles an hour, it would be suicide to plungestraight downward. He and the glider would beturned into a meteoric torch. Rather, he wouldhave to spend considerable time soaring in and outof the atmosphere in braking ellipses until hereached much lower speed. Then the Earth’s gravitationalpull would do the rest.   28    This was going to be the trickiest part of the operation,and the most dangerous. Where before,Marsh had depended on automatic controls toguide him, now much of the responsibility was onhis own judgment. He remembered the manyhours he had sweated through to log his flyingtime. Now he could look back on that period in histraining and thank his lucky stars for it.     He took the manual controls and angled into theatmosphere. He carefully watched the AHF dial—theatmospheric heat friction gauge. When he hadneared the dangerous incendiary point, with theship having literally become red-hot, he soared intothe frictionless vacuum again. He had to keep thisup a long time in order to reduce his devastatingspeed.     It was something of a shock to him to leave theblack midnight of Earth’s slumbering side for thebrilliant hemisphere where the people of Europeand Asia were going about their daytime tasks. Hewould have liked to study this other half of theworld which he had glimpsed only a few times beforein his supersonic test flights, but he knew thiswould have to wait for future flights.     Finally, after a long time, his velocity was slowedenough so that the tug of gravity was stronger thanthe rocket’s ability to pull up out of the atmosphere.At this point, Marsh cut in “Harry’s” forwardbraking jets to check his falling speed.     “There’s something else to worry about,” hethought to himself. “Will old Harry hold togetheror will he fly apart in the crushing atmosphere?”   29    The directional radio signals from the powerfulSkyharbor transmitter were growing stronger asMarsh neared the shores of California. He couldsee the winking lights of San Diego and LosAngeles, and farther inland the swinging threadthat was the beacon at Skyharbor. All planes in hispath of flight had been grounded for the past fewhours because of the space flight. The only groundlight scanning the skies was the gigantic space beaconin Phoenix.     When Marsh reached Arizona, he began spiralingdownward over the state to kill the rest of hisaltitude and air speed. Even now the plane was ahurtling supersonic metal sliver streaking throughthe night skies like a comet. He topped the snow-cappedsummits of the towering San FranciscoPeaks on the drive southward, and he recognizedthe sprawling serpent of the Grand Canyon. Thenhe was in the lower desert regions of moon-splashedsand and cactus. Although the fire-hot temperatureof the outer skin had subsided, there had been damagedone to the walls and instruments, and possiblyto other parts, too. Marsh was worried lest his outsidecontrols might be too warped to give him agood touchdown, if indeed he could get down safelyat all.     A few thousand feet up, Marsh lowered his landinggear. Now the only problem left was to landhimself and the valuable ship safely inside the narrowparallels of the airstrip. He circled the airportseveral times as his altitude continued to plummet.   30    The meter fell rapidly. His braking rocket fuelwas gone now. From here on in, he would be ongliding power alone.     “Easy does it, Marshall,” the general said quietlyinto his ear. “You’re lining up fine. Level it out alittle and keep straight with the approach lights.That’s fine. You’re just about in.”     The lights of the airport seeming to rush up athim, Marsh felt a jolt as the wheels touched groundon the west end of the runway. He kept the shipsteady as it scurried along the smooth asphalt, losingthe last of its once tremendous velocity. Theplane hit the restraining wire across the strip andcame to a sudden stop, shoving Marsh hard againstthe single safety belt he wore. Finally, incredibly,the ship was still and he was safe.     He unfastened his strap and removed his spacehelmet. The heat of the compartment brought thesweat out on his face. He rose on wobbly legs andpressed the buttons to the hatches. The last doorflew open to admit the cool, bracing air of Earthwhich he had wondered if he would ever inhaleagain.     His aloneness was over then, suddenly and boisterously,as men swarmed over him with congratulations,eager questions, and looks of respect. Reporters’flash bulbs popped, and he felt like a newLindbergh as he was pulled down to the groundand mobbed. Finally the police came to his rescueand pushed back the curiosity seekers and newspapermen.Then only three men were allowedthrough the cordon.  ","The night before the flight Marsh is in his father's temporary apartment with the view of distant Skyharbor. Next morning he leaves the house in his dad's car and gets to the airport. There he visits the doctors and goes to take a nap. Then he enters a room where he says goodbye to his friends. Then he goes to put on all the devices and takes an elevator to the platform. From there he enters the cabin of his spaceship and sets off to space. He moves through the Hemisphere to the Earth orbit. There he stops and exits, finding himself in space. He looks at the globe from there. Marsh heads back then, making circles around the United States and gets back to Sky Harbor. There he exits the ship and goes out."
"How is the theme of responsibility explored in the story? </s>      THE FIRST MAN INTO SPACE     Cadet Marshall Farnsworth woke from anightmare of exploding novae and fouling rockets.After recovering from his fright, he laughed contemptuouslyat himself. “Here I was picked as themost stable of a group of two hundred cadets,” hethought, “and chosen to make man’s first trip intospace, yet I’m shaking like a leaf.”     He got out of bed and went over to the window.From his father’s temporary apartment, he couldsee distant Skyharbor, the scene of the plunge intospace tomorrow night. He had been awarded thefrightening honor of making that trip.   10    As he watched teardrop cars whip along Phoenix,Arizona’s, double-decked streets, elevated over oneanother to avoid dangerous intersections and delayingstop lights, he thought back over the years; tothe 1950’s, when mice and monkeys were sent upin Vikings to launch mankind’s first probing of themysterious space beyond Earth, and the first satelliteswere launched; to the 1960’s, when huger,multiple-stage rockets finally conquered the problemof escape velocity; to 1975—today—when manwas finally ready to send one of his own kind intothe uninhabited deeps.     Marsh climbed back into bed, but sleep wouldnot come.     In the adjoining room, he could hear the footstepsof mother and father. By their sound he knewthey were the footsteps of worried people. Thishurt Marsh more than his own uneasiness.     The anxiety had begun for them, he knew, whenhe had first signed up for space-cadet training. Theyhad known there was an extremely high percentageof washouts, and after each test he passed, they hadpretended to be glad. But Marsh knew that inwardlythey had hoped he would fail, for they wereaware of the ultimate goal that the space scientistswere working for—the goal that had just now beenreached.     Marsh finally fell into a troubled sleep that lasteduntil morning.     He woke early, before the alarm rang. He gotup, showered, pulled on his blue-corded cadet uniform,and tugged on the polished gray boots. Hetook one final look around his room as though infarewell, then went out to the kitchen.   11    His folks were up ahead of time too, trying toact as though it were just another day. Dad was pretendingto enjoy his morning paper, nodding onlycasually to Marsh as he came in. Mom was stirringscrambled eggs in the skillet, but she wasn’t a verygood actor, Marsh noticed, for she furtively wipedher eyes with her free hand.     The eggs were cooked too hard and the toast hadto be scraped, but no one seemed to care. The threeof them sat down at the table, still speaking inmonosyllables and of unimportant things. Theymade a pretense of eating.     “Well, Mom,” Dad suddenly said with a forcedjollity that was intended to break the tension, “theFarnsworth family has finally got a celebrity in it.”     “I don’t see why they don’t send an older man!”Mom burst out, as though she had been holding itin as long as she could. “Sending a boy who isn’teven twenty-two—”     “Things are different nowadays, Mom,” Dad explained,still with the assumed calmness thatmasked his real feelings. “These days, men growup faster and mature quicker. They’re stronger andmore alert than older men—” His voice trailed offas if he were unable to convince himself.     “      Some     body has to go,” Marsh said. “Why not ayounger man without family and responsibility?That’s why they’re giving younger men more opportunitiestoday than they used to.”     “It’s not younger men I’m talking about!” Momblurted. “It’s you, Marsh!”   12    Dad leaned over and patted Mom on the shoulder.“Now, Ruth, we promised not to get excitedthis morning.”     “I’m sorry,” Mom said weakly. “But Marsh is tooyoung to—” She caught herself and put her handover her mouth.     “Stop talking like that!” Dad said. “Marsh iscoming back. There’ve been thousands of rocketssent aloft. The space engineers have made sure thatevery bug has been ironed out before risking aman’s life. Why, that rocket which Marsh is goingup in is as safe as our auto in the garage, isn’t it,Marsh?”     “I hope so, Dad,” Marsh murmured.      Later, as Dad drove Marsh to the field, eachbrooded silently. Every scene along the way seemedto take on a new look for Marsh. He saw thingsthat he had never noticed before. It was an uncomfortablefeeling, almost as if he were seeing thesethings for the last as well as the first time.     Finally the airport came into view. The guardsat the gate recognized Marsh and ushered theFarnsworth car through ahead of scores of othersthat crowded the entrance. Some eager news photographersslipped up close and shot off flash bulbsin Marsh’s eyes.     Skyharbor, once a small commercial field, hadbeen taken over by the Air Force in recent yearsand converted into the largest rocket experimentalcenter in the United States.   13    Dad drove up to the building that would be thescene of Marsh’s first exhaustive tests and briefings.He stopped the car, and Marsh jumped out. Theirgood-by was brief. Marsh saw his father’s mouthquiver. There was a tightness in his own throat. Hehad gone through any number of grueling tests toprove that he could take the rigors of space, butnot one of them had prepared him for the hardestmoments of parting.     When Dad had driven off, Marsh reported firstto the psychiatrist who checked his condition.     “Pulse fast, a rise in blood pressure,” he said.“You’re excited, aren’t you, son?”     “Yes, sir,” Marsh admitted. “Maybe they’ve gotthe wrong man, sir. I might fail them.”     The doctor grinned. “They don’t have the wrongman,” he said. “They might have, with a so-callediron-nerved fellow. He could contain his tensionand fears until later, until maybe the moment ofblast-off. Then he’d let go, and when he needed hiscalmest judgment he wouldn’t have it. No, Marshall,there isn’t a man alive who could make thishistory-making flight without some anxiety. Forgetit. You’ll feel better as the day goes on. I’ll see youonce more before the blast-off.”     Marsh felt more at ease already. He went on tothe space surgeon, was given a complete physicalexamination, and was pronounced in perfect condition.Then began his review briefing on everythinghe would encounter during the flight.   14    Blast-off time was for 2230, an hour and a halfbefore midnight. Since at night, in the WesternHemisphere, Earth was masking the sun, the complicationsof excessive temperatures in the outerreaches were avoided during the time Marsh wouldbe outside the ship. Marsh would occupy the smallupper third section of a three-stage rocket. The firsttwo parts would be jettisoned after reaching theirpeak velocities. Top speed of the third stage wouldcarry Marsh into a perpetual-flight orbit aroundEarth, along the route that a permanent space stationwas to be built after the results of the flightwere studied. After spending a little while in thisorbit, Marsh would begin the precarious journeyback to Earth, in gliding flight.     He got a few hours of sleep after sunset. Whenan officer shook him, he rose from the cot he hadbeen lying on in a private room of General Forsythe,Chief of Space Operations.     “It’s almost time, son,” the officer said. “YourCO wants to see you in the outside office.”     Marsh went into the adjoining room and foundhis cadet chief awaiting him. The youth detected anunusual warmth about the severe gentleman whopreviously had shown only a firm, uncompromisingattitude. Colonel Tregasker was past middle age,and his white, sparse hair was smoothed down closeto his head in regulation neatness.   15    “Well, this is it, Marshall,” the colonel said.“How I envy you this honor of being the first humanto enter space. However, I do feel that a partof me is going along too, since I had a small sharein preparing you for the trip. If the training washarsh at times, I believe that shortly you willunderstand the reason for it.”     “I didn’t feel that the Colonel was either too softor strict, sir,” Marsh said diplomatically.     A speaker out on the brilliantly lit field blaredloudly in the cool desert night: “X minus fortyminutes.”     “We can’t talk all night, Marshall,” the colonelsaid briskly. “You’ve got a job to do. But first, a fewof your friends want to wish you luck.” He calledinto the anteroom, “You may come in, gentlemen!”     There filed smartly into the room ten youths whohad survived the hard prespace course with Marshand would be his successors in case he failed tonight.They formed a line and shook hands withMarsh. The first was Armen Norton who had gottensick in the rugged centrifuge at a force of 9 G’s,then had rallied to pass the test.     “Good luck, Marsh,” he said.     Next was lanky Lawrence Egan who had beencertain he would wash out during navigation phasein the planetarium. “All the luck in the world,Marsh,” he added.     Each cadet brought back a special memory of histraining as they passed before him, wishing himsuccess.   16    When they had gone and the speaker outsidehad announced: “X minus thirty minutes,” thecolonel said that he and Marsh had better be leaving.Colonel Tregasker was to be Marsh’s escort tothe ship.     Photographers and newspapermen swarmedabout them as they climbed into the jeep that wasto take them to the launching site farther out onthe field. Questions were flung at the two from allsides, but the colonel deftly maneuvered the jeepthrough the mob and sped off over the asphalt.     At the blast-off site, Marsh could see that thepolice had their hands full keeping out thousandsof spectators who were trying to get into the closed-offarea. The field was choked with a tide of humanitymilling about in wild confusion. Giant searchlights,both at the airport and in other parts ofPhoenix, directed spears of light on the toweringrocket that held the interest of all the world tonight.There was one light, far larger than the rest,with powerful condensing lenses and connected toa giant radar screen, which would guide Marshhome from his trip among the stars.     A high wire fence surrounded the launchingramp and blockhouses. International scientists anddignitaries with priorities formed a ring aroundthe fence, but even they were not allowed insidethe small circle of important activity. The guardswaved the colonel and Marsh through the gate.   17    Marsh had spent many weeks in a mock-up of thetiny third stage in which he was to spend his timealoft, but he had never been close to the completelyassembled ship until this moment. The three stageshad been nicknamed, “Tom,” “Dick,” and “Harry.”Marsh swallowed as his eyes roved up the side ofthe great vessel, part of a project that had cost millionsto perfect and was as high as a four-storybuilding.     The gigantic base, “Big Tom,” was the sectionthat would have the hardest job to do, that ofthrusting the rocket through the densest part of theatmosphere, and this was a great deal larger thanthe other sections. Marsh knew that most of theship’s bulk was made up of the propellant fuel ofhydrazine hydrate and its oxidizer, nitric acid.     “We’re going into that blockhouse over there,”Colonel Tregasker said. “You’ll don your space gearin there.”     First a multitude of gadgets with wires were fastenedto the cadet’s wrists, ankles, nose, and head.Marsh knew this to be one of the most importantphases of the flight—to find out a man’s reaction tospace flight under actual rocketing conditions. Eachwire would telemeter certain information by radioback to the airport. After a tight inner G suit hadbeen put on to prevent blackout, the plastic andrubber outer garment was zipped up around Marsh,and then he was ready except for his helmet, whichwould not be donned until later.   18    Marsh and the colonel went back outside. Theopen-cage elevator was lowered from the top of thebig latticed platform that surrounded the rocket.The two got into the cage, and it rose with them.Marsh had lost most of his anxiety and tensionduring the activities of the day, but his knees feltrubbery in these final moments as the elevator carriedhim high above the noisy confusion of the airport.      This was it.       As they stepped from the cage onto the platformof the third stage, Marsh heard the speaker belowcall out: “X minus twenty minutes.”     There were eleven engineers and workmen onthe platform readying the compartment that Marshwould occupy. Marsh suddenly felt helpless andalone as he faced the small chamber that mightvery well be his death cell. Its intricate dials andwires were staggering in their complexity.     Marsh turned and shook hands with Colonel Tregasker.“Good-by, sir,” he said in a quavering voice.“I hope I remember everything the Corps taughtme.” He tried to smile, but his facial musclestwitched uncontrollably.     “Good luck, son—lots of it,” the officer saidhuskily. Suddenly he leaned forward and embracedthe youth with a firm, fatherly hug. “This is notregulations,” he mumbled gruffly, “but hang regulations!”He turned quickly and asked to be carrieddown to the ground.     A man brought Marsh’s helmet and placed itover his head, then clamped it to the suit. Knobson the suit were twisted, and Marsh felt a warm,pressurized helium-oxygen mixture fill his suit andheadpiece.   19    Marsh stepped through the hatch into the smallcompartment. He reclined in the soft contourchair, and the straps were fastened by one of theengineers over his chest, waist, and legs. The wiresconnected to various parts of his body had beenbrought together into a single unit in the helmet.A wire cable leading from the panel was pluggedinto the outside of the helmet to complete the circuit.     Final tests were run off to make sure everythingwas in proper working order, including the two-wayshort-wave radio that would have to penetrate theelectrical ocean of the ionosphere. Then the double-hatchair lock was closed. Through his helmet receiver,Marsh could hear the final minutes and secondsbeing called off from inside the blockhouse.     “Everything O.K.?” Marsh was asked by someoneon the platform.     “Yes, sir,” Marsh replied.     “Then you’re on your own,” were the final ominouswords.     “X minus five minutes,” called the speaker.   20    It was the longest five minutes that Marsh couldremember. He was painfully aware of his crampedquarters. He thought of the tons of explosive beneathhim that presently would literally blow himsky-high. And he thought of the millions of peoplethe world over who, at this moment, were hoveringat radios and TV’s anxiously awaiting the dawn ofthe space age. Finally he thought of Dad and Mom,lost in that multitude of night watchers, and amongthe few who were not primarily concerned with thescientific aspect of the experiment. He wondered ifhe would ever see them again.     “X minus sixty seconds!”     Marsh knew that a warning flare was being sentup, to be followed by a whistle and a cloud ofsmoke from one of the blockhouses. As he felt feartrying to master him, he began reviewing all thethings he must remember and, above all, what todo in an emergency.     “X minus ten seconds—five—four—three—two—one—FIRE!”     There was a mighty explosion at Skyharbor.     The initial jolt which Marsh felt was much fiercerthan the gradually built up speed of the whirlingcentrifuge in training. He was crushed deeply intohis contour chair. It felt as though someone werepressing on his eyeballs; indeed, as if every organ inhis body were clinging to his backbone. But thesefirst moments would be the worst. A gauge showeda force of 7 G’s on him—equal to half a ton.     He watched the Mach numbers rise on the dialin front of his eyes on an overhead panel. EachMach number represented that much times thespeed of sound, 1,090 feet per second, 740 miles anhour.     Marsh knew “Big Tom” would blast for about aminute and a half under control of the automaticpilot, at which time it would drop free at an altitudeof twenty-five miles and sink Earthward in ametal mesh ’chute.   21    Marsh’s hurting eyes flicked to the outside temperaturegauge. It was on a steady 67 degrees belowzero Fahrenheit, and would be until he reachedtwenty miles. A reflecting prism gave him a squareof view of the sky outside. The clear deep blue ofthe cloud-free stratosphere met his eyes.     Mach 5, Mach 6, Mach 7 passed very quickly. Heheard a rumble and felt a jerk. “Big Tom” wasbreaking free. The first hurdle had been successfullyovercome, and the ship had already begun tiltinginto its trajectory.     There was a new surge of agony on his body asthe second stage picked up the acceleration at aforce of 7 G’s again. Marsh clamped his jaws as theforce pulled his lips back from his teeth anddragged his cheek muscles down. The Mach numberscontinued to rise—11, 12, 13—to altitude 200miles, the outer fringe of the earth’s atmosphere.There was a slight lifting of the pressure on hisbody. The rocket was still in the stratosphere, butthe sky was getting purple.     Mach 14—10,000 miles an hour.     “Dick” would jettison any moment. Marsh hadbeen aloft only about four minutes, but it hadseemed an age, every tortured second of it.   22    There was another rumble as the second stagebroke free. Marsh felt a new surge directly beneathhim as his own occupied section, “Harry,” beganblasting. It was comforting to realize he had successfullyweathered those tons of exploding hydrazineand acid that could have reduced him to nothingif something had gone wrong. Although hisspeed was still building up, the weight on himbegan to ease steadily as his body’s inertia finallyyielded to the sickeningly swift acceleration.     The speedometer needle climbed to Mach 21, thepeak velocity of the rocket, 16,000 miles per hour.His altitude was 350 miles—man’s highest ascent.Slowly then, the speedometer began to drop back.Marsh heard the turbo pumps and jets go silent asthe “lift” fuel was spent and rocket “Harry” beganits free-flight orbit around Earth.     The ship had reached a speed which exactlycounterbalanced the pull of gravity, and it could,theoretically, travel this way forever, provided noother outside force acted upon it. The effect onMarsh now was as if he had stopped moving. Relievedof the viselike pressure, his stomach andchest for a few seconds felt like inflated balloons.     “Cadet Farnsworth,” the voice of General Forsythespoke into his helmet receiver, “are you allright?”     “Yes, sir,” Marsh replied. “That is, I think so.”     It was good to hear a human voice again, somethingto hold onto in this crazy unreal world intowhich he had been hurtled.     “We’re getting the electronic readings from yourgauges O.K.,” the voice went on. “The doctor saysyour pulse is satisfactory under the circumstances.”     It was queer having your pulse read from 350miles up in the air.   23    Marsh realized, of course, that he was not trulyin the “air.” A glance at his air-pressure gauge confirmedthis. He was virtually in a vacuum. The temperatureand wind velocity outside might have astoundedhim if he were not prepared for the readings.The heat was over 2000 degrees Fahrenheit,and the wind velocity was of hurricane force! Butthese figures meant nothing because of the sparsenessof air molecules. Temperature and wind appliedonly to the individual particles, which werethousands of feet apart.     “How is your cosmic-ray count?” asked the general.     Marsh checked the C-ray counter on the panelfrom which clicking sounds were coming. “It’s low,sir. Nothing to worry about.”     Cosmic rays, the most powerful emanationsknown, were the only radiation in space that couldnot be protected against. But in small doses theyhad been found not to be dangerous.     “As soon as our recorders get more of the figuresyour telemeter is giving us,” the operations chiefsaid, “you can leave the rocket.”     When Marsh got the O.K. a few minutes later,he eagerly unstrapped the belts around his body.He could hardly contain his excitement at beingthe first person to view the globe of Earth fromspace. As he struggled to his feet, the lightness ofzero gravity made him momentarily giddy, and ittook some minutes for him to adjust to the terriblystrange sensation.   24    He had disconnected the cable leading from hishelmet to the ship’s transmitter and switched onthe ship’s fast-lens movie camera that would photographthe area covered by “Harry.” Then he wasready to go outside. He pressed a button on thewall, and the first air-lock hatch opened. He floatedinto the narrow alcove and closed the door in thecramped chamber behind him. He watched agauge, and when it showed normal pressure andtemperature again, he opened the outside hatch,closing it behind him. Had Marsh permitted thevacuum of space to contact the interior of theship’s quarters, delicate instruments would havebeen ruined by the sudden decompression and lossof heat. Marsh fastened his safety line to the shipso that there was no chance of his becoming separatedfrom it.     Then he looked “downward,” to experience thethrill of his life. Like a gigantic relief map, thepanorama of Earth stretched across his vision. Adowny blanket of gray atmosphere spread over thewhole of it, and patches of clouds were seen floatinglike phantom shapes beneath the clear vastnessof the stratosphere. It was a stunning sight forMarsh, seeing the pinpoint lights of the night citiesextending from horizon to horizon. It gave himan exhilarating feeling of being a king over it all.   25    Earth appeared to be rotating, but Marsh knewit was largely his own and the rocket’s fast speedthat was responsible for the illusion. As he hungin this region of the exosphere, he was thankful forhis cadet training in zero gravity. A special machine,developed only in recent years, simulatedthe weightlessness of space and trained the cadetsfor endurance in such artificial conditions.     “Describe some of the things you see, Marshall,”General Forsythe said over Marsh’s helmet receiver.“I’ve just cut in a recorder.”     “It’s a scene almost beyond description, sir,”Marsh said into the helmet mike. “The sky isthickly powdered with stars. The Milky Way is verydistinct, and I can make out lots of fuzzy spots thatmust be star clusters and nebulae and comets. Marsis like an extremely bright taillight, and the moonis so strong it hurts my eyes as much as the directsun does on earth.”     Marsh saw a faintly luminous blur pass beyondthe ship. It had been almost too sudden to catch.He believed it to be a meteor diving Earthward ata speed around forty-five miles a second. He reportedthis to the general.     As he brought his eyes down from the more distantfixtures of space to those closer by on Earth, astrange thing happened. He was suddenly seizedwith a fear of falling, although his zero-gravitytraining had been intended to prepare him againstthis very thing. A cold sweat come out over hisbody, and an uncontrollable panic threatened totake hold of him.   26    He made a sudden movement as though to catchhimself. Forgetting the magnification of motion infrictionless space and his own weightlessness, hewas shot quickly to the end of his safety line like acracked whip. His body jerked at the taut end andthen sped swiftly back in reaction toward the ship,head foremost. A collision could crack his helmet,exposing his body to decompression, causing himto swell like a balloon and finally explode.     In the grip of numbing fear, only at the last momentdid he have the presence of mind to fliphis body in a half-cartwheel and bring his boots upin front of him for protection. His feet bumpedagainst the rocket’s side, and the motion sent himhurtling back out to the end of the safety lineagain. This back-and-forth action occurred severaltimes before he could stop completely.     “I’ve got to be careful,” he panted to himself,as he thought of how close his space career hadcome to being ended scarcely before it had begun.     General Forsythe cut in with great concern, wonderingwhat had happened. When Marsh had explainedand the general seemed satisfied that Marshhad recovered himself, he had Marsh go on with hisdescription.     His senseless fear having gone now, Marsh lookeddown calmly, entranced as the features of theUnited States passed below his gaze. He named thecities he could identify, also the mountain ranges,lakes, and rivers, explaining just how they lookedfrom 350 miles up. In only a fraction of an hour’stime, the rocket had traversed the entire countryand was approaching the twinkling phosphorescenceof the Atlantic.   27    Marsh asked if “Tom” and “Dick” had landedsafely.     “‘Tom’ landed near Roswell, New Mexico,” GeneralForsythe told him, “and the ’chute of the secondsection has been reported seen north of Dallas.I think you’d better start back now, Marshall. It’lltake us many months to analyze all the informationwe’ve gotten. We can’t contact you very well on theother side of the world either, and thirdly, I don’twant you exposed to the sun’s rays outside theatmosphere in the Eastern Hemisphere any longerthan can be helped.”     Marsh tugged carefully on his safety line andfloated slowly back toward the ship. He enteredthe air lock. Then, inside, he raised the angle of hiscontour chair to upright position, facing the consoleof the ship’s manual controls for the glideEarthward. He plugged in his telemeter helmetcable and buckled one of the straps across his waist.     Since he was still moving at many thousands ofmiles an hour, it would be suicide to plungestraight downward. He and the glider would beturned into a meteoric torch. Rather, he wouldhave to spend considerable time soaring in and outof the atmosphere in braking ellipses until hereached much lower speed. Then the Earth’s gravitationalpull would do the rest.   28    This was going to be the trickiest part of the operation,and the most dangerous. Where before,Marsh had depended on automatic controls toguide him, now much of the responsibility was onhis own judgment. He remembered the manyhours he had sweated through to log his flyingtime. Now he could look back on that period in histraining and thank his lucky stars for it.     He took the manual controls and angled into theatmosphere. He carefully watched the AHF dial—theatmospheric heat friction gauge. When he hadneared the dangerous incendiary point, with theship having literally become red-hot, he soared intothe frictionless vacuum again. He had to keep thisup a long time in order to reduce his devastatingspeed.     It was something of a shock to him to leave theblack midnight of Earth’s slumbering side for thebrilliant hemisphere where the people of Europeand Asia were going about their daytime tasks. Hewould have liked to study this other half of theworld which he had glimpsed only a few times beforein his supersonic test flights, but he knew thiswould have to wait for future flights.     Finally, after a long time, his velocity was slowedenough so that the tug of gravity was stronger thanthe rocket’s ability to pull up out of the atmosphere.At this point, Marsh cut in “Harry’s” forwardbraking jets to check his falling speed.     “There’s something else to worry about,” hethought to himself. “Will old Harry hold togetheror will he fly apart in the crushing atmosphere?”   29    The directional radio signals from the powerfulSkyharbor transmitter were growing stronger asMarsh neared the shores of California. He couldsee the winking lights of San Diego and LosAngeles, and farther inland the swinging threadthat was the beacon at Skyharbor. All planes in hispath of flight had been grounded for the past fewhours because of the space flight. The only groundlight scanning the skies was the gigantic space beaconin Phoenix.     When Marsh reached Arizona, he began spiralingdownward over the state to kill the rest of hisaltitude and air speed. Even now the plane was ahurtling supersonic metal sliver streaking throughthe night skies like a comet. He topped the snow-cappedsummits of the towering San FranciscoPeaks on the drive southward, and he recognizedthe sprawling serpent of the Grand Canyon. Thenhe was in the lower desert regions of moon-splashedsand and cactus. Although the fire-hot temperatureof the outer skin had subsided, there had been damagedone to the walls and instruments, and possiblyto other parts, too. Marsh was worried lest his outsidecontrols might be too warped to give him agood touchdown, if indeed he could get down safelyat all.     A few thousand feet up, Marsh lowered his landinggear. Now the only problem left was to landhimself and the valuable ship safely inside the narrowparallels of the airstrip. He circled the airportseveral times as his altitude continued to plummet.   30    The meter fell rapidly. His braking rocket fuelwas gone now. From here on in, he would be ongliding power alone.     “Easy does it, Marshall,” the general said quietlyinto his ear. “You’re lining up fine. Level it out alittle and keep straight with the approach lights.That’s fine. You’re just about in.”     The lights of the airport seeming to rush up athim, Marsh felt a jolt as the wheels touched groundon the west end of the runway. He kept the shipsteady as it scurried along the smooth asphalt, losingthe last of its once tremendous velocity. Theplane hit the restraining wire across the strip andcame to a sudden stop, shoving Marsh hard againstthe single safety belt he wore. Finally, incredibly,the ship was still and he was safe.     He unfastened his strap and removed his spacehelmet. The heat of the compartment brought thesweat out on his face. He rose on wobbly legs andpressed the buttons to the hatches. The last doorflew open to admit the cool, bracing air of Earthwhich he had wondered if he would ever inhaleagain.     His aloneness was over then, suddenly and boisterously,as men swarmed over him with congratulations,eager questions, and looks of respect. Reporters’flash bulbs popped, and he felt like a newLindbergh as he was pulled down to the groundand mobbed. Finally the police came to his rescueand pushed back the curiosity seekers and newspapermen.Then only three men were allowedthrough the cordon.  ","Being the first man to go to space is a task of extreme responsibility. For years, the flight was worked through to make it as safe and well-organized as possible. Due to the need to choose only one man, long training and checkouts took place, and Marsh was decided to be the best. His success is the reason his friends are not able to go and their years of training were in vain. The generals and other higher standing participants trained and chose Marsh, so he has to meet their expectations. The whole globe is watching him with interest and attention, which is an additional pressure. He has to complete the mission successfully, because he was chosen and he can’t fail, he needs to be brave, calm and concentrated. Moreover, he is responsible before his parents to come back, not to make them lose their only son. Detailed instructions were given to him and failing to follow them means proving not good enough. This flight was prepared for too long, and if he fails, he moves the exploration years back. Understanding all of that, Marsh tries to calm him down every time and reminds himself of what has to be done. He does everything with caution, and when he loses control in space, he rapidly recovers and reminds himself to be careful. Under the burden of this responsibility, Marsh doesn’t let himself to get nervous. "
"What is the plot of the story? </s>     Yesterday House     By FRITZ LEIBER     Illustrated by ASHMAN     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction August 1952.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        Meeting someone who's been dead for twenty       years is shocking enough for anyone with a       belief in ghosts—worse for one with none!        I     The narrow cove was quiet as the face of an expectant child, yet sonear the ruffled Atlantic that the last push of wind carried the      AnnieO.     its full length. The man in gray flannels and sweatshirt let thesail come crumpling down and hurried past its white folds at a gaitmade comically awkward by his cramped muscles. Slowly the rocky ledgecame nearer. Slowly the blue V inscribed on the cove's surface by thesloop's prow died. Sloop and ledge kissed so gently that he hardly hadto reach out his hand.     He scrambled ashore, dipping a sneaker in the icy water, and threw theline around a boulder. Unkinking himself, he looked back through thecove's high and rocky mouth at the gray-green scattering of islandsand the faint dark line that was the coast of Maine. He almost laughedin satisfaction at having disregarded vague warnings and done the thingevery man yearns to do once in his lifetime—gone to the farthestisland out.     He must have looked longer than he realized, because by the time hedropped his gaze the cove was again as glassy as if the      Annie O.     hadalways been there. And the splotches made by his sneaker on the rockhad faded in the hot sun. There was something very unusual about thequietness of this place. As if time, elsewhere hurrying frantically,paused here to rest. As if all changes were erased on this one bit ofEarth.     The man's lean, melancholy face crinkled into a grin at the banalfancy. He turned his back on his new friend, the little green sloop,without one thought for his nets and specimen bottles, and set out toexplore. The ground rose steeply at first and the oaks were close, butafter a little way things went downhill and the leaves thinned and hecame out on more rocks—and realized that he hadn't quite gone to thefarthest one out.  Joined to this island by a rocky spine, which at the present low tidewould have been dry but for the spray, was another green, high islandthat the first had masked from him all the while he had been sailing.He felt a thrill of discovery, just as he'd wondered back in the woodswhether his might not be the first human feet to kick through theunderbrush. After all, there were thousands of these islands.     Then he was dropping down the rocks, his lanky limbs now movingsmoothly enough.     To the landward side of the spine, the water was fairly still. It evenbegan with another deep cove, in which he glimpsed the spiny spheresof sea urchins. But from seaward the waves chopped in, sprinkling histrousers to the knees and making him wince pleasurably at the thoughtof what vast wings of spray and towers of solid water must crash upfrom here in a storm.     He crossed the rocks at a trot, ran up a short grassy slope, racedthrough a fringe of trees—and came straight up against an eight-footfence of heavy mesh topped with barbed wire and backed at a shortdistance with high, heavy shrubbery.     Without pausing for surprise—in fact, in his holiday mood, usingsurprise as a goad—he jumped for the branch of an oak whose trunktouched the fence, scorning the easier lower branch on the other sideof the tree. Then he drew himself up, worked his way to some higherbranches that crossed the fence, and dropped down inside.     Suddenly cautious, he gently parted the shrubbery and, before the firstsurprise could really sink in, had another.       A closely mown lawn dotted with more shrubbery ran up to a snug whiteCape Cod cottage. The single strand of a radio aerial stretched thelength of the roof. Parked on a neat gravel driveway that crossed justin front of the cottage was a short, square-lined touring car that herecognized from remembered pictures as an ancient Essex. The wholescene had about it the same odd quietness as the cove.     Then, with the air of a clock-work toy coming to life, the white dooropened and an elderly woman came out, dressed in a long, lace-edgeddress and wide, lacy hat. She climbed into the driver's seat of theEssex, sitting there very stiff and tall. The motor began to chugbravely, gravel skittered, and the car rolled off between the trees.     The door of the house opened again and a slim girl emerged. She wore awhite silk dress that fell straight from square neck-line to hip-heightwaistline, making the skirt seem very short. Her dark hair was boundwith a white bandeau so that it curved close to her cheeks. A darknecklace dangled against the white of the dress. A newspaper was tuckedunder her arm.     She crossed the driveway and tossed the paper down on a rattan tablebetween three rattan chairs and stood watching a squirrel zigzag acrossthe lawn.  The man stepped through the wall of shrubbery, called, hello! andwalked toward her.     She whirled around and stared at him as still as if her heart hadstopped beating. Then she darted behind the table and waited for himthere. Granting the surprise of his appearance, her alarm seemed notso much excessive as eerie. As if, the man thought, he were not anordinary stranger, but a visitor from another planet.     Approaching closer, he saw that she was trembling and that her breathwas coming in rapid, irregular gasps. Yet the slim, sweet, patricianface that stared into his had an underlying expression of expectancythat reminded him of the cove. She couldn't have been more thaneighteen.     He stopped short of the table. Before he could speak, she stammeredout, Are you he?     What do you mean? he asked, smiling puzzledly.     The one who sends me the little boxes.     I was out sailing and I happened to land in the far cove. I didn'tdream that anyone lived on this island, or even came here.     No one ever does come here, she replied. Her manner had changed,becoming at once more wary and less agitated, though still eerilycurious.     It startled me tremendously to find this place, he blundered on.Especially the road and the car. Why, this island can't be more than aquarter of a mile wide.     The road goes down to the wharf, she explained, and up to the top ofthe island, where my aunts have a tree-house.     He tore his mind away from the picture of a woman dressed like QueenMary clambering up a tree. Was that your aunt I saw driving off?     One of them. The other's taken the motorboat in for supplies. Shelooked at him doubtfully. I'm not sure they'll like it if they findsomeone here.     There are just the three of you? he cut in quickly, looking down theempty road that vanished among the oaks.     She nodded.     I suppose you go in to the mainland with your aunts quite often?     She shook her head.     It must get pretty dull for you.     Not very, she said, smiling. My aunts bring me the papers and otherthings. Even movies. We've got a projector. My favorite stars areAntonio Morino and Alice Terry. I like her better even than Clara Bow.     He looked at her hard for a moment. I suppose you read a lot?     She nodded. Fitzgerald's my favorite author. She started around thetable, hesitated, suddenly grew shy. Would you like some lemonade?  He'd noticed the dewed silver pitcher, but only now realized histhirst. Yet when she handed him a glass, he held it untasted and saidawkwardly, I haven't introduced myself. I'm Jack Barry.     She stared at his outstretched right hand, slowly extended her owntoward it, shook it up and down exactly once, then quickly dropped it.     He chuckled and gulped some lemonade. I'm a biology student. Beenworking at Wood's Hole the first part of the summer. But now I'm hereto do research in marine ecology—that's sort of sea-life patterns—ofthe in-shore islands. Under the direction of Professor Kesserich. Youknow about him, of course?     She shook her head.     Probably the greatest living biologist, he was proud to informher. Human physiology as well. Tremendous geneticist. In a classwith Carlson and Jacques Loeb. Martin Kesserich—he lives over thereat town. I'm staying with him. You ought to have heard of him. Hegrinned. Matter of fact, I'd never have met you if it hadn't been forMrs. Kesserich.     The girl looked puzzled.     Jack explained, The old boy's been off to Europe on some conferences,won't be back for a couple days more. But I was to get started anyhow.When I went out this morning Mrs. Kesserich—she's a drab sort ofperson—said to me, 'Don't try to sail to the farther islands.' So, ofcourse, I had to. By the way, you still haven't told me your name.     Mary Alice Pope, she said, speaking slowly and with an odd wonder, asif she were saying it for the first time.     You're pretty shy, aren't you?     How would I know?     The question stopped Jack. He couldn't think of anything to say to thisstrangely attractive girl dressed almost like a flapper.     Will you sit down? she asked him gravely.     The rattan chair sighed under his weight. He made another effort totalk. I'll bet you'll be glad when summer's over.     Why?     So you'll be able to go back to the mainland.     But I never go to the mainland.     You mean you stay out here all winter? he asked incredulously, hismind filled with a vision of snow and frozen spray and great gray waves.     Oh, yes. We get all our supplies on hand before winter. My aunts arevery capable. They don't always wear long lace dresses. And now I helpthem.     But that's impossible! he said with sudden sympathetic anger. Youcan't be shut off this way from people your own age!     You're the first one I ever met. She hesitated. I never saw a boy ora man before, except in movies.     You're joking!     No, it's true.     But why are they doing it to you? he demanded, leaning forward. Whyare they inflicting this loneliness on you, Mary?  She seemed to have gained poise from his loss of it. I don't knowwhy. I'm to find out soon. But actually I'm not lonely. May I tellyou a secret? She touched his hand, this time with only the faintesttrembling. Every night the loneliness gathers in around me—you'reright about that. But then every morning new life comes to me in alittle box.     What's that? he said sharply.     Sometimes there's a poem in the box, sometimes a book, or pictures,or flowers, or a ring, but always a note. Next to the notes I like thepoems best. My favorite is the one by Matthew Arnold that ends,   'Ah, love, let us be true To one another! for the world, which seems To lie before us like a land of dreams, So various, so beautiful, so new, Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light, Nor certitude—'    Wait a minute, he interrupted. Who sends you these boxes?     I don't know.     But how are the notes signed?     They're wonderful notes, she said. So wise, so gay, so tender, you'dimagine them being written by John Barrymore or Lindbergh.     Yes, but how are they signed?     She hesitated. Never anything but 'Your Lover.'     And so when you first saw me, you thought— He began, then stoppedbecause she was blushing.     How long have you been getting them?     Ever since I can remember. I have two closets of the boxes. The newones are either by my bed when I wake or at my place at breakfast.     But how does this—person get these boxes to you out here? Does hegive them to your aunts and do they put them there?     I'm not sure.     But how can they get them in winter?     I don't know.     Look here, he said, pouring himself more lemonade, how long is itsince you've been to the mainland?     Almost eighteen years. My aunts tell me I was born there in the middleof the war.     What war? he asked startledly, spilling some lemonade.     The World War, of course. What's the matter?     Jack Barr was staring down at the spilled lemonade and feeling a kindof terror he'd never experienced in his waking life. Nothing around himhad changed. He could still feel the same hot sun on his shoulders,the same icy glass in his hand, scent the same lemon-acid odor in hisnostrils. He could still hear the faint      chop-chop     of the waves.     And yet everything had changed, gone dark and dizzy as a landscapeglimpsed just before a faint. All the little false notes had come toa sudden focus. For the lemonade had spilled on the headline of thenewspaper the girl had tossed down, and the headline read:     HITLER IN NEW DEFIANCE     Under the big black banner of that head swam smaller ones:     Foes of Machado Riot in Havana     Big NRA Parade Planned     Balbo Speaks in New York  Suddenly he felt a surge of relief. He had noticed that the paper wasyellow and brittle-edged.     Why are you so interested in old newspapers? he asked.     I wouldn't call day-before-yesterday's paper old, the girl objected,pointing at the dateline: July 20, 1933.     You're trying to joke, Jack told her.     No, I'm not.     But it's 1953.     Now it's you who are joking.     But the paper's yellow.     The paper's always yellow.     He laughed uneasily. Well, if you actually think it's 1933, perhapsyou're to be envied, he said, with a sardonic humor he didn't quitefeel. Then you can't know anything about the Second World War, ortelevision, or the V-2s, or Bikini bathing suits, or the atomic bomb,or—     Stop! She had sprung up and retreated around her chair, white-faced.I don't like what you're saying.     But—     No, please! Jokes that may be quite harmless on the mainland sounddifferent here.     I'm really not joking, he said after a moment.     She grew quite frantic at that. I can show you all last week's papers!I can show you magazines and other things. I can prove it!     She started toward the house. He followed. He felt his heart begin topound.     At the white door she paused, looking worriedly down the road. Jackthought he could hear the faint      chug     of a motorboat. She pushed openthe door and he followed her inside. The small-windowed room was darkafter the sunlight. Jack got an impression of solid old furniture, afireplace with brass andirons.     Flash! croaked a gritty voice. After their disastrous break daybefore yesterday, stocks are recovering. Leading issues....     Jack realized that he had started and had involuntarily put his armaround the girl's shoulders. At the same time he noticed that the voicewas coming from the curved brown trumpet of an old-fashioned radioloudspeaker.     The girl didn't pull away from him. He turned toward her. Although hergray eyes were on him, her attention had gone elsewhere.     I can hear the car. They're coming back. They won't like it thatyou're here.     All right they won't like it.     Her agitation grew. No, you must go.     I'll come back tomorrow, he heard himself saying.     Flash! It looks as if the World Economic Conference may soon adjourn,mouthing jeers at old Uncle Sam who is generally referred to as UncleShylock.     Jack felt a numbness on his neck. The room seemed to be darkening, thegirl growing stranger still.     You must go before they see you.     Flash! Wiley Post has just completed his solo circuit of the Globe,after a record-breaking flight of 7 days, 18 hours and 45 minutes.Asked how he felt after the energy-draining feat, Post quipped....  He was halfway across the lawn before he realized the terror into whichthe grating radio voice had thrown him.     He leaped for the branch over-hanging the fence, vaulted up with therisky help of a foot on the barbed top. A surprised squirrel, lackingtime to make its escape up the trunk, sprang to the ground ahead ofhim. With terrible suddenness, two steel-jawed semicircles clankedtogether just over the squirrel's head. Jack landed with one foot toeither side of the sprung trap, while the squirrel darted off with asqueak.     Jack plunged down the slope to the rocky spine and ran across it, sprayfrom the rising waves spattering him to the waist. Panting now, hestumbled up into the oaks and undergrowth of the first island, foughthis way through it, finally reached the silent cove. He loosed the lineof the      Annie O.     , dragged it as near to the cove's mouth as he could,plunged knee-deep in freezing water to give it a final shove, scrambledaboard, snatched up the boathook and punched at the rocks.     As soon as the      Annie O.     was nosing out of the cove into the crosswaves, he yanked up the sail. The freshening wind filled it and sentthe sloop heeling over, with inches of white water over the lee rail,and plunging ahead.     For a long while, Jack was satisfied to think of nothing but the windand the waves and the sail and speed and danger, to have all hisattention taken up balancing one against the other, so that he wouldn'thave to ask himself what year it was and whether time was an illusion,and wonder about flappers and hidden traps.     When he finally looked back at the island, he was amazed to see howtiny it had grown, as distant as the mainland.     Then he saw a gray motorboat astern. He watched it as it slowlyovertook him. It was built like a lifeboat, with a sturdy low cabin inthe bow and wheel amidship. Whoever was at the wheel had long gray hairthat whipped in the wind. The longer he looked, the surer he was thatit was a woman wearing a lace dress. Something that stuck up inchesover the cabin flashed darkly beside her. Only when she lifted it tothe roof of the cabin did it occur to him that it might be a rifle.     But just then the motorboat swung around in a turn that sent wavesdrenching over it, and headed back toward the island. He watched it fora minute in wonder, then his attention was jolted by an angry hail.     Three fishing smacks, also headed toward town, were about to crosshis bow. He came around into the wind and waited with shaking sail,watching a man in a lumpy sweater shake a fist at him. Then he turnedand gratefully followed the dark, wide, fanlike sterns and age-yellowedsails.  II     The exterior of Martin Kesserich's home—a weathered white cube withnarrow, sharp-paned windows, topped by a cupola—was nothing like itslavish interior.     In much the same way, Mrs. Kesserich clashed with the darkly gleamingfurniture, persian rugs and bronze vases around her. Her shapelessblack form, poised awkwardly on the edge of a huge sofa, made Jackthink of a cow that had strayed into the drawing room. He wonderedagain how a man like Kesserich had come to marry such a creature.     Yet when she lifted up her little eyes from the shadows, he had theuneasy feeling that she knew a great deal about him. The eyes werestill those of a domestic animal, but of a wise one that has beenwatching the house a long, long while from the barnyard.       He asked abruptly, Do you know anything of a girl around here namedMary Alice Pope?     The silence lasted so long that he began to think she'd gone into somebovine trance. Then, without a word, she got up and went over to a tallcabinet. Feeling on a ledge behind it for a key, she opened a panel,opened a cardboard box inside it, took something from the box andhanded him a photograph. He held it up to the failing light and suckedin his breath with surprise.     It was a picture of the girl he'd met that afternoon. Sameflat-bosomed dress—flowered rather than white—no bandeau, same beads.Same proud, demure expression, perhaps a bit happier.     That is Mary Alice Pope, Mrs. Kesserich said in a strangely flatvoice. She was Martin's fiancee. She was killed in a railway accidentin 1933.     The small sound of the cabinet door closing brought Jack back toreality. He realized that he no longer had the photograph. Against thegloom by the cabinet, Mrs. Kesserich's white face looked at him withwhat seemed a malicious eagerness.     Sit down, she said, and I'll tell you about it.     Without a thought as to why she hadn't asked him a single question—hewas much too dazed for that—he obeyed. Mrs. Kesserich resumed herposition on the edge of the sofa.     You must understand, Mr. Barr, that Mary Alice Pope was the one loveof Martin's life. He is a man of very deep and strong feelings, yet asyou probably know, anything but kindly or demonstrative. Even when hefirst came here from Hungary with his older sisters Hani and Hilda,there was a cloak of loneliness about him—or rather about the three ofthem.     Hani and Hilda were athletic outdoor women, yet fiercely proud—Idon't imagine they ever spoke to anyone in America except as to aservant—and with a seething distaste for all men except Martin. Theyshowered all their devotion on him. So of course, though Martin didn'trealize it, they were consumed with jealousy when he fell in love withMary Alice Pope. They'd thought that since he'd reached forty withoutmarrying, he was safe.     Mary Alice came from a pure-bred, or as a biologist would say, inbredBritish stock. She was very young, but very sweet, and up to a pointvery wise. She sensed Hani and Hilda's feelings right away and dideverything she could to win them over. For instance, though she wasafraid of horses, she took up horseback riding, because that was Haniand Hilda's favorite pastime. Naturally, Martin knew nothing of herfear, and naturally his sisters knew about it from the first. But—andhere is where Mary's wisdom fell short—her brave gesture did notpacify them: it only increased their hatred.     Except for his research, Martin was blind to everything but his love.It was a beautiful and yet frightening passion, an insane cherishing asnarrow and intense as his sisters hatred.  With a start, Jack remembered that it was Mrs. Kesserich telling himall this.     She went on, Martin's love directed his every move. He was building ahome for himself and Mary, and in his mind he was building a wonderfulfuture for them as well—not vaguely, if you know Martin, but year byyear, month by month. This winter, he'd plan, they would visit BuenosAires, next summer they would sail down the inland passage and he wouldteach Mary Hungarian for their trip to Buda-Pesth the year after, wherehe would occupy a chair at the university for a few months ... and soon. Finally the time for their marriage drew near. Martin had beenaway. His research was keeping him very busy—     Jack broke in with, Wasn't that about the time he did his definitivework on growth and fertilization?     Mrs. Kesserich nodded with solemn appreciation in the gatheringdarkness. But now he was coming home, his work done. It was earlyevening, very chilly, but Hani and Hilda felt they had to ride down tothe station to meet their brother. And although she dreaded it, Maryrode with them, for she knew how delighted he would be at her canteringto the puffing train and his running up to lift her down from thesaddle to welcome him home.     Of course there was Martin's luggage to be considered, so the stationwagon had to be sent down for that. She looked defiantly at Jack. Idrove the station wagon. I was Martin's laboratory assistant.     She paused. It was almost dark, but there was still a white coldline of sky to the west. Hani and Hilda, with Mary between them, werewaiting on their horses at the top of the hill that led down to thestation. The train had whistled and its headlight was graying thegravel of the crossing.     Suddenly Mary's horse squealed and plunged down the hill. Hani andHilda followed—to try to catch her, they said, but they didn't managethat, only kept her horse from veering off. Mary never screamed, but asher horse reared on the tracks, I saw her face in the headlight's glare.     Martin must have guessed, or at least feared what had happened, for hewas out of the train and running along the track before it stopped. Infact, he was the first to kneel down beside Mary—I mean, what had beenMary—and was holding her all bloody and shattered in his arms.     A door slammed. There were steps in the hall. Mrs. Kesserich stiffenedand was silent. Jack turned.     The blur of a face hung in the doorway to the hall—a seemingly young,sensitive, suavely handsome face with aristocratic jaw. Then there wasa click and the lights flared up and Jack saw the close-cropped grayhair and the lines around the eyes and nostrils, while the sensitivemouth grew sardonic. Yet the handsomeness stayed, and somehow theyouth, too, or at least a tremendous inner vibrancy.     Hello, Barr, Martin Kesserich said, ignoring his wife.     The great biologist had come home.  III     Oh, yes, and Jamieson had a feeble paper on what he calledindividualization in marine worms. Barr, have you ever thought muchabout the larger aspects of the problem of individuality?     Jack jumped slightly. He had let his thoughts wander very far.     Not especially, sir, he mumbled.     The house was still. A few minutes after the professor's arrival,Mrs. Kesserich had gone off with an anxious glance at Jack. He knewwhy and wished he could reassure her that he would not mention theirconversation to the professor.     Kesserich had spent perhaps a half hour briefing him on the moreimportant papers delivered at the conferences. Then, almost as ifit were a teacher's trick to show up a pupil's inattention, he hadsuddenly posed this question about individuality.     You know what I mean, of course, Kesserich pressed. The factors thatmake you you, and me me.     Heredity and environment, Jack parroted like a freshman.     Kesserich nodded. Suppose—this is just speculation—that we couldcontrol heredity and environment. Then we could re-create the sameindividual at will.     Jack felt a shiver go through him. To get exactly the same pattern ofhereditary traits. That'd be far beyond us.     What about identical twins? Kesserich pointed out. And then there'sparthenogenesis to be considered. One might produce a duplicate of themother without the intervention of the male. Although his voice hadgrown more idly speculative, Kesserich seemed to Jack to be smilingsecretly. There are many examples in the lower animal forms, to saynothing of the technique by which Loeb caused a sea urchin to reproducewith no more stimulus than a salt solution.     Jack felt the hair rising on his neck. Even then you wouldn't getexactly the same pattern of hereditary traits.     Not if the parent were of very pure stock? Not if there were somespecial technique for selecting ova that would reproduce all themother's traits?     But environment would change things, Jack objected. The duplicatewould be bound to develop differently.     Is environment so important? Newman tells about a pair of identicaltwins separated from birth, unaware of each other's existence. They metby accident when they were twenty-one. Each was a telephone repairman.Each had a wife the same age. Each had a baby son. And each had a foxterrier called 'Trixie.' That's without trying to make environmentssimilar. But suppose you did try. Suppose you saw to it that each ofthem had exactly the same experiences at the same times....     For a moment it seemed to Jack that the room was dimming and wavering,becoming a dark pool in which the only motionless thing was Kesserich'ssphinx-like face.     Well, we've escaped quite far enough from Jamieson's marine worms,the biologist said, all brisk again. He said it as if Jack were theone who had led the conversation down wild and unprofitable channels.Let's get on to your project. I want to talk it over now, because Iwon't have any time for it tomorrow.     Jack looked at him blankly.     Tomorrow I must attend to a very important matter, the biologistexplained.  IV     Morning sunlight brightened the colors of the wax flowers under glasson the high bureau that always seemed to emit the faint odor of oldhair combings. Jack pulled back the diamond-patterned quilt and blinkedthe sleep from his eyes. He expected his mind to be busy wonderingabout Kesserich and his wife—things said and half said last night—butfound instead that his thoughts swung instantly to Mary Alice Pope, asif to a farthest island in a world of people.     Downstairs, the house was empty. After a long look at the cabinet—hefelt behind it, but the key was gone—he hurried down to thewaterfront. He stopped only for a bowl of chowder and, as anafterthought, to buy half a dozen newspapers.     The sea was bright, the brisk wind just right for the      Annie O.     Therewas eagerness in the way it smacked the sail and in the creak of themast. And when he reached the cove, it was no longer still, but nervouswith faint ripples, as if time had finally begun to stir.     After the same struggle with the underbrush, he came out on the rockyspine and passed the cove of the sea urchins. The spiny creaturesstruck an uncomfortable chord in his memory.     This time he climbed the second island cautiously, scraping theinnocent-seeming ground ahead of him intently with a boathook he'dbrought along for the purpose. He was only a few yards from the fencewhen he saw Mary Alice Pope standing behind it.     He hadn't realized that his heart would begin to pound or that, at thesame time, a shiver of almost supernatural dread would go through him.     The girl eyed him with an uneasy hostility and immediately began tospeak in a hushed, hurried voice. You must go away at once and nevercome back. You're a wicked man, but I don't want you to be hurt. I'vebeen watching for you all morning.     He tossed the newspapers over the fence. You don't have to readthem now, he told her. Just look at the datelines and a few of theheadlines.     When she finally lifted her eyes to his again, she was trembling. Shetried unsuccessfully to speak.     Listen to me, he said. You've been the victim of a scheme to makeyou believe you were born around 1916 instead of 1933, and that it's1933 now instead of 1951. I'm not sure why it's been done, though Ithink I know who you really are.     But, the girl faltered, my aunts tell me it's 1933.     They would.     And there are the papers ... the magazines ... the radio.     The papers are old ones. The radio's faked—some sort of recording. Icould show you if I could get at it.           These     papers might be faked, she said, pointing to where she'd letthem drop on the ground.     They're new, he said. Only old papers get yellow.     But why would they do it to me?      Why?          Come with me to the mainland, Mary. That'll set you straight quickerthan anything.     I couldn't, she said, drawing back. He's coming tonight.     He?     The man who sends me the boxes ... and my life.     Jack shivered. When he spoke, his voice was rough and quick. A lifethat's completely a lie, that's cut you off from the world. Come withme, Mary.  ","Jack Barry is a biology student, who sets sail on his boat ""Annie O"". He has sailed out to the furthest island off the coast of Maine. He gets to the shore and docks his boat. He sets out to explore the island. Once he reaches the summit, he finds that there is another island, connected by a thin line of rocks to the one he is on. He climbs down the slope, onto the rocks and crosses to the other side. He arrives at a gate, which he manages to overcome. Beyond the fence is a cottage, with a lawn. The whole scene is old fashioned and slightly eerie. An elderly woman comes out of the house, gets in an old car and drives away. A pretty girl, dressed like a flapper comes out. Jack walks over to her. She asks if he is the man who sends her little boxes. She tells him she lives here with her aunts. They talk for a while, Jack telling her about his professor "" Martin Kesserich"", whom he's staying with. The girl tells Jack her name is Mary Alice Pope. She says she's never been to the mainland, and that she's never met anyone her own age, let alone a man. She explains to him that every morning she receives a little box with a gift inside, and a note, signed by ""Your Lover"". She tells him she was born in the middle of the first world war, and that the year is 1933. Jack tries to convince her that it is in fact 1951. She doesn't believe him. They hear her aunt's car returning, so Jack leaves, telling her he'll be back tomorrow. He makes his way back to the Annie O. Once at sea, he sees the chug boat of one of Mary Alice's aunts, who points what looks like a rifle at him, before turning away to go back to the island. When Jack returns to his professor's home, he asks Mrs Kesserich about Mary Alice. She informs Jack that Mary Alice was the love of her husband's life, who died in 1933. Martin arrives home, and begins a hypothetical discussion with Jack about the possibility of recreating a human being. If you could take the same DNA as the original, and put the copy in the same circumstances as the one before, they would be the same. He tells Jack that he won't be here the following day. Jack wakes up the next morning and sets off for the little island. He brings with him newspapers from the present day to try and convince Mary Alice the truth, that it is in fact 1951, and not 1933. He tells her that she has been a victim of a conspiracy to make her believe it is a different year. He asks her to come back to the mainland with her. She then tells him that she can't, as the man who sends her the boxes is coming tonight. "
"Describe the setting of the story </s>     Yesterday House     By FRITZ LEIBER     Illustrated by ASHMAN     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction August 1952.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        Meeting someone who's been dead for twenty       years is shocking enough for anyone with a       belief in ghosts—worse for one with none!        I     The narrow cove was quiet as the face of an expectant child, yet sonear the ruffled Atlantic that the last push of wind carried the      AnnieO.     its full length. The man in gray flannels and sweatshirt let thesail come crumpling down and hurried past its white folds at a gaitmade comically awkward by his cramped muscles. Slowly the rocky ledgecame nearer. Slowly the blue V inscribed on the cove's surface by thesloop's prow died. Sloop and ledge kissed so gently that he hardly hadto reach out his hand.     He scrambled ashore, dipping a sneaker in the icy water, and threw theline around a boulder. Unkinking himself, he looked back through thecove's high and rocky mouth at the gray-green scattering of islandsand the faint dark line that was the coast of Maine. He almost laughedin satisfaction at having disregarded vague warnings and done the thingevery man yearns to do once in his lifetime—gone to the farthestisland out.     He must have looked longer than he realized, because by the time hedropped his gaze the cove was again as glassy as if the      Annie O.     hadalways been there. And the splotches made by his sneaker on the rockhad faded in the hot sun. There was something very unusual about thequietness of this place. As if time, elsewhere hurrying frantically,paused here to rest. As if all changes were erased on this one bit ofEarth.     The man's lean, melancholy face crinkled into a grin at the banalfancy. He turned his back on his new friend, the little green sloop,without one thought for his nets and specimen bottles, and set out toexplore. The ground rose steeply at first and the oaks were close, butafter a little way things went downhill and the leaves thinned and hecame out on more rocks—and realized that he hadn't quite gone to thefarthest one out.  Joined to this island by a rocky spine, which at the present low tidewould have been dry but for the spray, was another green, high islandthat the first had masked from him all the while he had been sailing.He felt a thrill of discovery, just as he'd wondered back in the woodswhether his might not be the first human feet to kick through theunderbrush. After all, there were thousands of these islands.     Then he was dropping down the rocks, his lanky limbs now movingsmoothly enough.     To the landward side of the spine, the water was fairly still. It evenbegan with another deep cove, in which he glimpsed the spiny spheresof sea urchins. But from seaward the waves chopped in, sprinkling histrousers to the knees and making him wince pleasurably at the thoughtof what vast wings of spray and towers of solid water must crash upfrom here in a storm.     He crossed the rocks at a trot, ran up a short grassy slope, racedthrough a fringe of trees—and came straight up against an eight-footfence of heavy mesh topped with barbed wire and backed at a shortdistance with high, heavy shrubbery.     Without pausing for surprise—in fact, in his holiday mood, usingsurprise as a goad—he jumped for the branch of an oak whose trunktouched the fence, scorning the easier lower branch on the other sideof the tree. Then he drew himself up, worked his way to some higherbranches that crossed the fence, and dropped down inside.     Suddenly cautious, he gently parted the shrubbery and, before the firstsurprise could really sink in, had another.       A closely mown lawn dotted with more shrubbery ran up to a snug whiteCape Cod cottage. The single strand of a radio aerial stretched thelength of the roof. Parked on a neat gravel driveway that crossed justin front of the cottage was a short, square-lined touring car that herecognized from remembered pictures as an ancient Essex. The wholescene had about it the same odd quietness as the cove.     Then, with the air of a clock-work toy coming to life, the white dooropened and an elderly woman came out, dressed in a long, lace-edgeddress and wide, lacy hat. She climbed into the driver's seat of theEssex, sitting there very stiff and tall. The motor began to chugbravely, gravel skittered, and the car rolled off between the trees.     The door of the house opened again and a slim girl emerged. She wore awhite silk dress that fell straight from square neck-line to hip-heightwaistline, making the skirt seem very short. Her dark hair was boundwith a white bandeau so that it curved close to her cheeks. A darknecklace dangled against the white of the dress. A newspaper was tuckedunder her arm.     She crossed the driveway and tossed the paper down on a rattan tablebetween three rattan chairs and stood watching a squirrel zigzag acrossthe lawn.  The man stepped through the wall of shrubbery, called, hello! andwalked toward her.     She whirled around and stared at him as still as if her heart hadstopped beating. Then she darted behind the table and waited for himthere. Granting the surprise of his appearance, her alarm seemed notso much excessive as eerie. As if, the man thought, he were not anordinary stranger, but a visitor from another planet.     Approaching closer, he saw that she was trembling and that her breathwas coming in rapid, irregular gasps. Yet the slim, sweet, patricianface that stared into his had an underlying expression of expectancythat reminded him of the cove. She couldn't have been more thaneighteen.     He stopped short of the table. Before he could speak, she stammeredout, Are you he?     What do you mean? he asked, smiling puzzledly.     The one who sends me the little boxes.     I was out sailing and I happened to land in the far cove. I didn'tdream that anyone lived on this island, or even came here.     No one ever does come here, she replied. Her manner had changed,becoming at once more wary and less agitated, though still eerilycurious.     It startled me tremendously to find this place, he blundered on.Especially the road and the car. Why, this island can't be more than aquarter of a mile wide.     The road goes down to the wharf, she explained, and up to the top ofthe island, where my aunts have a tree-house.     He tore his mind away from the picture of a woman dressed like QueenMary clambering up a tree. Was that your aunt I saw driving off?     One of them. The other's taken the motorboat in for supplies. Shelooked at him doubtfully. I'm not sure they'll like it if they findsomeone here.     There are just the three of you? he cut in quickly, looking down theempty road that vanished among the oaks.     She nodded.     I suppose you go in to the mainland with your aunts quite often?     She shook her head.     It must get pretty dull for you.     Not very, she said, smiling. My aunts bring me the papers and otherthings. Even movies. We've got a projector. My favorite stars areAntonio Morino and Alice Terry. I like her better even than Clara Bow.     He looked at her hard for a moment. I suppose you read a lot?     She nodded. Fitzgerald's my favorite author. She started around thetable, hesitated, suddenly grew shy. Would you like some lemonade?  He'd noticed the dewed silver pitcher, but only now realized histhirst. Yet when she handed him a glass, he held it untasted and saidawkwardly, I haven't introduced myself. I'm Jack Barry.     She stared at his outstretched right hand, slowly extended her owntoward it, shook it up and down exactly once, then quickly dropped it.     He chuckled and gulped some lemonade. I'm a biology student. Beenworking at Wood's Hole the first part of the summer. But now I'm hereto do research in marine ecology—that's sort of sea-life patterns—ofthe in-shore islands. Under the direction of Professor Kesserich. Youknow about him, of course?     She shook her head.     Probably the greatest living biologist, he was proud to informher. Human physiology as well. Tremendous geneticist. In a classwith Carlson and Jacques Loeb. Martin Kesserich—he lives over thereat town. I'm staying with him. You ought to have heard of him. Hegrinned. Matter of fact, I'd never have met you if it hadn't been forMrs. Kesserich.     The girl looked puzzled.     Jack explained, The old boy's been off to Europe on some conferences,won't be back for a couple days more. But I was to get started anyhow.When I went out this morning Mrs. Kesserich—she's a drab sort ofperson—said to me, 'Don't try to sail to the farther islands.' So, ofcourse, I had to. By the way, you still haven't told me your name.     Mary Alice Pope, she said, speaking slowly and with an odd wonder, asif she were saying it for the first time.     You're pretty shy, aren't you?     How would I know?     The question stopped Jack. He couldn't think of anything to say to thisstrangely attractive girl dressed almost like a flapper.     Will you sit down? she asked him gravely.     The rattan chair sighed under his weight. He made another effort totalk. I'll bet you'll be glad when summer's over.     Why?     So you'll be able to go back to the mainland.     But I never go to the mainland.     You mean you stay out here all winter? he asked incredulously, hismind filled with a vision of snow and frozen spray and great gray waves.     Oh, yes. We get all our supplies on hand before winter. My aunts arevery capable. They don't always wear long lace dresses. And now I helpthem.     But that's impossible! he said with sudden sympathetic anger. Youcan't be shut off this way from people your own age!     You're the first one I ever met. She hesitated. I never saw a boy ora man before, except in movies.     You're joking!     No, it's true.     But why are they doing it to you? he demanded, leaning forward. Whyare they inflicting this loneliness on you, Mary?  She seemed to have gained poise from his loss of it. I don't knowwhy. I'm to find out soon. But actually I'm not lonely. May I tellyou a secret? She touched his hand, this time with only the faintesttrembling. Every night the loneliness gathers in around me—you'reright about that. But then every morning new life comes to me in alittle box.     What's that? he said sharply.     Sometimes there's a poem in the box, sometimes a book, or pictures,or flowers, or a ring, but always a note. Next to the notes I like thepoems best. My favorite is the one by Matthew Arnold that ends,   'Ah, love, let us be true To one another! for the world, which seems To lie before us like a land of dreams, So various, so beautiful, so new, Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light, Nor certitude—'    Wait a minute, he interrupted. Who sends you these boxes?     I don't know.     But how are the notes signed?     They're wonderful notes, she said. So wise, so gay, so tender, you'dimagine them being written by John Barrymore or Lindbergh.     Yes, but how are they signed?     She hesitated. Never anything but 'Your Lover.'     And so when you first saw me, you thought— He began, then stoppedbecause she was blushing.     How long have you been getting them?     Ever since I can remember. I have two closets of the boxes. The newones are either by my bed when I wake or at my place at breakfast.     But how does this—person get these boxes to you out here? Does hegive them to your aunts and do they put them there?     I'm not sure.     But how can they get them in winter?     I don't know.     Look here, he said, pouring himself more lemonade, how long is itsince you've been to the mainland?     Almost eighteen years. My aunts tell me I was born there in the middleof the war.     What war? he asked startledly, spilling some lemonade.     The World War, of course. What's the matter?     Jack Barr was staring down at the spilled lemonade and feeling a kindof terror he'd never experienced in his waking life. Nothing around himhad changed. He could still feel the same hot sun on his shoulders,the same icy glass in his hand, scent the same lemon-acid odor in hisnostrils. He could still hear the faint      chop-chop     of the waves.     And yet everything had changed, gone dark and dizzy as a landscapeglimpsed just before a faint. All the little false notes had come toa sudden focus. For the lemonade had spilled on the headline of thenewspaper the girl had tossed down, and the headline read:     HITLER IN NEW DEFIANCE     Under the big black banner of that head swam smaller ones:     Foes of Machado Riot in Havana     Big NRA Parade Planned     Balbo Speaks in New York  Suddenly he felt a surge of relief. He had noticed that the paper wasyellow and brittle-edged.     Why are you so interested in old newspapers? he asked.     I wouldn't call day-before-yesterday's paper old, the girl objected,pointing at the dateline: July 20, 1933.     You're trying to joke, Jack told her.     No, I'm not.     But it's 1953.     Now it's you who are joking.     But the paper's yellow.     The paper's always yellow.     He laughed uneasily. Well, if you actually think it's 1933, perhapsyou're to be envied, he said, with a sardonic humor he didn't quitefeel. Then you can't know anything about the Second World War, ortelevision, or the V-2s, or Bikini bathing suits, or the atomic bomb,or—     Stop! She had sprung up and retreated around her chair, white-faced.I don't like what you're saying.     But—     No, please! Jokes that may be quite harmless on the mainland sounddifferent here.     I'm really not joking, he said after a moment.     She grew quite frantic at that. I can show you all last week's papers!I can show you magazines and other things. I can prove it!     She started toward the house. He followed. He felt his heart begin topound.     At the white door she paused, looking worriedly down the road. Jackthought he could hear the faint      chug     of a motorboat. She pushed openthe door and he followed her inside. The small-windowed room was darkafter the sunlight. Jack got an impression of solid old furniture, afireplace with brass andirons.     Flash! croaked a gritty voice. After their disastrous break daybefore yesterday, stocks are recovering. Leading issues....     Jack realized that he had started and had involuntarily put his armaround the girl's shoulders. At the same time he noticed that the voicewas coming from the curved brown trumpet of an old-fashioned radioloudspeaker.     The girl didn't pull away from him. He turned toward her. Although hergray eyes were on him, her attention had gone elsewhere.     I can hear the car. They're coming back. They won't like it thatyou're here.     All right they won't like it.     Her agitation grew. No, you must go.     I'll come back tomorrow, he heard himself saying.     Flash! It looks as if the World Economic Conference may soon adjourn,mouthing jeers at old Uncle Sam who is generally referred to as UncleShylock.     Jack felt a numbness on his neck. The room seemed to be darkening, thegirl growing stranger still.     You must go before they see you.     Flash! Wiley Post has just completed his solo circuit of the Globe,after a record-breaking flight of 7 days, 18 hours and 45 minutes.Asked how he felt after the energy-draining feat, Post quipped....  He was halfway across the lawn before he realized the terror into whichthe grating radio voice had thrown him.     He leaped for the branch over-hanging the fence, vaulted up with therisky help of a foot on the barbed top. A surprised squirrel, lackingtime to make its escape up the trunk, sprang to the ground ahead ofhim. With terrible suddenness, two steel-jawed semicircles clankedtogether just over the squirrel's head. Jack landed with one foot toeither side of the sprung trap, while the squirrel darted off with asqueak.     Jack plunged down the slope to the rocky spine and ran across it, sprayfrom the rising waves spattering him to the waist. Panting now, hestumbled up into the oaks and undergrowth of the first island, foughthis way through it, finally reached the silent cove. He loosed the lineof the      Annie O.     , dragged it as near to the cove's mouth as he could,plunged knee-deep in freezing water to give it a final shove, scrambledaboard, snatched up the boathook and punched at the rocks.     As soon as the      Annie O.     was nosing out of the cove into the crosswaves, he yanked up the sail. The freshening wind filled it and sentthe sloop heeling over, with inches of white water over the lee rail,and plunging ahead.     For a long while, Jack was satisfied to think of nothing but the windand the waves and the sail and speed and danger, to have all hisattention taken up balancing one against the other, so that he wouldn'thave to ask himself what year it was and whether time was an illusion,and wonder about flappers and hidden traps.     When he finally looked back at the island, he was amazed to see howtiny it had grown, as distant as the mainland.     Then he saw a gray motorboat astern. He watched it as it slowlyovertook him. It was built like a lifeboat, with a sturdy low cabin inthe bow and wheel amidship. Whoever was at the wheel had long gray hairthat whipped in the wind. The longer he looked, the surer he was thatit was a woman wearing a lace dress. Something that stuck up inchesover the cabin flashed darkly beside her. Only when she lifted it tothe roof of the cabin did it occur to him that it might be a rifle.     But just then the motorboat swung around in a turn that sent wavesdrenching over it, and headed back toward the island. He watched it fora minute in wonder, then his attention was jolted by an angry hail.     Three fishing smacks, also headed toward town, were about to crosshis bow. He came around into the wind and waited with shaking sail,watching a man in a lumpy sweater shake a fist at him. Then he turnedand gratefully followed the dark, wide, fanlike sterns and age-yellowedsails.  II     The exterior of Martin Kesserich's home—a weathered white cube withnarrow, sharp-paned windows, topped by a cupola—was nothing like itslavish interior.     In much the same way, Mrs. Kesserich clashed with the darkly gleamingfurniture, persian rugs and bronze vases around her. Her shapelessblack form, poised awkwardly on the edge of a huge sofa, made Jackthink of a cow that had strayed into the drawing room. He wonderedagain how a man like Kesserich had come to marry such a creature.     Yet when she lifted up her little eyes from the shadows, he had theuneasy feeling that she knew a great deal about him. The eyes werestill those of a domestic animal, but of a wise one that has beenwatching the house a long, long while from the barnyard.       He asked abruptly, Do you know anything of a girl around here namedMary Alice Pope?     The silence lasted so long that he began to think she'd gone into somebovine trance. Then, without a word, she got up and went over to a tallcabinet. Feeling on a ledge behind it for a key, she opened a panel,opened a cardboard box inside it, took something from the box andhanded him a photograph. He held it up to the failing light and suckedin his breath with surprise.     It was a picture of the girl he'd met that afternoon. Sameflat-bosomed dress—flowered rather than white—no bandeau, same beads.Same proud, demure expression, perhaps a bit happier.     That is Mary Alice Pope, Mrs. Kesserich said in a strangely flatvoice. She was Martin's fiancee. She was killed in a railway accidentin 1933.     The small sound of the cabinet door closing brought Jack back toreality. He realized that he no longer had the photograph. Against thegloom by the cabinet, Mrs. Kesserich's white face looked at him withwhat seemed a malicious eagerness.     Sit down, she said, and I'll tell you about it.     Without a thought as to why she hadn't asked him a single question—hewas much too dazed for that—he obeyed. Mrs. Kesserich resumed herposition on the edge of the sofa.     You must understand, Mr. Barr, that Mary Alice Pope was the one loveof Martin's life. He is a man of very deep and strong feelings, yet asyou probably know, anything but kindly or demonstrative. Even when hefirst came here from Hungary with his older sisters Hani and Hilda,there was a cloak of loneliness about him—or rather about the three ofthem.     Hani and Hilda were athletic outdoor women, yet fiercely proud—Idon't imagine they ever spoke to anyone in America except as to aservant—and with a seething distaste for all men except Martin. Theyshowered all their devotion on him. So of course, though Martin didn'trealize it, they were consumed with jealousy when he fell in love withMary Alice Pope. They'd thought that since he'd reached forty withoutmarrying, he was safe.     Mary Alice came from a pure-bred, or as a biologist would say, inbredBritish stock. She was very young, but very sweet, and up to a pointvery wise. She sensed Hani and Hilda's feelings right away and dideverything she could to win them over. For instance, though she wasafraid of horses, she took up horseback riding, because that was Haniand Hilda's favorite pastime. Naturally, Martin knew nothing of herfear, and naturally his sisters knew about it from the first. But—andhere is where Mary's wisdom fell short—her brave gesture did notpacify them: it only increased their hatred.     Except for his research, Martin was blind to everything but his love.It was a beautiful and yet frightening passion, an insane cherishing asnarrow and intense as his sisters hatred.  With a start, Jack remembered that it was Mrs. Kesserich telling himall this.     She went on, Martin's love directed his every move. He was building ahome for himself and Mary, and in his mind he was building a wonderfulfuture for them as well—not vaguely, if you know Martin, but year byyear, month by month. This winter, he'd plan, they would visit BuenosAires, next summer they would sail down the inland passage and he wouldteach Mary Hungarian for their trip to Buda-Pesth the year after, wherehe would occupy a chair at the university for a few months ... and soon. Finally the time for their marriage drew near. Martin had beenaway. His research was keeping him very busy—     Jack broke in with, Wasn't that about the time he did his definitivework on growth and fertilization?     Mrs. Kesserich nodded with solemn appreciation in the gatheringdarkness. But now he was coming home, his work done. It was earlyevening, very chilly, but Hani and Hilda felt they had to ride down tothe station to meet their brother. And although she dreaded it, Maryrode with them, for she knew how delighted he would be at her canteringto the puffing train and his running up to lift her down from thesaddle to welcome him home.     Of course there was Martin's luggage to be considered, so the stationwagon had to be sent down for that. She looked defiantly at Jack. Idrove the station wagon. I was Martin's laboratory assistant.     She paused. It was almost dark, but there was still a white coldline of sky to the west. Hani and Hilda, with Mary between them, werewaiting on their horses at the top of the hill that led down to thestation. The train had whistled and its headlight was graying thegravel of the crossing.     Suddenly Mary's horse squealed and plunged down the hill. Hani andHilda followed—to try to catch her, they said, but they didn't managethat, only kept her horse from veering off. Mary never screamed, but asher horse reared on the tracks, I saw her face in the headlight's glare.     Martin must have guessed, or at least feared what had happened, for hewas out of the train and running along the track before it stopped. Infact, he was the first to kneel down beside Mary—I mean, what had beenMary—and was holding her all bloody and shattered in his arms.     A door slammed. There were steps in the hall. Mrs. Kesserich stiffenedand was silent. Jack turned.     The blur of a face hung in the doorway to the hall—a seemingly young,sensitive, suavely handsome face with aristocratic jaw. Then there wasa click and the lights flared up and Jack saw the close-cropped grayhair and the lines around the eyes and nostrils, while the sensitivemouth grew sardonic. Yet the handsomeness stayed, and somehow theyouth, too, or at least a tremendous inner vibrancy.     Hello, Barr, Martin Kesserich said, ignoring his wife.     The great biologist had come home.  III     Oh, yes, and Jamieson had a feeble paper on what he calledindividualization in marine worms. Barr, have you ever thought muchabout the larger aspects of the problem of individuality?     Jack jumped slightly. He had let his thoughts wander very far.     Not especially, sir, he mumbled.     The house was still. A few minutes after the professor's arrival,Mrs. Kesserich had gone off with an anxious glance at Jack. He knewwhy and wished he could reassure her that he would not mention theirconversation to the professor.     Kesserich had spent perhaps a half hour briefing him on the moreimportant papers delivered at the conferences. Then, almost as ifit were a teacher's trick to show up a pupil's inattention, he hadsuddenly posed this question about individuality.     You know what I mean, of course, Kesserich pressed. The factors thatmake you you, and me me.     Heredity and environment, Jack parroted like a freshman.     Kesserich nodded. Suppose—this is just speculation—that we couldcontrol heredity and environment. Then we could re-create the sameindividual at will.     Jack felt a shiver go through him. To get exactly the same pattern ofhereditary traits. That'd be far beyond us.     What about identical twins? Kesserich pointed out. And then there'sparthenogenesis to be considered. One might produce a duplicate of themother without the intervention of the male. Although his voice hadgrown more idly speculative, Kesserich seemed to Jack to be smilingsecretly. There are many examples in the lower animal forms, to saynothing of the technique by which Loeb caused a sea urchin to reproducewith no more stimulus than a salt solution.     Jack felt the hair rising on his neck. Even then you wouldn't getexactly the same pattern of hereditary traits.     Not if the parent were of very pure stock? Not if there were somespecial technique for selecting ova that would reproduce all themother's traits?     But environment would change things, Jack objected. The duplicatewould be bound to develop differently.     Is environment so important? Newman tells about a pair of identicaltwins separated from birth, unaware of each other's existence. They metby accident when they were twenty-one. Each was a telephone repairman.Each had a wife the same age. Each had a baby son. And each had a foxterrier called 'Trixie.' That's without trying to make environmentssimilar. But suppose you did try. Suppose you saw to it that each ofthem had exactly the same experiences at the same times....     For a moment it seemed to Jack that the room was dimming and wavering,becoming a dark pool in which the only motionless thing was Kesserich'ssphinx-like face.     Well, we've escaped quite far enough from Jamieson's marine worms,the biologist said, all brisk again. He said it as if Jack were theone who had led the conversation down wild and unprofitable channels.Let's get on to your project. I want to talk it over now, because Iwon't have any time for it tomorrow.     Jack looked at him blankly.     Tomorrow I must attend to a very important matter, the biologistexplained.  IV     Morning sunlight brightened the colors of the wax flowers under glasson the high bureau that always seemed to emit the faint odor of oldhair combings. Jack pulled back the diamond-patterned quilt and blinkedthe sleep from his eyes. He expected his mind to be busy wonderingabout Kesserich and his wife—things said and half said last night—butfound instead that his thoughts swung instantly to Mary Alice Pope, asif to a farthest island in a world of people.     Downstairs, the house was empty. After a long look at the cabinet—hefelt behind it, but the key was gone—he hurried down to thewaterfront. He stopped only for a bowl of chowder and, as anafterthought, to buy half a dozen newspapers.     The sea was bright, the brisk wind just right for the      Annie O.     Therewas eagerness in the way it smacked the sail and in the creak of themast. And when he reached the cove, it was no longer still, but nervouswith faint ripples, as if time had finally begun to stir.     After the same struggle with the underbrush, he came out on the rockyspine and passed the cove of the sea urchins. The spiny creaturesstruck an uncomfortable chord in his memory.     This time he climbed the second island cautiously, scraping theinnocent-seeming ground ahead of him intently with a boathook he'dbrought along for the purpose. He was only a few yards from the fencewhen he saw Mary Alice Pope standing behind it.     He hadn't realized that his heart would begin to pound or that, at thesame time, a shiver of almost supernatural dread would go through him.     The girl eyed him with an uneasy hostility and immediately began tospeak in a hushed, hurried voice. You must go away at once and nevercome back. You're a wicked man, but I don't want you to be hurt. I'vebeen watching for you all morning.     He tossed the newspapers over the fence. You don't have to readthem now, he told her. Just look at the datelines and a few of theheadlines.     When she finally lifted her eyes to his again, she was trembling. Shetried unsuccessfully to speak.     Listen to me, he said. You've been the victim of a scheme to makeyou believe you were born around 1916 instead of 1933, and that it's1933 now instead of 1951. I'm not sure why it's been done, though Ithink I know who you really are.     But, the girl faltered, my aunts tell me it's 1933.     They would.     And there are the papers ... the magazines ... the radio.     The papers are old ones. The radio's faked—some sort of recording. Icould show you if I could get at it.           These     papers might be faked, she said, pointing to where she'd letthem drop on the ground.     They're new, he said. Only old papers get yellow.     But why would they do it to me?      Why?          Come with me to the mainland, Mary. That'll set you straight quickerthan anything.     I couldn't, she said, drawing back. He's coming tonight.     He?     The man who sends me the boxes ... and my life.     Jack shivered. When he spoke, his voice was rough and quick. A lifethat's completely a lie, that's cut you off from the world. Come withme, Mary.  ","One day, Jack Barry goes to explore the little islands off the coast of Maine.  He docks his boat on the first island inside the cove, looking back through its high walls at thousands of tiny islands, dotting the blue sea, and the thin line that is Maine in the distance. Another island is revealed. It is connected to the first by a spine of rocks. At the near side of the second island is a short slope, covered in grass and trees. Beyond the trees is a huge chicken wire fence, topped with barbed wire. Beside the fence is an oak tree, with a low hanging branch. Beyond the fence is a quaint little cottage. There is a neatly mowed lawn in front of it, with a gravel driveway reaching out into the distance. There is another house on the summit of the island, a treehouse, and a chug boat moored in the bay. Jack then returns to the stark, square home of the Kesseriches. There is a solemn, cold air to the place, one that is reflected in Mrs Kesserich. The story then flashes back to the setting in which Mary Alice and Martin Kesserich lived. It is a nondescript place, but one that is open enough to ride horses in, hills sloping down onto train tracks. "
"Who is Martin Kesserich, and what has happened to him in his past? </s>     Yesterday House     By FRITZ LEIBER     Illustrated by ASHMAN     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction August 1952.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        Meeting someone who's been dead for twenty       years is shocking enough for anyone with a       belief in ghosts—worse for one with none!        I     The narrow cove was quiet as the face of an expectant child, yet sonear the ruffled Atlantic that the last push of wind carried the      AnnieO.     its full length. The man in gray flannels and sweatshirt let thesail come crumpling down and hurried past its white folds at a gaitmade comically awkward by his cramped muscles. Slowly the rocky ledgecame nearer. Slowly the blue V inscribed on the cove's surface by thesloop's prow died. Sloop and ledge kissed so gently that he hardly hadto reach out his hand.     He scrambled ashore, dipping a sneaker in the icy water, and threw theline around a boulder. Unkinking himself, he looked back through thecove's high and rocky mouth at the gray-green scattering of islandsand the faint dark line that was the coast of Maine. He almost laughedin satisfaction at having disregarded vague warnings and done the thingevery man yearns to do once in his lifetime—gone to the farthestisland out.     He must have looked longer than he realized, because by the time hedropped his gaze the cove was again as glassy as if the      Annie O.     hadalways been there. And the splotches made by his sneaker on the rockhad faded in the hot sun. There was something very unusual about thequietness of this place. As if time, elsewhere hurrying frantically,paused here to rest. As if all changes were erased on this one bit ofEarth.     The man's lean, melancholy face crinkled into a grin at the banalfancy. He turned his back on his new friend, the little green sloop,without one thought for his nets and specimen bottles, and set out toexplore. The ground rose steeply at first and the oaks were close, butafter a little way things went downhill and the leaves thinned and hecame out on more rocks—and realized that he hadn't quite gone to thefarthest one out.  Joined to this island by a rocky spine, which at the present low tidewould have been dry but for the spray, was another green, high islandthat the first had masked from him all the while he had been sailing.He felt a thrill of discovery, just as he'd wondered back in the woodswhether his might not be the first human feet to kick through theunderbrush. After all, there were thousands of these islands.     Then he was dropping down the rocks, his lanky limbs now movingsmoothly enough.     To the landward side of the spine, the water was fairly still. It evenbegan with another deep cove, in which he glimpsed the spiny spheresof sea urchins. But from seaward the waves chopped in, sprinkling histrousers to the knees and making him wince pleasurably at the thoughtof what vast wings of spray and towers of solid water must crash upfrom here in a storm.     He crossed the rocks at a trot, ran up a short grassy slope, racedthrough a fringe of trees—and came straight up against an eight-footfence of heavy mesh topped with barbed wire and backed at a shortdistance with high, heavy shrubbery.     Without pausing for surprise—in fact, in his holiday mood, usingsurprise as a goad—he jumped for the branch of an oak whose trunktouched the fence, scorning the easier lower branch on the other sideof the tree. Then he drew himself up, worked his way to some higherbranches that crossed the fence, and dropped down inside.     Suddenly cautious, he gently parted the shrubbery and, before the firstsurprise could really sink in, had another.       A closely mown lawn dotted with more shrubbery ran up to a snug whiteCape Cod cottage. The single strand of a radio aerial stretched thelength of the roof. Parked on a neat gravel driveway that crossed justin front of the cottage was a short, square-lined touring car that herecognized from remembered pictures as an ancient Essex. The wholescene had about it the same odd quietness as the cove.     Then, with the air of a clock-work toy coming to life, the white dooropened and an elderly woman came out, dressed in a long, lace-edgeddress and wide, lacy hat. She climbed into the driver's seat of theEssex, sitting there very stiff and tall. The motor began to chugbravely, gravel skittered, and the car rolled off between the trees.     The door of the house opened again and a slim girl emerged. She wore awhite silk dress that fell straight from square neck-line to hip-heightwaistline, making the skirt seem very short. Her dark hair was boundwith a white bandeau so that it curved close to her cheeks. A darknecklace dangled against the white of the dress. A newspaper was tuckedunder her arm.     She crossed the driveway and tossed the paper down on a rattan tablebetween three rattan chairs and stood watching a squirrel zigzag acrossthe lawn.  The man stepped through the wall of shrubbery, called, hello! andwalked toward her.     She whirled around and stared at him as still as if her heart hadstopped beating. Then she darted behind the table and waited for himthere. Granting the surprise of his appearance, her alarm seemed notso much excessive as eerie. As if, the man thought, he were not anordinary stranger, but a visitor from another planet.     Approaching closer, he saw that she was trembling and that her breathwas coming in rapid, irregular gasps. Yet the slim, sweet, patricianface that stared into his had an underlying expression of expectancythat reminded him of the cove. She couldn't have been more thaneighteen.     He stopped short of the table. Before he could speak, she stammeredout, Are you he?     What do you mean? he asked, smiling puzzledly.     The one who sends me the little boxes.     I was out sailing and I happened to land in the far cove. I didn'tdream that anyone lived on this island, or even came here.     No one ever does come here, she replied. Her manner had changed,becoming at once more wary and less agitated, though still eerilycurious.     It startled me tremendously to find this place, he blundered on.Especially the road and the car. Why, this island can't be more than aquarter of a mile wide.     The road goes down to the wharf, she explained, and up to the top ofthe island, where my aunts have a tree-house.     He tore his mind away from the picture of a woman dressed like QueenMary clambering up a tree. Was that your aunt I saw driving off?     One of them. The other's taken the motorboat in for supplies. Shelooked at him doubtfully. I'm not sure they'll like it if they findsomeone here.     There are just the three of you? he cut in quickly, looking down theempty road that vanished among the oaks.     She nodded.     I suppose you go in to the mainland with your aunts quite often?     She shook her head.     It must get pretty dull for you.     Not very, she said, smiling. My aunts bring me the papers and otherthings. Even movies. We've got a projector. My favorite stars areAntonio Morino and Alice Terry. I like her better even than Clara Bow.     He looked at her hard for a moment. I suppose you read a lot?     She nodded. Fitzgerald's my favorite author. She started around thetable, hesitated, suddenly grew shy. Would you like some lemonade?  He'd noticed the dewed silver pitcher, but only now realized histhirst. Yet when she handed him a glass, he held it untasted and saidawkwardly, I haven't introduced myself. I'm Jack Barry.     She stared at his outstretched right hand, slowly extended her owntoward it, shook it up and down exactly once, then quickly dropped it.     He chuckled and gulped some lemonade. I'm a biology student. Beenworking at Wood's Hole the first part of the summer. But now I'm hereto do research in marine ecology—that's sort of sea-life patterns—ofthe in-shore islands. Under the direction of Professor Kesserich. Youknow about him, of course?     She shook her head.     Probably the greatest living biologist, he was proud to informher. Human physiology as well. Tremendous geneticist. In a classwith Carlson and Jacques Loeb. Martin Kesserich—he lives over thereat town. I'm staying with him. You ought to have heard of him. Hegrinned. Matter of fact, I'd never have met you if it hadn't been forMrs. Kesserich.     The girl looked puzzled.     Jack explained, The old boy's been off to Europe on some conferences,won't be back for a couple days more. But I was to get started anyhow.When I went out this morning Mrs. Kesserich—she's a drab sort ofperson—said to me, 'Don't try to sail to the farther islands.' So, ofcourse, I had to. By the way, you still haven't told me your name.     Mary Alice Pope, she said, speaking slowly and with an odd wonder, asif she were saying it for the first time.     You're pretty shy, aren't you?     How would I know?     The question stopped Jack. He couldn't think of anything to say to thisstrangely attractive girl dressed almost like a flapper.     Will you sit down? she asked him gravely.     The rattan chair sighed under his weight. He made another effort totalk. I'll bet you'll be glad when summer's over.     Why?     So you'll be able to go back to the mainland.     But I never go to the mainland.     You mean you stay out here all winter? he asked incredulously, hismind filled with a vision of snow and frozen spray and great gray waves.     Oh, yes. We get all our supplies on hand before winter. My aunts arevery capable. They don't always wear long lace dresses. And now I helpthem.     But that's impossible! he said with sudden sympathetic anger. Youcan't be shut off this way from people your own age!     You're the first one I ever met. She hesitated. I never saw a boy ora man before, except in movies.     You're joking!     No, it's true.     But why are they doing it to you? he demanded, leaning forward. Whyare they inflicting this loneliness on you, Mary?  She seemed to have gained poise from his loss of it. I don't knowwhy. I'm to find out soon. But actually I'm not lonely. May I tellyou a secret? She touched his hand, this time with only the faintesttrembling. Every night the loneliness gathers in around me—you'reright about that. But then every morning new life comes to me in alittle box.     What's that? he said sharply.     Sometimes there's a poem in the box, sometimes a book, or pictures,or flowers, or a ring, but always a note. Next to the notes I like thepoems best. My favorite is the one by Matthew Arnold that ends,   'Ah, love, let us be true To one another! for the world, which seems To lie before us like a land of dreams, So various, so beautiful, so new, Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light, Nor certitude—'    Wait a minute, he interrupted. Who sends you these boxes?     I don't know.     But how are the notes signed?     They're wonderful notes, she said. So wise, so gay, so tender, you'dimagine them being written by John Barrymore or Lindbergh.     Yes, but how are they signed?     She hesitated. Never anything but 'Your Lover.'     And so when you first saw me, you thought— He began, then stoppedbecause she was blushing.     How long have you been getting them?     Ever since I can remember. I have two closets of the boxes. The newones are either by my bed when I wake or at my place at breakfast.     But how does this—person get these boxes to you out here? Does hegive them to your aunts and do they put them there?     I'm not sure.     But how can they get them in winter?     I don't know.     Look here, he said, pouring himself more lemonade, how long is itsince you've been to the mainland?     Almost eighteen years. My aunts tell me I was born there in the middleof the war.     What war? he asked startledly, spilling some lemonade.     The World War, of course. What's the matter?     Jack Barr was staring down at the spilled lemonade and feeling a kindof terror he'd never experienced in his waking life. Nothing around himhad changed. He could still feel the same hot sun on his shoulders,the same icy glass in his hand, scent the same lemon-acid odor in hisnostrils. He could still hear the faint      chop-chop     of the waves.     And yet everything had changed, gone dark and dizzy as a landscapeglimpsed just before a faint. All the little false notes had come toa sudden focus. For the lemonade had spilled on the headline of thenewspaper the girl had tossed down, and the headline read:     HITLER IN NEW DEFIANCE     Under the big black banner of that head swam smaller ones:     Foes of Machado Riot in Havana     Big NRA Parade Planned     Balbo Speaks in New York  Suddenly he felt a surge of relief. He had noticed that the paper wasyellow and brittle-edged.     Why are you so interested in old newspapers? he asked.     I wouldn't call day-before-yesterday's paper old, the girl objected,pointing at the dateline: July 20, 1933.     You're trying to joke, Jack told her.     No, I'm not.     But it's 1953.     Now it's you who are joking.     But the paper's yellow.     The paper's always yellow.     He laughed uneasily. Well, if you actually think it's 1933, perhapsyou're to be envied, he said, with a sardonic humor he didn't quitefeel. Then you can't know anything about the Second World War, ortelevision, or the V-2s, or Bikini bathing suits, or the atomic bomb,or—     Stop! She had sprung up and retreated around her chair, white-faced.I don't like what you're saying.     But—     No, please! Jokes that may be quite harmless on the mainland sounddifferent here.     I'm really not joking, he said after a moment.     She grew quite frantic at that. I can show you all last week's papers!I can show you magazines and other things. I can prove it!     She started toward the house. He followed. He felt his heart begin topound.     At the white door she paused, looking worriedly down the road. Jackthought he could hear the faint      chug     of a motorboat. She pushed openthe door and he followed her inside. The small-windowed room was darkafter the sunlight. Jack got an impression of solid old furniture, afireplace with brass andirons.     Flash! croaked a gritty voice. After their disastrous break daybefore yesterday, stocks are recovering. Leading issues....     Jack realized that he had started and had involuntarily put his armaround the girl's shoulders. At the same time he noticed that the voicewas coming from the curved brown trumpet of an old-fashioned radioloudspeaker.     The girl didn't pull away from him. He turned toward her. Although hergray eyes were on him, her attention had gone elsewhere.     I can hear the car. They're coming back. They won't like it thatyou're here.     All right they won't like it.     Her agitation grew. No, you must go.     I'll come back tomorrow, he heard himself saying.     Flash! It looks as if the World Economic Conference may soon adjourn,mouthing jeers at old Uncle Sam who is generally referred to as UncleShylock.     Jack felt a numbness on his neck. The room seemed to be darkening, thegirl growing stranger still.     You must go before they see you.     Flash! Wiley Post has just completed his solo circuit of the Globe,after a record-breaking flight of 7 days, 18 hours and 45 minutes.Asked how he felt after the energy-draining feat, Post quipped....  He was halfway across the lawn before he realized the terror into whichthe grating radio voice had thrown him.     He leaped for the branch over-hanging the fence, vaulted up with therisky help of a foot on the barbed top. A surprised squirrel, lackingtime to make its escape up the trunk, sprang to the ground ahead ofhim. With terrible suddenness, two steel-jawed semicircles clankedtogether just over the squirrel's head. Jack landed with one foot toeither side of the sprung trap, while the squirrel darted off with asqueak.     Jack plunged down the slope to the rocky spine and ran across it, sprayfrom the rising waves spattering him to the waist. Panting now, hestumbled up into the oaks and undergrowth of the first island, foughthis way through it, finally reached the silent cove. He loosed the lineof the      Annie O.     , dragged it as near to the cove's mouth as he could,plunged knee-deep in freezing water to give it a final shove, scrambledaboard, snatched up the boathook and punched at the rocks.     As soon as the      Annie O.     was nosing out of the cove into the crosswaves, he yanked up the sail. The freshening wind filled it and sentthe sloop heeling over, with inches of white water over the lee rail,and plunging ahead.     For a long while, Jack was satisfied to think of nothing but the windand the waves and the sail and speed and danger, to have all hisattention taken up balancing one against the other, so that he wouldn'thave to ask himself what year it was and whether time was an illusion,and wonder about flappers and hidden traps.     When he finally looked back at the island, he was amazed to see howtiny it had grown, as distant as the mainland.     Then he saw a gray motorboat astern. He watched it as it slowlyovertook him. It was built like a lifeboat, with a sturdy low cabin inthe bow and wheel amidship. Whoever was at the wheel had long gray hairthat whipped in the wind. The longer he looked, the surer he was thatit was a woman wearing a lace dress. Something that stuck up inchesover the cabin flashed darkly beside her. Only when she lifted it tothe roof of the cabin did it occur to him that it might be a rifle.     But just then the motorboat swung around in a turn that sent wavesdrenching over it, and headed back toward the island. He watched it fora minute in wonder, then his attention was jolted by an angry hail.     Three fishing smacks, also headed toward town, were about to crosshis bow. He came around into the wind and waited with shaking sail,watching a man in a lumpy sweater shake a fist at him. Then he turnedand gratefully followed the dark, wide, fanlike sterns and age-yellowedsails.  II     The exterior of Martin Kesserich's home—a weathered white cube withnarrow, sharp-paned windows, topped by a cupola—was nothing like itslavish interior.     In much the same way, Mrs. Kesserich clashed with the darkly gleamingfurniture, persian rugs and bronze vases around her. Her shapelessblack form, poised awkwardly on the edge of a huge sofa, made Jackthink of a cow that had strayed into the drawing room. He wonderedagain how a man like Kesserich had come to marry such a creature.     Yet when she lifted up her little eyes from the shadows, he had theuneasy feeling that she knew a great deal about him. The eyes werestill those of a domestic animal, but of a wise one that has beenwatching the house a long, long while from the barnyard.       He asked abruptly, Do you know anything of a girl around here namedMary Alice Pope?     The silence lasted so long that he began to think she'd gone into somebovine trance. Then, without a word, she got up and went over to a tallcabinet. Feeling on a ledge behind it for a key, she opened a panel,opened a cardboard box inside it, took something from the box andhanded him a photograph. He held it up to the failing light and suckedin his breath with surprise.     It was a picture of the girl he'd met that afternoon. Sameflat-bosomed dress—flowered rather than white—no bandeau, same beads.Same proud, demure expression, perhaps a bit happier.     That is Mary Alice Pope, Mrs. Kesserich said in a strangely flatvoice. She was Martin's fiancee. She was killed in a railway accidentin 1933.     The small sound of the cabinet door closing brought Jack back toreality. He realized that he no longer had the photograph. Against thegloom by the cabinet, Mrs. Kesserich's white face looked at him withwhat seemed a malicious eagerness.     Sit down, she said, and I'll tell you about it.     Without a thought as to why she hadn't asked him a single question—hewas much too dazed for that—he obeyed. Mrs. Kesserich resumed herposition on the edge of the sofa.     You must understand, Mr. Barr, that Mary Alice Pope was the one loveof Martin's life. He is a man of very deep and strong feelings, yet asyou probably know, anything but kindly or demonstrative. Even when hefirst came here from Hungary with his older sisters Hani and Hilda,there was a cloak of loneliness about him—or rather about the three ofthem.     Hani and Hilda were athletic outdoor women, yet fiercely proud—Idon't imagine they ever spoke to anyone in America except as to aservant—and with a seething distaste for all men except Martin. Theyshowered all their devotion on him. So of course, though Martin didn'trealize it, they were consumed with jealousy when he fell in love withMary Alice Pope. They'd thought that since he'd reached forty withoutmarrying, he was safe.     Mary Alice came from a pure-bred, or as a biologist would say, inbredBritish stock. She was very young, but very sweet, and up to a pointvery wise. She sensed Hani and Hilda's feelings right away and dideverything she could to win them over. For instance, though she wasafraid of horses, she took up horseback riding, because that was Haniand Hilda's favorite pastime. Naturally, Martin knew nothing of herfear, and naturally his sisters knew about it from the first. But—andhere is where Mary's wisdom fell short—her brave gesture did notpacify them: it only increased their hatred.     Except for his research, Martin was blind to everything but his love.It was a beautiful and yet frightening passion, an insane cherishing asnarrow and intense as his sisters hatred.  With a start, Jack remembered that it was Mrs. Kesserich telling himall this.     She went on, Martin's love directed his every move. He was building ahome for himself and Mary, and in his mind he was building a wonderfulfuture for them as well—not vaguely, if you know Martin, but year byyear, month by month. This winter, he'd plan, they would visit BuenosAires, next summer they would sail down the inland passage and he wouldteach Mary Hungarian for their trip to Buda-Pesth the year after, wherehe would occupy a chair at the university for a few months ... and soon. Finally the time for their marriage drew near. Martin had beenaway. His research was keeping him very busy—     Jack broke in with, Wasn't that about the time he did his definitivework on growth and fertilization?     Mrs. Kesserich nodded with solemn appreciation in the gatheringdarkness. But now he was coming home, his work done. It was earlyevening, very chilly, but Hani and Hilda felt they had to ride down tothe station to meet their brother. And although she dreaded it, Maryrode with them, for she knew how delighted he would be at her canteringto the puffing train and his running up to lift her down from thesaddle to welcome him home.     Of course there was Martin's luggage to be considered, so the stationwagon had to be sent down for that. She looked defiantly at Jack. Idrove the station wagon. I was Martin's laboratory assistant.     She paused. It was almost dark, but there was still a white coldline of sky to the west. Hani and Hilda, with Mary between them, werewaiting on their horses at the top of the hill that led down to thestation. The train had whistled and its headlight was graying thegravel of the crossing.     Suddenly Mary's horse squealed and plunged down the hill. Hani andHilda followed—to try to catch her, they said, but they didn't managethat, only kept her horse from veering off. Mary never screamed, but asher horse reared on the tracks, I saw her face in the headlight's glare.     Martin must have guessed, or at least feared what had happened, for hewas out of the train and running along the track before it stopped. Infact, he was the first to kneel down beside Mary—I mean, what had beenMary—and was holding her all bloody and shattered in his arms.     A door slammed. There were steps in the hall. Mrs. Kesserich stiffenedand was silent. Jack turned.     The blur of a face hung in the doorway to the hall—a seemingly young,sensitive, suavely handsome face with aristocratic jaw. Then there wasa click and the lights flared up and Jack saw the close-cropped grayhair and the lines around the eyes and nostrils, while the sensitivemouth grew sardonic. Yet the handsomeness stayed, and somehow theyouth, too, or at least a tremendous inner vibrancy.     Hello, Barr, Martin Kesserich said, ignoring his wife.     The great biologist had come home.  III     Oh, yes, and Jamieson had a feeble paper on what he calledindividualization in marine worms. Barr, have you ever thought muchabout the larger aspects of the problem of individuality?     Jack jumped slightly. He had let his thoughts wander very far.     Not especially, sir, he mumbled.     The house was still. A few minutes after the professor's arrival,Mrs. Kesserich had gone off with an anxious glance at Jack. He knewwhy and wished he could reassure her that he would not mention theirconversation to the professor.     Kesserich had spent perhaps a half hour briefing him on the moreimportant papers delivered at the conferences. Then, almost as ifit were a teacher's trick to show up a pupil's inattention, he hadsuddenly posed this question about individuality.     You know what I mean, of course, Kesserich pressed. The factors thatmake you you, and me me.     Heredity and environment, Jack parroted like a freshman.     Kesserich nodded. Suppose—this is just speculation—that we couldcontrol heredity and environment. Then we could re-create the sameindividual at will.     Jack felt a shiver go through him. To get exactly the same pattern ofhereditary traits. That'd be far beyond us.     What about identical twins? Kesserich pointed out. And then there'sparthenogenesis to be considered. One might produce a duplicate of themother without the intervention of the male. Although his voice hadgrown more idly speculative, Kesserich seemed to Jack to be smilingsecretly. There are many examples in the lower animal forms, to saynothing of the technique by which Loeb caused a sea urchin to reproducewith no more stimulus than a salt solution.     Jack felt the hair rising on his neck. Even then you wouldn't getexactly the same pattern of hereditary traits.     Not if the parent were of very pure stock? Not if there were somespecial technique for selecting ova that would reproduce all themother's traits?     But environment would change things, Jack objected. The duplicatewould be bound to develop differently.     Is environment so important? Newman tells about a pair of identicaltwins separated from birth, unaware of each other's existence. They metby accident when they were twenty-one. Each was a telephone repairman.Each had a wife the same age. Each had a baby son. And each had a foxterrier called 'Trixie.' That's without trying to make environmentssimilar. But suppose you did try. Suppose you saw to it that each ofthem had exactly the same experiences at the same times....     For a moment it seemed to Jack that the room was dimming and wavering,becoming a dark pool in which the only motionless thing was Kesserich'ssphinx-like face.     Well, we've escaped quite far enough from Jamieson's marine worms,the biologist said, all brisk again. He said it as if Jack were theone who had led the conversation down wild and unprofitable channels.Let's get on to your project. I want to talk it over now, because Iwon't have any time for it tomorrow.     Jack looked at him blankly.     Tomorrow I must attend to a very important matter, the biologistexplained.  IV     Morning sunlight brightened the colors of the wax flowers under glasson the high bureau that always seemed to emit the faint odor of oldhair combings. Jack pulled back the diamond-patterned quilt and blinkedthe sleep from his eyes. He expected his mind to be busy wonderingabout Kesserich and his wife—things said and half said last night—butfound instead that his thoughts swung instantly to Mary Alice Pope, asif to a farthest island in a world of people.     Downstairs, the house was empty. After a long look at the cabinet—hefelt behind it, but the key was gone—he hurried down to thewaterfront. He stopped only for a bowl of chowder and, as anafterthought, to buy half a dozen newspapers.     The sea was bright, the brisk wind just right for the      Annie O.     Therewas eagerness in the way it smacked the sail and in the creak of themast. And when he reached the cove, it was no longer still, but nervouswith faint ripples, as if time had finally begun to stir.     After the same struggle with the underbrush, he came out on the rockyspine and passed the cove of the sea urchins. The spiny creaturesstruck an uncomfortable chord in his memory.     This time he climbed the second island cautiously, scraping theinnocent-seeming ground ahead of him intently with a boathook he'dbrought along for the purpose. He was only a few yards from the fencewhen he saw Mary Alice Pope standing behind it.     He hadn't realized that his heart would begin to pound or that, at thesame time, a shiver of almost supernatural dread would go through him.     The girl eyed him with an uneasy hostility and immediately began tospeak in a hushed, hurried voice. You must go away at once and nevercome back. You're a wicked man, but I don't want you to be hurt. I'vebeen watching for you all morning.     He tossed the newspapers over the fence. You don't have to readthem now, he told her. Just look at the datelines and a few of theheadlines.     When she finally lifted her eyes to his again, she was trembling. Shetried unsuccessfully to speak.     Listen to me, he said. You've been the victim of a scheme to makeyou believe you were born around 1916 instead of 1933, and that it's1933 now instead of 1951. I'm not sure why it's been done, though Ithink I know who you really are.     But, the girl faltered, my aunts tell me it's 1933.     They would.     And there are the papers ... the magazines ... the radio.     The papers are old ones. The radio's faked—some sort of recording. Icould show you if I could get at it.           These     papers might be faked, she said, pointing to where she'd letthem drop on the ground.     They're new, he said. Only old papers get yellow.     But why would they do it to me?      Why?          Come with me to the mainland, Mary. That'll set you straight quickerthan anything.     I couldn't, she said, drawing back. He's coming tonight.     He?     The man who sends me the boxes ... and my life.     Jack shivered. When he spoke, his voice was rough and quick. A lifethat's completely a lie, that's cut you off from the world. Come withme, Mary.  ","Martin Kesserich is a biologist and professor. He lives in a coastal town in Main with his wife. He has taken in Jack Barry, to live with and study under him. He moved to America long ago from Hungary with his two sisters, Hani and Hilda. In America, he meets Mary Alice Pope, a young beautiful, intelligent girl whom he falls in love with. They plan a life together. He will build a house for them to live in and raise a family in. They will travel the world together, he will teach her Hungarian. They will marry. Soon before the day they planned to be their wedding day, Martin is called away to business. He takes the train home after the journey. On his way back, Mary Alice rides on horseback with his two sisters to greet him at the station. But, as Mary Alice sits on her horse on top of a slope overlooking the train tracks, the horse becomes spooked, and gallops down to the rail. She is thrown onto the railway line. Martin sees this, and immediately throws himself out of the moving train to save her. But it's too late. Before he can reach her, she is crushed by the train. He sits, heartbroken, with her body in his hands. Years later, he marries Mrs Kesserich, whom he doesn't seem to have any affection towards, mainly ignoring each other. Treating each other with coldness and a lack of love. "
"What has Martin Kesserich done to cope with the loss of Mary Alice? </s>     Yesterday House     By FRITZ LEIBER     Illustrated by ASHMAN     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction August 1952.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        Meeting someone who's been dead for twenty       years is shocking enough for anyone with a       belief in ghosts—worse for one with none!        I     The narrow cove was quiet as the face of an expectant child, yet sonear the ruffled Atlantic that the last push of wind carried the      AnnieO.     its full length. The man in gray flannels and sweatshirt let thesail come crumpling down and hurried past its white folds at a gaitmade comically awkward by his cramped muscles. Slowly the rocky ledgecame nearer. Slowly the blue V inscribed on the cove's surface by thesloop's prow died. Sloop and ledge kissed so gently that he hardly hadto reach out his hand.     He scrambled ashore, dipping a sneaker in the icy water, and threw theline around a boulder. Unkinking himself, he looked back through thecove's high and rocky mouth at the gray-green scattering of islandsand the faint dark line that was the coast of Maine. He almost laughedin satisfaction at having disregarded vague warnings and done the thingevery man yearns to do once in his lifetime—gone to the farthestisland out.     He must have looked longer than he realized, because by the time hedropped his gaze the cove was again as glassy as if the      Annie O.     hadalways been there. And the splotches made by his sneaker on the rockhad faded in the hot sun. There was something very unusual about thequietness of this place. As if time, elsewhere hurrying frantically,paused here to rest. As if all changes were erased on this one bit ofEarth.     The man's lean, melancholy face crinkled into a grin at the banalfancy. He turned his back on his new friend, the little green sloop,without one thought for his nets and specimen bottles, and set out toexplore. The ground rose steeply at first and the oaks were close, butafter a little way things went downhill and the leaves thinned and hecame out on more rocks—and realized that he hadn't quite gone to thefarthest one out.  Joined to this island by a rocky spine, which at the present low tidewould have been dry but for the spray, was another green, high islandthat the first had masked from him all the while he had been sailing.He felt a thrill of discovery, just as he'd wondered back in the woodswhether his might not be the first human feet to kick through theunderbrush. After all, there were thousands of these islands.     Then he was dropping down the rocks, his lanky limbs now movingsmoothly enough.     To the landward side of the spine, the water was fairly still. It evenbegan with another deep cove, in which he glimpsed the spiny spheresof sea urchins. But from seaward the waves chopped in, sprinkling histrousers to the knees and making him wince pleasurably at the thoughtof what vast wings of spray and towers of solid water must crash upfrom here in a storm.     He crossed the rocks at a trot, ran up a short grassy slope, racedthrough a fringe of trees—and came straight up against an eight-footfence of heavy mesh topped with barbed wire and backed at a shortdistance with high, heavy shrubbery.     Without pausing for surprise—in fact, in his holiday mood, usingsurprise as a goad—he jumped for the branch of an oak whose trunktouched the fence, scorning the easier lower branch on the other sideof the tree. Then he drew himself up, worked his way to some higherbranches that crossed the fence, and dropped down inside.     Suddenly cautious, he gently parted the shrubbery and, before the firstsurprise could really sink in, had another.       A closely mown lawn dotted with more shrubbery ran up to a snug whiteCape Cod cottage. The single strand of a radio aerial stretched thelength of the roof. Parked on a neat gravel driveway that crossed justin front of the cottage was a short, square-lined touring car that herecognized from remembered pictures as an ancient Essex. The wholescene had about it the same odd quietness as the cove.     Then, with the air of a clock-work toy coming to life, the white dooropened and an elderly woman came out, dressed in a long, lace-edgeddress and wide, lacy hat. She climbed into the driver's seat of theEssex, sitting there very stiff and tall. The motor began to chugbravely, gravel skittered, and the car rolled off between the trees.     The door of the house opened again and a slim girl emerged. She wore awhite silk dress that fell straight from square neck-line to hip-heightwaistline, making the skirt seem very short. Her dark hair was boundwith a white bandeau so that it curved close to her cheeks. A darknecklace dangled against the white of the dress. A newspaper was tuckedunder her arm.     She crossed the driveway and tossed the paper down on a rattan tablebetween three rattan chairs and stood watching a squirrel zigzag acrossthe lawn.  The man stepped through the wall of shrubbery, called, hello! andwalked toward her.     She whirled around and stared at him as still as if her heart hadstopped beating. Then she darted behind the table and waited for himthere. Granting the surprise of his appearance, her alarm seemed notso much excessive as eerie. As if, the man thought, he were not anordinary stranger, but a visitor from another planet.     Approaching closer, he saw that she was trembling and that her breathwas coming in rapid, irregular gasps. Yet the slim, sweet, patricianface that stared into his had an underlying expression of expectancythat reminded him of the cove. She couldn't have been more thaneighteen.     He stopped short of the table. Before he could speak, she stammeredout, Are you he?     What do you mean? he asked, smiling puzzledly.     The one who sends me the little boxes.     I was out sailing and I happened to land in the far cove. I didn'tdream that anyone lived on this island, or even came here.     No one ever does come here, she replied. Her manner had changed,becoming at once more wary and less agitated, though still eerilycurious.     It startled me tremendously to find this place, he blundered on.Especially the road and the car. Why, this island can't be more than aquarter of a mile wide.     The road goes down to the wharf, she explained, and up to the top ofthe island, where my aunts have a tree-house.     He tore his mind away from the picture of a woman dressed like QueenMary clambering up a tree. Was that your aunt I saw driving off?     One of them. The other's taken the motorboat in for supplies. Shelooked at him doubtfully. I'm not sure they'll like it if they findsomeone here.     There are just the three of you? he cut in quickly, looking down theempty road that vanished among the oaks.     She nodded.     I suppose you go in to the mainland with your aunts quite often?     She shook her head.     It must get pretty dull for you.     Not very, she said, smiling. My aunts bring me the papers and otherthings. Even movies. We've got a projector. My favorite stars areAntonio Morino and Alice Terry. I like her better even than Clara Bow.     He looked at her hard for a moment. I suppose you read a lot?     She nodded. Fitzgerald's my favorite author. She started around thetable, hesitated, suddenly grew shy. Would you like some lemonade?  He'd noticed the dewed silver pitcher, but only now realized histhirst. Yet when she handed him a glass, he held it untasted and saidawkwardly, I haven't introduced myself. I'm Jack Barry.     She stared at his outstretched right hand, slowly extended her owntoward it, shook it up and down exactly once, then quickly dropped it.     He chuckled and gulped some lemonade. I'm a biology student. Beenworking at Wood's Hole the first part of the summer. But now I'm hereto do research in marine ecology—that's sort of sea-life patterns—ofthe in-shore islands. Under the direction of Professor Kesserich. Youknow about him, of course?     She shook her head.     Probably the greatest living biologist, he was proud to informher. Human physiology as well. Tremendous geneticist. In a classwith Carlson and Jacques Loeb. Martin Kesserich—he lives over thereat town. I'm staying with him. You ought to have heard of him. Hegrinned. Matter of fact, I'd never have met you if it hadn't been forMrs. Kesserich.     The girl looked puzzled.     Jack explained, The old boy's been off to Europe on some conferences,won't be back for a couple days more. But I was to get started anyhow.When I went out this morning Mrs. Kesserich—she's a drab sort ofperson—said to me, 'Don't try to sail to the farther islands.' So, ofcourse, I had to. By the way, you still haven't told me your name.     Mary Alice Pope, she said, speaking slowly and with an odd wonder, asif she were saying it for the first time.     You're pretty shy, aren't you?     How would I know?     The question stopped Jack. He couldn't think of anything to say to thisstrangely attractive girl dressed almost like a flapper.     Will you sit down? she asked him gravely.     The rattan chair sighed under his weight. He made another effort totalk. I'll bet you'll be glad when summer's over.     Why?     So you'll be able to go back to the mainland.     But I never go to the mainland.     You mean you stay out here all winter? he asked incredulously, hismind filled with a vision of snow and frozen spray and great gray waves.     Oh, yes. We get all our supplies on hand before winter. My aunts arevery capable. They don't always wear long lace dresses. And now I helpthem.     But that's impossible! he said with sudden sympathetic anger. Youcan't be shut off this way from people your own age!     You're the first one I ever met. She hesitated. I never saw a boy ora man before, except in movies.     You're joking!     No, it's true.     But why are they doing it to you? he demanded, leaning forward. Whyare they inflicting this loneliness on you, Mary?  She seemed to have gained poise from his loss of it. I don't knowwhy. I'm to find out soon. But actually I'm not lonely. May I tellyou a secret? She touched his hand, this time with only the faintesttrembling. Every night the loneliness gathers in around me—you'reright about that. But then every morning new life comes to me in alittle box.     What's that? he said sharply.     Sometimes there's a poem in the box, sometimes a book, or pictures,or flowers, or a ring, but always a note. Next to the notes I like thepoems best. My favorite is the one by Matthew Arnold that ends,   'Ah, love, let us be true To one another! for the world, which seems To lie before us like a land of dreams, So various, so beautiful, so new, Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light, Nor certitude—'    Wait a minute, he interrupted. Who sends you these boxes?     I don't know.     But how are the notes signed?     They're wonderful notes, she said. So wise, so gay, so tender, you'dimagine them being written by John Barrymore or Lindbergh.     Yes, but how are they signed?     She hesitated. Never anything but 'Your Lover.'     And so when you first saw me, you thought— He began, then stoppedbecause she was blushing.     How long have you been getting them?     Ever since I can remember. I have two closets of the boxes. The newones are either by my bed when I wake or at my place at breakfast.     But how does this—person get these boxes to you out here? Does hegive them to your aunts and do they put them there?     I'm not sure.     But how can they get them in winter?     I don't know.     Look here, he said, pouring himself more lemonade, how long is itsince you've been to the mainland?     Almost eighteen years. My aunts tell me I was born there in the middleof the war.     What war? he asked startledly, spilling some lemonade.     The World War, of course. What's the matter?     Jack Barr was staring down at the spilled lemonade and feeling a kindof terror he'd never experienced in his waking life. Nothing around himhad changed. He could still feel the same hot sun on his shoulders,the same icy glass in his hand, scent the same lemon-acid odor in hisnostrils. He could still hear the faint      chop-chop     of the waves.     And yet everything had changed, gone dark and dizzy as a landscapeglimpsed just before a faint. All the little false notes had come toa sudden focus. For the lemonade had spilled on the headline of thenewspaper the girl had tossed down, and the headline read:     HITLER IN NEW DEFIANCE     Under the big black banner of that head swam smaller ones:     Foes of Machado Riot in Havana     Big NRA Parade Planned     Balbo Speaks in New York  Suddenly he felt a surge of relief. He had noticed that the paper wasyellow and brittle-edged.     Why are you so interested in old newspapers? he asked.     I wouldn't call day-before-yesterday's paper old, the girl objected,pointing at the dateline: July 20, 1933.     You're trying to joke, Jack told her.     No, I'm not.     But it's 1953.     Now it's you who are joking.     But the paper's yellow.     The paper's always yellow.     He laughed uneasily. Well, if you actually think it's 1933, perhapsyou're to be envied, he said, with a sardonic humor he didn't quitefeel. Then you can't know anything about the Second World War, ortelevision, or the V-2s, or Bikini bathing suits, or the atomic bomb,or—     Stop! She had sprung up and retreated around her chair, white-faced.I don't like what you're saying.     But—     No, please! Jokes that may be quite harmless on the mainland sounddifferent here.     I'm really not joking, he said after a moment.     She grew quite frantic at that. I can show you all last week's papers!I can show you magazines and other things. I can prove it!     She started toward the house. He followed. He felt his heart begin topound.     At the white door she paused, looking worriedly down the road. Jackthought he could hear the faint      chug     of a motorboat. She pushed openthe door and he followed her inside. The small-windowed room was darkafter the sunlight. Jack got an impression of solid old furniture, afireplace with brass andirons.     Flash! croaked a gritty voice. After their disastrous break daybefore yesterday, stocks are recovering. Leading issues....     Jack realized that he had started and had involuntarily put his armaround the girl's shoulders. At the same time he noticed that the voicewas coming from the curved brown trumpet of an old-fashioned radioloudspeaker.     The girl didn't pull away from him. He turned toward her. Although hergray eyes were on him, her attention had gone elsewhere.     I can hear the car. They're coming back. They won't like it thatyou're here.     All right they won't like it.     Her agitation grew. No, you must go.     I'll come back tomorrow, he heard himself saying.     Flash! It looks as if the World Economic Conference may soon adjourn,mouthing jeers at old Uncle Sam who is generally referred to as UncleShylock.     Jack felt a numbness on his neck. The room seemed to be darkening, thegirl growing stranger still.     You must go before they see you.     Flash! Wiley Post has just completed his solo circuit of the Globe,after a record-breaking flight of 7 days, 18 hours and 45 minutes.Asked how he felt after the energy-draining feat, Post quipped....  He was halfway across the lawn before he realized the terror into whichthe grating radio voice had thrown him.     He leaped for the branch over-hanging the fence, vaulted up with therisky help of a foot on the barbed top. A surprised squirrel, lackingtime to make its escape up the trunk, sprang to the ground ahead ofhim. With terrible suddenness, two steel-jawed semicircles clankedtogether just over the squirrel's head. Jack landed with one foot toeither side of the sprung trap, while the squirrel darted off with asqueak.     Jack plunged down the slope to the rocky spine and ran across it, sprayfrom the rising waves spattering him to the waist. Panting now, hestumbled up into the oaks and undergrowth of the first island, foughthis way through it, finally reached the silent cove. He loosed the lineof the      Annie O.     , dragged it as near to the cove's mouth as he could,plunged knee-deep in freezing water to give it a final shove, scrambledaboard, snatched up the boathook and punched at the rocks.     As soon as the      Annie O.     was nosing out of the cove into the crosswaves, he yanked up the sail. The freshening wind filled it and sentthe sloop heeling over, with inches of white water over the lee rail,and plunging ahead.     For a long while, Jack was satisfied to think of nothing but the windand the waves and the sail and speed and danger, to have all hisattention taken up balancing one against the other, so that he wouldn'thave to ask himself what year it was and whether time was an illusion,and wonder about flappers and hidden traps.     When he finally looked back at the island, he was amazed to see howtiny it had grown, as distant as the mainland.     Then he saw a gray motorboat astern. He watched it as it slowlyovertook him. It was built like a lifeboat, with a sturdy low cabin inthe bow and wheel amidship. Whoever was at the wheel had long gray hairthat whipped in the wind. The longer he looked, the surer he was thatit was a woman wearing a lace dress. Something that stuck up inchesover the cabin flashed darkly beside her. Only when she lifted it tothe roof of the cabin did it occur to him that it might be a rifle.     But just then the motorboat swung around in a turn that sent wavesdrenching over it, and headed back toward the island. He watched it fora minute in wonder, then his attention was jolted by an angry hail.     Three fishing smacks, also headed toward town, were about to crosshis bow. He came around into the wind and waited with shaking sail,watching a man in a lumpy sweater shake a fist at him. Then he turnedand gratefully followed the dark, wide, fanlike sterns and age-yellowedsails.  II     The exterior of Martin Kesserich's home—a weathered white cube withnarrow, sharp-paned windows, topped by a cupola—was nothing like itslavish interior.     In much the same way, Mrs. Kesserich clashed with the darkly gleamingfurniture, persian rugs and bronze vases around her. Her shapelessblack form, poised awkwardly on the edge of a huge sofa, made Jackthink of a cow that had strayed into the drawing room. He wonderedagain how a man like Kesserich had come to marry such a creature.     Yet when she lifted up her little eyes from the shadows, he had theuneasy feeling that she knew a great deal about him. The eyes werestill those of a domestic animal, but of a wise one that has beenwatching the house a long, long while from the barnyard.       He asked abruptly, Do you know anything of a girl around here namedMary Alice Pope?     The silence lasted so long that he began to think she'd gone into somebovine trance. Then, without a word, she got up and went over to a tallcabinet. Feeling on a ledge behind it for a key, she opened a panel,opened a cardboard box inside it, took something from the box andhanded him a photograph. He held it up to the failing light and suckedin his breath with surprise.     It was a picture of the girl he'd met that afternoon. Sameflat-bosomed dress—flowered rather than white—no bandeau, same beads.Same proud, demure expression, perhaps a bit happier.     That is Mary Alice Pope, Mrs. Kesserich said in a strangely flatvoice. She was Martin's fiancee. She was killed in a railway accidentin 1933.     The small sound of the cabinet door closing brought Jack back toreality. He realized that he no longer had the photograph. Against thegloom by the cabinet, Mrs. Kesserich's white face looked at him withwhat seemed a malicious eagerness.     Sit down, she said, and I'll tell you about it.     Without a thought as to why she hadn't asked him a single question—hewas much too dazed for that—he obeyed. Mrs. Kesserich resumed herposition on the edge of the sofa.     You must understand, Mr. Barr, that Mary Alice Pope was the one loveof Martin's life. He is a man of very deep and strong feelings, yet asyou probably know, anything but kindly or demonstrative. Even when hefirst came here from Hungary with his older sisters Hani and Hilda,there was a cloak of loneliness about him—or rather about the three ofthem.     Hani and Hilda were athletic outdoor women, yet fiercely proud—Idon't imagine they ever spoke to anyone in America except as to aservant—and with a seething distaste for all men except Martin. Theyshowered all their devotion on him. So of course, though Martin didn'trealize it, they were consumed with jealousy when he fell in love withMary Alice Pope. They'd thought that since he'd reached forty withoutmarrying, he was safe.     Mary Alice came from a pure-bred, or as a biologist would say, inbredBritish stock. She was very young, but very sweet, and up to a pointvery wise. She sensed Hani and Hilda's feelings right away and dideverything she could to win them over. For instance, though she wasafraid of horses, she took up horseback riding, because that was Haniand Hilda's favorite pastime. Naturally, Martin knew nothing of herfear, and naturally his sisters knew about it from the first. But—andhere is where Mary's wisdom fell short—her brave gesture did notpacify them: it only increased their hatred.     Except for his research, Martin was blind to everything but his love.It was a beautiful and yet frightening passion, an insane cherishing asnarrow and intense as his sisters hatred.  With a start, Jack remembered that it was Mrs. Kesserich telling himall this.     She went on, Martin's love directed his every move. He was building ahome for himself and Mary, and in his mind he was building a wonderfulfuture for them as well—not vaguely, if you know Martin, but year byyear, month by month. This winter, he'd plan, they would visit BuenosAires, next summer they would sail down the inland passage and he wouldteach Mary Hungarian for their trip to Buda-Pesth the year after, wherehe would occupy a chair at the university for a few months ... and soon. Finally the time for their marriage drew near. Martin had beenaway. His research was keeping him very busy—     Jack broke in with, Wasn't that about the time he did his definitivework on growth and fertilization?     Mrs. Kesserich nodded with solemn appreciation in the gatheringdarkness. But now he was coming home, his work done. It was earlyevening, very chilly, but Hani and Hilda felt they had to ride down tothe station to meet their brother. And although she dreaded it, Maryrode with them, for she knew how delighted he would be at her canteringto the puffing train and his running up to lift her down from thesaddle to welcome him home.     Of course there was Martin's luggage to be considered, so the stationwagon had to be sent down for that. She looked defiantly at Jack. Idrove the station wagon. I was Martin's laboratory assistant.     She paused. It was almost dark, but there was still a white coldline of sky to the west. Hani and Hilda, with Mary between them, werewaiting on their horses at the top of the hill that led down to thestation. The train had whistled and its headlight was graying thegravel of the crossing.     Suddenly Mary's horse squealed and plunged down the hill. Hani andHilda followed—to try to catch her, they said, but they didn't managethat, only kept her horse from veering off. Mary never screamed, but asher horse reared on the tracks, I saw her face in the headlight's glare.     Martin must have guessed, or at least feared what had happened, for hewas out of the train and running along the track before it stopped. Infact, he was the first to kneel down beside Mary—I mean, what had beenMary—and was holding her all bloody and shattered in his arms.     A door slammed. There were steps in the hall. Mrs. Kesserich stiffenedand was silent. Jack turned.     The blur of a face hung in the doorway to the hall—a seemingly young,sensitive, suavely handsome face with aristocratic jaw. Then there wasa click and the lights flared up and Jack saw the close-cropped grayhair and the lines around the eyes and nostrils, while the sensitivemouth grew sardonic. Yet the handsomeness stayed, and somehow theyouth, too, or at least a tremendous inner vibrancy.     Hello, Barr, Martin Kesserich said, ignoring his wife.     The great biologist had come home.  III     Oh, yes, and Jamieson had a feeble paper on what he calledindividualization in marine worms. Barr, have you ever thought muchabout the larger aspects of the problem of individuality?     Jack jumped slightly. He had let his thoughts wander very far.     Not especially, sir, he mumbled.     The house was still. A few minutes after the professor's arrival,Mrs. Kesserich had gone off with an anxious glance at Jack. He knewwhy and wished he could reassure her that he would not mention theirconversation to the professor.     Kesserich had spent perhaps a half hour briefing him on the moreimportant papers delivered at the conferences. Then, almost as ifit were a teacher's trick to show up a pupil's inattention, he hadsuddenly posed this question about individuality.     You know what I mean, of course, Kesserich pressed. The factors thatmake you you, and me me.     Heredity and environment, Jack parroted like a freshman.     Kesserich nodded. Suppose—this is just speculation—that we couldcontrol heredity and environment. Then we could re-create the sameindividual at will.     Jack felt a shiver go through him. To get exactly the same pattern ofhereditary traits. That'd be far beyond us.     What about identical twins? Kesserich pointed out. And then there'sparthenogenesis to be considered. One might produce a duplicate of themother without the intervention of the male. Although his voice hadgrown more idly speculative, Kesserich seemed to Jack to be smilingsecretly. There are many examples in the lower animal forms, to saynothing of the technique by which Loeb caused a sea urchin to reproducewith no more stimulus than a salt solution.     Jack felt the hair rising on his neck. Even then you wouldn't getexactly the same pattern of hereditary traits.     Not if the parent were of very pure stock? Not if there were somespecial technique for selecting ova that would reproduce all themother's traits?     But environment would change things, Jack objected. The duplicatewould be bound to develop differently.     Is environment so important? Newman tells about a pair of identicaltwins separated from birth, unaware of each other's existence. They metby accident when they were twenty-one. Each was a telephone repairman.Each had a wife the same age. Each had a baby son. And each had a foxterrier called 'Trixie.' That's without trying to make environmentssimilar. But suppose you did try. Suppose you saw to it that each ofthem had exactly the same experiences at the same times....     For a moment it seemed to Jack that the room was dimming and wavering,becoming a dark pool in which the only motionless thing was Kesserich'ssphinx-like face.     Well, we've escaped quite far enough from Jamieson's marine worms,the biologist said, all brisk again. He said it as if Jack were theone who had led the conversation down wild and unprofitable channels.Let's get on to your project. I want to talk it over now, because Iwon't have any time for it tomorrow.     Jack looked at him blankly.     Tomorrow I must attend to a very important matter, the biologistexplained.  IV     Morning sunlight brightened the colors of the wax flowers under glasson the high bureau that always seemed to emit the faint odor of oldhair combings. Jack pulled back the diamond-patterned quilt and blinkedthe sleep from his eyes. He expected his mind to be busy wonderingabout Kesserich and his wife—things said and half said last night—butfound instead that his thoughts swung instantly to Mary Alice Pope, asif to a farthest island in a world of people.     Downstairs, the house was empty. After a long look at the cabinet—hefelt behind it, but the key was gone—he hurried down to thewaterfront. He stopped only for a bowl of chowder and, as anafterthought, to buy half a dozen newspapers.     The sea was bright, the brisk wind just right for the      Annie O.     Therewas eagerness in the way it smacked the sail and in the creak of themast. And when he reached the cove, it was no longer still, but nervouswith faint ripples, as if time had finally begun to stir.     After the same struggle with the underbrush, he came out on the rockyspine and passed the cove of the sea urchins. The spiny creaturesstruck an uncomfortable chord in his memory.     This time he climbed the second island cautiously, scraping theinnocent-seeming ground ahead of him intently with a boathook he'dbrought along for the purpose. He was only a few yards from the fencewhen he saw Mary Alice Pope standing behind it.     He hadn't realized that his heart would begin to pound or that, at thesame time, a shiver of almost supernatural dread would go through him.     The girl eyed him with an uneasy hostility and immediately began tospeak in a hushed, hurried voice. You must go away at once and nevercome back. You're a wicked man, but I don't want you to be hurt. I'vebeen watching for you all morning.     He tossed the newspapers over the fence. You don't have to readthem now, he told her. Just look at the datelines and a few of theheadlines.     When she finally lifted her eyes to his again, she was trembling. Shetried unsuccessfully to speak.     Listen to me, he said. You've been the victim of a scheme to makeyou believe you were born around 1916 instead of 1933, and that it's1933 now instead of 1951. I'm not sure why it's been done, though Ithink I know who you really are.     But, the girl faltered, my aunts tell me it's 1933.     They would.     And there are the papers ... the magazines ... the radio.     The papers are old ones. The radio's faked—some sort of recording. Icould show you if I could get at it.           These     papers might be faked, she said, pointing to where she'd letthem drop on the ground.     They're new, he said. Only old papers get yellow.     But why would they do it to me?      Why?          Come with me to the mainland, Mary. That'll set you straight quickerthan anything.     I couldn't, she said, drawing back. He's coming tonight.     He?     The man who sends me the boxes ... and my life.     Jack shivered. When he spoke, his voice was rough and quick. A lifethat's completely a lie, that's cut you off from the world. Come withme, Mary.  ","Kesserich devises an elaborate, maniacal scheme to cope with the loss of his beloved fiance Mary Alice Pope. He takes his dead loves ova, and through some kind of unknown science, creates a clone of Mary Alice. He brings the baby to a hidden island, in a cove with high rock walls to keep any intruders out. He creates a setting on the island to seem as if it is 1916. He builds an english cottage with a neat lawn and a eight foot high fence surrounding it to keep unwanted visitors out, and his fiancee's copy in. He employs his two sisters, who are forever devoted to him to raise the child, as if it were this time period which he has fabricated. He sends the girl notes every day, since she was first born, along with gifts like flowers. The notes are always signed with ""Your Lover"". This is all in an attempt to create an exact replica of Mary Alice, in mind, body, and spirit at the very moment he lost her. He has put her in a place made to mimic england, which she grew up in, and the time period as well. By the end of the story, the new Mary Alice is the exact age when the original died. It is Kesserich's plan to finally meet this girl, who has been closed off completely from the outside world."
"Why are the newspapers such an important part of the story? </s>     Yesterday House     By FRITZ LEIBER     Illustrated by ASHMAN     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction August 1952.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        Meeting someone who's been dead for twenty       years is shocking enough for anyone with a       belief in ghosts—worse for one with none!        I     The narrow cove was quiet as the face of an expectant child, yet sonear the ruffled Atlantic that the last push of wind carried the      AnnieO.     its full length. The man in gray flannels and sweatshirt let thesail come crumpling down and hurried past its white folds at a gaitmade comically awkward by his cramped muscles. Slowly the rocky ledgecame nearer. Slowly the blue V inscribed on the cove's surface by thesloop's prow died. Sloop and ledge kissed so gently that he hardly hadto reach out his hand.     He scrambled ashore, dipping a sneaker in the icy water, and threw theline around a boulder. Unkinking himself, he looked back through thecove's high and rocky mouth at the gray-green scattering of islandsand the faint dark line that was the coast of Maine. He almost laughedin satisfaction at having disregarded vague warnings and done the thingevery man yearns to do once in his lifetime—gone to the farthestisland out.     He must have looked longer than he realized, because by the time hedropped his gaze the cove was again as glassy as if the      Annie O.     hadalways been there. And the splotches made by his sneaker on the rockhad faded in the hot sun. There was something very unusual about thequietness of this place. As if time, elsewhere hurrying frantically,paused here to rest. As if all changes were erased on this one bit ofEarth.     The man's lean, melancholy face crinkled into a grin at the banalfancy. He turned his back on his new friend, the little green sloop,without one thought for his nets and specimen bottles, and set out toexplore. The ground rose steeply at first and the oaks were close, butafter a little way things went downhill and the leaves thinned and hecame out on more rocks—and realized that he hadn't quite gone to thefarthest one out.  Joined to this island by a rocky spine, which at the present low tidewould have been dry but for the spray, was another green, high islandthat the first had masked from him all the while he had been sailing.He felt a thrill of discovery, just as he'd wondered back in the woodswhether his might not be the first human feet to kick through theunderbrush. After all, there were thousands of these islands.     Then he was dropping down the rocks, his lanky limbs now movingsmoothly enough.     To the landward side of the spine, the water was fairly still. It evenbegan with another deep cove, in which he glimpsed the spiny spheresof sea urchins. But from seaward the waves chopped in, sprinkling histrousers to the knees and making him wince pleasurably at the thoughtof what vast wings of spray and towers of solid water must crash upfrom here in a storm.     He crossed the rocks at a trot, ran up a short grassy slope, racedthrough a fringe of trees—and came straight up against an eight-footfence of heavy mesh topped with barbed wire and backed at a shortdistance with high, heavy shrubbery.     Without pausing for surprise—in fact, in his holiday mood, usingsurprise as a goad—he jumped for the branch of an oak whose trunktouched the fence, scorning the easier lower branch on the other sideof the tree. Then he drew himself up, worked his way to some higherbranches that crossed the fence, and dropped down inside.     Suddenly cautious, he gently parted the shrubbery and, before the firstsurprise could really sink in, had another.       A closely mown lawn dotted with more shrubbery ran up to a snug whiteCape Cod cottage. The single strand of a radio aerial stretched thelength of the roof. Parked on a neat gravel driveway that crossed justin front of the cottage was a short, square-lined touring car that herecognized from remembered pictures as an ancient Essex. The wholescene had about it the same odd quietness as the cove.     Then, with the air of a clock-work toy coming to life, the white dooropened and an elderly woman came out, dressed in a long, lace-edgeddress and wide, lacy hat. She climbed into the driver's seat of theEssex, sitting there very stiff and tall. The motor began to chugbravely, gravel skittered, and the car rolled off between the trees.     The door of the house opened again and a slim girl emerged. She wore awhite silk dress that fell straight from square neck-line to hip-heightwaistline, making the skirt seem very short. Her dark hair was boundwith a white bandeau so that it curved close to her cheeks. A darknecklace dangled against the white of the dress. A newspaper was tuckedunder her arm.     She crossed the driveway and tossed the paper down on a rattan tablebetween three rattan chairs and stood watching a squirrel zigzag acrossthe lawn.  The man stepped through the wall of shrubbery, called, hello! andwalked toward her.     She whirled around and stared at him as still as if her heart hadstopped beating. Then she darted behind the table and waited for himthere. Granting the surprise of his appearance, her alarm seemed notso much excessive as eerie. As if, the man thought, he were not anordinary stranger, but a visitor from another planet.     Approaching closer, he saw that she was trembling and that her breathwas coming in rapid, irregular gasps. Yet the slim, sweet, patricianface that stared into his had an underlying expression of expectancythat reminded him of the cove. She couldn't have been more thaneighteen.     He stopped short of the table. Before he could speak, she stammeredout, Are you he?     What do you mean? he asked, smiling puzzledly.     The one who sends me the little boxes.     I was out sailing and I happened to land in the far cove. I didn'tdream that anyone lived on this island, or even came here.     No one ever does come here, she replied. Her manner had changed,becoming at once more wary and less agitated, though still eerilycurious.     It startled me tremendously to find this place, he blundered on.Especially the road and the car. Why, this island can't be more than aquarter of a mile wide.     The road goes down to the wharf, she explained, and up to the top ofthe island, where my aunts have a tree-house.     He tore his mind away from the picture of a woman dressed like QueenMary clambering up a tree. Was that your aunt I saw driving off?     One of them. The other's taken the motorboat in for supplies. Shelooked at him doubtfully. I'm not sure they'll like it if they findsomeone here.     There are just the three of you? he cut in quickly, looking down theempty road that vanished among the oaks.     She nodded.     I suppose you go in to the mainland with your aunts quite often?     She shook her head.     It must get pretty dull for you.     Not very, she said, smiling. My aunts bring me the papers and otherthings. Even movies. We've got a projector. My favorite stars areAntonio Morino and Alice Terry. I like her better even than Clara Bow.     He looked at her hard for a moment. I suppose you read a lot?     She nodded. Fitzgerald's my favorite author. She started around thetable, hesitated, suddenly grew shy. Would you like some lemonade?  He'd noticed the dewed silver pitcher, but only now realized histhirst. Yet when she handed him a glass, he held it untasted and saidawkwardly, I haven't introduced myself. I'm Jack Barry.     She stared at his outstretched right hand, slowly extended her owntoward it, shook it up and down exactly once, then quickly dropped it.     He chuckled and gulped some lemonade. I'm a biology student. Beenworking at Wood's Hole the first part of the summer. But now I'm hereto do research in marine ecology—that's sort of sea-life patterns—ofthe in-shore islands. Under the direction of Professor Kesserich. Youknow about him, of course?     She shook her head.     Probably the greatest living biologist, he was proud to informher. Human physiology as well. Tremendous geneticist. In a classwith Carlson and Jacques Loeb. Martin Kesserich—he lives over thereat town. I'm staying with him. You ought to have heard of him. Hegrinned. Matter of fact, I'd never have met you if it hadn't been forMrs. Kesserich.     The girl looked puzzled.     Jack explained, The old boy's been off to Europe on some conferences,won't be back for a couple days more. But I was to get started anyhow.When I went out this morning Mrs. Kesserich—she's a drab sort ofperson—said to me, 'Don't try to sail to the farther islands.' So, ofcourse, I had to. By the way, you still haven't told me your name.     Mary Alice Pope, she said, speaking slowly and with an odd wonder, asif she were saying it for the first time.     You're pretty shy, aren't you?     How would I know?     The question stopped Jack. He couldn't think of anything to say to thisstrangely attractive girl dressed almost like a flapper.     Will you sit down? she asked him gravely.     The rattan chair sighed under his weight. He made another effort totalk. I'll bet you'll be glad when summer's over.     Why?     So you'll be able to go back to the mainland.     But I never go to the mainland.     You mean you stay out here all winter? he asked incredulously, hismind filled with a vision of snow and frozen spray and great gray waves.     Oh, yes. We get all our supplies on hand before winter. My aunts arevery capable. They don't always wear long lace dresses. And now I helpthem.     But that's impossible! he said with sudden sympathetic anger. Youcan't be shut off this way from people your own age!     You're the first one I ever met. She hesitated. I never saw a boy ora man before, except in movies.     You're joking!     No, it's true.     But why are they doing it to you? he demanded, leaning forward. Whyare they inflicting this loneliness on you, Mary?  She seemed to have gained poise from his loss of it. I don't knowwhy. I'm to find out soon. But actually I'm not lonely. May I tellyou a secret? She touched his hand, this time with only the faintesttrembling. Every night the loneliness gathers in around me—you'reright about that. But then every morning new life comes to me in alittle box.     What's that? he said sharply.     Sometimes there's a poem in the box, sometimes a book, or pictures,or flowers, or a ring, but always a note. Next to the notes I like thepoems best. My favorite is the one by Matthew Arnold that ends,   'Ah, love, let us be true To one another! for the world, which seems To lie before us like a land of dreams, So various, so beautiful, so new, Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light, Nor certitude—'    Wait a minute, he interrupted. Who sends you these boxes?     I don't know.     But how are the notes signed?     They're wonderful notes, she said. So wise, so gay, so tender, you'dimagine them being written by John Barrymore or Lindbergh.     Yes, but how are they signed?     She hesitated. Never anything but 'Your Lover.'     And so when you first saw me, you thought— He began, then stoppedbecause she was blushing.     How long have you been getting them?     Ever since I can remember. I have two closets of the boxes. The newones are either by my bed when I wake or at my place at breakfast.     But how does this—person get these boxes to you out here? Does hegive them to your aunts and do they put them there?     I'm not sure.     But how can they get them in winter?     I don't know.     Look here, he said, pouring himself more lemonade, how long is itsince you've been to the mainland?     Almost eighteen years. My aunts tell me I was born there in the middleof the war.     What war? he asked startledly, spilling some lemonade.     The World War, of course. What's the matter?     Jack Barr was staring down at the spilled lemonade and feeling a kindof terror he'd never experienced in his waking life. Nothing around himhad changed. He could still feel the same hot sun on his shoulders,the same icy glass in his hand, scent the same lemon-acid odor in hisnostrils. He could still hear the faint      chop-chop     of the waves.     And yet everything had changed, gone dark and dizzy as a landscapeglimpsed just before a faint. All the little false notes had come toa sudden focus. For the lemonade had spilled on the headline of thenewspaper the girl had tossed down, and the headline read:     HITLER IN NEW DEFIANCE     Under the big black banner of that head swam smaller ones:     Foes of Machado Riot in Havana     Big NRA Parade Planned     Balbo Speaks in New York  Suddenly he felt a surge of relief. He had noticed that the paper wasyellow and brittle-edged.     Why are you so interested in old newspapers? he asked.     I wouldn't call day-before-yesterday's paper old, the girl objected,pointing at the dateline: July 20, 1933.     You're trying to joke, Jack told her.     No, I'm not.     But it's 1953.     Now it's you who are joking.     But the paper's yellow.     The paper's always yellow.     He laughed uneasily. Well, if you actually think it's 1933, perhapsyou're to be envied, he said, with a sardonic humor he didn't quitefeel. Then you can't know anything about the Second World War, ortelevision, or the V-2s, or Bikini bathing suits, or the atomic bomb,or—     Stop! She had sprung up and retreated around her chair, white-faced.I don't like what you're saying.     But—     No, please! Jokes that may be quite harmless on the mainland sounddifferent here.     I'm really not joking, he said after a moment.     She grew quite frantic at that. I can show you all last week's papers!I can show you magazines and other things. I can prove it!     She started toward the house. He followed. He felt his heart begin topound.     At the white door she paused, looking worriedly down the road. Jackthought he could hear the faint      chug     of a motorboat. She pushed openthe door and he followed her inside. The small-windowed room was darkafter the sunlight. Jack got an impression of solid old furniture, afireplace with brass andirons.     Flash! croaked a gritty voice. After their disastrous break daybefore yesterday, stocks are recovering. Leading issues....     Jack realized that he had started and had involuntarily put his armaround the girl's shoulders. At the same time he noticed that the voicewas coming from the curved brown trumpet of an old-fashioned radioloudspeaker.     The girl didn't pull away from him. He turned toward her. Although hergray eyes were on him, her attention had gone elsewhere.     I can hear the car. They're coming back. They won't like it thatyou're here.     All right they won't like it.     Her agitation grew. No, you must go.     I'll come back tomorrow, he heard himself saying.     Flash! It looks as if the World Economic Conference may soon adjourn,mouthing jeers at old Uncle Sam who is generally referred to as UncleShylock.     Jack felt a numbness on his neck. The room seemed to be darkening, thegirl growing stranger still.     You must go before they see you.     Flash! Wiley Post has just completed his solo circuit of the Globe,after a record-breaking flight of 7 days, 18 hours and 45 minutes.Asked how he felt after the energy-draining feat, Post quipped....  He was halfway across the lawn before he realized the terror into whichthe grating radio voice had thrown him.     He leaped for the branch over-hanging the fence, vaulted up with therisky help of a foot on the barbed top. A surprised squirrel, lackingtime to make its escape up the trunk, sprang to the ground ahead ofhim. With terrible suddenness, two steel-jawed semicircles clankedtogether just over the squirrel's head. Jack landed with one foot toeither side of the sprung trap, while the squirrel darted off with asqueak.     Jack plunged down the slope to the rocky spine and ran across it, sprayfrom the rising waves spattering him to the waist. Panting now, hestumbled up into the oaks and undergrowth of the first island, foughthis way through it, finally reached the silent cove. He loosed the lineof the      Annie O.     , dragged it as near to the cove's mouth as he could,plunged knee-deep in freezing water to give it a final shove, scrambledaboard, snatched up the boathook and punched at the rocks.     As soon as the      Annie O.     was nosing out of the cove into the crosswaves, he yanked up the sail. The freshening wind filled it and sentthe sloop heeling over, with inches of white water over the lee rail,and plunging ahead.     For a long while, Jack was satisfied to think of nothing but the windand the waves and the sail and speed and danger, to have all hisattention taken up balancing one against the other, so that he wouldn'thave to ask himself what year it was and whether time was an illusion,and wonder about flappers and hidden traps.     When he finally looked back at the island, he was amazed to see howtiny it had grown, as distant as the mainland.     Then he saw a gray motorboat astern. He watched it as it slowlyovertook him. It was built like a lifeboat, with a sturdy low cabin inthe bow and wheel amidship. Whoever was at the wheel had long gray hairthat whipped in the wind. The longer he looked, the surer he was thatit was a woman wearing a lace dress. Something that stuck up inchesover the cabin flashed darkly beside her. Only when she lifted it tothe roof of the cabin did it occur to him that it might be a rifle.     But just then the motorboat swung around in a turn that sent wavesdrenching over it, and headed back toward the island. He watched it fora minute in wonder, then his attention was jolted by an angry hail.     Three fishing smacks, also headed toward town, were about to crosshis bow. He came around into the wind and waited with shaking sail,watching a man in a lumpy sweater shake a fist at him. Then he turnedand gratefully followed the dark, wide, fanlike sterns and age-yellowedsails.  II     The exterior of Martin Kesserich's home—a weathered white cube withnarrow, sharp-paned windows, topped by a cupola—was nothing like itslavish interior.     In much the same way, Mrs. Kesserich clashed with the darkly gleamingfurniture, persian rugs and bronze vases around her. Her shapelessblack form, poised awkwardly on the edge of a huge sofa, made Jackthink of a cow that had strayed into the drawing room. He wonderedagain how a man like Kesserich had come to marry such a creature.     Yet when she lifted up her little eyes from the shadows, he had theuneasy feeling that she knew a great deal about him. The eyes werestill those of a domestic animal, but of a wise one that has beenwatching the house a long, long while from the barnyard.       He asked abruptly, Do you know anything of a girl around here namedMary Alice Pope?     The silence lasted so long that he began to think she'd gone into somebovine trance. Then, without a word, she got up and went over to a tallcabinet. Feeling on a ledge behind it for a key, she opened a panel,opened a cardboard box inside it, took something from the box andhanded him a photograph. He held it up to the failing light and suckedin his breath with surprise.     It was a picture of the girl he'd met that afternoon. Sameflat-bosomed dress—flowered rather than white—no bandeau, same beads.Same proud, demure expression, perhaps a bit happier.     That is Mary Alice Pope, Mrs. Kesserich said in a strangely flatvoice. She was Martin's fiancee. She was killed in a railway accidentin 1933.     The small sound of the cabinet door closing brought Jack back toreality. He realized that he no longer had the photograph. Against thegloom by the cabinet, Mrs. Kesserich's white face looked at him withwhat seemed a malicious eagerness.     Sit down, she said, and I'll tell you about it.     Without a thought as to why she hadn't asked him a single question—hewas much too dazed for that—he obeyed. Mrs. Kesserich resumed herposition on the edge of the sofa.     You must understand, Mr. Barr, that Mary Alice Pope was the one loveof Martin's life. He is a man of very deep and strong feelings, yet asyou probably know, anything but kindly or demonstrative. Even when hefirst came here from Hungary with his older sisters Hani and Hilda,there was a cloak of loneliness about him—or rather about the three ofthem.     Hani and Hilda were athletic outdoor women, yet fiercely proud—Idon't imagine they ever spoke to anyone in America except as to aservant—and with a seething distaste for all men except Martin. Theyshowered all their devotion on him. So of course, though Martin didn'trealize it, they were consumed with jealousy when he fell in love withMary Alice Pope. They'd thought that since he'd reached forty withoutmarrying, he was safe.     Mary Alice came from a pure-bred, or as a biologist would say, inbredBritish stock. She was very young, but very sweet, and up to a pointvery wise. She sensed Hani and Hilda's feelings right away and dideverything she could to win them over. For instance, though she wasafraid of horses, she took up horseback riding, because that was Haniand Hilda's favorite pastime. Naturally, Martin knew nothing of herfear, and naturally his sisters knew about it from the first. But—andhere is where Mary's wisdom fell short—her brave gesture did notpacify them: it only increased their hatred.     Except for his research, Martin was blind to everything but his love.It was a beautiful and yet frightening passion, an insane cherishing asnarrow and intense as his sisters hatred.  With a start, Jack remembered that it was Mrs. Kesserich telling himall this.     She went on, Martin's love directed his every move. He was building ahome for himself and Mary, and in his mind he was building a wonderfulfuture for them as well—not vaguely, if you know Martin, but year byyear, month by month. This winter, he'd plan, they would visit BuenosAires, next summer they would sail down the inland passage and he wouldteach Mary Hungarian for their trip to Buda-Pesth the year after, wherehe would occupy a chair at the university for a few months ... and soon. Finally the time for their marriage drew near. Martin had beenaway. His research was keeping him very busy—     Jack broke in with, Wasn't that about the time he did his definitivework on growth and fertilization?     Mrs. Kesserich nodded with solemn appreciation in the gatheringdarkness. But now he was coming home, his work done. It was earlyevening, very chilly, but Hani and Hilda felt they had to ride down tothe station to meet their brother. And although she dreaded it, Maryrode with them, for she knew how delighted he would be at her canteringto the puffing train and his running up to lift her down from thesaddle to welcome him home.     Of course there was Martin's luggage to be considered, so the stationwagon had to be sent down for that. She looked defiantly at Jack. Idrove the station wagon. I was Martin's laboratory assistant.     She paused. It was almost dark, but there was still a white coldline of sky to the west. Hani and Hilda, with Mary between them, werewaiting on their horses at the top of the hill that led down to thestation. The train had whistled and its headlight was graying thegravel of the crossing.     Suddenly Mary's horse squealed and plunged down the hill. Hani andHilda followed—to try to catch her, they said, but they didn't managethat, only kept her horse from veering off. Mary never screamed, but asher horse reared on the tracks, I saw her face in the headlight's glare.     Martin must have guessed, or at least feared what had happened, for hewas out of the train and running along the track before it stopped. Infact, he was the first to kneel down beside Mary—I mean, what had beenMary—and was holding her all bloody and shattered in his arms.     A door slammed. There were steps in the hall. Mrs. Kesserich stiffenedand was silent. Jack turned.     The blur of a face hung in the doorway to the hall—a seemingly young,sensitive, suavely handsome face with aristocratic jaw. Then there wasa click and the lights flared up and Jack saw the close-cropped grayhair and the lines around the eyes and nostrils, while the sensitivemouth grew sardonic. Yet the handsomeness stayed, and somehow theyouth, too, or at least a tremendous inner vibrancy.     Hello, Barr, Martin Kesserich said, ignoring his wife.     The great biologist had come home.  III     Oh, yes, and Jamieson had a feeble paper on what he calledindividualization in marine worms. Barr, have you ever thought muchabout the larger aspects of the problem of individuality?     Jack jumped slightly. He had let his thoughts wander very far.     Not especially, sir, he mumbled.     The house was still. A few minutes after the professor's arrival,Mrs. Kesserich had gone off with an anxious glance at Jack. He knewwhy and wished he could reassure her that he would not mention theirconversation to the professor.     Kesserich had spent perhaps a half hour briefing him on the moreimportant papers delivered at the conferences. Then, almost as ifit were a teacher's trick to show up a pupil's inattention, he hadsuddenly posed this question about individuality.     You know what I mean, of course, Kesserich pressed. The factors thatmake you you, and me me.     Heredity and environment, Jack parroted like a freshman.     Kesserich nodded. Suppose—this is just speculation—that we couldcontrol heredity and environment. Then we could re-create the sameindividual at will.     Jack felt a shiver go through him. To get exactly the same pattern ofhereditary traits. That'd be far beyond us.     What about identical twins? Kesserich pointed out. And then there'sparthenogenesis to be considered. One might produce a duplicate of themother without the intervention of the male. Although his voice hadgrown more idly speculative, Kesserich seemed to Jack to be smilingsecretly. There are many examples in the lower animal forms, to saynothing of the technique by which Loeb caused a sea urchin to reproducewith no more stimulus than a salt solution.     Jack felt the hair rising on his neck. Even then you wouldn't getexactly the same pattern of hereditary traits.     Not if the parent were of very pure stock? Not if there were somespecial technique for selecting ova that would reproduce all themother's traits?     But environment would change things, Jack objected. The duplicatewould be bound to develop differently.     Is environment so important? Newman tells about a pair of identicaltwins separated from birth, unaware of each other's existence. They metby accident when they were twenty-one. Each was a telephone repairman.Each had a wife the same age. Each had a baby son. And each had a foxterrier called 'Trixie.' That's without trying to make environmentssimilar. But suppose you did try. Suppose you saw to it that each ofthem had exactly the same experiences at the same times....     For a moment it seemed to Jack that the room was dimming and wavering,becoming a dark pool in which the only motionless thing was Kesserich'ssphinx-like face.     Well, we've escaped quite far enough from Jamieson's marine worms,the biologist said, all brisk again. He said it as if Jack were theone who had led the conversation down wild and unprofitable channels.Let's get on to your project. I want to talk it over now, because Iwon't have any time for it tomorrow.     Jack looked at him blankly.     Tomorrow I must attend to a very important matter, the biologistexplained.  IV     Morning sunlight brightened the colors of the wax flowers under glasson the high bureau that always seemed to emit the faint odor of oldhair combings. Jack pulled back the diamond-patterned quilt and blinkedthe sleep from his eyes. He expected his mind to be busy wonderingabout Kesserich and his wife—things said and half said last night—butfound instead that his thoughts swung instantly to Mary Alice Pope, asif to a farthest island in a world of people.     Downstairs, the house was empty. After a long look at the cabinet—hefelt behind it, but the key was gone—he hurried down to thewaterfront. He stopped only for a bowl of chowder and, as anafterthought, to buy half a dozen newspapers.     The sea was bright, the brisk wind just right for the      Annie O.     Therewas eagerness in the way it smacked the sail and in the creak of themast. And when he reached the cove, it was no longer still, but nervouswith faint ripples, as if time had finally begun to stir.     After the same struggle with the underbrush, he came out on the rockyspine and passed the cove of the sea urchins. The spiny creaturesstruck an uncomfortable chord in his memory.     This time he climbed the second island cautiously, scraping theinnocent-seeming ground ahead of him intently with a boathook he'dbrought along for the purpose. He was only a few yards from the fencewhen he saw Mary Alice Pope standing behind it.     He hadn't realized that his heart would begin to pound or that, at thesame time, a shiver of almost supernatural dread would go through him.     The girl eyed him with an uneasy hostility and immediately began tospeak in a hushed, hurried voice. You must go away at once and nevercome back. You're a wicked man, but I don't want you to be hurt. I'vebeen watching for you all morning.     He tossed the newspapers over the fence. You don't have to readthem now, he told her. Just look at the datelines and a few of theheadlines.     When she finally lifted her eyes to his again, she was trembling. Shetried unsuccessfully to speak.     Listen to me, he said. You've been the victim of a scheme to makeyou believe you were born around 1916 instead of 1933, and that it's1933 now instead of 1951. I'm not sure why it's been done, though Ithink I know who you really are.     But, the girl faltered, my aunts tell me it's 1933.     They would.     And there are the papers ... the magazines ... the radio.     The papers are old ones. The radio's faked—some sort of recording. Icould show you if I could get at it.           These     papers might be faked, she said, pointing to where she'd letthem drop on the ground.     They're new, he said. Only old papers get yellow.     But why would they do it to me?      Why?          Come with me to the mainland, Mary. That'll set you straight quickerthan anything.     I couldn't, she said, drawing back. He's coming tonight.     He?     The man who sends me the boxes ... and my life.     Jack shivered. When he spoke, his voice was rough and quick. A lifethat's completely a lie, that's cut you off from the world. Come withme, Mary.  ","The newspapers are such an important part of the story because they are an indicator as to the different characters' understanding of the time period. On the island, Mary Alice is surrounded by many items and artefacts to gaslight her into thinking that the year is 1933. These include the old fashioned car and radio, which plays news from the past. The one main item used to convince her are the newspapers. Hani and Hilda, who refer to themselves as her ""aunts"", give her a new newspaper every day with the date on it. It is a way for her to keep track of the passing time, albeit incorrect. When Jack Barry sees these newspapers and exclaims that they are wrong, Mary Alice is understandably shocked, and doesn't believe him. She doesn't know that newspapers aren't supposed to be yellow, because to her, newspapers have always been yellow. They are also very important to her because even though they are false, they are her only connection to what the outside world is like, apart from the radio, film and books. They are the real time news of what is happening in the world. At the end of the story, Jack Barry takes some current newspapers, in the hopes that he can convince her that the ones she possesses are decades old, and that she is, in fact, living in 1951. She doesn't believe him at first, pointing out that the papers he has could be fake, but when he states that only old papers are yellow, it seems that she begins to believe him. "
"What is the plot of the story? </s>     Tea Tray in the Sky     By EVELYN E. SMITH     Illustrated by ASHMAN     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction September 1952.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        Visiting a society is tougher than being born       into it. A 40 credit tour is no substitute!        The picture changed on the illuminated panel that filled the forwardend of the shelf on which Michael lay. A haggard blonde woman sprawledapathetically in a chair.     Rundown, nervous, hypertensive? inquired a mellifluous voice. Inneed of mental therapy? Buy Grugis juice; it's not expensive. And theyswear by it on Meropé.     A disembodied pair of hands administered a spoonful of Grugis juice tothe woman, whereupon her hair turned bright yellow, makeup bloomed onher face, her clothes grew briefer, and she burst into a fast Callistanclog.     I see from your hair that you have been a member of one of theBrotherhoods, the passenger lying next to Michael on the shelfremarked inquisitively. He was a middle-aged man, his dust-brown hairthinning on top, his small blue eyes glittering preternaturally fromthe lenses fitted over his eyeballs.     Michael rubbed his fingers ruefully over the blond stubble on his scalpand wished he had waited until his tonsure were fully grown beforehe had ventured out into the world. But he had been so impatient toleave the Lodge, so impatient to exchange the flowing robes of theBrotherhood for the close-fitting breeches and tunic of the outer worldthat had seemed so glamorous and now proved so itchy.     Yes, he replied courteously, for he knew the first rule of universalbehavior, I have been a Brother.     Now why would a good-looking young fellow like you want to join aBrotherhood? his shelf companion wanted to know. Trouble over afemale?     Michael shook his head, smiling. No, I have been a member of theAngeleno Brotherhood since I was an infant. My father brought me whenhe entered.     The other man clucked sympathetically. No doubt he was grieved overthe death of your mother.     Michael closed his eyes to shut out the sight of a baby protruding itsfat face at him three-dimensionally, but he could not shut out itslisping voice: Does your child refuse its food, grow wizened like amonkey? It will grow plump with oh-so-good Mealy Mush from Nunki.     No, sir, Michael replied. Father said that was one of the fewblessings that brightened an otherwise benighted life.     Horror contorted his fellow traveller's plump features. Be careful,young man! he warned. Lucky for you that you are talking to someoneas broad-minded as I, but others aren't. You might be reported forviolating a tabu. An Earth tabu, moreover.     An Earth tabu?     Certainly. Motherhood is sacred here on Earth and so, of course, inthe entire United Universe. You should have known that.  Michael blushed. He should indeed. For a year prior to his leaving theLodge, he had carefully studied the customs and tabus of the Universeso that he should be able to enter the new life he planned for himself,with confidence and ease. Under the system of universal kinship, allthe customs and all the tabus of all the planets were the law on allthe other planets. For the Wise Ones had decided many years beforethat wars arose from not understanding one's fellows, not sympathizingwith them. If every nation, every planet, every solar system had thesame laws, customs, and habits, they reasoned, there would be nodifferences, and hence no wars.     Future events had proved them to be correct. For five hundred yearsthere had been no war in the United Universe, and there was peace andplenty for all. Only one crime was recognized throughout the solarsystems—injuring a fellow-creature by word or deed (and the telepathsof Aldebaran were still trying to add      thought     to the statute).     Why, then, Michael had questioned the Father Superior, was there anyreason for the Lodge's existence, any reason for a group of humans toretire from the world and live in the simple ways of their primitiveforefathers? When there had been war, injustice, tyranny, there had,perhaps, been an understandable emotional reason for fleeing theworld. But now why refuse to face a desirable reality? Why turn one'sface upon the present and deliberately go back to the life of thepast—the high collars, vests and trousers, the inefficient coalfurnaces, the rude gasoline tractors of medieval days?     The Father Superior had smiled. You are not yet a fully fledgedBrother, Michael. You cannot enter your novitiate until you've achievedyour majority, and you won't be thirty for another five years. Whydon't you spend some time outside and see how you like it?     Michael had agreed, but before leaving he had spent months studyingthe ways of the United Universe. He had skimmed over Earth, becausehe had been so sure he'd know its ways instinctively. Remembering hispreparations, he was astonished by his smug self-confidence.  A large scarlet pencil jumped merrily across the advideo screen. Theface on the eraser opened its mouth and sang: Our pencils are finestfrom point up to rubber, for the lead is from Yed, while the wood comesfrom Dschubba.       Is there any way of turning that thing off? Michael wanted to know.     The other man smiled. If there were, my boy, do you think anybodywould watch it? Furthermore, turning it off would violate the spirit offree enterprise. We wouldn't want that, would we?     Oh, no! Michael agreed hastily. Certainly not.     And it might hurt the advertiser's feelings, cause him ego injury.     How could I ever have had such a ridiculous idea? Michael murmured,abashed.     Allow me to introduce myself, said his companion. My name isPierce B. Carpenter. Aphrodisiacs are my line. Here's my card. Hehanded Michael a transparent tab with the photograph of Mr. Carpentersuspended inside, together with his registration number, his name, hisaddress, and the Universal seal of approval. Clearly he was a characterof the utmost respectability.     My name's Michael Frey, the young man responded, smiling awkwardly.I'm afraid I don't have any cards.     Well, you wouldn't have had any use for them where you were. Now,look here, son, Carpenter went on in a lowered voice, I know you'vejust come from the Lodge and the mistakes you'll make will be throughignorance rather than deliberate malice. But the police wouldn'tunderstand. You know what the sacred writings say: 'Ignorance of TheLaw is no excuse.' I'd be glad to give you any little tips I can. Forinstance, your hands....     Michael spread his hands out in front of him. They were perfectly goodhands, he thought. Is there something wrong with them?     Carpenter blushed and looked away. Didn't you know that on Electra itis forbidden for anyone to appear in public with his hands bare?     Of course I know that, Michael said impatiently. But what's that gotto do with me?     The salesman was wide-eyed. But if it is forbidden on Electra, itbecomes automatically prohibited here.     But Electrans have eight fingers on each hand, Michael protested,with two fingernails on each—all covered with green scales.     Carpenter drew himself up as far as it was possible to do so whilelying down. Do eight fingers make one a lesser Universal?     Of course not, but—     Is he inferior to you then because he has sixteen fingernails?     Certainly not, but—     Would you like to be called guilty of— Carpenter paused before thedreaded word—      intolerance     ?     No, no,      no     ! Michael almost shrieked. It would be horrible for himto be arrested before he even had time to view Portyork. I have lotsof gloves in my pack, he babbled. Lots and lots. I'll put some onright away.  With nervous haste, he pressed the lever which dropped his pack downfrom the storage compartment. It landed on his stomach. The device hadbeen invented by one of the Dschubbans who are, as everyone knows,hoop-shaped.     Michael pushed the button marked      Gloves A     , and a pair of yellowgauntlets slid out.     Carpenter pressed his hands to his eyes. Yellow is the color of deathon Saturn, and you know how morbid the Saturnians are about passingaway! No one      ever     wears yellow!     Sorry, Michael said humbly. The button marked      Gloves B     yielded apair of rose-colored gloves which harmonized ill with his scarlet tunicand turquoise breeches, but he was past caring for esthetic effects.     The quality's high, sang a quartet of beautiful female humanoids,but the price is meager. You      know     when you buy Plummy Fruitcake fromVega.     The salesman patted Michael's shoulder. You staying a while inPortyork? Michael nodded. Then you'd better stick close to me for awhile until you learn our ways. You can't run around loose by yourselfuntil you've acquired civilized behavior patterns, or you'll get intotrouble.     Thank you, sir, Michael said gratefully. It's very kind of you.     He twisted himself around—it was boiling hot inside the jet busand his damp clothes were clinging uncomfortably—and struck hishead against the bottom of the shelf above. Awfully inconvenientarrangement here, he commented. Wonder why they don't have seats.     Because this arrangement, Carpenter said stiffly, is the one thathas proved suitable for the greatest number of intelligent life-forms.     Oh, I see, Michael murmured. I didn't get a look at the otherpassengers. Are there many extraterrestrials on the bus?     Dozens of them. Haven't you heard the Sirians singing?     A low moaning noise had been pervading the bus, but Michael had thoughtit arose from defective jets.     Oh, yes! he agreed. And very beautiful it is, too! But so sad.     Sirians are always sad, the salesman told him. Listen.  Michael strained his ears past the racket of the advideo. Sure enough,he could make out words: Our wings were unfurled in a far distantworld, our bodies are pain-racked, delirious. And never, it seems, willwe see, save in dreams, the bright purple swamps of our Sirius....     Carpenter brushed away a tear. Poignant, isn't it?     Very, very touching, Michael agreed. Are they sick or something?     Oh, no; they wouldn't have been permitted on the bus if they were.They're just homesick. Sirians love being homesick. That's why theyleave Sirius in such great numbers.     Fasten your suction disks, please, the stewardess, a prettytwo-headed Denebian, ordered as she walked up and down the gangway.We're coming into Portyork. I have an announcement to make to allpassengers on behalf of the United Universe. Zosma was admitted intothe Union early this morning.     All the passengers cheered.     Since it is considered immodest on Zosma, she continued, ever toappear with the heads bare, henceforward it will be tabu to be seen inpublic without some sort of head-covering.     Wild scrabbling sounds indicated that all the passengers were searchingtheir packs for headgear. Michael unearthed a violet cap.     The salesmen unfolded what looked like a medieval opera hat inpiercingly bright green.       Always got to keep on your toes, he whispered to the younger man.The Universe is expanding every minute.     The bus settled softly on the landing field and the passengers flew,floated, crawled, undulated, or walked out. Michael looked around himcuriously. The Lodge had contained no extraterrestrials, for such ofthose as sought seclusion had Brotherhoods on their own planets.     Of course, even in Angeles he had seen other-worlders—humanoids fromVega, scaly Electrans, the wispy ubiquitous Sirians—but nothing tocompare with the crowds that surged here. Scarlet Meropians rubbedtentacles with bulging-eyed Talithans; lumpish gray Jovians ploddedalongside graceful, spidery Nunkians. And there were countless otherswhom he had seen pictured in books, but never before in reality.     The gaily colored costumes and bodies of these beings renderedkaleidoscopic a field already brilliant with red-and-green lights andbanners. The effect was enhanced by Mr. Carpenter, whose emerald-greencloak was drawn back to reveal a chartreuse tunic and olive-greenbreeches which had apparently been designed for a taller and somewhatless pudgy man.  Carpenter rubbed modestly gloved hands together. I have no immediatebusiness, so supposing I start showing you the sights. What would youlike to see first, Mr. Frey? Or would you prefer a nice, restful movid?     Frankly, Michael admitted, the first thing I'd like to do is getmyself something to eat. I didn't have any breakfast and I'm famished.Two small creatures standing close to him giggled nervously andscuttled off on six legs apiece.     Shh, not so loud! There are females present. Carpenter drew theyouth to a secluded corner. Don't you know that on Theemim it'sfrightfully vulgar to as much as speak of eating in public?     But why? Michael demanded in too loud a voice. What's wrong witheating in public here on Earth?     Carpenter clapped a hand over the young man's mouth. Hush, hecautioned. After all, on Earth there are things we don't do or evenmention in public, aren't there?     Well, yes. But those are different.     Not at all. Those rules might seem just as ridiculous to a Theemimian.But the Theemimians have accepted our customs just as we have acceptedthe Theemimians'. How would you like it if a Theemimian violatedone of our tabus in public? You must consider the feelings of theTheemimians as equal to your own. Observe the golden rule: 'Do untoextraterrestrials as you would be done by.'     But I'm still hungry, Michael persisted, modulating his voice,however, to a decent whisper. Do the proprieties demand that I starveto death, or can I get something to eat somewhere?     Naturally, the salesman whispered back. Portyork provides for allbodily needs. Numerous feeding stations are conveniently locatedthroughout the port, and there must be some on the field.     After gazing furtively over his shoulder to see that no females werewatching, Carpenter approached a large map of the landing field andpressed a button. A tiny red light winked demurely for an instant.     That's the nearest one, Carpenter explained.  Inside a small, white, functional-looking building unobtrusivelymarked Feeding Station, Carpenter showed Michael where to insert atwo-credit piece in a slot. A door slid back and admitted Michael intoa tiny, austere room, furnished only with a table, a chair, a foodcompartment, and an advideo. The food consisted of tabloid syntheticsand was tasteless. Michael knew that only primitive creatures wastetime and energy in growing and preparing natural foods. It was all amatter of getting used to this stuff, he thought glumly, as he tried tochew food that was meant to be gulped.     A ferret-eyed Yeddan appeared on the advideo. Do you suffer fromgastric disorders? Does your viscera get in your hair? A horridcondition, but swift abolition is yours with Al-Brom from Altair.     Michael finished his meal in fifteen minutes and left the compartmentto find Carpenter awaiting him in the lobby, impatiently glancing atthe luminous time dial embedded in his wrist.     Let's go to the Old Town, he suggested to Michael. It will be ofgreat interest to a student and a newcomer like yourself.     A few yards away from the feeding station, the travel agents were linedup in rows, each outside his spaceship, each shouting the advantages ofthe tour he offered:     Better than a mustard plaster is a weekend spent on Castor.     If you want to show you like her, take her for a week to Spica.     Movid stars go to Mars.     Carpenter smiled politely at them. No space trips for us today,gentlemen. We're staying on Terra. He guided the bewildered young manthrough the crowds and to the gates of the field. Outside, a number ofsurface vehicles were lined up, with the drivers loudly competing forbusiness.     Come, take a ride in my rocket car, suited to both gent and lady,lined with luxury      hukka     fur brought from afar, and perfumed with rarescents from Algedi.     Whichever movid film you choose to view will be yours in my finecab from Mizar. Just press a button—it won't cost you nuttin'—seea passionate drama of long-vanished Mu or the bloodhounds pursuingEliza.     All honor be laid at the feet of free trade, but, whatever your raceor your birth, each passenger curls up with two dancing girls who ridesin the taxi from Earth.     Couldn't we—couldn't we walk? At least part of the way? Michaelfaltered.     Carpenter stared. Walk! Don't you know it's forbidden to walk morethan two hundred yards in any one direction? Fomalhautians never walk.     But they have no feet.     That has nothing whatsoever to do with it.  Carpenter gently urged the young man into the Algedian cab ... whichreeked. Michael held his nose, but his mentor shook his head. No, no!Tpiu Number Five is the most esteemed aroma on Algedi. It would breakthe driver's heart if he thought you didn't like it. You wouldn't wantto be had up for ego injury, would you?     Of course not, Michael whispered weakly.     Brunettes are darker and blondes are fairer, the advideo informedhim, when they wash out their hair with shampoos made on Chara.     After a time, Michael got more or less used to Tpiu Number Five andwas able to take some interest in the passing landscape. Portyork,the biggest spaceport in the United Universe, was, of course, themost cosmopolitan city—cosmopolitan in its architecture as well asits inhabitants. Silver domes of Earth were crowded next to the tallhelical edifices of the Venusians.     You'll notice that the current medieval revival has even reachedarchitecture, Carpenter pointed out. See those period houses in theFrank Lloyd Wright and Inigo Jones manner?     Very quaint, Michael commented.     Great floating red and green balls lit the streets, even though it wasstill daylight, and long scarlet-and-emerald streamers whipped outfrom the most unlikely places. As Michael opened his mouth to inquireabout this, We now interrupt the commercials, the advideo said, tobring you a brand new version of one of the medieval ballads that arebecoming so popular....       I shall scream, stated Carpenter, if they play      Beautiful BlueDeneb     just once more.... No, thank the Wise Ones, I've never heardthis before.     Thuban, Thuban, I've been thinking, sang a buxom Betelgeusian, whata Cosmos this could be, if land masses were transported to replace thewasteful sea.     I guess the first thing for me to do, Michael began in a businesslikemanner, is to get myself a room at a hotel.... What have I said now?     The word      hotel     , Carpenter explained through pursed lips, isnot used in polite society any more. It has come to have unpleasantconnotations. It means—a place of dancing girls. I hardly think....     Certainly not, Michael agreed austerely. I merely want a lodging.     That word is also—well, you see, Carpenter told him, on Zaniah itis unthinkable to go anywhere without one's family.     They're a sort of ant, aren't they? The Zaniahans, I mean.     More like bees. So those creatures who travel— Carpenter lowered hisvoice modestly —      alone     hire a family for the duration of their stay.There are a number of families available, but the better types comerather high. There has been talk of reviving the old-fashioned pricecontrols, but the Wise Ones say this would limit free enterprise asmuch as—if you'll excuse my use of the expression—tariffs would.  The taxi let them off at a square meadow which was filled withtransparent plastic domes housing clocks of all varieties, most ofthe antique type based on the old twenty-four hour day instead of thestandard thirty hours. There were few extraterrestrial clocks becausemost non-humans had time sense, Michael knew, and needed no mechanicaldevices.     This, said Carpenter, is Times Square. Once it wasn't really square,but it is contrary to Nekkarian custom to do, say, imply, or permitthe existence of anything that isn't true, so when Nekkar entered theUnion, we had to square off the place. And, of course, install theclocks. Finest clock museum in the Union, I understand.     The pictures in my history books— Michael began.     Did I hear you correctly, sir? The capes of a bright blue cloaktrembled with the indignation of a scarlet, many-tentacled being. Didyou use the word      history     ? He pronounced it in terms of loathing. Ihave been grossly insulted and I shall be forced to report you to thepolice, sir.     Please don't! Carpenter begged. This youth has just come from one ofthe Brotherhoods and is not yet accustomed to the ways of our universe.I know that, because of the great sophistication for which your race isnoted, you will overlook this little gaucherie on his part.     Well, the red one conceded, let it not be said that Meropians arenot tolerant. But, be careful, young man, he warned Michael. Thereare other beings less sophisticated than we. Guard your tongue, or youmight find yourself in trouble.     He indicated the stalwart constable who, splendid in gold helmet andgold-spangled pink tights, surveyed the terrain haughtily from hisfloating platform in the air.     I should have told you, Carpenter reproached himself as the Meropianswirled off. Never mention the word 'history' in front of a Meropian.They rose from barbarism in one generation, and so they haven't anyhistory at all. Naturally, they're sensitive in the extreme about it.     Naturally, Michael said. Tell me, Mr. Carpenter, is there somespecial reason for everything being decorated in red and green? Inoticed it along the way and it's all over here, too.     Why, Christmas is coming, my boy, Carpenter answered, surprised.It's July already—about time they got started fixing things up. Someplaces are so slack, they haven't even got their Mother's Week shrinescleared away.  A bevy of tiny golden-haired, winged creatures circled slowly overTimes Square.     Izarians, Carpenter explained They're much in demand for Christmasdisplays.     The small mouths opened and clear soprano voices filled the air: Itcame upon the midnight clear, that glorious song of old, from angelsbending near the Earth to tune their harps of gold. Peace on Earth,good will to men, from Heaven's All-Celestial. Peace to the Universeas well and every extraterrestrial.... Beat the drum and clash thecymbals; buy your Christmas gifts at Nimble's.     This beautiful walk you see before you, Carpenter said, waving anexpository arm, shaded by boogil trees from Dschubba, is calledBroadway. To your left you will be delighted to see—     Listen, could we— Michael began.     —Forty-second Street, which is now actually the forty-second—     By the way—     It is extremely rude and hence illegal, Carpenter glared, tointerrupt anyone who is speaking.     But I would like, Michael whispered very earnestly, to get washed.If I might.     The other man frowned. Let me see. I believe one of the old landmarkswas converted into a lavatory. Only thing of suitable dimensions.Anyhow, it was absolutely useless for any other purpose. We have totake a taxi there; it's more than two hundred yards. Custom, you know.     A taxi? Isn't there one closer?     Ah, impatient youth! There aren't too many altogether. Theinstallations are extremely expensive.     They hailed the nearest taxi, which happened to be one of the varietyequipped with dancing girls. Fortunately the ride was brief.     Michael gazed at the Empire State Building with interest. It was in aremarkable state of preservation and looked just like the pictures inhis history—in his books, except that none of them showed the hugegolden sign Public-Washport riding on its spire.       Attendants directed traffic from a large circular desk in the lobby.Mercurians, seventy-eighth floor.      A     group Vegans, fourteenth floorright.      B     group, fourteenth floor left.      C     group, fifteenth floorright.      D     group, fifteenth floor left. Sirians, forty-ninth floor.Female humans fiftieth floor right, males, fiftieth floor left.Uranians, basement....     Carpenter and Michael shared an elevator with a group of sad-eyed,translucent Sirians, who were singing as usual and accompanyingthemselves on      wemps     , a cross between a harp and a flute. Foreignplanets are strange and we're subject to mange. Foreign atmospheresprove deleterious. Only with our mind's eye can we sail through the skyto the bright purple swamps of our Sirius.     The cost of the compartment was half that of the feeding station; onecredit in the slot unlocked the door. There was an advideo here, too:     Friend, do you clean yourself each day? Now, let's not be evasive,for each one has his favored way. Some use an abrasive and some useoil. Some shed their skins, in a brand-new hide emerging. Some rubwith grease put up in tins. For others there's deterging. Some lickthemselves to take off grime. Some beat it off with rope. Some cook itaway in boiling lime. Old-fashioned ones use soap. More ways there arethan I recall, and each of these will differ, but the only one thatworks for all is Omniclene from Kiffa.  And now, smiled Carpenter as the two humans left the building, wemust see you registered for a nice family. Nothing too ostentatious,but, on the other hand, you mustn't count credits and ally yourselfbeneath your station.     Michael gazed pensively at two slender, snakelike Difdans writhingOnly 99 Shopping Days Till Christmas across an aquamarine sky.     They won't be permanent? he asked. The family, I mean?     Certainly not. You merely hire them for whatever length of time youchoose. But why are you so anxious?     The young man blushed. Well, I'm thinking of having a family of my ownsome day. Pretty soon, as a matter of fact.     Carpenter beamed. That's nice; you're being adopted! I do hope it'san Earth family that's chosen you—it's so awkward being adopted byextraterrestrials.     Oh, no! I'm planning to have my own. That is, I've got a—a girl,you see, and I thought after I had secured employment of some kind inPortyork, I'd send for her and we'd get married and....           Married!      Carpenter was now completely shocked. You      mustn't     usethat word! Don't you know marriage was outlawed years ago? Exclusivepossession of a member of the opposite sex is slavery on Talitha.Furthermore, supposing somebody else saw your—er—friend and wantedher also; you wouldn't wish him to endure the frustration of not havingher, would you?     Michael squared his jaw. You bet I would.     Carpenter drew himself away slightly, as if to avoid contamination.This is un-Universal. Young man, if I didn't have a kind heart, Iwould report you.     Michael was too preoccupied to be disturbed by this threat. You meanif I bring my girl here, I'd have to share her?     Certainly. And she'd have to share you. If somebody wanted you, thatis.     Then I'm not staying here, Michael declared firmly, ashamed to admiteven to himself how much relief his decision was bringing him. I don'tthink I like it, anyhow. I'm going back to the Brotherhood.     There was a short cold silence.     You know, son, Carpenter finally said, I think you might be right.I don't want to hurt your feelings—you      promise     I won't hurt yourfeelings? he asked anxiously, afraid, Michael realized, that he mightcall a policeman for ego injury.     You won't hurt my feelings, Mr. Carpenter.     Well, I believe that there are certain individuals who just cannotadapt themselves to civilized behavior patterns. It's much better forthem to belong to a Brotherhood such as yours than to be placed in oneof the government incarceratoriums, comfortable and commodious thoughthey are.     Much better, Michael agreed.     By the way, Carpenter went on, I realize this is just vulgarcuriosity on my part and you have a right to refuse an answer withoutfear of hurting my feelings, but how do you happen to have a—er—girlwhen you belong to a Brotherhood?     Michael laughed. Oh, 'Brotherhood' is merely a generic term. Bothsexes are represented in our society.     On Talitha— Carpenter began.     I know, Michael interrupted him, like the crude primitive he was andalways would be. But our females don't mind being generic.  A group of Sirians was traveling on the shelf above him on the slow,very slow jet bus that was flying Michael back to Angeles, back to theLodge, back to the Brotherhood, back to her. Their melancholy howlingwas getting on his nerves, but in a little while, he told himself, itwould be all over. He would be back home, safe with his own kind.     When our minds have grown tired, when our lives have expired, when oursorrows no longer can weary us, let our ashes return, neatly packed inan urn, to the bright purple swamps of our Sirius.     The advideo crackled: The gown her fairy godmother once gave toCinderella was created by the haute couture of fashion-wise Capella.     The ancient taxi was there, the one that Michael had taken from theLodge, early that morning, to the little Angeleno landing field, as ifit had been waiting for his return.     I see you're back, son, the driver said without surprise. He set thenoisy old rockets blasting. I been to Portyork once. It's not a badplace to live in, but I hate to visit it.     I'm back! Michael sank into the motheaten sable cushions and gazedwith pleasure at the familiar landmarks half seen in the darkness. I'mback! And a loud sneer to civilization!     Better be careful, son, the driver warned. I know this is a ruralarea, but civilization is spreading. There are secret police all over.How do you know I ain't a government spy? I could pull you in forinsulting civilization.     The elderly black and white advideo flickered, broke into purringsound: Do you find life continues to daze you? Do you find for a quickdeath you hanker? Why not try the new style euthanasia, performed byskilled workmen from Ancha?     Not any more, Michael thought contentedly. He was going home.  ","From his shelf Michael watches a juice advertisement. Then a nearby passenger starts a conversation regarding Michael's belonging to a Brotherhood. Michael remembers how the Father Superior proposed the idea for him to live in the outside world to answer the question about reasons for the Brotherhood's resignation from it. The young man makes one mistake after another, violating the laws of the Universe during the short conversation with his respectable companion. The least warns the youth against those mistakes and lets him stick close for a while, then the two listen to the Sirians singing. Suddenly, it turns out that Zosma has joined the United Universe and its rule to always cover the head becomes Universal starting that second. Upon the arrival to Portyork, Michael and his companion cautiously head to eat, and the man keeps enlightening the newcomer. Then they take a ride through the city with Carpenter constantly explaining Michael his new mistakes. During a short following walk, Michael says ""history"" and unintentionally deeply offends a man, who is urged by Carpenter not to report. Then Michael asks for a shower, and they take a taxi to a public lavatory. Advideos keep appearing and annoying the two everywhere. Then Carpenter wants to find a temporary family for Michael to make his stay legal, but the least mentions the desire to create his own permanent family and marry the girl he likes. This statement is the turning point, Carpenter is shocked with the youth's ignorance about marriage being outlawed. Michael in turn is frustrated with the idea of having to share his girl and decides to return to the Brotherhood. Carpenter is even more shocked by the news of both sexes living there together and belonging to one another, so he considers Michael simply unfit for the civilized and comfortable life. Michael, on the contrary, already dreams of coming back home. He takes the same bus and then the same taxi to his Brotherhood. "
"What kinds of rules were introduced to the United Universe by different planets and for what reasons? </s>     Tea Tray in the Sky     By EVELYN E. SMITH     Illustrated by ASHMAN     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction September 1952.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        Visiting a society is tougher than being born       into it. A 40 credit tour is no substitute!        The picture changed on the illuminated panel that filled the forwardend of the shelf on which Michael lay. A haggard blonde woman sprawledapathetically in a chair.     Rundown, nervous, hypertensive? inquired a mellifluous voice. Inneed of mental therapy? Buy Grugis juice; it's not expensive. And theyswear by it on Meropé.     A disembodied pair of hands administered a spoonful of Grugis juice tothe woman, whereupon her hair turned bright yellow, makeup bloomed onher face, her clothes grew briefer, and she burst into a fast Callistanclog.     I see from your hair that you have been a member of one of theBrotherhoods, the passenger lying next to Michael on the shelfremarked inquisitively. He was a middle-aged man, his dust-brown hairthinning on top, his small blue eyes glittering preternaturally fromthe lenses fitted over his eyeballs.     Michael rubbed his fingers ruefully over the blond stubble on his scalpand wished he had waited until his tonsure were fully grown beforehe had ventured out into the world. But he had been so impatient toleave the Lodge, so impatient to exchange the flowing robes of theBrotherhood for the close-fitting breeches and tunic of the outer worldthat had seemed so glamorous and now proved so itchy.     Yes, he replied courteously, for he knew the first rule of universalbehavior, I have been a Brother.     Now why would a good-looking young fellow like you want to join aBrotherhood? his shelf companion wanted to know. Trouble over afemale?     Michael shook his head, smiling. No, I have been a member of theAngeleno Brotherhood since I was an infant. My father brought me whenhe entered.     The other man clucked sympathetically. No doubt he was grieved overthe death of your mother.     Michael closed his eyes to shut out the sight of a baby protruding itsfat face at him three-dimensionally, but he could not shut out itslisping voice: Does your child refuse its food, grow wizened like amonkey? It will grow plump with oh-so-good Mealy Mush from Nunki.     No, sir, Michael replied. Father said that was one of the fewblessings that brightened an otherwise benighted life.     Horror contorted his fellow traveller's plump features. Be careful,young man! he warned. Lucky for you that you are talking to someoneas broad-minded as I, but others aren't. You might be reported forviolating a tabu. An Earth tabu, moreover.     An Earth tabu?     Certainly. Motherhood is sacred here on Earth and so, of course, inthe entire United Universe. You should have known that.  Michael blushed. He should indeed. For a year prior to his leaving theLodge, he had carefully studied the customs and tabus of the Universeso that he should be able to enter the new life he planned for himself,with confidence and ease. Under the system of universal kinship, allthe customs and all the tabus of all the planets were the law on allthe other planets. For the Wise Ones had decided many years beforethat wars arose from not understanding one's fellows, not sympathizingwith them. If every nation, every planet, every solar system had thesame laws, customs, and habits, they reasoned, there would be nodifferences, and hence no wars.     Future events had proved them to be correct. For five hundred yearsthere had been no war in the United Universe, and there was peace andplenty for all. Only one crime was recognized throughout the solarsystems—injuring a fellow-creature by word or deed (and the telepathsof Aldebaran were still trying to add      thought     to the statute).     Why, then, Michael had questioned the Father Superior, was there anyreason for the Lodge's existence, any reason for a group of humans toretire from the world and live in the simple ways of their primitiveforefathers? When there had been war, injustice, tyranny, there had,perhaps, been an understandable emotional reason for fleeing theworld. But now why refuse to face a desirable reality? Why turn one'sface upon the present and deliberately go back to the life of thepast—the high collars, vests and trousers, the inefficient coalfurnaces, the rude gasoline tractors of medieval days?     The Father Superior had smiled. You are not yet a fully fledgedBrother, Michael. You cannot enter your novitiate until you've achievedyour majority, and you won't be thirty for another five years. Whydon't you spend some time outside and see how you like it?     Michael had agreed, but before leaving he had spent months studyingthe ways of the United Universe. He had skimmed over Earth, becausehe had been so sure he'd know its ways instinctively. Remembering hispreparations, he was astonished by his smug self-confidence.  A large scarlet pencil jumped merrily across the advideo screen. Theface on the eraser opened its mouth and sang: Our pencils are finestfrom point up to rubber, for the lead is from Yed, while the wood comesfrom Dschubba.       Is there any way of turning that thing off? Michael wanted to know.     The other man smiled. If there were, my boy, do you think anybodywould watch it? Furthermore, turning it off would violate the spirit offree enterprise. We wouldn't want that, would we?     Oh, no! Michael agreed hastily. Certainly not.     And it might hurt the advertiser's feelings, cause him ego injury.     How could I ever have had such a ridiculous idea? Michael murmured,abashed.     Allow me to introduce myself, said his companion. My name isPierce B. Carpenter. Aphrodisiacs are my line. Here's my card. Hehanded Michael a transparent tab with the photograph of Mr. Carpentersuspended inside, together with his registration number, his name, hisaddress, and the Universal seal of approval. Clearly he was a characterof the utmost respectability.     My name's Michael Frey, the young man responded, smiling awkwardly.I'm afraid I don't have any cards.     Well, you wouldn't have had any use for them where you were. Now,look here, son, Carpenter went on in a lowered voice, I know you'vejust come from the Lodge and the mistakes you'll make will be throughignorance rather than deliberate malice. But the police wouldn'tunderstand. You know what the sacred writings say: 'Ignorance of TheLaw is no excuse.' I'd be glad to give you any little tips I can. Forinstance, your hands....     Michael spread his hands out in front of him. They were perfectly goodhands, he thought. Is there something wrong with them?     Carpenter blushed and looked away. Didn't you know that on Electra itis forbidden for anyone to appear in public with his hands bare?     Of course I know that, Michael said impatiently. But what's that gotto do with me?     The salesman was wide-eyed. But if it is forbidden on Electra, itbecomes automatically prohibited here.     But Electrans have eight fingers on each hand, Michael protested,with two fingernails on each—all covered with green scales.     Carpenter drew himself up as far as it was possible to do so whilelying down. Do eight fingers make one a lesser Universal?     Of course not, but—     Is he inferior to you then because he has sixteen fingernails?     Certainly not, but—     Would you like to be called guilty of— Carpenter paused before thedreaded word—      intolerance     ?     No, no,      no     ! Michael almost shrieked. It would be horrible for himto be arrested before he even had time to view Portyork. I have lotsof gloves in my pack, he babbled. Lots and lots. I'll put some onright away.  With nervous haste, he pressed the lever which dropped his pack downfrom the storage compartment. It landed on his stomach. The device hadbeen invented by one of the Dschubbans who are, as everyone knows,hoop-shaped.     Michael pushed the button marked      Gloves A     , and a pair of yellowgauntlets slid out.     Carpenter pressed his hands to his eyes. Yellow is the color of deathon Saturn, and you know how morbid the Saturnians are about passingaway! No one      ever     wears yellow!     Sorry, Michael said humbly. The button marked      Gloves B     yielded apair of rose-colored gloves which harmonized ill with his scarlet tunicand turquoise breeches, but he was past caring for esthetic effects.     The quality's high, sang a quartet of beautiful female humanoids,but the price is meager. You      know     when you buy Plummy Fruitcake fromVega.     The salesman patted Michael's shoulder. You staying a while inPortyork? Michael nodded. Then you'd better stick close to me for awhile until you learn our ways. You can't run around loose by yourselfuntil you've acquired civilized behavior patterns, or you'll get intotrouble.     Thank you, sir, Michael said gratefully. It's very kind of you.     He twisted himself around—it was boiling hot inside the jet busand his damp clothes were clinging uncomfortably—and struck hishead against the bottom of the shelf above. Awfully inconvenientarrangement here, he commented. Wonder why they don't have seats.     Because this arrangement, Carpenter said stiffly, is the one thathas proved suitable for the greatest number of intelligent life-forms.     Oh, I see, Michael murmured. I didn't get a look at the otherpassengers. Are there many extraterrestrials on the bus?     Dozens of them. Haven't you heard the Sirians singing?     A low moaning noise had been pervading the bus, but Michael had thoughtit arose from defective jets.     Oh, yes! he agreed. And very beautiful it is, too! But so sad.     Sirians are always sad, the salesman told him. Listen.  Michael strained his ears past the racket of the advideo. Sure enough,he could make out words: Our wings were unfurled in a far distantworld, our bodies are pain-racked, delirious. And never, it seems, willwe see, save in dreams, the bright purple swamps of our Sirius....     Carpenter brushed away a tear. Poignant, isn't it?     Very, very touching, Michael agreed. Are they sick or something?     Oh, no; they wouldn't have been permitted on the bus if they were.They're just homesick. Sirians love being homesick. That's why theyleave Sirius in such great numbers.     Fasten your suction disks, please, the stewardess, a prettytwo-headed Denebian, ordered as she walked up and down the gangway.We're coming into Portyork. I have an announcement to make to allpassengers on behalf of the United Universe. Zosma was admitted intothe Union early this morning.     All the passengers cheered.     Since it is considered immodest on Zosma, she continued, ever toappear with the heads bare, henceforward it will be tabu to be seen inpublic without some sort of head-covering.     Wild scrabbling sounds indicated that all the passengers were searchingtheir packs for headgear. Michael unearthed a violet cap.     The salesmen unfolded what looked like a medieval opera hat inpiercingly bright green.       Always got to keep on your toes, he whispered to the younger man.The Universe is expanding every minute.     The bus settled softly on the landing field and the passengers flew,floated, crawled, undulated, or walked out. Michael looked around himcuriously. The Lodge had contained no extraterrestrials, for such ofthose as sought seclusion had Brotherhoods on their own planets.     Of course, even in Angeles he had seen other-worlders—humanoids fromVega, scaly Electrans, the wispy ubiquitous Sirians—but nothing tocompare with the crowds that surged here. Scarlet Meropians rubbedtentacles with bulging-eyed Talithans; lumpish gray Jovians ploddedalongside graceful, spidery Nunkians. And there were countless otherswhom he had seen pictured in books, but never before in reality.     The gaily colored costumes and bodies of these beings renderedkaleidoscopic a field already brilliant with red-and-green lights andbanners. The effect was enhanced by Mr. Carpenter, whose emerald-greencloak was drawn back to reveal a chartreuse tunic and olive-greenbreeches which had apparently been designed for a taller and somewhatless pudgy man.  Carpenter rubbed modestly gloved hands together. I have no immediatebusiness, so supposing I start showing you the sights. What would youlike to see first, Mr. Frey? Or would you prefer a nice, restful movid?     Frankly, Michael admitted, the first thing I'd like to do is getmyself something to eat. I didn't have any breakfast and I'm famished.Two small creatures standing close to him giggled nervously andscuttled off on six legs apiece.     Shh, not so loud! There are females present. Carpenter drew theyouth to a secluded corner. Don't you know that on Theemim it'sfrightfully vulgar to as much as speak of eating in public?     But why? Michael demanded in too loud a voice. What's wrong witheating in public here on Earth?     Carpenter clapped a hand over the young man's mouth. Hush, hecautioned. After all, on Earth there are things we don't do or evenmention in public, aren't there?     Well, yes. But those are different.     Not at all. Those rules might seem just as ridiculous to a Theemimian.But the Theemimians have accepted our customs just as we have acceptedthe Theemimians'. How would you like it if a Theemimian violatedone of our tabus in public? You must consider the feelings of theTheemimians as equal to your own. Observe the golden rule: 'Do untoextraterrestrials as you would be done by.'     But I'm still hungry, Michael persisted, modulating his voice,however, to a decent whisper. Do the proprieties demand that I starveto death, or can I get something to eat somewhere?     Naturally, the salesman whispered back. Portyork provides for allbodily needs. Numerous feeding stations are conveniently locatedthroughout the port, and there must be some on the field.     After gazing furtively over his shoulder to see that no females werewatching, Carpenter approached a large map of the landing field andpressed a button. A tiny red light winked demurely for an instant.     That's the nearest one, Carpenter explained.  Inside a small, white, functional-looking building unobtrusivelymarked Feeding Station, Carpenter showed Michael where to insert atwo-credit piece in a slot. A door slid back and admitted Michael intoa tiny, austere room, furnished only with a table, a chair, a foodcompartment, and an advideo. The food consisted of tabloid syntheticsand was tasteless. Michael knew that only primitive creatures wastetime and energy in growing and preparing natural foods. It was all amatter of getting used to this stuff, he thought glumly, as he tried tochew food that was meant to be gulped.     A ferret-eyed Yeddan appeared on the advideo. Do you suffer fromgastric disorders? Does your viscera get in your hair? A horridcondition, but swift abolition is yours with Al-Brom from Altair.     Michael finished his meal in fifteen minutes and left the compartmentto find Carpenter awaiting him in the lobby, impatiently glancing atthe luminous time dial embedded in his wrist.     Let's go to the Old Town, he suggested to Michael. It will be ofgreat interest to a student and a newcomer like yourself.     A few yards away from the feeding station, the travel agents were linedup in rows, each outside his spaceship, each shouting the advantages ofthe tour he offered:     Better than a mustard plaster is a weekend spent on Castor.     If you want to show you like her, take her for a week to Spica.     Movid stars go to Mars.     Carpenter smiled politely at them. No space trips for us today,gentlemen. We're staying on Terra. He guided the bewildered young manthrough the crowds and to the gates of the field. Outside, a number ofsurface vehicles were lined up, with the drivers loudly competing forbusiness.     Come, take a ride in my rocket car, suited to both gent and lady,lined with luxury      hukka     fur brought from afar, and perfumed with rarescents from Algedi.     Whichever movid film you choose to view will be yours in my finecab from Mizar. Just press a button—it won't cost you nuttin'—seea passionate drama of long-vanished Mu or the bloodhounds pursuingEliza.     All honor be laid at the feet of free trade, but, whatever your raceor your birth, each passenger curls up with two dancing girls who ridesin the taxi from Earth.     Couldn't we—couldn't we walk? At least part of the way? Michaelfaltered.     Carpenter stared. Walk! Don't you know it's forbidden to walk morethan two hundred yards in any one direction? Fomalhautians never walk.     But they have no feet.     That has nothing whatsoever to do with it.  Carpenter gently urged the young man into the Algedian cab ... whichreeked. Michael held his nose, but his mentor shook his head. No, no!Tpiu Number Five is the most esteemed aroma on Algedi. It would breakthe driver's heart if he thought you didn't like it. You wouldn't wantto be had up for ego injury, would you?     Of course not, Michael whispered weakly.     Brunettes are darker and blondes are fairer, the advideo informedhim, when they wash out their hair with shampoos made on Chara.     After a time, Michael got more or less used to Tpiu Number Five andwas able to take some interest in the passing landscape. Portyork,the biggest spaceport in the United Universe, was, of course, themost cosmopolitan city—cosmopolitan in its architecture as well asits inhabitants. Silver domes of Earth were crowded next to the tallhelical edifices of the Venusians.     You'll notice that the current medieval revival has even reachedarchitecture, Carpenter pointed out. See those period houses in theFrank Lloyd Wright and Inigo Jones manner?     Very quaint, Michael commented.     Great floating red and green balls lit the streets, even though it wasstill daylight, and long scarlet-and-emerald streamers whipped outfrom the most unlikely places. As Michael opened his mouth to inquireabout this, We now interrupt the commercials, the advideo said, tobring you a brand new version of one of the medieval ballads that arebecoming so popular....       I shall scream, stated Carpenter, if they play      Beautiful BlueDeneb     just once more.... No, thank the Wise Ones, I've never heardthis before.     Thuban, Thuban, I've been thinking, sang a buxom Betelgeusian, whata Cosmos this could be, if land masses were transported to replace thewasteful sea.     I guess the first thing for me to do, Michael began in a businesslikemanner, is to get myself a room at a hotel.... What have I said now?     The word      hotel     , Carpenter explained through pursed lips, isnot used in polite society any more. It has come to have unpleasantconnotations. It means—a place of dancing girls. I hardly think....     Certainly not, Michael agreed austerely. I merely want a lodging.     That word is also—well, you see, Carpenter told him, on Zaniah itis unthinkable to go anywhere without one's family.     They're a sort of ant, aren't they? The Zaniahans, I mean.     More like bees. So those creatures who travel— Carpenter lowered hisvoice modestly —      alone     hire a family for the duration of their stay.There are a number of families available, but the better types comerather high. There has been talk of reviving the old-fashioned pricecontrols, but the Wise Ones say this would limit free enterprise asmuch as—if you'll excuse my use of the expression—tariffs would.  The taxi let them off at a square meadow which was filled withtransparent plastic domes housing clocks of all varieties, most ofthe antique type based on the old twenty-four hour day instead of thestandard thirty hours. There were few extraterrestrial clocks becausemost non-humans had time sense, Michael knew, and needed no mechanicaldevices.     This, said Carpenter, is Times Square. Once it wasn't really square,but it is contrary to Nekkarian custom to do, say, imply, or permitthe existence of anything that isn't true, so when Nekkar entered theUnion, we had to square off the place. And, of course, install theclocks. Finest clock museum in the Union, I understand.     The pictures in my history books— Michael began.     Did I hear you correctly, sir? The capes of a bright blue cloaktrembled with the indignation of a scarlet, many-tentacled being. Didyou use the word      history     ? He pronounced it in terms of loathing. Ihave been grossly insulted and I shall be forced to report you to thepolice, sir.     Please don't! Carpenter begged. This youth has just come from one ofthe Brotherhoods and is not yet accustomed to the ways of our universe.I know that, because of the great sophistication for which your race isnoted, you will overlook this little gaucherie on his part.     Well, the red one conceded, let it not be said that Meropians arenot tolerant. But, be careful, young man, he warned Michael. Thereare other beings less sophisticated than we. Guard your tongue, or youmight find yourself in trouble.     He indicated the stalwart constable who, splendid in gold helmet andgold-spangled pink tights, surveyed the terrain haughtily from hisfloating platform in the air.     I should have told you, Carpenter reproached himself as the Meropianswirled off. Never mention the word 'history' in front of a Meropian.They rose from barbarism in one generation, and so they haven't anyhistory at all. Naturally, they're sensitive in the extreme about it.     Naturally, Michael said. Tell me, Mr. Carpenter, is there somespecial reason for everything being decorated in red and green? Inoticed it along the way and it's all over here, too.     Why, Christmas is coming, my boy, Carpenter answered, surprised.It's July already—about time they got started fixing things up. Someplaces are so slack, they haven't even got their Mother's Week shrinescleared away.  A bevy of tiny golden-haired, winged creatures circled slowly overTimes Square.     Izarians, Carpenter explained They're much in demand for Christmasdisplays.     The small mouths opened and clear soprano voices filled the air: Itcame upon the midnight clear, that glorious song of old, from angelsbending near the Earth to tune their harps of gold. Peace on Earth,good will to men, from Heaven's All-Celestial. Peace to the Universeas well and every extraterrestrial.... Beat the drum and clash thecymbals; buy your Christmas gifts at Nimble's.     This beautiful walk you see before you, Carpenter said, waving anexpository arm, shaded by boogil trees from Dschubba, is calledBroadway. To your left you will be delighted to see—     Listen, could we— Michael began.     —Forty-second Street, which is now actually the forty-second—     By the way—     It is extremely rude and hence illegal, Carpenter glared, tointerrupt anyone who is speaking.     But I would like, Michael whispered very earnestly, to get washed.If I might.     The other man frowned. Let me see. I believe one of the old landmarkswas converted into a lavatory. Only thing of suitable dimensions.Anyhow, it was absolutely useless for any other purpose. We have totake a taxi there; it's more than two hundred yards. Custom, you know.     A taxi? Isn't there one closer?     Ah, impatient youth! There aren't too many altogether. Theinstallations are extremely expensive.     They hailed the nearest taxi, which happened to be one of the varietyequipped with dancing girls. Fortunately the ride was brief.     Michael gazed at the Empire State Building with interest. It was in aremarkable state of preservation and looked just like the pictures inhis history—in his books, except that none of them showed the hugegolden sign Public-Washport riding on its spire.       Attendants directed traffic from a large circular desk in the lobby.Mercurians, seventy-eighth floor.      A     group Vegans, fourteenth floorright.      B     group, fourteenth floor left.      C     group, fifteenth floorright.      D     group, fifteenth floor left. Sirians, forty-ninth floor.Female humans fiftieth floor right, males, fiftieth floor left.Uranians, basement....     Carpenter and Michael shared an elevator with a group of sad-eyed,translucent Sirians, who were singing as usual and accompanyingthemselves on      wemps     , a cross between a harp and a flute. Foreignplanets are strange and we're subject to mange. Foreign atmospheresprove deleterious. Only with our mind's eye can we sail through the skyto the bright purple swamps of our Sirius.     The cost of the compartment was half that of the feeding station; onecredit in the slot unlocked the door. There was an advideo here, too:     Friend, do you clean yourself each day? Now, let's not be evasive,for each one has his favored way. Some use an abrasive and some useoil. Some shed their skins, in a brand-new hide emerging. Some rubwith grease put up in tins. For others there's deterging. Some lickthemselves to take off grime. Some beat it off with rope. Some cook itaway in boiling lime. Old-fashioned ones use soap. More ways there arethan I recall, and each of these will differ, but the only one thatworks for all is Omniclene from Kiffa.  And now, smiled Carpenter as the two humans left the building, wemust see you registered for a nice family. Nothing too ostentatious,but, on the other hand, you mustn't count credits and ally yourselfbeneath your station.     Michael gazed pensively at two slender, snakelike Difdans writhingOnly 99 Shopping Days Till Christmas across an aquamarine sky.     They won't be permanent? he asked. The family, I mean?     Certainly not. You merely hire them for whatever length of time youchoose. But why are you so anxious?     The young man blushed. Well, I'm thinking of having a family of my ownsome day. Pretty soon, as a matter of fact.     Carpenter beamed. That's nice; you're being adopted! I do hope it'san Earth family that's chosen you—it's so awkward being adopted byextraterrestrials.     Oh, no! I'm planning to have my own. That is, I've got a—a girl,you see, and I thought after I had secured employment of some kind inPortyork, I'd send for her and we'd get married and....           Married!      Carpenter was now completely shocked. You      mustn't     usethat word! Don't you know marriage was outlawed years ago? Exclusivepossession of a member of the opposite sex is slavery on Talitha.Furthermore, supposing somebody else saw your—er—friend and wantedher also; you wouldn't wish him to endure the frustration of not havingher, would you?     Michael squared his jaw. You bet I would.     Carpenter drew himself away slightly, as if to avoid contamination.This is un-Universal. Young man, if I didn't have a kind heart, Iwould report you.     Michael was too preoccupied to be disturbed by this threat. You meanif I bring my girl here, I'd have to share her?     Certainly. And she'd have to share you. If somebody wanted you, thatis.     Then I'm not staying here, Michael declared firmly, ashamed to admiteven to himself how much relief his decision was bringing him. I don'tthink I like it, anyhow. I'm going back to the Brotherhood.     There was a short cold silence.     You know, son, Carpenter finally said, I think you might be right.I don't want to hurt your feelings—you      promise     I won't hurt yourfeelings? he asked anxiously, afraid, Michael realized, that he mightcall a policeman for ego injury.     You won't hurt my feelings, Mr. Carpenter.     Well, I believe that there are certain individuals who just cannotadapt themselves to civilized behavior patterns. It's much better forthem to belong to a Brotherhood such as yours than to be placed in oneof the government incarceratoriums, comfortable and commodious thoughthey are.     Much better, Michael agreed.     By the way, Carpenter went on, I realize this is just vulgarcuriosity on my part and you have a right to refuse an answer withoutfear of hurting my feelings, but how do you happen to have a—er—girlwhen you belong to a Brotherhood?     Michael laughed. Oh, 'Brotherhood' is merely a generic term. Bothsexes are represented in our society.     On Talitha— Carpenter began.     I know, Michael interrupted him, like the crude primitive he was andalways would be. But our females don't mind being generic.  A group of Sirians was traveling on the shelf above him on the slow,very slow jet bus that was flying Michael back to Angeles, back to theLodge, back to the Brotherhood, back to her. Their melancholy howlingwas getting on his nerves, but in a little while, he told himself, itwould be all over. He would be back home, safe with his own kind.     When our minds have grown tired, when our lives have expired, when oursorrows no longer can weary us, let our ashes return, neatly packed inan urn, to the bright purple swamps of our Sirius.     The advideo crackled: The gown her fairy godmother once gave toCinderella was created by the haute couture of fashion-wise Capella.     The ancient taxi was there, the one that Michael had taken from theLodge, early that morning, to the little Angeleno landing field, as ifit had been waiting for his return.     I see you're back, son, the driver said without surprise. He set thenoisy old rockets blasting. I been to Portyork once. It's not a badplace to live in, but I hate to visit it.     I'm back! Michael sank into the motheaten sable cushions and gazedwith pleasure at the familiar landmarks half seen in the darkness. I'mback! And a loud sneer to civilization!     Better be careful, son, the driver warned. I know this is a ruralarea, but civilization is spreading. There are secret police all over.How do you know I ain't a government spy? I could pull you in forinsulting civilization.     The elderly black and white advideo flickered, broke into purringsound: Do you find life continues to daze you? Do you find for a quickdeath you hanker? Why not try the new style euthanasia, performed byskilled workmen from Ancha?     Not any more, Michael thought contentedly. He was going home.  ","The United Universe's laws are a combination of laws of every planet involved. Earth has introduced the tabu regarding offending motherhood as it is sacred. Electra has prohibited appearing in public bare handed, because its people have eight fingers on each hand and feel different from others. Yellow is forbidden to wear as it represents death on Saturn. Zosma has just joined the United Universe and introduced the necessity to cover the heads in public, which is immodest on that planet. Theemimians do not eat in public, and so do all other beings in the United Universe. Fomalhautians do not have feet and, therefore, do not walk. So, it's prohibited to walk more than two hundred yards. Zaniahansn are like bees and go everywhere with their families, therefore, one can not travel alone in the universe. Nekkarians say and imply only what is true. Meropians do not have history and this word is offending for them, and forbidden, therefore. On Talitha marriage is slavery, and so is it on other planets. "
"What is the setting of the story? </s>     Tea Tray in the Sky     By EVELYN E. SMITH     Illustrated by ASHMAN     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction September 1952.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        Visiting a society is tougher than being born       into it. A 40 credit tour is no substitute!        The picture changed on the illuminated panel that filled the forwardend of the shelf on which Michael lay. A haggard blonde woman sprawledapathetically in a chair.     Rundown, nervous, hypertensive? inquired a mellifluous voice. Inneed of mental therapy? Buy Grugis juice; it's not expensive. And theyswear by it on Meropé.     A disembodied pair of hands administered a spoonful of Grugis juice tothe woman, whereupon her hair turned bright yellow, makeup bloomed onher face, her clothes grew briefer, and she burst into a fast Callistanclog.     I see from your hair that you have been a member of one of theBrotherhoods, the passenger lying next to Michael on the shelfremarked inquisitively. He was a middle-aged man, his dust-brown hairthinning on top, his small blue eyes glittering preternaturally fromthe lenses fitted over his eyeballs.     Michael rubbed his fingers ruefully over the blond stubble on his scalpand wished he had waited until his tonsure were fully grown beforehe had ventured out into the world. But he had been so impatient toleave the Lodge, so impatient to exchange the flowing robes of theBrotherhood for the close-fitting breeches and tunic of the outer worldthat had seemed so glamorous and now proved so itchy.     Yes, he replied courteously, for he knew the first rule of universalbehavior, I have been a Brother.     Now why would a good-looking young fellow like you want to join aBrotherhood? his shelf companion wanted to know. Trouble over afemale?     Michael shook his head, smiling. No, I have been a member of theAngeleno Brotherhood since I was an infant. My father brought me whenhe entered.     The other man clucked sympathetically. No doubt he was grieved overthe death of your mother.     Michael closed his eyes to shut out the sight of a baby protruding itsfat face at him three-dimensionally, but he could not shut out itslisping voice: Does your child refuse its food, grow wizened like amonkey? It will grow plump with oh-so-good Mealy Mush from Nunki.     No, sir, Michael replied. Father said that was one of the fewblessings that brightened an otherwise benighted life.     Horror contorted his fellow traveller's plump features. Be careful,young man! he warned. Lucky for you that you are talking to someoneas broad-minded as I, but others aren't. You might be reported forviolating a tabu. An Earth tabu, moreover.     An Earth tabu?     Certainly. Motherhood is sacred here on Earth and so, of course, inthe entire United Universe. You should have known that.  Michael blushed. He should indeed. For a year prior to his leaving theLodge, he had carefully studied the customs and tabus of the Universeso that he should be able to enter the new life he planned for himself,with confidence and ease. Under the system of universal kinship, allthe customs and all the tabus of all the planets were the law on allthe other planets. For the Wise Ones had decided many years beforethat wars arose from not understanding one's fellows, not sympathizingwith them. If every nation, every planet, every solar system had thesame laws, customs, and habits, they reasoned, there would be nodifferences, and hence no wars.     Future events had proved them to be correct. For five hundred yearsthere had been no war in the United Universe, and there was peace andplenty for all. Only one crime was recognized throughout the solarsystems—injuring a fellow-creature by word or deed (and the telepathsof Aldebaran were still trying to add      thought     to the statute).     Why, then, Michael had questioned the Father Superior, was there anyreason for the Lodge's existence, any reason for a group of humans toretire from the world and live in the simple ways of their primitiveforefathers? When there had been war, injustice, tyranny, there had,perhaps, been an understandable emotional reason for fleeing theworld. But now why refuse to face a desirable reality? Why turn one'sface upon the present and deliberately go back to the life of thepast—the high collars, vests and trousers, the inefficient coalfurnaces, the rude gasoline tractors of medieval days?     The Father Superior had smiled. You are not yet a fully fledgedBrother, Michael. You cannot enter your novitiate until you've achievedyour majority, and you won't be thirty for another five years. Whydon't you spend some time outside and see how you like it?     Michael had agreed, but before leaving he had spent months studyingthe ways of the United Universe. He had skimmed over Earth, becausehe had been so sure he'd know its ways instinctively. Remembering hispreparations, he was astonished by his smug self-confidence.  A large scarlet pencil jumped merrily across the advideo screen. Theface on the eraser opened its mouth and sang: Our pencils are finestfrom point up to rubber, for the lead is from Yed, while the wood comesfrom Dschubba.       Is there any way of turning that thing off? Michael wanted to know.     The other man smiled. If there were, my boy, do you think anybodywould watch it? Furthermore, turning it off would violate the spirit offree enterprise. We wouldn't want that, would we?     Oh, no! Michael agreed hastily. Certainly not.     And it might hurt the advertiser's feelings, cause him ego injury.     How could I ever have had such a ridiculous idea? Michael murmured,abashed.     Allow me to introduce myself, said his companion. My name isPierce B. Carpenter. Aphrodisiacs are my line. Here's my card. Hehanded Michael a transparent tab with the photograph of Mr. Carpentersuspended inside, together with his registration number, his name, hisaddress, and the Universal seal of approval. Clearly he was a characterof the utmost respectability.     My name's Michael Frey, the young man responded, smiling awkwardly.I'm afraid I don't have any cards.     Well, you wouldn't have had any use for them where you were. Now,look here, son, Carpenter went on in a lowered voice, I know you'vejust come from the Lodge and the mistakes you'll make will be throughignorance rather than deliberate malice. But the police wouldn'tunderstand. You know what the sacred writings say: 'Ignorance of TheLaw is no excuse.' I'd be glad to give you any little tips I can. Forinstance, your hands....     Michael spread his hands out in front of him. They were perfectly goodhands, he thought. Is there something wrong with them?     Carpenter blushed and looked away. Didn't you know that on Electra itis forbidden for anyone to appear in public with his hands bare?     Of course I know that, Michael said impatiently. But what's that gotto do with me?     The salesman was wide-eyed. But if it is forbidden on Electra, itbecomes automatically prohibited here.     But Electrans have eight fingers on each hand, Michael protested,with two fingernails on each—all covered with green scales.     Carpenter drew himself up as far as it was possible to do so whilelying down. Do eight fingers make one a lesser Universal?     Of course not, but—     Is he inferior to you then because he has sixteen fingernails?     Certainly not, but—     Would you like to be called guilty of— Carpenter paused before thedreaded word—      intolerance     ?     No, no,      no     ! Michael almost shrieked. It would be horrible for himto be arrested before he even had time to view Portyork. I have lotsof gloves in my pack, he babbled. Lots and lots. I'll put some onright away.  With nervous haste, he pressed the lever which dropped his pack downfrom the storage compartment. It landed on his stomach. The device hadbeen invented by one of the Dschubbans who are, as everyone knows,hoop-shaped.     Michael pushed the button marked      Gloves A     , and a pair of yellowgauntlets slid out.     Carpenter pressed his hands to his eyes. Yellow is the color of deathon Saturn, and you know how morbid the Saturnians are about passingaway! No one      ever     wears yellow!     Sorry, Michael said humbly. The button marked      Gloves B     yielded apair of rose-colored gloves which harmonized ill with his scarlet tunicand turquoise breeches, but he was past caring for esthetic effects.     The quality's high, sang a quartet of beautiful female humanoids,but the price is meager. You      know     when you buy Plummy Fruitcake fromVega.     The salesman patted Michael's shoulder. You staying a while inPortyork? Michael nodded. Then you'd better stick close to me for awhile until you learn our ways. You can't run around loose by yourselfuntil you've acquired civilized behavior patterns, or you'll get intotrouble.     Thank you, sir, Michael said gratefully. It's very kind of you.     He twisted himself around—it was boiling hot inside the jet busand his damp clothes were clinging uncomfortably—and struck hishead against the bottom of the shelf above. Awfully inconvenientarrangement here, he commented. Wonder why they don't have seats.     Because this arrangement, Carpenter said stiffly, is the one thathas proved suitable for the greatest number of intelligent life-forms.     Oh, I see, Michael murmured. I didn't get a look at the otherpassengers. Are there many extraterrestrials on the bus?     Dozens of them. Haven't you heard the Sirians singing?     A low moaning noise had been pervading the bus, but Michael had thoughtit arose from defective jets.     Oh, yes! he agreed. And very beautiful it is, too! But so sad.     Sirians are always sad, the salesman told him. Listen.  Michael strained his ears past the racket of the advideo. Sure enough,he could make out words: Our wings were unfurled in a far distantworld, our bodies are pain-racked, delirious. And never, it seems, willwe see, save in dreams, the bright purple swamps of our Sirius....     Carpenter brushed away a tear. Poignant, isn't it?     Very, very touching, Michael agreed. Are they sick or something?     Oh, no; they wouldn't have been permitted on the bus if they were.They're just homesick. Sirians love being homesick. That's why theyleave Sirius in such great numbers.     Fasten your suction disks, please, the stewardess, a prettytwo-headed Denebian, ordered as she walked up and down the gangway.We're coming into Portyork. I have an announcement to make to allpassengers on behalf of the United Universe. Zosma was admitted intothe Union early this morning.     All the passengers cheered.     Since it is considered immodest on Zosma, she continued, ever toappear with the heads bare, henceforward it will be tabu to be seen inpublic without some sort of head-covering.     Wild scrabbling sounds indicated that all the passengers were searchingtheir packs for headgear. Michael unearthed a violet cap.     The salesmen unfolded what looked like a medieval opera hat inpiercingly bright green.       Always got to keep on your toes, he whispered to the younger man.The Universe is expanding every minute.     The bus settled softly on the landing field and the passengers flew,floated, crawled, undulated, or walked out. Michael looked around himcuriously. The Lodge had contained no extraterrestrials, for such ofthose as sought seclusion had Brotherhoods on their own planets.     Of course, even in Angeles he had seen other-worlders—humanoids fromVega, scaly Electrans, the wispy ubiquitous Sirians—but nothing tocompare with the crowds that surged here. Scarlet Meropians rubbedtentacles with bulging-eyed Talithans; lumpish gray Jovians ploddedalongside graceful, spidery Nunkians. And there were countless otherswhom he had seen pictured in books, but never before in reality.     The gaily colored costumes and bodies of these beings renderedkaleidoscopic a field already brilliant with red-and-green lights andbanners. The effect was enhanced by Mr. Carpenter, whose emerald-greencloak was drawn back to reveal a chartreuse tunic and olive-greenbreeches which had apparently been designed for a taller and somewhatless pudgy man.  Carpenter rubbed modestly gloved hands together. I have no immediatebusiness, so supposing I start showing you the sights. What would youlike to see first, Mr. Frey? Or would you prefer a nice, restful movid?     Frankly, Michael admitted, the first thing I'd like to do is getmyself something to eat. I didn't have any breakfast and I'm famished.Two small creatures standing close to him giggled nervously andscuttled off on six legs apiece.     Shh, not so loud! There are females present. Carpenter drew theyouth to a secluded corner. Don't you know that on Theemim it'sfrightfully vulgar to as much as speak of eating in public?     But why? Michael demanded in too loud a voice. What's wrong witheating in public here on Earth?     Carpenter clapped a hand over the young man's mouth. Hush, hecautioned. After all, on Earth there are things we don't do or evenmention in public, aren't there?     Well, yes. But those are different.     Not at all. Those rules might seem just as ridiculous to a Theemimian.But the Theemimians have accepted our customs just as we have acceptedthe Theemimians'. How would you like it if a Theemimian violatedone of our tabus in public? You must consider the feelings of theTheemimians as equal to your own. Observe the golden rule: 'Do untoextraterrestrials as you would be done by.'     But I'm still hungry, Michael persisted, modulating his voice,however, to a decent whisper. Do the proprieties demand that I starveto death, or can I get something to eat somewhere?     Naturally, the salesman whispered back. Portyork provides for allbodily needs. Numerous feeding stations are conveniently locatedthroughout the port, and there must be some on the field.     After gazing furtively over his shoulder to see that no females werewatching, Carpenter approached a large map of the landing field andpressed a button. A tiny red light winked demurely for an instant.     That's the nearest one, Carpenter explained.  Inside a small, white, functional-looking building unobtrusivelymarked Feeding Station, Carpenter showed Michael where to insert atwo-credit piece in a slot. A door slid back and admitted Michael intoa tiny, austere room, furnished only with a table, a chair, a foodcompartment, and an advideo. The food consisted of tabloid syntheticsand was tasteless. Michael knew that only primitive creatures wastetime and energy in growing and preparing natural foods. It was all amatter of getting used to this stuff, he thought glumly, as he tried tochew food that was meant to be gulped.     A ferret-eyed Yeddan appeared on the advideo. Do you suffer fromgastric disorders? Does your viscera get in your hair? A horridcondition, but swift abolition is yours with Al-Brom from Altair.     Michael finished his meal in fifteen minutes and left the compartmentto find Carpenter awaiting him in the lobby, impatiently glancing atthe luminous time dial embedded in his wrist.     Let's go to the Old Town, he suggested to Michael. It will be ofgreat interest to a student and a newcomer like yourself.     A few yards away from the feeding station, the travel agents were linedup in rows, each outside his spaceship, each shouting the advantages ofthe tour he offered:     Better than a mustard plaster is a weekend spent on Castor.     If you want to show you like her, take her for a week to Spica.     Movid stars go to Mars.     Carpenter smiled politely at them. No space trips for us today,gentlemen. We're staying on Terra. He guided the bewildered young manthrough the crowds and to the gates of the field. Outside, a number ofsurface vehicles were lined up, with the drivers loudly competing forbusiness.     Come, take a ride in my rocket car, suited to both gent and lady,lined with luxury      hukka     fur brought from afar, and perfumed with rarescents from Algedi.     Whichever movid film you choose to view will be yours in my finecab from Mizar. Just press a button—it won't cost you nuttin'—seea passionate drama of long-vanished Mu or the bloodhounds pursuingEliza.     All honor be laid at the feet of free trade, but, whatever your raceor your birth, each passenger curls up with two dancing girls who ridesin the taxi from Earth.     Couldn't we—couldn't we walk? At least part of the way? Michaelfaltered.     Carpenter stared. Walk! Don't you know it's forbidden to walk morethan two hundred yards in any one direction? Fomalhautians never walk.     But they have no feet.     That has nothing whatsoever to do with it.  Carpenter gently urged the young man into the Algedian cab ... whichreeked. Michael held his nose, but his mentor shook his head. No, no!Tpiu Number Five is the most esteemed aroma on Algedi. It would breakthe driver's heart if he thought you didn't like it. You wouldn't wantto be had up for ego injury, would you?     Of course not, Michael whispered weakly.     Brunettes are darker and blondes are fairer, the advideo informedhim, when they wash out their hair with shampoos made on Chara.     After a time, Michael got more or less used to Tpiu Number Five andwas able to take some interest in the passing landscape. Portyork,the biggest spaceport in the United Universe, was, of course, themost cosmopolitan city—cosmopolitan in its architecture as well asits inhabitants. Silver domes of Earth were crowded next to the tallhelical edifices of the Venusians.     You'll notice that the current medieval revival has even reachedarchitecture, Carpenter pointed out. See those period houses in theFrank Lloyd Wright and Inigo Jones manner?     Very quaint, Michael commented.     Great floating red and green balls lit the streets, even though it wasstill daylight, and long scarlet-and-emerald streamers whipped outfrom the most unlikely places. As Michael opened his mouth to inquireabout this, We now interrupt the commercials, the advideo said, tobring you a brand new version of one of the medieval ballads that arebecoming so popular....       I shall scream, stated Carpenter, if they play      Beautiful BlueDeneb     just once more.... No, thank the Wise Ones, I've never heardthis before.     Thuban, Thuban, I've been thinking, sang a buxom Betelgeusian, whata Cosmos this could be, if land masses were transported to replace thewasteful sea.     I guess the first thing for me to do, Michael began in a businesslikemanner, is to get myself a room at a hotel.... What have I said now?     The word      hotel     , Carpenter explained through pursed lips, isnot used in polite society any more. It has come to have unpleasantconnotations. It means—a place of dancing girls. I hardly think....     Certainly not, Michael agreed austerely. I merely want a lodging.     That word is also—well, you see, Carpenter told him, on Zaniah itis unthinkable to go anywhere without one's family.     They're a sort of ant, aren't they? The Zaniahans, I mean.     More like bees. So those creatures who travel— Carpenter lowered hisvoice modestly —      alone     hire a family for the duration of their stay.There are a number of families available, but the better types comerather high. There has been talk of reviving the old-fashioned pricecontrols, but the Wise Ones say this would limit free enterprise asmuch as—if you'll excuse my use of the expression—tariffs would.  The taxi let them off at a square meadow which was filled withtransparent plastic domes housing clocks of all varieties, most ofthe antique type based on the old twenty-four hour day instead of thestandard thirty hours. There were few extraterrestrial clocks becausemost non-humans had time sense, Michael knew, and needed no mechanicaldevices.     This, said Carpenter, is Times Square. Once it wasn't really square,but it is contrary to Nekkarian custom to do, say, imply, or permitthe existence of anything that isn't true, so when Nekkar entered theUnion, we had to square off the place. And, of course, install theclocks. Finest clock museum in the Union, I understand.     The pictures in my history books— Michael began.     Did I hear you correctly, sir? The capes of a bright blue cloaktrembled with the indignation of a scarlet, many-tentacled being. Didyou use the word      history     ? He pronounced it in terms of loathing. Ihave been grossly insulted and I shall be forced to report you to thepolice, sir.     Please don't! Carpenter begged. This youth has just come from one ofthe Brotherhoods and is not yet accustomed to the ways of our universe.I know that, because of the great sophistication for which your race isnoted, you will overlook this little gaucherie on his part.     Well, the red one conceded, let it not be said that Meropians arenot tolerant. But, be careful, young man, he warned Michael. Thereare other beings less sophisticated than we. Guard your tongue, or youmight find yourself in trouble.     He indicated the stalwart constable who, splendid in gold helmet andgold-spangled pink tights, surveyed the terrain haughtily from hisfloating platform in the air.     I should have told you, Carpenter reproached himself as the Meropianswirled off. Never mention the word 'history' in front of a Meropian.They rose from barbarism in one generation, and so they haven't anyhistory at all. Naturally, they're sensitive in the extreme about it.     Naturally, Michael said. Tell me, Mr. Carpenter, is there somespecial reason for everything being decorated in red and green? Inoticed it along the way and it's all over here, too.     Why, Christmas is coming, my boy, Carpenter answered, surprised.It's July already—about time they got started fixing things up. Someplaces are so slack, they haven't even got their Mother's Week shrinescleared away.  A bevy of tiny golden-haired, winged creatures circled slowly overTimes Square.     Izarians, Carpenter explained They're much in demand for Christmasdisplays.     The small mouths opened and clear soprano voices filled the air: Itcame upon the midnight clear, that glorious song of old, from angelsbending near the Earth to tune their harps of gold. Peace on Earth,good will to men, from Heaven's All-Celestial. Peace to the Universeas well and every extraterrestrial.... Beat the drum and clash thecymbals; buy your Christmas gifts at Nimble's.     This beautiful walk you see before you, Carpenter said, waving anexpository arm, shaded by boogil trees from Dschubba, is calledBroadway. To your left you will be delighted to see—     Listen, could we— Michael began.     —Forty-second Street, which is now actually the forty-second—     By the way—     It is extremely rude and hence illegal, Carpenter glared, tointerrupt anyone who is speaking.     But I would like, Michael whispered very earnestly, to get washed.If I might.     The other man frowned. Let me see. I believe one of the old landmarkswas converted into a lavatory. Only thing of suitable dimensions.Anyhow, it was absolutely useless for any other purpose. We have totake a taxi there; it's more than two hundred yards. Custom, you know.     A taxi? Isn't there one closer?     Ah, impatient youth! There aren't too many altogether. Theinstallations are extremely expensive.     They hailed the nearest taxi, which happened to be one of the varietyequipped with dancing girls. Fortunately the ride was brief.     Michael gazed at the Empire State Building with interest. It was in aremarkable state of preservation and looked just like the pictures inhis history—in his books, except that none of them showed the hugegolden sign Public-Washport riding on its spire.       Attendants directed traffic from a large circular desk in the lobby.Mercurians, seventy-eighth floor.      A     group Vegans, fourteenth floorright.      B     group, fourteenth floor left.      C     group, fifteenth floorright.      D     group, fifteenth floor left. Sirians, forty-ninth floor.Female humans fiftieth floor right, males, fiftieth floor left.Uranians, basement....     Carpenter and Michael shared an elevator with a group of sad-eyed,translucent Sirians, who were singing as usual and accompanyingthemselves on      wemps     , a cross between a harp and a flute. Foreignplanets are strange and we're subject to mange. Foreign atmospheresprove deleterious. Only with our mind's eye can we sail through the skyto the bright purple swamps of our Sirius.     The cost of the compartment was half that of the feeding station; onecredit in the slot unlocked the door. There was an advideo here, too:     Friend, do you clean yourself each day? Now, let's not be evasive,for each one has his favored way. Some use an abrasive and some useoil. Some shed their skins, in a brand-new hide emerging. Some rubwith grease put up in tins. For others there's deterging. Some lickthemselves to take off grime. Some beat it off with rope. Some cook itaway in boiling lime. Old-fashioned ones use soap. More ways there arethan I recall, and each of these will differ, but the only one thatworks for all is Omniclene from Kiffa.  And now, smiled Carpenter as the two humans left the building, wemust see you registered for a nice family. Nothing too ostentatious,but, on the other hand, you mustn't count credits and ally yourselfbeneath your station.     Michael gazed pensively at two slender, snakelike Difdans writhingOnly 99 Shopping Days Till Christmas across an aquamarine sky.     They won't be permanent? he asked. The family, I mean?     Certainly not. You merely hire them for whatever length of time youchoose. But why are you so anxious?     The young man blushed. Well, I'm thinking of having a family of my ownsome day. Pretty soon, as a matter of fact.     Carpenter beamed. That's nice; you're being adopted! I do hope it'san Earth family that's chosen you—it's so awkward being adopted byextraterrestrials.     Oh, no! I'm planning to have my own. That is, I've got a—a girl,you see, and I thought after I had secured employment of some kind inPortyork, I'd send for her and we'd get married and....           Married!      Carpenter was now completely shocked. You      mustn't     usethat word! Don't you know marriage was outlawed years ago? Exclusivepossession of a member of the opposite sex is slavery on Talitha.Furthermore, supposing somebody else saw your—er—friend and wantedher also; you wouldn't wish him to endure the frustration of not havingher, would you?     Michael squared his jaw. You bet I would.     Carpenter drew himself away slightly, as if to avoid contamination.This is un-Universal. Young man, if I didn't have a kind heart, Iwould report you.     Michael was too preoccupied to be disturbed by this threat. You meanif I bring my girl here, I'd have to share her?     Certainly. And she'd have to share you. If somebody wanted you, thatis.     Then I'm not staying here, Michael declared firmly, ashamed to admiteven to himself how much relief his decision was bringing him. I don'tthink I like it, anyhow. I'm going back to the Brotherhood.     There was a short cold silence.     You know, son, Carpenter finally said, I think you might be right.I don't want to hurt your feelings—you      promise     I won't hurt yourfeelings? he asked anxiously, afraid, Michael realized, that he mightcall a policeman for ego injury.     You won't hurt my feelings, Mr. Carpenter.     Well, I believe that there are certain individuals who just cannotadapt themselves to civilized behavior patterns. It's much better forthem to belong to a Brotherhood such as yours than to be placed in oneof the government incarceratoriums, comfortable and commodious thoughthey are.     Much better, Michael agreed.     By the way, Carpenter went on, I realize this is just vulgarcuriosity on my part and you have a right to refuse an answer withoutfear of hurting my feelings, but how do you happen to have a—er—girlwhen you belong to a Brotherhood?     Michael laughed. Oh, 'Brotherhood' is merely a generic term. Bothsexes are represented in our society.     On Talitha— Carpenter began.     I know, Michael interrupted him, like the crude primitive he was andalways would be. But our females don't mind being generic.  A group of Sirians was traveling on the shelf above him on the slow,very slow jet bus that was flying Michael back to Angeles, back to theLodge, back to the Brotherhood, back to her. Their melancholy howlingwas getting on his nerves, but in a little while, he told himself, itwould be all over. He would be back home, safe with his own kind.     When our minds have grown tired, when our lives have expired, when oursorrows no longer can weary us, let our ashes return, neatly packed inan urn, to the bright purple swamps of our Sirius.     The advideo crackled: The gown her fairy godmother once gave toCinderella was created by the haute couture of fashion-wise Capella.     The ancient taxi was there, the one that Michael had taken from theLodge, early that morning, to the little Angeleno landing field, as ifit had been waiting for his return.     I see you're back, son, the driver said without surprise. He set thenoisy old rockets blasting. I been to Portyork once. It's not a badplace to live in, but I hate to visit it.     I'm back! Michael sank into the motheaten sable cushions and gazedwith pleasure at the familiar landmarks half seen in the darkness. I'mback! And a loud sneer to civilization!     Better be careful, son, the driver warned. I know this is a ruralarea, but civilization is spreading. There are secret police all over.How do you know I ain't a government spy? I could pull you in forinsulting civilization.     The elderly black and white advideo flickered, broke into purringsound: Do you find life continues to daze you? Do you find for a quickdeath you hanker? Why not try the new style euthanasia, performed byskilled workmen from Ancha?     Not any more, Michael thought contentedly. He was going home.  ","The narration begins on a bus shelf where the main character lies. Then he arrives at Portyork, a huge spaceport on Earth, where Michael and Mr. Carpenter head to the nearest feeding station following the map. There Michael alone is admitted into a tiny room to eat. When he finishes, the two take a trip to the Old Town by taxi. In the cab they crossed Portyork, looking at the cosmopolitan architecture and people. They exit the taxi at Times Square which is indeed in the shape of a square and is decorated for the New Year in green and red though it's July. The two walk a little to Broadway and then. take another can to a public lavatory. There, in the elevator, Michael sees many foreigners again. When they leave the lavatory, the two have an argument and go different ways. In the next scene Michaels appears on a shelf on his way back to Angeles, to the Lodge and the Brotherhood. Upon arrival, he takes the same taxi back home. "
"What is the meaning of the trip back for the whole story? </s>     Tea Tray in the Sky     By EVELYN E. SMITH     Illustrated by ASHMAN     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction September 1952.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        Visiting a society is tougher than being born       into it. A 40 credit tour is no substitute!        The picture changed on the illuminated panel that filled the forwardend of the shelf on which Michael lay. A haggard blonde woman sprawledapathetically in a chair.     Rundown, nervous, hypertensive? inquired a mellifluous voice. Inneed of mental therapy? Buy Grugis juice; it's not expensive. And theyswear by it on Meropé.     A disembodied pair of hands administered a spoonful of Grugis juice tothe woman, whereupon her hair turned bright yellow, makeup bloomed onher face, her clothes grew briefer, and she burst into a fast Callistanclog.     I see from your hair that you have been a member of one of theBrotherhoods, the passenger lying next to Michael on the shelfremarked inquisitively. He was a middle-aged man, his dust-brown hairthinning on top, his small blue eyes glittering preternaturally fromthe lenses fitted over his eyeballs.     Michael rubbed his fingers ruefully over the blond stubble on his scalpand wished he had waited until his tonsure were fully grown beforehe had ventured out into the world. But he had been so impatient toleave the Lodge, so impatient to exchange the flowing robes of theBrotherhood for the close-fitting breeches and tunic of the outer worldthat had seemed so glamorous and now proved so itchy.     Yes, he replied courteously, for he knew the first rule of universalbehavior, I have been a Brother.     Now why would a good-looking young fellow like you want to join aBrotherhood? his shelf companion wanted to know. Trouble over afemale?     Michael shook his head, smiling. No, I have been a member of theAngeleno Brotherhood since I was an infant. My father brought me whenhe entered.     The other man clucked sympathetically. No doubt he was grieved overthe death of your mother.     Michael closed his eyes to shut out the sight of a baby protruding itsfat face at him three-dimensionally, but he could not shut out itslisping voice: Does your child refuse its food, grow wizened like amonkey? It will grow plump with oh-so-good Mealy Mush from Nunki.     No, sir, Michael replied. Father said that was one of the fewblessings that brightened an otherwise benighted life.     Horror contorted his fellow traveller's plump features. Be careful,young man! he warned. Lucky for you that you are talking to someoneas broad-minded as I, but others aren't. You might be reported forviolating a tabu. An Earth tabu, moreover.     An Earth tabu?     Certainly. Motherhood is sacred here on Earth and so, of course, inthe entire United Universe. You should have known that.  Michael blushed. He should indeed. For a year prior to his leaving theLodge, he had carefully studied the customs and tabus of the Universeso that he should be able to enter the new life he planned for himself,with confidence and ease. Under the system of universal kinship, allthe customs and all the tabus of all the planets were the law on allthe other planets. For the Wise Ones had decided many years beforethat wars arose from not understanding one's fellows, not sympathizingwith them. If every nation, every planet, every solar system had thesame laws, customs, and habits, they reasoned, there would be nodifferences, and hence no wars.     Future events had proved them to be correct. For five hundred yearsthere had been no war in the United Universe, and there was peace andplenty for all. Only one crime was recognized throughout the solarsystems—injuring a fellow-creature by word or deed (and the telepathsof Aldebaran were still trying to add      thought     to the statute).     Why, then, Michael had questioned the Father Superior, was there anyreason for the Lodge's existence, any reason for a group of humans toretire from the world and live in the simple ways of their primitiveforefathers? When there had been war, injustice, tyranny, there had,perhaps, been an understandable emotional reason for fleeing theworld. But now why refuse to face a desirable reality? Why turn one'sface upon the present and deliberately go back to the life of thepast—the high collars, vests and trousers, the inefficient coalfurnaces, the rude gasoline tractors of medieval days?     The Father Superior had smiled. You are not yet a fully fledgedBrother, Michael. You cannot enter your novitiate until you've achievedyour majority, and you won't be thirty for another five years. Whydon't you spend some time outside and see how you like it?     Michael had agreed, but before leaving he had spent months studyingthe ways of the United Universe. He had skimmed over Earth, becausehe had been so sure he'd know its ways instinctively. Remembering hispreparations, he was astonished by his smug self-confidence.  A large scarlet pencil jumped merrily across the advideo screen. Theface on the eraser opened its mouth and sang: Our pencils are finestfrom point up to rubber, for the lead is from Yed, while the wood comesfrom Dschubba.       Is there any way of turning that thing off? Michael wanted to know.     The other man smiled. If there were, my boy, do you think anybodywould watch it? Furthermore, turning it off would violate the spirit offree enterprise. We wouldn't want that, would we?     Oh, no! Michael agreed hastily. Certainly not.     And it might hurt the advertiser's feelings, cause him ego injury.     How could I ever have had such a ridiculous idea? Michael murmured,abashed.     Allow me to introduce myself, said his companion. My name isPierce B. Carpenter. Aphrodisiacs are my line. Here's my card. Hehanded Michael a transparent tab with the photograph of Mr. Carpentersuspended inside, together with his registration number, his name, hisaddress, and the Universal seal of approval. Clearly he was a characterof the utmost respectability.     My name's Michael Frey, the young man responded, smiling awkwardly.I'm afraid I don't have any cards.     Well, you wouldn't have had any use for them where you were. Now,look here, son, Carpenter went on in a lowered voice, I know you'vejust come from the Lodge and the mistakes you'll make will be throughignorance rather than deliberate malice. But the police wouldn'tunderstand. You know what the sacred writings say: 'Ignorance of TheLaw is no excuse.' I'd be glad to give you any little tips I can. Forinstance, your hands....     Michael spread his hands out in front of him. They were perfectly goodhands, he thought. Is there something wrong with them?     Carpenter blushed and looked away. Didn't you know that on Electra itis forbidden for anyone to appear in public with his hands bare?     Of course I know that, Michael said impatiently. But what's that gotto do with me?     The salesman was wide-eyed. But if it is forbidden on Electra, itbecomes automatically prohibited here.     But Electrans have eight fingers on each hand, Michael protested,with two fingernails on each—all covered with green scales.     Carpenter drew himself up as far as it was possible to do so whilelying down. Do eight fingers make one a lesser Universal?     Of course not, but—     Is he inferior to you then because he has sixteen fingernails?     Certainly not, but—     Would you like to be called guilty of— Carpenter paused before thedreaded word—      intolerance     ?     No, no,      no     ! Michael almost shrieked. It would be horrible for himto be arrested before he even had time to view Portyork. I have lotsof gloves in my pack, he babbled. Lots and lots. I'll put some onright away.  With nervous haste, he pressed the lever which dropped his pack downfrom the storage compartment. It landed on his stomach. The device hadbeen invented by one of the Dschubbans who are, as everyone knows,hoop-shaped.     Michael pushed the button marked      Gloves A     , and a pair of yellowgauntlets slid out.     Carpenter pressed his hands to his eyes. Yellow is the color of deathon Saturn, and you know how morbid the Saturnians are about passingaway! No one      ever     wears yellow!     Sorry, Michael said humbly. The button marked      Gloves B     yielded apair of rose-colored gloves which harmonized ill with his scarlet tunicand turquoise breeches, but he was past caring for esthetic effects.     The quality's high, sang a quartet of beautiful female humanoids,but the price is meager. You      know     when you buy Plummy Fruitcake fromVega.     The salesman patted Michael's shoulder. You staying a while inPortyork? Michael nodded. Then you'd better stick close to me for awhile until you learn our ways. You can't run around loose by yourselfuntil you've acquired civilized behavior patterns, or you'll get intotrouble.     Thank you, sir, Michael said gratefully. It's very kind of you.     He twisted himself around—it was boiling hot inside the jet busand his damp clothes were clinging uncomfortably—and struck hishead against the bottom of the shelf above. Awfully inconvenientarrangement here, he commented. Wonder why they don't have seats.     Because this arrangement, Carpenter said stiffly, is the one thathas proved suitable for the greatest number of intelligent life-forms.     Oh, I see, Michael murmured. I didn't get a look at the otherpassengers. Are there many extraterrestrials on the bus?     Dozens of them. Haven't you heard the Sirians singing?     A low moaning noise had been pervading the bus, but Michael had thoughtit arose from defective jets.     Oh, yes! he agreed. And very beautiful it is, too! But so sad.     Sirians are always sad, the salesman told him. Listen.  Michael strained his ears past the racket of the advideo. Sure enough,he could make out words: Our wings were unfurled in a far distantworld, our bodies are pain-racked, delirious. And never, it seems, willwe see, save in dreams, the bright purple swamps of our Sirius....     Carpenter brushed away a tear. Poignant, isn't it?     Very, very touching, Michael agreed. Are they sick or something?     Oh, no; they wouldn't have been permitted on the bus if they were.They're just homesick. Sirians love being homesick. That's why theyleave Sirius in such great numbers.     Fasten your suction disks, please, the stewardess, a prettytwo-headed Denebian, ordered as she walked up and down the gangway.We're coming into Portyork. I have an announcement to make to allpassengers on behalf of the United Universe. Zosma was admitted intothe Union early this morning.     All the passengers cheered.     Since it is considered immodest on Zosma, she continued, ever toappear with the heads bare, henceforward it will be tabu to be seen inpublic without some sort of head-covering.     Wild scrabbling sounds indicated that all the passengers were searchingtheir packs for headgear. Michael unearthed a violet cap.     The salesmen unfolded what looked like a medieval opera hat inpiercingly bright green.       Always got to keep on your toes, he whispered to the younger man.The Universe is expanding every minute.     The bus settled softly on the landing field and the passengers flew,floated, crawled, undulated, or walked out. Michael looked around himcuriously. The Lodge had contained no extraterrestrials, for such ofthose as sought seclusion had Brotherhoods on their own planets.     Of course, even in Angeles he had seen other-worlders—humanoids fromVega, scaly Electrans, the wispy ubiquitous Sirians—but nothing tocompare with the crowds that surged here. Scarlet Meropians rubbedtentacles with bulging-eyed Talithans; lumpish gray Jovians ploddedalongside graceful, spidery Nunkians. And there were countless otherswhom he had seen pictured in books, but never before in reality.     The gaily colored costumes and bodies of these beings renderedkaleidoscopic a field already brilliant with red-and-green lights andbanners. The effect was enhanced by Mr. Carpenter, whose emerald-greencloak was drawn back to reveal a chartreuse tunic and olive-greenbreeches which had apparently been designed for a taller and somewhatless pudgy man.  Carpenter rubbed modestly gloved hands together. I have no immediatebusiness, so supposing I start showing you the sights. What would youlike to see first, Mr. Frey? Or would you prefer a nice, restful movid?     Frankly, Michael admitted, the first thing I'd like to do is getmyself something to eat. I didn't have any breakfast and I'm famished.Two small creatures standing close to him giggled nervously andscuttled off on six legs apiece.     Shh, not so loud! There are females present. Carpenter drew theyouth to a secluded corner. Don't you know that on Theemim it'sfrightfully vulgar to as much as speak of eating in public?     But why? Michael demanded in too loud a voice. What's wrong witheating in public here on Earth?     Carpenter clapped a hand over the young man's mouth. Hush, hecautioned. After all, on Earth there are things we don't do or evenmention in public, aren't there?     Well, yes. But those are different.     Not at all. Those rules might seem just as ridiculous to a Theemimian.But the Theemimians have accepted our customs just as we have acceptedthe Theemimians'. How would you like it if a Theemimian violatedone of our tabus in public? You must consider the feelings of theTheemimians as equal to your own. Observe the golden rule: 'Do untoextraterrestrials as you would be done by.'     But I'm still hungry, Michael persisted, modulating his voice,however, to a decent whisper. Do the proprieties demand that I starveto death, or can I get something to eat somewhere?     Naturally, the salesman whispered back. Portyork provides for allbodily needs. Numerous feeding stations are conveniently locatedthroughout the port, and there must be some on the field.     After gazing furtively over his shoulder to see that no females werewatching, Carpenter approached a large map of the landing field andpressed a button. A tiny red light winked demurely for an instant.     That's the nearest one, Carpenter explained.  Inside a small, white, functional-looking building unobtrusivelymarked Feeding Station, Carpenter showed Michael where to insert atwo-credit piece in a slot. A door slid back and admitted Michael intoa tiny, austere room, furnished only with a table, a chair, a foodcompartment, and an advideo. The food consisted of tabloid syntheticsand was tasteless. Michael knew that only primitive creatures wastetime and energy in growing and preparing natural foods. It was all amatter of getting used to this stuff, he thought glumly, as he tried tochew food that was meant to be gulped.     A ferret-eyed Yeddan appeared on the advideo. Do you suffer fromgastric disorders? Does your viscera get in your hair? A horridcondition, but swift abolition is yours with Al-Brom from Altair.     Michael finished his meal in fifteen minutes and left the compartmentto find Carpenter awaiting him in the lobby, impatiently glancing atthe luminous time dial embedded in his wrist.     Let's go to the Old Town, he suggested to Michael. It will be ofgreat interest to a student and a newcomer like yourself.     A few yards away from the feeding station, the travel agents were linedup in rows, each outside his spaceship, each shouting the advantages ofthe tour he offered:     Better than a mustard plaster is a weekend spent on Castor.     If you want to show you like her, take her for a week to Spica.     Movid stars go to Mars.     Carpenter smiled politely at them. No space trips for us today,gentlemen. We're staying on Terra. He guided the bewildered young manthrough the crowds and to the gates of the field. Outside, a number ofsurface vehicles were lined up, with the drivers loudly competing forbusiness.     Come, take a ride in my rocket car, suited to both gent and lady,lined with luxury      hukka     fur brought from afar, and perfumed with rarescents from Algedi.     Whichever movid film you choose to view will be yours in my finecab from Mizar. Just press a button—it won't cost you nuttin'—seea passionate drama of long-vanished Mu or the bloodhounds pursuingEliza.     All honor be laid at the feet of free trade, but, whatever your raceor your birth, each passenger curls up with two dancing girls who ridesin the taxi from Earth.     Couldn't we—couldn't we walk? At least part of the way? Michaelfaltered.     Carpenter stared. Walk! Don't you know it's forbidden to walk morethan two hundred yards in any one direction? Fomalhautians never walk.     But they have no feet.     That has nothing whatsoever to do with it.  Carpenter gently urged the young man into the Algedian cab ... whichreeked. Michael held his nose, but his mentor shook his head. No, no!Tpiu Number Five is the most esteemed aroma on Algedi. It would breakthe driver's heart if he thought you didn't like it. You wouldn't wantto be had up for ego injury, would you?     Of course not, Michael whispered weakly.     Brunettes are darker and blondes are fairer, the advideo informedhim, when they wash out their hair with shampoos made on Chara.     After a time, Michael got more or less used to Tpiu Number Five andwas able to take some interest in the passing landscape. Portyork,the biggest spaceport in the United Universe, was, of course, themost cosmopolitan city—cosmopolitan in its architecture as well asits inhabitants. Silver domes of Earth were crowded next to the tallhelical edifices of the Venusians.     You'll notice that the current medieval revival has even reachedarchitecture, Carpenter pointed out. See those period houses in theFrank Lloyd Wright and Inigo Jones manner?     Very quaint, Michael commented.     Great floating red and green balls lit the streets, even though it wasstill daylight, and long scarlet-and-emerald streamers whipped outfrom the most unlikely places. As Michael opened his mouth to inquireabout this, We now interrupt the commercials, the advideo said, tobring you a brand new version of one of the medieval ballads that arebecoming so popular....       I shall scream, stated Carpenter, if they play      Beautiful BlueDeneb     just once more.... No, thank the Wise Ones, I've never heardthis before.     Thuban, Thuban, I've been thinking, sang a buxom Betelgeusian, whata Cosmos this could be, if land masses were transported to replace thewasteful sea.     I guess the first thing for me to do, Michael began in a businesslikemanner, is to get myself a room at a hotel.... What have I said now?     The word      hotel     , Carpenter explained through pursed lips, isnot used in polite society any more. It has come to have unpleasantconnotations. It means—a place of dancing girls. I hardly think....     Certainly not, Michael agreed austerely. I merely want a lodging.     That word is also—well, you see, Carpenter told him, on Zaniah itis unthinkable to go anywhere without one's family.     They're a sort of ant, aren't they? The Zaniahans, I mean.     More like bees. So those creatures who travel— Carpenter lowered hisvoice modestly —      alone     hire a family for the duration of their stay.There are a number of families available, but the better types comerather high. There has been talk of reviving the old-fashioned pricecontrols, but the Wise Ones say this would limit free enterprise asmuch as—if you'll excuse my use of the expression—tariffs would.  The taxi let them off at a square meadow which was filled withtransparent plastic domes housing clocks of all varieties, most ofthe antique type based on the old twenty-four hour day instead of thestandard thirty hours. There were few extraterrestrial clocks becausemost non-humans had time sense, Michael knew, and needed no mechanicaldevices.     This, said Carpenter, is Times Square. Once it wasn't really square,but it is contrary to Nekkarian custom to do, say, imply, or permitthe existence of anything that isn't true, so when Nekkar entered theUnion, we had to square off the place. And, of course, install theclocks. Finest clock museum in the Union, I understand.     The pictures in my history books— Michael began.     Did I hear you correctly, sir? The capes of a bright blue cloaktrembled with the indignation of a scarlet, many-tentacled being. Didyou use the word      history     ? He pronounced it in terms of loathing. Ihave been grossly insulted and I shall be forced to report you to thepolice, sir.     Please don't! Carpenter begged. This youth has just come from one ofthe Brotherhoods and is not yet accustomed to the ways of our universe.I know that, because of the great sophistication for which your race isnoted, you will overlook this little gaucherie on his part.     Well, the red one conceded, let it not be said that Meropians arenot tolerant. But, be careful, young man, he warned Michael. Thereare other beings less sophisticated than we. Guard your tongue, or youmight find yourself in trouble.     He indicated the stalwart constable who, splendid in gold helmet andgold-spangled pink tights, surveyed the terrain haughtily from hisfloating platform in the air.     I should have told you, Carpenter reproached himself as the Meropianswirled off. Never mention the word 'history' in front of a Meropian.They rose from barbarism in one generation, and so they haven't anyhistory at all. Naturally, they're sensitive in the extreme about it.     Naturally, Michael said. Tell me, Mr. Carpenter, is there somespecial reason for everything being decorated in red and green? Inoticed it along the way and it's all over here, too.     Why, Christmas is coming, my boy, Carpenter answered, surprised.It's July already—about time they got started fixing things up. Someplaces are so slack, they haven't even got their Mother's Week shrinescleared away.  A bevy of tiny golden-haired, winged creatures circled slowly overTimes Square.     Izarians, Carpenter explained They're much in demand for Christmasdisplays.     The small mouths opened and clear soprano voices filled the air: Itcame upon the midnight clear, that glorious song of old, from angelsbending near the Earth to tune their harps of gold. Peace on Earth,good will to men, from Heaven's All-Celestial. Peace to the Universeas well and every extraterrestrial.... Beat the drum and clash thecymbals; buy your Christmas gifts at Nimble's.     This beautiful walk you see before you, Carpenter said, waving anexpository arm, shaded by boogil trees from Dschubba, is calledBroadway. To your left you will be delighted to see—     Listen, could we— Michael began.     —Forty-second Street, which is now actually the forty-second—     By the way—     It is extremely rude and hence illegal, Carpenter glared, tointerrupt anyone who is speaking.     But I would like, Michael whispered very earnestly, to get washed.If I might.     The other man frowned. Let me see. I believe one of the old landmarkswas converted into a lavatory. Only thing of suitable dimensions.Anyhow, it was absolutely useless for any other purpose. We have totake a taxi there; it's more than two hundred yards. Custom, you know.     A taxi? Isn't there one closer?     Ah, impatient youth! There aren't too many altogether. Theinstallations are extremely expensive.     They hailed the nearest taxi, which happened to be one of the varietyequipped with dancing girls. Fortunately the ride was brief.     Michael gazed at the Empire State Building with interest. It was in aremarkable state of preservation and looked just like the pictures inhis history—in his books, except that none of them showed the hugegolden sign Public-Washport riding on its spire.       Attendants directed traffic from a large circular desk in the lobby.Mercurians, seventy-eighth floor.      A     group Vegans, fourteenth floorright.      B     group, fourteenth floor left.      C     group, fifteenth floorright.      D     group, fifteenth floor left. Sirians, forty-ninth floor.Female humans fiftieth floor right, males, fiftieth floor left.Uranians, basement....     Carpenter and Michael shared an elevator with a group of sad-eyed,translucent Sirians, who were singing as usual and accompanyingthemselves on      wemps     , a cross between a harp and a flute. Foreignplanets are strange and we're subject to mange. Foreign atmospheresprove deleterious. Only with our mind's eye can we sail through the skyto the bright purple swamps of our Sirius.     The cost of the compartment was half that of the feeding station; onecredit in the slot unlocked the door. There was an advideo here, too:     Friend, do you clean yourself each day? Now, let's not be evasive,for each one has his favored way. Some use an abrasive and some useoil. Some shed their skins, in a brand-new hide emerging. Some rubwith grease put up in tins. For others there's deterging. Some lickthemselves to take off grime. Some beat it off with rope. Some cook itaway in boiling lime. Old-fashioned ones use soap. More ways there arethan I recall, and each of these will differ, but the only one thatworks for all is Omniclene from Kiffa.  And now, smiled Carpenter as the two humans left the building, wemust see you registered for a nice family. Nothing too ostentatious,but, on the other hand, you mustn't count credits and ally yourselfbeneath your station.     Michael gazed pensively at two slender, snakelike Difdans writhingOnly 99 Shopping Days Till Christmas across an aquamarine sky.     They won't be permanent? he asked. The family, I mean?     Certainly not. You merely hire them for whatever length of time youchoose. But why are you so anxious?     The young man blushed. Well, I'm thinking of having a family of my ownsome day. Pretty soon, as a matter of fact.     Carpenter beamed. That's nice; you're being adopted! I do hope it'san Earth family that's chosen you—it's so awkward being adopted byextraterrestrials.     Oh, no! I'm planning to have my own. That is, I've got a—a girl,you see, and I thought after I had secured employment of some kind inPortyork, I'd send for her and we'd get married and....           Married!      Carpenter was now completely shocked. You      mustn't     usethat word! Don't you know marriage was outlawed years ago? Exclusivepossession of a member of the opposite sex is slavery on Talitha.Furthermore, supposing somebody else saw your—er—friend and wantedher also; you wouldn't wish him to endure the frustration of not havingher, would you?     Michael squared his jaw. You bet I would.     Carpenter drew himself away slightly, as if to avoid contamination.This is un-Universal. Young man, if I didn't have a kind heart, Iwould report you.     Michael was too preoccupied to be disturbed by this threat. You meanif I bring my girl here, I'd have to share her?     Certainly. And she'd have to share you. If somebody wanted you, thatis.     Then I'm not staying here, Michael declared firmly, ashamed to admiteven to himself how much relief his decision was bringing him. I don'tthink I like it, anyhow. I'm going back to the Brotherhood.     There was a short cold silence.     You know, son, Carpenter finally said, I think you might be right.I don't want to hurt your feelings—you      promise     I won't hurt yourfeelings? he asked anxiously, afraid, Michael realized, that he mightcall a policeman for ego injury.     You won't hurt my feelings, Mr. Carpenter.     Well, I believe that there are certain individuals who just cannotadapt themselves to civilized behavior patterns. It's much better forthem to belong to a Brotherhood such as yours than to be placed in oneof the government incarceratoriums, comfortable and commodious thoughthey are.     Much better, Michael agreed.     By the way, Carpenter went on, I realize this is just vulgarcuriosity on my part and you have a right to refuse an answer withoutfear of hurting my feelings, but how do you happen to have a—er—girlwhen you belong to a Brotherhood?     Michael laughed. Oh, 'Brotherhood' is merely a generic term. Bothsexes are represented in our society.     On Talitha— Carpenter began.     I know, Michael interrupted him, like the crude primitive he was andalways would be. But our females don't mind being generic.  A group of Sirians was traveling on the shelf above him on the slow,very slow jet bus that was flying Michael back to Angeles, back to theLodge, back to the Brotherhood, back to her. Their melancholy howlingwas getting on his nerves, but in a little while, he told himself, itwould be all over. He would be back home, safe with his own kind.     When our minds have grown tired, when our lives have expired, when oursorrows no longer can weary us, let our ashes return, neatly packed inan urn, to the bright purple swamps of our Sirius.     The advideo crackled: The gown her fairy godmother once gave toCinderella was created by the haute couture of fashion-wise Capella.     The ancient taxi was there, the one that Michael had taken from theLodge, early that morning, to the little Angeleno landing field, as ifit had been waiting for his return.     I see you're back, son, the driver said without surprise. He set thenoisy old rockets blasting. I been to Portyork once. It's not a badplace to live in, but I hate to visit it.     I'm back! Michael sank into the motheaten sable cushions and gazedwith pleasure at the familiar landmarks half seen in the darkness. I'mback! And a loud sneer to civilization!     Better be careful, son, the driver warned. I know this is a ruralarea, but civilization is spreading. There are secret police all over.How do you know I ain't a government spy? I could pull you in forinsulting civilization.     The elderly black and white advideo flickered, broke into purringsound: Do you find life continues to daze you? Do you find for a quickdeath you hanker? Why not try the new style euthanasia, performed byskilled workmen from Ancha?     Not any more, Michael thought contentedly. He was going home.  ","The final passages reflect how Michael's attitude towards the outside world has changed. The Sirians' song, which sparked curiosity in him in the beginning of the story, annoys him now and makes him miss home even more. The advideo is annoying as well, as those are all over the universe and can't be turned off. Those are the annoying features of the world about which nothing can be done, and for Michael one day was enough to get tired of them. Michael has fulfilled the purpose of his visit to Earth, he understands now why the Brotherhood is so isolated from the world and he likes it. He starts missing home and his girl in one day on Earth and gladly decides to return. The Earth experience makes him sure in how he wants to live in the future - in the Brotherhood, without the constant fear of mistakes and restrictions on every step, married to his girl. The civilization seems awful to the youth, but it is spreading, as the taxi driver says. Nevertheless, Michael doesn't care about it, he feels safe in Brotherhood, and it is definitely the right place for him."
"What is the relationship between Michael and Mr. Carpenter? </s>     Tea Tray in the Sky     By EVELYN E. SMITH     Illustrated by ASHMAN     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction September 1952.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        Visiting a society is tougher than being born       into it. A 40 credit tour is no substitute!        The picture changed on the illuminated panel that filled the forwardend of the shelf on which Michael lay. A haggard blonde woman sprawledapathetically in a chair.     Rundown, nervous, hypertensive? inquired a mellifluous voice. Inneed of mental therapy? Buy Grugis juice; it's not expensive. And theyswear by it on Meropé.     A disembodied pair of hands administered a spoonful of Grugis juice tothe woman, whereupon her hair turned bright yellow, makeup bloomed onher face, her clothes grew briefer, and she burst into a fast Callistanclog.     I see from your hair that you have been a member of one of theBrotherhoods, the passenger lying next to Michael on the shelfremarked inquisitively. He was a middle-aged man, his dust-brown hairthinning on top, his small blue eyes glittering preternaturally fromthe lenses fitted over his eyeballs.     Michael rubbed his fingers ruefully over the blond stubble on his scalpand wished he had waited until his tonsure were fully grown beforehe had ventured out into the world. But he had been so impatient toleave the Lodge, so impatient to exchange the flowing robes of theBrotherhood for the close-fitting breeches and tunic of the outer worldthat had seemed so glamorous and now proved so itchy.     Yes, he replied courteously, for he knew the first rule of universalbehavior, I have been a Brother.     Now why would a good-looking young fellow like you want to join aBrotherhood? his shelf companion wanted to know. Trouble over afemale?     Michael shook his head, smiling. No, I have been a member of theAngeleno Brotherhood since I was an infant. My father brought me whenhe entered.     The other man clucked sympathetically. No doubt he was grieved overthe death of your mother.     Michael closed his eyes to shut out the sight of a baby protruding itsfat face at him three-dimensionally, but he could not shut out itslisping voice: Does your child refuse its food, grow wizened like amonkey? It will grow plump with oh-so-good Mealy Mush from Nunki.     No, sir, Michael replied. Father said that was one of the fewblessings that brightened an otherwise benighted life.     Horror contorted his fellow traveller's plump features. Be careful,young man! he warned. Lucky for you that you are talking to someoneas broad-minded as I, but others aren't. You might be reported forviolating a tabu. An Earth tabu, moreover.     An Earth tabu?     Certainly. Motherhood is sacred here on Earth and so, of course, inthe entire United Universe. You should have known that.  Michael blushed. He should indeed. For a year prior to his leaving theLodge, he had carefully studied the customs and tabus of the Universeso that he should be able to enter the new life he planned for himself,with confidence and ease. Under the system of universal kinship, allthe customs and all the tabus of all the planets were the law on allthe other planets. For the Wise Ones had decided many years beforethat wars arose from not understanding one's fellows, not sympathizingwith them. If every nation, every planet, every solar system had thesame laws, customs, and habits, they reasoned, there would be nodifferences, and hence no wars.     Future events had proved them to be correct. For five hundred yearsthere had been no war in the United Universe, and there was peace andplenty for all. Only one crime was recognized throughout the solarsystems—injuring a fellow-creature by word or deed (and the telepathsof Aldebaran were still trying to add      thought     to the statute).     Why, then, Michael had questioned the Father Superior, was there anyreason for the Lodge's existence, any reason for a group of humans toretire from the world and live in the simple ways of their primitiveforefathers? When there had been war, injustice, tyranny, there had,perhaps, been an understandable emotional reason for fleeing theworld. But now why refuse to face a desirable reality? Why turn one'sface upon the present and deliberately go back to the life of thepast—the high collars, vests and trousers, the inefficient coalfurnaces, the rude gasoline tractors of medieval days?     The Father Superior had smiled. You are not yet a fully fledgedBrother, Michael. You cannot enter your novitiate until you've achievedyour majority, and you won't be thirty for another five years. Whydon't you spend some time outside and see how you like it?     Michael had agreed, but before leaving he had spent months studyingthe ways of the United Universe. He had skimmed over Earth, becausehe had been so sure he'd know its ways instinctively. Remembering hispreparations, he was astonished by his smug self-confidence.  A large scarlet pencil jumped merrily across the advideo screen. Theface on the eraser opened its mouth and sang: Our pencils are finestfrom point up to rubber, for the lead is from Yed, while the wood comesfrom Dschubba.       Is there any way of turning that thing off? Michael wanted to know.     The other man smiled. If there were, my boy, do you think anybodywould watch it? Furthermore, turning it off would violate the spirit offree enterprise. We wouldn't want that, would we?     Oh, no! Michael agreed hastily. Certainly not.     And it might hurt the advertiser's feelings, cause him ego injury.     How could I ever have had such a ridiculous idea? Michael murmured,abashed.     Allow me to introduce myself, said his companion. My name isPierce B. Carpenter. Aphrodisiacs are my line. Here's my card. Hehanded Michael a transparent tab with the photograph of Mr. Carpentersuspended inside, together with his registration number, his name, hisaddress, and the Universal seal of approval. Clearly he was a characterof the utmost respectability.     My name's Michael Frey, the young man responded, smiling awkwardly.I'm afraid I don't have any cards.     Well, you wouldn't have had any use for them where you were. Now,look here, son, Carpenter went on in a lowered voice, I know you'vejust come from the Lodge and the mistakes you'll make will be throughignorance rather than deliberate malice. But the police wouldn'tunderstand. You know what the sacred writings say: 'Ignorance of TheLaw is no excuse.' I'd be glad to give you any little tips I can. Forinstance, your hands....     Michael spread his hands out in front of him. They were perfectly goodhands, he thought. Is there something wrong with them?     Carpenter blushed and looked away. Didn't you know that on Electra itis forbidden for anyone to appear in public with his hands bare?     Of course I know that, Michael said impatiently. But what's that gotto do with me?     The salesman was wide-eyed. But if it is forbidden on Electra, itbecomes automatically prohibited here.     But Electrans have eight fingers on each hand, Michael protested,with two fingernails on each—all covered with green scales.     Carpenter drew himself up as far as it was possible to do so whilelying down. Do eight fingers make one a lesser Universal?     Of course not, but—     Is he inferior to you then because he has sixteen fingernails?     Certainly not, but—     Would you like to be called guilty of— Carpenter paused before thedreaded word—      intolerance     ?     No, no,      no     ! Michael almost shrieked. It would be horrible for himto be arrested before he even had time to view Portyork. I have lotsof gloves in my pack, he babbled. Lots and lots. I'll put some onright away.  With nervous haste, he pressed the lever which dropped his pack downfrom the storage compartment. It landed on his stomach. The device hadbeen invented by one of the Dschubbans who are, as everyone knows,hoop-shaped.     Michael pushed the button marked      Gloves A     , and a pair of yellowgauntlets slid out.     Carpenter pressed his hands to his eyes. Yellow is the color of deathon Saturn, and you know how morbid the Saturnians are about passingaway! No one      ever     wears yellow!     Sorry, Michael said humbly. The button marked      Gloves B     yielded apair of rose-colored gloves which harmonized ill with his scarlet tunicand turquoise breeches, but he was past caring for esthetic effects.     The quality's high, sang a quartet of beautiful female humanoids,but the price is meager. You      know     when you buy Plummy Fruitcake fromVega.     The salesman patted Michael's shoulder. You staying a while inPortyork? Michael nodded. Then you'd better stick close to me for awhile until you learn our ways. You can't run around loose by yourselfuntil you've acquired civilized behavior patterns, or you'll get intotrouble.     Thank you, sir, Michael said gratefully. It's very kind of you.     He twisted himself around—it was boiling hot inside the jet busand his damp clothes were clinging uncomfortably—and struck hishead against the bottom of the shelf above. Awfully inconvenientarrangement here, he commented. Wonder why they don't have seats.     Because this arrangement, Carpenter said stiffly, is the one thathas proved suitable for the greatest number of intelligent life-forms.     Oh, I see, Michael murmured. I didn't get a look at the otherpassengers. Are there many extraterrestrials on the bus?     Dozens of them. Haven't you heard the Sirians singing?     A low moaning noise had been pervading the bus, but Michael had thoughtit arose from defective jets.     Oh, yes! he agreed. And very beautiful it is, too! But so sad.     Sirians are always sad, the salesman told him. Listen.  Michael strained his ears past the racket of the advideo. Sure enough,he could make out words: Our wings were unfurled in a far distantworld, our bodies are pain-racked, delirious. And never, it seems, willwe see, save in dreams, the bright purple swamps of our Sirius....     Carpenter brushed away a tear. Poignant, isn't it?     Very, very touching, Michael agreed. Are they sick or something?     Oh, no; they wouldn't have been permitted on the bus if they were.They're just homesick. Sirians love being homesick. That's why theyleave Sirius in such great numbers.     Fasten your suction disks, please, the stewardess, a prettytwo-headed Denebian, ordered as she walked up and down the gangway.We're coming into Portyork. I have an announcement to make to allpassengers on behalf of the United Universe. Zosma was admitted intothe Union early this morning.     All the passengers cheered.     Since it is considered immodest on Zosma, she continued, ever toappear with the heads bare, henceforward it will be tabu to be seen inpublic without some sort of head-covering.     Wild scrabbling sounds indicated that all the passengers were searchingtheir packs for headgear. Michael unearthed a violet cap.     The salesmen unfolded what looked like a medieval opera hat inpiercingly bright green.       Always got to keep on your toes, he whispered to the younger man.The Universe is expanding every minute.     The bus settled softly on the landing field and the passengers flew,floated, crawled, undulated, or walked out. Michael looked around himcuriously. The Lodge had contained no extraterrestrials, for such ofthose as sought seclusion had Brotherhoods on their own planets.     Of course, even in Angeles he had seen other-worlders—humanoids fromVega, scaly Electrans, the wispy ubiquitous Sirians—but nothing tocompare with the crowds that surged here. Scarlet Meropians rubbedtentacles with bulging-eyed Talithans; lumpish gray Jovians ploddedalongside graceful, spidery Nunkians. And there were countless otherswhom he had seen pictured in books, but never before in reality.     The gaily colored costumes and bodies of these beings renderedkaleidoscopic a field already brilliant with red-and-green lights andbanners. The effect was enhanced by Mr. Carpenter, whose emerald-greencloak was drawn back to reveal a chartreuse tunic and olive-greenbreeches which had apparently been designed for a taller and somewhatless pudgy man.  Carpenter rubbed modestly gloved hands together. I have no immediatebusiness, so supposing I start showing you the sights. What would youlike to see first, Mr. Frey? Or would you prefer a nice, restful movid?     Frankly, Michael admitted, the first thing I'd like to do is getmyself something to eat. I didn't have any breakfast and I'm famished.Two small creatures standing close to him giggled nervously andscuttled off on six legs apiece.     Shh, not so loud! There are females present. Carpenter drew theyouth to a secluded corner. Don't you know that on Theemim it'sfrightfully vulgar to as much as speak of eating in public?     But why? Michael demanded in too loud a voice. What's wrong witheating in public here on Earth?     Carpenter clapped a hand over the young man's mouth. Hush, hecautioned. After all, on Earth there are things we don't do or evenmention in public, aren't there?     Well, yes. But those are different.     Not at all. Those rules might seem just as ridiculous to a Theemimian.But the Theemimians have accepted our customs just as we have acceptedthe Theemimians'. How would you like it if a Theemimian violatedone of our tabus in public? You must consider the feelings of theTheemimians as equal to your own. Observe the golden rule: 'Do untoextraterrestrials as you would be done by.'     But I'm still hungry, Michael persisted, modulating his voice,however, to a decent whisper. Do the proprieties demand that I starveto death, or can I get something to eat somewhere?     Naturally, the salesman whispered back. Portyork provides for allbodily needs. Numerous feeding stations are conveniently locatedthroughout the port, and there must be some on the field.     After gazing furtively over his shoulder to see that no females werewatching, Carpenter approached a large map of the landing field andpressed a button. A tiny red light winked demurely for an instant.     That's the nearest one, Carpenter explained.  Inside a small, white, functional-looking building unobtrusivelymarked Feeding Station, Carpenter showed Michael where to insert atwo-credit piece in a slot. A door slid back and admitted Michael intoa tiny, austere room, furnished only with a table, a chair, a foodcompartment, and an advideo. The food consisted of tabloid syntheticsand was tasteless. Michael knew that only primitive creatures wastetime and energy in growing and preparing natural foods. It was all amatter of getting used to this stuff, he thought glumly, as he tried tochew food that was meant to be gulped.     A ferret-eyed Yeddan appeared on the advideo. Do you suffer fromgastric disorders? Does your viscera get in your hair? A horridcondition, but swift abolition is yours with Al-Brom from Altair.     Michael finished his meal in fifteen minutes and left the compartmentto find Carpenter awaiting him in the lobby, impatiently glancing atthe luminous time dial embedded in his wrist.     Let's go to the Old Town, he suggested to Michael. It will be ofgreat interest to a student and a newcomer like yourself.     A few yards away from the feeding station, the travel agents were linedup in rows, each outside his spaceship, each shouting the advantages ofthe tour he offered:     Better than a mustard plaster is a weekend spent on Castor.     If you want to show you like her, take her for a week to Spica.     Movid stars go to Mars.     Carpenter smiled politely at them. No space trips for us today,gentlemen. We're staying on Terra. He guided the bewildered young manthrough the crowds and to the gates of the field. Outside, a number ofsurface vehicles were lined up, with the drivers loudly competing forbusiness.     Come, take a ride in my rocket car, suited to both gent and lady,lined with luxury      hukka     fur brought from afar, and perfumed with rarescents from Algedi.     Whichever movid film you choose to view will be yours in my finecab from Mizar. Just press a button—it won't cost you nuttin'—seea passionate drama of long-vanished Mu or the bloodhounds pursuingEliza.     All honor be laid at the feet of free trade, but, whatever your raceor your birth, each passenger curls up with two dancing girls who ridesin the taxi from Earth.     Couldn't we—couldn't we walk? At least part of the way? Michaelfaltered.     Carpenter stared. Walk! Don't you know it's forbidden to walk morethan two hundred yards in any one direction? Fomalhautians never walk.     But they have no feet.     That has nothing whatsoever to do with it.  Carpenter gently urged the young man into the Algedian cab ... whichreeked. Michael held his nose, but his mentor shook his head. No, no!Tpiu Number Five is the most esteemed aroma on Algedi. It would breakthe driver's heart if he thought you didn't like it. You wouldn't wantto be had up for ego injury, would you?     Of course not, Michael whispered weakly.     Brunettes are darker and blondes are fairer, the advideo informedhim, when they wash out their hair with shampoos made on Chara.     After a time, Michael got more or less used to Tpiu Number Five andwas able to take some interest in the passing landscape. Portyork,the biggest spaceport in the United Universe, was, of course, themost cosmopolitan city—cosmopolitan in its architecture as well asits inhabitants. Silver domes of Earth were crowded next to the tallhelical edifices of the Venusians.     You'll notice that the current medieval revival has even reachedarchitecture, Carpenter pointed out. See those period houses in theFrank Lloyd Wright and Inigo Jones manner?     Very quaint, Michael commented.     Great floating red and green balls lit the streets, even though it wasstill daylight, and long scarlet-and-emerald streamers whipped outfrom the most unlikely places. As Michael opened his mouth to inquireabout this, We now interrupt the commercials, the advideo said, tobring you a brand new version of one of the medieval ballads that arebecoming so popular....       I shall scream, stated Carpenter, if they play      Beautiful BlueDeneb     just once more.... No, thank the Wise Ones, I've never heardthis before.     Thuban, Thuban, I've been thinking, sang a buxom Betelgeusian, whata Cosmos this could be, if land masses were transported to replace thewasteful sea.     I guess the first thing for me to do, Michael began in a businesslikemanner, is to get myself a room at a hotel.... What have I said now?     The word      hotel     , Carpenter explained through pursed lips, isnot used in polite society any more. It has come to have unpleasantconnotations. It means—a place of dancing girls. I hardly think....     Certainly not, Michael agreed austerely. I merely want a lodging.     That word is also—well, you see, Carpenter told him, on Zaniah itis unthinkable to go anywhere without one's family.     They're a sort of ant, aren't they? The Zaniahans, I mean.     More like bees. So those creatures who travel— Carpenter lowered hisvoice modestly —      alone     hire a family for the duration of their stay.There are a number of families available, but the better types comerather high. There has been talk of reviving the old-fashioned pricecontrols, but the Wise Ones say this would limit free enterprise asmuch as—if you'll excuse my use of the expression—tariffs would.  The taxi let them off at a square meadow which was filled withtransparent plastic domes housing clocks of all varieties, most ofthe antique type based on the old twenty-four hour day instead of thestandard thirty hours. There were few extraterrestrial clocks becausemost non-humans had time sense, Michael knew, and needed no mechanicaldevices.     This, said Carpenter, is Times Square. Once it wasn't really square,but it is contrary to Nekkarian custom to do, say, imply, or permitthe existence of anything that isn't true, so when Nekkar entered theUnion, we had to square off the place. And, of course, install theclocks. Finest clock museum in the Union, I understand.     The pictures in my history books— Michael began.     Did I hear you correctly, sir? The capes of a bright blue cloaktrembled with the indignation of a scarlet, many-tentacled being. Didyou use the word      history     ? He pronounced it in terms of loathing. Ihave been grossly insulted and I shall be forced to report you to thepolice, sir.     Please don't! Carpenter begged. This youth has just come from one ofthe Brotherhoods and is not yet accustomed to the ways of our universe.I know that, because of the great sophistication for which your race isnoted, you will overlook this little gaucherie on his part.     Well, the red one conceded, let it not be said that Meropians arenot tolerant. But, be careful, young man, he warned Michael. Thereare other beings less sophisticated than we. Guard your tongue, or youmight find yourself in trouble.     He indicated the stalwart constable who, splendid in gold helmet andgold-spangled pink tights, surveyed the terrain haughtily from hisfloating platform in the air.     I should have told you, Carpenter reproached himself as the Meropianswirled off. Never mention the word 'history' in front of a Meropian.They rose from barbarism in one generation, and so they haven't anyhistory at all. Naturally, they're sensitive in the extreme about it.     Naturally, Michael said. Tell me, Mr. Carpenter, is there somespecial reason for everything being decorated in red and green? Inoticed it along the way and it's all over here, too.     Why, Christmas is coming, my boy, Carpenter answered, surprised.It's July already—about time they got started fixing things up. Someplaces are so slack, they haven't even got their Mother's Week shrinescleared away.  A bevy of tiny golden-haired, winged creatures circled slowly overTimes Square.     Izarians, Carpenter explained They're much in demand for Christmasdisplays.     The small mouths opened and clear soprano voices filled the air: Itcame upon the midnight clear, that glorious song of old, from angelsbending near the Earth to tune their harps of gold. Peace on Earth,good will to men, from Heaven's All-Celestial. Peace to the Universeas well and every extraterrestrial.... Beat the drum and clash thecymbals; buy your Christmas gifts at Nimble's.     This beautiful walk you see before you, Carpenter said, waving anexpository arm, shaded by boogil trees from Dschubba, is calledBroadway. To your left you will be delighted to see—     Listen, could we— Michael began.     —Forty-second Street, which is now actually the forty-second—     By the way—     It is extremely rude and hence illegal, Carpenter glared, tointerrupt anyone who is speaking.     But I would like, Michael whispered very earnestly, to get washed.If I might.     The other man frowned. Let me see. I believe one of the old landmarkswas converted into a lavatory. Only thing of suitable dimensions.Anyhow, it was absolutely useless for any other purpose. We have totake a taxi there; it's more than two hundred yards. Custom, you know.     A taxi? Isn't there one closer?     Ah, impatient youth! There aren't too many altogether. Theinstallations are extremely expensive.     They hailed the nearest taxi, which happened to be one of the varietyequipped with dancing girls. Fortunately the ride was brief.     Michael gazed at the Empire State Building with interest. It was in aremarkable state of preservation and looked just like the pictures inhis history—in his books, except that none of them showed the hugegolden sign Public-Washport riding on its spire.       Attendants directed traffic from a large circular desk in the lobby.Mercurians, seventy-eighth floor.      A     group Vegans, fourteenth floorright.      B     group, fourteenth floor left.      C     group, fifteenth floorright.      D     group, fifteenth floor left. Sirians, forty-ninth floor.Female humans fiftieth floor right, males, fiftieth floor left.Uranians, basement....     Carpenter and Michael shared an elevator with a group of sad-eyed,translucent Sirians, who were singing as usual and accompanyingthemselves on      wemps     , a cross between a harp and a flute. Foreignplanets are strange and we're subject to mange. Foreign atmospheresprove deleterious. Only with our mind's eye can we sail through the skyto the bright purple swamps of our Sirius.     The cost of the compartment was half that of the feeding station; onecredit in the slot unlocked the door. There was an advideo here, too:     Friend, do you clean yourself each day? Now, let's not be evasive,for each one has his favored way. Some use an abrasive and some useoil. Some shed their skins, in a brand-new hide emerging. Some rubwith grease put up in tins. For others there's deterging. Some lickthemselves to take off grime. Some beat it off with rope. Some cook itaway in boiling lime. Old-fashioned ones use soap. More ways there arethan I recall, and each of these will differ, but the only one thatworks for all is Omniclene from Kiffa.  And now, smiled Carpenter as the two humans left the building, wemust see you registered for a nice family. Nothing too ostentatious,but, on the other hand, you mustn't count credits and ally yourselfbeneath your station.     Michael gazed pensively at two slender, snakelike Difdans writhingOnly 99 Shopping Days Till Christmas across an aquamarine sky.     They won't be permanent? he asked. The family, I mean?     Certainly not. You merely hire them for whatever length of time youchoose. But why are you so anxious?     The young man blushed. Well, I'm thinking of having a family of my ownsome day. Pretty soon, as a matter of fact.     Carpenter beamed. That's nice; you're being adopted! I do hope it'san Earth family that's chosen you—it's so awkward being adopted byextraterrestrials.     Oh, no! I'm planning to have my own. That is, I've got a—a girl,you see, and I thought after I had secured employment of some kind inPortyork, I'd send for her and we'd get married and....           Married!      Carpenter was now completely shocked. You      mustn't     usethat word! Don't you know marriage was outlawed years ago? Exclusivepossession of a member of the opposite sex is slavery on Talitha.Furthermore, supposing somebody else saw your—er—friend and wantedher also; you wouldn't wish him to endure the frustration of not havingher, would you?     Michael squared his jaw. You bet I would.     Carpenter drew himself away slightly, as if to avoid contamination.This is un-Universal. Young man, if I didn't have a kind heart, Iwould report you.     Michael was too preoccupied to be disturbed by this threat. You meanif I bring my girl here, I'd have to share her?     Certainly. And she'd have to share you. If somebody wanted you, thatis.     Then I'm not staying here, Michael declared firmly, ashamed to admiteven to himself how much relief his decision was bringing him. I don'tthink I like it, anyhow. I'm going back to the Brotherhood.     There was a short cold silence.     You know, son, Carpenter finally said, I think you might be right.I don't want to hurt your feelings—you      promise     I won't hurt yourfeelings? he asked anxiously, afraid, Michael realized, that he mightcall a policeman for ego injury.     You won't hurt my feelings, Mr. Carpenter.     Well, I believe that there are certain individuals who just cannotadapt themselves to civilized behavior patterns. It's much better forthem to belong to a Brotherhood such as yours than to be placed in oneof the government incarceratoriums, comfortable and commodious thoughthey are.     Much better, Michael agreed.     By the way, Carpenter went on, I realize this is just vulgarcuriosity on my part and you have a right to refuse an answer withoutfear of hurting my feelings, but how do you happen to have a—er—girlwhen you belong to a Brotherhood?     Michael laughed. Oh, 'Brotherhood' is merely a generic term. Bothsexes are represented in our society.     On Talitha— Carpenter began.     I know, Michael interrupted him, like the crude primitive he was andalways would be. But our females don't mind being generic.  A group of Sirians was traveling on the shelf above him on the slow,very slow jet bus that was flying Michael back to Angeles, back to theLodge, back to the Brotherhood, back to her. Their melancholy howlingwas getting on his nerves, but in a little while, he told himself, itwould be all over. He would be back home, safe with his own kind.     When our minds have grown tired, when our lives have expired, when oursorrows no longer can weary us, let our ashes return, neatly packed inan urn, to the bright purple swamps of our Sirius.     The advideo crackled: The gown her fairy godmother once gave toCinderella was created by the haute couture of fashion-wise Capella.     The ancient taxi was there, the one that Michael had taken from theLodge, early that morning, to the little Angeleno landing field, as ifit had been waiting for his return.     I see you're back, son, the driver said without surprise. He set thenoisy old rockets blasting. I been to Portyork once. It's not a badplace to live in, but I hate to visit it.     I'm back! Michael sank into the motheaten sable cushions and gazedwith pleasure at the familiar landmarks half seen in the darkness. I'mback! And a loud sneer to civilization!     Better be careful, son, the driver warned. I know this is a ruralarea, but civilization is spreading. There are secret police all over.How do you know I ain't a government spy? I could pull you in forinsulting civilization.     The elderly black and white advideo flickered, broke into purringsound: Do you find life continues to daze you? Do you find for a quickdeath you hanker? Why not try the new style euthanasia, performed byskilled workmen from Ancha?     Not any more, Michael thought contentedly. He was going home.  ","Mr. Carpenter is the first acquaintance Michael makes on his trip into the world. They are companions on the bus to Portyork. At first, Michael is unwilling to talk and Carpenter is curious to know about the reasons for the former to join a Brotherhood. Soon, Carpenter realizes that Michael is unfamiliar with the ways of this world and decides to take charge and show the youth around. Carpenter forgives Michael's every mistake and explains it, warning the youth to become silent in case of danger. Carpenter is more forgiving and kind than many other citizens, which is the reason for him taking charge of Michael. The man shows the newcomer around the city and prevents him from getting in trouble. Carpenter even defends Michael before an offended Meropian, who wants to report to the police. Things change when Michael begins an argument with Carpenter regarding marriage, which has been outlawed. Michael's desire to possess his girl alone contradicts the norms of the world and the youth's obstinance in this desire shock Carpenter completely. When he learns that in the Brotherhood both sexes are represented and marriage, which equals slavery to him, exists, Carpenter becomes sure that Michael can't adapt to the civilized world. After that, each goes his way."
"What is the plot of the story? </s>    The Beast-Jewel of Mars     By V. E. THIESSEN     The city was strange, fantastic, beautiful.     He'd never been there before, yet already he     was a fabulous legend—a dire, hateful legend.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Spring 1955.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      He lay on his stomach, a lean man in faded one piece dungarees, and anodd metallic hat, peering over the side of the canal. Behind him thelittle winds sifted red dust into his collar, but he could not move; hecould only sit there with his gaze riveted on the spires and minaretsthat twinkled in the distance, far down the bottom of the canal.     One part of his mind said,      This is it, this is the fabled city ofMars. This is the beauty and the fantasy and the music of the legends,and I must go down there.     Yet somewhere deeper in his mind, deep inthe primal urges that kept him from death, the warning was taut andurgent.      Get away. They have a part of your mind now. Get away from thecity before you lose it all. Get away before your body becomes a husk,a soulless husk to walk the low canals with sightless eyes, like thosewho came before you.       He strained to push back from the edge, trying to get that fantasticbeauty out of his sight. He fought the lids of his eyes, fought toclose them while he pushed himself back, but they remained open,staring at the jeweled towers, and borne on the little winds the thinwail of music reached him, saying,      Come into the city, come down intothe fabled city     .     He slid over the edge, sliding down the sloping sides of the canal.The rough sandstone tore at his dungarees, tore at his elbow where ittouched but he did not feel the pain. His face was turned toward thetowers, and the sound of his breathing was less than human.     His feet caught a projecting bit of stone and were slowed for aninstant, so that he turned sideways and rolled on, down into the reddust bottom of the canal, to lie face down in the dust, with the chinstrap of the odd metallic hat cutting cruelly into his chin.     He lay there an instant, knowing that now he had a chance. With hisface down like this, and the dust smarting his eyes the image was gonefor an instant. He had to get away, he knew that. He had to mount thesides of the canal and never look back.     He told himself, I am Eric North, from Earth, the Third Planet of Sol,and this is not real.     He squirmed in the dust, feeling it bite his cheeks; he squirmed untilhe could get up and see nothing but the red sand stone walls of thecanal. He ran at the walls and clawed his way up like an animal in hishaste. He wouldn't look again.     The wind freshened and the tune of the music began to talk to him. Ittold of going barefoot over long streets of fur. It told of jewels, andwine, and women as fair as springtime. These and more were in the city,waiting for him to claim them.     He sobbed, and clawed forward. He stopped to rest, and slowly his headbegan to turn. He turned, and the spires and minarets twinkled at him,beautiful, soothing, stopping the tears that had welled down his cheeks.     When he reached the bottom of the canal he began to run toward the city.     When he came to the city there was a high wall around it, and a heavygate carved with lotus blossoms. He beat against the gate and cried,Oh! Let me in. Let me in to the city! The music was richer now, as ifit were everywhere, and the gate swung open without the faintest sound.     A sentinel stood before the opened gate at the end of a long bluestreet. He was dressed in red silk with his sleeves edged in blueleopard skin, and he wore a belt with a jeweled short sword. He drewthe sword from its scabbard, and bowed forward until the point of thesword touched the street of blue fur. He said, I give you the welcomeof my sword, and the welcome of the city. Speak your name so that itmay be set in the records of the dreamers.     The music sang, and the spires twinkled, and Eric said, I am EricNorth!     The sword point jerked, and the sentinel straightened. His face waswhite. He cried aloud, It is Eric the Bronze. It is Eric of theLegend. He whirled the sword aloft, and smashed it upon Eric's metalhat, and the hatred was a blue flame in his eyes.  When Eric regained consciousness the people of the city were all abouthim. They were very fair, and the women were more beautiful than music.Yet now they stared at him with red hate in their eyes. An older mancame forward and struck at the copper hat with a stick. The clangdeafened Eric and the man cried, You are right. It is Eric the Bronze.Bring the ships and let him be scourged from the city.     The man drew back the stick and struck again, and Eric's back tookfire with the blow. The crowd chanted, Whips, bring the whips, andfear forced Eric to his feet. He fled then, running on the heedlessfeet of panic, outstripping those who were behind him until he passedthrough the great gates into the red dust floor of the canal. The gatesclosed behind him, and the dust beat upon him, and he paused, his hearthammering inside his chest like a great bell clapper. He turned andlooked behind to be sure he was safe.     The towers twinkled at him, and the music whispered to him, Come back,Eric North. Come back to the city.     He turned and stumbled back to the great gate and hammered on it untilhis fists were raw, pleading for it to open and let him back.     And deep inside him some part of his mind said, This is a madness youcannot escape. The city is evil, an evil like you have never known,and a fear as old as time coursed through his frame.     He seized the copper hat from his head, and beat on the lotus carvingsof the great door, crying, Let me in! Please, take me back into thecity.     And as he beat the city changed. It became dull and sordid and evil, acity of disgust, with every part offensive to the eye. The spires andminarets were gargoyles of hatred, twisted and misshapen, and the soundof the city was a macabre song of hate.     He stared, and his back was chill with superstitions as old as thebeginning of man. The city flickered, changing before his eyes until itwas beautiful again.     He stood, amazed, and put the metal hat back on his head. With themotion the shift took place again, and beauty was ugliness. Amazed, hestared at the illusion, and the thought came to him that the metal hathad not entirely failed him after all.     He turned and began to walk away from the city, and when it began tocall he took the hat off his head and found peace for a time. Then whenit began again he replaced the hat, and revulsion sped his footsteps.And so, hat on, hat off, he made his way down the dusty floor of thecanal, and up the rocky sides until he stood on the Martian desert, andthe canal was a thin line behind him. He breathed easily then, for hewas beyond the range of the illusions.     And now that his mind was his own again he began to study the problem,and to understand something of the nature of the forces against whichhe had been pitted.     The helmet contained an electrical circuit, designed as a shieldagainst electrical waves tuned to affect his brain. But the hat hadfailed because the city, whatever it was, had adjusted to this revisedpattern as he had approached it. Hence, the helmet had been no defenseagainst illusion. However, when he had jerked the helmet off suddenlyto beat on the door, his mental pattern had changed, too suddenly, andthe machine caught up only after he had glimpsed another image. Then asthe illusion adjusted replacing the helmet threw it off again.     He grinned wryly. He would have liked to know more about the city,whatever it was. He would have liked to know more about the people hehad seen, whether they were real or part of the illusion, and if theywere as ugly as the second city had been.     Yet the danger was too great. He would go back to his ship and make thearrangements to destroy the city. The ship was armed, and to deliverindirect fire over the edge of the canal would be simple enough. GarveNorth, his brother, waited back at the ship. If he knew of the city hewould have to go there. Eric must not take a chance on that. After theyhad blasted whatever it was that lay in the canal floor, then it wouldbe time enough to tell Garve, and go down to see what was left.     The ship rested easily on the flat sandstone area where he hadestablished base camp. Its familiar lines brought a smile to Eric'sface, a feeling of confidence now that tools and weapons were his again.     He opened the door and entered. The lock doors were left open so thathe could enter directly into the body of the ship. He came in in aswift leap, calling, Garve! Hey, Garve, where are you?     The ship remained mute. He prowled through it, calling, Garve,wondering where the young hothead had gone, and then he saw a noteclipped to the control board of the ship. He tore it loose impatientlyand began to read. Garve had scrawled:     Funny thing, Eric. A while ago I thought I heard music. I walked downto the canal, and it seemed like there were lights, and a town of somesort far down the canal. I wanted to investigate, but thought I'dbetter come back. But the thing has been in my mind for hours now, andI'm going down to see what it is. If you want to follow, come straightdown the canal.     Eric stared at the note, and the line of his jaw was white. ApparentlyGarve had seen the city from farther away, and its effect had not beenso strong. Even so, Garve's natural curiosity had done the rest.     Garve had gone down to the city, and Garve had no shielded hat. Ericselected two high explosive grenades from the ship's arsenal. Theywere small but they packed a lot of power. He had a pistol packedwith smaller pellets of the same explosive, and he had the hat. Thatshould be adequate. He thrust the bronze hat back on his head and beganwalking back to the canal.  The return back to the city would always live in his mind as aphantasmagora, a montage of twisted hate and unseemly beauty. When hecame again to the gate he did not attempt to enter, but circled thewall, hat on, hat off, stiff limbed like a puppet dancing to the sametune over and over again. He found a place where he could scale thewall, and thrust the helmet on his head, and clawed up the misshapenwall. It was all he could do to make himself drop into the ugly city.     He heard a familiar voice as he dropped. Eric, the voice said. Eric,you did come back. The voice was his brother's, and he whirled,seeking the voice. A figure stood before him, a twisted caricature ofhis brother. The figure cried, The hat! You fool, get rid of thathat! The caricature that was his brother seized the hat, and jerkedso hard that the chin strap broke under Eric's chin. The hat was flungaway and sailed high and far over the fence and outside the city.     The phantasm flickered, the illusion moved. Garve was now more handsomethan ever, and the city was a dream of delight. Garve said, Come, andEric followed down a street of blue fur. He had no will to resist.     Garve said, Keep your head down and your face hidden. If we meetsomeone you may not be recognized. They won't be expecting you fromthis side of the city.     Eric asked, You knew I'd come after you?     Yes. The Legend said you'd be back.     Eric stopped and whirled to face his brother. The Legend? Eric theBronze? What is this wild fantasy?     Not so loud! Garve's voice cautioned him. Of course the crowd calledyou that because of the copper hat and your heavy tan. But the Eldersbelieve so too. I don't know what it is, Eric, reincarnation, prophesy,superstition, I only know that when I was with the Elders I believedthem. You are a part of a Legend. You are Eric the Bronze.     Eric looked down at his sun tanned hands and flexed them. He loosenedthe explosive pistol in its holster. At least he was going to be a wellarmed, well prepared Legend. And while one part of his mind marveledat the city and relaxed into a pleasure as deep as a dream, anotherstruggled with the almost forgotten desire to rescue his brother andescape. He asked, Who are the Elders?     We are going to them, to the center of the city. Garve's voicesharpened, Keep your head down. I think the last two men we passed arelooking after us. Don't look back.     After a moment Garve said, I think they are following us. Get readyto run. If we are separated, keep going until you reach City Center.The Elders will be expecting you. Garve glanced back, and his voicesharpened, Now! Run!     They ran. But as they ran figures began to converge upon them. Fartherup the street others appeared, cutting off their flight.     Garve cried, In here, and pulled Eric into a crevice between twobuildings. Eric drew his gun, and savagery began to dance in his eyes.The soft fur muffled sounds of pursuit closed in upon them.     Garve put one hand on Eric's gun hand and said, Wait here. And if youvalue my life, don't use that gun. Then he was gone, running deerlikedown the street.     For an instant Eric thought the ruse had succeeded. He heard cries andtwo men passed him running in pursuit. But then the cry came back. Lethim go. Get the other one. The other one.     Eric was seen an instant later, and the people of the city began toconverge upon him. He could have destroyed them all with his charges inthe gun, but his brother's warning shrieked in his ears, If you valuemy life don't use the gun.     There was nothing he could do. Eric stood quietly until he was takenprisoner. They moved him to the center of the wide fur street. Two menheld his arms, and twisted painfully. The crowd looked at him, coldly,calculatingly. One of them said, Get the whips. If we whip him he willnot come back. The city twinkled, and the music was so faint he couldhardly hear it.     There was only one weapon Eric could use. He had gathered from Garve'swords that these people were superstitious.     He laughed, a great chest-shattering laugh that gusted out into thethin Martian air. He laughed and cried in a great voice, And can youso easily dispose of a Legend? If I am Eric of the Legend, can whipsdefeat the prophesy?     There was an instant when he could have twisted loose. They stood,fear-bound at his words. But there was no place to hide, and withoutthe use of his weapons Eric could not have gone far. He had to bluff itout.  Then one of the men cried, Fools! It is true. We must take no chancewith the whips. He would come back. But if he dies here before us now,then we may forget the prophesy.     The crowd murmured and a second voice cried, Get the sword, get theguards, and kill him at once!     Eric tensed to break away but now it was too late. His captors werealert. They increased the twist on his arms until he almost screamedwith the pain.     The crowd parted, and the guard came through, his red silk clothinggleaming in the sun, his sword bright and deadly. He stopped beforeEric, and the sword swirled up like a saber, ready for a slashing cutdownward across Eric's neck.     A woman's voice, soft and yet authoritative, called, Hold! And amurmur of respect rippled through the crowd.     Nolette! The Daughter of the City comes.     Eric turned his gaze to the side and saw the woman who had spoken. Shewas mounted upon a black horse with a jeweled bridle. She was young andher hair was long and free in the wind. She had ridden so softly acrossthe fur street that no one had been aware of her presence.       She said, Let me touch this man. Let me feel the pulse of his heart sothat I may know if he is truly the Bronze one of the Legend. Give meyour hand, stranger. She leaned down and grasped his hand. Eric shookhis arms free, and reached up and clung to the offered hand, thinking,If I pull her down perhaps I can use her as a shield. He tensed hismuscles and began to pull.     She cried, No! You fool. Come up on the horse, and pulled back withan energy as fierce as his own. Then he had swung up on the horse, andthe animal leaped forward, its muffled gallop beating out a tattoo offreedom.     Eric clung tightly to the girl's waist. He could feel the youngsuppleness of her body, and the fine strands of her hair kept swirlingback into his face. It had a faint perfume, a clean and heady scentthat made him more aware of the touch of her waist. He breathed deeply,oddly happy as they rode.     After five minutes ride they came to a building in the center of thecity. The building was cubical, severe in line and architecture, and itcontrasted oddly with the exquisite ornament of the rest of the city.It was as if it were a monolith from another time, a stranger crouchedamong enemies.     The girl halted before the structure and said, Dismount here, Eric.     Eric swung down, his arms still tingling with pleasure where he hadheld her. She said, Knock three times on the door. I will see youagain inside. And thank your brother for sending me to bring you here.     Eric knocked on the door. The door was as plain as the building, madeof a luminous plastic. It had all the beauty of the great gate door,but a more timeless, more functional beauty.     The door opened and an old man greeted Eric. Come in. The Councilawaits you. Follow me, please.     Eric followed down a hallway and into a large room. The room wasobviously designed for a conference room. A great table stood in theroom, made of the same luminous plastic as the door of the building.Six men sat at this conference table. Eric's guide placed him in achair at the base of the T-shaped table.     There was one vacant seat beside the head of the T, and as Ericwatched, the young woman who had rescued him entered and took her placethere. She smiled at Eric, and the room took on a warmth that it hadlacked with only the older men present. The man at her right, obviouslypresiding here looked at Eric and spoke. I am Kroon, the eldest ofthe elders. We have brought you here to satisfy ourselves of youridentity. In view of your danger in the City you are entitled to somesort of explanation. He glanced around the room and asked, What isthe judgment of the elders?  Eric caught a faint nod here, a gesture there. Kroon nodded as ifin satisfaction. He turned to the girl, And what is your opinion,Daughter of the City?     Nolette's expression held sorrow, as if she looked into the far future.She said, He is Eric the Bronze. I have no doubt.     Eric asked, And what is this Legend of Eric the Bronze? Why am I sodespised in the city?     Kroon answered, According to the Ancient Legend you will destroy thecity. This, and other things.     Eric gaped. No wonder the crowd had shown such hatred. But why werethe elders so friendly? They were obviously the governing body, and ifthere was strife between them and the people it had not shown in therespect the crowd had accorded Nolette.     Kroon said, I see you are puzzled. Let me tell you the story of theCity. The City is old. It dates from long ago when the canals of Marsran clear and green with water, and the deserts were vineyards andgardens. The drouth came, and the changes in climate, and soon itbecame plain that the people of Mars were doomed. They had ships, andcould build more, and gradually they left to colonize other planets.Yet they could take little of their science. And fear and riotsdestroyed much. Also there were those who were filled with love forthis homeland, and who thought that one day it might be habitableagain. All the skill of the ancient Martian fathers went into thebuilding of a giant machine, the machine that is the City, to protect asmall colony of those who were chosen to remain on Mars.     This whole city is a machine! Eric asked.     Yes, or the product of one. The heart of it lies underneath our feet,in caverns beneath this building. The nature of the machine is this,that it translates thought into reality.     Eric stared. The idea was staggering.     This is essentially simple, although the technology is complex. It isnecessary to have a recording device, to capture thought, a transmutingdevice capable of transmuting the red dust of the desert into anysort of material desired, and a construction device, to assemble thismaterial into the pattern already recorded from thought. Kroon paused.You still doubt, my friend. Perhaps you are thirsty after your escape.Think strongly of a tall glass of cold water, visualize it in yourmind, the sight and the fluidity and the touch of it.     Eric did so. Without warning a glass of water stood on the table beforehim. He touched the water to his lips. It was cool and satisfying. Hedrank it, convinced completely.     Eric asked, And I am to destroy the City?     Yes. The time has come.     But why? Eric demanded. For an instant he could see the twinklingbeauty as clearly as if he had stood outside the walls of this building.     Kroon said, There are difficulties. The machine builds according tothe mass will of the people, though it is sensitive to the individualin areas where it does not conflict with the imagination of the mass.We have had strangers, visitors, and even our own people, who grewdrunk with the power of the machine, who dreamed more and more lust andgreed into existence. These were banished from the city, and so strongis the call of the city that many of them became victims of their ownevilness, and now walk mindlessly, with no thought but to seek for thebeauty they have lost here.     Kroon sighed. The people have lost the will to learn. Many do not evenknow of the machine. Our science is almost gone, and only a few of us,the dreamers, the elders, have kept alive the old knowledge of themachine and its history. By the collected powers of our imagination webuild and control the outward appearance of the city.     We have passed this down from father to son. A part of the ancientLegend is that the builders made provisions for the machine to bedestroyed when contact with outsiders had been made once again, so thatour people would again have to struggle forward to knowledge and power.The instrument of destruction was to be a man termed Eric the Bronze.It is not that you are reborn. It is just that sometime such a manwould come.     Eric said, I can understand the Bronze part. They had thought that aspace man might well be sun tanned. They had thought that a science toprotect against this beautiful illusion would provide a metal shieldof some sort, probably copper in nature. That such a man should comeis inevitable. But why Eric. Why the name Eric?     For the first time Nolette spoke. She said quietly, The name Ericwas an honorable name of the ancient fathers. It must have been theirthought that the new beginning should wait for some of their own farflung kind to return.     Eric nodded. He asked, What happens now?     Nothing. Dwell here with us and you will be safe from our people. Ifthe prediction is not soon fulfilled and you are not the Eric of theLegend, you may stay or go as you desire.     My brother, Garve. What about him?     He loves the city. He will also stay, though he will be outside thisbuilding. Kroon clasped his hands. Nolette, will you show Eric hisquarters?  ","Eric North, a man from Earth, is lying on his stomach and thinking whether he should go down to the bottom of the canal before him, where the beauty of the fabled city of Mars calls the youth. After a short resistance, Eric surrenders to the call of the city, rushes towards it and starts beating the gate to get in. Upon hearing Eric's name, the sentinel screams it out loud and strikes the man with hatred, mentioning some kind of a legend. A crowd full of hatred gathers, but Eric manages to escape from the city. Nevertheless, it calls again and he starts pleading at the gates to be let back, even though he knows it's insane. Shortly after, Eric realizes, with the help of taking off his hat, that the beauty is an illusion and walks away on a safe distance. He figures out putting the hat on and off confuses the machine and the illusion disappears. He decides to destroy the city without exploring further not to put himself and his brother in danger. Nevertheless, turns out that Garve, the brother, followed his curiosity and went to the city. When the two meet, Garve takes off Eric's head and mentions the legend about Eric which everyone in the city believes. While heading to the city center, the two are followed and Garve asks his brother not to use the gun, which results in Eric's capture. Eric bluffs, threatening people with the prophecy, but they decide to kill him. A respected young woman, Nolette, suddenly saves him and brings before the council. There Eric learns the story of the city, which is a small colony of those who chose to remain on Mars during the drought and a machine was created there to translate thought into reality. Now people become lustful, lose their will to learn and many of those banished have lost their minds. That's why the city has to be destroyed and Eric is the instrument. Then Eric is led to his quarters in the building of the Elders, and his brother stays in the city as well, though in another place."
"What is the relationship between Eric and the citizens? </s>    The Beast-Jewel of Mars     By V. E. THIESSEN     The city was strange, fantastic, beautiful.     He'd never been there before, yet already he     was a fabulous legend—a dire, hateful legend.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Spring 1955.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      He lay on his stomach, a lean man in faded one piece dungarees, and anodd metallic hat, peering over the side of the canal. Behind him thelittle winds sifted red dust into his collar, but he could not move; hecould only sit there with his gaze riveted on the spires and minaretsthat twinkled in the distance, far down the bottom of the canal.     One part of his mind said,      This is it, this is the fabled city ofMars. This is the beauty and the fantasy and the music of the legends,and I must go down there.     Yet somewhere deeper in his mind, deep inthe primal urges that kept him from death, the warning was taut andurgent.      Get away. They have a part of your mind now. Get away from thecity before you lose it all. Get away before your body becomes a husk,a soulless husk to walk the low canals with sightless eyes, like thosewho came before you.       He strained to push back from the edge, trying to get that fantasticbeauty out of his sight. He fought the lids of his eyes, fought toclose them while he pushed himself back, but they remained open,staring at the jeweled towers, and borne on the little winds the thinwail of music reached him, saying,      Come into the city, come down intothe fabled city     .     He slid over the edge, sliding down the sloping sides of the canal.The rough sandstone tore at his dungarees, tore at his elbow where ittouched but he did not feel the pain. His face was turned toward thetowers, and the sound of his breathing was less than human.     His feet caught a projecting bit of stone and were slowed for aninstant, so that he turned sideways and rolled on, down into the reddust bottom of the canal, to lie face down in the dust, with the chinstrap of the odd metallic hat cutting cruelly into his chin.     He lay there an instant, knowing that now he had a chance. With hisface down like this, and the dust smarting his eyes the image was gonefor an instant. He had to get away, he knew that. He had to mount thesides of the canal and never look back.     He told himself, I am Eric North, from Earth, the Third Planet of Sol,and this is not real.     He squirmed in the dust, feeling it bite his cheeks; he squirmed untilhe could get up and see nothing but the red sand stone walls of thecanal. He ran at the walls and clawed his way up like an animal in hishaste. He wouldn't look again.     The wind freshened and the tune of the music began to talk to him. Ittold of going barefoot over long streets of fur. It told of jewels, andwine, and women as fair as springtime. These and more were in the city,waiting for him to claim them.     He sobbed, and clawed forward. He stopped to rest, and slowly his headbegan to turn. He turned, and the spires and minarets twinkled at him,beautiful, soothing, stopping the tears that had welled down his cheeks.     When he reached the bottom of the canal he began to run toward the city.     When he came to the city there was a high wall around it, and a heavygate carved with lotus blossoms. He beat against the gate and cried,Oh! Let me in. Let me in to the city! The music was richer now, as ifit were everywhere, and the gate swung open without the faintest sound.     A sentinel stood before the opened gate at the end of a long bluestreet. He was dressed in red silk with his sleeves edged in blueleopard skin, and he wore a belt with a jeweled short sword. He drewthe sword from its scabbard, and bowed forward until the point of thesword touched the street of blue fur. He said, I give you the welcomeof my sword, and the welcome of the city. Speak your name so that itmay be set in the records of the dreamers.     The music sang, and the spires twinkled, and Eric said, I am EricNorth!     The sword point jerked, and the sentinel straightened. His face waswhite. He cried aloud, It is Eric the Bronze. It is Eric of theLegend. He whirled the sword aloft, and smashed it upon Eric's metalhat, and the hatred was a blue flame in his eyes.  When Eric regained consciousness the people of the city were all abouthim. They were very fair, and the women were more beautiful than music.Yet now they stared at him with red hate in their eyes. An older mancame forward and struck at the copper hat with a stick. The clangdeafened Eric and the man cried, You are right. It is Eric the Bronze.Bring the ships and let him be scourged from the city.     The man drew back the stick and struck again, and Eric's back tookfire with the blow. The crowd chanted, Whips, bring the whips, andfear forced Eric to his feet. He fled then, running on the heedlessfeet of panic, outstripping those who were behind him until he passedthrough the great gates into the red dust floor of the canal. The gatesclosed behind him, and the dust beat upon him, and he paused, his hearthammering inside his chest like a great bell clapper. He turned andlooked behind to be sure he was safe.     The towers twinkled at him, and the music whispered to him, Come back,Eric North. Come back to the city.     He turned and stumbled back to the great gate and hammered on it untilhis fists were raw, pleading for it to open and let him back.     And deep inside him some part of his mind said, This is a madness youcannot escape. The city is evil, an evil like you have never known,and a fear as old as time coursed through his frame.     He seized the copper hat from his head, and beat on the lotus carvingsof the great door, crying, Let me in! Please, take me back into thecity.     And as he beat the city changed. It became dull and sordid and evil, acity of disgust, with every part offensive to the eye. The spires andminarets were gargoyles of hatred, twisted and misshapen, and the soundof the city was a macabre song of hate.     He stared, and his back was chill with superstitions as old as thebeginning of man. The city flickered, changing before his eyes until itwas beautiful again.     He stood, amazed, and put the metal hat back on his head. With themotion the shift took place again, and beauty was ugliness. Amazed, hestared at the illusion, and the thought came to him that the metal hathad not entirely failed him after all.     He turned and began to walk away from the city, and when it began tocall he took the hat off his head and found peace for a time. Then whenit began again he replaced the hat, and revulsion sped his footsteps.And so, hat on, hat off, he made his way down the dusty floor of thecanal, and up the rocky sides until he stood on the Martian desert, andthe canal was a thin line behind him. He breathed easily then, for hewas beyond the range of the illusions.     And now that his mind was his own again he began to study the problem,and to understand something of the nature of the forces against whichhe had been pitted.     The helmet contained an electrical circuit, designed as a shieldagainst electrical waves tuned to affect his brain. But the hat hadfailed because the city, whatever it was, had adjusted to this revisedpattern as he had approached it. Hence, the helmet had been no defenseagainst illusion. However, when he had jerked the helmet off suddenlyto beat on the door, his mental pattern had changed, too suddenly, andthe machine caught up only after he had glimpsed another image. Then asthe illusion adjusted replacing the helmet threw it off again.     He grinned wryly. He would have liked to know more about the city,whatever it was. He would have liked to know more about the people hehad seen, whether they were real or part of the illusion, and if theywere as ugly as the second city had been.     Yet the danger was too great. He would go back to his ship and make thearrangements to destroy the city. The ship was armed, and to deliverindirect fire over the edge of the canal would be simple enough. GarveNorth, his brother, waited back at the ship. If he knew of the city hewould have to go there. Eric must not take a chance on that. After theyhad blasted whatever it was that lay in the canal floor, then it wouldbe time enough to tell Garve, and go down to see what was left.     The ship rested easily on the flat sandstone area where he hadestablished base camp. Its familiar lines brought a smile to Eric'sface, a feeling of confidence now that tools and weapons were his again.     He opened the door and entered. The lock doors were left open so thathe could enter directly into the body of the ship. He came in in aswift leap, calling, Garve! Hey, Garve, where are you?     The ship remained mute. He prowled through it, calling, Garve,wondering where the young hothead had gone, and then he saw a noteclipped to the control board of the ship. He tore it loose impatientlyand began to read. Garve had scrawled:     Funny thing, Eric. A while ago I thought I heard music. I walked downto the canal, and it seemed like there were lights, and a town of somesort far down the canal. I wanted to investigate, but thought I'dbetter come back. But the thing has been in my mind for hours now, andI'm going down to see what it is. If you want to follow, come straightdown the canal.     Eric stared at the note, and the line of his jaw was white. ApparentlyGarve had seen the city from farther away, and its effect had not beenso strong. Even so, Garve's natural curiosity had done the rest.     Garve had gone down to the city, and Garve had no shielded hat. Ericselected two high explosive grenades from the ship's arsenal. Theywere small but they packed a lot of power. He had a pistol packedwith smaller pellets of the same explosive, and he had the hat. Thatshould be adequate. He thrust the bronze hat back on his head and beganwalking back to the canal.  The return back to the city would always live in his mind as aphantasmagora, a montage of twisted hate and unseemly beauty. When hecame again to the gate he did not attempt to enter, but circled thewall, hat on, hat off, stiff limbed like a puppet dancing to the sametune over and over again. He found a place where he could scale thewall, and thrust the helmet on his head, and clawed up the misshapenwall. It was all he could do to make himself drop into the ugly city.     He heard a familiar voice as he dropped. Eric, the voice said. Eric,you did come back. The voice was his brother's, and he whirled,seeking the voice. A figure stood before him, a twisted caricature ofhis brother. The figure cried, The hat! You fool, get rid of thathat! The caricature that was his brother seized the hat, and jerkedso hard that the chin strap broke under Eric's chin. The hat was flungaway and sailed high and far over the fence and outside the city.     The phantasm flickered, the illusion moved. Garve was now more handsomethan ever, and the city was a dream of delight. Garve said, Come, andEric followed down a street of blue fur. He had no will to resist.     Garve said, Keep your head down and your face hidden. If we meetsomeone you may not be recognized. They won't be expecting you fromthis side of the city.     Eric asked, You knew I'd come after you?     Yes. The Legend said you'd be back.     Eric stopped and whirled to face his brother. The Legend? Eric theBronze? What is this wild fantasy?     Not so loud! Garve's voice cautioned him. Of course the crowd calledyou that because of the copper hat and your heavy tan. But the Eldersbelieve so too. I don't know what it is, Eric, reincarnation, prophesy,superstition, I only know that when I was with the Elders I believedthem. You are a part of a Legend. You are Eric the Bronze.     Eric looked down at his sun tanned hands and flexed them. He loosenedthe explosive pistol in its holster. At least he was going to be a wellarmed, well prepared Legend. And while one part of his mind marveledat the city and relaxed into a pleasure as deep as a dream, anotherstruggled with the almost forgotten desire to rescue his brother andescape. He asked, Who are the Elders?     We are going to them, to the center of the city. Garve's voicesharpened, Keep your head down. I think the last two men we passed arelooking after us. Don't look back.     After a moment Garve said, I think they are following us. Get readyto run. If we are separated, keep going until you reach City Center.The Elders will be expecting you. Garve glanced back, and his voicesharpened, Now! Run!     They ran. But as they ran figures began to converge upon them. Fartherup the street others appeared, cutting off their flight.     Garve cried, In here, and pulled Eric into a crevice between twobuildings. Eric drew his gun, and savagery began to dance in his eyes.The soft fur muffled sounds of pursuit closed in upon them.     Garve put one hand on Eric's gun hand and said, Wait here. And if youvalue my life, don't use that gun. Then he was gone, running deerlikedown the street.     For an instant Eric thought the ruse had succeeded. He heard cries andtwo men passed him running in pursuit. But then the cry came back. Lethim go. Get the other one. The other one.     Eric was seen an instant later, and the people of the city began toconverge upon him. He could have destroyed them all with his charges inthe gun, but his brother's warning shrieked in his ears, If you valuemy life don't use the gun.     There was nothing he could do. Eric stood quietly until he was takenprisoner. They moved him to the center of the wide fur street. Two menheld his arms, and twisted painfully. The crowd looked at him, coldly,calculatingly. One of them said, Get the whips. If we whip him he willnot come back. The city twinkled, and the music was so faint he couldhardly hear it.     There was only one weapon Eric could use. He had gathered from Garve'swords that these people were superstitious.     He laughed, a great chest-shattering laugh that gusted out into thethin Martian air. He laughed and cried in a great voice, And can youso easily dispose of a Legend? If I am Eric of the Legend, can whipsdefeat the prophesy?     There was an instant when he could have twisted loose. They stood,fear-bound at his words. But there was no place to hide, and withoutthe use of his weapons Eric could not have gone far. He had to bluff itout.  Then one of the men cried, Fools! It is true. We must take no chancewith the whips. He would come back. But if he dies here before us now,then we may forget the prophesy.     The crowd murmured and a second voice cried, Get the sword, get theguards, and kill him at once!     Eric tensed to break away but now it was too late. His captors werealert. They increased the twist on his arms until he almost screamedwith the pain.     The crowd parted, and the guard came through, his red silk clothinggleaming in the sun, his sword bright and deadly. He stopped beforeEric, and the sword swirled up like a saber, ready for a slashing cutdownward across Eric's neck.     A woman's voice, soft and yet authoritative, called, Hold! And amurmur of respect rippled through the crowd.     Nolette! The Daughter of the City comes.     Eric turned his gaze to the side and saw the woman who had spoken. Shewas mounted upon a black horse with a jeweled bridle. She was young andher hair was long and free in the wind. She had ridden so softly acrossthe fur street that no one had been aware of her presence.       She said, Let me touch this man. Let me feel the pulse of his heart sothat I may know if he is truly the Bronze one of the Legend. Give meyour hand, stranger. She leaned down and grasped his hand. Eric shookhis arms free, and reached up and clung to the offered hand, thinking,If I pull her down perhaps I can use her as a shield. He tensed hismuscles and began to pull.     She cried, No! You fool. Come up on the horse, and pulled back withan energy as fierce as his own. Then he had swung up on the horse, andthe animal leaped forward, its muffled gallop beating out a tattoo offreedom.     Eric clung tightly to the girl's waist. He could feel the youngsuppleness of her body, and the fine strands of her hair kept swirlingback into his face. It had a faint perfume, a clean and heady scentthat made him more aware of the touch of her waist. He breathed deeply,oddly happy as they rode.     After five minutes ride they came to a building in the center of thecity. The building was cubical, severe in line and architecture, and itcontrasted oddly with the exquisite ornament of the rest of the city.It was as if it were a monolith from another time, a stranger crouchedamong enemies.     The girl halted before the structure and said, Dismount here, Eric.     Eric swung down, his arms still tingling with pleasure where he hadheld her. She said, Knock three times on the door. I will see youagain inside. And thank your brother for sending me to bring you here.     Eric knocked on the door. The door was as plain as the building, madeof a luminous plastic. It had all the beauty of the great gate door,but a more timeless, more functional beauty.     The door opened and an old man greeted Eric. Come in. The Councilawaits you. Follow me, please.     Eric followed down a hallway and into a large room. The room wasobviously designed for a conference room. A great table stood in theroom, made of the same luminous plastic as the door of the building.Six men sat at this conference table. Eric's guide placed him in achair at the base of the T-shaped table.     There was one vacant seat beside the head of the T, and as Ericwatched, the young woman who had rescued him entered and took her placethere. She smiled at Eric, and the room took on a warmth that it hadlacked with only the older men present. The man at her right, obviouslypresiding here looked at Eric and spoke. I am Kroon, the eldest ofthe elders. We have brought you here to satisfy ourselves of youridentity. In view of your danger in the City you are entitled to somesort of explanation. He glanced around the room and asked, What isthe judgment of the elders?  Eric caught a faint nod here, a gesture there. Kroon nodded as ifin satisfaction. He turned to the girl, And what is your opinion,Daughter of the City?     Nolette's expression held sorrow, as if she looked into the far future.She said, He is Eric the Bronze. I have no doubt.     Eric asked, And what is this Legend of Eric the Bronze? Why am I sodespised in the city?     Kroon answered, According to the Ancient Legend you will destroy thecity. This, and other things.     Eric gaped. No wonder the crowd had shown such hatred. But why werethe elders so friendly? They were obviously the governing body, and ifthere was strife between them and the people it had not shown in therespect the crowd had accorded Nolette.     Kroon said, I see you are puzzled. Let me tell you the story of theCity. The City is old. It dates from long ago when the canals of Marsran clear and green with water, and the deserts were vineyards andgardens. The drouth came, and the changes in climate, and soon itbecame plain that the people of Mars were doomed. They had ships, andcould build more, and gradually they left to colonize other planets.Yet they could take little of their science. And fear and riotsdestroyed much. Also there were those who were filled with love forthis homeland, and who thought that one day it might be habitableagain. All the skill of the ancient Martian fathers went into thebuilding of a giant machine, the machine that is the City, to protect asmall colony of those who were chosen to remain on Mars.     This whole city is a machine! Eric asked.     Yes, or the product of one. The heart of it lies underneath our feet,in caverns beneath this building. The nature of the machine is this,that it translates thought into reality.     Eric stared. The idea was staggering.     This is essentially simple, although the technology is complex. It isnecessary to have a recording device, to capture thought, a transmutingdevice capable of transmuting the red dust of the desert into anysort of material desired, and a construction device, to assemble thismaterial into the pattern already recorded from thought. Kroon paused.You still doubt, my friend. Perhaps you are thirsty after your escape.Think strongly of a tall glass of cold water, visualize it in yourmind, the sight and the fluidity and the touch of it.     Eric did so. Without warning a glass of water stood on the table beforehim. He touched the water to his lips. It was cool and satisfying. Hedrank it, convinced completely.     Eric asked, And I am to destroy the City?     Yes. The time has come.     But why? Eric demanded. For an instant he could see the twinklingbeauty as clearly as if he had stood outside the walls of this building.     Kroon said, There are difficulties. The machine builds according tothe mass will of the people, though it is sensitive to the individualin areas where it does not conflict with the imagination of the mass.We have had strangers, visitors, and even our own people, who grewdrunk with the power of the machine, who dreamed more and more lust andgreed into existence. These were banished from the city, and so strongis the call of the city that many of them became victims of their ownevilness, and now walk mindlessly, with no thought but to seek for thebeauty they have lost here.     Kroon sighed. The people have lost the will to learn. Many do not evenknow of the machine. Our science is almost gone, and only a few of us,the dreamers, the elders, have kept alive the old knowledge of themachine and its history. By the collected powers of our imagination webuild and control the outward appearance of the city.     We have passed this down from father to son. A part of the ancientLegend is that the builders made provisions for the machine to bedestroyed when contact with outsiders had been made once again, so thatour people would again have to struggle forward to knowledge and power.The instrument of destruction was to be a man termed Eric the Bronze.It is not that you are reborn. It is just that sometime such a manwould come.     Eric said, I can understand the Bronze part. They had thought that aspace man might well be sun tanned. They had thought that a science toprotect against this beautiful illusion would provide a metal shieldof some sort, probably copper in nature. That such a man should comeis inevitable. But why Eric. Why the name Eric?     For the first time Nolette spoke. She said quietly, The name Ericwas an honorable name of the ancient fathers. It must have been theirthought that the new beginning should wait for some of their own farflung kind to return.     Eric nodded. He asked, What happens now?     Nothing. Dwell here with us and you will be safe from our people. Ifthe prediction is not soon fulfilled and you are not the Eric of theLegend, you may stay or go as you desire.     My brother, Garve. What about him?     He loves the city. He will also stay, though he will be outside thisbuilding. Kroon clasped his hands. Nolette, will you show Eric hisquarters?  ","Eric sees the citizens in the most beautiful way and is willing to join them. They, on the contrary, meet him with hatred as they hear his name. The citizens surround and try to attack Eric, they are superstitious and believe him to be the destroyer of the city from the legends. The Elders from the Council send one of them to save Eric. They also believe him to be part of the legend, but they know more about the city and the machine. They think that it's time for the city to be destroyed as it has changed, the machine doesn't do good anymore. Nolette, the daughter of the city, also believes Eric to be the legend and stops the crowd with the use of her authority from killing him. Eric is overwhelmed and he obeys the council, listening with curiosity. He also feels happiness near the girl. "
"What kind of city Eric finds himself in? </s>    The Beast-Jewel of Mars     By V. E. THIESSEN     The city was strange, fantastic, beautiful.     He'd never been there before, yet already he     was a fabulous legend—a dire, hateful legend.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Spring 1955.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      He lay on his stomach, a lean man in faded one piece dungarees, and anodd metallic hat, peering over the side of the canal. Behind him thelittle winds sifted red dust into his collar, but he could not move; hecould only sit there with his gaze riveted on the spires and minaretsthat twinkled in the distance, far down the bottom of the canal.     One part of his mind said,      This is it, this is the fabled city ofMars. This is the beauty and the fantasy and the music of the legends,and I must go down there.     Yet somewhere deeper in his mind, deep inthe primal urges that kept him from death, the warning was taut andurgent.      Get away. They have a part of your mind now. Get away from thecity before you lose it all. Get away before your body becomes a husk,a soulless husk to walk the low canals with sightless eyes, like thosewho came before you.       He strained to push back from the edge, trying to get that fantasticbeauty out of his sight. He fought the lids of his eyes, fought toclose them while he pushed himself back, but they remained open,staring at the jeweled towers, and borne on the little winds the thinwail of music reached him, saying,      Come into the city, come down intothe fabled city     .     He slid over the edge, sliding down the sloping sides of the canal.The rough sandstone tore at his dungarees, tore at his elbow where ittouched but he did not feel the pain. His face was turned toward thetowers, and the sound of his breathing was less than human.     His feet caught a projecting bit of stone and were slowed for aninstant, so that he turned sideways and rolled on, down into the reddust bottom of the canal, to lie face down in the dust, with the chinstrap of the odd metallic hat cutting cruelly into his chin.     He lay there an instant, knowing that now he had a chance. With hisface down like this, and the dust smarting his eyes the image was gonefor an instant. He had to get away, he knew that. He had to mount thesides of the canal and never look back.     He told himself, I am Eric North, from Earth, the Third Planet of Sol,and this is not real.     He squirmed in the dust, feeling it bite his cheeks; he squirmed untilhe could get up and see nothing but the red sand stone walls of thecanal. He ran at the walls and clawed his way up like an animal in hishaste. He wouldn't look again.     The wind freshened and the tune of the music began to talk to him. Ittold of going barefoot over long streets of fur. It told of jewels, andwine, and women as fair as springtime. These and more were in the city,waiting for him to claim them.     He sobbed, and clawed forward. He stopped to rest, and slowly his headbegan to turn. He turned, and the spires and minarets twinkled at him,beautiful, soothing, stopping the tears that had welled down his cheeks.     When he reached the bottom of the canal he began to run toward the city.     When he came to the city there was a high wall around it, and a heavygate carved with lotus blossoms. He beat against the gate and cried,Oh! Let me in. Let me in to the city! The music was richer now, as ifit were everywhere, and the gate swung open without the faintest sound.     A sentinel stood before the opened gate at the end of a long bluestreet. He was dressed in red silk with his sleeves edged in blueleopard skin, and he wore a belt with a jeweled short sword. He drewthe sword from its scabbard, and bowed forward until the point of thesword touched the street of blue fur. He said, I give you the welcomeof my sword, and the welcome of the city. Speak your name so that itmay be set in the records of the dreamers.     The music sang, and the spires twinkled, and Eric said, I am EricNorth!     The sword point jerked, and the sentinel straightened. His face waswhite. He cried aloud, It is Eric the Bronze. It is Eric of theLegend. He whirled the sword aloft, and smashed it upon Eric's metalhat, and the hatred was a blue flame in his eyes.  When Eric regained consciousness the people of the city were all abouthim. They were very fair, and the women were more beautiful than music.Yet now they stared at him with red hate in their eyes. An older mancame forward and struck at the copper hat with a stick. The clangdeafened Eric and the man cried, You are right. It is Eric the Bronze.Bring the ships and let him be scourged from the city.     The man drew back the stick and struck again, and Eric's back tookfire with the blow. The crowd chanted, Whips, bring the whips, andfear forced Eric to his feet. He fled then, running on the heedlessfeet of panic, outstripping those who were behind him until he passedthrough the great gates into the red dust floor of the canal. The gatesclosed behind him, and the dust beat upon him, and he paused, his hearthammering inside his chest like a great bell clapper. He turned andlooked behind to be sure he was safe.     The towers twinkled at him, and the music whispered to him, Come back,Eric North. Come back to the city.     He turned and stumbled back to the great gate and hammered on it untilhis fists were raw, pleading for it to open and let him back.     And deep inside him some part of his mind said, This is a madness youcannot escape. The city is evil, an evil like you have never known,and a fear as old as time coursed through his frame.     He seized the copper hat from his head, and beat on the lotus carvingsof the great door, crying, Let me in! Please, take me back into thecity.     And as he beat the city changed. It became dull and sordid and evil, acity of disgust, with every part offensive to the eye. The spires andminarets were gargoyles of hatred, twisted and misshapen, and the soundof the city was a macabre song of hate.     He stared, and his back was chill with superstitions as old as thebeginning of man. The city flickered, changing before his eyes until itwas beautiful again.     He stood, amazed, and put the metal hat back on his head. With themotion the shift took place again, and beauty was ugliness. Amazed, hestared at the illusion, and the thought came to him that the metal hathad not entirely failed him after all.     He turned and began to walk away from the city, and when it began tocall he took the hat off his head and found peace for a time. Then whenit began again he replaced the hat, and revulsion sped his footsteps.And so, hat on, hat off, he made his way down the dusty floor of thecanal, and up the rocky sides until he stood on the Martian desert, andthe canal was a thin line behind him. He breathed easily then, for hewas beyond the range of the illusions.     And now that his mind was his own again he began to study the problem,and to understand something of the nature of the forces against whichhe had been pitted.     The helmet contained an electrical circuit, designed as a shieldagainst electrical waves tuned to affect his brain. But the hat hadfailed because the city, whatever it was, had adjusted to this revisedpattern as he had approached it. Hence, the helmet had been no defenseagainst illusion. However, when he had jerked the helmet off suddenlyto beat on the door, his mental pattern had changed, too suddenly, andthe machine caught up only after he had glimpsed another image. Then asthe illusion adjusted replacing the helmet threw it off again.     He grinned wryly. He would have liked to know more about the city,whatever it was. He would have liked to know more about the people hehad seen, whether they were real or part of the illusion, and if theywere as ugly as the second city had been.     Yet the danger was too great. He would go back to his ship and make thearrangements to destroy the city. The ship was armed, and to deliverindirect fire over the edge of the canal would be simple enough. GarveNorth, his brother, waited back at the ship. If he knew of the city hewould have to go there. Eric must not take a chance on that. After theyhad blasted whatever it was that lay in the canal floor, then it wouldbe time enough to tell Garve, and go down to see what was left.     The ship rested easily on the flat sandstone area where he hadestablished base camp. Its familiar lines brought a smile to Eric'sface, a feeling of confidence now that tools and weapons were his again.     He opened the door and entered. The lock doors were left open so thathe could enter directly into the body of the ship. He came in in aswift leap, calling, Garve! Hey, Garve, where are you?     The ship remained mute. He prowled through it, calling, Garve,wondering where the young hothead had gone, and then he saw a noteclipped to the control board of the ship. He tore it loose impatientlyand began to read. Garve had scrawled:     Funny thing, Eric. A while ago I thought I heard music. I walked downto the canal, and it seemed like there were lights, and a town of somesort far down the canal. I wanted to investigate, but thought I'dbetter come back. But the thing has been in my mind for hours now, andI'm going down to see what it is. If you want to follow, come straightdown the canal.     Eric stared at the note, and the line of his jaw was white. ApparentlyGarve had seen the city from farther away, and its effect had not beenso strong. Even so, Garve's natural curiosity had done the rest.     Garve had gone down to the city, and Garve had no shielded hat. Ericselected two high explosive grenades from the ship's arsenal. Theywere small but they packed a lot of power. He had a pistol packedwith smaller pellets of the same explosive, and he had the hat. Thatshould be adequate. He thrust the bronze hat back on his head and beganwalking back to the canal.  The return back to the city would always live in his mind as aphantasmagora, a montage of twisted hate and unseemly beauty. When hecame again to the gate he did not attempt to enter, but circled thewall, hat on, hat off, stiff limbed like a puppet dancing to the sametune over and over again. He found a place where he could scale thewall, and thrust the helmet on his head, and clawed up the misshapenwall. It was all he could do to make himself drop into the ugly city.     He heard a familiar voice as he dropped. Eric, the voice said. Eric,you did come back. The voice was his brother's, and he whirled,seeking the voice. A figure stood before him, a twisted caricature ofhis brother. The figure cried, The hat! You fool, get rid of thathat! The caricature that was his brother seized the hat, and jerkedso hard that the chin strap broke under Eric's chin. The hat was flungaway and sailed high and far over the fence and outside the city.     The phantasm flickered, the illusion moved. Garve was now more handsomethan ever, and the city was a dream of delight. Garve said, Come, andEric followed down a street of blue fur. He had no will to resist.     Garve said, Keep your head down and your face hidden. If we meetsomeone you may not be recognized. They won't be expecting you fromthis side of the city.     Eric asked, You knew I'd come after you?     Yes. The Legend said you'd be back.     Eric stopped and whirled to face his brother. The Legend? Eric theBronze? What is this wild fantasy?     Not so loud! Garve's voice cautioned him. Of course the crowd calledyou that because of the copper hat and your heavy tan. But the Eldersbelieve so too. I don't know what it is, Eric, reincarnation, prophesy,superstition, I only know that when I was with the Elders I believedthem. You are a part of a Legend. You are Eric the Bronze.     Eric looked down at his sun tanned hands and flexed them. He loosenedthe explosive pistol in its holster. At least he was going to be a wellarmed, well prepared Legend. And while one part of his mind marveledat the city and relaxed into a pleasure as deep as a dream, anotherstruggled with the almost forgotten desire to rescue his brother andescape. He asked, Who are the Elders?     We are going to them, to the center of the city. Garve's voicesharpened, Keep your head down. I think the last two men we passed arelooking after us. Don't look back.     After a moment Garve said, I think they are following us. Get readyto run. If we are separated, keep going until you reach City Center.The Elders will be expecting you. Garve glanced back, and his voicesharpened, Now! Run!     They ran. But as they ran figures began to converge upon them. Fartherup the street others appeared, cutting off their flight.     Garve cried, In here, and pulled Eric into a crevice between twobuildings. Eric drew his gun, and savagery began to dance in his eyes.The soft fur muffled sounds of pursuit closed in upon them.     Garve put one hand on Eric's gun hand and said, Wait here. And if youvalue my life, don't use that gun. Then he was gone, running deerlikedown the street.     For an instant Eric thought the ruse had succeeded. He heard cries andtwo men passed him running in pursuit. But then the cry came back. Lethim go. Get the other one. The other one.     Eric was seen an instant later, and the people of the city began toconverge upon him. He could have destroyed them all with his charges inthe gun, but his brother's warning shrieked in his ears, If you valuemy life don't use the gun.     There was nothing he could do. Eric stood quietly until he was takenprisoner. They moved him to the center of the wide fur street. Two menheld his arms, and twisted painfully. The crowd looked at him, coldly,calculatingly. One of them said, Get the whips. If we whip him he willnot come back. The city twinkled, and the music was so faint he couldhardly hear it.     There was only one weapon Eric could use. He had gathered from Garve'swords that these people were superstitious.     He laughed, a great chest-shattering laugh that gusted out into thethin Martian air. He laughed and cried in a great voice, And can youso easily dispose of a Legend? If I am Eric of the Legend, can whipsdefeat the prophesy?     There was an instant when he could have twisted loose. They stood,fear-bound at his words. But there was no place to hide, and withoutthe use of his weapons Eric could not have gone far. He had to bluff itout.  Then one of the men cried, Fools! It is true. We must take no chancewith the whips. He would come back. But if he dies here before us now,then we may forget the prophesy.     The crowd murmured and a second voice cried, Get the sword, get theguards, and kill him at once!     Eric tensed to break away but now it was too late. His captors werealert. They increased the twist on his arms until he almost screamedwith the pain.     The crowd parted, and the guard came through, his red silk clothinggleaming in the sun, his sword bright and deadly. He stopped beforeEric, and the sword swirled up like a saber, ready for a slashing cutdownward across Eric's neck.     A woman's voice, soft and yet authoritative, called, Hold! And amurmur of respect rippled through the crowd.     Nolette! The Daughter of the City comes.     Eric turned his gaze to the side and saw the woman who had spoken. Shewas mounted upon a black horse with a jeweled bridle. She was young andher hair was long and free in the wind. She had ridden so softly acrossthe fur street that no one had been aware of her presence.       She said, Let me touch this man. Let me feel the pulse of his heart sothat I may know if he is truly the Bronze one of the Legend. Give meyour hand, stranger. She leaned down and grasped his hand. Eric shookhis arms free, and reached up and clung to the offered hand, thinking,If I pull her down perhaps I can use her as a shield. He tensed hismuscles and began to pull.     She cried, No! You fool. Come up on the horse, and pulled back withan energy as fierce as his own. Then he had swung up on the horse, andthe animal leaped forward, its muffled gallop beating out a tattoo offreedom.     Eric clung tightly to the girl's waist. He could feel the youngsuppleness of her body, and the fine strands of her hair kept swirlingback into his face. It had a faint perfume, a clean and heady scentthat made him more aware of the touch of her waist. He breathed deeply,oddly happy as they rode.     After five minutes ride they came to a building in the center of thecity. The building was cubical, severe in line and architecture, and itcontrasted oddly with the exquisite ornament of the rest of the city.It was as if it were a monolith from another time, a stranger crouchedamong enemies.     The girl halted before the structure and said, Dismount here, Eric.     Eric swung down, his arms still tingling with pleasure where he hadheld her. She said, Knock three times on the door. I will see youagain inside. And thank your brother for sending me to bring you here.     Eric knocked on the door. The door was as plain as the building, madeof a luminous plastic. It had all the beauty of the great gate door,but a more timeless, more functional beauty.     The door opened and an old man greeted Eric. Come in. The Councilawaits you. Follow me, please.     Eric followed down a hallway and into a large room. The room wasobviously designed for a conference room. A great table stood in theroom, made of the same luminous plastic as the door of the building.Six men sat at this conference table. Eric's guide placed him in achair at the base of the T-shaped table.     There was one vacant seat beside the head of the T, and as Ericwatched, the young woman who had rescued him entered and took her placethere. She smiled at Eric, and the room took on a warmth that it hadlacked with only the older men present. The man at her right, obviouslypresiding here looked at Eric and spoke. I am Kroon, the eldest ofthe elders. We have brought you here to satisfy ourselves of youridentity. In view of your danger in the City you are entitled to somesort of explanation. He glanced around the room and asked, What isthe judgment of the elders?  Eric caught a faint nod here, a gesture there. Kroon nodded as ifin satisfaction. He turned to the girl, And what is your opinion,Daughter of the City?     Nolette's expression held sorrow, as if she looked into the far future.She said, He is Eric the Bronze. I have no doubt.     Eric asked, And what is this Legend of Eric the Bronze? Why am I sodespised in the city?     Kroon answered, According to the Ancient Legend you will destroy thecity. This, and other things.     Eric gaped. No wonder the crowd had shown such hatred. But why werethe elders so friendly? They were obviously the governing body, and ifthere was strife between them and the people it had not shown in therespect the crowd had accorded Nolette.     Kroon said, I see you are puzzled. Let me tell you the story of theCity. The City is old. It dates from long ago when the canals of Marsran clear and green with water, and the deserts were vineyards andgardens. The drouth came, and the changes in climate, and soon itbecame plain that the people of Mars were doomed. They had ships, andcould build more, and gradually they left to colonize other planets.Yet they could take little of their science. And fear and riotsdestroyed much. Also there were those who were filled with love forthis homeland, and who thought that one day it might be habitableagain. All the skill of the ancient Martian fathers went into thebuilding of a giant machine, the machine that is the City, to protect asmall colony of those who were chosen to remain on Mars.     This whole city is a machine! Eric asked.     Yes, or the product of one. The heart of it lies underneath our feet,in caverns beneath this building. The nature of the machine is this,that it translates thought into reality.     Eric stared. The idea was staggering.     This is essentially simple, although the technology is complex. It isnecessary to have a recording device, to capture thought, a transmutingdevice capable of transmuting the red dust of the desert into anysort of material desired, and a construction device, to assemble thismaterial into the pattern already recorded from thought. Kroon paused.You still doubt, my friend. Perhaps you are thirsty after your escape.Think strongly of a tall glass of cold water, visualize it in yourmind, the sight and the fluidity and the touch of it.     Eric did so. Without warning a glass of water stood on the table beforehim. He touched the water to his lips. It was cool and satisfying. Hedrank it, convinced completely.     Eric asked, And I am to destroy the City?     Yes. The time has come.     But why? Eric demanded. For an instant he could see the twinklingbeauty as clearly as if he had stood outside the walls of this building.     Kroon said, There are difficulties. The machine builds according tothe mass will of the people, though it is sensitive to the individualin areas where it does not conflict with the imagination of the mass.We have had strangers, visitors, and even our own people, who grewdrunk with the power of the machine, who dreamed more and more lust andgreed into existence. These were banished from the city, and so strongis the call of the city that many of them became victims of their ownevilness, and now walk mindlessly, with no thought but to seek for thebeauty they have lost here.     Kroon sighed. The people have lost the will to learn. Many do not evenknow of the machine. Our science is almost gone, and only a few of us,the dreamers, the elders, have kept alive the old knowledge of themachine and its history. By the collected powers of our imagination webuild and control the outward appearance of the city.     We have passed this down from father to son. A part of the ancientLegend is that the builders made provisions for the machine to bedestroyed when contact with outsiders had been made once again, so thatour people would again have to struggle forward to knowledge and power.The instrument of destruction was to be a man termed Eric the Bronze.It is not that you are reborn. It is just that sometime such a manwould come.     Eric said, I can understand the Bronze part. They had thought that aspace man might well be sun tanned. They had thought that a science toprotect against this beautiful illusion would provide a metal shieldof some sort, probably copper in nature. That such a man should comeis inevitable. But why Eric. Why the name Eric?     For the first time Nolette spoke. She said quietly, The name Ericwas an honorable name of the ancient fathers. It must have been theirthought that the new beginning should wait for some of their own farflung kind to return.     Eric nodded. He asked, What happens now?     Nothing. Dwell here with us and you will be safe from our people. Ifthe prediction is not soon fulfilled and you are not the Eric of theLegend, you may stay or go as you desire.     My brother, Garve. What about him?     He loves the city. He will also stay, though he will be outside thisbuilding. Kroon clasped his hands. Nolette, will you show Eric hisquarters?  ","The city is located on Mars. It was created a long time ago when Mars was flourishing. When most Martians left the planet because of the drought, a small colony remained in this place. Back then a machine, which is the whole city, was created to protect this small group. The machine translates thought into reality. It was used for the people in the city to receive all the necessary for life. At first, Eric considered it an illusion. The city captures thoughts with the use of a device and Eric's hat was an obstacle. Putting it on and off confused the machine and Eric was able to see the real ugliness of the city. When one gets into the radius of the machine, he is also called by it and can not refuse the city's beauty. When one doesn't look at the beautiful city, a voice still calls him. Many try to make their lustful desires real, they are banished for that and go mad. That's why the machine is not doing only good things anymore and should be destroyed in accordance with the prophecy. There is the council in the center of the city, whose Eldest know all about the origin of the machine. The members of the council, such as the daughter of the city, are respected by all the citizens. "
"What is the setting of the story? </s>    The Beast-Jewel of Mars     By V. E. THIESSEN     The city was strange, fantastic, beautiful.     He'd never been there before, yet already he     was a fabulous legend—a dire, hateful legend.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Spring 1955.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      He lay on his stomach, a lean man in faded one piece dungarees, and anodd metallic hat, peering over the side of the canal. Behind him thelittle winds sifted red dust into his collar, but he could not move; hecould only sit there with his gaze riveted on the spires and minaretsthat twinkled in the distance, far down the bottom of the canal.     One part of his mind said,      This is it, this is the fabled city ofMars. This is the beauty and the fantasy and the music of the legends,and I must go down there.     Yet somewhere deeper in his mind, deep inthe primal urges that kept him from death, the warning was taut andurgent.      Get away. They have a part of your mind now. Get away from thecity before you lose it all. Get away before your body becomes a husk,a soulless husk to walk the low canals with sightless eyes, like thosewho came before you.       He strained to push back from the edge, trying to get that fantasticbeauty out of his sight. He fought the lids of his eyes, fought toclose them while he pushed himself back, but they remained open,staring at the jeweled towers, and borne on the little winds the thinwail of music reached him, saying,      Come into the city, come down intothe fabled city     .     He slid over the edge, sliding down the sloping sides of the canal.The rough sandstone tore at his dungarees, tore at his elbow where ittouched but he did not feel the pain. His face was turned toward thetowers, and the sound of his breathing was less than human.     His feet caught a projecting bit of stone and were slowed for aninstant, so that he turned sideways and rolled on, down into the reddust bottom of the canal, to lie face down in the dust, with the chinstrap of the odd metallic hat cutting cruelly into his chin.     He lay there an instant, knowing that now he had a chance. With hisface down like this, and the dust smarting his eyes the image was gonefor an instant. He had to get away, he knew that. He had to mount thesides of the canal and never look back.     He told himself, I am Eric North, from Earth, the Third Planet of Sol,and this is not real.     He squirmed in the dust, feeling it bite his cheeks; he squirmed untilhe could get up and see nothing but the red sand stone walls of thecanal. He ran at the walls and clawed his way up like an animal in hishaste. He wouldn't look again.     The wind freshened and the tune of the music began to talk to him. Ittold of going barefoot over long streets of fur. It told of jewels, andwine, and women as fair as springtime. These and more were in the city,waiting for him to claim them.     He sobbed, and clawed forward. He stopped to rest, and slowly his headbegan to turn. He turned, and the spires and minarets twinkled at him,beautiful, soothing, stopping the tears that had welled down his cheeks.     When he reached the bottom of the canal he began to run toward the city.     When he came to the city there was a high wall around it, and a heavygate carved with lotus blossoms. He beat against the gate and cried,Oh! Let me in. Let me in to the city! The music was richer now, as ifit were everywhere, and the gate swung open without the faintest sound.     A sentinel stood before the opened gate at the end of a long bluestreet. He was dressed in red silk with his sleeves edged in blueleopard skin, and he wore a belt with a jeweled short sword. He drewthe sword from its scabbard, and bowed forward until the point of thesword touched the street of blue fur. He said, I give you the welcomeof my sword, and the welcome of the city. Speak your name so that itmay be set in the records of the dreamers.     The music sang, and the spires twinkled, and Eric said, I am EricNorth!     The sword point jerked, and the sentinel straightened. His face waswhite. He cried aloud, It is Eric the Bronze. It is Eric of theLegend. He whirled the sword aloft, and smashed it upon Eric's metalhat, and the hatred was a blue flame in his eyes.  When Eric regained consciousness the people of the city were all abouthim. They were very fair, and the women were more beautiful than music.Yet now they stared at him with red hate in their eyes. An older mancame forward and struck at the copper hat with a stick. The clangdeafened Eric and the man cried, You are right. It is Eric the Bronze.Bring the ships and let him be scourged from the city.     The man drew back the stick and struck again, and Eric's back tookfire with the blow. The crowd chanted, Whips, bring the whips, andfear forced Eric to his feet. He fled then, running on the heedlessfeet of panic, outstripping those who were behind him until he passedthrough the great gates into the red dust floor of the canal. The gatesclosed behind him, and the dust beat upon him, and he paused, his hearthammering inside his chest like a great bell clapper. He turned andlooked behind to be sure he was safe.     The towers twinkled at him, and the music whispered to him, Come back,Eric North. Come back to the city.     He turned and stumbled back to the great gate and hammered on it untilhis fists were raw, pleading for it to open and let him back.     And deep inside him some part of his mind said, This is a madness youcannot escape. The city is evil, an evil like you have never known,and a fear as old as time coursed through his frame.     He seized the copper hat from his head, and beat on the lotus carvingsof the great door, crying, Let me in! Please, take me back into thecity.     And as he beat the city changed. It became dull and sordid and evil, acity of disgust, with every part offensive to the eye. The spires andminarets were gargoyles of hatred, twisted and misshapen, and the soundof the city was a macabre song of hate.     He stared, and his back was chill with superstitions as old as thebeginning of man. The city flickered, changing before his eyes until itwas beautiful again.     He stood, amazed, and put the metal hat back on his head. With themotion the shift took place again, and beauty was ugliness. Amazed, hestared at the illusion, and the thought came to him that the metal hathad not entirely failed him after all.     He turned and began to walk away from the city, and when it began tocall he took the hat off his head and found peace for a time. Then whenit began again he replaced the hat, and revulsion sped his footsteps.And so, hat on, hat off, he made his way down the dusty floor of thecanal, and up the rocky sides until he stood on the Martian desert, andthe canal was a thin line behind him. He breathed easily then, for hewas beyond the range of the illusions.     And now that his mind was his own again he began to study the problem,and to understand something of the nature of the forces against whichhe had been pitted.     The helmet contained an electrical circuit, designed as a shieldagainst electrical waves tuned to affect his brain. But the hat hadfailed because the city, whatever it was, had adjusted to this revisedpattern as he had approached it. Hence, the helmet had been no defenseagainst illusion. However, when he had jerked the helmet off suddenlyto beat on the door, his mental pattern had changed, too suddenly, andthe machine caught up only after he had glimpsed another image. Then asthe illusion adjusted replacing the helmet threw it off again.     He grinned wryly. He would have liked to know more about the city,whatever it was. He would have liked to know more about the people hehad seen, whether they were real or part of the illusion, and if theywere as ugly as the second city had been.     Yet the danger was too great. He would go back to his ship and make thearrangements to destroy the city. The ship was armed, and to deliverindirect fire over the edge of the canal would be simple enough. GarveNorth, his brother, waited back at the ship. If he knew of the city hewould have to go there. Eric must not take a chance on that. After theyhad blasted whatever it was that lay in the canal floor, then it wouldbe time enough to tell Garve, and go down to see what was left.     The ship rested easily on the flat sandstone area where he hadestablished base camp. Its familiar lines brought a smile to Eric'sface, a feeling of confidence now that tools and weapons were his again.     He opened the door and entered. The lock doors were left open so thathe could enter directly into the body of the ship. He came in in aswift leap, calling, Garve! Hey, Garve, where are you?     The ship remained mute. He prowled through it, calling, Garve,wondering where the young hothead had gone, and then he saw a noteclipped to the control board of the ship. He tore it loose impatientlyand began to read. Garve had scrawled:     Funny thing, Eric. A while ago I thought I heard music. I walked downto the canal, and it seemed like there were lights, and a town of somesort far down the canal. I wanted to investigate, but thought I'dbetter come back. But the thing has been in my mind for hours now, andI'm going down to see what it is. If you want to follow, come straightdown the canal.     Eric stared at the note, and the line of his jaw was white. ApparentlyGarve had seen the city from farther away, and its effect had not beenso strong. Even so, Garve's natural curiosity had done the rest.     Garve had gone down to the city, and Garve had no shielded hat. Ericselected two high explosive grenades from the ship's arsenal. Theywere small but they packed a lot of power. He had a pistol packedwith smaller pellets of the same explosive, and he had the hat. Thatshould be adequate. He thrust the bronze hat back on his head and beganwalking back to the canal.  The return back to the city would always live in his mind as aphantasmagora, a montage of twisted hate and unseemly beauty. When hecame again to the gate he did not attempt to enter, but circled thewall, hat on, hat off, stiff limbed like a puppet dancing to the sametune over and over again. He found a place where he could scale thewall, and thrust the helmet on his head, and clawed up the misshapenwall. It was all he could do to make himself drop into the ugly city.     He heard a familiar voice as he dropped. Eric, the voice said. Eric,you did come back. The voice was his brother's, and he whirled,seeking the voice. A figure stood before him, a twisted caricature ofhis brother. The figure cried, The hat! You fool, get rid of thathat! The caricature that was his brother seized the hat, and jerkedso hard that the chin strap broke under Eric's chin. The hat was flungaway and sailed high and far over the fence and outside the city.     The phantasm flickered, the illusion moved. Garve was now more handsomethan ever, and the city was a dream of delight. Garve said, Come, andEric followed down a street of blue fur. He had no will to resist.     Garve said, Keep your head down and your face hidden. If we meetsomeone you may not be recognized. They won't be expecting you fromthis side of the city.     Eric asked, You knew I'd come after you?     Yes. The Legend said you'd be back.     Eric stopped and whirled to face his brother. The Legend? Eric theBronze? What is this wild fantasy?     Not so loud! Garve's voice cautioned him. Of course the crowd calledyou that because of the copper hat and your heavy tan. But the Eldersbelieve so too. I don't know what it is, Eric, reincarnation, prophesy,superstition, I only know that when I was with the Elders I believedthem. You are a part of a Legend. You are Eric the Bronze.     Eric looked down at his sun tanned hands and flexed them. He loosenedthe explosive pistol in its holster. At least he was going to be a wellarmed, well prepared Legend. And while one part of his mind marveledat the city and relaxed into a pleasure as deep as a dream, anotherstruggled with the almost forgotten desire to rescue his brother andescape. He asked, Who are the Elders?     We are going to them, to the center of the city. Garve's voicesharpened, Keep your head down. I think the last two men we passed arelooking after us. Don't look back.     After a moment Garve said, I think they are following us. Get readyto run. If we are separated, keep going until you reach City Center.The Elders will be expecting you. Garve glanced back, and his voicesharpened, Now! Run!     They ran. But as they ran figures began to converge upon them. Fartherup the street others appeared, cutting off their flight.     Garve cried, In here, and pulled Eric into a crevice between twobuildings. Eric drew his gun, and savagery began to dance in his eyes.The soft fur muffled sounds of pursuit closed in upon them.     Garve put one hand on Eric's gun hand and said, Wait here. And if youvalue my life, don't use that gun. Then he was gone, running deerlikedown the street.     For an instant Eric thought the ruse had succeeded. He heard cries andtwo men passed him running in pursuit. But then the cry came back. Lethim go. Get the other one. The other one.     Eric was seen an instant later, and the people of the city began toconverge upon him. He could have destroyed them all with his charges inthe gun, but his brother's warning shrieked in his ears, If you valuemy life don't use the gun.     There was nothing he could do. Eric stood quietly until he was takenprisoner. They moved him to the center of the wide fur street. Two menheld his arms, and twisted painfully. The crowd looked at him, coldly,calculatingly. One of them said, Get the whips. If we whip him he willnot come back. The city twinkled, and the music was so faint he couldhardly hear it.     There was only one weapon Eric could use. He had gathered from Garve'swords that these people were superstitious.     He laughed, a great chest-shattering laugh that gusted out into thethin Martian air. He laughed and cried in a great voice, And can youso easily dispose of a Legend? If I am Eric of the Legend, can whipsdefeat the prophesy?     There was an instant when he could have twisted loose. They stood,fear-bound at his words. But there was no place to hide, and withoutthe use of his weapons Eric could not have gone far. He had to bluff itout.  Then one of the men cried, Fools! It is true. We must take no chancewith the whips. He would come back. But if he dies here before us now,then we may forget the prophesy.     The crowd murmured and a second voice cried, Get the sword, get theguards, and kill him at once!     Eric tensed to break away but now it was too late. His captors werealert. They increased the twist on his arms until he almost screamedwith the pain.     The crowd parted, and the guard came through, his red silk clothinggleaming in the sun, his sword bright and deadly. He stopped beforeEric, and the sword swirled up like a saber, ready for a slashing cutdownward across Eric's neck.     A woman's voice, soft and yet authoritative, called, Hold! And amurmur of respect rippled through the crowd.     Nolette! The Daughter of the City comes.     Eric turned his gaze to the side and saw the woman who had spoken. Shewas mounted upon a black horse with a jeweled bridle. She was young andher hair was long and free in the wind. She had ridden so softly acrossthe fur street that no one had been aware of her presence.       She said, Let me touch this man. Let me feel the pulse of his heart sothat I may know if he is truly the Bronze one of the Legend. Give meyour hand, stranger. She leaned down and grasped his hand. Eric shookhis arms free, and reached up and clung to the offered hand, thinking,If I pull her down perhaps I can use her as a shield. He tensed hismuscles and began to pull.     She cried, No! You fool. Come up on the horse, and pulled back withan energy as fierce as his own. Then he had swung up on the horse, andthe animal leaped forward, its muffled gallop beating out a tattoo offreedom.     Eric clung tightly to the girl's waist. He could feel the youngsuppleness of her body, and the fine strands of her hair kept swirlingback into his face. It had a faint perfume, a clean and heady scentthat made him more aware of the touch of her waist. He breathed deeply,oddly happy as they rode.     After five minutes ride they came to a building in the center of thecity. The building was cubical, severe in line and architecture, and itcontrasted oddly with the exquisite ornament of the rest of the city.It was as if it were a monolith from another time, a stranger crouchedamong enemies.     The girl halted before the structure and said, Dismount here, Eric.     Eric swung down, his arms still tingling with pleasure where he hadheld her. She said, Knock three times on the door. I will see youagain inside. And thank your brother for sending me to bring you here.     Eric knocked on the door. The door was as plain as the building, madeof a luminous plastic. It had all the beauty of the great gate door,but a more timeless, more functional beauty.     The door opened and an old man greeted Eric. Come in. The Councilawaits you. Follow me, please.     Eric followed down a hallway and into a large room. The room wasobviously designed for a conference room. A great table stood in theroom, made of the same luminous plastic as the door of the building.Six men sat at this conference table. Eric's guide placed him in achair at the base of the T-shaped table.     There was one vacant seat beside the head of the T, and as Ericwatched, the young woman who had rescued him entered and took her placethere. She smiled at Eric, and the room took on a warmth that it hadlacked with only the older men present. The man at her right, obviouslypresiding here looked at Eric and spoke. I am Kroon, the eldest ofthe elders. We have brought you here to satisfy ourselves of youridentity. In view of your danger in the City you are entitled to somesort of explanation. He glanced around the room and asked, What isthe judgment of the elders?  Eric caught a faint nod here, a gesture there. Kroon nodded as ifin satisfaction. He turned to the girl, And what is your opinion,Daughter of the City?     Nolette's expression held sorrow, as if she looked into the far future.She said, He is Eric the Bronze. I have no doubt.     Eric asked, And what is this Legend of Eric the Bronze? Why am I sodespised in the city?     Kroon answered, According to the Ancient Legend you will destroy thecity. This, and other things.     Eric gaped. No wonder the crowd had shown such hatred. But why werethe elders so friendly? They were obviously the governing body, and ifthere was strife between them and the people it had not shown in therespect the crowd had accorded Nolette.     Kroon said, I see you are puzzled. Let me tell you the story of theCity. The City is old. It dates from long ago when the canals of Marsran clear and green with water, and the deserts were vineyards andgardens. The drouth came, and the changes in climate, and soon itbecame plain that the people of Mars were doomed. They had ships, andcould build more, and gradually they left to colonize other planets.Yet they could take little of their science. And fear and riotsdestroyed much. Also there were those who were filled with love forthis homeland, and who thought that one day it might be habitableagain. All the skill of the ancient Martian fathers went into thebuilding of a giant machine, the machine that is the City, to protect asmall colony of those who were chosen to remain on Mars.     This whole city is a machine! Eric asked.     Yes, or the product of one. The heart of it lies underneath our feet,in caverns beneath this building. The nature of the machine is this,that it translates thought into reality.     Eric stared. The idea was staggering.     This is essentially simple, although the technology is complex. It isnecessary to have a recording device, to capture thought, a transmutingdevice capable of transmuting the red dust of the desert into anysort of material desired, and a construction device, to assemble thismaterial into the pattern already recorded from thought. Kroon paused.You still doubt, my friend. Perhaps you are thirsty after your escape.Think strongly of a tall glass of cold water, visualize it in yourmind, the sight and the fluidity and the touch of it.     Eric did so. Without warning a glass of water stood on the table beforehim. He touched the water to his lips. It was cool and satisfying. Hedrank it, convinced completely.     Eric asked, And I am to destroy the City?     Yes. The time has come.     But why? Eric demanded. For an instant he could see the twinklingbeauty as clearly as if he had stood outside the walls of this building.     Kroon said, There are difficulties. The machine builds according tothe mass will of the people, though it is sensitive to the individualin areas where it does not conflict with the imagination of the mass.We have had strangers, visitors, and even our own people, who grewdrunk with the power of the machine, who dreamed more and more lust andgreed into existence. These were banished from the city, and so strongis the call of the city that many of them became victims of their ownevilness, and now walk mindlessly, with no thought but to seek for thebeauty they have lost here.     Kroon sighed. The people have lost the will to learn. Many do not evenknow of the machine. Our science is almost gone, and only a few of us,the dreamers, the elders, have kept alive the old knowledge of themachine and its history. By the collected powers of our imagination webuild and control the outward appearance of the city.     We have passed this down from father to son. A part of the ancientLegend is that the builders made provisions for the machine to bedestroyed when contact with outsiders had been made once again, so thatour people would again have to struggle forward to knowledge and power.The instrument of destruction was to be a man termed Eric the Bronze.It is not that you are reborn. It is just that sometime such a manwould come.     Eric said, I can understand the Bronze part. They had thought that aspace man might well be sun tanned. They had thought that a science toprotect against this beautiful illusion would provide a metal shieldof some sort, probably copper in nature. That such a man should comeis inevitable. But why Eric. Why the name Eric?     For the first time Nolette spoke. She said quietly, The name Ericwas an honorable name of the ancient fathers. It must have been theirthought that the new beginning should wait for some of their own farflung kind to return.     Eric nodded. He asked, What happens now?     Nothing. Dwell here with us and you will be safe from our people. Ifthe prediction is not soon fulfilled and you are not the Eric of theLegend, you may stay or go as you desire.     My brother, Garve. What about him?     He loves the city. He will also stay, though he will be outside thisbuilding. Kroon clasped his hands. Nolette, will you show Eric hisquarters?  ","The story begins in in the desert on Mars, on the edge of a canal. In the bottom of the canal there is a fabulous city with the spires and minarets. Following the main character, the setting moves closer to the city, all the way through red dust everywhere around. The city is surrounded with a high wall and a heavy gate carved with lotus blossoms. Inside the gate there is a sentinel with a sword and a crowd surrounds the character soon. He then escapes to the desert with its dust again and suddenly sees the city in an ugly way, the whole setting becomes disgusting and sordid. It keeps changing from beautiful to ugliness then while Eric goes away up the rocky sides of the canal to the desert. From there he moves to the ship. The ship is familiar to the character, though it's unlocked and empty. Eric returns to the city and starts going around the wall. Together with his brother he enters the city and heads to its center, the city seems beautiful and ugly at the same time while the helmet is still on Eric. Without it the city is more beautiful than ever. He follows his brother down a street of blue fur, then they ran from persecutors and Eric hid in a crevice between two buildings. from there some people captured Eric and moved to the center of the street.Then, Eric is saved by a girl and escapes on a horse. The setting moves to the door of the house of the Council and Eric enters. He goes into a large conference room through the hallway. There is a great T-table with six people sitting. "
"What is the significance of Garve leaving the ship and following the call of the city? </s>    The Beast-Jewel of Mars     By V. E. THIESSEN     The city was strange, fantastic, beautiful.     He'd never been there before, yet already he     was a fabulous legend—a dire, hateful legend.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Spring 1955.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      He lay on his stomach, a lean man in faded one piece dungarees, and anodd metallic hat, peering over the side of the canal. Behind him thelittle winds sifted red dust into his collar, but he could not move; hecould only sit there with his gaze riveted on the spires and minaretsthat twinkled in the distance, far down the bottom of the canal.     One part of his mind said,      This is it, this is the fabled city ofMars. This is the beauty and the fantasy and the music of the legends,and I must go down there.     Yet somewhere deeper in his mind, deep inthe primal urges that kept him from death, the warning was taut andurgent.      Get away. They have a part of your mind now. Get away from thecity before you lose it all. Get away before your body becomes a husk,a soulless husk to walk the low canals with sightless eyes, like thosewho came before you.       He strained to push back from the edge, trying to get that fantasticbeauty out of his sight. He fought the lids of his eyes, fought toclose them while he pushed himself back, but they remained open,staring at the jeweled towers, and borne on the little winds the thinwail of music reached him, saying,      Come into the city, come down intothe fabled city     .     He slid over the edge, sliding down the sloping sides of the canal.The rough sandstone tore at his dungarees, tore at his elbow where ittouched but he did not feel the pain. His face was turned toward thetowers, and the sound of his breathing was less than human.     His feet caught a projecting bit of stone and were slowed for aninstant, so that he turned sideways and rolled on, down into the reddust bottom of the canal, to lie face down in the dust, with the chinstrap of the odd metallic hat cutting cruelly into his chin.     He lay there an instant, knowing that now he had a chance. With hisface down like this, and the dust smarting his eyes the image was gonefor an instant. He had to get away, he knew that. He had to mount thesides of the canal and never look back.     He told himself, I am Eric North, from Earth, the Third Planet of Sol,and this is not real.     He squirmed in the dust, feeling it bite his cheeks; he squirmed untilhe could get up and see nothing but the red sand stone walls of thecanal. He ran at the walls and clawed his way up like an animal in hishaste. He wouldn't look again.     The wind freshened and the tune of the music began to talk to him. Ittold of going barefoot over long streets of fur. It told of jewels, andwine, and women as fair as springtime. These and more were in the city,waiting for him to claim them.     He sobbed, and clawed forward. He stopped to rest, and slowly his headbegan to turn. He turned, and the spires and minarets twinkled at him,beautiful, soothing, stopping the tears that had welled down his cheeks.     When he reached the bottom of the canal he began to run toward the city.     When he came to the city there was a high wall around it, and a heavygate carved with lotus blossoms. He beat against the gate and cried,Oh! Let me in. Let me in to the city! The music was richer now, as ifit were everywhere, and the gate swung open without the faintest sound.     A sentinel stood before the opened gate at the end of a long bluestreet. He was dressed in red silk with his sleeves edged in blueleopard skin, and he wore a belt with a jeweled short sword. He drewthe sword from its scabbard, and bowed forward until the point of thesword touched the street of blue fur. He said, I give you the welcomeof my sword, and the welcome of the city. Speak your name so that itmay be set in the records of the dreamers.     The music sang, and the spires twinkled, and Eric said, I am EricNorth!     The sword point jerked, and the sentinel straightened. His face waswhite. He cried aloud, It is Eric the Bronze. It is Eric of theLegend. He whirled the sword aloft, and smashed it upon Eric's metalhat, and the hatred was a blue flame in his eyes.  When Eric regained consciousness the people of the city were all abouthim. They were very fair, and the women were more beautiful than music.Yet now they stared at him with red hate in their eyes. An older mancame forward and struck at the copper hat with a stick. The clangdeafened Eric and the man cried, You are right. It is Eric the Bronze.Bring the ships and let him be scourged from the city.     The man drew back the stick and struck again, and Eric's back tookfire with the blow. The crowd chanted, Whips, bring the whips, andfear forced Eric to his feet. He fled then, running on the heedlessfeet of panic, outstripping those who were behind him until he passedthrough the great gates into the red dust floor of the canal. The gatesclosed behind him, and the dust beat upon him, and he paused, his hearthammering inside his chest like a great bell clapper. He turned andlooked behind to be sure he was safe.     The towers twinkled at him, and the music whispered to him, Come back,Eric North. Come back to the city.     He turned and stumbled back to the great gate and hammered on it untilhis fists were raw, pleading for it to open and let him back.     And deep inside him some part of his mind said, This is a madness youcannot escape. The city is evil, an evil like you have never known,and a fear as old as time coursed through his frame.     He seized the copper hat from his head, and beat on the lotus carvingsof the great door, crying, Let me in! Please, take me back into thecity.     And as he beat the city changed. It became dull and sordid and evil, acity of disgust, with every part offensive to the eye. The spires andminarets were gargoyles of hatred, twisted and misshapen, and the soundof the city was a macabre song of hate.     He stared, and his back was chill with superstitions as old as thebeginning of man. The city flickered, changing before his eyes until itwas beautiful again.     He stood, amazed, and put the metal hat back on his head. With themotion the shift took place again, and beauty was ugliness. Amazed, hestared at the illusion, and the thought came to him that the metal hathad not entirely failed him after all.     He turned and began to walk away from the city, and when it began tocall he took the hat off his head and found peace for a time. Then whenit began again he replaced the hat, and revulsion sped his footsteps.And so, hat on, hat off, he made his way down the dusty floor of thecanal, and up the rocky sides until he stood on the Martian desert, andthe canal was a thin line behind him. He breathed easily then, for hewas beyond the range of the illusions.     And now that his mind was his own again he began to study the problem,and to understand something of the nature of the forces against whichhe had been pitted.     The helmet contained an electrical circuit, designed as a shieldagainst electrical waves tuned to affect his brain. But the hat hadfailed because the city, whatever it was, had adjusted to this revisedpattern as he had approached it. Hence, the helmet had been no defenseagainst illusion. However, when he had jerked the helmet off suddenlyto beat on the door, his mental pattern had changed, too suddenly, andthe machine caught up only after he had glimpsed another image. Then asthe illusion adjusted replacing the helmet threw it off again.     He grinned wryly. He would have liked to know more about the city,whatever it was. He would have liked to know more about the people hehad seen, whether they were real or part of the illusion, and if theywere as ugly as the second city had been.     Yet the danger was too great. He would go back to his ship and make thearrangements to destroy the city. The ship was armed, and to deliverindirect fire over the edge of the canal would be simple enough. GarveNorth, his brother, waited back at the ship. If he knew of the city hewould have to go there. Eric must not take a chance on that. After theyhad blasted whatever it was that lay in the canal floor, then it wouldbe time enough to tell Garve, and go down to see what was left.     The ship rested easily on the flat sandstone area where he hadestablished base camp. Its familiar lines brought a smile to Eric'sface, a feeling of confidence now that tools and weapons were his again.     He opened the door and entered. The lock doors were left open so thathe could enter directly into the body of the ship. He came in in aswift leap, calling, Garve! Hey, Garve, where are you?     The ship remained mute. He prowled through it, calling, Garve,wondering where the young hothead had gone, and then he saw a noteclipped to the control board of the ship. He tore it loose impatientlyand began to read. Garve had scrawled:     Funny thing, Eric. A while ago I thought I heard music. I walked downto the canal, and it seemed like there were lights, and a town of somesort far down the canal. I wanted to investigate, but thought I'dbetter come back. But the thing has been in my mind for hours now, andI'm going down to see what it is. If you want to follow, come straightdown the canal.     Eric stared at the note, and the line of his jaw was white. ApparentlyGarve had seen the city from farther away, and its effect had not beenso strong. Even so, Garve's natural curiosity had done the rest.     Garve had gone down to the city, and Garve had no shielded hat. Ericselected two high explosive grenades from the ship's arsenal. Theywere small but they packed a lot of power. He had a pistol packedwith smaller pellets of the same explosive, and he had the hat. Thatshould be adequate. He thrust the bronze hat back on his head and beganwalking back to the canal.  The return back to the city would always live in his mind as aphantasmagora, a montage of twisted hate and unseemly beauty. When hecame again to the gate he did not attempt to enter, but circled thewall, hat on, hat off, stiff limbed like a puppet dancing to the sametune over and over again. He found a place where he could scale thewall, and thrust the helmet on his head, and clawed up the misshapenwall. It was all he could do to make himself drop into the ugly city.     He heard a familiar voice as he dropped. Eric, the voice said. Eric,you did come back. The voice was his brother's, and he whirled,seeking the voice. A figure stood before him, a twisted caricature ofhis brother. The figure cried, The hat! You fool, get rid of thathat! The caricature that was his brother seized the hat, and jerkedso hard that the chin strap broke under Eric's chin. The hat was flungaway and sailed high and far over the fence and outside the city.     The phantasm flickered, the illusion moved. Garve was now more handsomethan ever, and the city was a dream of delight. Garve said, Come, andEric followed down a street of blue fur. He had no will to resist.     Garve said, Keep your head down and your face hidden. If we meetsomeone you may not be recognized. They won't be expecting you fromthis side of the city.     Eric asked, You knew I'd come after you?     Yes. The Legend said you'd be back.     Eric stopped and whirled to face his brother. The Legend? Eric theBronze? What is this wild fantasy?     Not so loud! Garve's voice cautioned him. Of course the crowd calledyou that because of the copper hat and your heavy tan. But the Eldersbelieve so too. I don't know what it is, Eric, reincarnation, prophesy,superstition, I only know that when I was with the Elders I believedthem. You are a part of a Legend. You are Eric the Bronze.     Eric looked down at his sun tanned hands and flexed them. He loosenedthe explosive pistol in its holster. At least he was going to be a wellarmed, well prepared Legend. And while one part of his mind marveledat the city and relaxed into a pleasure as deep as a dream, anotherstruggled with the almost forgotten desire to rescue his brother andescape. He asked, Who are the Elders?     We are going to them, to the center of the city. Garve's voicesharpened, Keep your head down. I think the last two men we passed arelooking after us. Don't look back.     After a moment Garve said, I think they are following us. Get readyto run. If we are separated, keep going until you reach City Center.The Elders will be expecting you. Garve glanced back, and his voicesharpened, Now! Run!     They ran. But as they ran figures began to converge upon them. Fartherup the street others appeared, cutting off their flight.     Garve cried, In here, and pulled Eric into a crevice between twobuildings. Eric drew his gun, and savagery began to dance in his eyes.The soft fur muffled sounds of pursuit closed in upon them.     Garve put one hand on Eric's gun hand and said, Wait here. And if youvalue my life, don't use that gun. Then he was gone, running deerlikedown the street.     For an instant Eric thought the ruse had succeeded. He heard cries andtwo men passed him running in pursuit. But then the cry came back. Lethim go. Get the other one. The other one.     Eric was seen an instant later, and the people of the city began toconverge upon him. He could have destroyed them all with his charges inthe gun, but his brother's warning shrieked in his ears, If you valuemy life don't use the gun.     There was nothing he could do. Eric stood quietly until he was takenprisoner. They moved him to the center of the wide fur street. Two menheld his arms, and twisted painfully. The crowd looked at him, coldly,calculatingly. One of them said, Get the whips. If we whip him he willnot come back. The city twinkled, and the music was so faint he couldhardly hear it.     There was only one weapon Eric could use. He had gathered from Garve'swords that these people were superstitious.     He laughed, a great chest-shattering laugh that gusted out into thethin Martian air. He laughed and cried in a great voice, And can youso easily dispose of a Legend? If I am Eric of the Legend, can whipsdefeat the prophesy?     There was an instant when he could have twisted loose. They stood,fear-bound at his words. But there was no place to hide, and withoutthe use of his weapons Eric could not have gone far. He had to bluff itout.  Then one of the men cried, Fools! It is true. We must take no chancewith the whips. He would come back. But if he dies here before us now,then we may forget the prophesy.     The crowd murmured and a second voice cried, Get the sword, get theguards, and kill him at once!     Eric tensed to break away but now it was too late. His captors werealert. They increased the twist on his arms until he almost screamedwith the pain.     The crowd parted, and the guard came through, his red silk clothinggleaming in the sun, his sword bright and deadly. He stopped beforeEric, and the sword swirled up like a saber, ready for a slashing cutdownward across Eric's neck.     A woman's voice, soft and yet authoritative, called, Hold! And amurmur of respect rippled through the crowd.     Nolette! The Daughter of the City comes.     Eric turned his gaze to the side and saw the woman who had spoken. Shewas mounted upon a black horse with a jeweled bridle. She was young andher hair was long and free in the wind. She had ridden so softly acrossthe fur street that no one had been aware of her presence.       She said, Let me touch this man. Let me feel the pulse of his heart sothat I may know if he is truly the Bronze one of the Legend. Give meyour hand, stranger. She leaned down and grasped his hand. Eric shookhis arms free, and reached up and clung to the offered hand, thinking,If I pull her down perhaps I can use her as a shield. He tensed hismuscles and began to pull.     She cried, No! You fool. Come up on the horse, and pulled back withan energy as fierce as his own. Then he had swung up on the horse, andthe animal leaped forward, its muffled gallop beating out a tattoo offreedom.     Eric clung tightly to the girl's waist. He could feel the youngsuppleness of her body, and the fine strands of her hair kept swirlingback into his face. It had a faint perfume, a clean and heady scentthat made him more aware of the touch of her waist. He breathed deeply,oddly happy as they rode.     After five minutes ride they came to a building in the center of thecity. The building was cubical, severe in line and architecture, and itcontrasted oddly with the exquisite ornament of the rest of the city.It was as if it were a monolith from another time, a stranger crouchedamong enemies.     The girl halted before the structure and said, Dismount here, Eric.     Eric swung down, his arms still tingling with pleasure where he hadheld her. She said, Knock three times on the door. I will see youagain inside. And thank your brother for sending me to bring you here.     Eric knocked on the door. The door was as plain as the building, madeof a luminous plastic. It had all the beauty of the great gate door,but a more timeless, more functional beauty.     The door opened and an old man greeted Eric. Come in. The Councilawaits you. Follow me, please.     Eric followed down a hallway and into a large room. The room wasobviously designed for a conference room. A great table stood in theroom, made of the same luminous plastic as the door of the building.Six men sat at this conference table. Eric's guide placed him in achair at the base of the T-shaped table.     There was one vacant seat beside the head of the T, and as Ericwatched, the young woman who had rescued him entered and took her placethere. She smiled at Eric, and the room took on a warmth that it hadlacked with only the older men present. The man at her right, obviouslypresiding here looked at Eric and spoke. I am Kroon, the eldest ofthe elders. We have brought you here to satisfy ourselves of youridentity. In view of your danger in the City you are entitled to somesort of explanation. He glanced around the room and asked, What isthe judgment of the elders?  Eric caught a faint nod here, a gesture there. Kroon nodded as ifin satisfaction. He turned to the girl, And what is your opinion,Daughter of the City?     Nolette's expression held sorrow, as if she looked into the far future.She said, He is Eric the Bronze. I have no doubt.     Eric asked, And what is this Legend of Eric the Bronze? Why am I sodespised in the city?     Kroon answered, According to the Ancient Legend you will destroy thecity. This, and other things.     Eric gaped. No wonder the crowd had shown such hatred. But why werethe elders so friendly? They were obviously the governing body, and ifthere was strife between them and the people it had not shown in therespect the crowd had accorded Nolette.     Kroon said, I see you are puzzled. Let me tell you the story of theCity. The City is old. It dates from long ago when the canals of Marsran clear and green with water, and the deserts were vineyards andgardens. The drouth came, and the changes in climate, and soon itbecame plain that the people of Mars were doomed. They had ships, andcould build more, and gradually they left to colonize other planets.Yet they could take little of their science. And fear and riotsdestroyed much. Also there were those who were filled with love forthis homeland, and who thought that one day it might be habitableagain. All the skill of the ancient Martian fathers went into thebuilding of a giant machine, the machine that is the City, to protect asmall colony of those who were chosen to remain on Mars.     This whole city is a machine! Eric asked.     Yes, or the product of one. The heart of it lies underneath our feet,in caverns beneath this building. The nature of the machine is this,that it translates thought into reality.     Eric stared. The idea was staggering.     This is essentially simple, although the technology is complex. It isnecessary to have a recording device, to capture thought, a transmutingdevice capable of transmuting the red dust of the desert into anysort of material desired, and a construction device, to assemble thismaterial into the pattern already recorded from thought. Kroon paused.You still doubt, my friend. Perhaps you are thirsty after your escape.Think strongly of a tall glass of cold water, visualize it in yourmind, the sight and the fluidity and the touch of it.     Eric did so. Without warning a glass of water stood on the table beforehim. He touched the water to his lips. It was cool and satisfying. Hedrank it, convinced completely.     Eric asked, And I am to destroy the City?     Yes. The time has come.     But why? Eric demanded. For an instant he could see the twinklingbeauty as clearly as if he had stood outside the walls of this building.     Kroon said, There are difficulties. The machine builds according tothe mass will of the people, though it is sensitive to the individualin areas where it does not conflict with the imagination of the mass.We have had strangers, visitors, and even our own people, who grewdrunk with the power of the machine, who dreamed more and more lust andgreed into existence. These were banished from the city, and so strongis the call of the city that many of them became victims of their ownevilness, and now walk mindlessly, with no thought but to seek for thebeauty they have lost here.     Kroon sighed. The people have lost the will to learn. Many do not evenknow of the machine. Our science is almost gone, and only a few of us,the dreamers, the elders, have kept alive the old knowledge of themachine and its history. By the collected powers of our imagination webuild and control the outward appearance of the city.     We have passed this down from father to son. A part of the ancientLegend is that the builders made provisions for the machine to bedestroyed when contact with outsiders had been made once again, so thatour people would again have to struggle forward to knowledge and power.The instrument of destruction was to be a man termed Eric the Bronze.It is not that you are reborn. It is just that sometime such a manwould come.     Eric said, I can understand the Bronze part. They had thought that aspace man might well be sun tanned. They had thought that a science toprotect against this beautiful illusion would provide a metal shieldof some sort, probably copper in nature. That such a man should comeis inevitable. But why Eric. Why the name Eric?     For the first time Nolette spoke. She said quietly, The name Ericwas an honorable name of the ancient fathers. It must have been theirthought that the new beginning should wait for some of their own farflung kind to return.     Eric nodded. He asked, What happens now?     Nothing. Dwell here with us and you will be safe from our people. Ifthe prediction is not soon fulfilled and you are not the Eric of theLegend, you may stay or go as you desire.     My brother, Garve. What about him?     He loves the city. He will also stay, though he will be outside thisbuilding. Kroon clasped his hands. Nolette, will you show Eric hisquarters?  ","Eric is determined to destroy the city without exploring it, no matter how tempting it is. But Garve's note forces the eldest brother to follow and help his brother out. The whole course of events changes and Eric has to return to the city, which he left with such an effort. This leads to Eric being endangered, captured and almost killed. From another point, it leads to Eric learning more about the city and they legend. If he destroyed the city as he wanted to, he would fulfill the prophecy without knowing. He would have considered the whole city an illusion without knowing it was a machine initially created for a good purpose. His return to the city also leads to his encounter with the beautiful girl, whose presence makes Eric happy. "
"What is the plot of the story? </s>     PRISON PLANET     By BOB TUCKER     To remain on Mars meant death from agonizing     space-sickness, but Earth-surgery lay     days of flight away. And there was only     a surface rocket in which to escape—with     a traitorous Ganymedean for its pilot.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Fall 1942.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Listen, Rat! Roberds said, what      I     say goes around here. It doesn'thappen to be any of your business. I'm still in possession of my wits,and I know Peterson can't handle that ship. Furthermore Gladney willbe in it too, right along side of that sick girl in there! And Rat,get this:      I'm     going to pilot that ship. Understand? Consulate orno Consulate, job or no job, I'm wheeling that crate to Earth becausethis is an emergency. And the emergency happens to be bigger than myposition, to me at any rate. His tone dropped to a deadly softness.Now will you kindly remove your stinking carcass from this office?     Unheeding, Rat swung his eyes around in the gloom and discovered thewoman, a nurse in uniform. He blinked at her and she returned the look,wavering. She bit her lip and determination flowed back. She met thestare of his boring, off-colored eyes. Rat grinned suddenly. Nurse Grayalmost smiled back, stopped before the others could see it.     Won't go! The Centaurian resumed his fight. You not go, lose job,black-listed. Never get another. Look at me. I know. He retreateda precious step to escape a rolled up fist. Little ship carry fournice. Rip out lockers and bunks. Swing hammocks. Put fuel in watertanks. Live on concentrates. Earth hospital fix bellyache afterwards,allright. I pilot ship. Yes?     No! Roberds screamed.     Almost in answer, a moan issued from a small side room. The men in theoffice froze as Nurse Gray ran across the room. She disappeared throughthe narrow door.     Peterson, the field manager ordered, come over here and help methrow this rat out.... He went for Rat. Peterson swung up out of hischair with balled fist. The outlander backed rapidly.     No need, no need, no need! he said quickly. I go. Still backing, heblindly kicked at the door and stepped into the night.  When the door slammed shut Roberds locked it. Peterson slumped in thechair.     Do you mean that, Chief? About taking the ship yourself?     True enough. Roberds cast an anxious glance at the partly closeddoor, lowered his voice. It'll cost me my job, but that girl in therehas to be taken to a hospital quickly! And it's her luck to be landedon a planet that doesn't boast even one! So it's Earth ... or shedies. I'd feel a lot better too if we could get Gladney to a hospital,I'm not too confident of that patching job. He pulled a pipe from ajacket pocket. So, might as well kill two birds with one stone ... andthat wasn't meant to be funny!     Peterson said nothing, sat watching the door.     Rat has the right idea, Roberds continued, but I had already thoughtof it. About the bunks and lockers. Greaseball has been out there allnight tearing them out. We just      might     be able to hop by dawn ... andhell of a long, grinding hop it will be!     The nurse came out of the door.     How is she? Roberds asked.     Sleeping, Gray whispered. But sinking....     We can take off at dawn, I think. He filled the pipe and didn't lookat her. You'll have to spend most of the trip in a hammock.     I can take it. Suddenly she smiled, wanly. I was with the Fleet. Howlong will it take?     Eight days, in      that     ship.     Roberds lit his pipe, and carefully hid his emotions. He knew Petersonwas harboring the same thoughts. Eight days in space, in a small shipmeant for two, and built for planetary surface flights. Eight days inthat untrustworthy crate, hurtling to save the lives of that girl andGladney.     Who was that ... man? The one you put out? Gray asked.     We call him Rat, Roberds said.     She didn't ask why. She said: Why couldn't he pilot the ship, I mean?What is his record?     Peterson opened his mouth.     Shut up, Peterson! the Chief snapped. We don't talk about his recordaround here, Miss Gray. It's not a pretty thing to tell.     Stow it, Chief, said Peterson. Miss Gray is no pantywaist. Heturned to the nurse. Ever hear of the Sansan massacre?     Patti Gray paled. Yes, she whispered. Was Rat in that?     Roberds shook his head. He didn't take part in it. But Rat wasattached to a very important office at the time, the outpost watch.And when Mad Barry Sansan and his gang of thugs swooped down on theGanymedean colony, there was no warning. Our friend Rat was AWOL.     As to who he is ... well, just one of those freaks from up aroundCentauria somewhere. He's been hanging around all the fields and dumpson Mars a long time, finally landed up here.     But, protested Miss Gray, I don't understand? I always thought thatleaving one's post under such circumstances meant execution.     The Chief Consul nodded. It does, usually. But this was a freak case.It would take hours to explain. However, I'll just sum it up in oneword: politics. Politics, with which Rat had no connection saved him.     The girl shook her head, more in sympathy than condemnation.     Are you expecting the others in soon? she asked. It wouldn't beright to leave Peterson.     They will be in, in a day or two. Peterson will beat it over to Basestation for repairs, and to notify Earth we're coming. He'll be allright.     Abruptly she stood up. Goodnight gentlemen. Call me if I'm needed.     Roberds nodded acknowledgement. The door to the side room closed behindher. Peterson hauled his chair over to the desk. He sniffed the air.     Damned rat! he whispered harshly. They ought to make a law forcinghim to wear dark glasses!     Roberds smiled wearily. His eyes do get a man, don't they?     I'd like to burn 'em out! Peterson snarled.  Rat helped Greaseball fill the water tanks to capacity with fuel,checked the concentrated rations and grunted.     Greaseball looked over the interior and chuckled. The boss said stripher, and strip her I did. All right, Rat, outside. He followed theCentaurian out, and pulled the ladder away from the lip of the lock.The two walked across the strip of sandy soil to the office building.On tiptoes, Greaseball poked his head through the door panel. All set.     Roberds nodded at him. Stick with it! and jerked a thumb at Ratoutside. Grease nodded understanding.     Okay, Rat, you can go to bed now. He dropped the ladder against thewall and sat on it. Good night. He watched Rat walk slowly away.     Swinging down the path towards his own rambling shack, Rat caught asibilant whisper. Pausing, undecided, he heard it again.     Here ... can you see me? A white clad arm waved in the gloom. Ratregarded the arm in the window. Another impatient gesture, and hestepped to the sill.     Yes?—in the softest of whispers. The voices of the men in droningconversation drifted in. What you want?     Nothing but silence for a few hanging seconds, and then: Can you pilotthat ship? Her voice was shaky.     He didn't answer, stared at her confused. He felt her fear as clearlyas he detected it in her words.     Well,      can     you? she demanded.     Damn yes! he stated simply. It now necessary?     Very! She is becoming worse. I'm afraid to wait until daylight.And ... well, we want      you     to pilot it! She refuses to riskMr. Roberds' job. She favors you.     Rat stepped back, astonished. She?     Nurse Gray moved from the window and Rat saw the second form in theroom, a slight, quiet figure on a small cot. My patient, Nurse Grayexplained. She overheard our conversation awhile ago. Quick, please,can you?     Rat looked at her and then at the girl on the cot. He vanished from thewindow. Almost immediately, he was back again.     When? he whispered.     As soon as possible. Yes. Do you know...? but he had gone again.Nurse Gray found herself addressing blackness. On the point of turning,she saw him back again.     Blankets, he instructed. Wrap in blankets. Cold—hot too. Wrapgood! And he was gone again. Gray blinked away the illusion hedisappeared upwards.     She ran over to the girl. Judith, if you want to back down, now is thetime. He'll be back in a moment.     No! Judith moaned. No! Gray smiled in the darkness and beganwrapping the blankets around her. A light tapping at the windowannounced the return of Rat. The nurse pushed open the window wide, sawhim out there with arms upstretched.     Grit your teeth and hold on! Here we go. She picked up the blanketedgirl in both arms and walked to the window. Rat took the girl easily asshe was swung out, the blackness hid them both. But he appeared againinstantly.     Better lock window, he cautioned. Stall, if Boss call. Backsoon.... and he was gone.     To Nurse Gray the fifteen minute wait seemed like hours, impatientagonizing hours of tight-lipped anxiety.  Feet first, she swung through the window, clutching a small bag in herhands. She never touched ground. Rat whispered Hold tight! in herear and the wind was abruptly yanked from her! The ground fell awayin a dizzy rush, unseen but felt, in the night! Her feet scraped onsome projection, and she felt herself being lifted still higher. Windreturned to her throat, and she breathed again.     I'm sorry, she managed to get out, gaspingly. I wasn't expectingthat. I had forgotten you—     —had wings, he finished and chuckled. So likewise Greaseball. Thepale office lights dropped away as they sped over the field. On the farhorizon, a tinge of dawn crept along the uneven terrain.     Oh, the bag! she gasped. I've dropped it.     He chuckled again. Have got. You scare, I catch.     She didn't see the ship because of the wind in her eyes, but withoutwarning she plummeted down and her feet jarred on the lip of the lock.Inside. No noise, no light. Easy. But in spite of his warning shetripped in the darkness. He helped her from the floor and guided her tothe hammocks.     Judith? she asked.     Here. Beside you, trussed up so tight I can hardly breathe.     No talk! Rat insisted. Much hush-hush needed. Other girl shipshape.You make likewise. Forcibly he shoved her into a hammock. Wrap uptight. Straps tight. When we go, we go fast. Bang! And he left her.     Hey! Where are you going now?     To get Gladney. He sick too. Hush hush! His voice floated back.     Where has he gone? Judith called.     Back for another man. Remember the two miners who found us when wecrashed? The burly one fell off a rock-bank as they were bringing usin. Stove in his ribs pretty badly. The other has a broken arm ...happened once while you were out. They wouldn't let me say anything forfear of worrying you.  The girl did not answer then and a hushed expectancy fell over theship. Somewhere aft a small motor was running. Wind whistled past theopen lock.     I've caused plenty of trouble haven't I? she asked aloud, finally.This was certainly a fool stunt, and I'm guilty of a lot of foolstunts! I just didn't realize until now the      why     of that law.     Don't talk so much, the nurse admonished. A lot of people have foundout the      why     of that law the hard way, just as you are doing, andlived to remember it. Until hospitals are built on this forlorn world,humans like you who haven't been properly conditioned will have to stayright at home.     How about these men that live and work here?     They never get here until they've been through the mill first.Adenoids, appendix', all the extra parts they can get along without.     Well, Judith said. I've certainly learned my lesson!     Gray didn't answer, but from out of the darkness surrounding her came asound remarkably resembling a snort.     Gray? Judith asked fearfully.     Yes?     Hasn't the pilot been gone an awfully long time?     Rat himself provided the answer by alighting at the lip with a jar thatshook the ship. He was breathing heavily and lugging something in hisarms. The burden groaned.     Gladney! Nurse Gray exclaimed.     I got. Rat confirmed. Yes, Gladney. Damn heavy, Gladney.     But how? she demanded. What of Roberds and Peterson?     Trick, he sniggered. I burn down my shack. Boss run out. I run in.Very simple. He packed Gladney into the remaining hammock and snappedbuckles.     And Peterson? she prompted.     Oh yes. Peterson. So sorry about Peterson. Had to fan him.           Fan     him? I don't understand.     Fan. With chair. Everything all right. I apologized. Rat finished upand was walking back to the lock. They heard a slight rustling of wingsas he padded away.     He was back instantly, duplicating his feat of a short time ago.Cursing shouts were slung on the night air, and the deadly spang ofbullets bounced on the hull! Some entered the lock. The Centauriansnapped it shut. Chunks of lead continued to pound the ship. Rat leapedfor the pilot's chair, heavily, a wing drooping.     You've been hurt! Gray cried. A small panel light outlined hisfeatures. She tried to struggle up.     Lie still! We go. Boss get wise. With lightning fingers he flickedseveral switches on the panel, turned to her. Hold belly. Zoom!     Gray folded her hands across her stomach and closed her eyes.     Rat unlocked the master level and shoved!  Whew! Nurse Gray came back to throbbing awareness, the all toofamiliar feeling of a misplaced stomach attempting to force itscrowded way into her boots plaguing her. Rockets roared in the rear.She loosened a few straps and twisted over. Judith was still out, herface tensed in pain. Gray bit her lip and twisted the other way. TheCentaurian was grinning at her.     Do you always leave in a hurry? she demanded, and instantly wishedshe hadn't said it. He gave no outward sign.     Long-time sleep, he announced. Four, five hours maybe. The cheststrap was lying loose at his side.     That long! she was incredulous. I'm never out more than threehours! Unloosening more straps, she sat up, glanced at the controlpanel.     Not taking time, he stated simply and pointed to a dial. Gray shookher head and looked at the others.     That isn't doing either of them any good!     Rat nodded unhappily. What's her matter—? pointing.     Appendix. Something about this atmosphere sends it haywire. The thingitself isn't diseased, but it starts manufacturing poison. Patient diesin a week unless it is taken out.     Don't know it, he said briefly.     Do you mean to say you don't have an appendix? she demanded.     Rat folded his arms and considered this. Don't know. Maybe yes, maybeno. Where's it hurt?     Gray pointed out the location. The Centaurian considered this furtherand drifted into long contemplation. Watching him, Gray remembered hiseyes that night ... only      last     night ... in the office. Peterson hadrefused to meet them. After awhile Rat came out of it.     No, he waved. No appendix. Never nowhere appendix.     Then Mother Nature has finally woke up! she exclaimed. But why doCentaurians rate it exclusively?     Rat ignored this and asked one of her. What you and her doing upthere? He pointed back and up, to where Mars obliterated the stars.     You might call it a pleasure jaunt. She's only seventeen. We came overin a cruiser belonging to her father; it was rather large and easy tohandle. But the cruise ended when she lost control of the ship becauseof an attack of space-appendicitis. The rest you know.     So you?     So I'm a combination nurse, governess, guard and what have you. Orwill be until we get back. After this, I'll probably be looking forwork. She shivered.     Cold? he inquired concernedly.     On the contrary, I'm too warm. She started to remove the blanket. Ratthrew up a hand to stop her.     Leave on! Hot out here.     But I'm too hot now. I want to take it off!     No. Leave on. Wool blanket. Keep in body heat, yes. Keep out cold,yes. Keep in, keep out, likewise. See?     Gray stared at him. I never thought of it that way before. Why ofcourse! If it protects from one temperature, it will protect fromanother. Isn't it silly of me not to know that? Heat pressing on herface accented the fact.     What is your name? she asked. Your real one I mean.     He grinned. Big. You couldn't say it. Sound like Christmas andbottlenose together real fast. Just say Rat. Everybody does. His eyesswept the panel and flashed back to her. Your name Gray. Have a frontname?     Patti.     Pretty, Patti.     No, just Patti. Say, what's the matter with the cooling system?     Damn punk, he said. This crate for surface work. No space. Coolingsystem groan, damn punk. Won't keep cool here.     And ... she followed up, it will get warmer as we go out?     Rat turned back to his board in a brown study and carefully ignoredher. Gray grasped an inkling of what the coming week could bring.     But how about water? she demanded next. Is there enough?     He faced about. For her— nodding to Judith, and him— to Gladney,yes. Sparingly. Four hours every time, maybe. Back to Gray. You,me ... twice a day. Too bad. His eyes drifted aft to the tank ofwater. She followed. One tank water. All the rest fuel. Too bad, toobad. We get thirsty I think.  They did get thirsty, soon. A damnable hot thirst accented bythe knowledge that water was precious, a thirst increased by adried-up-in-the-mouth sensation. Their first drink was strangelybitter; tragically disappointing. Patti Gray suddenly swung upright inthe hammock and kicked her legs. She massaged her throat with a nervoushand, wiped damp hair from about her face.     I have to have a drink.     Rat stared at her without answer.     I said, I have to have a drink!     Heard you.     Well...?     Well, nothing. Stall. Keep water longer.     She swung a vicious boot and missed by inches. Rat grinned, and madehis way aft, hand over hand. He treaded cautiously along the deck. Dolike this, he called over his shoulder. Gravity punk too. Back andunder, gravity. He waited until she joined him at the water tap.     They stood there glaring idiotically at each other.     She burst out laughing. They even threw the drinking cups out! Ratinched the handle grudgingly and she applied lips to the faucet.     Faugh! Gray sprang back, forgot herself and lost her balance, satdown on the deck and spat out the water. It's hot! It tastes like helland it's hot! It must be fuel!     Rat applied his lips to the tap and sampled. Coming up with a mouthfulhe swished it around on his tongue like mouthwash. Abruptly hecontrived a facial contortion between a grin and a grimace, and letsome of the water trickle from the edges of his mouth. He swallowed andit cost him something.     No. I mean yes, I think. Water, no doubt. Yes. Fuel out, water in.Swish-swush. Dammit, Greaseball forget to wash tank!     But what makes it so hot? She worked her mouth to dry-rinse the tasteof the fuel.     Ship get hot. Water on sun side. H-m-m-m-m-m-m.     H-m-m-m-m-m-m-m what?     Flip-flop. He could talk with his hands as well. Hot side over likepancake. Rat hobbled over to the board and sat down. An experimentalflick on a lever produced nothing. Another flick, this time followed bya quivering jar. He contemplated the panel board while fastening hisbelt.     H-m-m-m-m-m-m, the lower lip protruded.     Gray protested. Oh, stop humming and do something! That wa— theword was queerly torn from her throat, and a scream magically filledthe vacancy. Nurse Gray sat up and rubbed a painful spot that hadsuddenly appeared on her arm. She found her nose bleeding and anothernew, swelling bruise on the side of her head. Around her the place wasempty. Bare.     No, not quite. A wispy something was hanging just out of sight inthe corner of the eye; the water tap was now moulded      upward     , beadsglistening on its handle. The wispy thing caught her attention againand she looked up.     Two people, tightly wrapped and bound in hammocks, were staring down ather, amazed, swinging on their stomachs. Craning further, she saw Rat.He was hanging upside down in the chair, grinning at her in reverse.     Flip-flop, he laconically explained.     For cripes sakes, Jehosaphat! Gladney groaned. Turn me over on myback! Do something! Gray stood on tiptoes and just could pivot thehammocks on their rope-axis.     And now, please, just      how     do I get into mine? she bit at Rat.  Existence dragged. Paradoxically, time dropped away like a cloak asthe sense of individual hours and minutes vanished, and into its placecrept a slow-torturing substitute. As the ship revolved, monotonously,first the ceiling and then the floor took on dullish, maddeningaspects, eyes ached continuously from staring at them time and againwithout surcease. The steady, drumming rockets crashed into the mindand the walls shrieked malevolently on the eyeballs. Dull, throbbingsameness of the poorly filtered air, a growing taint in the nostrils.Damp warm skin, reeking blankets. The taste of fuel in the mouth forrefreshment. Slowly mounting mental duress. And above all the drummingof the rockets.     Once, a sudden, frightening change of pitch in the rockets and a wild,sickening lurch. Meteor rain. Maddening, plunging swings to the farright and left, made without warning. A torn lip as a sudden lurchtears the faucet from her mouth. A shattered tooth.     Sorry! Rat whispered.     Shut up and drive! she cried.     Patti ... Judith called out, in pain.     Peace of mind followed peace of body into a forgotten limbo of lostthings, a slyly climbing madness directed at one another. Waspishwords uttered in pain, fatigue and temper. Fractiousness. A hot,confined, stale hell. Sleep became a hollow mockery, as bad waterand concentrated tablets brought on stomach pains to plague them.Consciousness punctured only by spasms of lethargy, shared to someextent by the invalids. Above all, crawling lassitude and incalescenttempers.     Rat watched the white, drawn face swing in the hammock beside him. Andhis hands never faltered on the controls.     Never a slackening of the terrific pace; abnormal speed, gruellingdrive ... drive ... drive. Fear. Tantalizing fear made worse becauseRat couldn't understand. Smothered moaning that ate at his nerves.Grim-faced, sleep-wracked, belted to the chair, driving!     How many days? How many days! Gray begged of him thousands of timesuntil the very repetition grated on her eardrums. How many days?His only answer was an inhuman snarl, and the cruel blazing of thoseinhuman eyes.     She fell face first to the floor. I can't keep it up! she cried. Thesound of her voice rolled along the hot steel deck. I cant! I cant!     A double handful of tepid water was thrown in her face. Get up! Ratstood over her, face twisted, his body hunched. Get up! She stared athim, dazed. He kicked her. Get up! The tepid water ran off her faceand far away she heard Judith calling.... She forced herself up. Ratwas back in the chair.  Gladney unexpectedly exploded. He had been awake for a long time,watching Rat at the board. Wrenching loose a chest strap he attemptedto sit up.     Rat! Damn you Rat, listen to me!      When're you going to start braking     ,Rat?     I hear you. He turned on Gladney with dulled eyes. Lie down. Yousick.     I'll be damned if I'm going to lie here and let you drive us to Orion!We must be near the half-way line! When are you going to start braking?     Not brake, Rat answered sullenly. No, not brake.           Not brake?      Gladney screamed and sat bolt upright. Nurse Gray jumpedfor him. Are you crazy, you skinny rat? Gray secured a hold on hisshoulders and forced him down. You gotta brake! Don't you understandthat? You have to, you vacuum-skull! Gray was pleading with him toshut-up like a good fellow. He appealed to her. He's gotta brake! Makehim!     He has a good point there, Rat, she spoke up. What about thishalf-way line?     He turned to her with a weary ghost of the old smile on his face. Wepassed line. Three days ago, maybe. A shrug of shoulders.     Passed! Gray and Gladney exclaimed in unison.     You catch on quick, Rat nodded. This six day, don't you know?     Gladney sank back, exhausted. The nurse crept over to the pilot.Getting your figures mixed, aren't you?     Rat shook his head and said nothing.     But Roberds said eight days, and he—     —he on Mars. I here. Boss nuts, too sad. He drive, it be eight days.Now only six. He cast a glance at Judith and found her eyes closed.Six days, no brake. No.     I see your point, and appreciate it, Gray cut in. But now what? Thisdeceleration business ... there is a whole lot I don't know, but somethings I do!     Rat refused the expected answer. Land tonight, I think. Never been toEarth before. Somebody meet us, I think.     You can bet your leather boots somebody will meet us! Gladney cried.Gray turned to him. The Chief'll have the whole planet waiting for      you     ! He laughed with real satisfaction. Oh yes, Rat, they'll besomebody waiting for us all right. And then he added: If we land.     Oh, we land. Rat confided, glad to share a secret.     Yeah, Gladney grated. But in how many little pieces?     I've never been to Earth before. Nice, I think. Patti Gray caughtsomething new in the tone and stared at him. Gladney must have noticedit, too.     The Centaurian moved sideways and pointed. Gray placed her eyes in thevacated position.     Earth! she shouted.     Quite. Nice. Do me a favor?     Just name it!     Not drink long time. Some water?     Gray nodded and went to the faucet. The drumming seemed remote, thetension vanished. She was an uncommonly long time in returning, at lastshe appeared beside him, outstretched hands dry.     There isn't any left, Rat.     Rat batted his tired eyes expressively. Tasted punk, he grinned ather.     She sat down on the floor suddenly and buried her face.     Rat, she said presently, I want to ask you something, ratherpersonal? Your ... name. 'Rat'? Roberds told me something about yourrecord. But ... please tell me, Rat. You didn't know the attack wascoming, did you?     He grinned again and waggled his head at her. No. Who tell Rat?Suddenly he was deadly serious as he spoke to her. Rat a.w.o.l., goout to help sick man alone in desert. Rat leave post. Not time sendcall through. Come back with man, find horrible thing happen.     But why didn't you explain?     He grinned again. Who believe? Sick man die soon after.     Gladney sat up. He had heard the conversation between the two. You'reright, Rat. No one would have believed you then, and no one will now.You've been safe enough on Mars, but the police will nab you as soon asyou get out of the ship.     They can't! cried Patti Gray. They can't hurt him after what he'sdone now.     The Centaurian grinned in a cynical way.     Police not get me, Gladney. Gladney's memory damn punk, I think. Earthpretty nice place, maybe. But not for Rat.     Gladney stared at him for minutes. Then: Say, I get it ... you're—     Shut up! Rat cut him off sharply. You talk too much. He cast aglance at Nurse Gray and then threw a meaning look at Gladney.  ","There is a gravely sick girl on a spaceship near Mars and the crew argues what to do. Roberds decides to pilot the ship to Earth breaking the command due to an emergency. Rat argues with him and wants to pilot the ship himself, which leads to him being forced to leave. Roberds and Peterson then explain to nurse Gray, who is looking after the sick girl, that Rat left his post once and therefore didn't warn anyone about the Sansan massacre, so now he is out of favor. The nurse, nevertheless, visits Rat in secret and asks to pilot the ship. She says the sick wants him to and Rat takes Judith, the sick girl covered in blankets, and the nurse to the hammocks on his wings. The girls then wait for him to return with another sick man who was injured after finding and saving the crashed girls in the past. Judith feels bad for breaking the law and causing so much trouble by leaving Earth, now her appendix hurts and they have to take charge of the ship and travel to a hospital on Earth. Rat returns with sick Gladney and learns that Judith and Patti Gray were attacked during their cruise to space, which is the reason they got to Mars. The trip begins, soon everyone gets thirsty and hot, Gray is hurt when the ship moves between a meteor rain, she is devastated with suffering. Rat refuses to brake and is going to make the trip in six days instead of eight. He then tells his part of the story about the Sansan massacre - he left the post to save a sick man but nobody believed it back then."
"What is the relationship between Judith and Patti Gray? </s>     PRISON PLANET     By BOB TUCKER     To remain on Mars meant death from agonizing     space-sickness, but Earth-surgery lay     days of flight away. And there was only     a surface rocket in which to escape—with     a traitorous Ganymedean for its pilot.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Fall 1942.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Listen, Rat! Roberds said, what      I     say goes around here. It doesn'thappen to be any of your business. I'm still in possession of my wits,and I know Peterson can't handle that ship. Furthermore Gladney willbe in it too, right along side of that sick girl in there! And Rat,get this:      I'm     going to pilot that ship. Understand? Consulate orno Consulate, job or no job, I'm wheeling that crate to Earth becausethis is an emergency. And the emergency happens to be bigger than myposition, to me at any rate. His tone dropped to a deadly softness.Now will you kindly remove your stinking carcass from this office?     Unheeding, Rat swung his eyes around in the gloom and discovered thewoman, a nurse in uniform. He blinked at her and she returned the look,wavering. She bit her lip and determination flowed back. She met thestare of his boring, off-colored eyes. Rat grinned suddenly. Nurse Grayalmost smiled back, stopped before the others could see it.     Won't go! The Centaurian resumed his fight. You not go, lose job,black-listed. Never get another. Look at me. I know. He retreateda precious step to escape a rolled up fist. Little ship carry fournice. Rip out lockers and bunks. Swing hammocks. Put fuel in watertanks. Live on concentrates. Earth hospital fix bellyache afterwards,allright. I pilot ship. Yes?     No! Roberds screamed.     Almost in answer, a moan issued from a small side room. The men in theoffice froze as Nurse Gray ran across the room. She disappeared throughthe narrow door.     Peterson, the field manager ordered, come over here and help methrow this rat out.... He went for Rat. Peterson swung up out of hischair with balled fist. The outlander backed rapidly.     No need, no need, no need! he said quickly. I go. Still backing, heblindly kicked at the door and stepped into the night.  When the door slammed shut Roberds locked it. Peterson slumped in thechair.     Do you mean that, Chief? About taking the ship yourself?     True enough. Roberds cast an anxious glance at the partly closeddoor, lowered his voice. It'll cost me my job, but that girl in therehas to be taken to a hospital quickly! And it's her luck to be landedon a planet that doesn't boast even one! So it's Earth ... or shedies. I'd feel a lot better too if we could get Gladney to a hospital,I'm not too confident of that patching job. He pulled a pipe from ajacket pocket. So, might as well kill two birds with one stone ... andthat wasn't meant to be funny!     Peterson said nothing, sat watching the door.     Rat has the right idea, Roberds continued, but I had already thoughtof it. About the bunks and lockers. Greaseball has been out there allnight tearing them out. We just      might     be able to hop by dawn ... andhell of a long, grinding hop it will be!     The nurse came out of the door.     How is she? Roberds asked.     Sleeping, Gray whispered. But sinking....     We can take off at dawn, I think. He filled the pipe and didn't lookat her. You'll have to spend most of the trip in a hammock.     I can take it. Suddenly she smiled, wanly. I was with the Fleet. Howlong will it take?     Eight days, in      that     ship.     Roberds lit his pipe, and carefully hid his emotions. He knew Petersonwas harboring the same thoughts. Eight days in space, in a small shipmeant for two, and built for planetary surface flights. Eight days inthat untrustworthy crate, hurtling to save the lives of that girl andGladney.     Who was that ... man? The one you put out? Gray asked.     We call him Rat, Roberds said.     She didn't ask why. She said: Why couldn't he pilot the ship, I mean?What is his record?     Peterson opened his mouth.     Shut up, Peterson! the Chief snapped. We don't talk about his recordaround here, Miss Gray. It's not a pretty thing to tell.     Stow it, Chief, said Peterson. Miss Gray is no pantywaist. Heturned to the nurse. Ever hear of the Sansan massacre?     Patti Gray paled. Yes, she whispered. Was Rat in that?     Roberds shook his head. He didn't take part in it. But Rat wasattached to a very important office at the time, the outpost watch.And when Mad Barry Sansan and his gang of thugs swooped down on theGanymedean colony, there was no warning. Our friend Rat was AWOL.     As to who he is ... well, just one of those freaks from up aroundCentauria somewhere. He's been hanging around all the fields and dumpson Mars a long time, finally landed up here.     But, protested Miss Gray, I don't understand? I always thought thatleaving one's post under such circumstances meant execution.     The Chief Consul nodded. It does, usually. But this was a freak case.It would take hours to explain. However, I'll just sum it up in oneword: politics. Politics, with which Rat had no connection saved him.     The girl shook her head, more in sympathy than condemnation.     Are you expecting the others in soon? she asked. It wouldn't beright to leave Peterson.     They will be in, in a day or two. Peterson will beat it over to Basestation for repairs, and to notify Earth we're coming. He'll be allright.     Abruptly she stood up. Goodnight gentlemen. Call me if I'm needed.     Roberds nodded acknowledgement. The door to the side room closed behindher. Peterson hauled his chair over to the desk. He sniffed the air.     Damned rat! he whispered harshly. They ought to make a law forcinghim to wear dark glasses!     Roberds smiled wearily. His eyes do get a man, don't they?     I'd like to burn 'em out! Peterson snarled.  Rat helped Greaseball fill the water tanks to capacity with fuel,checked the concentrated rations and grunted.     Greaseball looked over the interior and chuckled. The boss said stripher, and strip her I did. All right, Rat, outside. He followed theCentaurian out, and pulled the ladder away from the lip of the lock.The two walked across the strip of sandy soil to the office building.On tiptoes, Greaseball poked his head through the door panel. All set.     Roberds nodded at him. Stick with it! and jerked a thumb at Ratoutside. Grease nodded understanding.     Okay, Rat, you can go to bed now. He dropped the ladder against thewall and sat on it. Good night. He watched Rat walk slowly away.     Swinging down the path towards his own rambling shack, Rat caught asibilant whisper. Pausing, undecided, he heard it again.     Here ... can you see me? A white clad arm waved in the gloom. Ratregarded the arm in the window. Another impatient gesture, and hestepped to the sill.     Yes?—in the softest of whispers. The voices of the men in droningconversation drifted in. What you want?     Nothing but silence for a few hanging seconds, and then: Can you pilotthat ship? Her voice was shaky.     He didn't answer, stared at her confused. He felt her fear as clearlyas he detected it in her words.     Well,      can     you? she demanded.     Damn yes! he stated simply. It now necessary?     Very! She is becoming worse. I'm afraid to wait until daylight.And ... well, we want      you     to pilot it! She refuses to riskMr. Roberds' job. She favors you.     Rat stepped back, astonished. She?     Nurse Gray moved from the window and Rat saw the second form in theroom, a slight, quiet figure on a small cot. My patient, Nurse Grayexplained. She overheard our conversation awhile ago. Quick, please,can you?     Rat looked at her and then at the girl on the cot. He vanished from thewindow. Almost immediately, he was back again.     When? he whispered.     As soon as possible. Yes. Do you know...? but he had gone again.Nurse Gray found herself addressing blackness. On the point of turning,she saw him back again.     Blankets, he instructed. Wrap in blankets. Cold—hot too. Wrapgood! And he was gone again. Gray blinked away the illusion hedisappeared upwards.     She ran over to the girl. Judith, if you want to back down, now is thetime. He'll be back in a moment.     No! Judith moaned. No! Gray smiled in the darkness and beganwrapping the blankets around her. A light tapping at the windowannounced the return of Rat. The nurse pushed open the window wide, sawhim out there with arms upstretched.     Grit your teeth and hold on! Here we go. She picked up the blanketedgirl in both arms and walked to the window. Rat took the girl easily asshe was swung out, the blackness hid them both. But he appeared againinstantly.     Better lock window, he cautioned. Stall, if Boss call. Backsoon.... and he was gone.     To Nurse Gray the fifteen minute wait seemed like hours, impatientagonizing hours of tight-lipped anxiety.  Feet first, she swung through the window, clutching a small bag in herhands. She never touched ground. Rat whispered Hold tight! in herear and the wind was abruptly yanked from her! The ground fell awayin a dizzy rush, unseen but felt, in the night! Her feet scraped onsome projection, and she felt herself being lifted still higher. Windreturned to her throat, and she breathed again.     I'm sorry, she managed to get out, gaspingly. I wasn't expectingthat. I had forgotten you—     —had wings, he finished and chuckled. So likewise Greaseball. Thepale office lights dropped away as they sped over the field. On the farhorizon, a tinge of dawn crept along the uneven terrain.     Oh, the bag! she gasped. I've dropped it.     He chuckled again. Have got. You scare, I catch.     She didn't see the ship because of the wind in her eyes, but withoutwarning she plummeted down and her feet jarred on the lip of the lock.Inside. No noise, no light. Easy. But in spite of his warning shetripped in the darkness. He helped her from the floor and guided her tothe hammocks.     Judith? she asked.     Here. Beside you, trussed up so tight I can hardly breathe.     No talk! Rat insisted. Much hush-hush needed. Other girl shipshape.You make likewise. Forcibly he shoved her into a hammock. Wrap uptight. Straps tight. When we go, we go fast. Bang! And he left her.     Hey! Where are you going now?     To get Gladney. He sick too. Hush hush! His voice floated back.     Where has he gone? Judith called.     Back for another man. Remember the two miners who found us when wecrashed? The burly one fell off a rock-bank as they were bringing usin. Stove in his ribs pretty badly. The other has a broken arm ...happened once while you were out. They wouldn't let me say anything forfear of worrying you.  The girl did not answer then and a hushed expectancy fell over theship. Somewhere aft a small motor was running. Wind whistled past theopen lock.     I've caused plenty of trouble haven't I? she asked aloud, finally.This was certainly a fool stunt, and I'm guilty of a lot of foolstunts! I just didn't realize until now the      why     of that law.     Don't talk so much, the nurse admonished. A lot of people have foundout the      why     of that law the hard way, just as you are doing, andlived to remember it. Until hospitals are built on this forlorn world,humans like you who haven't been properly conditioned will have to stayright at home.     How about these men that live and work here?     They never get here until they've been through the mill first.Adenoids, appendix', all the extra parts they can get along without.     Well, Judith said. I've certainly learned my lesson!     Gray didn't answer, but from out of the darkness surrounding her came asound remarkably resembling a snort.     Gray? Judith asked fearfully.     Yes?     Hasn't the pilot been gone an awfully long time?     Rat himself provided the answer by alighting at the lip with a jar thatshook the ship. He was breathing heavily and lugging something in hisarms. The burden groaned.     Gladney! Nurse Gray exclaimed.     I got. Rat confirmed. Yes, Gladney. Damn heavy, Gladney.     But how? she demanded. What of Roberds and Peterson?     Trick, he sniggered. I burn down my shack. Boss run out. I run in.Very simple. He packed Gladney into the remaining hammock and snappedbuckles.     And Peterson? she prompted.     Oh yes. Peterson. So sorry about Peterson. Had to fan him.           Fan     him? I don't understand.     Fan. With chair. Everything all right. I apologized. Rat finished upand was walking back to the lock. They heard a slight rustling of wingsas he padded away.     He was back instantly, duplicating his feat of a short time ago.Cursing shouts were slung on the night air, and the deadly spang ofbullets bounced on the hull! Some entered the lock. The Centauriansnapped it shut. Chunks of lead continued to pound the ship. Rat leapedfor the pilot's chair, heavily, a wing drooping.     You've been hurt! Gray cried. A small panel light outlined hisfeatures. She tried to struggle up.     Lie still! We go. Boss get wise. With lightning fingers he flickedseveral switches on the panel, turned to her. Hold belly. Zoom!     Gray folded her hands across her stomach and closed her eyes.     Rat unlocked the master level and shoved!  Whew! Nurse Gray came back to throbbing awareness, the all toofamiliar feeling of a misplaced stomach attempting to force itscrowded way into her boots plaguing her. Rockets roared in the rear.She loosened a few straps and twisted over. Judith was still out, herface tensed in pain. Gray bit her lip and twisted the other way. TheCentaurian was grinning at her.     Do you always leave in a hurry? she demanded, and instantly wishedshe hadn't said it. He gave no outward sign.     Long-time sleep, he announced. Four, five hours maybe. The cheststrap was lying loose at his side.     That long! she was incredulous. I'm never out more than threehours! Unloosening more straps, she sat up, glanced at the controlpanel.     Not taking time, he stated simply and pointed to a dial. Gray shookher head and looked at the others.     That isn't doing either of them any good!     Rat nodded unhappily. What's her matter—? pointing.     Appendix. Something about this atmosphere sends it haywire. The thingitself isn't diseased, but it starts manufacturing poison. Patient diesin a week unless it is taken out.     Don't know it, he said briefly.     Do you mean to say you don't have an appendix? she demanded.     Rat folded his arms and considered this. Don't know. Maybe yes, maybeno. Where's it hurt?     Gray pointed out the location. The Centaurian considered this furtherand drifted into long contemplation. Watching him, Gray remembered hiseyes that night ... only      last     night ... in the office. Peterson hadrefused to meet them. After awhile Rat came out of it.     No, he waved. No appendix. Never nowhere appendix.     Then Mother Nature has finally woke up! she exclaimed. But why doCentaurians rate it exclusively?     Rat ignored this and asked one of her. What you and her doing upthere? He pointed back and up, to where Mars obliterated the stars.     You might call it a pleasure jaunt. She's only seventeen. We came overin a cruiser belonging to her father; it was rather large and easy tohandle. But the cruise ended when she lost control of the ship becauseof an attack of space-appendicitis. The rest you know.     So you?     So I'm a combination nurse, governess, guard and what have you. Orwill be until we get back. After this, I'll probably be looking forwork. She shivered.     Cold? he inquired concernedly.     On the contrary, I'm too warm. She started to remove the blanket. Ratthrew up a hand to stop her.     Leave on! Hot out here.     But I'm too hot now. I want to take it off!     No. Leave on. Wool blanket. Keep in body heat, yes. Keep out cold,yes. Keep in, keep out, likewise. See?     Gray stared at him. I never thought of it that way before. Why ofcourse! If it protects from one temperature, it will protect fromanother. Isn't it silly of me not to know that? Heat pressing on herface accented the fact.     What is your name? she asked. Your real one I mean.     He grinned. Big. You couldn't say it. Sound like Christmas andbottlenose together real fast. Just say Rat. Everybody does. His eyesswept the panel and flashed back to her. Your name Gray. Have a frontname?     Patti.     Pretty, Patti.     No, just Patti. Say, what's the matter with the cooling system?     Damn punk, he said. This crate for surface work. No space. Coolingsystem groan, damn punk. Won't keep cool here.     And ... she followed up, it will get warmer as we go out?     Rat turned back to his board in a brown study and carefully ignoredher. Gray grasped an inkling of what the coming week could bring.     But how about water? she demanded next. Is there enough?     He faced about. For her— nodding to Judith, and him— to Gladney,yes. Sparingly. Four hours every time, maybe. Back to Gray. You,me ... twice a day. Too bad. His eyes drifted aft to the tank ofwater. She followed. One tank water. All the rest fuel. Too bad, toobad. We get thirsty I think.  They did get thirsty, soon. A damnable hot thirst accented bythe knowledge that water was precious, a thirst increased by adried-up-in-the-mouth sensation. Their first drink was strangelybitter; tragically disappointing. Patti Gray suddenly swung upright inthe hammock and kicked her legs. She massaged her throat with a nervoushand, wiped damp hair from about her face.     I have to have a drink.     Rat stared at her without answer.     I said, I have to have a drink!     Heard you.     Well...?     Well, nothing. Stall. Keep water longer.     She swung a vicious boot and missed by inches. Rat grinned, and madehis way aft, hand over hand. He treaded cautiously along the deck. Dolike this, he called over his shoulder. Gravity punk too. Back andunder, gravity. He waited until she joined him at the water tap.     They stood there glaring idiotically at each other.     She burst out laughing. They even threw the drinking cups out! Ratinched the handle grudgingly and she applied lips to the faucet.     Faugh! Gray sprang back, forgot herself and lost her balance, satdown on the deck and spat out the water. It's hot! It tastes like helland it's hot! It must be fuel!     Rat applied his lips to the tap and sampled. Coming up with a mouthfulhe swished it around on his tongue like mouthwash. Abruptly hecontrived a facial contortion between a grin and a grimace, and letsome of the water trickle from the edges of his mouth. He swallowed andit cost him something.     No. I mean yes, I think. Water, no doubt. Yes. Fuel out, water in.Swish-swush. Dammit, Greaseball forget to wash tank!     But what makes it so hot? She worked her mouth to dry-rinse the tasteof the fuel.     Ship get hot. Water on sun side. H-m-m-m-m-m-m.     H-m-m-m-m-m-m-m what?     Flip-flop. He could talk with his hands as well. Hot side over likepancake. Rat hobbled over to the board and sat down. An experimentalflick on a lever produced nothing. Another flick, this time followed bya quivering jar. He contemplated the panel board while fastening hisbelt.     H-m-m-m-m-m-m, the lower lip protruded.     Gray protested. Oh, stop humming and do something! That wa— theword was queerly torn from her throat, and a scream magically filledthe vacancy. Nurse Gray sat up and rubbed a painful spot that hadsuddenly appeared on her arm. She found her nose bleeding and anothernew, swelling bruise on the side of her head. Around her the place wasempty. Bare.     No, not quite. A wispy something was hanging just out of sight inthe corner of the eye; the water tap was now moulded      upward     , beadsglistening on its handle. The wispy thing caught her attention againand she looked up.     Two people, tightly wrapped and bound in hammocks, were staring down ather, amazed, swinging on their stomachs. Craning further, she saw Rat.He was hanging upside down in the chair, grinning at her in reverse.     Flip-flop, he laconically explained.     For cripes sakes, Jehosaphat! Gladney groaned. Turn me over on myback! Do something! Gray stood on tiptoes and just could pivot thehammocks on their rope-axis.     And now, please, just      how     do I get into mine? she bit at Rat.  Existence dragged. Paradoxically, time dropped away like a cloak asthe sense of individual hours and minutes vanished, and into its placecrept a slow-torturing substitute. As the ship revolved, monotonously,first the ceiling and then the floor took on dullish, maddeningaspects, eyes ached continuously from staring at them time and againwithout surcease. The steady, drumming rockets crashed into the mindand the walls shrieked malevolently on the eyeballs. Dull, throbbingsameness of the poorly filtered air, a growing taint in the nostrils.Damp warm skin, reeking blankets. The taste of fuel in the mouth forrefreshment. Slowly mounting mental duress. And above all the drummingof the rockets.     Once, a sudden, frightening change of pitch in the rockets and a wild,sickening lurch. Meteor rain. Maddening, plunging swings to the farright and left, made without warning. A torn lip as a sudden lurchtears the faucet from her mouth. A shattered tooth.     Sorry! Rat whispered.     Shut up and drive! she cried.     Patti ... Judith called out, in pain.     Peace of mind followed peace of body into a forgotten limbo of lostthings, a slyly climbing madness directed at one another. Waspishwords uttered in pain, fatigue and temper. Fractiousness. A hot,confined, stale hell. Sleep became a hollow mockery, as bad waterand concentrated tablets brought on stomach pains to plague them.Consciousness punctured only by spasms of lethargy, shared to someextent by the invalids. Above all, crawling lassitude and incalescenttempers.     Rat watched the white, drawn face swing in the hammock beside him. Andhis hands never faltered on the controls.     Never a slackening of the terrific pace; abnormal speed, gruellingdrive ... drive ... drive. Fear. Tantalizing fear made worse becauseRat couldn't understand. Smothered moaning that ate at his nerves.Grim-faced, sleep-wracked, belted to the chair, driving!     How many days? How many days! Gray begged of him thousands of timesuntil the very repetition grated on her eardrums. How many days?His only answer was an inhuman snarl, and the cruel blazing of thoseinhuman eyes.     She fell face first to the floor. I can't keep it up! she cried. Thesound of her voice rolled along the hot steel deck. I cant! I cant!     A double handful of tepid water was thrown in her face. Get up! Ratstood over her, face twisted, his body hunched. Get up! She stared athim, dazed. He kicked her. Get up! The tepid water ran off her faceand far away she heard Judith calling.... She forced herself up. Ratwas back in the chair.  Gladney unexpectedly exploded. He had been awake for a long time,watching Rat at the board. Wrenching loose a chest strap he attemptedto sit up.     Rat! Damn you Rat, listen to me!      When're you going to start braking     ,Rat?     I hear you. He turned on Gladney with dulled eyes. Lie down. Yousick.     I'll be damned if I'm going to lie here and let you drive us to Orion!We must be near the half-way line! When are you going to start braking?     Not brake, Rat answered sullenly. No, not brake.           Not brake?      Gladney screamed and sat bolt upright. Nurse Gray jumpedfor him. Are you crazy, you skinny rat? Gray secured a hold on hisshoulders and forced him down. You gotta brake! Don't you understandthat? You have to, you vacuum-skull! Gray was pleading with him toshut-up like a good fellow. He appealed to her. He's gotta brake! Makehim!     He has a good point there, Rat, she spoke up. What about thishalf-way line?     He turned to her with a weary ghost of the old smile on his face. Wepassed line. Three days ago, maybe. A shrug of shoulders.     Passed! Gray and Gladney exclaimed in unison.     You catch on quick, Rat nodded. This six day, don't you know?     Gladney sank back, exhausted. The nurse crept over to the pilot.Getting your figures mixed, aren't you?     Rat shook his head and said nothing.     But Roberds said eight days, and he—     —he on Mars. I here. Boss nuts, too sad. He drive, it be eight days.Now only six. He cast a glance at Judith and found her eyes closed.Six days, no brake. No.     I see your point, and appreciate it, Gray cut in. But now what? Thisdeceleration business ... there is a whole lot I don't know, but somethings I do!     Rat refused the expected answer. Land tonight, I think. Never been toEarth before. Somebody meet us, I think.     You can bet your leather boots somebody will meet us! Gladney cried.Gray turned to him. The Chief'll have the whole planet waiting for      you     ! He laughed with real satisfaction. Oh yes, Rat, they'll besomebody waiting for us all right. And then he added: If we land.     Oh, we land. Rat confided, glad to share a secret.     Yeah, Gladney grated. But in how many little pieces?     I've never been to Earth before. Nice, I think. Patti Gray caughtsomething new in the tone and stared at him. Gladney must have noticedit, too.     The Centaurian moved sideways and pointed. Gray placed her eyes in thevacated position.     Earth! she shouted.     Quite. Nice. Do me a favor?     Just name it!     Not drink long time. Some water?     Gray nodded and went to the faucet. The drumming seemed remote, thetension vanished. She was an uncommonly long time in returning, at lastshe appeared beside him, outstretched hands dry.     There isn't any left, Rat.     Rat batted his tired eyes expressively. Tasted punk, he grinned ather.     She sat down on the floor suddenly and buried her face.     Rat, she said presently, I want to ask you something, ratherpersonal? Your ... name. 'Rat'? Roberds told me something about yourrecord. But ... please tell me, Rat. You didn't know the attack wascoming, did you?     He grinned again and waggled his head at her. No. Who tell Rat?Suddenly he was deadly serious as he spoke to her. Rat a.w.o.l., goout to help sick man alone in desert. Rat leave post. Not time sendcall through. Come back with man, find horrible thing happen.     But why didn't you explain?     He grinned again. Who believe? Sick man die soon after.     Gladney sat up. He had heard the conversation between the two. You'reright, Rat. No one would have believed you then, and no one will now.You've been safe enough on Mars, but the police will nab you as soon asyou get out of the ship.     They can't! cried Patti Gray. They can't hurt him after what he'sdone now.     The Centaurian grinned in a cynical way.     Police not get me, Gladney. Gladney's memory damn punk, I think. Earthpretty nice place, maybe. But not for Rat.     Gladney stared at him for minutes. Then: Say, I get it ... you're—     Shut up! Rat cut him off sharply. You talk too much. He cast aglance at Nurse Gray and then threw a meaning look at Gladney.  ","Patti Gray is Judith's nurse, governess, guard and everything of that kind. Judith is only seventeen and they are pretty close with Patti. The least watches over the sick, reports her condition and fulfills the girl's request like asking Rat to pilot the ship. Judith relies on her nurse, she calls for her when in pain and tells her how sorry she is for causing trouble. Judith's call makes Patti get up even when she herself is in pain. She is anxious for the girl not making it to the hospital. The two stick together as they crashed together after an attack on their spaceship and have to return to Earth together. "
"What is the relationship between Rat and Patti Gray? </s>     PRISON PLANET     By BOB TUCKER     To remain on Mars meant death from agonizing     space-sickness, but Earth-surgery lay     days of flight away. And there was only     a surface rocket in which to escape—with     a traitorous Ganymedean for its pilot.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Fall 1942.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Listen, Rat! Roberds said, what      I     say goes around here. It doesn'thappen to be any of your business. I'm still in possession of my wits,and I know Peterson can't handle that ship. Furthermore Gladney willbe in it too, right along side of that sick girl in there! And Rat,get this:      I'm     going to pilot that ship. Understand? Consulate orno Consulate, job or no job, I'm wheeling that crate to Earth becausethis is an emergency. And the emergency happens to be bigger than myposition, to me at any rate. His tone dropped to a deadly softness.Now will you kindly remove your stinking carcass from this office?     Unheeding, Rat swung his eyes around in the gloom and discovered thewoman, a nurse in uniform. He blinked at her and she returned the look,wavering. She bit her lip and determination flowed back. She met thestare of his boring, off-colored eyes. Rat grinned suddenly. Nurse Grayalmost smiled back, stopped before the others could see it.     Won't go! The Centaurian resumed his fight. You not go, lose job,black-listed. Never get another. Look at me. I know. He retreateda precious step to escape a rolled up fist. Little ship carry fournice. Rip out lockers and bunks. Swing hammocks. Put fuel in watertanks. Live on concentrates. Earth hospital fix bellyache afterwards,allright. I pilot ship. Yes?     No! Roberds screamed.     Almost in answer, a moan issued from a small side room. The men in theoffice froze as Nurse Gray ran across the room. She disappeared throughthe narrow door.     Peterson, the field manager ordered, come over here and help methrow this rat out.... He went for Rat. Peterson swung up out of hischair with balled fist. The outlander backed rapidly.     No need, no need, no need! he said quickly. I go. Still backing, heblindly kicked at the door and stepped into the night.  When the door slammed shut Roberds locked it. Peterson slumped in thechair.     Do you mean that, Chief? About taking the ship yourself?     True enough. Roberds cast an anxious glance at the partly closeddoor, lowered his voice. It'll cost me my job, but that girl in therehas to be taken to a hospital quickly! And it's her luck to be landedon a planet that doesn't boast even one! So it's Earth ... or shedies. I'd feel a lot better too if we could get Gladney to a hospital,I'm not too confident of that patching job. He pulled a pipe from ajacket pocket. So, might as well kill two birds with one stone ... andthat wasn't meant to be funny!     Peterson said nothing, sat watching the door.     Rat has the right idea, Roberds continued, but I had already thoughtof it. About the bunks and lockers. Greaseball has been out there allnight tearing them out. We just      might     be able to hop by dawn ... andhell of a long, grinding hop it will be!     The nurse came out of the door.     How is she? Roberds asked.     Sleeping, Gray whispered. But sinking....     We can take off at dawn, I think. He filled the pipe and didn't lookat her. You'll have to spend most of the trip in a hammock.     I can take it. Suddenly she smiled, wanly. I was with the Fleet. Howlong will it take?     Eight days, in      that     ship.     Roberds lit his pipe, and carefully hid his emotions. He knew Petersonwas harboring the same thoughts. Eight days in space, in a small shipmeant for two, and built for planetary surface flights. Eight days inthat untrustworthy crate, hurtling to save the lives of that girl andGladney.     Who was that ... man? The one you put out? Gray asked.     We call him Rat, Roberds said.     She didn't ask why. She said: Why couldn't he pilot the ship, I mean?What is his record?     Peterson opened his mouth.     Shut up, Peterson! the Chief snapped. We don't talk about his recordaround here, Miss Gray. It's not a pretty thing to tell.     Stow it, Chief, said Peterson. Miss Gray is no pantywaist. Heturned to the nurse. Ever hear of the Sansan massacre?     Patti Gray paled. Yes, she whispered. Was Rat in that?     Roberds shook his head. He didn't take part in it. But Rat wasattached to a very important office at the time, the outpost watch.And when Mad Barry Sansan and his gang of thugs swooped down on theGanymedean colony, there was no warning. Our friend Rat was AWOL.     As to who he is ... well, just one of those freaks from up aroundCentauria somewhere. He's been hanging around all the fields and dumpson Mars a long time, finally landed up here.     But, protested Miss Gray, I don't understand? I always thought thatleaving one's post under such circumstances meant execution.     The Chief Consul nodded. It does, usually. But this was a freak case.It would take hours to explain. However, I'll just sum it up in oneword: politics. Politics, with which Rat had no connection saved him.     The girl shook her head, more in sympathy than condemnation.     Are you expecting the others in soon? she asked. It wouldn't beright to leave Peterson.     They will be in, in a day or two. Peterson will beat it over to Basestation for repairs, and to notify Earth we're coming. He'll be allright.     Abruptly she stood up. Goodnight gentlemen. Call me if I'm needed.     Roberds nodded acknowledgement. The door to the side room closed behindher. Peterson hauled his chair over to the desk. He sniffed the air.     Damned rat! he whispered harshly. They ought to make a law forcinghim to wear dark glasses!     Roberds smiled wearily. His eyes do get a man, don't they?     I'd like to burn 'em out! Peterson snarled.  Rat helped Greaseball fill the water tanks to capacity with fuel,checked the concentrated rations and grunted.     Greaseball looked over the interior and chuckled. The boss said stripher, and strip her I did. All right, Rat, outside. He followed theCentaurian out, and pulled the ladder away from the lip of the lock.The two walked across the strip of sandy soil to the office building.On tiptoes, Greaseball poked his head through the door panel. All set.     Roberds nodded at him. Stick with it! and jerked a thumb at Ratoutside. Grease nodded understanding.     Okay, Rat, you can go to bed now. He dropped the ladder against thewall and sat on it. Good night. He watched Rat walk slowly away.     Swinging down the path towards his own rambling shack, Rat caught asibilant whisper. Pausing, undecided, he heard it again.     Here ... can you see me? A white clad arm waved in the gloom. Ratregarded the arm in the window. Another impatient gesture, and hestepped to the sill.     Yes?—in the softest of whispers. The voices of the men in droningconversation drifted in. What you want?     Nothing but silence for a few hanging seconds, and then: Can you pilotthat ship? Her voice was shaky.     He didn't answer, stared at her confused. He felt her fear as clearlyas he detected it in her words.     Well,      can     you? she demanded.     Damn yes! he stated simply. It now necessary?     Very! She is becoming worse. I'm afraid to wait until daylight.And ... well, we want      you     to pilot it! She refuses to riskMr. Roberds' job. She favors you.     Rat stepped back, astonished. She?     Nurse Gray moved from the window and Rat saw the second form in theroom, a slight, quiet figure on a small cot. My patient, Nurse Grayexplained. She overheard our conversation awhile ago. Quick, please,can you?     Rat looked at her and then at the girl on the cot. He vanished from thewindow. Almost immediately, he was back again.     When? he whispered.     As soon as possible. Yes. Do you know...? but he had gone again.Nurse Gray found herself addressing blackness. On the point of turning,she saw him back again.     Blankets, he instructed. Wrap in blankets. Cold—hot too. Wrapgood! And he was gone again. Gray blinked away the illusion hedisappeared upwards.     She ran over to the girl. Judith, if you want to back down, now is thetime. He'll be back in a moment.     No! Judith moaned. No! Gray smiled in the darkness and beganwrapping the blankets around her. A light tapping at the windowannounced the return of Rat. The nurse pushed open the window wide, sawhim out there with arms upstretched.     Grit your teeth and hold on! Here we go. She picked up the blanketedgirl in both arms and walked to the window. Rat took the girl easily asshe was swung out, the blackness hid them both. But he appeared againinstantly.     Better lock window, he cautioned. Stall, if Boss call. Backsoon.... and he was gone.     To Nurse Gray the fifteen minute wait seemed like hours, impatientagonizing hours of tight-lipped anxiety.  Feet first, she swung through the window, clutching a small bag in herhands. She never touched ground. Rat whispered Hold tight! in herear and the wind was abruptly yanked from her! The ground fell awayin a dizzy rush, unseen but felt, in the night! Her feet scraped onsome projection, and she felt herself being lifted still higher. Windreturned to her throat, and she breathed again.     I'm sorry, she managed to get out, gaspingly. I wasn't expectingthat. I had forgotten you—     —had wings, he finished and chuckled. So likewise Greaseball. Thepale office lights dropped away as they sped over the field. On the farhorizon, a tinge of dawn crept along the uneven terrain.     Oh, the bag! she gasped. I've dropped it.     He chuckled again. Have got. You scare, I catch.     She didn't see the ship because of the wind in her eyes, but withoutwarning she plummeted down and her feet jarred on the lip of the lock.Inside. No noise, no light. Easy. But in spite of his warning shetripped in the darkness. He helped her from the floor and guided her tothe hammocks.     Judith? she asked.     Here. Beside you, trussed up so tight I can hardly breathe.     No talk! Rat insisted. Much hush-hush needed. Other girl shipshape.You make likewise. Forcibly he shoved her into a hammock. Wrap uptight. Straps tight. When we go, we go fast. Bang! And he left her.     Hey! Where are you going now?     To get Gladney. He sick too. Hush hush! His voice floated back.     Where has he gone? Judith called.     Back for another man. Remember the two miners who found us when wecrashed? The burly one fell off a rock-bank as they were bringing usin. Stove in his ribs pretty badly. The other has a broken arm ...happened once while you were out. They wouldn't let me say anything forfear of worrying you.  The girl did not answer then and a hushed expectancy fell over theship. Somewhere aft a small motor was running. Wind whistled past theopen lock.     I've caused plenty of trouble haven't I? she asked aloud, finally.This was certainly a fool stunt, and I'm guilty of a lot of foolstunts! I just didn't realize until now the      why     of that law.     Don't talk so much, the nurse admonished. A lot of people have foundout the      why     of that law the hard way, just as you are doing, andlived to remember it. Until hospitals are built on this forlorn world,humans like you who haven't been properly conditioned will have to stayright at home.     How about these men that live and work here?     They never get here until they've been through the mill first.Adenoids, appendix', all the extra parts they can get along without.     Well, Judith said. I've certainly learned my lesson!     Gray didn't answer, but from out of the darkness surrounding her came asound remarkably resembling a snort.     Gray? Judith asked fearfully.     Yes?     Hasn't the pilot been gone an awfully long time?     Rat himself provided the answer by alighting at the lip with a jar thatshook the ship. He was breathing heavily and lugging something in hisarms. The burden groaned.     Gladney! Nurse Gray exclaimed.     I got. Rat confirmed. Yes, Gladney. Damn heavy, Gladney.     But how? she demanded. What of Roberds and Peterson?     Trick, he sniggered. I burn down my shack. Boss run out. I run in.Very simple. He packed Gladney into the remaining hammock and snappedbuckles.     And Peterson? she prompted.     Oh yes. Peterson. So sorry about Peterson. Had to fan him.           Fan     him? I don't understand.     Fan. With chair. Everything all right. I apologized. Rat finished upand was walking back to the lock. They heard a slight rustling of wingsas he padded away.     He was back instantly, duplicating his feat of a short time ago.Cursing shouts were slung on the night air, and the deadly spang ofbullets bounced on the hull! Some entered the lock. The Centauriansnapped it shut. Chunks of lead continued to pound the ship. Rat leapedfor the pilot's chair, heavily, a wing drooping.     You've been hurt! Gray cried. A small panel light outlined hisfeatures. She tried to struggle up.     Lie still! We go. Boss get wise. With lightning fingers he flickedseveral switches on the panel, turned to her. Hold belly. Zoom!     Gray folded her hands across her stomach and closed her eyes.     Rat unlocked the master level and shoved!  Whew! Nurse Gray came back to throbbing awareness, the all toofamiliar feeling of a misplaced stomach attempting to force itscrowded way into her boots plaguing her. Rockets roared in the rear.She loosened a few straps and twisted over. Judith was still out, herface tensed in pain. Gray bit her lip and twisted the other way. TheCentaurian was grinning at her.     Do you always leave in a hurry? she demanded, and instantly wishedshe hadn't said it. He gave no outward sign.     Long-time sleep, he announced. Four, five hours maybe. The cheststrap was lying loose at his side.     That long! she was incredulous. I'm never out more than threehours! Unloosening more straps, she sat up, glanced at the controlpanel.     Not taking time, he stated simply and pointed to a dial. Gray shookher head and looked at the others.     That isn't doing either of them any good!     Rat nodded unhappily. What's her matter—? pointing.     Appendix. Something about this atmosphere sends it haywire. The thingitself isn't diseased, but it starts manufacturing poison. Patient diesin a week unless it is taken out.     Don't know it, he said briefly.     Do you mean to say you don't have an appendix? she demanded.     Rat folded his arms and considered this. Don't know. Maybe yes, maybeno. Where's it hurt?     Gray pointed out the location. The Centaurian considered this furtherand drifted into long contemplation. Watching him, Gray remembered hiseyes that night ... only      last     night ... in the office. Peterson hadrefused to meet them. After awhile Rat came out of it.     No, he waved. No appendix. Never nowhere appendix.     Then Mother Nature has finally woke up! she exclaimed. But why doCentaurians rate it exclusively?     Rat ignored this and asked one of her. What you and her doing upthere? He pointed back and up, to where Mars obliterated the stars.     You might call it a pleasure jaunt. She's only seventeen. We came overin a cruiser belonging to her father; it was rather large and easy tohandle. But the cruise ended when she lost control of the ship becauseof an attack of space-appendicitis. The rest you know.     So you?     So I'm a combination nurse, governess, guard and what have you. Orwill be until we get back. After this, I'll probably be looking forwork. She shivered.     Cold? he inquired concernedly.     On the contrary, I'm too warm. She started to remove the blanket. Ratthrew up a hand to stop her.     Leave on! Hot out here.     But I'm too hot now. I want to take it off!     No. Leave on. Wool blanket. Keep in body heat, yes. Keep out cold,yes. Keep in, keep out, likewise. See?     Gray stared at him. I never thought of it that way before. Why ofcourse! If it protects from one temperature, it will protect fromanother. Isn't it silly of me not to know that? Heat pressing on herface accented the fact.     What is your name? she asked. Your real one I mean.     He grinned. Big. You couldn't say it. Sound like Christmas andbottlenose together real fast. Just say Rat. Everybody does. His eyesswept the panel and flashed back to her. Your name Gray. Have a frontname?     Patti.     Pretty, Patti.     No, just Patti. Say, what's the matter with the cooling system?     Damn punk, he said. This crate for surface work. No space. Coolingsystem groan, damn punk. Won't keep cool here.     And ... she followed up, it will get warmer as we go out?     Rat turned back to his board in a brown study and carefully ignoredher. Gray grasped an inkling of what the coming week could bring.     But how about water? she demanded next. Is there enough?     He faced about. For her— nodding to Judith, and him— to Gladney,yes. Sparingly. Four hours every time, maybe. Back to Gray. You,me ... twice a day. Too bad. His eyes drifted aft to the tank ofwater. She followed. One tank water. All the rest fuel. Too bad, toobad. We get thirsty I think.  They did get thirsty, soon. A damnable hot thirst accented bythe knowledge that water was precious, a thirst increased by adried-up-in-the-mouth sensation. Their first drink was strangelybitter; tragically disappointing. Patti Gray suddenly swung upright inthe hammock and kicked her legs. She massaged her throat with a nervoushand, wiped damp hair from about her face.     I have to have a drink.     Rat stared at her without answer.     I said, I have to have a drink!     Heard you.     Well...?     Well, nothing. Stall. Keep water longer.     She swung a vicious boot and missed by inches. Rat grinned, and madehis way aft, hand over hand. He treaded cautiously along the deck. Dolike this, he called over his shoulder. Gravity punk too. Back andunder, gravity. He waited until she joined him at the water tap.     They stood there glaring idiotically at each other.     She burst out laughing. They even threw the drinking cups out! Ratinched the handle grudgingly and she applied lips to the faucet.     Faugh! Gray sprang back, forgot herself and lost her balance, satdown on the deck and spat out the water. It's hot! It tastes like helland it's hot! It must be fuel!     Rat applied his lips to the tap and sampled. Coming up with a mouthfulhe swished it around on his tongue like mouthwash. Abruptly hecontrived a facial contortion between a grin and a grimace, and letsome of the water trickle from the edges of his mouth. He swallowed andit cost him something.     No. I mean yes, I think. Water, no doubt. Yes. Fuel out, water in.Swish-swush. Dammit, Greaseball forget to wash tank!     But what makes it so hot? She worked her mouth to dry-rinse the tasteof the fuel.     Ship get hot. Water on sun side. H-m-m-m-m-m-m.     H-m-m-m-m-m-m-m what?     Flip-flop. He could talk with his hands as well. Hot side over likepancake. Rat hobbled over to the board and sat down. An experimentalflick on a lever produced nothing. Another flick, this time followed bya quivering jar. He contemplated the panel board while fastening hisbelt.     H-m-m-m-m-m-m, the lower lip protruded.     Gray protested. Oh, stop humming and do something! That wa— theword was queerly torn from her throat, and a scream magically filledthe vacancy. Nurse Gray sat up and rubbed a painful spot that hadsuddenly appeared on her arm. She found her nose bleeding and anothernew, swelling bruise on the side of her head. Around her the place wasempty. Bare.     No, not quite. A wispy something was hanging just out of sight inthe corner of the eye; the water tap was now moulded      upward     , beadsglistening on its handle. The wispy thing caught her attention againand she looked up.     Two people, tightly wrapped and bound in hammocks, were staring down ather, amazed, swinging on their stomachs. Craning further, she saw Rat.He was hanging upside down in the chair, grinning at her in reverse.     Flip-flop, he laconically explained.     For cripes sakes, Jehosaphat! Gladney groaned. Turn me over on myback! Do something! Gray stood on tiptoes and just could pivot thehammocks on their rope-axis.     And now, please, just      how     do I get into mine? she bit at Rat.  Existence dragged. Paradoxically, time dropped away like a cloak asthe sense of individual hours and minutes vanished, and into its placecrept a slow-torturing substitute. As the ship revolved, monotonously,first the ceiling and then the floor took on dullish, maddeningaspects, eyes ached continuously from staring at them time and againwithout surcease. The steady, drumming rockets crashed into the mindand the walls shrieked malevolently on the eyeballs. Dull, throbbingsameness of the poorly filtered air, a growing taint in the nostrils.Damp warm skin, reeking blankets. The taste of fuel in the mouth forrefreshment. Slowly mounting mental duress. And above all the drummingof the rockets.     Once, a sudden, frightening change of pitch in the rockets and a wild,sickening lurch. Meteor rain. Maddening, plunging swings to the farright and left, made without warning. A torn lip as a sudden lurchtears the faucet from her mouth. A shattered tooth.     Sorry! Rat whispered.     Shut up and drive! she cried.     Patti ... Judith called out, in pain.     Peace of mind followed peace of body into a forgotten limbo of lostthings, a slyly climbing madness directed at one another. Waspishwords uttered in pain, fatigue and temper. Fractiousness. A hot,confined, stale hell. Sleep became a hollow mockery, as bad waterand concentrated tablets brought on stomach pains to plague them.Consciousness punctured only by spasms of lethargy, shared to someextent by the invalids. Above all, crawling lassitude and incalescenttempers.     Rat watched the white, drawn face swing in the hammock beside him. Andhis hands never faltered on the controls.     Never a slackening of the terrific pace; abnormal speed, gruellingdrive ... drive ... drive. Fear. Tantalizing fear made worse becauseRat couldn't understand. Smothered moaning that ate at his nerves.Grim-faced, sleep-wracked, belted to the chair, driving!     How many days? How many days! Gray begged of him thousands of timesuntil the very repetition grated on her eardrums. How many days?His only answer was an inhuman snarl, and the cruel blazing of thoseinhuman eyes.     She fell face first to the floor. I can't keep it up! she cried. Thesound of her voice rolled along the hot steel deck. I cant! I cant!     A double handful of tepid water was thrown in her face. Get up! Ratstood over her, face twisted, his body hunched. Get up! She stared athim, dazed. He kicked her. Get up! The tepid water ran off her faceand far away she heard Judith calling.... She forced herself up. Ratwas back in the chair.  Gladney unexpectedly exploded. He had been awake for a long time,watching Rat at the board. Wrenching loose a chest strap he attemptedto sit up.     Rat! Damn you Rat, listen to me!      When're you going to start braking     ,Rat?     I hear you. He turned on Gladney with dulled eyes. Lie down. Yousick.     I'll be damned if I'm going to lie here and let you drive us to Orion!We must be near the half-way line! When are you going to start braking?     Not brake, Rat answered sullenly. No, not brake.           Not brake?      Gladney screamed and sat bolt upright. Nurse Gray jumpedfor him. Are you crazy, you skinny rat? Gray secured a hold on hisshoulders and forced him down. You gotta brake! Don't you understandthat? You have to, you vacuum-skull! Gray was pleading with him toshut-up like a good fellow. He appealed to her. He's gotta brake! Makehim!     He has a good point there, Rat, she spoke up. What about thishalf-way line?     He turned to her with a weary ghost of the old smile on his face. Wepassed line. Three days ago, maybe. A shrug of shoulders.     Passed! Gray and Gladney exclaimed in unison.     You catch on quick, Rat nodded. This six day, don't you know?     Gladney sank back, exhausted. The nurse crept over to the pilot.Getting your figures mixed, aren't you?     Rat shook his head and said nothing.     But Roberds said eight days, and he—     —he on Mars. I here. Boss nuts, too sad. He drive, it be eight days.Now only six. He cast a glance at Judith and found her eyes closed.Six days, no brake. No.     I see your point, and appreciate it, Gray cut in. But now what? Thisdeceleration business ... there is a whole lot I don't know, but somethings I do!     Rat refused the expected answer. Land tonight, I think. Never been toEarth before. Somebody meet us, I think.     You can bet your leather boots somebody will meet us! Gladney cried.Gray turned to him. The Chief'll have the whole planet waiting for      you     ! He laughed with real satisfaction. Oh yes, Rat, they'll besomebody waiting for us all right. And then he added: If we land.     Oh, we land. Rat confided, glad to share a secret.     Yeah, Gladney grated. But in how many little pieces?     I've never been to Earth before. Nice, I think. Patti Gray caughtsomething new in the tone and stared at him. Gladney must have noticedit, too.     The Centaurian moved sideways and pointed. Gray placed her eyes in thevacated position.     Earth! she shouted.     Quite. Nice. Do me a favor?     Just name it!     Not drink long time. Some water?     Gray nodded and went to the faucet. The drumming seemed remote, thetension vanished. She was an uncommonly long time in returning, at lastshe appeared beside him, outstretched hands dry.     There isn't any left, Rat.     Rat batted his tired eyes expressively. Tasted punk, he grinned ather.     She sat down on the floor suddenly and buried her face.     Rat, she said presently, I want to ask you something, ratherpersonal? Your ... name. 'Rat'? Roberds told me something about yourrecord. But ... please tell me, Rat. You didn't know the attack wascoming, did you?     He grinned again and waggled his head at her. No. Who tell Rat?Suddenly he was deadly serious as he spoke to her. Rat a.w.o.l., goout to help sick man alone in desert. Rat leave post. Not time sendcall through. Come back with man, find horrible thing happen.     But why didn't you explain?     He grinned again. Who believe? Sick man die soon after.     Gladney sat up. He had heard the conversation between the two. You'reright, Rat. No one would have believed you then, and no one will now.You've been safe enough on Mars, but the police will nab you as soon asyou get out of the ship.     They can't! cried Patti Gray. They can't hurt him after what he'sdone now.     The Centaurian grinned in a cynical way.     Police not get me, Gladney. Gladney's memory damn punk, I think. Earthpretty nice place, maybe. But not for Rat.     Gladney stared at him for minutes. Then: Say, I get it ... you're—     Shut up! Rat cut him off sharply. You talk too much. He cast aglance at Nurse Gray and then threw a meaning look at Gladney.  ","From the very beginning Patti is keen one Rat. When their gazes first meet she almost smiles back. She has to hide her goodwill as Rat is despised by the crew of the ship. The nurse is interested in his background and asks Roberds and Peterson. After learning about him leaving the post she wonders why he wasn't executed and feel sympathy for Rat. She visits him in secret to ask to pilot the ship, because her and the sick girl need to get to Earth as fast as possible and believe he can help. Rat does everything in a fast and well-organized way and plans to reach Earth in six days without brakes. He instructs Patti to cover herself in blankets not to get too hot and decides how the water will be distributed. He also tells about trying to save a man being the reason for him leaving the post and Patti feels even more sympathy. Nevertheless, during the journey they have a fight when she starts panicking and demanding water and Rat beats her. He tries to enforce his rules on the ship and others ask him to brake, Patti hurts herself during Rat's manoeuvres between the meteorites but she stands it. "
"What is the importance of the crashing of the ship of Judith's father? </s>     PRISON PLANET     By BOB TUCKER     To remain on Mars meant death from agonizing     space-sickness, but Earth-surgery lay     days of flight away. And there was only     a surface rocket in which to escape—with     a traitorous Ganymedean for its pilot.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Fall 1942.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Listen, Rat! Roberds said, what      I     say goes around here. It doesn'thappen to be any of your business. I'm still in possession of my wits,and I know Peterson can't handle that ship. Furthermore Gladney willbe in it too, right along side of that sick girl in there! And Rat,get this:      I'm     going to pilot that ship. Understand? Consulate orno Consulate, job or no job, I'm wheeling that crate to Earth becausethis is an emergency. And the emergency happens to be bigger than myposition, to me at any rate. His tone dropped to a deadly softness.Now will you kindly remove your stinking carcass from this office?     Unheeding, Rat swung his eyes around in the gloom and discovered thewoman, a nurse in uniform. He blinked at her and she returned the look,wavering. She bit her lip and determination flowed back. She met thestare of his boring, off-colored eyes. Rat grinned suddenly. Nurse Grayalmost smiled back, stopped before the others could see it.     Won't go! The Centaurian resumed his fight. You not go, lose job,black-listed. Never get another. Look at me. I know. He retreateda precious step to escape a rolled up fist. Little ship carry fournice. Rip out lockers and bunks. Swing hammocks. Put fuel in watertanks. Live on concentrates. Earth hospital fix bellyache afterwards,allright. I pilot ship. Yes?     No! Roberds screamed.     Almost in answer, a moan issued from a small side room. The men in theoffice froze as Nurse Gray ran across the room. She disappeared throughthe narrow door.     Peterson, the field manager ordered, come over here and help methrow this rat out.... He went for Rat. Peterson swung up out of hischair with balled fist. The outlander backed rapidly.     No need, no need, no need! he said quickly. I go. Still backing, heblindly kicked at the door and stepped into the night.  When the door slammed shut Roberds locked it. Peterson slumped in thechair.     Do you mean that, Chief? About taking the ship yourself?     True enough. Roberds cast an anxious glance at the partly closeddoor, lowered his voice. It'll cost me my job, but that girl in therehas to be taken to a hospital quickly! And it's her luck to be landedon a planet that doesn't boast even one! So it's Earth ... or shedies. I'd feel a lot better too if we could get Gladney to a hospital,I'm not too confident of that patching job. He pulled a pipe from ajacket pocket. So, might as well kill two birds with one stone ... andthat wasn't meant to be funny!     Peterson said nothing, sat watching the door.     Rat has the right idea, Roberds continued, but I had already thoughtof it. About the bunks and lockers. Greaseball has been out there allnight tearing them out. We just      might     be able to hop by dawn ... andhell of a long, grinding hop it will be!     The nurse came out of the door.     How is she? Roberds asked.     Sleeping, Gray whispered. But sinking....     We can take off at dawn, I think. He filled the pipe and didn't lookat her. You'll have to spend most of the trip in a hammock.     I can take it. Suddenly she smiled, wanly. I was with the Fleet. Howlong will it take?     Eight days, in      that     ship.     Roberds lit his pipe, and carefully hid his emotions. He knew Petersonwas harboring the same thoughts. Eight days in space, in a small shipmeant for two, and built for planetary surface flights. Eight days inthat untrustworthy crate, hurtling to save the lives of that girl andGladney.     Who was that ... man? The one you put out? Gray asked.     We call him Rat, Roberds said.     She didn't ask why. She said: Why couldn't he pilot the ship, I mean?What is his record?     Peterson opened his mouth.     Shut up, Peterson! the Chief snapped. We don't talk about his recordaround here, Miss Gray. It's not a pretty thing to tell.     Stow it, Chief, said Peterson. Miss Gray is no pantywaist. Heturned to the nurse. Ever hear of the Sansan massacre?     Patti Gray paled. Yes, she whispered. Was Rat in that?     Roberds shook his head. He didn't take part in it. But Rat wasattached to a very important office at the time, the outpost watch.And when Mad Barry Sansan and his gang of thugs swooped down on theGanymedean colony, there was no warning. Our friend Rat was AWOL.     As to who he is ... well, just one of those freaks from up aroundCentauria somewhere. He's been hanging around all the fields and dumpson Mars a long time, finally landed up here.     But, protested Miss Gray, I don't understand? I always thought thatleaving one's post under such circumstances meant execution.     The Chief Consul nodded. It does, usually. But this was a freak case.It would take hours to explain. However, I'll just sum it up in oneword: politics. Politics, with which Rat had no connection saved him.     The girl shook her head, more in sympathy than condemnation.     Are you expecting the others in soon? she asked. It wouldn't beright to leave Peterson.     They will be in, in a day or two. Peterson will beat it over to Basestation for repairs, and to notify Earth we're coming. He'll be allright.     Abruptly she stood up. Goodnight gentlemen. Call me if I'm needed.     Roberds nodded acknowledgement. The door to the side room closed behindher. Peterson hauled his chair over to the desk. He sniffed the air.     Damned rat! he whispered harshly. They ought to make a law forcinghim to wear dark glasses!     Roberds smiled wearily. His eyes do get a man, don't they?     I'd like to burn 'em out! Peterson snarled.  Rat helped Greaseball fill the water tanks to capacity with fuel,checked the concentrated rations and grunted.     Greaseball looked over the interior and chuckled. The boss said stripher, and strip her I did. All right, Rat, outside. He followed theCentaurian out, and pulled the ladder away from the lip of the lock.The two walked across the strip of sandy soil to the office building.On tiptoes, Greaseball poked his head through the door panel. All set.     Roberds nodded at him. Stick with it! and jerked a thumb at Ratoutside. Grease nodded understanding.     Okay, Rat, you can go to bed now. He dropped the ladder against thewall and sat on it. Good night. He watched Rat walk slowly away.     Swinging down the path towards his own rambling shack, Rat caught asibilant whisper. Pausing, undecided, he heard it again.     Here ... can you see me? A white clad arm waved in the gloom. Ratregarded the arm in the window. Another impatient gesture, and hestepped to the sill.     Yes?—in the softest of whispers. The voices of the men in droningconversation drifted in. What you want?     Nothing but silence for a few hanging seconds, and then: Can you pilotthat ship? Her voice was shaky.     He didn't answer, stared at her confused. He felt her fear as clearlyas he detected it in her words.     Well,      can     you? she demanded.     Damn yes! he stated simply. It now necessary?     Very! She is becoming worse. I'm afraid to wait until daylight.And ... well, we want      you     to pilot it! She refuses to riskMr. Roberds' job. She favors you.     Rat stepped back, astonished. She?     Nurse Gray moved from the window and Rat saw the second form in theroom, a slight, quiet figure on a small cot. My patient, Nurse Grayexplained. She overheard our conversation awhile ago. Quick, please,can you?     Rat looked at her and then at the girl on the cot. He vanished from thewindow. Almost immediately, he was back again.     When? he whispered.     As soon as possible. Yes. Do you know...? but he had gone again.Nurse Gray found herself addressing blackness. On the point of turning,she saw him back again.     Blankets, he instructed. Wrap in blankets. Cold—hot too. Wrapgood! And he was gone again. Gray blinked away the illusion hedisappeared upwards.     She ran over to the girl. Judith, if you want to back down, now is thetime. He'll be back in a moment.     No! Judith moaned. No! Gray smiled in the darkness and beganwrapping the blankets around her. A light tapping at the windowannounced the return of Rat. The nurse pushed open the window wide, sawhim out there with arms upstretched.     Grit your teeth and hold on! Here we go. She picked up the blanketedgirl in both arms and walked to the window. Rat took the girl easily asshe was swung out, the blackness hid them both. But he appeared againinstantly.     Better lock window, he cautioned. Stall, if Boss call. Backsoon.... and he was gone.     To Nurse Gray the fifteen minute wait seemed like hours, impatientagonizing hours of tight-lipped anxiety.  Feet first, she swung through the window, clutching a small bag in herhands. She never touched ground. Rat whispered Hold tight! in herear and the wind was abruptly yanked from her! The ground fell awayin a dizzy rush, unseen but felt, in the night! Her feet scraped onsome projection, and she felt herself being lifted still higher. Windreturned to her throat, and she breathed again.     I'm sorry, she managed to get out, gaspingly. I wasn't expectingthat. I had forgotten you—     —had wings, he finished and chuckled. So likewise Greaseball. Thepale office lights dropped away as they sped over the field. On the farhorizon, a tinge of dawn crept along the uneven terrain.     Oh, the bag! she gasped. I've dropped it.     He chuckled again. Have got. You scare, I catch.     She didn't see the ship because of the wind in her eyes, but withoutwarning she plummeted down and her feet jarred on the lip of the lock.Inside. No noise, no light. Easy. But in spite of his warning shetripped in the darkness. He helped her from the floor and guided her tothe hammocks.     Judith? she asked.     Here. Beside you, trussed up so tight I can hardly breathe.     No talk! Rat insisted. Much hush-hush needed. Other girl shipshape.You make likewise. Forcibly he shoved her into a hammock. Wrap uptight. Straps tight. When we go, we go fast. Bang! And he left her.     Hey! Where are you going now?     To get Gladney. He sick too. Hush hush! His voice floated back.     Where has he gone? Judith called.     Back for another man. Remember the two miners who found us when wecrashed? The burly one fell off a rock-bank as they were bringing usin. Stove in his ribs pretty badly. The other has a broken arm ...happened once while you were out. They wouldn't let me say anything forfear of worrying you.  The girl did not answer then and a hushed expectancy fell over theship. Somewhere aft a small motor was running. Wind whistled past theopen lock.     I've caused plenty of trouble haven't I? she asked aloud, finally.This was certainly a fool stunt, and I'm guilty of a lot of foolstunts! I just didn't realize until now the      why     of that law.     Don't talk so much, the nurse admonished. A lot of people have foundout the      why     of that law the hard way, just as you are doing, andlived to remember it. Until hospitals are built on this forlorn world,humans like you who haven't been properly conditioned will have to stayright at home.     How about these men that live and work here?     They never get here until they've been through the mill first.Adenoids, appendix', all the extra parts they can get along without.     Well, Judith said. I've certainly learned my lesson!     Gray didn't answer, but from out of the darkness surrounding her came asound remarkably resembling a snort.     Gray? Judith asked fearfully.     Yes?     Hasn't the pilot been gone an awfully long time?     Rat himself provided the answer by alighting at the lip with a jar thatshook the ship. He was breathing heavily and lugging something in hisarms. The burden groaned.     Gladney! Nurse Gray exclaimed.     I got. Rat confirmed. Yes, Gladney. Damn heavy, Gladney.     But how? she demanded. What of Roberds and Peterson?     Trick, he sniggered. I burn down my shack. Boss run out. I run in.Very simple. He packed Gladney into the remaining hammock and snappedbuckles.     And Peterson? she prompted.     Oh yes. Peterson. So sorry about Peterson. Had to fan him.           Fan     him? I don't understand.     Fan. With chair. Everything all right. I apologized. Rat finished upand was walking back to the lock. They heard a slight rustling of wingsas he padded away.     He was back instantly, duplicating his feat of a short time ago.Cursing shouts were slung on the night air, and the deadly spang ofbullets bounced on the hull! Some entered the lock. The Centauriansnapped it shut. Chunks of lead continued to pound the ship. Rat leapedfor the pilot's chair, heavily, a wing drooping.     You've been hurt! Gray cried. A small panel light outlined hisfeatures. She tried to struggle up.     Lie still! We go. Boss get wise. With lightning fingers he flickedseveral switches on the panel, turned to her. Hold belly. Zoom!     Gray folded her hands across her stomach and closed her eyes.     Rat unlocked the master level and shoved!  Whew! Nurse Gray came back to throbbing awareness, the all toofamiliar feeling of a misplaced stomach attempting to force itscrowded way into her boots plaguing her. Rockets roared in the rear.She loosened a few straps and twisted over. Judith was still out, herface tensed in pain. Gray bit her lip and twisted the other way. TheCentaurian was grinning at her.     Do you always leave in a hurry? she demanded, and instantly wishedshe hadn't said it. He gave no outward sign.     Long-time sleep, he announced. Four, five hours maybe. The cheststrap was lying loose at his side.     That long! she was incredulous. I'm never out more than threehours! Unloosening more straps, she sat up, glanced at the controlpanel.     Not taking time, he stated simply and pointed to a dial. Gray shookher head and looked at the others.     That isn't doing either of them any good!     Rat nodded unhappily. What's her matter—? pointing.     Appendix. Something about this atmosphere sends it haywire. The thingitself isn't diseased, but it starts manufacturing poison. Patient diesin a week unless it is taken out.     Don't know it, he said briefly.     Do you mean to say you don't have an appendix? she demanded.     Rat folded his arms and considered this. Don't know. Maybe yes, maybeno. Where's it hurt?     Gray pointed out the location. The Centaurian considered this furtherand drifted into long contemplation. Watching him, Gray remembered hiseyes that night ... only      last     night ... in the office. Peterson hadrefused to meet them. After awhile Rat came out of it.     No, he waved. No appendix. Never nowhere appendix.     Then Mother Nature has finally woke up! she exclaimed. But why doCentaurians rate it exclusively?     Rat ignored this and asked one of her. What you and her doing upthere? He pointed back and up, to where Mars obliterated the stars.     You might call it a pleasure jaunt. She's only seventeen. We came overin a cruiser belonging to her father; it was rather large and easy tohandle. But the cruise ended when she lost control of the ship becauseof an attack of space-appendicitis. The rest you know.     So you?     So I'm a combination nurse, governess, guard and what have you. Orwill be until we get back. After this, I'll probably be looking forwork. She shivered.     Cold? he inquired concernedly.     On the contrary, I'm too warm. She started to remove the blanket. Ratthrew up a hand to stop her.     Leave on! Hot out here.     But I'm too hot now. I want to take it off!     No. Leave on. Wool blanket. Keep in body heat, yes. Keep out cold,yes. Keep in, keep out, likewise. See?     Gray stared at him. I never thought of it that way before. Why ofcourse! If it protects from one temperature, it will protect fromanother. Isn't it silly of me not to know that? Heat pressing on herface accented the fact.     What is your name? she asked. Your real one I mean.     He grinned. Big. You couldn't say it. Sound like Christmas andbottlenose together real fast. Just say Rat. Everybody does. His eyesswept the panel and flashed back to her. Your name Gray. Have a frontname?     Patti.     Pretty, Patti.     No, just Patti. Say, what's the matter with the cooling system?     Damn punk, he said. This crate for surface work. No space. Coolingsystem groan, damn punk. Won't keep cool here.     And ... she followed up, it will get warmer as we go out?     Rat turned back to his board in a brown study and carefully ignoredher. Gray grasped an inkling of what the coming week could bring.     But how about water? she demanded next. Is there enough?     He faced about. For her— nodding to Judith, and him— to Gladney,yes. Sparingly. Four hours every time, maybe. Back to Gray. You,me ... twice a day. Too bad. His eyes drifted aft to the tank ofwater. She followed. One tank water. All the rest fuel. Too bad, toobad. We get thirsty I think.  They did get thirsty, soon. A damnable hot thirst accented bythe knowledge that water was precious, a thirst increased by adried-up-in-the-mouth sensation. Their first drink was strangelybitter; tragically disappointing. Patti Gray suddenly swung upright inthe hammock and kicked her legs. She massaged her throat with a nervoushand, wiped damp hair from about her face.     I have to have a drink.     Rat stared at her without answer.     I said, I have to have a drink!     Heard you.     Well...?     Well, nothing. Stall. Keep water longer.     She swung a vicious boot and missed by inches. Rat grinned, and madehis way aft, hand over hand. He treaded cautiously along the deck. Dolike this, he called over his shoulder. Gravity punk too. Back andunder, gravity. He waited until she joined him at the water tap.     They stood there glaring idiotically at each other.     She burst out laughing. They even threw the drinking cups out! Ratinched the handle grudgingly and she applied lips to the faucet.     Faugh! Gray sprang back, forgot herself and lost her balance, satdown on the deck and spat out the water. It's hot! It tastes like helland it's hot! It must be fuel!     Rat applied his lips to the tap and sampled. Coming up with a mouthfulhe swished it around on his tongue like mouthwash. Abruptly hecontrived a facial contortion between a grin and a grimace, and letsome of the water trickle from the edges of his mouth. He swallowed andit cost him something.     No. I mean yes, I think. Water, no doubt. Yes. Fuel out, water in.Swish-swush. Dammit, Greaseball forget to wash tank!     But what makes it so hot? She worked her mouth to dry-rinse the tasteof the fuel.     Ship get hot. Water on sun side. H-m-m-m-m-m-m.     H-m-m-m-m-m-m-m what?     Flip-flop. He could talk with his hands as well. Hot side over likepancake. Rat hobbled over to the board and sat down. An experimentalflick on a lever produced nothing. Another flick, this time followed bya quivering jar. He contemplated the panel board while fastening hisbelt.     H-m-m-m-m-m-m, the lower lip protruded.     Gray protested. Oh, stop humming and do something! That wa— theword was queerly torn from her throat, and a scream magically filledthe vacancy. Nurse Gray sat up and rubbed a painful spot that hadsuddenly appeared on her arm. She found her nose bleeding and anothernew, swelling bruise on the side of her head. Around her the place wasempty. Bare.     No, not quite. A wispy something was hanging just out of sight inthe corner of the eye; the water tap was now moulded      upward     , beadsglistening on its handle. The wispy thing caught her attention againand she looked up.     Two people, tightly wrapped and bound in hammocks, were staring down ather, amazed, swinging on their stomachs. Craning further, she saw Rat.He was hanging upside down in the chair, grinning at her in reverse.     Flip-flop, he laconically explained.     For cripes sakes, Jehosaphat! Gladney groaned. Turn me over on myback! Do something! Gray stood on tiptoes and just could pivot thehammocks on their rope-axis.     And now, please, just      how     do I get into mine? she bit at Rat.  Existence dragged. Paradoxically, time dropped away like a cloak asthe sense of individual hours and minutes vanished, and into its placecrept a slow-torturing substitute. As the ship revolved, monotonously,first the ceiling and then the floor took on dullish, maddeningaspects, eyes ached continuously from staring at them time and againwithout surcease. The steady, drumming rockets crashed into the mindand the walls shrieked malevolently on the eyeballs. Dull, throbbingsameness of the poorly filtered air, a growing taint in the nostrils.Damp warm skin, reeking blankets. The taste of fuel in the mouth forrefreshment. Slowly mounting mental duress. And above all the drummingof the rockets.     Once, a sudden, frightening change of pitch in the rockets and a wild,sickening lurch. Meteor rain. Maddening, plunging swings to the farright and left, made without warning. A torn lip as a sudden lurchtears the faucet from her mouth. A shattered tooth.     Sorry! Rat whispered.     Shut up and drive! she cried.     Patti ... Judith called out, in pain.     Peace of mind followed peace of body into a forgotten limbo of lostthings, a slyly climbing madness directed at one another. Waspishwords uttered in pain, fatigue and temper. Fractiousness. A hot,confined, stale hell. Sleep became a hollow mockery, as bad waterand concentrated tablets brought on stomach pains to plague them.Consciousness punctured only by spasms of lethargy, shared to someextent by the invalids. Above all, crawling lassitude and incalescenttempers.     Rat watched the white, drawn face swing in the hammock beside him. Andhis hands never faltered on the controls.     Never a slackening of the terrific pace; abnormal speed, gruellingdrive ... drive ... drive. Fear. Tantalizing fear made worse becauseRat couldn't understand. Smothered moaning that ate at his nerves.Grim-faced, sleep-wracked, belted to the chair, driving!     How many days? How many days! Gray begged of him thousands of timesuntil the very repetition grated on her eardrums. How many days?His only answer was an inhuman snarl, and the cruel blazing of thoseinhuman eyes.     She fell face first to the floor. I can't keep it up! she cried. Thesound of her voice rolled along the hot steel deck. I cant! I cant!     A double handful of tepid water was thrown in her face. Get up! Ratstood over her, face twisted, his body hunched. Get up! She stared athim, dazed. He kicked her. Get up! The tepid water ran off her faceand far away she heard Judith calling.... She forced herself up. Ratwas back in the chair.  Gladney unexpectedly exploded. He had been awake for a long time,watching Rat at the board. Wrenching loose a chest strap he attemptedto sit up.     Rat! Damn you Rat, listen to me!      When're you going to start braking     ,Rat?     I hear you. He turned on Gladney with dulled eyes. Lie down. Yousick.     I'll be damned if I'm going to lie here and let you drive us to Orion!We must be near the half-way line! When are you going to start braking?     Not brake, Rat answered sullenly. No, not brake.           Not brake?      Gladney screamed and sat bolt upright. Nurse Gray jumpedfor him. Are you crazy, you skinny rat? Gray secured a hold on hisshoulders and forced him down. You gotta brake! Don't you understandthat? You have to, you vacuum-skull! Gray was pleading with him toshut-up like a good fellow. He appealed to her. He's gotta brake! Makehim!     He has a good point there, Rat, she spoke up. What about thishalf-way line?     He turned to her with a weary ghost of the old smile on his face. Wepassed line. Three days ago, maybe. A shrug of shoulders.     Passed! Gray and Gladney exclaimed in unison.     You catch on quick, Rat nodded. This six day, don't you know?     Gladney sank back, exhausted. The nurse crept over to the pilot.Getting your figures mixed, aren't you?     Rat shook his head and said nothing.     But Roberds said eight days, and he—     —he on Mars. I here. Boss nuts, too sad. He drive, it be eight days.Now only six. He cast a glance at Judith and found her eyes closed.Six days, no brake. No.     I see your point, and appreciate it, Gray cut in. But now what? Thisdeceleration business ... there is a whole lot I don't know, but somethings I do!     Rat refused the expected answer. Land tonight, I think. Never been toEarth before. Somebody meet us, I think.     You can bet your leather boots somebody will meet us! Gladney cried.Gray turned to him. The Chief'll have the whole planet waiting for      you     ! He laughed with real satisfaction. Oh yes, Rat, they'll besomebody waiting for us all right. And then he added: If we land.     Oh, we land. Rat confided, glad to share a secret.     Yeah, Gladney grated. But in how many little pieces?     I've never been to Earth before. Nice, I think. Patti Gray caughtsomething new in the tone and stared at him. Gladney must have noticedit, too.     The Centaurian moved sideways and pointed. Gray placed her eyes in thevacated position.     Earth! she shouted.     Quite. Nice. Do me a favor?     Just name it!     Not drink long time. Some water?     Gray nodded and went to the faucet. The drumming seemed remote, thetension vanished. She was an uncommonly long time in returning, at lastshe appeared beside him, outstretched hands dry.     There isn't any left, Rat.     Rat batted his tired eyes expressively. Tasted punk, he grinned ather.     She sat down on the floor suddenly and buried her face.     Rat, she said presently, I want to ask you something, ratherpersonal? Your ... name. 'Rat'? Roberds told me something about yourrecord. But ... please tell me, Rat. You didn't know the attack wascoming, did you?     He grinned again and waggled his head at her. No. Who tell Rat?Suddenly he was deadly serious as he spoke to her. Rat a.w.o.l., goout to help sick man alone in desert. Rat leave post. Not time sendcall through. Come back with man, find horrible thing happen.     But why didn't you explain?     He grinned again. Who believe? Sick man die soon after.     Gladney sat up. He had heard the conversation between the two. You'reright, Rat. No one would have believed you then, and no one will now.You've been safe enough on Mars, but the police will nab you as soon asyou get out of the ship.     They can't! cried Patti Gray. They can't hurt him after what he'sdone now.     The Centaurian grinned in a cynical way.     Police not get me, Gladney. Gladney's memory damn punk, I think. Earthpretty nice place, maybe. But not for Rat.     Gladney stared at him for minutes. Then: Say, I get it ... you're—     Shut up! Rat cut him off sharply. You talk too much. He cast aglance at Nurse Gray and then threw a meaning look at Gladney.  ","The crashing of the ship brings Judith and Patti to Mars where they meet two miners and then the whole crew of the spaceship including Rat. Judith wouldn't get that sick and lose the means to return to Earth if the ship didn't crash. The miners wouldn't suffer after helping the girls. Therefore, Judith wouldn't learn the lesson of breaking the law and leaving Earth.  The crashing also leads to the necessity of Rat piloting the ship and all the party suffering from heat and thirst. The whole situation of danger and limitless occurs because the ship crashed and the girl gets sick on Mars, so she needs to get to Earth immediately. "
"What happens to Patti Gray throughout the story? </s>     PRISON PLANET     By BOB TUCKER     To remain on Mars meant death from agonizing     space-sickness, but Earth-surgery lay     days of flight away. And there was only     a surface rocket in which to escape—with     a traitorous Ganymedean for its pilot.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Fall 1942.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Listen, Rat! Roberds said, what      I     say goes around here. It doesn'thappen to be any of your business. I'm still in possession of my wits,and I know Peterson can't handle that ship. Furthermore Gladney willbe in it too, right along side of that sick girl in there! And Rat,get this:      I'm     going to pilot that ship. Understand? Consulate orno Consulate, job or no job, I'm wheeling that crate to Earth becausethis is an emergency. And the emergency happens to be bigger than myposition, to me at any rate. His tone dropped to a deadly softness.Now will you kindly remove your stinking carcass from this office?     Unheeding, Rat swung his eyes around in the gloom and discovered thewoman, a nurse in uniform. He blinked at her and she returned the look,wavering. She bit her lip and determination flowed back. She met thestare of his boring, off-colored eyes. Rat grinned suddenly. Nurse Grayalmost smiled back, stopped before the others could see it.     Won't go! The Centaurian resumed his fight. You not go, lose job,black-listed. Never get another. Look at me. I know. He retreateda precious step to escape a rolled up fist. Little ship carry fournice. Rip out lockers and bunks. Swing hammocks. Put fuel in watertanks. Live on concentrates. Earth hospital fix bellyache afterwards,allright. I pilot ship. Yes?     No! Roberds screamed.     Almost in answer, a moan issued from a small side room. The men in theoffice froze as Nurse Gray ran across the room. She disappeared throughthe narrow door.     Peterson, the field manager ordered, come over here and help methrow this rat out.... He went for Rat. Peterson swung up out of hischair with balled fist. The outlander backed rapidly.     No need, no need, no need! he said quickly. I go. Still backing, heblindly kicked at the door and stepped into the night.  When the door slammed shut Roberds locked it. Peterson slumped in thechair.     Do you mean that, Chief? About taking the ship yourself?     True enough. Roberds cast an anxious glance at the partly closeddoor, lowered his voice. It'll cost me my job, but that girl in therehas to be taken to a hospital quickly! And it's her luck to be landedon a planet that doesn't boast even one! So it's Earth ... or shedies. I'd feel a lot better too if we could get Gladney to a hospital,I'm not too confident of that patching job. He pulled a pipe from ajacket pocket. So, might as well kill two birds with one stone ... andthat wasn't meant to be funny!     Peterson said nothing, sat watching the door.     Rat has the right idea, Roberds continued, but I had already thoughtof it. About the bunks and lockers. Greaseball has been out there allnight tearing them out. We just      might     be able to hop by dawn ... andhell of a long, grinding hop it will be!     The nurse came out of the door.     How is she? Roberds asked.     Sleeping, Gray whispered. But sinking....     We can take off at dawn, I think. He filled the pipe and didn't lookat her. You'll have to spend most of the trip in a hammock.     I can take it. Suddenly she smiled, wanly. I was with the Fleet. Howlong will it take?     Eight days, in      that     ship.     Roberds lit his pipe, and carefully hid his emotions. He knew Petersonwas harboring the same thoughts. Eight days in space, in a small shipmeant for two, and built for planetary surface flights. Eight days inthat untrustworthy crate, hurtling to save the lives of that girl andGladney.     Who was that ... man? The one you put out? Gray asked.     We call him Rat, Roberds said.     She didn't ask why. She said: Why couldn't he pilot the ship, I mean?What is his record?     Peterson opened his mouth.     Shut up, Peterson! the Chief snapped. We don't talk about his recordaround here, Miss Gray. It's not a pretty thing to tell.     Stow it, Chief, said Peterson. Miss Gray is no pantywaist. Heturned to the nurse. Ever hear of the Sansan massacre?     Patti Gray paled. Yes, she whispered. Was Rat in that?     Roberds shook his head. He didn't take part in it. But Rat wasattached to a very important office at the time, the outpost watch.And when Mad Barry Sansan and his gang of thugs swooped down on theGanymedean colony, there was no warning. Our friend Rat was AWOL.     As to who he is ... well, just one of those freaks from up aroundCentauria somewhere. He's been hanging around all the fields and dumpson Mars a long time, finally landed up here.     But, protested Miss Gray, I don't understand? I always thought thatleaving one's post under such circumstances meant execution.     The Chief Consul nodded. It does, usually. But this was a freak case.It would take hours to explain. However, I'll just sum it up in oneword: politics. Politics, with which Rat had no connection saved him.     The girl shook her head, more in sympathy than condemnation.     Are you expecting the others in soon? she asked. It wouldn't beright to leave Peterson.     They will be in, in a day or two. Peterson will beat it over to Basestation for repairs, and to notify Earth we're coming. He'll be allright.     Abruptly she stood up. Goodnight gentlemen. Call me if I'm needed.     Roberds nodded acknowledgement. The door to the side room closed behindher. Peterson hauled his chair over to the desk. He sniffed the air.     Damned rat! he whispered harshly. They ought to make a law forcinghim to wear dark glasses!     Roberds smiled wearily. His eyes do get a man, don't they?     I'd like to burn 'em out! Peterson snarled.  Rat helped Greaseball fill the water tanks to capacity with fuel,checked the concentrated rations and grunted.     Greaseball looked over the interior and chuckled. The boss said stripher, and strip her I did. All right, Rat, outside. He followed theCentaurian out, and pulled the ladder away from the lip of the lock.The two walked across the strip of sandy soil to the office building.On tiptoes, Greaseball poked his head through the door panel. All set.     Roberds nodded at him. Stick with it! and jerked a thumb at Ratoutside. Grease nodded understanding.     Okay, Rat, you can go to bed now. He dropped the ladder against thewall and sat on it. Good night. He watched Rat walk slowly away.     Swinging down the path towards his own rambling shack, Rat caught asibilant whisper. Pausing, undecided, he heard it again.     Here ... can you see me? A white clad arm waved in the gloom. Ratregarded the arm in the window. Another impatient gesture, and hestepped to the sill.     Yes?—in the softest of whispers. The voices of the men in droningconversation drifted in. What you want?     Nothing but silence for a few hanging seconds, and then: Can you pilotthat ship? Her voice was shaky.     He didn't answer, stared at her confused. He felt her fear as clearlyas he detected it in her words.     Well,      can     you? she demanded.     Damn yes! he stated simply. It now necessary?     Very! She is becoming worse. I'm afraid to wait until daylight.And ... well, we want      you     to pilot it! She refuses to riskMr. Roberds' job. She favors you.     Rat stepped back, astonished. She?     Nurse Gray moved from the window and Rat saw the second form in theroom, a slight, quiet figure on a small cot. My patient, Nurse Grayexplained. She overheard our conversation awhile ago. Quick, please,can you?     Rat looked at her and then at the girl on the cot. He vanished from thewindow. Almost immediately, he was back again.     When? he whispered.     As soon as possible. Yes. Do you know...? but he had gone again.Nurse Gray found herself addressing blackness. On the point of turning,she saw him back again.     Blankets, he instructed. Wrap in blankets. Cold—hot too. Wrapgood! And he was gone again. Gray blinked away the illusion hedisappeared upwards.     She ran over to the girl. Judith, if you want to back down, now is thetime. He'll be back in a moment.     No! Judith moaned. No! Gray smiled in the darkness and beganwrapping the blankets around her. A light tapping at the windowannounced the return of Rat. The nurse pushed open the window wide, sawhim out there with arms upstretched.     Grit your teeth and hold on! Here we go. She picked up the blanketedgirl in both arms and walked to the window. Rat took the girl easily asshe was swung out, the blackness hid them both. But he appeared againinstantly.     Better lock window, he cautioned. Stall, if Boss call. Backsoon.... and he was gone.     To Nurse Gray the fifteen minute wait seemed like hours, impatientagonizing hours of tight-lipped anxiety.  Feet first, she swung through the window, clutching a small bag in herhands. She never touched ground. Rat whispered Hold tight! in herear and the wind was abruptly yanked from her! The ground fell awayin a dizzy rush, unseen but felt, in the night! Her feet scraped onsome projection, and she felt herself being lifted still higher. Windreturned to her throat, and she breathed again.     I'm sorry, she managed to get out, gaspingly. I wasn't expectingthat. I had forgotten you—     —had wings, he finished and chuckled. So likewise Greaseball. Thepale office lights dropped away as they sped over the field. On the farhorizon, a tinge of dawn crept along the uneven terrain.     Oh, the bag! she gasped. I've dropped it.     He chuckled again. Have got. You scare, I catch.     She didn't see the ship because of the wind in her eyes, but withoutwarning she plummeted down and her feet jarred on the lip of the lock.Inside. No noise, no light. Easy. But in spite of his warning shetripped in the darkness. He helped her from the floor and guided her tothe hammocks.     Judith? she asked.     Here. Beside you, trussed up so tight I can hardly breathe.     No talk! Rat insisted. Much hush-hush needed. Other girl shipshape.You make likewise. Forcibly he shoved her into a hammock. Wrap uptight. Straps tight. When we go, we go fast. Bang! And he left her.     Hey! Where are you going now?     To get Gladney. He sick too. Hush hush! His voice floated back.     Where has he gone? Judith called.     Back for another man. Remember the two miners who found us when wecrashed? The burly one fell off a rock-bank as they were bringing usin. Stove in his ribs pretty badly. The other has a broken arm ...happened once while you were out. They wouldn't let me say anything forfear of worrying you.  The girl did not answer then and a hushed expectancy fell over theship. Somewhere aft a small motor was running. Wind whistled past theopen lock.     I've caused plenty of trouble haven't I? she asked aloud, finally.This was certainly a fool stunt, and I'm guilty of a lot of foolstunts! I just didn't realize until now the      why     of that law.     Don't talk so much, the nurse admonished. A lot of people have foundout the      why     of that law the hard way, just as you are doing, andlived to remember it. Until hospitals are built on this forlorn world,humans like you who haven't been properly conditioned will have to stayright at home.     How about these men that live and work here?     They never get here until they've been through the mill first.Adenoids, appendix', all the extra parts they can get along without.     Well, Judith said. I've certainly learned my lesson!     Gray didn't answer, but from out of the darkness surrounding her came asound remarkably resembling a snort.     Gray? Judith asked fearfully.     Yes?     Hasn't the pilot been gone an awfully long time?     Rat himself provided the answer by alighting at the lip with a jar thatshook the ship. He was breathing heavily and lugging something in hisarms. The burden groaned.     Gladney! Nurse Gray exclaimed.     I got. Rat confirmed. Yes, Gladney. Damn heavy, Gladney.     But how? she demanded. What of Roberds and Peterson?     Trick, he sniggered. I burn down my shack. Boss run out. I run in.Very simple. He packed Gladney into the remaining hammock and snappedbuckles.     And Peterson? she prompted.     Oh yes. Peterson. So sorry about Peterson. Had to fan him.           Fan     him? I don't understand.     Fan. With chair. Everything all right. I apologized. Rat finished upand was walking back to the lock. They heard a slight rustling of wingsas he padded away.     He was back instantly, duplicating his feat of a short time ago.Cursing shouts were slung on the night air, and the deadly spang ofbullets bounced on the hull! Some entered the lock. The Centauriansnapped it shut. Chunks of lead continued to pound the ship. Rat leapedfor the pilot's chair, heavily, a wing drooping.     You've been hurt! Gray cried. A small panel light outlined hisfeatures. She tried to struggle up.     Lie still! We go. Boss get wise. With lightning fingers he flickedseveral switches on the panel, turned to her. Hold belly. Zoom!     Gray folded her hands across her stomach and closed her eyes.     Rat unlocked the master level and shoved!  Whew! Nurse Gray came back to throbbing awareness, the all toofamiliar feeling of a misplaced stomach attempting to force itscrowded way into her boots plaguing her. Rockets roared in the rear.She loosened a few straps and twisted over. Judith was still out, herface tensed in pain. Gray bit her lip and twisted the other way. TheCentaurian was grinning at her.     Do you always leave in a hurry? she demanded, and instantly wishedshe hadn't said it. He gave no outward sign.     Long-time sleep, he announced. Four, five hours maybe. The cheststrap was lying loose at his side.     That long! she was incredulous. I'm never out more than threehours! Unloosening more straps, she sat up, glanced at the controlpanel.     Not taking time, he stated simply and pointed to a dial. Gray shookher head and looked at the others.     That isn't doing either of them any good!     Rat nodded unhappily. What's her matter—? pointing.     Appendix. Something about this atmosphere sends it haywire. The thingitself isn't diseased, but it starts manufacturing poison. Patient diesin a week unless it is taken out.     Don't know it, he said briefly.     Do you mean to say you don't have an appendix? she demanded.     Rat folded his arms and considered this. Don't know. Maybe yes, maybeno. Where's it hurt?     Gray pointed out the location. The Centaurian considered this furtherand drifted into long contemplation. Watching him, Gray remembered hiseyes that night ... only      last     night ... in the office. Peterson hadrefused to meet them. After awhile Rat came out of it.     No, he waved. No appendix. Never nowhere appendix.     Then Mother Nature has finally woke up! she exclaimed. But why doCentaurians rate it exclusively?     Rat ignored this and asked one of her. What you and her doing upthere? He pointed back and up, to where Mars obliterated the stars.     You might call it a pleasure jaunt. She's only seventeen. We came overin a cruiser belonging to her father; it was rather large and easy tohandle. But the cruise ended when she lost control of the ship becauseof an attack of space-appendicitis. The rest you know.     So you?     So I'm a combination nurse, governess, guard and what have you. Orwill be until we get back. After this, I'll probably be looking forwork. She shivered.     Cold? he inquired concernedly.     On the contrary, I'm too warm. She started to remove the blanket. Ratthrew up a hand to stop her.     Leave on! Hot out here.     But I'm too hot now. I want to take it off!     No. Leave on. Wool blanket. Keep in body heat, yes. Keep out cold,yes. Keep in, keep out, likewise. See?     Gray stared at him. I never thought of it that way before. Why ofcourse! If it protects from one temperature, it will protect fromanother. Isn't it silly of me not to know that? Heat pressing on herface accented the fact.     What is your name? she asked. Your real one I mean.     He grinned. Big. You couldn't say it. Sound like Christmas andbottlenose together real fast. Just say Rat. Everybody does. His eyesswept the panel and flashed back to her. Your name Gray. Have a frontname?     Patti.     Pretty, Patti.     No, just Patti. Say, what's the matter with the cooling system?     Damn punk, he said. This crate for surface work. No space. Coolingsystem groan, damn punk. Won't keep cool here.     And ... she followed up, it will get warmer as we go out?     Rat turned back to his board in a brown study and carefully ignoredher. Gray grasped an inkling of what the coming week could bring.     But how about water? she demanded next. Is there enough?     He faced about. For her— nodding to Judith, and him— to Gladney,yes. Sparingly. Four hours every time, maybe. Back to Gray. You,me ... twice a day. Too bad. His eyes drifted aft to the tank ofwater. She followed. One tank water. All the rest fuel. Too bad, toobad. We get thirsty I think.  They did get thirsty, soon. A damnable hot thirst accented bythe knowledge that water was precious, a thirst increased by adried-up-in-the-mouth sensation. Their first drink was strangelybitter; tragically disappointing. Patti Gray suddenly swung upright inthe hammock and kicked her legs. She massaged her throat with a nervoushand, wiped damp hair from about her face.     I have to have a drink.     Rat stared at her without answer.     I said, I have to have a drink!     Heard you.     Well...?     Well, nothing. Stall. Keep water longer.     She swung a vicious boot and missed by inches. Rat grinned, and madehis way aft, hand over hand. He treaded cautiously along the deck. Dolike this, he called over his shoulder. Gravity punk too. Back andunder, gravity. He waited until she joined him at the water tap.     They stood there glaring idiotically at each other.     She burst out laughing. They even threw the drinking cups out! Ratinched the handle grudgingly and she applied lips to the faucet.     Faugh! Gray sprang back, forgot herself and lost her balance, satdown on the deck and spat out the water. It's hot! It tastes like helland it's hot! It must be fuel!     Rat applied his lips to the tap and sampled. Coming up with a mouthfulhe swished it around on his tongue like mouthwash. Abruptly hecontrived a facial contortion between a grin and a grimace, and letsome of the water trickle from the edges of his mouth. He swallowed andit cost him something.     No. I mean yes, I think. Water, no doubt. Yes. Fuel out, water in.Swish-swush. Dammit, Greaseball forget to wash tank!     But what makes it so hot? She worked her mouth to dry-rinse the tasteof the fuel.     Ship get hot. Water on sun side. H-m-m-m-m-m-m.     H-m-m-m-m-m-m-m what?     Flip-flop. He could talk with his hands as well. Hot side over likepancake. Rat hobbled over to the board and sat down. An experimentalflick on a lever produced nothing. Another flick, this time followed bya quivering jar. He contemplated the panel board while fastening hisbelt.     H-m-m-m-m-m-m, the lower lip protruded.     Gray protested. Oh, stop humming and do something! That wa— theword was queerly torn from her throat, and a scream magically filledthe vacancy. Nurse Gray sat up and rubbed a painful spot that hadsuddenly appeared on her arm. She found her nose bleeding and anothernew, swelling bruise on the side of her head. Around her the place wasempty. Bare.     No, not quite. A wispy something was hanging just out of sight inthe corner of the eye; the water tap was now moulded      upward     , beadsglistening on its handle. The wispy thing caught her attention againand she looked up.     Two people, tightly wrapped and bound in hammocks, were staring down ather, amazed, swinging on their stomachs. Craning further, she saw Rat.He was hanging upside down in the chair, grinning at her in reverse.     Flip-flop, he laconically explained.     For cripes sakes, Jehosaphat! Gladney groaned. Turn me over on myback! Do something! Gray stood on tiptoes and just could pivot thehammocks on their rope-axis.     And now, please, just      how     do I get into mine? she bit at Rat.  Existence dragged. Paradoxically, time dropped away like a cloak asthe sense of individual hours and minutes vanished, and into its placecrept a slow-torturing substitute. As the ship revolved, monotonously,first the ceiling and then the floor took on dullish, maddeningaspects, eyes ached continuously from staring at them time and againwithout surcease. The steady, drumming rockets crashed into the mindand the walls shrieked malevolently on the eyeballs. Dull, throbbingsameness of the poorly filtered air, a growing taint in the nostrils.Damp warm skin, reeking blankets. The taste of fuel in the mouth forrefreshment. Slowly mounting mental duress. And above all the drummingof the rockets.     Once, a sudden, frightening change of pitch in the rockets and a wild,sickening lurch. Meteor rain. Maddening, plunging swings to the farright and left, made without warning. A torn lip as a sudden lurchtears the faucet from her mouth. A shattered tooth.     Sorry! Rat whispered.     Shut up and drive! she cried.     Patti ... Judith called out, in pain.     Peace of mind followed peace of body into a forgotten limbo of lostthings, a slyly climbing madness directed at one another. Waspishwords uttered in pain, fatigue and temper. Fractiousness. A hot,confined, stale hell. Sleep became a hollow mockery, as bad waterand concentrated tablets brought on stomach pains to plague them.Consciousness punctured only by spasms of lethargy, shared to someextent by the invalids. Above all, crawling lassitude and incalescenttempers.     Rat watched the white, drawn face swing in the hammock beside him. Andhis hands never faltered on the controls.     Never a slackening of the terrific pace; abnormal speed, gruellingdrive ... drive ... drive. Fear. Tantalizing fear made worse becauseRat couldn't understand. Smothered moaning that ate at his nerves.Grim-faced, sleep-wracked, belted to the chair, driving!     How many days? How many days! Gray begged of him thousands of timesuntil the very repetition grated on her eardrums. How many days?His only answer was an inhuman snarl, and the cruel blazing of thoseinhuman eyes.     She fell face first to the floor. I can't keep it up! she cried. Thesound of her voice rolled along the hot steel deck. I cant! I cant!     A double handful of tepid water was thrown in her face. Get up! Ratstood over her, face twisted, his body hunched. Get up! She stared athim, dazed. He kicked her. Get up! The tepid water ran off her faceand far away she heard Judith calling.... She forced herself up. Ratwas back in the chair.  Gladney unexpectedly exploded. He had been awake for a long time,watching Rat at the board. Wrenching loose a chest strap he attemptedto sit up.     Rat! Damn you Rat, listen to me!      When're you going to start braking     ,Rat?     I hear you. He turned on Gladney with dulled eyes. Lie down. Yousick.     I'll be damned if I'm going to lie here and let you drive us to Orion!We must be near the half-way line! When are you going to start braking?     Not brake, Rat answered sullenly. No, not brake.           Not brake?      Gladney screamed and sat bolt upright. Nurse Gray jumpedfor him. Are you crazy, you skinny rat? Gray secured a hold on hisshoulders and forced him down. You gotta brake! Don't you understandthat? You have to, you vacuum-skull! Gray was pleading with him toshut-up like a good fellow. He appealed to her. He's gotta brake! Makehim!     He has a good point there, Rat, she spoke up. What about thishalf-way line?     He turned to her with a weary ghost of the old smile on his face. Wepassed line. Three days ago, maybe. A shrug of shoulders.     Passed! Gray and Gladney exclaimed in unison.     You catch on quick, Rat nodded. This six day, don't you know?     Gladney sank back, exhausted. The nurse crept over to the pilot.Getting your figures mixed, aren't you?     Rat shook his head and said nothing.     But Roberds said eight days, and he—     —he on Mars. I here. Boss nuts, too sad. He drive, it be eight days.Now only six. He cast a glance at Judith and found her eyes closed.Six days, no brake. No.     I see your point, and appreciate it, Gray cut in. But now what? Thisdeceleration business ... there is a whole lot I don't know, but somethings I do!     Rat refused the expected answer. Land tonight, I think. Never been toEarth before. Somebody meet us, I think.     You can bet your leather boots somebody will meet us! Gladney cried.Gray turned to him. The Chief'll have the whole planet waiting for      you     ! He laughed with real satisfaction. Oh yes, Rat, they'll besomebody waiting for us all right. And then he added: If we land.     Oh, we land. Rat confided, glad to share a secret.     Yeah, Gladney grated. But in how many little pieces?     I've never been to Earth before. Nice, I think. Patti Gray caughtsomething new in the tone and stared at him. Gladney must have noticedit, too.     The Centaurian moved sideways and pointed. Gray placed her eyes in thevacated position.     Earth! she shouted.     Quite. Nice. Do me a favor?     Just name it!     Not drink long time. Some water?     Gray nodded and went to the faucet. The drumming seemed remote, thetension vanished. She was an uncommonly long time in returning, at lastshe appeared beside him, outstretched hands dry.     There isn't any left, Rat.     Rat batted his tired eyes expressively. Tasted punk, he grinned ather.     She sat down on the floor suddenly and buried her face.     Rat, she said presently, I want to ask you something, ratherpersonal? Your ... name. 'Rat'? Roberds told me something about yourrecord. But ... please tell me, Rat. You didn't know the attack wascoming, did you?     He grinned again and waggled his head at her. No. Who tell Rat?Suddenly he was deadly serious as he spoke to her. Rat a.w.o.l., goout to help sick man alone in desert. Rat leave post. Not time sendcall through. Come back with man, find horrible thing happen.     But why didn't you explain?     He grinned again. Who believe? Sick man die soon after.     Gladney sat up. He had heard the conversation between the two. You'reright, Rat. No one would have believed you then, and no one will now.You've been safe enough on Mars, but the police will nab you as soon asyou get out of the ship.     They can't! cried Patti Gray. They can't hurt him after what he'sdone now.     The Centaurian grinned in a cynical way.     Police not get me, Gladney. Gladney's memory damn punk, I think. Earthpretty nice place, maybe. But not for Rat.     Gladney stared at him for minutes. Then: Say, I get it ... you're—     Shut up! Rat cut him off sharply. You talk too much. He cast aglance at Nurse Gray and then threw a meaning look at Gladney.  ","The story starts with Patti looking after the sick girl. She hears the dispute of the crew about the future steps and gets involved. She learns out about Rat's past and the mistake of leaving his post which led to a massacre. Nevertheless, she and the girl decide to ask him to pilot the ship, hoping it will help the sick get on Earth in time. Patti gets sympathetic towards Rat from the beginning and keeps trying to talk to him. She keeps being by Judith. Rat bring her to the hammocks on his wings and she is frightened for a second. She follows his orders and advices until her suffering gets intense. During the trip with Rat as a pilot she has to drink only twice a day to keep water and she feels extremely thirsty. She also hurts herself when the ship suddenly moves from one side to another. Water tastes like fuel to her and she gets mad at Rat for not naming the amount of days. Then she learns about Rat's point of view on the past situation with the massacre and becomes even more sympathetic towards him. "
"What is the plot of the story? </s>     THE GIRLS FROM EARTH     By FRANK M. ROBINSON     Illustrated by EMSH     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction January 1952.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        Problem: How can you arrange marriages with       men in one solar system, women in another—and       neither willing to leave his own world?        I     The beasts aren't much help, are they?     Karl Allen snatched a breath of air and gave another heave on the linetied to the raft of parampa logs bobbing in the middle of the river.     No, he grunted, they're not. They always balk at a time like this,when they can see it'll be hard work.     Joseph Hill wiped his plump face and coiled some of the rope's slackaround his thick waist.     Together now, Karl.      One! Two!          They stood knee-deep in mud on the bank, pulling and straining on therope, while some few yards distant, in the shade of a grove of trees,their tiny yllumphs nibbled grass and watched them critically, but madeno effort to come closer.       If we're late for ship's landing, Joe, we'll get crossed off the list.     Hill puffed and wheezed and took another hitch on the rope.     That's what I've been thinking about, he said, worried.     They took a deep breath and hauled mightily on the raft rope. The raftbobbed nearer. For a moment the swift waters of the Karazoo threatenedto tear it out of their grasp, and then it was beached, most of itsolidly, on the muddy bank. One end of it still lay in the gurgling,rushing waters, but that didn't matter. They'd be back in ten hours orso, long before the heavy raft could be washed free.     How much time have we got, Karl?     The ground was thick with shadows, and Karl cast a critical eye atthem. He estimated that even with the refusal of their yllumphs to helpbeach the raft, they still had a good two hours before the rocket putdown at Landing City.     Two hours, maybe a little more, he stated hastily when Hill lookedmore worried. Time enough to get to Landing City and put in for ournumbers on the list.     He turned back to the raft, untied the leather and horn saddles, andthrew them over the backs of their reluctant mounts. He cinched hissaddle and tied on some robes and furs behind it.     Hill watched him curiously. What are you taking the furs for? Thisisn't the trading rocket.     I know. I thought that when we come back tonight, it might be cold andmaybe      she'll     appreciate the coverings then.     You never would have thought of it yourself, Hill grunted. Grundymust have told you to do it, the old fool. If you ask me, the lessyou give them, the less they'll come to expect. Once you spoil them,they'll expect you to do all the trapping and the farming and thefamily-raising yourself.     You didn't have to sign up, Karl pointed out. You could have appliedfor a wife from some different planet.     One's probably just as good as another. They'll all have to work thefarms and raise families.     Karl laughed and aimed a friendly blow at Hill. They finished saddlingup and headed into the thick forest.  It was quiet as Karl guided his mount along the dimly marked trailand he caught himself thinking of the return trip he would be makingthat night. It would be nice to have somebody new to talk to. And itwould be good to have somebody to help with the trapping and tanning,somebody who could tend the small vegetable garden at the rear of hisshack and mend his socks and wash his clothes and cook his meals.     And it was time, he thought soberly, that he started to raise a family.He was mid-twenty now, old enough to want a wife and children.     You going to raise a litter, Joe?     Hill started. Karl realized that he had probably been thinking of thesame thing.     One of these days I'll need help around the sawmill, Hill answereddefensively. Need some kids to cut the trees, a couple more to polethem down the river, some to run the mill itself and maybe one to sellthe lumber in Landing City. Can't do it all myself.     He paused a moment, thinking over something that had just occurred tohim.     I've been thinking of your plans for a garden, Karl. Maybe I ought tohave one for my wife to take care of, too.     Karl chuckled. I don't think she'll have the time!     They left the leafy expanse of the forest and entered the grasslandsthat sloped toward Landing City. He could even see Landing City itselfon the horizon, a smudge of rusting, corrugated steel shacks, muddystreets, and the small rocket port—a scorched thirty acres or sofenced off with barbed wire.     Karl looked out of the corner of his eye at Hill and felt a vague waveof uneasiness. Hill was a big, thick man wearing the soiled clothes andbristly stubble of a man who was used to living alone and who likedit. But once he took a wife, he would probably have to keep himself inclean clothes and shave every few days. It was even possible that thewoman might object to Hill letting his yllumph share the hut.     The path was getting crowded, more of the colonists coming onto themain path from the small side trails.     Hill broke the silence first. I wonder what they'll be like.     Karl looked wise and nodded knowingly. They're Earthwomen, Joe.      Earth!          It was easy to act as though he had some inside information, but Karlhad to admit to himself that he actually knew very little about it. Hewas a Second System colonist and had never even seen an Earthwoman.He had heard tales, though, and even discounting a large percentageof them, some of them must have been true. Old Grundy at the rocketoffice, who should know about these things if anybody did, seemeddisturbingly lacking on definite information, though he had hintedbroadly enough. He'd whistle softly and wink an eye and repeat thestories that Karl had already heard; but he had nothing      definite     tooffer, no real facts at all.     Some of the other colonists whom they hadn't seen for the last fewmonths shouted greetings, and Karl began to feel some of the carnivalspirit. There was Jenkins, who had another trapping line fifty milesfarther up the Karazoo; Leonard, who had the biggest farm on Midplanet;and then the fellow who specialized in catching and breaking inyllumphs, whose name Karl couldn't remember.     They say they're good workers, Hill said.     Karl nodded. Pretty, too.     They threaded their way through the crowded and muddy streets. LandingCity wasn't big, compared to some of the cities on Altair, where he hadbeen raised, but Karl was proud of it. Some day it would be as big asany city on any planet—maybe even have a population of ten thousandpeople or more.     Joe, Karl said suddenly, what's supposed to make women from Earthbetter than women from any other world?     Hill located a faint itch and frowned. I don't know, Karl. It's hardto say. They're—well, sophisticated, glamorous.     Karl absorbed this in silence. Those particular qualities were, hethought, rather hard to define.     The battered shack that served as rocket port office and headquartersfor the colonial office on Midplanet loomed up in front of them. Therewas a crowd gathered in front of the building and they forced their waythrough to see what had caused it.     We saw this the last time we were here, Hill said.     I know, Karl agreed, but I want to take another look. He wasanxious to glean all the information that he could.     It was a poster of a beautiful woman leaning toward the viewer. Theedges of the poster were curling and the colors had faded during thelast six months, but the girl's smile seemed just as inviting as ever.She held a long-stemmed goblet in one hand and was blowing a kiss toher audience with the other. Her green eyes sparkled, her smile wasprovocative. A quoted sentence read: I'm from      Earth     ! There wasnothing more except a printed list of the different solar systems towhich the colonial office was sending the women.       She was real pretty, Karl thought. A little on the thin side, maybe,and the dress she was wearing would hardly be practical on Midplanet,but she had a certain something. Glamour, maybe?     A loudspeaker blared.     All colonists waiting for the wife draft assemble for your numbers!All colonists....     There was a jostling for places and then they were in the rapidlymoving line. Grundy, fat and important-looking, was handing out littleblue slips with numbers on them, pausing every now and then to tellthem some entertaining bit of information about the women. He had agreat imagination, nothing else.     Karl drew the number 53 and hurried to the grassy lot beside thelanding field that had been decorated with bunting and huge welcomesigns for the new arrivals. A table was loaded with governmentpamphlets meant to be helpful to newly married colonists. Karl wentover and stuffed a few in his pockets. Other tables had been set outand were loaded with luncheon food, fixed by the few colonial women inthe community. Karl caught himself eyeing the women closely, wonderinghow the girls from Earth would compare with them.     He fingered the ticket in his pocket. What would the woman be likewho had drawn the companion number 53 aboard the rocket? For when itlanded, they would pair up by numbers. The method had its drawbacks, ofcourse, but time was much too short to allow even a few days of gettingacquainted. He'd have to get back to his trapping lines and he imaginedthat Hill would have to get back to his sawmill and the others to theirfarms. What the hell, you never knew what you were getting either way,till it was too late.     Sandwich, mister? Pop?     Karl flipped the boy a coin, picked up some food and a drink, andwandered over to the landing field with Hill. There were still tenminutes or so to go before the rocket landed, but he caught himselfstraining his sight at the blue sky, trying to see a telltale flickerof exhaust flame.     The field was crowded and he caught some of the buzzing conversation.     ... never knew one myself, but let me tell you....     ... knew a fellow once who married one, never had a moment's restafterward....     ... no comparison with colonial women. They got culture....     ... I'd give a lot to know the girl who's got number twenty-five....     Let's meet back here with the girls who have picked our numbers, Hillsaid. Maybe we could trade.     Karl nodded, though privately he felt that the number system was justas good as depending on first impressions.     There was a murmur from the crowd and he found his gaze rivetedoverhead. High above, in the misty blue sky, was a sudden twinkle offire.     He reached up and wiped his sweaty face with a muddy hand and brushedaside a straggly lock of tangled hair. It wouldn't hurt to try to lookhis best.     The twinkling fire came nearer.      II     A Mr. Macdonald to see you, Mr. Escher.     Claude Escher flipped the intercom switch.     Please send him right in.     That was entirely superfluous, he thought, because MacDonald would comein whether Escher wanted him to or not.     The door opened and shut with a slightly harder bang than usual andEscher mentally braced himself. He had a good hunch what the problemwas going to be and why it was being thrown in their laps.     MacDonald made himself comfortable and sat there for a few minutes,just looking grim and not saying anything. Escher knew the psychologyby heart. A short preliminary silence is always more effective inbrowbeating subordinates than an initial furious bluster.     He lit a cigarette and tried to outwait MacDonald. It wasn'teasy—MacDonald had great staying powers, which was probably why he wasthe head of the department.     Escher gave in first. Okay, Mac, what's the trouble? What do we havetossed in our laps now?     You know the one—colonization problem. You know that when we firststarted to colonize, quite a large percentage of the male populationtook to the stars, as the saying goes. The adventuresome, the gamblers,the frontier type all decided they wanted to head for other worlds, toget away from it all. The male of the species is far more adventuresomethan the female; the men left—but the women didn't. At least, not innearly the same large numbers.     Well, you see the problem. The ratio of women to men here on Earth isnow something like five to three. If you don't know what that means,ask any man with a daughter. Or any psychiatrist. Husband-hunting isn'tjust a pleasant pastime on Earth. It's an earnest cutthroat businessand I'm not just using a literary phrase.     He threw a paper on Escher's desk. You'll find most of the statisticsabout it in that, Claude. Notice the increase in crimes peculiar towomen. Shoplifting, badger games, poisonings, that kind of thing. It'squite a list. You'll also notice the huge increase in petty crimes, alot of which wouldn't have bothered the courts before. In fact, theywouldn't even have been considered crimes. You know why they are now?     Escher shook his head blankly.     Most of the girls in the past who didn't catch a husband, MacDonaldcontinued, grew up to be the type of old maid who's dedicated toimproving the morals and what-not of the rest of the population. We'vegot more puritanical societies now than we ever had, and we have moresilly little laws on the books as a result. You can be thrown in thepokey for things like violating a woman's privacy—whatever thatmeans—and she's the one who decides whether what you say or do is aviolation or not.     Escher looked bored. Not to mention the new prohibition whichforbids the use of alcohol in everything from cough medicines to hairtonics. Or the cleaned up moral code that reeks—if you'll pardon theexpression—of purity. Sure, I know what you mean. And you know thesolution. All we have to do is get the women to colonize.     MacDonald ran his fingers nervously through his hair.     But it won't be easy, and that's why it's been given to us. It's yourbaby, Claude. Give it a lot of thought. Nothing's impossible, you know.     Perpetual motion machines are, Escher said quietly. And pullingyourself up by your boot-straps. But I get the point. Nevertheless,women just don't want to colonize. And who can blame them? Why shouldthey give up living in a luxury civilization, with as many modernconveniences as this one, to go homesteading on some wild, unexploredplanet where they have to work their fingers to the bone and playfootsie with wild animals and savages who would just as soon skin themalive as not?     What do you advise I do, then? MacDonald demanded. Go back to theBoard and tell them the problem is not solvable, that we can't think ofanything?     Escher looked hurt. Did I say that? I just said it wouldn't be easy.     The Board is giving you a blank check. Do anything you think will payoff. We have to stay within the letter of the law, of course, but notnecessarily the spirit.     When do they have to have a solution?     As soon as possible. At least within the year. By that time thesituation will be very serious. The psychologists say that what willhappen then won't be good.     All right, by then we'll have the answer.     MacDonald stopped at the door. There's another reason why they want itworked out. The number of men applying to the Colonization Board foremigration to the colony planets is falling off.     How come?     MacDonald smiled. On the basis of statistics alone, would you want toemigrate from a planet where the women outnumber the men five to three?     When MacDonald had gone, Escher settled back in his chair and idlytapped his fingers on the desk-top. It was lucky that the ColonizationBoard worked on two levels. One was the well-publicized, idealisticlevel where nothing was too good and every deal was 99 and 44/100 percent pure. But when things got too difficult for it to handle on thatlevel, they went to Escher and MacDonald's department. The coal minelevel. Nothing was too low, so long as it worked. Of course, if itdidn't work, you took the lumps, too.     He rummaged around in his drawer and found a list of the qualificationsset up by the Board for potential colonists. He read the list slowlyand frowned. You had to be physically fit for the rigors of spacetravel, naturally, but some of the qualifications were obviously silly.You couldn't guarantee physical perfection in the second generation,anyway.     He tore the qualification list in shreds and dropped it in the disposalchute. That would have to be the first to go.     There were other things that could be done immediately. For one thing,as it stood now, you were supposed to be financially able to colonize.Obviously a stupid and unappealing law. That would have to go next.     He picked up the sheet of statistics that MacDonald had left and readit carefully. The Board could legalize polygamy, but that was nosolution in the long run. Probably cause more problems than it wouldsolve. Even with women as easy to handle as they were nowadays, one wasstill enough.     Which still left him with the main problem of how to get people tocolonize who didn't      want     to colonize.     The first point was to convince them that they wanted to. The secondpoint was that it might not matter whether they wanted to or not.     No, it shouldn't be hard to solve at all—provided you held your nose,silenced your conscience, and were willing to forget that there wassuch a thing as a moral code.      III     Phyllis Hanson put the cover over her typewriter and locked thecorrespondence drawer. Another day was done, another evening about tobegin.     She filed into the washroom with the other girls and carefully redidher face. It was getting hard to disguise the worry lines, to paintaway the faint crow's-feet around her eyes.     She wasn't, she admitted to herself for the thousandth time, what youwould call beautiful. She inspected herself carefully in her compactmirror. In a sudden flash of honesty, she had to admit that she wasn'teven what you would call pretty. Her face was too broad, her nose afraction too long, and her hair was dull. Not homely, exactly—but notpretty, either.     Conversation hummed around her, most of it from the little group in thecorner, where the extreme few who were married sat as practically arace apart. Their advice was sought, their suggestions avidly followed.     Going out tonight, Phyl?     She hesitated a moment, then slowly painted on the rest of her mouth.The question was technically a privacy violator, but she thought shewould sidestep it this time, instead of refusing to answer point-blank.     I thought I'd stay home tonight. Have a few things I want to rinseout.     The black-haired girl next to her nodded sympathetically. Sure, Phyl,I know what you mean. Just like the rest of us—waiting for the phoneto ring.     Phyllis finished washing up and then left the office, carefully notingthe girl who was waiting for the boss. The girl was beautiful in a hardsort of way, a platinum blonde with an entertainer's busty figure.Waiting for a plump, middle-aged man like a stagestruck kid outside atheatre.     At home, in her small two-room bachelor-girl apartment, she strippedand took a hot, sudsing shower, then stepped out and toweled herself infront of a mirror. She frowned slightly. You didn't know whether youshould keep yourself in trim just on some off-chance, or give up andlet yourself go.     She fixed dinner, took a moderately long time doing the dishes, andwent through the standard routine of getting a book and curling up onthe sofa. It was a good book of the boot-legged variety—scientificallywritten with enough surplus heroes and heroines and lushly describedlove affairs to hold anybody's interest.     It held hers for ten pages and then she threw the book across the room,getting a savage delight at the way the pages ripped and fluttered tothe floor.     What was the use of kidding herself any longer, of trying to livevicariously and hoping that some day she would have a home and ahusband? She was thirty now; the phone hadn't rung in the last threeyears. She might as well spend this evening as she had spent so manyothers—call up the girls for a bridge game and a little gossip, thoughheaven knew you always ended up envying the people you were gossipingabout.     Perhaps she should have joined one of the organizations at the officethat did something like that seven nights out of every seven. A bridgegame or a benefit for some school or a talk on art. Or she could havejoined the Lecture of the Week club, or the YWCA, or any one of theother government-sponsored clubs designed to fill the void in a woman'slife.     But bridge games and benefits and lectures didn't take the place of ahusband and family. She was kidding herself again.     She got up and retrieved the battered book, then went over to the mailslot. She hadn't had time to open her mail that morning; most of thetime it wasn't worth the effort. Advertisements for book clubs, lectureclubs, how to win at bridge and canasta....     Her fingers sprang the metal tabs on a large envelope and she took outthe contents and spread it wide.     She gasped. It was a large poster, about a yard square. A man was onit, straddling a tiny city and a small panorama of farms and forestsat his feet. He was a handsome specimen, with wavy blond hair and blueeyes and a curly mat on his bare chest that was just enough to beattractive without being apelike. He held an axe in his hands and waseyeing her with a clearly inviting look of brazen self-confidence.       It was definitely a privacy violator and she should notify theauthorities immediately!       Bright lettering at the top of the poster shrieked: Come to theColonies, the Planets of Romance!         Whoever had mailed it should be arrested and imprisoned! Preyingon....       The smaller print at the bottom was mostly full of facts and figures.The need for women out on the colony planets, the percentage of men towomen—a startling disproportion—the comfortable cities that weren'tnearly as primitive as people had imagined, and the recently reducedqualifications.     She caught herself admiring the man on the poster. Naturally, it was anartist's conception, but even so....     And the cities were far in advance of the frontier settlements, whereyou had to battle disease and dirty savages.     It was all a dream. She had never done anything like this and shewouldn't think of doing it now. And had any of her friends seen theposter? Of course, they probably wouldn't tell her even if they had.       But the poster was a violation of privacy. Whoever had sent it hadtaken advantage of information that was none of their business. It wasup to her to notify the authorities!    She took another look at the poster.     The letter she finally finished writing was very short. She addressedit to the box number in the upper left-hand corner of the plainwrapper that the poster had come in.      IV     The dress lay on the counter, a small corner of it trailing off theedge. It was a beautiful thing, sheer sheen satin trimmed in gold nylonthread. It was the kind of gown that would make anybody who wore itlook beautiful. The price was high, much too high for her to pay. Sheknew she would never be able to buy it.     But she didn't intend to buy it.     She looked casually around and noted that nobody was watching her.There was another woman a few counters down and a man, obviouslyembarrassed, at the lingerie counter. Nobody else was in sight. It wasa perfect time. The clerk had left to look up a difficult item that shehad purposely asked for and probably wouldn't be back for five minutes.     Time enough, at any rate.     The dress was lying loose, so she didn't have to pry it off anyhangers. She took another quick look around, then hurriedly bundled itup and dropped it in her shopping bag.     She had taken two self-assured steps away from the counter when shefelt a hand on her shoulder. The grip was firm and muscular and sheknew she had lost the game. She also knew that she had to play it outto the end, to grasp any straw.     Let go of me! she ordered in a frostily offended voice.     Sorry, miss, the man said politely, but I think we have a short tripto take.     She thought for a moment of brazening it out further and then gave up.She'd get a few weeks or months in the local detention building, aprobing into her background for the psychological reasons that promptedher to steal, and then she'd be out again.     They couldn't do anything to her that mattered.     She shrugged and followed the detective calmly. None of the shoppershad looked up. None seemed to notice anything out of the ordinary.     In the detention building she thanked her good luck that she was facinga man for the sentence, instead of one of the puritanical old biddieswho served on the bench. She even found a certain satisfaction in thepresence of the cigar smoke and the blunt, earthy language that floatedin from the corridor.     Why did you steal it? the judge asked. He held up the dress, which,she noted furiously, didn't look nearly as nice as it had under thedepartment store lights.     I don't have anything to say, she said. I want to see a lawyer.     She could imagine what he was thinking. Another tough one, anotherplain jane who was shoplifting for a thrill.     And she probably was. You had to do      something     nowadays. You couldn'tjust sit home and chew your fingernails, or run out and listen to theendless boring lectures on art and culture.     Name? he asked in a tired voice.     She knew the statistics he wanted. Ruby Johnson, 32, 145 pounds, brownhair and green eyes. Prints on file.     The judge leaned down and mentioned something to the bailiff, who leftand presently came back with a ledger. The judge opened it and ran hisfingers down one of the pages.     The sentence would probably be the usual, she thought—six months and afine, or perhaps a little more when they found out she had a record forshoplifting.     A stranger in the courtroom in the official linens of the governmentsuddenly stepped up beside the judge and looked at the page. She couldhear a little of what he said:     ... anxiety neurosis ... obvious feeling of not being wanted ...probably steals to attract attention ... recommend emigration.     In view of some complicating factors, we're going to give you achoice, the judge finally said. You can either go to the penitentiaryfor ten years and pay a $10,000 fine, or you can ship out to the colonyplanets and receive a five-hundred-dollar immigration bonus.     She thought for a minute that she hadn't heard right. Ten thousanddollars and ten years! It was obvious that the state was interested inneither the fine nor in paying her room and board for ten years. Shecould recognize a squeeze play when she saw it, but there was nothingshe could do about it.     I wouldn't call that a choice, she said sourly. I'll ship out.      V     Suzanne was proud of the apartment. It had all the modern conveniences,like the needle shower with the perfume dispenser, the built-insoft-drink bar in the library, the all-communications set, and theelectrical massager. It was a nice, comfortable setup, an illusion ofsecurity in an ever-changing world.     She lit a cigarette and chuckled. Mrs. Burger, the fat old landlady,thought she kept up the apartment by working as a buyer for one of thedowntown stores.     Well, maybe some day she would.     But not today. And not tonight.     The phone rang and she answered in a casual tone. She talked for aminute, then let a trace of sultriness creep into her voice. Theconversation wasn't long.     She let the receiver fall back on the base and went into the bedroom toget a hat box. She wouldn't need much; she'd probably be back that samenight.     It was a nice night and since the address was only a few blocks away,she decided to walk it. She blithely ignored the curious stares fromother pedestrians, attracted by the sharp, clicking sound of her heelson the sidewalk.     The address was a brownstone that looked more like an office buildingthan anything else, but then you could never tell. She pressed thebuzzer and waited a moment for the sound to echo back and forth onthe inside. She pressed it again and a moment later a suave young manappeared in the doorway.     Miss Carstens?     She smiled pertly.     We've been expecting you.     She wondered a little at the we, but dutifully smiled and followedhim in.     The glare of the lights inside the office blinded her for a moment.When she could focus them again, her smile became slightly blurry atthe edges and then disappeared entirely. She wasn't alone. There was abattery of chairs against one side of the room. She recognized most ofthe girls sitting in them.     She forced a smile to her lips and tried to laugh.     I'm sure there's been some mistake! Why, I never....     The young man coughed politely. I'm afraid there's been no mistake.Full name, please.     Suzanne Carstens, she said grimly, and gave the other statistics hewanted. She idly wondered what stoolie had peddled the phone numbers.     Suzanne Carstens, the young man noted, and slowly shook his head.A very pretty name, but no doubt not your own. It actually doesn'tmatter, though. Take a seat over there.     She did as he asked and he faced the entire group.     I and the other gentlemen here represent the Colonization Board. We'veinterceded with the local authorities in order to offer you a choice.We would like to ship you out to the colony planets. Naturally, we willpay you the standard emigration bonus of five hundred dollars. Thecolonists need wives; they offer you—security.     He stressed the word slightly.     Now, of course, if you don't prefer the colony planets, you can staybehind and face the penalties of ten years in jail and a fine of tenthousand dollars.     Suzanne felt that her lower jaw needed support. Ten thousand dollarsand ten years! And in either case she'd lose the apartment she hadworked so hard for, her symbol of security.     Well, what do you say? There was a dead silence. The young manfrom the Colonization Board turned to Suzanne. How about you, MissCarstens?     She smiled sickly and nodded her head. I      love     to travel! she said.     It didn't sound at all witty even to herself.   ","The story starts with Karl Allen, a Second System colonist, and Joe dragging their raft from the water, hoping that they will make it in time to put their names on the list. Later we learned that the list is used to pair up the females that are coming to their colony – planet – as husbands and wives. After Karl and Joe Hill finish, they still have about two hours left before the rocket lands at Landing City. On their way towards the Landing City, Karl caught himself wondering about the trip back with a girl whom he will be paired with. Apparently, they have never seen an Earthwoman, but tales seems to cherish them as hardworking and beautiful. The speaker announces that it’s time to draw their numbers. Karl draws 53. Later, Joe and Karl agrees to meet later to see if they want to trade the girls that has their numbers. MacDonald and Claude Escher meet to discuss matters regarding the ratios between male and female at the colonies. Currently, there are not as many females on the colonized planets. From the beginning of the colonization, there were more adventuresome males than females, they headed for the new world but most of the females stayed behind. Thus, there are five females for every three males on Earth, while the colonies have more males. Thus those girls needs to be brought from their original planet, in this case the Earth, to colonies for those males there. Another problem, states MacDonald, is the number of men applying for emigration to colonized planets have been dropping. MacDonald considers this reasonable since it seems illogical for a male to move away from a place that has more females than males. Escher then disregards the qualification for colonization and decides to focus on making the people that don’t want to colonize to colonize, whether it is through convincing or forcing. Phyllis Hanson is a thirty years old woman who desires a husband. The government’s supplement offering cannot replace a husband and family. Then in her mail today, she gets a poster that tells her to come to the colonies. Though she admires the man on the poster, she thought the poster is a violation of privacy. Then we see Ruby Johnson stealing a beautiful gown from the store and then getting caught. Ruby thinks that she will simply face a small fine along with a few weeks or months in detention and that’s it. She seems to have shoplifted many times that she even knows the information that the officers want. However, to her surprised, she will be charged with a 10,000 dollar fine along with ten years in prison, or she can choose to go to a colony planet and get a five-hundred-dollar bonus. She was shocked, but chooses the latter. Similarly, Suzanne is given a similar choice between shipping out to the colony or going to jail. She also chooses the colony planet. "
"Describe the different expectations about women </s>     THE GIRLS FROM EARTH     By FRANK M. ROBINSON     Illustrated by EMSH     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction January 1952.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        Problem: How can you arrange marriages with       men in one solar system, women in another—and       neither willing to leave his own world?        I     The beasts aren't much help, are they?     Karl Allen snatched a breath of air and gave another heave on the linetied to the raft of parampa logs bobbing in the middle of the river.     No, he grunted, they're not. They always balk at a time like this,when they can see it'll be hard work.     Joseph Hill wiped his plump face and coiled some of the rope's slackaround his thick waist.     Together now, Karl.      One! Two!          They stood knee-deep in mud on the bank, pulling and straining on therope, while some few yards distant, in the shade of a grove of trees,their tiny yllumphs nibbled grass and watched them critically, but madeno effort to come closer.       If we're late for ship's landing, Joe, we'll get crossed off the list.     Hill puffed and wheezed and took another hitch on the rope.     That's what I've been thinking about, he said, worried.     They took a deep breath and hauled mightily on the raft rope. The raftbobbed nearer. For a moment the swift waters of the Karazoo threatenedto tear it out of their grasp, and then it was beached, most of itsolidly, on the muddy bank. One end of it still lay in the gurgling,rushing waters, but that didn't matter. They'd be back in ten hours orso, long before the heavy raft could be washed free.     How much time have we got, Karl?     The ground was thick with shadows, and Karl cast a critical eye atthem. He estimated that even with the refusal of their yllumphs to helpbeach the raft, they still had a good two hours before the rocket putdown at Landing City.     Two hours, maybe a little more, he stated hastily when Hill lookedmore worried. Time enough to get to Landing City and put in for ournumbers on the list.     He turned back to the raft, untied the leather and horn saddles, andthrew them over the backs of their reluctant mounts. He cinched hissaddle and tied on some robes and furs behind it.     Hill watched him curiously. What are you taking the furs for? Thisisn't the trading rocket.     I know. I thought that when we come back tonight, it might be cold andmaybe      she'll     appreciate the coverings then.     You never would have thought of it yourself, Hill grunted. Grundymust have told you to do it, the old fool. If you ask me, the lessyou give them, the less they'll come to expect. Once you spoil them,they'll expect you to do all the trapping and the farming and thefamily-raising yourself.     You didn't have to sign up, Karl pointed out. You could have appliedfor a wife from some different planet.     One's probably just as good as another. They'll all have to work thefarms and raise families.     Karl laughed and aimed a friendly blow at Hill. They finished saddlingup and headed into the thick forest.  It was quiet as Karl guided his mount along the dimly marked trailand he caught himself thinking of the return trip he would be makingthat night. It would be nice to have somebody new to talk to. And itwould be good to have somebody to help with the trapping and tanning,somebody who could tend the small vegetable garden at the rear of hisshack and mend his socks and wash his clothes and cook his meals.     And it was time, he thought soberly, that he started to raise a family.He was mid-twenty now, old enough to want a wife and children.     You going to raise a litter, Joe?     Hill started. Karl realized that he had probably been thinking of thesame thing.     One of these days I'll need help around the sawmill, Hill answereddefensively. Need some kids to cut the trees, a couple more to polethem down the river, some to run the mill itself and maybe one to sellthe lumber in Landing City. Can't do it all myself.     He paused a moment, thinking over something that had just occurred tohim.     I've been thinking of your plans for a garden, Karl. Maybe I ought tohave one for my wife to take care of, too.     Karl chuckled. I don't think she'll have the time!     They left the leafy expanse of the forest and entered the grasslandsthat sloped toward Landing City. He could even see Landing City itselfon the horizon, a smudge of rusting, corrugated steel shacks, muddystreets, and the small rocket port—a scorched thirty acres or sofenced off with barbed wire.     Karl looked out of the corner of his eye at Hill and felt a vague waveof uneasiness. Hill was a big, thick man wearing the soiled clothes andbristly stubble of a man who was used to living alone and who likedit. But once he took a wife, he would probably have to keep himself inclean clothes and shave every few days. It was even possible that thewoman might object to Hill letting his yllumph share the hut.     The path was getting crowded, more of the colonists coming onto themain path from the small side trails.     Hill broke the silence first. I wonder what they'll be like.     Karl looked wise and nodded knowingly. They're Earthwomen, Joe.      Earth!          It was easy to act as though he had some inside information, but Karlhad to admit to himself that he actually knew very little about it. Hewas a Second System colonist and had never even seen an Earthwoman.He had heard tales, though, and even discounting a large percentageof them, some of them must have been true. Old Grundy at the rocketoffice, who should know about these things if anybody did, seemeddisturbingly lacking on definite information, though he had hintedbroadly enough. He'd whistle softly and wink an eye and repeat thestories that Karl had already heard; but he had nothing      definite     tooffer, no real facts at all.     Some of the other colonists whom they hadn't seen for the last fewmonths shouted greetings, and Karl began to feel some of the carnivalspirit. There was Jenkins, who had another trapping line fifty milesfarther up the Karazoo; Leonard, who had the biggest farm on Midplanet;and then the fellow who specialized in catching and breaking inyllumphs, whose name Karl couldn't remember.     They say they're good workers, Hill said.     Karl nodded. Pretty, too.     They threaded their way through the crowded and muddy streets. LandingCity wasn't big, compared to some of the cities on Altair, where he hadbeen raised, but Karl was proud of it. Some day it would be as big asany city on any planet—maybe even have a population of ten thousandpeople or more.     Joe, Karl said suddenly, what's supposed to make women from Earthbetter than women from any other world?     Hill located a faint itch and frowned. I don't know, Karl. It's hardto say. They're—well, sophisticated, glamorous.     Karl absorbed this in silence. Those particular qualities were, hethought, rather hard to define.     The battered shack that served as rocket port office and headquartersfor the colonial office on Midplanet loomed up in front of them. Therewas a crowd gathered in front of the building and they forced their waythrough to see what had caused it.     We saw this the last time we were here, Hill said.     I know, Karl agreed, but I want to take another look. He wasanxious to glean all the information that he could.     It was a poster of a beautiful woman leaning toward the viewer. Theedges of the poster were curling and the colors had faded during thelast six months, but the girl's smile seemed just as inviting as ever.She held a long-stemmed goblet in one hand and was blowing a kiss toher audience with the other. Her green eyes sparkled, her smile wasprovocative. A quoted sentence read: I'm from      Earth     ! There wasnothing more except a printed list of the different solar systems towhich the colonial office was sending the women.       She was real pretty, Karl thought. A little on the thin side, maybe,and the dress she was wearing would hardly be practical on Midplanet,but she had a certain something. Glamour, maybe?     A loudspeaker blared.     All colonists waiting for the wife draft assemble for your numbers!All colonists....     There was a jostling for places and then they were in the rapidlymoving line. Grundy, fat and important-looking, was handing out littleblue slips with numbers on them, pausing every now and then to tellthem some entertaining bit of information about the women. He had agreat imagination, nothing else.     Karl drew the number 53 and hurried to the grassy lot beside thelanding field that had been decorated with bunting and huge welcomesigns for the new arrivals. A table was loaded with governmentpamphlets meant to be helpful to newly married colonists. Karl wentover and stuffed a few in his pockets. Other tables had been set outand were loaded with luncheon food, fixed by the few colonial women inthe community. Karl caught himself eyeing the women closely, wonderinghow the girls from Earth would compare with them.     He fingered the ticket in his pocket. What would the woman be likewho had drawn the companion number 53 aboard the rocket? For when itlanded, they would pair up by numbers. The method had its drawbacks, ofcourse, but time was much too short to allow even a few days of gettingacquainted. He'd have to get back to his trapping lines and he imaginedthat Hill would have to get back to his sawmill and the others to theirfarms. What the hell, you never knew what you were getting either way,till it was too late.     Sandwich, mister? Pop?     Karl flipped the boy a coin, picked up some food and a drink, andwandered over to the landing field with Hill. There were still tenminutes or so to go before the rocket landed, but he caught himselfstraining his sight at the blue sky, trying to see a telltale flickerof exhaust flame.     The field was crowded and he caught some of the buzzing conversation.     ... never knew one myself, but let me tell you....     ... knew a fellow once who married one, never had a moment's restafterward....     ... no comparison with colonial women. They got culture....     ... I'd give a lot to know the girl who's got number twenty-five....     Let's meet back here with the girls who have picked our numbers, Hillsaid. Maybe we could trade.     Karl nodded, though privately he felt that the number system was justas good as depending on first impressions.     There was a murmur from the crowd and he found his gaze rivetedoverhead. High above, in the misty blue sky, was a sudden twinkle offire.     He reached up and wiped his sweaty face with a muddy hand and brushedaside a straggly lock of tangled hair. It wouldn't hurt to try to lookhis best.     The twinkling fire came nearer.      II     A Mr. Macdonald to see you, Mr. Escher.     Claude Escher flipped the intercom switch.     Please send him right in.     That was entirely superfluous, he thought, because MacDonald would comein whether Escher wanted him to or not.     The door opened and shut with a slightly harder bang than usual andEscher mentally braced himself. He had a good hunch what the problemwas going to be and why it was being thrown in their laps.     MacDonald made himself comfortable and sat there for a few minutes,just looking grim and not saying anything. Escher knew the psychologyby heart. A short preliminary silence is always more effective inbrowbeating subordinates than an initial furious bluster.     He lit a cigarette and tried to outwait MacDonald. It wasn'teasy—MacDonald had great staying powers, which was probably why he wasthe head of the department.     Escher gave in first. Okay, Mac, what's the trouble? What do we havetossed in our laps now?     You know the one—colonization problem. You know that when we firststarted to colonize, quite a large percentage of the male populationtook to the stars, as the saying goes. The adventuresome, the gamblers,the frontier type all decided they wanted to head for other worlds, toget away from it all. The male of the species is far more adventuresomethan the female; the men left—but the women didn't. At least, not innearly the same large numbers.     Well, you see the problem. The ratio of women to men here on Earth isnow something like five to three. If you don't know what that means,ask any man with a daughter. Or any psychiatrist. Husband-hunting isn'tjust a pleasant pastime on Earth. It's an earnest cutthroat businessand I'm not just using a literary phrase.     He threw a paper on Escher's desk. You'll find most of the statisticsabout it in that, Claude. Notice the increase in crimes peculiar towomen. Shoplifting, badger games, poisonings, that kind of thing. It'squite a list. You'll also notice the huge increase in petty crimes, alot of which wouldn't have bothered the courts before. In fact, theywouldn't even have been considered crimes. You know why they are now?     Escher shook his head blankly.     Most of the girls in the past who didn't catch a husband, MacDonaldcontinued, grew up to be the type of old maid who's dedicated toimproving the morals and what-not of the rest of the population. We'vegot more puritanical societies now than we ever had, and we have moresilly little laws on the books as a result. You can be thrown in thepokey for things like violating a woman's privacy—whatever thatmeans—and she's the one who decides whether what you say or do is aviolation or not.     Escher looked bored. Not to mention the new prohibition whichforbids the use of alcohol in everything from cough medicines to hairtonics. Or the cleaned up moral code that reeks—if you'll pardon theexpression—of purity. Sure, I know what you mean. And you know thesolution. All we have to do is get the women to colonize.     MacDonald ran his fingers nervously through his hair.     But it won't be easy, and that's why it's been given to us. It's yourbaby, Claude. Give it a lot of thought. Nothing's impossible, you know.     Perpetual motion machines are, Escher said quietly. And pullingyourself up by your boot-straps. But I get the point. Nevertheless,women just don't want to colonize. And who can blame them? Why shouldthey give up living in a luxury civilization, with as many modernconveniences as this one, to go homesteading on some wild, unexploredplanet where they have to work their fingers to the bone and playfootsie with wild animals and savages who would just as soon skin themalive as not?     What do you advise I do, then? MacDonald demanded. Go back to theBoard and tell them the problem is not solvable, that we can't think ofanything?     Escher looked hurt. Did I say that? I just said it wouldn't be easy.     The Board is giving you a blank check. Do anything you think will payoff. We have to stay within the letter of the law, of course, but notnecessarily the spirit.     When do they have to have a solution?     As soon as possible. At least within the year. By that time thesituation will be very serious. The psychologists say that what willhappen then won't be good.     All right, by then we'll have the answer.     MacDonald stopped at the door. There's another reason why they want itworked out. The number of men applying to the Colonization Board foremigration to the colony planets is falling off.     How come?     MacDonald smiled. On the basis of statistics alone, would you want toemigrate from a planet where the women outnumber the men five to three?     When MacDonald had gone, Escher settled back in his chair and idlytapped his fingers on the desk-top. It was lucky that the ColonizationBoard worked on two levels. One was the well-publicized, idealisticlevel where nothing was too good and every deal was 99 and 44/100 percent pure. But when things got too difficult for it to handle on thatlevel, they went to Escher and MacDonald's department. The coal minelevel. Nothing was too low, so long as it worked. Of course, if itdidn't work, you took the lumps, too.     He rummaged around in his drawer and found a list of the qualificationsset up by the Board for potential colonists. He read the list slowlyand frowned. You had to be physically fit for the rigors of spacetravel, naturally, but some of the qualifications were obviously silly.You couldn't guarantee physical perfection in the second generation,anyway.     He tore the qualification list in shreds and dropped it in the disposalchute. That would have to be the first to go.     There were other things that could be done immediately. For one thing,as it stood now, you were supposed to be financially able to colonize.Obviously a stupid and unappealing law. That would have to go next.     He picked up the sheet of statistics that MacDonald had left and readit carefully. The Board could legalize polygamy, but that was nosolution in the long run. Probably cause more problems than it wouldsolve. Even with women as easy to handle as they were nowadays, one wasstill enough.     Which still left him with the main problem of how to get people tocolonize who didn't      want     to colonize.     The first point was to convince them that they wanted to. The secondpoint was that it might not matter whether they wanted to or not.     No, it shouldn't be hard to solve at all—provided you held your nose,silenced your conscience, and were willing to forget that there wassuch a thing as a moral code.      III     Phyllis Hanson put the cover over her typewriter and locked thecorrespondence drawer. Another day was done, another evening about tobegin.     She filed into the washroom with the other girls and carefully redidher face. It was getting hard to disguise the worry lines, to paintaway the faint crow's-feet around her eyes.     She wasn't, she admitted to herself for the thousandth time, what youwould call beautiful. She inspected herself carefully in her compactmirror. In a sudden flash of honesty, she had to admit that she wasn'teven what you would call pretty. Her face was too broad, her nose afraction too long, and her hair was dull. Not homely, exactly—but notpretty, either.     Conversation hummed around her, most of it from the little group in thecorner, where the extreme few who were married sat as practically arace apart. Their advice was sought, their suggestions avidly followed.     Going out tonight, Phyl?     She hesitated a moment, then slowly painted on the rest of her mouth.The question was technically a privacy violator, but she thought shewould sidestep it this time, instead of refusing to answer point-blank.     I thought I'd stay home tonight. Have a few things I want to rinseout.     The black-haired girl next to her nodded sympathetically. Sure, Phyl,I know what you mean. Just like the rest of us—waiting for the phoneto ring.     Phyllis finished washing up and then left the office, carefully notingthe girl who was waiting for the boss. The girl was beautiful in a hardsort of way, a platinum blonde with an entertainer's busty figure.Waiting for a plump, middle-aged man like a stagestruck kid outside atheatre.     At home, in her small two-room bachelor-girl apartment, she strippedand took a hot, sudsing shower, then stepped out and toweled herself infront of a mirror. She frowned slightly. You didn't know whether youshould keep yourself in trim just on some off-chance, or give up andlet yourself go.     She fixed dinner, took a moderately long time doing the dishes, andwent through the standard routine of getting a book and curling up onthe sofa. It was a good book of the boot-legged variety—scientificallywritten with enough surplus heroes and heroines and lushly describedlove affairs to hold anybody's interest.     It held hers for ten pages and then she threw the book across the room,getting a savage delight at the way the pages ripped and fluttered tothe floor.     What was the use of kidding herself any longer, of trying to livevicariously and hoping that some day she would have a home and ahusband? She was thirty now; the phone hadn't rung in the last threeyears. She might as well spend this evening as she had spent so manyothers—call up the girls for a bridge game and a little gossip, thoughheaven knew you always ended up envying the people you were gossipingabout.     Perhaps she should have joined one of the organizations at the officethat did something like that seven nights out of every seven. A bridgegame or a benefit for some school or a talk on art. Or she could havejoined the Lecture of the Week club, or the YWCA, or any one of theother government-sponsored clubs designed to fill the void in a woman'slife.     But bridge games and benefits and lectures didn't take the place of ahusband and family. She was kidding herself again.     She got up and retrieved the battered book, then went over to the mailslot. She hadn't had time to open her mail that morning; most of thetime it wasn't worth the effort. Advertisements for book clubs, lectureclubs, how to win at bridge and canasta....     Her fingers sprang the metal tabs on a large envelope and she took outthe contents and spread it wide.     She gasped. It was a large poster, about a yard square. A man was onit, straddling a tiny city and a small panorama of farms and forestsat his feet. He was a handsome specimen, with wavy blond hair and blueeyes and a curly mat on his bare chest that was just enough to beattractive without being apelike. He held an axe in his hands and waseyeing her with a clearly inviting look of brazen self-confidence.       It was definitely a privacy violator and she should notify theauthorities immediately!       Bright lettering at the top of the poster shrieked: Come to theColonies, the Planets of Romance!         Whoever had mailed it should be arrested and imprisoned! Preyingon....       The smaller print at the bottom was mostly full of facts and figures.The need for women out on the colony planets, the percentage of men towomen—a startling disproportion—the comfortable cities that weren'tnearly as primitive as people had imagined, and the recently reducedqualifications.     She caught herself admiring the man on the poster. Naturally, it was anartist's conception, but even so....     And the cities were far in advance of the frontier settlements, whereyou had to battle disease and dirty savages.     It was all a dream. She had never done anything like this and shewouldn't think of doing it now. And had any of her friends seen theposter? Of course, they probably wouldn't tell her even if they had.       But the poster was a violation of privacy. Whoever had sent it hadtaken advantage of information that was none of their business. It wasup to her to notify the authorities!    She took another look at the poster.     The letter she finally finished writing was very short. She addressedit to the box number in the upper left-hand corner of the plainwrapper that the poster had come in.      IV     The dress lay on the counter, a small corner of it trailing off theedge. It was a beautiful thing, sheer sheen satin trimmed in gold nylonthread. It was the kind of gown that would make anybody who wore itlook beautiful. The price was high, much too high for her to pay. Sheknew she would never be able to buy it.     But she didn't intend to buy it.     She looked casually around and noted that nobody was watching her.There was another woman a few counters down and a man, obviouslyembarrassed, at the lingerie counter. Nobody else was in sight. It wasa perfect time. The clerk had left to look up a difficult item that shehad purposely asked for and probably wouldn't be back for five minutes.     Time enough, at any rate.     The dress was lying loose, so she didn't have to pry it off anyhangers. She took another quick look around, then hurriedly bundled itup and dropped it in her shopping bag.     She had taken two self-assured steps away from the counter when shefelt a hand on her shoulder. The grip was firm and muscular and sheknew she had lost the game. She also knew that she had to play it outto the end, to grasp any straw.     Let go of me! she ordered in a frostily offended voice.     Sorry, miss, the man said politely, but I think we have a short tripto take.     She thought for a moment of brazening it out further and then gave up.She'd get a few weeks or months in the local detention building, aprobing into her background for the psychological reasons that promptedher to steal, and then she'd be out again.     They couldn't do anything to her that mattered.     She shrugged and followed the detective calmly. None of the shoppershad looked up. None seemed to notice anything out of the ordinary.     In the detention building she thanked her good luck that she was facinga man for the sentence, instead of one of the puritanical old biddieswho served on the bench. She even found a certain satisfaction in thepresence of the cigar smoke and the blunt, earthy language that floatedin from the corridor.     Why did you steal it? the judge asked. He held up the dress, which,she noted furiously, didn't look nearly as nice as it had under thedepartment store lights.     I don't have anything to say, she said. I want to see a lawyer.     She could imagine what he was thinking. Another tough one, anotherplain jane who was shoplifting for a thrill.     And she probably was. You had to do      something     nowadays. You couldn'tjust sit home and chew your fingernails, or run out and listen to theendless boring lectures on art and culture.     Name? he asked in a tired voice.     She knew the statistics he wanted. Ruby Johnson, 32, 145 pounds, brownhair and green eyes. Prints on file.     The judge leaned down and mentioned something to the bailiff, who leftand presently came back with a ledger. The judge opened it and ran hisfingers down one of the pages.     The sentence would probably be the usual, she thought—six months and afine, or perhaps a little more when they found out she had a record forshoplifting.     A stranger in the courtroom in the official linens of the governmentsuddenly stepped up beside the judge and looked at the page. She couldhear a little of what he said:     ... anxiety neurosis ... obvious feeling of not being wanted ...probably steals to attract attention ... recommend emigration.     In view of some complicating factors, we're going to give you achoice, the judge finally said. You can either go to the penitentiaryfor ten years and pay a $10,000 fine, or you can ship out to the colonyplanets and receive a five-hundred-dollar immigration bonus.     She thought for a minute that she hadn't heard right. Ten thousanddollars and ten years! It was obvious that the state was interested inneither the fine nor in paying her room and board for ten years. Shecould recognize a squeeze play when she saw it, but there was nothingshe could do about it.     I wouldn't call that a choice, she said sourly. I'll ship out.      V     Suzanne was proud of the apartment. It had all the modern conveniences,like the needle shower with the perfume dispenser, the built-insoft-drink bar in the library, the all-communications set, and theelectrical massager. It was a nice, comfortable setup, an illusion ofsecurity in an ever-changing world.     She lit a cigarette and chuckled. Mrs. Burger, the fat old landlady,thought she kept up the apartment by working as a buyer for one of thedowntown stores.     Well, maybe some day she would.     But not today. And not tonight.     The phone rang and she answered in a casual tone. She talked for aminute, then let a trace of sultriness creep into her voice. Theconversation wasn't long.     She let the receiver fall back on the base and went into the bedroom toget a hat box. She wouldn't need much; she'd probably be back that samenight.     It was a nice night and since the address was only a few blocks away,she decided to walk it. She blithely ignored the curious stares fromother pedestrians, attracted by the sharp, clicking sound of her heelson the sidewalk.     The address was a brownstone that looked more like an office buildingthan anything else, but then you could never tell. She pressed thebuzzer and waited a moment for the sound to echo back and forth onthe inside. She pressed it again and a moment later a suave young manappeared in the doorway.     Miss Carstens?     She smiled pertly.     We've been expecting you.     She wondered a little at the we, but dutifully smiled and followedhim in.     The glare of the lights inside the office blinded her for a moment.When she could focus them again, her smile became slightly blurry atthe edges and then disappeared entirely. She wasn't alone. There was abattery of chairs against one side of the room. She recognized most ofthe girls sitting in them.     She forced a smile to her lips and tried to laugh.     I'm sure there's been some mistake! Why, I never....     The young man coughed politely. I'm afraid there's been no mistake.Full name, please.     Suzanne Carstens, she said grimly, and gave the other statistics hewanted. She idly wondered what stoolie had peddled the phone numbers.     Suzanne Carstens, the young man noted, and slowly shook his head.A very pretty name, but no doubt not your own. It actually doesn'tmatter, though. Take a seat over there.     She did as he asked and he faced the entire group.     I and the other gentlemen here represent the Colonization Board. We'veinterceded with the local authorities in order to offer you a choice.We would like to ship you out to the colony planets. Naturally, we willpay you the standard emigration bonus of five hundred dollars. Thecolonists need wives; they offer you—security.     He stressed the word slightly.     Now, of course, if you don't prefer the colony planets, you can staybehind and face the penalties of ten years in jail and a fine of tenthousand dollars.     Suzanne felt that her lower jaw needed support. Ten thousand dollarsand ten years! And in either case she'd lose the apartment she hadworked so hard for, her symbol of security.     Well, what do you say? There was a dead silence. The young manfrom the Colonization Board turned to Suzanne. How about you, MissCarstens?     She smiled sickly and nodded her head. I      love     to travel! she said.     It didn't sound at all witty even to herself.   ","First, Joe takes some furs that could help cover the girl, and Joe hopes that she will appreciate it. However, Hill believes that they should give less to the girls. Because the less you give, the less they will expect, and if they are spoiled, the men has to do all the farming and family raising yourself, which is all that they have to do. Joe thought of the girl as somebody he can talk to, somebody that can help him with the farm. Hill suggests for his wife to have a garden, but Karl doesn’t think she will have the time for a garden. However, it is important to note that the girls were considered as objects since Karl and Joe mentions trading them. In particular, Earthwomen are expected to be beautiful, sophisticated, glamorous, and hardworking. Moreover, Escher is thinking about persuading and forcing the girls to colonize while forgetting about the moral codes. The governments seems to expect the women without husbands to be satisfied with bridge games and benefits and lectures. "
"What are some odd things that happened in the story? </s>     THE GIRLS FROM EARTH     By FRANK M. ROBINSON     Illustrated by EMSH     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction January 1952.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        Problem: How can you arrange marriages with       men in one solar system, women in another—and       neither willing to leave his own world?        I     The beasts aren't much help, are they?     Karl Allen snatched a breath of air and gave another heave on the linetied to the raft of parampa logs bobbing in the middle of the river.     No, he grunted, they're not. They always balk at a time like this,when they can see it'll be hard work.     Joseph Hill wiped his plump face and coiled some of the rope's slackaround his thick waist.     Together now, Karl.      One! Two!          They stood knee-deep in mud on the bank, pulling and straining on therope, while some few yards distant, in the shade of a grove of trees,their tiny yllumphs nibbled grass and watched them critically, but madeno effort to come closer.       If we're late for ship's landing, Joe, we'll get crossed off the list.     Hill puffed and wheezed and took another hitch on the rope.     That's what I've been thinking about, he said, worried.     They took a deep breath and hauled mightily on the raft rope. The raftbobbed nearer. For a moment the swift waters of the Karazoo threatenedto tear it out of their grasp, and then it was beached, most of itsolidly, on the muddy bank. One end of it still lay in the gurgling,rushing waters, but that didn't matter. They'd be back in ten hours orso, long before the heavy raft could be washed free.     How much time have we got, Karl?     The ground was thick with shadows, and Karl cast a critical eye atthem. He estimated that even with the refusal of their yllumphs to helpbeach the raft, they still had a good two hours before the rocket putdown at Landing City.     Two hours, maybe a little more, he stated hastily when Hill lookedmore worried. Time enough to get to Landing City and put in for ournumbers on the list.     He turned back to the raft, untied the leather and horn saddles, andthrew them over the backs of their reluctant mounts. He cinched hissaddle and tied on some robes and furs behind it.     Hill watched him curiously. What are you taking the furs for? Thisisn't the trading rocket.     I know. I thought that when we come back tonight, it might be cold andmaybe      she'll     appreciate the coverings then.     You never would have thought of it yourself, Hill grunted. Grundymust have told you to do it, the old fool. If you ask me, the lessyou give them, the less they'll come to expect. Once you spoil them,they'll expect you to do all the trapping and the farming and thefamily-raising yourself.     You didn't have to sign up, Karl pointed out. You could have appliedfor a wife from some different planet.     One's probably just as good as another. They'll all have to work thefarms and raise families.     Karl laughed and aimed a friendly blow at Hill. They finished saddlingup and headed into the thick forest.  It was quiet as Karl guided his mount along the dimly marked trailand he caught himself thinking of the return trip he would be makingthat night. It would be nice to have somebody new to talk to. And itwould be good to have somebody to help with the trapping and tanning,somebody who could tend the small vegetable garden at the rear of hisshack and mend his socks and wash his clothes and cook his meals.     And it was time, he thought soberly, that he started to raise a family.He was mid-twenty now, old enough to want a wife and children.     You going to raise a litter, Joe?     Hill started. Karl realized that he had probably been thinking of thesame thing.     One of these days I'll need help around the sawmill, Hill answereddefensively. Need some kids to cut the trees, a couple more to polethem down the river, some to run the mill itself and maybe one to sellthe lumber in Landing City. Can't do it all myself.     He paused a moment, thinking over something that had just occurred tohim.     I've been thinking of your plans for a garden, Karl. Maybe I ought tohave one for my wife to take care of, too.     Karl chuckled. I don't think she'll have the time!     They left the leafy expanse of the forest and entered the grasslandsthat sloped toward Landing City. He could even see Landing City itselfon the horizon, a smudge of rusting, corrugated steel shacks, muddystreets, and the small rocket port—a scorched thirty acres or sofenced off with barbed wire.     Karl looked out of the corner of his eye at Hill and felt a vague waveof uneasiness. Hill was a big, thick man wearing the soiled clothes andbristly stubble of a man who was used to living alone and who likedit. But once he took a wife, he would probably have to keep himself inclean clothes and shave every few days. It was even possible that thewoman might object to Hill letting his yllumph share the hut.     The path was getting crowded, more of the colonists coming onto themain path from the small side trails.     Hill broke the silence first. I wonder what they'll be like.     Karl looked wise and nodded knowingly. They're Earthwomen, Joe.      Earth!          It was easy to act as though he had some inside information, but Karlhad to admit to himself that he actually knew very little about it. Hewas a Second System colonist and had never even seen an Earthwoman.He had heard tales, though, and even discounting a large percentageof them, some of them must have been true. Old Grundy at the rocketoffice, who should know about these things if anybody did, seemeddisturbingly lacking on definite information, though he had hintedbroadly enough. He'd whistle softly and wink an eye and repeat thestories that Karl had already heard; but he had nothing      definite     tooffer, no real facts at all.     Some of the other colonists whom they hadn't seen for the last fewmonths shouted greetings, and Karl began to feel some of the carnivalspirit. There was Jenkins, who had another trapping line fifty milesfarther up the Karazoo; Leonard, who had the biggest farm on Midplanet;and then the fellow who specialized in catching and breaking inyllumphs, whose name Karl couldn't remember.     They say they're good workers, Hill said.     Karl nodded. Pretty, too.     They threaded their way through the crowded and muddy streets. LandingCity wasn't big, compared to some of the cities on Altair, where he hadbeen raised, but Karl was proud of it. Some day it would be as big asany city on any planet—maybe even have a population of ten thousandpeople or more.     Joe, Karl said suddenly, what's supposed to make women from Earthbetter than women from any other world?     Hill located a faint itch and frowned. I don't know, Karl. It's hardto say. They're—well, sophisticated, glamorous.     Karl absorbed this in silence. Those particular qualities were, hethought, rather hard to define.     The battered shack that served as rocket port office and headquartersfor the colonial office on Midplanet loomed up in front of them. Therewas a crowd gathered in front of the building and they forced their waythrough to see what had caused it.     We saw this the last time we were here, Hill said.     I know, Karl agreed, but I want to take another look. He wasanxious to glean all the information that he could.     It was a poster of a beautiful woman leaning toward the viewer. Theedges of the poster were curling and the colors had faded during thelast six months, but the girl's smile seemed just as inviting as ever.She held a long-stemmed goblet in one hand and was blowing a kiss toher audience with the other. Her green eyes sparkled, her smile wasprovocative. A quoted sentence read: I'm from      Earth     ! There wasnothing more except a printed list of the different solar systems towhich the colonial office was sending the women.       She was real pretty, Karl thought. A little on the thin side, maybe,and the dress she was wearing would hardly be practical on Midplanet,but she had a certain something. Glamour, maybe?     A loudspeaker blared.     All colonists waiting for the wife draft assemble for your numbers!All colonists....     There was a jostling for places and then they were in the rapidlymoving line. Grundy, fat and important-looking, was handing out littleblue slips with numbers on them, pausing every now and then to tellthem some entertaining bit of information about the women. He had agreat imagination, nothing else.     Karl drew the number 53 and hurried to the grassy lot beside thelanding field that had been decorated with bunting and huge welcomesigns for the new arrivals. A table was loaded with governmentpamphlets meant to be helpful to newly married colonists. Karl wentover and stuffed a few in his pockets. Other tables had been set outand were loaded with luncheon food, fixed by the few colonial women inthe community. Karl caught himself eyeing the women closely, wonderinghow the girls from Earth would compare with them.     He fingered the ticket in his pocket. What would the woman be likewho had drawn the companion number 53 aboard the rocket? For when itlanded, they would pair up by numbers. The method had its drawbacks, ofcourse, but time was much too short to allow even a few days of gettingacquainted. He'd have to get back to his trapping lines and he imaginedthat Hill would have to get back to his sawmill and the others to theirfarms. What the hell, you never knew what you were getting either way,till it was too late.     Sandwich, mister? Pop?     Karl flipped the boy a coin, picked up some food and a drink, andwandered over to the landing field with Hill. There were still tenminutes or so to go before the rocket landed, but he caught himselfstraining his sight at the blue sky, trying to see a telltale flickerof exhaust flame.     The field was crowded and he caught some of the buzzing conversation.     ... never knew one myself, but let me tell you....     ... knew a fellow once who married one, never had a moment's restafterward....     ... no comparison with colonial women. They got culture....     ... I'd give a lot to know the girl who's got number twenty-five....     Let's meet back here with the girls who have picked our numbers, Hillsaid. Maybe we could trade.     Karl nodded, though privately he felt that the number system was justas good as depending on first impressions.     There was a murmur from the crowd and he found his gaze rivetedoverhead. High above, in the misty blue sky, was a sudden twinkle offire.     He reached up and wiped his sweaty face with a muddy hand and brushedaside a straggly lock of tangled hair. It wouldn't hurt to try to lookhis best.     The twinkling fire came nearer.      II     A Mr. Macdonald to see you, Mr. Escher.     Claude Escher flipped the intercom switch.     Please send him right in.     That was entirely superfluous, he thought, because MacDonald would comein whether Escher wanted him to or not.     The door opened and shut with a slightly harder bang than usual andEscher mentally braced himself. He had a good hunch what the problemwas going to be and why it was being thrown in their laps.     MacDonald made himself comfortable and sat there for a few minutes,just looking grim and not saying anything. Escher knew the psychologyby heart. A short preliminary silence is always more effective inbrowbeating subordinates than an initial furious bluster.     He lit a cigarette and tried to outwait MacDonald. It wasn'teasy—MacDonald had great staying powers, which was probably why he wasthe head of the department.     Escher gave in first. Okay, Mac, what's the trouble? What do we havetossed in our laps now?     You know the one—colonization problem. You know that when we firststarted to colonize, quite a large percentage of the male populationtook to the stars, as the saying goes. The adventuresome, the gamblers,the frontier type all decided they wanted to head for other worlds, toget away from it all. The male of the species is far more adventuresomethan the female; the men left—but the women didn't. At least, not innearly the same large numbers.     Well, you see the problem. The ratio of women to men here on Earth isnow something like five to three. If you don't know what that means,ask any man with a daughter. Or any psychiatrist. Husband-hunting isn'tjust a pleasant pastime on Earth. It's an earnest cutthroat businessand I'm not just using a literary phrase.     He threw a paper on Escher's desk. You'll find most of the statisticsabout it in that, Claude. Notice the increase in crimes peculiar towomen. Shoplifting, badger games, poisonings, that kind of thing. It'squite a list. You'll also notice the huge increase in petty crimes, alot of which wouldn't have bothered the courts before. In fact, theywouldn't even have been considered crimes. You know why they are now?     Escher shook his head blankly.     Most of the girls in the past who didn't catch a husband, MacDonaldcontinued, grew up to be the type of old maid who's dedicated toimproving the morals and what-not of the rest of the population. We'vegot more puritanical societies now than we ever had, and we have moresilly little laws on the books as a result. You can be thrown in thepokey for things like violating a woman's privacy—whatever thatmeans—and she's the one who decides whether what you say or do is aviolation or not.     Escher looked bored. Not to mention the new prohibition whichforbids the use of alcohol in everything from cough medicines to hairtonics. Or the cleaned up moral code that reeks—if you'll pardon theexpression—of purity. Sure, I know what you mean. And you know thesolution. All we have to do is get the women to colonize.     MacDonald ran his fingers nervously through his hair.     But it won't be easy, and that's why it's been given to us. It's yourbaby, Claude. Give it a lot of thought. Nothing's impossible, you know.     Perpetual motion machines are, Escher said quietly. And pullingyourself up by your boot-straps. But I get the point. Nevertheless,women just don't want to colonize. And who can blame them? Why shouldthey give up living in a luxury civilization, with as many modernconveniences as this one, to go homesteading on some wild, unexploredplanet where they have to work their fingers to the bone and playfootsie with wild animals and savages who would just as soon skin themalive as not?     What do you advise I do, then? MacDonald demanded. Go back to theBoard and tell them the problem is not solvable, that we can't think ofanything?     Escher looked hurt. Did I say that? I just said it wouldn't be easy.     The Board is giving you a blank check. Do anything you think will payoff. We have to stay within the letter of the law, of course, but notnecessarily the spirit.     When do they have to have a solution?     As soon as possible. At least within the year. By that time thesituation will be very serious. The psychologists say that what willhappen then won't be good.     All right, by then we'll have the answer.     MacDonald stopped at the door. There's another reason why they want itworked out. The number of men applying to the Colonization Board foremigration to the colony planets is falling off.     How come?     MacDonald smiled. On the basis of statistics alone, would you want toemigrate from a planet where the women outnumber the men five to three?     When MacDonald had gone, Escher settled back in his chair and idlytapped his fingers on the desk-top. It was lucky that the ColonizationBoard worked on two levels. One was the well-publicized, idealisticlevel where nothing was too good and every deal was 99 and 44/100 percent pure. But when things got too difficult for it to handle on thatlevel, they went to Escher and MacDonald's department. The coal minelevel. Nothing was too low, so long as it worked. Of course, if itdidn't work, you took the lumps, too.     He rummaged around in his drawer and found a list of the qualificationsset up by the Board for potential colonists. He read the list slowlyand frowned. You had to be physically fit for the rigors of spacetravel, naturally, but some of the qualifications were obviously silly.You couldn't guarantee physical perfection in the second generation,anyway.     He tore the qualification list in shreds and dropped it in the disposalchute. That would have to be the first to go.     There were other things that could be done immediately. For one thing,as it stood now, you were supposed to be financially able to colonize.Obviously a stupid and unappealing law. That would have to go next.     He picked up the sheet of statistics that MacDonald had left and readit carefully. The Board could legalize polygamy, but that was nosolution in the long run. Probably cause more problems than it wouldsolve. Even with women as easy to handle as they were nowadays, one wasstill enough.     Which still left him with the main problem of how to get people tocolonize who didn't      want     to colonize.     The first point was to convince them that they wanted to. The secondpoint was that it might not matter whether they wanted to or not.     No, it shouldn't be hard to solve at all—provided you held your nose,silenced your conscience, and were willing to forget that there wassuch a thing as a moral code.      III     Phyllis Hanson put the cover over her typewriter and locked thecorrespondence drawer. Another day was done, another evening about tobegin.     She filed into the washroom with the other girls and carefully redidher face. It was getting hard to disguise the worry lines, to paintaway the faint crow's-feet around her eyes.     She wasn't, she admitted to herself for the thousandth time, what youwould call beautiful. She inspected herself carefully in her compactmirror. In a sudden flash of honesty, she had to admit that she wasn'teven what you would call pretty. Her face was too broad, her nose afraction too long, and her hair was dull. Not homely, exactly—but notpretty, either.     Conversation hummed around her, most of it from the little group in thecorner, where the extreme few who were married sat as practically arace apart. Their advice was sought, their suggestions avidly followed.     Going out tonight, Phyl?     She hesitated a moment, then slowly painted on the rest of her mouth.The question was technically a privacy violator, but she thought shewould sidestep it this time, instead of refusing to answer point-blank.     I thought I'd stay home tonight. Have a few things I want to rinseout.     The black-haired girl next to her nodded sympathetically. Sure, Phyl,I know what you mean. Just like the rest of us—waiting for the phoneto ring.     Phyllis finished washing up and then left the office, carefully notingthe girl who was waiting for the boss. The girl was beautiful in a hardsort of way, a platinum blonde with an entertainer's busty figure.Waiting for a plump, middle-aged man like a stagestruck kid outside atheatre.     At home, in her small two-room bachelor-girl apartment, she strippedand took a hot, sudsing shower, then stepped out and toweled herself infront of a mirror. She frowned slightly. You didn't know whether youshould keep yourself in trim just on some off-chance, or give up andlet yourself go.     She fixed dinner, took a moderately long time doing the dishes, andwent through the standard routine of getting a book and curling up onthe sofa. It was a good book of the boot-legged variety—scientificallywritten with enough surplus heroes and heroines and lushly describedlove affairs to hold anybody's interest.     It held hers for ten pages and then she threw the book across the room,getting a savage delight at the way the pages ripped and fluttered tothe floor.     What was the use of kidding herself any longer, of trying to livevicariously and hoping that some day she would have a home and ahusband? She was thirty now; the phone hadn't rung in the last threeyears. She might as well spend this evening as she had spent so manyothers—call up the girls for a bridge game and a little gossip, thoughheaven knew you always ended up envying the people you were gossipingabout.     Perhaps she should have joined one of the organizations at the officethat did something like that seven nights out of every seven. A bridgegame or a benefit for some school or a talk on art. Or she could havejoined the Lecture of the Week club, or the YWCA, or any one of theother government-sponsored clubs designed to fill the void in a woman'slife.     But bridge games and benefits and lectures didn't take the place of ahusband and family. She was kidding herself again.     She got up and retrieved the battered book, then went over to the mailslot. She hadn't had time to open her mail that morning; most of thetime it wasn't worth the effort. Advertisements for book clubs, lectureclubs, how to win at bridge and canasta....     Her fingers sprang the metal tabs on a large envelope and she took outthe contents and spread it wide.     She gasped. It was a large poster, about a yard square. A man was onit, straddling a tiny city and a small panorama of farms and forestsat his feet. He was a handsome specimen, with wavy blond hair and blueeyes and a curly mat on his bare chest that was just enough to beattractive without being apelike. He held an axe in his hands and waseyeing her with a clearly inviting look of brazen self-confidence.       It was definitely a privacy violator and she should notify theauthorities immediately!       Bright lettering at the top of the poster shrieked: Come to theColonies, the Planets of Romance!         Whoever had mailed it should be arrested and imprisoned! Preyingon....       The smaller print at the bottom was mostly full of facts and figures.The need for women out on the colony planets, the percentage of men towomen—a startling disproportion—the comfortable cities that weren'tnearly as primitive as people had imagined, and the recently reducedqualifications.     She caught herself admiring the man on the poster. Naturally, it was anartist's conception, but even so....     And the cities were far in advance of the frontier settlements, whereyou had to battle disease and dirty savages.     It was all a dream. She had never done anything like this and shewouldn't think of doing it now. And had any of her friends seen theposter? Of course, they probably wouldn't tell her even if they had.       But the poster was a violation of privacy. Whoever had sent it hadtaken advantage of information that was none of their business. It wasup to her to notify the authorities!    She took another look at the poster.     The letter she finally finished writing was very short. She addressedit to the box number in the upper left-hand corner of the plainwrapper that the poster had come in.      IV     The dress lay on the counter, a small corner of it trailing off theedge. It was a beautiful thing, sheer sheen satin trimmed in gold nylonthread. It was the kind of gown that would make anybody who wore itlook beautiful. The price was high, much too high for her to pay. Sheknew she would never be able to buy it.     But she didn't intend to buy it.     She looked casually around and noted that nobody was watching her.There was another woman a few counters down and a man, obviouslyembarrassed, at the lingerie counter. Nobody else was in sight. It wasa perfect time. The clerk had left to look up a difficult item that shehad purposely asked for and probably wouldn't be back for five minutes.     Time enough, at any rate.     The dress was lying loose, so she didn't have to pry it off anyhangers. She took another quick look around, then hurriedly bundled itup and dropped it in her shopping bag.     She had taken two self-assured steps away from the counter when shefelt a hand on her shoulder. The grip was firm and muscular and sheknew she had lost the game. She also knew that she had to play it outto the end, to grasp any straw.     Let go of me! she ordered in a frostily offended voice.     Sorry, miss, the man said politely, but I think we have a short tripto take.     She thought for a moment of brazening it out further and then gave up.She'd get a few weeks or months in the local detention building, aprobing into her background for the psychological reasons that promptedher to steal, and then she'd be out again.     They couldn't do anything to her that mattered.     She shrugged and followed the detective calmly. None of the shoppershad looked up. None seemed to notice anything out of the ordinary.     In the detention building she thanked her good luck that she was facinga man for the sentence, instead of one of the puritanical old biddieswho served on the bench. She even found a certain satisfaction in thepresence of the cigar smoke and the blunt, earthy language that floatedin from the corridor.     Why did you steal it? the judge asked. He held up the dress, which,she noted furiously, didn't look nearly as nice as it had under thedepartment store lights.     I don't have anything to say, she said. I want to see a lawyer.     She could imagine what he was thinking. Another tough one, anotherplain jane who was shoplifting for a thrill.     And she probably was. You had to do      something     nowadays. You couldn'tjust sit home and chew your fingernails, or run out and listen to theendless boring lectures on art and culture.     Name? he asked in a tired voice.     She knew the statistics he wanted. Ruby Johnson, 32, 145 pounds, brownhair and green eyes. Prints on file.     The judge leaned down and mentioned something to the bailiff, who leftand presently came back with a ledger. The judge opened it and ran hisfingers down one of the pages.     The sentence would probably be the usual, she thought—six months and afine, or perhaps a little more when they found out she had a record forshoplifting.     A stranger in the courtroom in the official linens of the governmentsuddenly stepped up beside the judge and looked at the page. She couldhear a little of what he said:     ... anxiety neurosis ... obvious feeling of not being wanted ...probably steals to attract attention ... recommend emigration.     In view of some complicating factors, we're going to give you achoice, the judge finally said. You can either go to the penitentiaryfor ten years and pay a $10,000 fine, or you can ship out to the colonyplanets and receive a five-hundred-dollar immigration bonus.     She thought for a minute that she hadn't heard right. Ten thousanddollars and ten years! It was obvious that the state was interested inneither the fine nor in paying her room and board for ten years. Shecould recognize a squeeze play when she saw it, but there was nothingshe could do about it.     I wouldn't call that a choice, she said sourly. I'll ship out.      V     Suzanne was proud of the apartment. It had all the modern conveniences,like the needle shower with the perfume dispenser, the built-insoft-drink bar in the library, the all-communications set, and theelectrical massager. It was a nice, comfortable setup, an illusion ofsecurity in an ever-changing world.     She lit a cigarette and chuckled. Mrs. Burger, the fat old landlady,thought she kept up the apartment by working as a buyer for one of thedowntown stores.     Well, maybe some day she would.     But not today. And not tonight.     The phone rang and she answered in a casual tone. She talked for aminute, then let a trace of sultriness creep into her voice. Theconversation wasn't long.     She let the receiver fall back on the base and went into the bedroom toget a hat box. She wouldn't need much; she'd probably be back that samenight.     It was a nice night and since the address was only a few blocks away,she decided to walk it. She blithely ignored the curious stares fromother pedestrians, attracted by the sharp, clicking sound of her heelson the sidewalk.     The address was a brownstone that looked more like an office buildingthan anything else, but then you could never tell. She pressed thebuzzer and waited a moment for the sound to echo back and forth onthe inside. She pressed it again and a moment later a suave young manappeared in the doorway.     Miss Carstens?     She smiled pertly.     We've been expecting you.     She wondered a little at the we, but dutifully smiled and followedhim in.     The glare of the lights inside the office blinded her for a moment.When she could focus them again, her smile became slightly blurry atthe edges and then disappeared entirely. She wasn't alone. There was abattery of chairs against one side of the room. She recognized most ofthe girls sitting in them.     She forced a smile to her lips and tried to laugh.     I'm sure there's been some mistake! Why, I never....     The young man coughed politely. I'm afraid there's been no mistake.Full name, please.     Suzanne Carstens, she said grimly, and gave the other statistics hewanted. She idly wondered what stoolie had peddled the phone numbers.     Suzanne Carstens, the young man noted, and slowly shook his head.A very pretty name, but no doubt not your own. It actually doesn'tmatter, though. Take a seat over there.     She did as he asked and he faced the entire group.     I and the other gentlemen here represent the Colonization Board. We'veinterceded with the local authorities in order to offer you a choice.We would like to ship you out to the colony planets. Naturally, we willpay you the standard emigration bonus of five hundred dollars. Thecolonists need wives; they offer you—security.     He stressed the word slightly.     Now, of course, if you don't prefer the colony planets, you can staybehind and face the penalties of ten years in jail and a fine of tenthousand dollars.     Suzanne felt that her lower jaw needed support. Ten thousand dollarsand ten years! And in either case she'd lose the apartment she hadworked so hard for, her symbol of security.     Well, what do you say? There was a dead silence. The young manfrom the Colonization Board turned to Suzanne. How about you, MissCarstens?     She smiled sickly and nodded her head. I      love     to travel! she said.     It didn't sound at all witty even to herself.   ","Phyllis Hanson has been wanting a husband and a family for almost three years. She does not think that the bridge games and benefits and lectures can replace a husband and family. However, in her mail today, she gets a poster that tells her to come to the colonies. This is clearly a violation of her privacy. However, the man on the poster is very handsome, and she looks at it again and again. Though she admires the man on the poster, she still writes a letter reporting it. Then Ruby Johnson also goes through something strange. She steals a beautiful gown from the store and then gets caught. She knows that she will simply face a small fine along with a few weeks or months in detention because she was caught stealing dress from the . However, to her surprised, she is told that she be charged with a 10,000 dollar fine along with ten years in prison, or she can choose to go to a colony planet and get a five-hundred-dollar bonus. She is shocked, but chooses the latter. Similarly, Suzanne is given a similar choice between shipping out to the colony or going to jail after receiving a phone call telling her to get to a specific place. She also chooses the colony planet. "
"What is the setting of the story? </s>     THE GIRLS FROM EARTH     By FRANK M. ROBINSON     Illustrated by EMSH     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction January 1952.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        Problem: How can you arrange marriages with       men in one solar system, women in another—and       neither willing to leave his own world?        I     The beasts aren't much help, are they?     Karl Allen snatched a breath of air and gave another heave on the linetied to the raft of parampa logs bobbing in the middle of the river.     No, he grunted, they're not. They always balk at a time like this,when they can see it'll be hard work.     Joseph Hill wiped his plump face and coiled some of the rope's slackaround his thick waist.     Together now, Karl.      One! Two!          They stood knee-deep in mud on the bank, pulling and straining on therope, while some few yards distant, in the shade of a grove of trees,their tiny yllumphs nibbled grass and watched them critically, but madeno effort to come closer.       If we're late for ship's landing, Joe, we'll get crossed off the list.     Hill puffed and wheezed and took another hitch on the rope.     That's what I've been thinking about, he said, worried.     They took a deep breath and hauled mightily on the raft rope. The raftbobbed nearer. For a moment the swift waters of the Karazoo threatenedto tear it out of their grasp, and then it was beached, most of itsolidly, on the muddy bank. One end of it still lay in the gurgling,rushing waters, but that didn't matter. They'd be back in ten hours orso, long before the heavy raft could be washed free.     How much time have we got, Karl?     The ground was thick with shadows, and Karl cast a critical eye atthem. He estimated that even with the refusal of their yllumphs to helpbeach the raft, they still had a good two hours before the rocket putdown at Landing City.     Two hours, maybe a little more, he stated hastily when Hill lookedmore worried. Time enough to get to Landing City and put in for ournumbers on the list.     He turned back to the raft, untied the leather and horn saddles, andthrew them over the backs of their reluctant mounts. He cinched hissaddle and tied on some robes and furs behind it.     Hill watched him curiously. What are you taking the furs for? Thisisn't the trading rocket.     I know. I thought that when we come back tonight, it might be cold andmaybe      she'll     appreciate the coverings then.     You never would have thought of it yourself, Hill grunted. Grundymust have told you to do it, the old fool. If you ask me, the lessyou give them, the less they'll come to expect. Once you spoil them,they'll expect you to do all the trapping and the farming and thefamily-raising yourself.     You didn't have to sign up, Karl pointed out. You could have appliedfor a wife from some different planet.     One's probably just as good as another. They'll all have to work thefarms and raise families.     Karl laughed and aimed a friendly blow at Hill. They finished saddlingup and headed into the thick forest.  It was quiet as Karl guided his mount along the dimly marked trailand he caught himself thinking of the return trip he would be makingthat night. It would be nice to have somebody new to talk to. And itwould be good to have somebody to help with the trapping and tanning,somebody who could tend the small vegetable garden at the rear of hisshack and mend his socks and wash his clothes and cook his meals.     And it was time, he thought soberly, that he started to raise a family.He was mid-twenty now, old enough to want a wife and children.     You going to raise a litter, Joe?     Hill started. Karl realized that he had probably been thinking of thesame thing.     One of these days I'll need help around the sawmill, Hill answereddefensively. Need some kids to cut the trees, a couple more to polethem down the river, some to run the mill itself and maybe one to sellthe lumber in Landing City. Can't do it all myself.     He paused a moment, thinking over something that had just occurred tohim.     I've been thinking of your plans for a garden, Karl. Maybe I ought tohave one for my wife to take care of, too.     Karl chuckled. I don't think she'll have the time!     They left the leafy expanse of the forest and entered the grasslandsthat sloped toward Landing City. He could even see Landing City itselfon the horizon, a smudge of rusting, corrugated steel shacks, muddystreets, and the small rocket port—a scorched thirty acres or sofenced off with barbed wire.     Karl looked out of the corner of his eye at Hill and felt a vague waveof uneasiness. Hill was a big, thick man wearing the soiled clothes andbristly stubble of a man who was used to living alone and who likedit. But once he took a wife, he would probably have to keep himself inclean clothes and shave every few days. It was even possible that thewoman might object to Hill letting his yllumph share the hut.     The path was getting crowded, more of the colonists coming onto themain path from the small side trails.     Hill broke the silence first. I wonder what they'll be like.     Karl looked wise and nodded knowingly. They're Earthwomen, Joe.      Earth!          It was easy to act as though he had some inside information, but Karlhad to admit to himself that he actually knew very little about it. Hewas a Second System colonist and had never even seen an Earthwoman.He had heard tales, though, and even discounting a large percentageof them, some of them must have been true. Old Grundy at the rocketoffice, who should know about these things if anybody did, seemeddisturbingly lacking on definite information, though he had hintedbroadly enough. He'd whistle softly and wink an eye and repeat thestories that Karl had already heard; but he had nothing      definite     tooffer, no real facts at all.     Some of the other colonists whom they hadn't seen for the last fewmonths shouted greetings, and Karl began to feel some of the carnivalspirit. There was Jenkins, who had another trapping line fifty milesfarther up the Karazoo; Leonard, who had the biggest farm on Midplanet;and then the fellow who specialized in catching and breaking inyllumphs, whose name Karl couldn't remember.     They say they're good workers, Hill said.     Karl nodded. Pretty, too.     They threaded their way through the crowded and muddy streets. LandingCity wasn't big, compared to some of the cities on Altair, where he hadbeen raised, but Karl was proud of it. Some day it would be as big asany city on any planet—maybe even have a population of ten thousandpeople or more.     Joe, Karl said suddenly, what's supposed to make women from Earthbetter than women from any other world?     Hill located a faint itch and frowned. I don't know, Karl. It's hardto say. They're—well, sophisticated, glamorous.     Karl absorbed this in silence. Those particular qualities were, hethought, rather hard to define.     The battered shack that served as rocket port office and headquartersfor the colonial office on Midplanet loomed up in front of them. Therewas a crowd gathered in front of the building and they forced their waythrough to see what had caused it.     We saw this the last time we were here, Hill said.     I know, Karl agreed, but I want to take another look. He wasanxious to glean all the information that he could.     It was a poster of a beautiful woman leaning toward the viewer. Theedges of the poster were curling and the colors had faded during thelast six months, but the girl's smile seemed just as inviting as ever.She held a long-stemmed goblet in one hand and was blowing a kiss toher audience with the other. Her green eyes sparkled, her smile wasprovocative. A quoted sentence read: I'm from      Earth     ! There wasnothing more except a printed list of the different solar systems towhich the colonial office was sending the women.       She was real pretty, Karl thought. A little on the thin side, maybe,and the dress she was wearing would hardly be practical on Midplanet,but she had a certain something. Glamour, maybe?     A loudspeaker blared.     All colonists waiting for the wife draft assemble for your numbers!All colonists....     There was a jostling for places and then they were in the rapidlymoving line. Grundy, fat and important-looking, was handing out littleblue slips with numbers on them, pausing every now and then to tellthem some entertaining bit of information about the women. He had agreat imagination, nothing else.     Karl drew the number 53 and hurried to the grassy lot beside thelanding field that had been decorated with bunting and huge welcomesigns for the new arrivals. A table was loaded with governmentpamphlets meant to be helpful to newly married colonists. Karl wentover and stuffed a few in his pockets. Other tables had been set outand were loaded with luncheon food, fixed by the few colonial women inthe community. Karl caught himself eyeing the women closely, wonderinghow the girls from Earth would compare with them.     He fingered the ticket in his pocket. What would the woman be likewho had drawn the companion number 53 aboard the rocket? For when itlanded, they would pair up by numbers. The method had its drawbacks, ofcourse, but time was much too short to allow even a few days of gettingacquainted. He'd have to get back to his trapping lines and he imaginedthat Hill would have to get back to his sawmill and the others to theirfarms. What the hell, you never knew what you were getting either way,till it was too late.     Sandwich, mister? Pop?     Karl flipped the boy a coin, picked up some food and a drink, andwandered over to the landing field with Hill. There were still tenminutes or so to go before the rocket landed, but he caught himselfstraining his sight at the blue sky, trying to see a telltale flickerof exhaust flame.     The field was crowded and he caught some of the buzzing conversation.     ... never knew one myself, but let me tell you....     ... knew a fellow once who married one, never had a moment's restafterward....     ... no comparison with colonial women. They got culture....     ... I'd give a lot to know the girl who's got number twenty-five....     Let's meet back here with the girls who have picked our numbers, Hillsaid. Maybe we could trade.     Karl nodded, though privately he felt that the number system was justas good as depending on first impressions.     There was a murmur from the crowd and he found his gaze rivetedoverhead. High above, in the misty blue sky, was a sudden twinkle offire.     He reached up and wiped his sweaty face with a muddy hand and brushedaside a straggly lock of tangled hair. It wouldn't hurt to try to lookhis best.     The twinkling fire came nearer.      II     A Mr. Macdonald to see you, Mr. Escher.     Claude Escher flipped the intercom switch.     Please send him right in.     That was entirely superfluous, he thought, because MacDonald would comein whether Escher wanted him to or not.     The door opened and shut with a slightly harder bang than usual andEscher mentally braced himself. He had a good hunch what the problemwas going to be and why it was being thrown in their laps.     MacDonald made himself comfortable and sat there for a few minutes,just looking grim and not saying anything. Escher knew the psychologyby heart. A short preliminary silence is always more effective inbrowbeating subordinates than an initial furious bluster.     He lit a cigarette and tried to outwait MacDonald. It wasn'teasy—MacDonald had great staying powers, which was probably why he wasthe head of the department.     Escher gave in first. Okay, Mac, what's the trouble? What do we havetossed in our laps now?     You know the one—colonization problem. You know that when we firststarted to colonize, quite a large percentage of the male populationtook to the stars, as the saying goes. The adventuresome, the gamblers,the frontier type all decided they wanted to head for other worlds, toget away from it all. The male of the species is far more adventuresomethan the female; the men left—but the women didn't. At least, not innearly the same large numbers.     Well, you see the problem. The ratio of women to men here on Earth isnow something like five to three. If you don't know what that means,ask any man with a daughter. Or any psychiatrist. Husband-hunting isn'tjust a pleasant pastime on Earth. It's an earnest cutthroat businessand I'm not just using a literary phrase.     He threw a paper on Escher's desk. You'll find most of the statisticsabout it in that, Claude. Notice the increase in crimes peculiar towomen. Shoplifting, badger games, poisonings, that kind of thing. It'squite a list. You'll also notice the huge increase in petty crimes, alot of which wouldn't have bothered the courts before. In fact, theywouldn't even have been considered crimes. You know why they are now?     Escher shook his head blankly.     Most of the girls in the past who didn't catch a husband, MacDonaldcontinued, grew up to be the type of old maid who's dedicated toimproving the morals and what-not of the rest of the population. We'vegot more puritanical societies now than we ever had, and we have moresilly little laws on the books as a result. You can be thrown in thepokey for things like violating a woman's privacy—whatever thatmeans—and she's the one who decides whether what you say or do is aviolation or not.     Escher looked bored. Not to mention the new prohibition whichforbids the use of alcohol in everything from cough medicines to hairtonics. Or the cleaned up moral code that reeks—if you'll pardon theexpression—of purity. Sure, I know what you mean. And you know thesolution. All we have to do is get the women to colonize.     MacDonald ran his fingers nervously through his hair.     But it won't be easy, and that's why it's been given to us. It's yourbaby, Claude. Give it a lot of thought. Nothing's impossible, you know.     Perpetual motion machines are, Escher said quietly. And pullingyourself up by your boot-straps. But I get the point. Nevertheless,women just don't want to colonize. And who can blame them? Why shouldthey give up living in a luxury civilization, with as many modernconveniences as this one, to go homesteading on some wild, unexploredplanet where they have to work their fingers to the bone and playfootsie with wild animals and savages who would just as soon skin themalive as not?     What do you advise I do, then? MacDonald demanded. Go back to theBoard and tell them the problem is not solvable, that we can't think ofanything?     Escher looked hurt. Did I say that? I just said it wouldn't be easy.     The Board is giving you a blank check. Do anything you think will payoff. We have to stay within the letter of the law, of course, but notnecessarily the spirit.     When do they have to have a solution?     As soon as possible. At least within the year. By that time thesituation will be very serious. The psychologists say that what willhappen then won't be good.     All right, by then we'll have the answer.     MacDonald stopped at the door. There's another reason why they want itworked out. The number of men applying to the Colonization Board foremigration to the colony planets is falling off.     How come?     MacDonald smiled. On the basis of statistics alone, would you want toemigrate from a planet where the women outnumber the men five to three?     When MacDonald had gone, Escher settled back in his chair and idlytapped his fingers on the desk-top. It was lucky that the ColonizationBoard worked on two levels. One was the well-publicized, idealisticlevel where nothing was too good and every deal was 99 and 44/100 percent pure. But when things got too difficult for it to handle on thatlevel, they went to Escher and MacDonald's department. The coal minelevel. Nothing was too low, so long as it worked. Of course, if itdidn't work, you took the lumps, too.     He rummaged around in his drawer and found a list of the qualificationsset up by the Board for potential colonists. He read the list slowlyand frowned. You had to be physically fit for the rigors of spacetravel, naturally, but some of the qualifications were obviously silly.You couldn't guarantee physical perfection in the second generation,anyway.     He tore the qualification list in shreds and dropped it in the disposalchute. That would have to be the first to go.     There were other things that could be done immediately. For one thing,as it stood now, you were supposed to be financially able to colonize.Obviously a stupid and unappealing law. That would have to go next.     He picked up the sheet of statistics that MacDonald had left and readit carefully. The Board could legalize polygamy, but that was nosolution in the long run. Probably cause more problems than it wouldsolve. Even with women as easy to handle as they were nowadays, one wasstill enough.     Which still left him with the main problem of how to get people tocolonize who didn't      want     to colonize.     The first point was to convince them that they wanted to. The secondpoint was that it might not matter whether they wanted to or not.     No, it shouldn't be hard to solve at all—provided you held your nose,silenced your conscience, and were willing to forget that there wassuch a thing as a moral code.      III     Phyllis Hanson put the cover over her typewriter and locked thecorrespondence drawer. Another day was done, another evening about tobegin.     She filed into the washroom with the other girls and carefully redidher face. It was getting hard to disguise the worry lines, to paintaway the faint crow's-feet around her eyes.     She wasn't, she admitted to herself for the thousandth time, what youwould call beautiful. She inspected herself carefully in her compactmirror. In a sudden flash of honesty, she had to admit that she wasn'teven what you would call pretty. Her face was too broad, her nose afraction too long, and her hair was dull. Not homely, exactly—but notpretty, either.     Conversation hummed around her, most of it from the little group in thecorner, where the extreme few who were married sat as practically arace apart. Their advice was sought, their suggestions avidly followed.     Going out tonight, Phyl?     She hesitated a moment, then slowly painted on the rest of her mouth.The question was technically a privacy violator, but she thought shewould sidestep it this time, instead of refusing to answer point-blank.     I thought I'd stay home tonight. Have a few things I want to rinseout.     The black-haired girl next to her nodded sympathetically. Sure, Phyl,I know what you mean. Just like the rest of us—waiting for the phoneto ring.     Phyllis finished washing up and then left the office, carefully notingthe girl who was waiting for the boss. The girl was beautiful in a hardsort of way, a platinum blonde with an entertainer's busty figure.Waiting for a plump, middle-aged man like a stagestruck kid outside atheatre.     At home, in her small two-room bachelor-girl apartment, she strippedand took a hot, sudsing shower, then stepped out and toweled herself infront of a mirror. She frowned slightly. You didn't know whether youshould keep yourself in trim just on some off-chance, or give up andlet yourself go.     She fixed dinner, took a moderately long time doing the dishes, andwent through the standard routine of getting a book and curling up onthe sofa. It was a good book of the boot-legged variety—scientificallywritten with enough surplus heroes and heroines and lushly describedlove affairs to hold anybody's interest.     It held hers for ten pages and then she threw the book across the room,getting a savage delight at the way the pages ripped and fluttered tothe floor.     What was the use of kidding herself any longer, of trying to livevicariously and hoping that some day she would have a home and ahusband? She was thirty now; the phone hadn't rung in the last threeyears. She might as well spend this evening as she had spent so manyothers—call up the girls for a bridge game and a little gossip, thoughheaven knew you always ended up envying the people you were gossipingabout.     Perhaps she should have joined one of the organizations at the officethat did something like that seven nights out of every seven. A bridgegame or a benefit for some school or a talk on art. Or she could havejoined the Lecture of the Week club, or the YWCA, or any one of theother government-sponsored clubs designed to fill the void in a woman'slife.     But bridge games and benefits and lectures didn't take the place of ahusband and family. She was kidding herself again.     She got up and retrieved the battered book, then went over to the mailslot. She hadn't had time to open her mail that morning; most of thetime it wasn't worth the effort. Advertisements for book clubs, lectureclubs, how to win at bridge and canasta....     Her fingers sprang the metal tabs on a large envelope and she took outthe contents and spread it wide.     She gasped. It was a large poster, about a yard square. A man was onit, straddling a tiny city and a small panorama of farms and forestsat his feet. He was a handsome specimen, with wavy blond hair and blueeyes and a curly mat on his bare chest that was just enough to beattractive without being apelike. He held an axe in his hands and waseyeing her with a clearly inviting look of brazen self-confidence.       It was definitely a privacy violator and she should notify theauthorities immediately!       Bright lettering at the top of the poster shrieked: Come to theColonies, the Planets of Romance!         Whoever had mailed it should be arrested and imprisoned! Preyingon....       The smaller print at the bottom was mostly full of facts and figures.The need for women out on the colony planets, the percentage of men towomen—a startling disproportion—the comfortable cities that weren'tnearly as primitive as people had imagined, and the recently reducedqualifications.     She caught herself admiring the man on the poster. Naturally, it was anartist's conception, but even so....     And the cities were far in advance of the frontier settlements, whereyou had to battle disease and dirty savages.     It was all a dream. She had never done anything like this and shewouldn't think of doing it now. And had any of her friends seen theposter? Of course, they probably wouldn't tell her even if they had.       But the poster was a violation of privacy. Whoever had sent it hadtaken advantage of information that was none of their business. It wasup to her to notify the authorities!    She took another look at the poster.     The letter she finally finished writing was very short. She addressedit to the box number in the upper left-hand corner of the plainwrapper that the poster had come in.      IV     The dress lay on the counter, a small corner of it trailing off theedge. It was a beautiful thing, sheer sheen satin trimmed in gold nylonthread. It was the kind of gown that would make anybody who wore itlook beautiful. The price was high, much too high for her to pay. Sheknew she would never be able to buy it.     But she didn't intend to buy it.     She looked casually around and noted that nobody was watching her.There was another woman a few counters down and a man, obviouslyembarrassed, at the lingerie counter. Nobody else was in sight. It wasa perfect time. The clerk had left to look up a difficult item that shehad purposely asked for and probably wouldn't be back for five minutes.     Time enough, at any rate.     The dress was lying loose, so she didn't have to pry it off anyhangers. She took another quick look around, then hurriedly bundled itup and dropped it in her shopping bag.     She had taken two self-assured steps away from the counter when shefelt a hand on her shoulder. The grip was firm and muscular and sheknew she had lost the game. She also knew that she had to play it outto the end, to grasp any straw.     Let go of me! she ordered in a frostily offended voice.     Sorry, miss, the man said politely, but I think we have a short tripto take.     She thought for a moment of brazening it out further and then gave up.She'd get a few weeks or months in the local detention building, aprobing into her background for the psychological reasons that promptedher to steal, and then she'd be out again.     They couldn't do anything to her that mattered.     She shrugged and followed the detective calmly. None of the shoppershad looked up. None seemed to notice anything out of the ordinary.     In the detention building she thanked her good luck that she was facinga man for the sentence, instead of one of the puritanical old biddieswho served on the bench. She even found a certain satisfaction in thepresence of the cigar smoke and the blunt, earthy language that floatedin from the corridor.     Why did you steal it? the judge asked. He held up the dress, which,she noted furiously, didn't look nearly as nice as it had under thedepartment store lights.     I don't have anything to say, she said. I want to see a lawyer.     She could imagine what he was thinking. Another tough one, anotherplain jane who was shoplifting for a thrill.     And she probably was. You had to do      something     nowadays. You couldn'tjust sit home and chew your fingernails, or run out and listen to theendless boring lectures on art and culture.     Name? he asked in a tired voice.     She knew the statistics he wanted. Ruby Johnson, 32, 145 pounds, brownhair and green eyes. Prints on file.     The judge leaned down and mentioned something to the bailiff, who leftand presently came back with a ledger. The judge opened it and ran hisfingers down one of the pages.     The sentence would probably be the usual, she thought—six months and afine, or perhaps a little more when they found out she had a record forshoplifting.     A stranger in the courtroom in the official linens of the governmentsuddenly stepped up beside the judge and looked at the page. She couldhear a little of what he said:     ... anxiety neurosis ... obvious feeling of not being wanted ...probably steals to attract attention ... recommend emigration.     In view of some complicating factors, we're going to give you achoice, the judge finally said. You can either go to the penitentiaryfor ten years and pay a $10,000 fine, or you can ship out to the colonyplanets and receive a five-hundred-dollar immigration bonus.     She thought for a minute that she hadn't heard right. Ten thousanddollars and ten years! It was obvious that the state was interested inneither the fine nor in paying her room and board for ten years. Shecould recognize a squeeze play when she saw it, but there was nothingshe could do about it.     I wouldn't call that a choice, she said sourly. I'll ship out.      V     Suzanne was proud of the apartment. It had all the modern conveniences,like the needle shower with the perfume dispenser, the built-insoft-drink bar in the library, the all-communications set, and theelectrical massager. It was a nice, comfortable setup, an illusion ofsecurity in an ever-changing world.     She lit a cigarette and chuckled. Mrs. Burger, the fat old landlady,thought she kept up the apartment by working as a buyer for one of thedowntown stores.     Well, maybe some day she would.     But not today. And not tonight.     The phone rang and she answered in a casual tone. She talked for aminute, then let a trace of sultriness creep into her voice. Theconversation wasn't long.     She let the receiver fall back on the base and went into the bedroom toget a hat box. She wouldn't need much; she'd probably be back that samenight.     It was a nice night and since the address was only a few blocks away,she decided to walk it. She blithely ignored the curious stares fromother pedestrians, attracted by the sharp, clicking sound of her heelson the sidewalk.     The address was a brownstone that looked more like an office buildingthan anything else, but then you could never tell. She pressed thebuzzer and waited a moment for the sound to echo back and forth onthe inside. She pressed it again and a moment later a suave young manappeared in the doorway.     Miss Carstens?     She smiled pertly.     We've been expecting you.     She wondered a little at the we, but dutifully smiled and followedhim in.     The glare of the lights inside the office blinded her for a moment.When she could focus them again, her smile became slightly blurry atthe edges and then disappeared entirely. She wasn't alone. There was abattery of chairs against one side of the room. She recognized most ofthe girls sitting in them.     She forced a smile to her lips and tried to laugh.     I'm sure there's been some mistake! Why, I never....     The young man coughed politely. I'm afraid there's been no mistake.Full name, please.     Suzanne Carstens, she said grimly, and gave the other statistics hewanted. She idly wondered what stoolie had peddled the phone numbers.     Suzanne Carstens, the young man noted, and slowly shook his head.A very pretty name, but no doubt not your own. It actually doesn'tmatter, though. Take a seat over there.     She did as he asked and he faced the entire group.     I and the other gentlemen here represent the Colonization Board. We'veinterceded with the local authorities in order to offer you a choice.We would like to ship you out to the colony planets. Naturally, we willpay you the standard emigration bonus of five hundred dollars. Thecolonists need wives; they offer you—security.     He stressed the word slightly.     Now, of course, if you don't prefer the colony planets, you can staybehind and face the penalties of ten years in jail and a fine of tenthousand dollars.     Suzanne felt that her lower jaw needed support. Ten thousand dollarsand ten years! And in either case she'd lose the apartment she hadworked so hard for, her symbol of security.     Well, what do you say? There was a dead silence. The young manfrom the Colonization Board turned to Suzanne. How about you, MissCarstens?     She smiled sickly and nodded her head. I      love     to travel! she said.     It didn't sound at all witty even to herself.   ","The story first sets next to the river on Midplanet. The road connecting the river to the Landing City goes from forest to grassland, multiple small trails connects to the large one, leading towards the city. The Landing City is not really that big, especially comparing to Altair. The battered shack and headquarters building appears as they reach the Landing City. There is a grassy lot next to the landing field. The landing field is decorated with bunting and welcome signs. There is a table with government pamphlets as well as tables for luncheon food. Inside Mr. Eescher’s room, there is an intercom switch, some seats, and on his desk, there was also a drawer. Phyllis’ in an office that has a typewriter which is put inside a drawer. There is a washroom along with a mirror where she notices her worry lines. She owns a small two-room bachelor-girl apartment, in the bathroom there’s a mirror. She is on the sofa reading a book when she throws it across the room. There’s also a mail slot where she finds the odd poster. Rudy is in shop, and there’s a dress laying on the counter. In a courtroom in the detention building, there’s a judge and he has a ledger with him. Suzanne’s apartment has needle shower with perfume dispenser, build-in soft-drink bar in the library, as well as all-communications set and electrical massager. There is also a telephone, and her bedroom has a hat box. She arrives at a brownstone office building, there’s a buzzer and a then a young man appears in the doorway. There are bright lights inside the room, and there was a battery of chairs against one side of the room where the girls are sitting. "
"What leads Escher and MacDonald’s meeting in the story? </s>     THE GIRLS FROM EARTH     By FRANK M. ROBINSON     Illustrated by EMSH     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction January 1952.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        Problem: How can you arrange marriages with       men in one solar system, women in another—and       neither willing to leave his own world?        I     The beasts aren't much help, are they?     Karl Allen snatched a breath of air and gave another heave on the linetied to the raft of parampa logs bobbing in the middle of the river.     No, he grunted, they're not. They always balk at a time like this,when they can see it'll be hard work.     Joseph Hill wiped his plump face and coiled some of the rope's slackaround his thick waist.     Together now, Karl.      One! Two!          They stood knee-deep in mud on the bank, pulling and straining on therope, while some few yards distant, in the shade of a grove of trees,their tiny yllumphs nibbled grass and watched them critically, but madeno effort to come closer.       If we're late for ship's landing, Joe, we'll get crossed off the list.     Hill puffed and wheezed and took another hitch on the rope.     That's what I've been thinking about, he said, worried.     They took a deep breath and hauled mightily on the raft rope. The raftbobbed nearer. For a moment the swift waters of the Karazoo threatenedto tear it out of their grasp, and then it was beached, most of itsolidly, on the muddy bank. One end of it still lay in the gurgling,rushing waters, but that didn't matter. They'd be back in ten hours orso, long before the heavy raft could be washed free.     How much time have we got, Karl?     The ground was thick with shadows, and Karl cast a critical eye atthem. He estimated that even with the refusal of their yllumphs to helpbeach the raft, they still had a good two hours before the rocket putdown at Landing City.     Two hours, maybe a little more, he stated hastily when Hill lookedmore worried. Time enough to get to Landing City and put in for ournumbers on the list.     He turned back to the raft, untied the leather and horn saddles, andthrew them over the backs of their reluctant mounts. He cinched hissaddle and tied on some robes and furs behind it.     Hill watched him curiously. What are you taking the furs for? Thisisn't the trading rocket.     I know. I thought that when we come back tonight, it might be cold andmaybe      she'll     appreciate the coverings then.     You never would have thought of it yourself, Hill grunted. Grundymust have told you to do it, the old fool. If you ask me, the lessyou give them, the less they'll come to expect. Once you spoil them,they'll expect you to do all the trapping and the farming and thefamily-raising yourself.     You didn't have to sign up, Karl pointed out. You could have appliedfor a wife from some different planet.     One's probably just as good as another. They'll all have to work thefarms and raise families.     Karl laughed and aimed a friendly blow at Hill. They finished saddlingup and headed into the thick forest.  It was quiet as Karl guided his mount along the dimly marked trailand he caught himself thinking of the return trip he would be makingthat night. It would be nice to have somebody new to talk to. And itwould be good to have somebody to help with the trapping and tanning,somebody who could tend the small vegetable garden at the rear of hisshack and mend his socks and wash his clothes and cook his meals.     And it was time, he thought soberly, that he started to raise a family.He was mid-twenty now, old enough to want a wife and children.     You going to raise a litter, Joe?     Hill started. Karl realized that he had probably been thinking of thesame thing.     One of these days I'll need help around the sawmill, Hill answereddefensively. Need some kids to cut the trees, a couple more to polethem down the river, some to run the mill itself and maybe one to sellthe lumber in Landing City. Can't do it all myself.     He paused a moment, thinking over something that had just occurred tohim.     I've been thinking of your plans for a garden, Karl. Maybe I ought tohave one for my wife to take care of, too.     Karl chuckled. I don't think she'll have the time!     They left the leafy expanse of the forest and entered the grasslandsthat sloped toward Landing City. He could even see Landing City itselfon the horizon, a smudge of rusting, corrugated steel shacks, muddystreets, and the small rocket port—a scorched thirty acres or sofenced off with barbed wire.     Karl looked out of the corner of his eye at Hill and felt a vague waveof uneasiness. Hill was a big, thick man wearing the soiled clothes andbristly stubble of a man who was used to living alone and who likedit. But once he took a wife, he would probably have to keep himself inclean clothes and shave every few days. It was even possible that thewoman might object to Hill letting his yllumph share the hut.     The path was getting crowded, more of the colonists coming onto themain path from the small side trails.     Hill broke the silence first. I wonder what they'll be like.     Karl looked wise and nodded knowingly. They're Earthwomen, Joe.      Earth!          It was easy to act as though he had some inside information, but Karlhad to admit to himself that he actually knew very little about it. Hewas a Second System colonist and had never even seen an Earthwoman.He had heard tales, though, and even discounting a large percentageof them, some of them must have been true. Old Grundy at the rocketoffice, who should know about these things if anybody did, seemeddisturbingly lacking on definite information, though he had hintedbroadly enough. He'd whistle softly and wink an eye and repeat thestories that Karl had already heard; but he had nothing      definite     tooffer, no real facts at all.     Some of the other colonists whom they hadn't seen for the last fewmonths shouted greetings, and Karl began to feel some of the carnivalspirit. There was Jenkins, who had another trapping line fifty milesfarther up the Karazoo; Leonard, who had the biggest farm on Midplanet;and then the fellow who specialized in catching and breaking inyllumphs, whose name Karl couldn't remember.     They say they're good workers, Hill said.     Karl nodded. Pretty, too.     They threaded their way through the crowded and muddy streets. LandingCity wasn't big, compared to some of the cities on Altair, where he hadbeen raised, but Karl was proud of it. Some day it would be as big asany city on any planet—maybe even have a population of ten thousandpeople or more.     Joe, Karl said suddenly, what's supposed to make women from Earthbetter than women from any other world?     Hill located a faint itch and frowned. I don't know, Karl. It's hardto say. They're—well, sophisticated, glamorous.     Karl absorbed this in silence. Those particular qualities were, hethought, rather hard to define.     The battered shack that served as rocket port office and headquartersfor the colonial office on Midplanet loomed up in front of them. Therewas a crowd gathered in front of the building and they forced their waythrough to see what had caused it.     We saw this the last time we were here, Hill said.     I know, Karl agreed, but I want to take another look. He wasanxious to glean all the information that he could.     It was a poster of a beautiful woman leaning toward the viewer. Theedges of the poster were curling and the colors had faded during thelast six months, but the girl's smile seemed just as inviting as ever.She held a long-stemmed goblet in one hand and was blowing a kiss toher audience with the other. Her green eyes sparkled, her smile wasprovocative. A quoted sentence read: I'm from      Earth     ! There wasnothing more except a printed list of the different solar systems towhich the colonial office was sending the women.       She was real pretty, Karl thought. A little on the thin side, maybe,and the dress she was wearing would hardly be practical on Midplanet,but she had a certain something. Glamour, maybe?     A loudspeaker blared.     All colonists waiting for the wife draft assemble for your numbers!All colonists....     There was a jostling for places and then they were in the rapidlymoving line. Grundy, fat and important-looking, was handing out littleblue slips with numbers on them, pausing every now and then to tellthem some entertaining bit of information about the women. He had agreat imagination, nothing else.     Karl drew the number 53 and hurried to the grassy lot beside thelanding field that had been decorated with bunting and huge welcomesigns for the new arrivals. A table was loaded with governmentpamphlets meant to be helpful to newly married colonists. Karl wentover and stuffed a few in his pockets. Other tables had been set outand were loaded with luncheon food, fixed by the few colonial women inthe community. Karl caught himself eyeing the women closely, wonderinghow the girls from Earth would compare with them.     He fingered the ticket in his pocket. What would the woman be likewho had drawn the companion number 53 aboard the rocket? For when itlanded, they would pair up by numbers. The method had its drawbacks, ofcourse, but time was much too short to allow even a few days of gettingacquainted. He'd have to get back to his trapping lines and he imaginedthat Hill would have to get back to his sawmill and the others to theirfarms. What the hell, you never knew what you were getting either way,till it was too late.     Sandwich, mister? Pop?     Karl flipped the boy a coin, picked up some food and a drink, andwandered over to the landing field with Hill. There were still tenminutes or so to go before the rocket landed, but he caught himselfstraining his sight at the blue sky, trying to see a telltale flickerof exhaust flame.     The field was crowded and he caught some of the buzzing conversation.     ... never knew one myself, but let me tell you....     ... knew a fellow once who married one, never had a moment's restafterward....     ... no comparison with colonial women. They got culture....     ... I'd give a lot to know the girl who's got number twenty-five....     Let's meet back here with the girls who have picked our numbers, Hillsaid. Maybe we could trade.     Karl nodded, though privately he felt that the number system was justas good as depending on first impressions.     There was a murmur from the crowd and he found his gaze rivetedoverhead. High above, in the misty blue sky, was a sudden twinkle offire.     He reached up and wiped his sweaty face with a muddy hand and brushedaside a straggly lock of tangled hair. It wouldn't hurt to try to lookhis best.     The twinkling fire came nearer.      II     A Mr. Macdonald to see you, Mr. Escher.     Claude Escher flipped the intercom switch.     Please send him right in.     That was entirely superfluous, he thought, because MacDonald would comein whether Escher wanted him to or not.     The door opened and shut with a slightly harder bang than usual andEscher mentally braced himself. He had a good hunch what the problemwas going to be and why it was being thrown in their laps.     MacDonald made himself comfortable and sat there for a few minutes,just looking grim and not saying anything. Escher knew the psychologyby heart. A short preliminary silence is always more effective inbrowbeating subordinates than an initial furious bluster.     He lit a cigarette and tried to outwait MacDonald. It wasn'teasy—MacDonald had great staying powers, which was probably why he wasthe head of the department.     Escher gave in first. Okay, Mac, what's the trouble? What do we havetossed in our laps now?     You know the one—colonization problem. You know that when we firststarted to colonize, quite a large percentage of the male populationtook to the stars, as the saying goes. The adventuresome, the gamblers,the frontier type all decided they wanted to head for other worlds, toget away from it all. The male of the species is far more adventuresomethan the female; the men left—but the women didn't. At least, not innearly the same large numbers.     Well, you see the problem. The ratio of women to men here on Earth isnow something like five to three. If you don't know what that means,ask any man with a daughter. Or any psychiatrist. Husband-hunting isn'tjust a pleasant pastime on Earth. It's an earnest cutthroat businessand I'm not just using a literary phrase.     He threw a paper on Escher's desk. You'll find most of the statisticsabout it in that, Claude. Notice the increase in crimes peculiar towomen. Shoplifting, badger games, poisonings, that kind of thing. It'squite a list. You'll also notice the huge increase in petty crimes, alot of which wouldn't have bothered the courts before. In fact, theywouldn't even have been considered crimes. You know why they are now?     Escher shook his head blankly.     Most of the girls in the past who didn't catch a husband, MacDonaldcontinued, grew up to be the type of old maid who's dedicated toimproving the morals and what-not of the rest of the population. We'vegot more puritanical societies now than we ever had, and we have moresilly little laws on the books as a result. You can be thrown in thepokey for things like violating a woman's privacy—whatever thatmeans—and she's the one who decides whether what you say or do is aviolation or not.     Escher looked bored. Not to mention the new prohibition whichforbids the use of alcohol in everything from cough medicines to hairtonics. Or the cleaned up moral code that reeks—if you'll pardon theexpression—of purity. Sure, I know what you mean. And you know thesolution. All we have to do is get the women to colonize.     MacDonald ran his fingers nervously through his hair.     But it won't be easy, and that's why it's been given to us. It's yourbaby, Claude. Give it a lot of thought. Nothing's impossible, you know.     Perpetual motion machines are, Escher said quietly. And pullingyourself up by your boot-straps. But I get the point. Nevertheless,women just don't want to colonize. And who can blame them? Why shouldthey give up living in a luxury civilization, with as many modernconveniences as this one, to go homesteading on some wild, unexploredplanet where they have to work their fingers to the bone and playfootsie with wild animals and savages who would just as soon skin themalive as not?     What do you advise I do, then? MacDonald demanded. Go back to theBoard and tell them the problem is not solvable, that we can't think ofanything?     Escher looked hurt. Did I say that? I just said it wouldn't be easy.     The Board is giving you a blank check. Do anything you think will payoff. We have to stay within the letter of the law, of course, but notnecessarily the spirit.     When do they have to have a solution?     As soon as possible. At least within the year. By that time thesituation will be very serious. The psychologists say that what willhappen then won't be good.     All right, by then we'll have the answer.     MacDonald stopped at the door. There's another reason why they want itworked out. The number of men applying to the Colonization Board foremigration to the colony planets is falling off.     How come?     MacDonald smiled. On the basis of statistics alone, would you want toemigrate from a planet where the women outnumber the men five to three?     When MacDonald had gone, Escher settled back in his chair and idlytapped his fingers on the desk-top. It was lucky that the ColonizationBoard worked on two levels. One was the well-publicized, idealisticlevel where nothing was too good and every deal was 99 and 44/100 percent pure. But when things got too difficult for it to handle on thatlevel, they went to Escher and MacDonald's department. The coal minelevel. Nothing was too low, so long as it worked. Of course, if itdidn't work, you took the lumps, too.     He rummaged around in his drawer and found a list of the qualificationsset up by the Board for potential colonists. He read the list slowlyand frowned. You had to be physically fit for the rigors of spacetravel, naturally, but some of the qualifications were obviously silly.You couldn't guarantee physical perfection in the second generation,anyway.     He tore the qualification list in shreds and dropped it in the disposalchute. That would have to be the first to go.     There were other things that could be done immediately. For one thing,as it stood now, you were supposed to be financially able to colonize.Obviously a stupid and unappealing law. That would have to go next.     He picked up the sheet of statistics that MacDonald had left and readit carefully. The Board could legalize polygamy, but that was nosolution in the long run. Probably cause more problems than it wouldsolve. Even with women as easy to handle as they were nowadays, one wasstill enough.     Which still left him with the main problem of how to get people tocolonize who didn't      want     to colonize.     The first point was to convince them that they wanted to. The secondpoint was that it might not matter whether they wanted to or not.     No, it shouldn't be hard to solve at all—provided you held your nose,silenced your conscience, and were willing to forget that there wassuch a thing as a moral code.      III     Phyllis Hanson put the cover over her typewriter and locked thecorrespondence drawer. Another day was done, another evening about tobegin.     She filed into the washroom with the other girls and carefully redidher face. It was getting hard to disguise the worry lines, to paintaway the faint crow's-feet around her eyes.     She wasn't, she admitted to herself for the thousandth time, what youwould call beautiful. She inspected herself carefully in her compactmirror. In a sudden flash of honesty, she had to admit that she wasn'teven what you would call pretty. Her face was too broad, her nose afraction too long, and her hair was dull. Not homely, exactly—but notpretty, either.     Conversation hummed around her, most of it from the little group in thecorner, where the extreme few who were married sat as practically arace apart. Their advice was sought, their suggestions avidly followed.     Going out tonight, Phyl?     She hesitated a moment, then slowly painted on the rest of her mouth.The question was technically a privacy violator, but she thought shewould sidestep it this time, instead of refusing to answer point-blank.     I thought I'd stay home tonight. Have a few things I want to rinseout.     The black-haired girl next to her nodded sympathetically. Sure, Phyl,I know what you mean. Just like the rest of us—waiting for the phoneto ring.     Phyllis finished washing up and then left the office, carefully notingthe girl who was waiting for the boss. The girl was beautiful in a hardsort of way, a platinum blonde with an entertainer's busty figure.Waiting for a plump, middle-aged man like a stagestruck kid outside atheatre.     At home, in her small two-room bachelor-girl apartment, she strippedand took a hot, sudsing shower, then stepped out and toweled herself infront of a mirror. She frowned slightly. You didn't know whether youshould keep yourself in trim just on some off-chance, or give up andlet yourself go.     She fixed dinner, took a moderately long time doing the dishes, andwent through the standard routine of getting a book and curling up onthe sofa. It was a good book of the boot-legged variety—scientificallywritten with enough surplus heroes and heroines and lushly describedlove affairs to hold anybody's interest.     It held hers for ten pages and then she threw the book across the room,getting a savage delight at the way the pages ripped and fluttered tothe floor.     What was the use of kidding herself any longer, of trying to livevicariously and hoping that some day she would have a home and ahusband? She was thirty now; the phone hadn't rung in the last threeyears. She might as well spend this evening as she had spent so manyothers—call up the girls for a bridge game and a little gossip, thoughheaven knew you always ended up envying the people you were gossipingabout.     Perhaps she should have joined one of the organizations at the officethat did something like that seven nights out of every seven. A bridgegame or a benefit for some school or a talk on art. Or she could havejoined the Lecture of the Week club, or the YWCA, or any one of theother government-sponsored clubs designed to fill the void in a woman'slife.     But bridge games and benefits and lectures didn't take the place of ahusband and family. She was kidding herself again.     She got up and retrieved the battered book, then went over to the mailslot. She hadn't had time to open her mail that morning; most of thetime it wasn't worth the effort. Advertisements for book clubs, lectureclubs, how to win at bridge and canasta....     Her fingers sprang the metal tabs on a large envelope and she took outthe contents and spread it wide.     She gasped. It was a large poster, about a yard square. A man was onit, straddling a tiny city and a small panorama of farms and forestsat his feet. He was a handsome specimen, with wavy blond hair and blueeyes and a curly mat on his bare chest that was just enough to beattractive without being apelike. He held an axe in his hands and waseyeing her with a clearly inviting look of brazen self-confidence.       It was definitely a privacy violator and she should notify theauthorities immediately!       Bright lettering at the top of the poster shrieked: Come to theColonies, the Planets of Romance!         Whoever had mailed it should be arrested and imprisoned! Preyingon....       The smaller print at the bottom was mostly full of facts and figures.The need for women out on the colony planets, the percentage of men towomen—a startling disproportion—the comfortable cities that weren'tnearly as primitive as people had imagined, and the recently reducedqualifications.     She caught herself admiring the man on the poster. Naturally, it was anartist's conception, but even so....     And the cities were far in advance of the frontier settlements, whereyou had to battle disease and dirty savages.     It was all a dream. She had never done anything like this and shewouldn't think of doing it now. And had any of her friends seen theposter? Of course, they probably wouldn't tell her even if they had.       But the poster was a violation of privacy. Whoever had sent it hadtaken advantage of information that was none of their business. It wasup to her to notify the authorities!    She took another look at the poster.     The letter she finally finished writing was very short. She addressedit to the box number in the upper left-hand corner of the plainwrapper that the poster had come in.      IV     The dress lay on the counter, a small corner of it trailing off theedge. It was a beautiful thing, sheer sheen satin trimmed in gold nylonthread. It was the kind of gown that would make anybody who wore itlook beautiful. The price was high, much too high for her to pay. Sheknew she would never be able to buy it.     But she didn't intend to buy it.     She looked casually around and noted that nobody was watching her.There was another woman a few counters down and a man, obviouslyembarrassed, at the lingerie counter. Nobody else was in sight. It wasa perfect time. The clerk had left to look up a difficult item that shehad purposely asked for and probably wouldn't be back for five minutes.     Time enough, at any rate.     The dress was lying loose, so she didn't have to pry it off anyhangers. She took another quick look around, then hurriedly bundled itup and dropped it in her shopping bag.     She had taken two self-assured steps away from the counter when shefelt a hand on her shoulder. The grip was firm and muscular and sheknew she had lost the game. She also knew that she had to play it outto the end, to grasp any straw.     Let go of me! she ordered in a frostily offended voice.     Sorry, miss, the man said politely, but I think we have a short tripto take.     She thought for a moment of brazening it out further and then gave up.She'd get a few weeks or months in the local detention building, aprobing into her background for the psychological reasons that promptedher to steal, and then she'd be out again.     They couldn't do anything to her that mattered.     She shrugged and followed the detective calmly. None of the shoppershad looked up. None seemed to notice anything out of the ordinary.     In the detention building she thanked her good luck that she was facinga man for the sentence, instead of one of the puritanical old biddieswho served on the bench. She even found a certain satisfaction in thepresence of the cigar smoke and the blunt, earthy language that floatedin from the corridor.     Why did you steal it? the judge asked. He held up the dress, which,she noted furiously, didn't look nearly as nice as it had under thedepartment store lights.     I don't have anything to say, she said. I want to see a lawyer.     She could imagine what he was thinking. Another tough one, anotherplain jane who was shoplifting for a thrill.     And she probably was. You had to do      something     nowadays. You couldn'tjust sit home and chew your fingernails, or run out and listen to theendless boring lectures on art and culture.     Name? he asked in a tired voice.     She knew the statistics he wanted. Ruby Johnson, 32, 145 pounds, brownhair and green eyes. Prints on file.     The judge leaned down and mentioned something to the bailiff, who leftand presently came back with a ledger. The judge opened it and ran hisfingers down one of the pages.     The sentence would probably be the usual, she thought—six months and afine, or perhaps a little more when they found out she had a record forshoplifting.     A stranger in the courtroom in the official linens of the governmentsuddenly stepped up beside the judge and looked at the page. She couldhear a little of what he said:     ... anxiety neurosis ... obvious feeling of not being wanted ...probably steals to attract attention ... recommend emigration.     In view of some complicating factors, we're going to give you achoice, the judge finally said. You can either go to the penitentiaryfor ten years and pay a $10,000 fine, or you can ship out to the colonyplanets and receive a five-hundred-dollar immigration bonus.     She thought for a minute that she hadn't heard right. Ten thousanddollars and ten years! It was obvious that the state was interested inneither the fine nor in paying her room and board for ten years. Shecould recognize a squeeze play when she saw it, but there was nothingshe could do about it.     I wouldn't call that a choice, she said sourly. I'll ship out.      V     Suzanne was proud of the apartment. It had all the modern conveniences,like the needle shower with the perfume dispenser, the built-insoft-drink bar in the library, the all-communications set, and theelectrical massager. It was a nice, comfortable setup, an illusion ofsecurity in an ever-changing world.     She lit a cigarette and chuckled. Mrs. Burger, the fat old landlady,thought she kept up the apartment by working as a buyer for one of thedowntown stores.     Well, maybe some day she would.     But not today. And not tonight.     The phone rang and she answered in a casual tone. She talked for aminute, then let a trace of sultriness creep into her voice. Theconversation wasn't long.     She let the receiver fall back on the base and went into the bedroom toget a hat box. She wouldn't need much; she'd probably be back that samenight.     It was a nice night and since the address was only a few blocks away,she decided to walk it. She blithely ignored the curious stares fromother pedestrians, attracted by the sharp, clicking sound of her heelson the sidewalk.     The address was a brownstone that looked more like an office buildingthan anything else, but then you could never tell. She pressed thebuzzer and waited a moment for the sound to echo back and forth onthe inside. She pressed it again and a moment later a suave young manappeared in the doorway.     Miss Carstens?     She smiled pertly.     We've been expecting you.     She wondered a little at the we, but dutifully smiled and followedhim in.     The glare of the lights inside the office blinded her for a moment.When she could focus them again, her smile became slightly blurry atthe edges and then disappeared entirely. She wasn't alone. There was abattery of chairs against one side of the room. She recognized most ofthe girls sitting in them.     She forced a smile to her lips and tried to laugh.     I'm sure there's been some mistake! Why, I never....     The young man coughed politely. I'm afraid there's been no mistake.Full name, please.     Suzanne Carstens, she said grimly, and gave the other statistics hewanted. She idly wondered what stoolie had peddled the phone numbers.     Suzanne Carstens, the young man noted, and slowly shook his head.A very pretty name, but no doubt not your own. It actually doesn'tmatter, though. Take a seat over there.     She did as he asked and he faced the entire group.     I and the other gentlemen here represent the Colonization Board. We'veinterceded with the local authorities in order to offer you a choice.We would like to ship you out to the colony planets. Naturally, we willpay you the standard emigration bonus of five hundred dollars. Thecolonists need wives; they offer you—security.     He stressed the word slightly.     Now, of course, if you don't prefer the colony planets, you can staybehind and face the penalties of ten years in jail and a fine of tenthousand dollars.     Suzanne felt that her lower jaw needed support. Ten thousand dollarsand ten years! And in either case she'd lose the apartment she hadworked so hard for, her symbol of security.     Well, what do you say? There was a dead silence. The young manfrom the Colonization Board turned to Suzanne. How about you, MissCarstens?     She smiled sickly and nodded her head. I      love     to travel! she said.     It didn't sound at all witty even to herself.   ","They are meeting because currently, there are not as many females on the colonized planets. And this is a huge problem. From the beginning of the colonization, there were more adventuresome males than females, thus they headed for the new world but most of the females stayed behind. The disproportional rate in the genders that gone to colonies lead to five females for every three males on Earth, while the colonies have the opposite. Hence, those girls needs to be shipped from their original planet, in this case the Earth, to colony planets for those males there. However, not many girls are applying to go. Another problem, states MacDonald, is the number of men applying for emigration to colonized planets have been dropping. MacDonald considers this reasonable since it seems illogical for a male to move away from a place that has more females than males. Escher then disregards the qualification for colonization and decides to focus on making the people that don’t want to colonize to colonize, whether it is through convincing or forcing. "
"What is the plot of the story? </s>     SOLDIER BOY     By MICHAEL SHAARA     Illustrated by EMSH     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction July 1953.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        It's one thing to laugh at a man because his job is useless       and outdated—another to depend on him when it suddenly isn't.          In the northland, deep, and in a great cave, by an everburning firethe Warrior sleeps. For this is the resting time, the time of peace,and so shall it be for a thousand years. And yet we shall summon himagain, my children, when we are sore in need, and out of the north hewill come, and again and again, each time we call, out of the dark andthe cold, with the fire in his hands, he will come.       —      Scandinavian legend        Throughout the night, thick clouds had been piling in the north; inthe morning, it was misty and cold. By eight o'clock a wet, heavy,snow-smelling breeze had begun to set in, and because the crops wereall down and the winter planting done, the colonists brewed hot coffeeand remained inside. The wind blew steadily, icily from the north. Itwas well below freezing when, some time after nine, an army ship landedin a field near the settlement.     There was still time. There were some last brief moments in which thecolonists could act and feel as they had always done. They thereforegrumbled in annoyance. They wanted no soldiers here. The few who hadconvenient windows stared out with distaste and a mild curiosity, butno one went out to greet them.     After a while a rather tall, frail-looking man came out of the shipand stood upon the hard ground looking toward the village. He remainedthere, waiting stiffly, his face turned from the wind. It was a sillything to do. He was obviously not coming in, either out of pride orjust plain orneriness.     Well, I never, a nice lady said.     What's he just      standing     there for? another lady said.     And all of them thought: well, God knows what's in the mind of asoldier, and right away many people concluded that he must be drunk.The seed of peace was deeply planted in these people, in the childrenand the women, very, very deep. And because they had been taught, oh socarefully, to hate war they had also been taught, quite incidentally,to despise soldiers.     The lone man kept standing in the freezing wind.  Eventually, because even a soldier can look small and cold andpathetic, Bob Rossel had to get up out of a nice, warm bed and go outin that miserable cold to meet him.     The soldier saluted. Like most soldiers, he was not too neat and nottoo clean and the salute was sloppy. Although he was bigger thanRossel he did not seem bigger. And, because of the cold, there weretears gathering in the ends of his eyes.     Captain Dylan, sir. His voice was low and did not carry. I have amessage from Fleet Headquarters. Are you in charge here?     Rossel, a small sober man, grunted. Nobody's in charge here. If youwant a spokesman I guess I'll do. What's up?     The captain regarded him briefly out of pale blue, expressionless eyes.Then he pulled an envelope from an inside pocket, handed it to Rossel.It was a thick, official-looking thing and Rossel hefted it idly. Hewas about to ask again what was it all about when the airlock of thehovering ship swung open creakily. A beefy, black-haired young manappeared unsteadily in the doorway, called to Dylan.     C'n I go now, Jim?     Dylan turned and nodded.     Be back for you tonight, the young man called, and then, grinning,he yelled Catch and tossed down a bottle. The captain caught it andput it unconcernedly into his pocket while Rossel stared in disgust. Amoment later the airlock closed and the ship prepared to lift.     Was he      drunk     ? Rossel began angrily. Was that a bottle of      liquor     ?     The soldier was looking at him calmly, coldly. He indicated theenvelope in Rossel's hand. You'd better read that and get moving. Wehaven't much time.     He turned and walked toward the buildings and Rossel had to follow. AsRossel drew near the walls the watchers could see his lips moving butcould not hear him. Just then the ship lifted and they turned to watchthat, and followed it upward, red spark-tailed, into the gray spongyclouds and the cold.       After a while the ship went out of sight, and nobody ever saw it again.  The first contact Man had ever had with an intelligent alien raceoccurred out on the perimeter in a small quiet place a long way fromhome. Late in the year 2360—the exact date remains unknown—an alienforce attacked and destroyed the colony at Lupus V. The wreckage andthe dead were found by a mailship which flashed off screaming for thearmy.     When the army came it found this: Of the seventy registered colonists,thirty-one were dead. The rest, including some women and children,were missing. All technical equipment, all radios, guns, machines,even books, were also missing. The buildings had been burned, so werethe bodies. Apparently the aliens had a heat ray. What else they had,nobody knew. After a few days of walking around in the ash, one soldierfinally stumbled on something.     For security reasons, there was a detonator in one of the mainbuildings. In case of enemy attack, Security had provided a bomb to beburied in the center of each colony, because it was important to blowa whole village to hell and gone rather than let a hostile alien learnvital facts about human technology and body chemistry. There was a bombat Lupus V too, and though it had been detonated it had not blown. Thedetonating wire had been cut.     In the heart of the camp, hidden from view under twelve inches ofearth, the wire had been dug up and cut.     The army could not understand it and had no time to try. After fivehundred years of peace and anti-war conditioning the army was small,weak and without respect. Therefore, the army did nothing but spreadthe news, and Man began to fall back.     In a thickening, hastening stream he came back from the hard-wonstars, blowing up his homes behind him, stunned and cursing. Most ofthe colonists got out in time. A few, the farthest and loneliest, diedin fire before the army ships could reach them. And the men in thoseships, drinkers and gamblers and veterans of nothing, the dregs of asociety which had grown beyond them, were for a long while the onlydefense Earth had.     This was the message Captain Dylan had brought, come out from Earthwith a bottle on his hip.  An obscenely cheerful expression upon his gaunt, not too well shavenface, Captain Dylan perched himself upon the edge of a table andlistened, one long booted leg swinging idly. One by one the colonistswere beginning to understand. War is huge and comes with greatsuddenness and always without reason, and there is inevitably a wait,between acts, between the news and the motion, the fear and the rage.     Dylan waited. These people were taking it well, much better than thosein the cities had taken it. But then, these were pioneers. Dylangrinned. Pioneers. Before you settle a planet you boil it and bakeit and purge it of all possible disease. Then you step down gingerlyand inflate your plastic houses, which harden and become warm andimpregnable; and send your machines out to plant and harvest; and setup automatic factories to transmute dirt into coffee; and, without everhaving lifted a finger, you have braved the wilderness, hewed a homeout of the living rock and become a pioneer. Dylan grinned again. Butat least this was better than the wailing of the cities.     This Dylan thought, although he was himself no fighter, no man at allby any standards. This he thought because he was a soldier and anoutcast; to every drunken man the fall of the sober is a happy thing.He stirred restlessly.     By this time the colonists had begun to realize that there wasn't muchto say, and a tall, handsome woman was murmuring distractedly: Lupus,Lupus—doesn't that mean wolves or something?     Dylan began to wish they would get moving, these pioneers. It was verypossible that the aliens would be here soon, and there was no need fordiscussion. There was only one thing to do and that was to clear thehell out, quickly and without argument. They began to see it.     But, when the fear had died down, the resentment came. A number ofwomen began to cluster around Dylan and complain, working up theiranger. Dylan said nothing. Then the man Rossel pushed forward andconfronted him, speaking with a vast annoyance.     See here, soldier, this is our planet. I mean to say, this is our      home     . We demand some protection from the fleet. By God, we've beenpaying the freight for you boys all these years and it's high time youearned your keep. We demand....     It went on and on while Dylan looked at the clock and waited. He hopedthat he could end this quickly. A big gloomy man was in front of himnow and giving him that name of ancient contempt, soldier boy. Thegloomy man wanted to know where the fleet was.     There is no fleet. There are a few hundred half-shot old tubs thatwere obsolete before you were born. There are four or five new jobs forthe brass and the government. That's all the fleet there is.  Dylan wanted to go on about that, to remind them that nobody had wantedthe army, that the fleet had grown smaller and smaller ... but this wasnot the time. It was ten-thirty already and the damned aliens might becoming in right now for all he knew, and all they did was talk. He hadrealized a long time ago that no peace-loving nation in the historyof Earth had ever kept itself strong, and although peace was a nobledream, it was ended now and it was time to move.     We'd better get going, he finally said, and there was quiet.Lieutenant Bossio has gone on to your sister colony at Planet Three ofthis system. He'll return to pick me up by nightfall and I'm instructedto have you gone by then.     For a long moment they waited, and then one man abruptly walked off andthe rest followed quickly; in a moment they were all gone. One or twostopped long enough to complain about the fleet, and the big gloomy mansaid he wanted guns, that's all, and there wouldn't nobody get him offhis planet. When he left, Dylan breathed with relief and went out tocheck the bomb, grateful for the action.     Most of it had to be done in the open. He found a metal bar in theradio shack and began chopping at the frozen ground, following thewire. It was the first thing he had done with his hands in weeks, andit felt fine.     Dylan had been called up out of a bar—he and Bossio—and told what hadhappened, and in three weeks now they had cleared four colonies. Thiswould be the last, and the tension here was beginning to get to him.After thirty years of hanging around and playing like the town drunk,a man could not be expected to rush out and plug the breach, just likethat. It would take time.     He rested, sweating, took a pull from the bottle on his hip.     Before they sent him out on this trip they had made him a captain.Well, that was nice. After thirty years he was a captain. For thirtyyears he had bummed all over the west end of space, had scraped his wayalong the outer edges of Mankind, had waited and dozed and patrolledand got drunk, waiting always for something to happen. There were a lotof ways to pass the time while you waited for something to happen, andhe had done them all.     Once he had even studied military tactics.     He could not help smiling at that, even now. Damn it, he'd been green.But he'd been only nineteen when his father died—of a hernia, of acrazy fool thing like a hernia that killed him just because he'd workedtoo long on a heavy planet—and in those days the anti-war conditioningout on the Rim was not very strong. They talked a lot about guardiansof the frontier, and they got him and some other kids and a broken-downdoctor. And ... now he was a captain.     He bent his back savagely, digging at the ground. You wait and you waitand the edge goes off. This thing he had waited for all those damn dayswas upon him now and there was nothing he could do but say the hellwith it and go home. Somewhere along the line, in some dark corner ofthe bars or the jails, in one of the million soul-murdering insultswhich are reserved especially for peacetime soldiers, he had lost thecore of himself, and it didn't particularly matter. That was the point:it made no particular difference if he never got it back. He owednobody. He was tugging at the wire and trying to think of somethingpleasant from the old days, when the wire came loose in his hands.     Although he had been, in his cynical way, expecting it, for a moment itthrew him and he just stared. The end was clean and bright. The wirehad just been cut.  Dylan sat for a long while by the radio shack, holding the ends in hishands. He reached almost automatically for the bottle on his hip andthen, for the first time he could remember, let it go. This was real,there was no time for that.     When Rossel came up, Dylan was still sitting. Rossel was so excited hedid not notice the wire.     Listen, soldier, how many people can your ship take?     Dylan looked at him vaguely. She sleeps two and won't take off withmore'n ten. Why?     His eyes bright and worried, Rossel leaned heavily against the shack.We're overloaded. There are sixty of us and our ship will only takeforty. We came out in groups, we never thought....     Dylan dropped his eyes, swearing silently. You're sure? No baggage, noiron rations; you couldn't get ten more on?     Not a chance. She's only a little ship with one deck—she's all wecould afford.     Dylan whistled. He had begun to feel light-headed. It 'pears thatsomebody's gonna find out first hand what them aliens look like.     It was the wrong thing to say and he knew it. All right, he saidquickly, still staring at the clear-sliced wire, we'll do what we can.Maybe the colony on Three has room. I'll call Bossio and ask.     The colonist had begun to look quite pitifully at the buildings aroundhim and the scurrying people.     Aren't there any fleet ships within radio distance?     Dylan shook his head. The fleet's spread out kind of thin nowadays.Because the other was leaning on him he felt a great irritation, buthe said, as kindly as he could, We'll get 'em all out. One way oranother, we won't leave anybody.     It was then that Rossel saw the wire. Thickly, he asked what hadhappened.     Dylan showed him the two clean ends. Somebody dug it up, cut it, thenburied it again and packed it down real nice.     The damn fool! Rossel exploded.     Who?     Why, one of ... of us, of course. I know nobody ever liked sitting ona live bomb like this, but I never....     You think one of your people did it?     Rossel stared at him. Isn't that obvious?     Why?     Well, they probably thought it was too dangerous, and silly too, likemost government rules. Or maybe one of the kids....  It was then that Dylan told him about the wire on Lupus V. Rossel wassilent. Involuntarily, he glanced at the sky, then he said shakily,Maybe an animal?     Dylan shook his head. No animal did that. Wouldn't have buried it, orfound it in the first place. Heck of a coincidence, don't you think?The wire at Lupus was cut just before an alien attack, and now this oneis cut too—newly cut.     The colonist put one hand to his mouth, his eyes wide and white.     So something, said Dylan, knew enough about this camp to know thata bomb was buried here and also to know why it was here. And thatsomething didn't want the camp destroyed and so came right into thecenter of the camp, traced the wire, dug it up and cut it. And thenwalked right out again.     Listen, said Rossel, I'd better go ask.     He started away but Dylan caught his arm.     Tell them to arm, he said, and try not to scare hell out of them.I'll be with you as soon as I've spliced this wire.     Rossel nodded and went off, running. Dylan knelt with the metal in hishands.     He began to feel that, by God, he was getting cold. He realized thathe'd better go inside soon, but the wire had to be spliced. That wasperhaps the most important thing he could do now, splice the wire.     All right, he asked himself for the thousandth time, who cut it? How?Telepathy? Could they somehow control one of us?     No. If they controlled one, then they could control all, and then therewould be no need for an attack. But you don't know, you don't reallyknow.     Were they small? Little animals?     Unlikely. Biology said that really intelligent life required a sizablebrain and you would have to expect an alien to be at least as largeas a dog. And every form of life on this planet had been screened longbefore a colony had been allowed in. If any new animals had suddenlyshown up, Rossel would certainly know about it.     He would ask Rossel. He would damn sure have to ask Rossel.     He finished splicing the wire and tucked it into the ground. Then hestraightened up and, before he went into the radio shack, he pulled outhis pistol. He checked it, primed it, and tried to remember the lasttime he had fired it. He never had—he never had fired a gun.  The snow began falling near noon. There was nothing anybody could dobut stand in the silence and watch it come down in a white rushingwall, and watch the trees and the hills drown in the whiteness, untilthere was nothing on the planet but the buildings and a few warm lightsand the snow.     By one o'clock the visibility was down to zero and Dylan decided totry to contact Bossio again and tell him to hurry. But Bossio stilldidn't answer. Dylan stared long and thoughtfully out the windowthrough the snow at the gray shrouded shapes of bushes and trees whichwere beginning to become horrifying. It must be that Bossio was stilldrunk—maybe sleeping it off before making planetfall on Three. Dylanheld no grudge. Bossio was a kid and alone. It took a special kindof guts to take a ship out into space alone, when Things could bewaiting....     A young girl, pink and lovely in a thick fur jacket, came into theshack and told him breathlessly that her father, Mr. Rush, would liketo know if he wanted sentries posted. Dylan hadn't thought about it buthe said yes right away, beginning to feel both pleased and irritated atthe same time, because now they were coming to him.     He pushed out into the cold and went to find Rossel. With the snow itwas bad enough, but if they were still here when the sun went down theywouldn't have a chance. Most of the men were out stripping down theirship and that would take a while. He wondered why Rossel hadn't yet puta call through to Three, asking about room on the ship there. The onlyanswer he could find was that Rossel knew that there was no room, andhe wanted to put off the answer as long as possible. And, in a way, youcould not blame him.     Rossel was in his cabin with the big, gloomy man—who turned out tobe Rush, the one who had asked about sentries. Rush was methodicallycleaning an old hunting rifle. Rossel was surprisingly full of hope.     Listen, there's a mail ship due in, been due since yesterday. We mightget the rest of the folks out on that.     Dylan shrugged. Don't count on it.     But they have a contract!     The soldier grinned.     The big man, Rush, was paying no attention. Quite suddenly he said:Who cut that wire, Cap?  Dylan swung slowly to look at him. As far as I can figure, an aliencut it.     Rush shook his head. No. Ain't been no aliens near this camp, andno peculiar animals either. We got a planet-wide radar, and ain't nounidentified ships come near, not since we first landed more'n a yearago. He lifted the rifle and peered through the bore. Uh-uh. One ofus did it.     The man had been thinking. And he knew the planet.     Telepathy? asked Dylan.     Might be.     Can't see it. You people live too close, you'd notice right away ifone of you wasn't ... himself. And, if they've got one, why not all?     Rush calmly—at least outwardly calmly—lit his pipe. There was astrength in this man that Dylan had missed before.     Don't know, he said gruffly. But these are aliens, mister. And untilI know different I'm keepin' an eye on my neighbor.     He gave Rossel a sour look and Rossel stared back, uncomprehending.     Then Rossel jumped. My God!     Dylan moved to quiet him. Look, is there any animal at all that evercomes near here that's as large as a dog?     After a pause, Rush answered. Yep, there's one. The viggle. It's likea reg'lar monkey but with four legs. Biology cleared 'em before welanded. We shoot one now and then when they get pesky. He rose slowly,the rifle held under his arm. I b'lieve we might just as well go postthem sentries.     Dylan wanted to go on with this but there was nothing much else tosay. Rossel went with them as far as the radio shack, with a strainedexpression on his face, to put through that call to Three.     When he was gone Rush asked Dylan, Where you want them sentries? I gotWalt Halloran and Web Eggers and six others lined up.     Dylan stopped and looked around grimly at the circling wall of snow.You know the site better than I do. Post 'em in a ring, on rises,within calling distance. Have 'em check with each other every fiveminutes. I'll go help your people at the ship.     The gloomy man nodded and fluffed up his collar. Nice day forhuntin', he said, and then he was gone with the snow quickly coveringhis footprints.  The Alien lay wrapped in a thick electric cocoon, buried in a widewarm room beneath the base of a tree. The tree served him as antennae;curiously he gazed into a small view-screen and watched the humanscome. He saw them fan out, eight of them, and sink down in the snow. Hesaw that they were armed.       He pulsed thoughtfully, extending a part of himself to absorb a spicedlizard. Since the morning, when the new ship had come, he had beenwatching steadily, and now it was apparent that the humans were awareof their danger. Undoubtedly they were preparing to leave.     That was unfortunate. The attack was not scheduled until late thatnight and he could not, of course, press the assault by day. But      flexibility     , he reminded himself sternly,      is the first principle ofabsorption     , and therefore he moved to alter his plans. A projectionreached out to dial several knobs on a large box before him, and thehour of assault was moved forward to dusk. A glance at the chronometertold him that it was already well into the night on Planet Three, andthat the attack there had probably begun.     The Alien felt the first tenuous pulsing of anticipation. He layquietly, watching the small square lights of windows against the snow,thanking the Unexplainable that matters had been so devised that hewould not have to venture out into that miserable cold.     Presently an alarming thought struck him. These humans moved withuncommon speed for intelligent creatures. Even without devices, it wasdistinctly possible that they could be gone before nightfall. He couldtake no chance, of course. He spun more dials and pressed a singlebutton, and lay back again comfortably, warmly, to watch the disablingof the colonists' ship.  When Three did not answer, Rossel was nervously gazing at the snow,thinking of other things, and he called again. Several moments laterthe realization of what was happening struck him like a blow. Threehad never once failed to answer. All they had to do when they heardthe signal buzz was go into the radio shack and say hello. That wasall they had to do. He called again and again, but nobody answered.There was no static and no interference and he didn't hear a thing. Hechecked frenziedly through his own apparatus and tried again, but theair was as dead as deep space. He raced out to tell Dylan.     Dylan accepted it. He had known none of the people on Three and whathe felt now was a much greater urgency to be out of here. He saidhopeful things to Rossel, and then went out to the ship and joined themen in lightening her. About the ship at least, he knew something andhe was able to tell them what partitions and frames could go and whatwould have to stay or the ship would never get off the planet. Buteven stripped down, it couldn't take them all. When he knew that, herealized that he himself would have to stay here, for it was only thenthat he thought of Bossio.     Three was dead. Bossio had gone down there some time ago and, if Threewas dead and Bossio had not called, then the fact was that Bossio wasgone too. For a long, long moment Dylan stood rooted in the snow.More than the fact that he would have to stay here was the unspoken,unalterable, heart-numbing knowledge that Bossio was dead—the onething that Dylan could not accept. Bossio was the only friend he had.In all this dog-eared, aimless, ape-run Universe Bossio was all hisfriendship and his trust.     He left the ship blindly and went back to the settlement. Now thepeople were quiet and really frightened, and some of the women werebeginning to cry. He noticed now that they had begun to look at himwith hope as he passed, and in his own grief, humanly, he swore.     Bossio—a big-grinning kid with no parents, no enemies, nogrudges—Bossio was already dead because he had come out here and triedto help these people. People who had kicked or ignored him all the daysof his life. And, in a short while, Dylan would also stay behind anddie to save the life of somebody he never knew and who, twenty-fourhours earlier, would have been ashamed to be found in his company. Now,when it was far, far too late, they were coming to the army for help.  But in the end, damn it, he could not hate these people. All they hadever wanted was peace, and even though they had never understood thatthe Universe is unknowable and that you must always have big shoulders,still they had always sought only for peace. If peace leads to noconflict at all and then decay, well, that was something that had to belearned. So he could not hate these people.     But he could not help them either. He turned from their eyes and wentinto the radio shack. It had begun to dawn on the women that they mightbe leaving without their husbands or sons, and he did not want to seethe fierce struggle that he was sure would take place. He sat alone andtried, for the last time, to call Bossio.     After a while, an old woman found him and offered him coffee. It wasa very decent thing to do, to think of him at a time like this, andhe was so suddenly grateful he could only nod. The woman said that hemust be cold in that thin army thing and that she had brought along amackinaw for him. She poured the coffee and left him alone.     They were thinking of him now, he knew, because they were thinking ofeveryone who had to stay. Throw the dog a bone. Dammit, don't be likethat, he told himself. He had not had anything to eat all day and thecoffee was warm and strong. He decided he might be of some help at theship.     It was stripped down now and they were loading. He was startled to seea great group of them standing in the snow, removing their clothes.Then he understood. The clothes of forty people would change theweight by enough to get a few more aboard. There was no fighting. Someof the women were almost hysterical and a few had refused to go andwere still in their cabins, but the process was orderly. Children wentautomatically, as did the youngest husbands and all the women. Theelders were shuffling around in the snow, waving their arms to keepthemselves warm. Some of them were laughing to keep their spirits up.     In the end, the ship took forty-six people.     Rossel was one of the ones that would not be going. Dylan saw himstanding by the airlock holding his wife in his arms, his face buriedin her soft brown hair. A sense of great sympathy, totally unexpected,rose up in Dylan, and a little of the lostness of thirty years wentslipping away. These were his people. It was a thing he had neverunderstood before, because he had never once been among men in greattrouble. He waited and watched, learning, trying to digest this whilethere was still time. Then the semi-naked colonists were inside andthe airlock closed. But when the ship tried to lift, there was a sharpburning smell—she couldn't get off the ground.  ","An army ship lands near a settlement, and people look out their windows, grumbling about its presence because they want no contact with the army. A soldier disembarks and stands at attention facing the settlement, and the people assume he must be proud, ornery, or drunk. Eventually, a resident named Bob Rossel goes out to see what the soldier wants. The soldier identifies himself as Captain Dylan, explaining that he has a message from Fleet Headquarters for the person in charge. Rossel takes the envelope since they don’t have anyone in charge. A young man inside the ship tosses Dylan a bottle, asks if he can leave, and tells him he’ll be back that night. Rossel is appalled that the younger soldier appears drunk and throws Dylan a bottle of liquor. Dylan tells Rossel to read the message because they don’t have much time and starts walking toward the settlement as the ship takes off.	Man’s first contact with aliens had occurred at the Lupus V Colony in 2360, which aliens destroyed. When the army came to investigate, it found 31 of the 70 colonists dead, with the rest, including women and children, missing. Buildings had burned, and all technical equipment was missing. The security bomb, one of which was planted in each colony to be detonated in such an emergency, had failed to go off—the detonating wire had been dug up where it was buried 12 inches deep and cut. Because there had been 500 years of peace and people were conditioned to be anti-war, the army was small and lacked respect. So the army couldn’t take the time to find out exactly what had happened but just spread the news to other colonies, most of which evacuated before they were attacked.	The message Dylan delivers is that the aliens are attacking again; this settlement needs to evacuate. A big gloomy man named Rush demands help from the army fleet, but Dylan informs him that the army is too weak to help. Dylan tells them that Lt. Bossio is warning Planet Three and returning that night to pick him up. Everyone must be gone by then. Dylan digs up the detonator wire and finds it has been cut. Rossel tells him their ship will only hold 60 of their 40 colonists and asks Dylan to take the rest on the army ship. Dylan offers to ask Bossio and then shows Rossel the cut wire. They discuss whether a colonist or an animal could have cut it. Dylan splices the wire as Rossel leaves.	Meanwhile, an alien is hiding nearby, watching the humans prepare to leave. He presses a button that disables their ship. Rossel has been trying to reach Planet Three and can’t get an answer; Dylan realizes the colony there is dead, so Bossio is, too. People strip their clothes to reduce their weight and take on more people. Forty-six are able to board. When the ship tries to lift off, it can’t get off the ground.	"
"Describe the setting of the story. </s>     SOLDIER BOY     By MICHAEL SHAARA     Illustrated by EMSH     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction July 1953.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        It's one thing to laugh at a man because his job is useless       and outdated—another to depend on him when it suddenly isn't.          In the northland, deep, and in a great cave, by an everburning firethe Warrior sleeps. For this is the resting time, the time of peace,and so shall it be for a thousand years. And yet we shall summon himagain, my children, when we are sore in need, and out of the north hewill come, and again and again, each time we call, out of the dark andthe cold, with the fire in his hands, he will come.       —      Scandinavian legend        Throughout the night, thick clouds had been piling in the north; inthe morning, it was misty and cold. By eight o'clock a wet, heavy,snow-smelling breeze had begun to set in, and because the crops wereall down and the winter planting done, the colonists brewed hot coffeeand remained inside. The wind blew steadily, icily from the north. Itwas well below freezing when, some time after nine, an army ship landedin a field near the settlement.     There was still time. There were some last brief moments in which thecolonists could act and feel as they had always done. They thereforegrumbled in annoyance. They wanted no soldiers here. The few who hadconvenient windows stared out with distaste and a mild curiosity, butno one went out to greet them.     After a while a rather tall, frail-looking man came out of the shipand stood upon the hard ground looking toward the village. He remainedthere, waiting stiffly, his face turned from the wind. It was a sillything to do. He was obviously not coming in, either out of pride orjust plain orneriness.     Well, I never, a nice lady said.     What's he just      standing     there for? another lady said.     And all of them thought: well, God knows what's in the mind of asoldier, and right away many people concluded that he must be drunk.The seed of peace was deeply planted in these people, in the childrenand the women, very, very deep. And because they had been taught, oh socarefully, to hate war they had also been taught, quite incidentally,to despise soldiers.     The lone man kept standing in the freezing wind.  Eventually, because even a soldier can look small and cold andpathetic, Bob Rossel had to get up out of a nice, warm bed and go outin that miserable cold to meet him.     The soldier saluted. Like most soldiers, he was not too neat and nottoo clean and the salute was sloppy. Although he was bigger thanRossel he did not seem bigger. And, because of the cold, there weretears gathering in the ends of his eyes.     Captain Dylan, sir. His voice was low and did not carry. I have amessage from Fleet Headquarters. Are you in charge here?     Rossel, a small sober man, grunted. Nobody's in charge here. If youwant a spokesman I guess I'll do. What's up?     The captain regarded him briefly out of pale blue, expressionless eyes.Then he pulled an envelope from an inside pocket, handed it to Rossel.It was a thick, official-looking thing and Rossel hefted it idly. Hewas about to ask again what was it all about when the airlock of thehovering ship swung open creakily. A beefy, black-haired young manappeared unsteadily in the doorway, called to Dylan.     C'n I go now, Jim?     Dylan turned and nodded.     Be back for you tonight, the young man called, and then, grinning,he yelled Catch and tossed down a bottle. The captain caught it andput it unconcernedly into his pocket while Rossel stared in disgust. Amoment later the airlock closed and the ship prepared to lift.     Was he      drunk     ? Rossel began angrily. Was that a bottle of      liquor     ?     The soldier was looking at him calmly, coldly. He indicated theenvelope in Rossel's hand. You'd better read that and get moving. Wehaven't much time.     He turned and walked toward the buildings and Rossel had to follow. AsRossel drew near the walls the watchers could see his lips moving butcould not hear him. Just then the ship lifted and they turned to watchthat, and followed it upward, red spark-tailed, into the gray spongyclouds and the cold.       After a while the ship went out of sight, and nobody ever saw it again.  The first contact Man had ever had with an intelligent alien raceoccurred out on the perimeter in a small quiet place a long way fromhome. Late in the year 2360—the exact date remains unknown—an alienforce attacked and destroyed the colony at Lupus V. The wreckage andthe dead were found by a mailship which flashed off screaming for thearmy.     When the army came it found this: Of the seventy registered colonists,thirty-one were dead. The rest, including some women and children,were missing. All technical equipment, all radios, guns, machines,even books, were also missing. The buildings had been burned, so werethe bodies. Apparently the aliens had a heat ray. What else they had,nobody knew. After a few days of walking around in the ash, one soldierfinally stumbled on something.     For security reasons, there was a detonator in one of the mainbuildings. In case of enemy attack, Security had provided a bomb to beburied in the center of each colony, because it was important to blowa whole village to hell and gone rather than let a hostile alien learnvital facts about human technology and body chemistry. There was a bombat Lupus V too, and though it had been detonated it had not blown. Thedetonating wire had been cut.     In the heart of the camp, hidden from view under twelve inches ofearth, the wire had been dug up and cut.     The army could not understand it and had no time to try. After fivehundred years of peace and anti-war conditioning the army was small,weak and without respect. Therefore, the army did nothing but spreadthe news, and Man began to fall back.     In a thickening, hastening stream he came back from the hard-wonstars, blowing up his homes behind him, stunned and cursing. Most ofthe colonists got out in time. A few, the farthest and loneliest, diedin fire before the army ships could reach them. And the men in thoseships, drinkers and gamblers and veterans of nothing, the dregs of asociety which had grown beyond them, were for a long while the onlydefense Earth had.     This was the message Captain Dylan had brought, come out from Earthwith a bottle on his hip.  An obscenely cheerful expression upon his gaunt, not too well shavenface, Captain Dylan perched himself upon the edge of a table andlistened, one long booted leg swinging idly. One by one the colonistswere beginning to understand. War is huge and comes with greatsuddenness and always without reason, and there is inevitably a wait,between acts, between the news and the motion, the fear and the rage.     Dylan waited. These people were taking it well, much better than thosein the cities had taken it. But then, these were pioneers. Dylangrinned. Pioneers. Before you settle a planet you boil it and bakeit and purge it of all possible disease. Then you step down gingerlyand inflate your plastic houses, which harden and become warm andimpregnable; and send your machines out to plant and harvest; and setup automatic factories to transmute dirt into coffee; and, without everhaving lifted a finger, you have braved the wilderness, hewed a homeout of the living rock and become a pioneer. Dylan grinned again. Butat least this was better than the wailing of the cities.     This Dylan thought, although he was himself no fighter, no man at allby any standards. This he thought because he was a soldier and anoutcast; to every drunken man the fall of the sober is a happy thing.He stirred restlessly.     By this time the colonists had begun to realize that there wasn't muchto say, and a tall, handsome woman was murmuring distractedly: Lupus,Lupus—doesn't that mean wolves or something?     Dylan began to wish they would get moving, these pioneers. It was verypossible that the aliens would be here soon, and there was no need fordiscussion. There was only one thing to do and that was to clear thehell out, quickly and without argument. They began to see it.     But, when the fear had died down, the resentment came. A number ofwomen began to cluster around Dylan and complain, working up theiranger. Dylan said nothing. Then the man Rossel pushed forward andconfronted him, speaking with a vast annoyance.     See here, soldier, this is our planet. I mean to say, this is our      home     . We demand some protection from the fleet. By God, we've beenpaying the freight for you boys all these years and it's high time youearned your keep. We demand....     It went on and on while Dylan looked at the clock and waited. He hopedthat he could end this quickly. A big gloomy man was in front of himnow and giving him that name of ancient contempt, soldier boy. Thegloomy man wanted to know where the fleet was.     There is no fleet. There are a few hundred half-shot old tubs thatwere obsolete before you were born. There are four or five new jobs forthe brass and the government. That's all the fleet there is.  Dylan wanted to go on about that, to remind them that nobody had wantedthe army, that the fleet had grown smaller and smaller ... but this wasnot the time. It was ten-thirty already and the damned aliens might becoming in right now for all he knew, and all they did was talk. He hadrealized a long time ago that no peace-loving nation in the historyof Earth had ever kept itself strong, and although peace was a nobledream, it was ended now and it was time to move.     We'd better get going, he finally said, and there was quiet.Lieutenant Bossio has gone on to your sister colony at Planet Three ofthis system. He'll return to pick me up by nightfall and I'm instructedto have you gone by then.     For a long moment they waited, and then one man abruptly walked off andthe rest followed quickly; in a moment they were all gone. One or twostopped long enough to complain about the fleet, and the big gloomy mansaid he wanted guns, that's all, and there wouldn't nobody get him offhis planet. When he left, Dylan breathed with relief and went out tocheck the bomb, grateful for the action.     Most of it had to be done in the open. He found a metal bar in theradio shack and began chopping at the frozen ground, following thewire. It was the first thing he had done with his hands in weeks, andit felt fine.     Dylan had been called up out of a bar—he and Bossio—and told what hadhappened, and in three weeks now they had cleared four colonies. Thiswould be the last, and the tension here was beginning to get to him.After thirty years of hanging around and playing like the town drunk,a man could not be expected to rush out and plug the breach, just likethat. It would take time.     He rested, sweating, took a pull from the bottle on his hip.     Before they sent him out on this trip they had made him a captain.Well, that was nice. After thirty years he was a captain. For thirtyyears he had bummed all over the west end of space, had scraped his wayalong the outer edges of Mankind, had waited and dozed and patrolledand got drunk, waiting always for something to happen. There were a lotof ways to pass the time while you waited for something to happen, andhe had done them all.     Once he had even studied military tactics.     He could not help smiling at that, even now. Damn it, he'd been green.But he'd been only nineteen when his father died—of a hernia, of acrazy fool thing like a hernia that killed him just because he'd workedtoo long on a heavy planet—and in those days the anti-war conditioningout on the Rim was not very strong. They talked a lot about guardiansof the frontier, and they got him and some other kids and a broken-downdoctor. And ... now he was a captain.     He bent his back savagely, digging at the ground. You wait and you waitand the edge goes off. This thing he had waited for all those damn dayswas upon him now and there was nothing he could do but say the hellwith it and go home. Somewhere along the line, in some dark corner ofthe bars or the jails, in one of the million soul-murdering insultswhich are reserved especially for peacetime soldiers, he had lost thecore of himself, and it didn't particularly matter. That was the point:it made no particular difference if he never got it back. He owednobody. He was tugging at the wire and trying to think of somethingpleasant from the old days, when the wire came loose in his hands.     Although he had been, in his cynical way, expecting it, for a moment itthrew him and he just stared. The end was clean and bright. The wirehad just been cut.  Dylan sat for a long while by the radio shack, holding the ends in hishands. He reached almost automatically for the bottle on his hip andthen, for the first time he could remember, let it go. This was real,there was no time for that.     When Rossel came up, Dylan was still sitting. Rossel was so excited hedid not notice the wire.     Listen, soldier, how many people can your ship take?     Dylan looked at him vaguely. She sleeps two and won't take off withmore'n ten. Why?     His eyes bright and worried, Rossel leaned heavily against the shack.We're overloaded. There are sixty of us and our ship will only takeforty. We came out in groups, we never thought....     Dylan dropped his eyes, swearing silently. You're sure? No baggage, noiron rations; you couldn't get ten more on?     Not a chance. She's only a little ship with one deck—she's all wecould afford.     Dylan whistled. He had begun to feel light-headed. It 'pears thatsomebody's gonna find out first hand what them aliens look like.     It was the wrong thing to say and he knew it. All right, he saidquickly, still staring at the clear-sliced wire, we'll do what we can.Maybe the colony on Three has room. I'll call Bossio and ask.     The colonist had begun to look quite pitifully at the buildings aroundhim and the scurrying people.     Aren't there any fleet ships within radio distance?     Dylan shook his head. The fleet's spread out kind of thin nowadays.Because the other was leaning on him he felt a great irritation, buthe said, as kindly as he could, We'll get 'em all out. One way oranother, we won't leave anybody.     It was then that Rossel saw the wire. Thickly, he asked what hadhappened.     Dylan showed him the two clean ends. Somebody dug it up, cut it, thenburied it again and packed it down real nice.     The damn fool! Rossel exploded.     Who?     Why, one of ... of us, of course. I know nobody ever liked sitting ona live bomb like this, but I never....     You think one of your people did it?     Rossel stared at him. Isn't that obvious?     Why?     Well, they probably thought it was too dangerous, and silly too, likemost government rules. Or maybe one of the kids....  It was then that Dylan told him about the wire on Lupus V. Rossel wassilent. Involuntarily, he glanced at the sky, then he said shakily,Maybe an animal?     Dylan shook his head. No animal did that. Wouldn't have buried it, orfound it in the first place. Heck of a coincidence, don't you think?The wire at Lupus was cut just before an alien attack, and now this oneis cut too—newly cut.     The colonist put one hand to his mouth, his eyes wide and white.     So something, said Dylan, knew enough about this camp to know thata bomb was buried here and also to know why it was here. And thatsomething didn't want the camp destroyed and so came right into thecenter of the camp, traced the wire, dug it up and cut it. And thenwalked right out again.     Listen, said Rossel, I'd better go ask.     He started away but Dylan caught his arm.     Tell them to arm, he said, and try not to scare hell out of them.I'll be with you as soon as I've spliced this wire.     Rossel nodded and went off, running. Dylan knelt with the metal in hishands.     He began to feel that, by God, he was getting cold. He realized thathe'd better go inside soon, but the wire had to be spliced. That wasperhaps the most important thing he could do now, splice the wire.     All right, he asked himself for the thousandth time, who cut it? How?Telepathy? Could they somehow control one of us?     No. If they controlled one, then they could control all, and then therewould be no need for an attack. But you don't know, you don't reallyknow.     Were they small? Little animals?     Unlikely. Biology said that really intelligent life required a sizablebrain and you would have to expect an alien to be at least as largeas a dog. And every form of life on this planet had been screened longbefore a colony had been allowed in. If any new animals had suddenlyshown up, Rossel would certainly know about it.     He would ask Rossel. He would damn sure have to ask Rossel.     He finished splicing the wire and tucked it into the ground. Then hestraightened up and, before he went into the radio shack, he pulled outhis pistol. He checked it, primed it, and tried to remember the lasttime he had fired it. He never had—he never had fired a gun.  The snow began falling near noon. There was nothing anybody could dobut stand in the silence and watch it come down in a white rushingwall, and watch the trees and the hills drown in the whiteness, untilthere was nothing on the planet but the buildings and a few warm lightsand the snow.     By one o'clock the visibility was down to zero and Dylan decided totry to contact Bossio again and tell him to hurry. But Bossio stilldidn't answer. Dylan stared long and thoughtfully out the windowthrough the snow at the gray shrouded shapes of bushes and trees whichwere beginning to become horrifying. It must be that Bossio was stilldrunk—maybe sleeping it off before making planetfall on Three. Dylanheld no grudge. Bossio was a kid and alone. It took a special kindof guts to take a ship out into space alone, when Things could bewaiting....     A young girl, pink and lovely in a thick fur jacket, came into theshack and told him breathlessly that her father, Mr. Rush, would liketo know if he wanted sentries posted. Dylan hadn't thought about it buthe said yes right away, beginning to feel both pleased and irritated atthe same time, because now they were coming to him.     He pushed out into the cold and went to find Rossel. With the snow itwas bad enough, but if they were still here when the sun went down theywouldn't have a chance. Most of the men were out stripping down theirship and that would take a while. He wondered why Rossel hadn't yet puta call through to Three, asking about room on the ship there. The onlyanswer he could find was that Rossel knew that there was no room, andhe wanted to put off the answer as long as possible. And, in a way, youcould not blame him.     Rossel was in his cabin with the big, gloomy man—who turned out tobe Rush, the one who had asked about sentries. Rush was methodicallycleaning an old hunting rifle. Rossel was surprisingly full of hope.     Listen, there's a mail ship due in, been due since yesterday. We mightget the rest of the folks out on that.     Dylan shrugged. Don't count on it.     But they have a contract!     The soldier grinned.     The big man, Rush, was paying no attention. Quite suddenly he said:Who cut that wire, Cap?  Dylan swung slowly to look at him. As far as I can figure, an aliencut it.     Rush shook his head. No. Ain't been no aliens near this camp, andno peculiar animals either. We got a planet-wide radar, and ain't nounidentified ships come near, not since we first landed more'n a yearago. He lifted the rifle and peered through the bore. Uh-uh. One ofus did it.     The man had been thinking. And he knew the planet.     Telepathy? asked Dylan.     Might be.     Can't see it. You people live too close, you'd notice right away ifone of you wasn't ... himself. And, if they've got one, why not all?     Rush calmly—at least outwardly calmly—lit his pipe. There was astrength in this man that Dylan had missed before.     Don't know, he said gruffly. But these are aliens, mister. And untilI know different I'm keepin' an eye on my neighbor.     He gave Rossel a sour look and Rossel stared back, uncomprehending.     Then Rossel jumped. My God!     Dylan moved to quiet him. Look, is there any animal at all that evercomes near here that's as large as a dog?     After a pause, Rush answered. Yep, there's one. The viggle. It's likea reg'lar monkey but with four legs. Biology cleared 'em before welanded. We shoot one now and then when they get pesky. He rose slowly,the rifle held under his arm. I b'lieve we might just as well go postthem sentries.     Dylan wanted to go on with this but there was nothing much else tosay. Rossel went with them as far as the radio shack, with a strainedexpression on his face, to put through that call to Three.     When he was gone Rush asked Dylan, Where you want them sentries? I gotWalt Halloran and Web Eggers and six others lined up.     Dylan stopped and looked around grimly at the circling wall of snow.You know the site better than I do. Post 'em in a ring, on rises,within calling distance. Have 'em check with each other every fiveminutes. I'll go help your people at the ship.     The gloomy man nodded and fluffed up his collar. Nice day forhuntin', he said, and then he was gone with the snow quickly coveringhis footprints.  The Alien lay wrapped in a thick electric cocoon, buried in a widewarm room beneath the base of a tree. The tree served him as antennae;curiously he gazed into a small view-screen and watched the humanscome. He saw them fan out, eight of them, and sink down in the snow. Hesaw that they were armed.       He pulsed thoughtfully, extending a part of himself to absorb a spicedlizard. Since the morning, when the new ship had come, he had beenwatching steadily, and now it was apparent that the humans were awareof their danger. Undoubtedly they were preparing to leave.     That was unfortunate. The attack was not scheduled until late thatnight and he could not, of course, press the assault by day. But      flexibility     , he reminded himself sternly,      is the first principle ofabsorption     , and therefore he moved to alter his plans. A projectionreached out to dial several knobs on a large box before him, and thehour of assault was moved forward to dusk. A glance at the chronometertold him that it was already well into the night on Planet Three, andthat the attack there had probably begun.     The Alien felt the first tenuous pulsing of anticipation. He layquietly, watching the small square lights of windows against the snow,thanking the Unexplainable that matters had been so devised that hewould not have to venture out into that miserable cold.     Presently an alarming thought struck him. These humans moved withuncommon speed for intelligent creatures. Even without devices, it wasdistinctly possible that they could be gone before nightfall. He couldtake no chance, of course. He spun more dials and pressed a singlebutton, and lay back again comfortably, warmly, to watch the disablingof the colonists' ship.  When Three did not answer, Rossel was nervously gazing at the snow,thinking of other things, and he called again. Several moments laterthe realization of what was happening struck him like a blow. Threehad never once failed to answer. All they had to do when they heardthe signal buzz was go into the radio shack and say hello. That wasall they had to do. He called again and again, but nobody answered.There was no static and no interference and he didn't hear a thing. Hechecked frenziedly through his own apparatus and tried again, but theair was as dead as deep space. He raced out to tell Dylan.     Dylan accepted it. He had known none of the people on Three and whathe felt now was a much greater urgency to be out of here. He saidhopeful things to Rossel, and then went out to the ship and joined themen in lightening her. About the ship at least, he knew something andhe was able to tell them what partitions and frames could go and whatwould have to stay or the ship would never get off the planet. Buteven stripped down, it couldn't take them all. When he knew that, herealized that he himself would have to stay here, for it was only thenthat he thought of Bossio.     Three was dead. Bossio had gone down there some time ago and, if Threewas dead and Bossio had not called, then the fact was that Bossio wasgone too. For a long, long moment Dylan stood rooted in the snow.More than the fact that he would have to stay here was the unspoken,unalterable, heart-numbing knowledge that Bossio was dead—the onething that Dylan could not accept. Bossio was the only friend he had.In all this dog-eared, aimless, ape-run Universe Bossio was all hisfriendship and his trust.     He left the ship blindly and went back to the settlement. Now thepeople were quiet and really frightened, and some of the women werebeginning to cry. He noticed now that they had begun to look at himwith hope as he passed, and in his own grief, humanly, he swore.     Bossio—a big-grinning kid with no parents, no enemies, nogrudges—Bossio was already dead because he had come out here and triedto help these people. People who had kicked or ignored him all the daysof his life. And, in a short while, Dylan would also stay behind anddie to save the life of somebody he never knew and who, twenty-fourhours earlier, would have been ashamed to be found in his company. Now,when it was far, far too late, they were coming to the army for help.  But in the end, damn it, he could not hate these people. All they hadever wanted was peace, and even though they had never understood thatthe Universe is unknowable and that you must always have big shoulders,still they had always sought only for peace. If peace leads to noconflict at all and then decay, well, that was something that had to belearned. So he could not hate these people.     But he could not help them either. He turned from their eyes and wentinto the radio shack. It had begun to dawn on the women that they mightbe leaving without their husbands or sons, and he did not want to seethe fierce struggle that he was sure would take place. He sat alone andtried, for the last time, to call Bossio.     After a while, an old woman found him and offered him coffee. It wasa very decent thing to do, to think of him at a time like this, andhe was so suddenly grateful he could only nod. The woman said that hemust be cold in that thin army thing and that she had brought along amackinaw for him. She poured the coffee and left him alone.     They were thinking of him now, he knew, because they were thinking ofeveryone who had to stay. Throw the dog a bone. Dammit, don't be likethat, he told himself. He had not had anything to eat all day and thecoffee was warm and strong. He decided he might be of some help at theship.     It was stripped down now and they were loading. He was startled to seea great group of them standing in the snow, removing their clothes.Then he understood. The clothes of forty people would change theweight by enough to get a few more aboard. There was no fighting. Someof the women were almost hysterical and a few had refused to go andwere still in their cabins, but the process was orderly. Children wentautomatically, as did the youngest husbands and all the women. Theelders were shuffling around in the snow, waving their arms to keepthemselves warm. Some of them were laughing to keep their spirits up.     In the end, the ship took forty-six people.     Rossel was one of the ones that would not be going. Dylan saw himstanding by the airlock holding his wife in his arms, his face buriedin her soft brown hair. A sense of great sympathy, totally unexpected,rose up in Dylan, and a little of the lostness of thirty years wentslipping away. These were his people. It was a thing he had neverunderstood before, because he had never once been among men in greattrouble. He waited and watched, learning, trying to digest this whilethere was still time. Then the semi-naked colonists were inside andthe airlock closed. But when the ship tried to lift, there was a sharpburning smell—she couldn't get off the ground.  ","The story takes place on an unnamed planet some time after an alien attack in the year 2360. Colonists settled the planet and have built a village consisting of several houses and a radio shack. Presumably, this is where the colonists contact other colonies. It is also where the detonator for the security bomb is located, with the wire buried under 12 inches of dirt. The atmosphere is Earth-like. There are thick clouds overnight, and the morning is misty and cold. The breeze carries the smell of snow, and later in the day, the snow arrives. The planet is suitable for agriculture because the colonists have already harvested their warmer weather crops and planted their winter crops. The colonists have advanced technology because they have machines that plant and harvest and automatically run their factories. The temperature is below freezing, so people are staying in their houses and drinking coffee. A sister planet colony on Planet Three is much like this colony. The two colonies maintain contact via radios, and mailships make regular runs between the settlements on the different planets. Every settlement is equipped with a security bomb to be detonated in the event of an alien attack. The purpose of discharging the bomb is to prevent hostile aliens from learning important information about humans, including their technology and body chemistry.Another setting mentioned in the story is the Lupus V colony attacked by aliens late in the year 2360. Lupus V had 70 registered colonists, including men, women, and children. It also had technical equipment, radios, guns, machines, and books. When the army arrived after the alien attack, everything had been taken, along with 39 women and children; 31 people died in the attack or the subsequent fire that the aliens set with their heat ray. The security bomb had not been detonated because the wire to it had been cut, even though it was buried 12 inches under the soil."
"Who is Captain Dylan, and what happens to him? </s>     SOLDIER BOY     By MICHAEL SHAARA     Illustrated by EMSH     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction July 1953.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        It's one thing to laugh at a man because his job is useless       and outdated—another to depend on him when it suddenly isn't.          In the northland, deep, and in a great cave, by an everburning firethe Warrior sleeps. For this is the resting time, the time of peace,and so shall it be for a thousand years. And yet we shall summon himagain, my children, when we are sore in need, and out of the north hewill come, and again and again, each time we call, out of the dark andthe cold, with the fire in his hands, he will come.       —      Scandinavian legend        Throughout the night, thick clouds had been piling in the north; inthe morning, it was misty and cold. By eight o'clock a wet, heavy,snow-smelling breeze had begun to set in, and because the crops wereall down and the winter planting done, the colonists brewed hot coffeeand remained inside. The wind blew steadily, icily from the north. Itwas well below freezing when, some time after nine, an army ship landedin a field near the settlement.     There was still time. There were some last brief moments in which thecolonists could act and feel as they had always done. They thereforegrumbled in annoyance. They wanted no soldiers here. The few who hadconvenient windows stared out with distaste and a mild curiosity, butno one went out to greet them.     After a while a rather tall, frail-looking man came out of the shipand stood upon the hard ground looking toward the village. He remainedthere, waiting stiffly, his face turned from the wind. It was a sillything to do. He was obviously not coming in, either out of pride orjust plain orneriness.     Well, I never, a nice lady said.     What's he just      standing     there for? another lady said.     And all of them thought: well, God knows what's in the mind of asoldier, and right away many people concluded that he must be drunk.The seed of peace was deeply planted in these people, in the childrenand the women, very, very deep. And because they had been taught, oh socarefully, to hate war they had also been taught, quite incidentally,to despise soldiers.     The lone man kept standing in the freezing wind.  Eventually, because even a soldier can look small and cold andpathetic, Bob Rossel had to get up out of a nice, warm bed and go outin that miserable cold to meet him.     The soldier saluted. Like most soldiers, he was not too neat and nottoo clean and the salute was sloppy. Although he was bigger thanRossel he did not seem bigger. And, because of the cold, there weretears gathering in the ends of his eyes.     Captain Dylan, sir. His voice was low and did not carry. I have amessage from Fleet Headquarters. Are you in charge here?     Rossel, a small sober man, grunted. Nobody's in charge here. If youwant a spokesman I guess I'll do. What's up?     The captain regarded him briefly out of pale blue, expressionless eyes.Then he pulled an envelope from an inside pocket, handed it to Rossel.It was a thick, official-looking thing and Rossel hefted it idly. Hewas about to ask again what was it all about when the airlock of thehovering ship swung open creakily. A beefy, black-haired young manappeared unsteadily in the doorway, called to Dylan.     C'n I go now, Jim?     Dylan turned and nodded.     Be back for you tonight, the young man called, and then, grinning,he yelled Catch and tossed down a bottle. The captain caught it andput it unconcernedly into his pocket while Rossel stared in disgust. Amoment later the airlock closed and the ship prepared to lift.     Was he      drunk     ? Rossel began angrily. Was that a bottle of      liquor     ?     The soldier was looking at him calmly, coldly. He indicated theenvelope in Rossel's hand. You'd better read that and get moving. Wehaven't much time.     He turned and walked toward the buildings and Rossel had to follow. AsRossel drew near the walls the watchers could see his lips moving butcould not hear him. Just then the ship lifted and they turned to watchthat, and followed it upward, red spark-tailed, into the gray spongyclouds and the cold.       After a while the ship went out of sight, and nobody ever saw it again.  The first contact Man had ever had with an intelligent alien raceoccurred out on the perimeter in a small quiet place a long way fromhome. Late in the year 2360—the exact date remains unknown—an alienforce attacked and destroyed the colony at Lupus V. The wreckage andthe dead were found by a mailship which flashed off screaming for thearmy.     When the army came it found this: Of the seventy registered colonists,thirty-one were dead. The rest, including some women and children,were missing. All technical equipment, all radios, guns, machines,even books, were also missing. The buildings had been burned, so werethe bodies. Apparently the aliens had a heat ray. What else they had,nobody knew. After a few days of walking around in the ash, one soldierfinally stumbled on something.     For security reasons, there was a detonator in one of the mainbuildings. In case of enemy attack, Security had provided a bomb to beburied in the center of each colony, because it was important to blowa whole village to hell and gone rather than let a hostile alien learnvital facts about human technology and body chemistry. There was a bombat Lupus V too, and though it had been detonated it had not blown. Thedetonating wire had been cut.     In the heart of the camp, hidden from view under twelve inches ofearth, the wire had been dug up and cut.     The army could not understand it and had no time to try. After fivehundred years of peace and anti-war conditioning the army was small,weak and without respect. Therefore, the army did nothing but spreadthe news, and Man began to fall back.     In a thickening, hastening stream he came back from the hard-wonstars, blowing up his homes behind him, stunned and cursing. Most ofthe colonists got out in time. A few, the farthest and loneliest, diedin fire before the army ships could reach them. And the men in thoseships, drinkers and gamblers and veterans of nothing, the dregs of asociety which had grown beyond them, were for a long while the onlydefense Earth had.     This was the message Captain Dylan had brought, come out from Earthwith a bottle on his hip.  An obscenely cheerful expression upon his gaunt, not too well shavenface, Captain Dylan perched himself upon the edge of a table andlistened, one long booted leg swinging idly. One by one the colonistswere beginning to understand. War is huge and comes with greatsuddenness and always without reason, and there is inevitably a wait,between acts, between the news and the motion, the fear and the rage.     Dylan waited. These people were taking it well, much better than thosein the cities had taken it. But then, these were pioneers. Dylangrinned. Pioneers. Before you settle a planet you boil it and bakeit and purge it of all possible disease. Then you step down gingerlyand inflate your plastic houses, which harden and become warm andimpregnable; and send your machines out to plant and harvest; and setup automatic factories to transmute dirt into coffee; and, without everhaving lifted a finger, you have braved the wilderness, hewed a homeout of the living rock and become a pioneer. Dylan grinned again. Butat least this was better than the wailing of the cities.     This Dylan thought, although he was himself no fighter, no man at allby any standards. This he thought because he was a soldier and anoutcast; to every drunken man the fall of the sober is a happy thing.He stirred restlessly.     By this time the colonists had begun to realize that there wasn't muchto say, and a tall, handsome woman was murmuring distractedly: Lupus,Lupus—doesn't that mean wolves or something?     Dylan began to wish they would get moving, these pioneers. It was verypossible that the aliens would be here soon, and there was no need fordiscussion. There was only one thing to do and that was to clear thehell out, quickly and without argument. They began to see it.     But, when the fear had died down, the resentment came. A number ofwomen began to cluster around Dylan and complain, working up theiranger. Dylan said nothing. Then the man Rossel pushed forward andconfronted him, speaking with a vast annoyance.     See here, soldier, this is our planet. I mean to say, this is our      home     . We demand some protection from the fleet. By God, we've beenpaying the freight for you boys all these years and it's high time youearned your keep. We demand....     It went on and on while Dylan looked at the clock and waited. He hopedthat he could end this quickly. A big gloomy man was in front of himnow and giving him that name of ancient contempt, soldier boy. Thegloomy man wanted to know where the fleet was.     There is no fleet. There are a few hundred half-shot old tubs thatwere obsolete before you were born. There are four or five new jobs forthe brass and the government. That's all the fleet there is.  Dylan wanted to go on about that, to remind them that nobody had wantedthe army, that the fleet had grown smaller and smaller ... but this wasnot the time. It was ten-thirty already and the damned aliens might becoming in right now for all he knew, and all they did was talk. He hadrealized a long time ago that no peace-loving nation in the historyof Earth had ever kept itself strong, and although peace was a nobledream, it was ended now and it was time to move.     We'd better get going, he finally said, and there was quiet.Lieutenant Bossio has gone on to your sister colony at Planet Three ofthis system. He'll return to pick me up by nightfall and I'm instructedto have you gone by then.     For a long moment they waited, and then one man abruptly walked off andthe rest followed quickly; in a moment they were all gone. One or twostopped long enough to complain about the fleet, and the big gloomy mansaid he wanted guns, that's all, and there wouldn't nobody get him offhis planet. When he left, Dylan breathed with relief and went out tocheck the bomb, grateful for the action.     Most of it had to be done in the open. He found a metal bar in theradio shack and began chopping at the frozen ground, following thewire. It was the first thing he had done with his hands in weeks, andit felt fine.     Dylan had been called up out of a bar—he and Bossio—and told what hadhappened, and in three weeks now they had cleared four colonies. Thiswould be the last, and the tension here was beginning to get to him.After thirty years of hanging around and playing like the town drunk,a man could not be expected to rush out and plug the breach, just likethat. It would take time.     He rested, sweating, took a pull from the bottle on his hip.     Before they sent him out on this trip they had made him a captain.Well, that was nice. After thirty years he was a captain. For thirtyyears he had bummed all over the west end of space, had scraped his wayalong the outer edges of Mankind, had waited and dozed and patrolledand got drunk, waiting always for something to happen. There were a lotof ways to pass the time while you waited for something to happen, andhe had done them all.     Once he had even studied military tactics.     He could not help smiling at that, even now. Damn it, he'd been green.But he'd been only nineteen when his father died—of a hernia, of acrazy fool thing like a hernia that killed him just because he'd workedtoo long on a heavy planet—and in those days the anti-war conditioningout on the Rim was not very strong. They talked a lot about guardiansof the frontier, and they got him and some other kids and a broken-downdoctor. And ... now he was a captain.     He bent his back savagely, digging at the ground. You wait and you waitand the edge goes off. This thing he had waited for all those damn dayswas upon him now and there was nothing he could do but say the hellwith it and go home. Somewhere along the line, in some dark corner ofthe bars or the jails, in one of the million soul-murdering insultswhich are reserved especially for peacetime soldiers, he had lost thecore of himself, and it didn't particularly matter. That was the point:it made no particular difference if he never got it back. He owednobody. He was tugging at the wire and trying to think of somethingpleasant from the old days, when the wire came loose in his hands.     Although he had been, in his cynical way, expecting it, for a moment itthrew him and he just stared. The end was clean and bright. The wirehad just been cut.  Dylan sat for a long while by the radio shack, holding the ends in hishands. He reached almost automatically for the bottle on his hip andthen, for the first time he could remember, let it go. This was real,there was no time for that.     When Rossel came up, Dylan was still sitting. Rossel was so excited hedid not notice the wire.     Listen, soldier, how many people can your ship take?     Dylan looked at him vaguely. She sleeps two and won't take off withmore'n ten. Why?     His eyes bright and worried, Rossel leaned heavily against the shack.We're overloaded. There are sixty of us and our ship will only takeforty. We came out in groups, we never thought....     Dylan dropped his eyes, swearing silently. You're sure? No baggage, noiron rations; you couldn't get ten more on?     Not a chance. She's only a little ship with one deck—she's all wecould afford.     Dylan whistled. He had begun to feel light-headed. It 'pears thatsomebody's gonna find out first hand what them aliens look like.     It was the wrong thing to say and he knew it. All right, he saidquickly, still staring at the clear-sliced wire, we'll do what we can.Maybe the colony on Three has room. I'll call Bossio and ask.     The colonist had begun to look quite pitifully at the buildings aroundhim and the scurrying people.     Aren't there any fleet ships within radio distance?     Dylan shook his head. The fleet's spread out kind of thin nowadays.Because the other was leaning on him he felt a great irritation, buthe said, as kindly as he could, We'll get 'em all out. One way oranother, we won't leave anybody.     It was then that Rossel saw the wire. Thickly, he asked what hadhappened.     Dylan showed him the two clean ends. Somebody dug it up, cut it, thenburied it again and packed it down real nice.     The damn fool! Rossel exploded.     Who?     Why, one of ... of us, of course. I know nobody ever liked sitting ona live bomb like this, but I never....     You think one of your people did it?     Rossel stared at him. Isn't that obvious?     Why?     Well, they probably thought it was too dangerous, and silly too, likemost government rules. Or maybe one of the kids....  It was then that Dylan told him about the wire on Lupus V. Rossel wassilent. Involuntarily, he glanced at the sky, then he said shakily,Maybe an animal?     Dylan shook his head. No animal did that. Wouldn't have buried it, orfound it in the first place. Heck of a coincidence, don't you think?The wire at Lupus was cut just before an alien attack, and now this oneis cut too—newly cut.     The colonist put one hand to his mouth, his eyes wide and white.     So something, said Dylan, knew enough about this camp to know thata bomb was buried here and also to know why it was here. And thatsomething didn't want the camp destroyed and so came right into thecenter of the camp, traced the wire, dug it up and cut it. And thenwalked right out again.     Listen, said Rossel, I'd better go ask.     He started away but Dylan caught his arm.     Tell them to arm, he said, and try not to scare hell out of them.I'll be with you as soon as I've spliced this wire.     Rossel nodded and went off, running. Dylan knelt with the metal in hishands.     He began to feel that, by God, he was getting cold. He realized thathe'd better go inside soon, but the wire had to be spliced. That wasperhaps the most important thing he could do now, splice the wire.     All right, he asked himself for the thousandth time, who cut it? How?Telepathy? Could they somehow control one of us?     No. If they controlled one, then they could control all, and then therewould be no need for an attack. But you don't know, you don't reallyknow.     Were they small? Little animals?     Unlikely. Biology said that really intelligent life required a sizablebrain and you would have to expect an alien to be at least as largeas a dog. And every form of life on this planet had been screened longbefore a colony had been allowed in. If any new animals had suddenlyshown up, Rossel would certainly know about it.     He would ask Rossel. He would damn sure have to ask Rossel.     He finished splicing the wire and tucked it into the ground. Then hestraightened up and, before he went into the radio shack, he pulled outhis pistol. He checked it, primed it, and tried to remember the lasttime he had fired it. He never had—he never had fired a gun.  The snow began falling near noon. There was nothing anybody could dobut stand in the silence and watch it come down in a white rushingwall, and watch the trees and the hills drown in the whiteness, untilthere was nothing on the planet but the buildings and a few warm lightsand the snow.     By one o'clock the visibility was down to zero and Dylan decided totry to contact Bossio again and tell him to hurry. But Bossio stilldidn't answer. Dylan stared long and thoughtfully out the windowthrough the snow at the gray shrouded shapes of bushes and trees whichwere beginning to become horrifying. It must be that Bossio was stilldrunk—maybe sleeping it off before making planetfall on Three. Dylanheld no grudge. Bossio was a kid and alone. It took a special kindof guts to take a ship out into space alone, when Things could bewaiting....     A young girl, pink and lovely in a thick fur jacket, came into theshack and told him breathlessly that her father, Mr. Rush, would liketo know if he wanted sentries posted. Dylan hadn't thought about it buthe said yes right away, beginning to feel both pleased and irritated atthe same time, because now they were coming to him.     He pushed out into the cold and went to find Rossel. With the snow itwas bad enough, but if they were still here when the sun went down theywouldn't have a chance. Most of the men were out stripping down theirship and that would take a while. He wondered why Rossel hadn't yet puta call through to Three, asking about room on the ship there. The onlyanswer he could find was that Rossel knew that there was no room, andhe wanted to put off the answer as long as possible. And, in a way, youcould not blame him.     Rossel was in his cabin with the big, gloomy man—who turned out tobe Rush, the one who had asked about sentries. Rush was methodicallycleaning an old hunting rifle. Rossel was surprisingly full of hope.     Listen, there's a mail ship due in, been due since yesterday. We mightget the rest of the folks out on that.     Dylan shrugged. Don't count on it.     But they have a contract!     The soldier grinned.     The big man, Rush, was paying no attention. Quite suddenly he said:Who cut that wire, Cap?  Dylan swung slowly to look at him. As far as I can figure, an aliencut it.     Rush shook his head. No. Ain't been no aliens near this camp, andno peculiar animals either. We got a planet-wide radar, and ain't nounidentified ships come near, not since we first landed more'n a yearago. He lifted the rifle and peered through the bore. Uh-uh. One ofus did it.     The man had been thinking. And he knew the planet.     Telepathy? asked Dylan.     Might be.     Can't see it. You people live too close, you'd notice right away ifone of you wasn't ... himself. And, if they've got one, why not all?     Rush calmly—at least outwardly calmly—lit his pipe. There was astrength in this man that Dylan had missed before.     Don't know, he said gruffly. But these are aliens, mister. And untilI know different I'm keepin' an eye on my neighbor.     He gave Rossel a sour look and Rossel stared back, uncomprehending.     Then Rossel jumped. My God!     Dylan moved to quiet him. Look, is there any animal at all that evercomes near here that's as large as a dog?     After a pause, Rush answered. Yep, there's one. The viggle. It's likea reg'lar monkey but with four legs. Biology cleared 'em before welanded. We shoot one now and then when they get pesky. He rose slowly,the rifle held under his arm. I b'lieve we might just as well go postthem sentries.     Dylan wanted to go on with this but there was nothing much else tosay. Rossel went with them as far as the radio shack, with a strainedexpression on his face, to put through that call to Three.     When he was gone Rush asked Dylan, Where you want them sentries? I gotWalt Halloran and Web Eggers and six others lined up.     Dylan stopped and looked around grimly at the circling wall of snow.You know the site better than I do. Post 'em in a ring, on rises,within calling distance. Have 'em check with each other every fiveminutes. I'll go help your people at the ship.     The gloomy man nodded and fluffed up his collar. Nice day forhuntin', he said, and then he was gone with the snow quickly coveringhis footprints.  The Alien lay wrapped in a thick electric cocoon, buried in a widewarm room beneath the base of a tree. The tree served him as antennae;curiously he gazed into a small view-screen and watched the humanscome. He saw them fan out, eight of them, and sink down in the snow. Hesaw that they were armed.       He pulsed thoughtfully, extending a part of himself to absorb a spicedlizard. Since the morning, when the new ship had come, he had beenwatching steadily, and now it was apparent that the humans were awareof their danger. Undoubtedly they were preparing to leave.     That was unfortunate. The attack was not scheduled until late thatnight and he could not, of course, press the assault by day. But      flexibility     , he reminded himself sternly,      is the first principle ofabsorption     , and therefore he moved to alter his plans. A projectionreached out to dial several knobs on a large box before him, and thehour of assault was moved forward to dusk. A glance at the chronometertold him that it was already well into the night on Planet Three, andthat the attack there had probably begun.     The Alien felt the first tenuous pulsing of anticipation. He layquietly, watching the small square lights of windows against the snow,thanking the Unexplainable that matters had been so devised that hewould not have to venture out into that miserable cold.     Presently an alarming thought struck him. These humans moved withuncommon speed for intelligent creatures. Even without devices, it wasdistinctly possible that they could be gone before nightfall. He couldtake no chance, of course. He spun more dials and pressed a singlebutton, and lay back again comfortably, warmly, to watch the disablingof the colonists' ship.  When Three did not answer, Rossel was nervously gazing at the snow,thinking of other things, and he called again. Several moments laterthe realization of what was happening struck him like a blow. Threehad never once failed to answer. All they had to do when they heardthe signal buzz was go into the radio shack and say hello. That wasall they had to do. He called again and again, but nobody answered.There was no static and no interference and he didn't hear a thing. Hechecked frenziedly through his own apparatus and tried again, but theair was as dead as deep space. He raced out to tell Dylan.     Dylan accepted it. He had known none of the people on Three and whathe felt now was a much greater urgency to be out of here. He saidhopeful things to Rossel, and then went out to the ship and joined themen in lightening her. About the ship at least, he knew something andhe was able to tell them what partitions and frames could go and whatwould have to stay or the ship would never get off the planet. Buteven stripped down, it couldn't take them all. When he knew that, herealized that he himself would have to stay here, for it was only thenthat he thought of Bossio.     Three was dead. Bossio had gone down there some time ago and, if Threewas dead and Bossio had not called, then the fact was that Bossio wasgone too. For a long, long moment Dylan stood rooted in the snow.More than the fact that he would have to stay here was the unspoken,unalterable, heart-numbing knowledge that Bossio was dead—the onething that Dylan could not accept. Bossio was the only friend he had.In all this dog-eared, aimless, ape-run Universe Bossio was all hisfriendship and his trust.     He left the ship blindly and went back to the settlement. Now thepeople were quiet and really frightened, and some of the women werebeginning to cry. He noticed now that they had begun to look at himwith hope as he passed, and in his own grief, humanly, he swore.     Bossio—a big-grinning kid with no parents, no enemies, nogrudges—Bossio was already dead because he had come out here and triedto help these people. People who had kicked or ignored him all the daysof his life. And, in a short while, Dylan would also stay behind anddie to save the life of somebody he never knew and who, twenty-fourhours earlier, would have been ashamed to be found in his company. Now,when it was far, far too late, they were coming to the army for help.  But in the end, damn it, he could not hate these people. All they hadever wanted was peace, and even though they had never understood thatthe Universe is unknowable and that you must always have big shoulders,still they had always sought only for peace. If peace leads to noconflict at all and then decay, well, that was something that had to belearned. So he could not hate these people.     But he could not help them either. He turned from their eyes and wentinto the radio shack. It had begun to dawn on the women that they mightbe leaving without their husbands or sons, and he did not want to seethe fierce struggle that he was sure would take place. He sat alone andtried, for the last time, to call Bossio.     After a while, an old woman found him and offered him coffee. It wasa very decent thing to do, to think of him at a time like this, andhe was so suddenly grateful he could only nod. The woman said that hemust be cold in that thin army thing and that she had brought along amackinaw for him. She poured the coffee and left him alone.     They were thinking of him now, he knew, because they were thinking ofeveryone who had to stay. Throw the dog a bone. Dammit, don't be likethat, he told himself. He had not had anything to eat all day and thecoffee was warm and strong. He decided he might be of some help at theship.     It was stripped down now and they were loading. He was startled to seea great group of them standing in the snow, removing their clothes.Then he understood. The clothes of forty people would change theweight by enough to get a few more aboard. There was no fighting. Someof the women were almost hysterical and a few had refused to go andwere still in their cabins, but the process was orderly. Children wentautomatically, as did the youngest husbands and all the women. Theelders were shuffling around in the snow, waving their arms to keepthemselves warm. Some of them were laughing to keep their spirits up.     In the end, the ship took forty-six people.     Rossel was one of the ones that would not be going. Dylan saw himstanding by the airlock holding his wife in his arms, his face buriedin her soft brown hair. A sense of great sympathy, totally unexpected,rose up in Dylan, and a little of the lostness of thirty years wentslipping away. These were his people. It was a thing he had neverunderstood before, because he had never once been among men in greattrouble. He waited and watched, learning, trying to digest this whilethere was still time. Then the semi-naked colonists were inside andthe airlock closed. But when the ship tried to lift, there was a sharpburning smell—she couldn't get off the ground.  ","Captain Dylan is in the Fleet army and travels with Lieutenant Bossio to colonies on different planets with the message that an alien attack is imminent and the colonists must evacuate. He has become a drunk, which is not uncommon in the army because soldiers were outcasts. For the past three weeks, he and Bossio have been evacuating colonies—the current one is their fifth and last. Prior to this mission, he has spent the last 30 years hanging around, getting drunk, and waiting for something to happen. He was made a captain just before this mission. Looking back, he finds it humorous that he used to study military tactics as if he would need to know them. After his father died of a hernia that he developed from working too long on a heavy planet, he joined the army. Dylan was lured by the army’s recruiting advertisements calling itself guardians of the frontier. When he enlisted, anti-war conditioning wasn’t as strong as it is now, so people weren’t as resentful and disrespectful of soldiers then. Dylan feels that along the way, after all the time he spent in bars and jails, he lost his core. He also believes it doesn’t matter whether he makes it back home: he has no connections and doesn’t owe anybody anything. Drinking has become a way of life, and while he digs for the wire to the bomb, he takes a drink, but after he finds the wire has been cut, he reaches for his bottle but for the first time in a long time, stops before taking a drink. When the colonists start looking to him for help and answers, Dylan is somewhat pleased because now they are showing him respect, but he is annoyed, too, since it is only because they are scared and need help. When Dylan learns that Planet Three hasn’t answered any radio calls, he connects that to the fact he hasn’t been able to reach Bossio and concludes that the colonists and Bossio are dead. He knows this means he will have to stay behind on the planet when the colonists leave, but that doesn’t bother him. What does bother him is that Bossio is dead only because they had come to help these people—people who wanted nothing to do with them until their lives were threatened. Bossio was his best friend, and Dylan mourns his loss. Even though Dylan resents the people for their disregard for him and the army, he has sympathy for them. He doesn’t want to watch their pain when the women have to leave their men behind, and he is touched when an old woman offers him coffee and a mackinaw to help him stay warm. As he watches Rossel and other men saying goodbye to their wives and children, Dylan begins losing the shell the last 30 years had created around him and begins to feel that these people are his people."
"What is the significance of the army in the story? </s>     SOLDIER BOY     By MICHAEL SHAARA     Illustrated by EMSH     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction July 1953.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        It's one thing to laugh at a man because his job is useless       and outdated—another to depend on him when it suddenly isn't.          In the northland, deep, and in a great cave, by an everburning firethe Warrior sleeps. For this is the resting time, the time of peace,and so shall it be for a thousand years. And yet we shall summon himagain, my children, when we are sore in need, and out of the north hewill come, and again and again, each time we call, out of the dark andthe cold, with the fire in his hands, he will come.       —      Scandinavian legend        Throughout the night, thick clouds had been piling in the north; inthe morning, it was misty and cold. By eight o'clock a wet, heavy,snow-smelling breeze had begun to set in, and because the crops wereall down and the winter planting done, the colonists brewed hot coffeeand remained inside. The wind blew steadily, icily from the north. Itwas well below freezing when, some time after nine, an army ship landedin a field near the settlement.     There was still time. There were some last brief moments in which thecolonists could act and feel as they had always done. They thereforegrumbled in annoyance. They wanted no soldiers here. The few who hadconvenient windows stared out with distaste and a mild curiosity, butno one went out to greet them.     After a while a rather tall, frail-looking man came out of the shipand stood upon the hard ground looking toward the village. He remainedthere, waiting stiffly, his face turned from the wind. It was a sillything to do. He was obviously not coming in, either out of pride orjust plain orneriness.     Well, I never, a nice lady said.     What's he just      standing     there for? another lady said.     And all of them thought: well, God knows what's in the mind of asoldier, and right away many people concluded that he must be drunk.The seed of peace was deeply planted in these people, in the childrenand the women, very, very deep. And because they had been taught, oh socarefully, to hate war they had also been taught, quite incidentally,to despise soldiers.     The lone man kept standing in the freezing wind.  Eventually, because even a soldier can look small and cold andpathetic, Bob Rossel had to get up out of a nice, warm bed and go outin that miserable cold to meet him.     The soldier saluted. Like most soldiers, he was not too neat and nottoo clean and the salute was sloppy. Although he was bigger thanRossel he did not seem bigger. And, because of the cold, there weretears gathering in the ends of his eyes.     Captain Dylan, sir. His voice was low and did not carry. I have amessage from Fleet Headquarters. Are you in charge here?     Rossel, a small sober man, grunted. Nobody's in charge here. If youwant a spokesman I guess I'll do. What's up?     The captain regarded him briefly out of pale blue, expressionless eyes.Then he pulled an envelope from an inside pocket, handed it to Rossel.It was a thick, official-looking thing and Rossel hefted it idly. Hewas about to ask again what was it all about when the airlock of thehovering ship swung open creakily. A beefy, black-haired young manappeared unsteadily in the doorway, called to Dylan.     C'n I go now, Jim?     Dylan turned and nodded.     Be back for you tonight, the young man called, and then, grinning,he yelled Catch and tossed down a bottle. The captain caught it andput it unconcernedly into his pocket while Rossel stared in disgust. Amoment later the airlock closed and the ship prepared to lift.     Was he      drunk     ? Rossel began angrily. Was that a bottle of      liquor     ?     The soldier was looking at him calmly, coldly. He indicated theenvelope in Rossel's hand. You'd better read that and get moving. Wehaven't much time.     He turned and walked toward the buildings and Rossel had to follow. AsRossel drew near the walls the watchers could see his lips moving butcould not hear him. Just then the ship lifted and they turned to watchthat, and followed it upward, red spark-tailed, into the gray spongyclouds and the cold.       After a while the ship went out of sight, and nobody ever saw it again.  The first contact Man had ever had with an intelligent alien raceoccurred out on the perimeter in a small quiet place a long way fromhome. Late in the year 2360—the exact date remains unknown—an alienforce attacked and destroyed the colony at Lupus V. The wreckage andthe dead were found by a mailship which flashed off screaming for thearmy.     When the army came it found this: Of the seventy registered colonists,thirty-one were dead. The rest, including some women and children,were missing. All technical equipment, all radios, guns, machines,even books, were also missing. The buildings had been burned, so werethe bodies. Apparently the aliens had a heat ray. What else they had,nobody knew. After a few days of walking around in the ash, one soldierfinally stumbled on something.     For security reasons, there was a detonator in one of the mainbuildings. In case of enemy attack, Security had provided a bomb to beburied in the center of each colony, because it was important to blowa whole village to hell and gone rather than let a hostile alien learnvital facts about human technology and body chemistry. There was a bombat Lupus V too, and though it had been detonated it had not blown. Thedetonating wire had been cut.     In the heart of the camp, hidden from view under twelve inches ofearth, the wire had been dug up and cut.     The army could not understand it and had no time to try. After fivehundred years of peace and anti-war conditioning the army was small,weak and without respect. Therefore, the army did nothing but spreadthe news, and Man began to fall back.     In a thickening, hastening stream he came back from the hard-wonstars, blowing up his homes behind him, stunned and cursing. Most ofthe colonists got out in time. A few, the farthest and loneliest, diedin fire before the army ships could reach them. And the men in thoseships, drinkers and gamblers and veterans of nothing, the dregs of asociety which had grown beyond them, were for a long while the onlydefense Earth had.     This was the message Captain Dylan had brought, come out from Earthwith a bottle on his hip.  An obscenely cheerful expression upon his gaunt, not too well shavenface, Captain Dylan perched himself upon the edge of a table andlistened, one long booted leg swinging idly. One by one the colonistswere beginning to understand. War is huge and comes with greatsuddenness and always without reason, and there is inevitably a wait,between acts, between the news and the motion, the fear and the rage.     Dylan waited. These people were taking it well, much better than thosein the cities had taken it. But then, these were pioneers. Dylangrinned. Pioneers. Before you settle a planet you boil it and bakeit and purge it of all possible disease. Then you step down gingerlyand inflate your plastic houses, which harden and become warm andimpregnable; and send your machines out to plant and harvest; and setup automatic factories to transmute dirt into coffee; and, without everhaving lifted a finger, you have braved the wilderness, hewed a homeout of the living rock and become a pioneer. Dylan grinned again. Butat least this was better than the wailing of the cities.     This Dylan thought, although he was himself no fighter, no man at allby any standards. This he thought because he was a soldier and anoutcast; to every drunken man the fall of the sober is a happy thing.He stirred restlessly.     By this time the colonists had begun to realize that there wasn't muchto say, and a tall, handsome woman was murmuring distractedly: Lupus,Lupus—doesn't that mean wolves or something?     Dylan began to wish they would get moving, these pioneers. It was verypossible that the aliens would be here soon, and there was no need fordiscussion. There was only one thing to do and that was to clear thehell out, quickly and without argument. They began to see it.     But, when the fear had died down, the resentment came. A number ofwomen began to cluster around Dylan and complain, working up theiranger. Dylan said nothing. Then the man Rossel pushed forward andconfronted him, speaking with a vast annoyance.     See here, soldier, this is our planet. I mean to say, this is our      home     . We demand some protection from the fleet. By God, we've beenpaying the freight for you boys all these years and it's high time youearned your keep. We demand....     It went on and on while Dylan looked at the clock and waited. He hopedthat he could end this quickly. A big gloomy man was in front of himnow and giving him that name of ancient contempt, soldier boy. Thegloomy man wanted to know where the fleet was.     There is no fleet. There are a few hundred half-shot old tubs thatwere obsolete before you were born. There are four or five new jobs forthe brass and the government. That's all the fleet there is.  Dylan wanted to go on about that, to remind them that nobody had wantedthe army, that the fleet had grown smaller and smaller ... but this wasnot the time. It was ten-thirty already and the damned aliens might becoming in right now for all he knew, and all they did was talk. He hadrealized a long time ago that no peace-loving nation in the historyof Earth had ever kept itself strong, and although peace was a nobledream, it was ended now and it was time to move.     We'd better get going, he finally said, and there was quiet.Lieutenant Bossio has gone on to your sister colony at Planet Three ofthis system. He'll return to pick me up by nightfall and I'm instructedto have you gone by then.     For a long moment they waited, and then one man abruptly walked off andthe rest followed quickly; in a moment they were all gone. One or twostopped long enough to complain about the fleet, and the big gloomy mansaid he wanted guns, that's all, and there wouldn't nobody get him offhis planet. When he left, Dylan breathed with relief and went out tocheck the bomb, grateful for the action.     Most of it had to be done in the open. He found a metal bar in theradio shack and began chopping at the frozen ground, following thewire. It was the first thing he had done with his hands in weeks, andit felt fine.     Dylan had been called up out of a bar—he and Bossio—and told what hadhappened, and in three weeks now they had cleared four colonies. Thiswould be the last, and the tension here was beginning to get to him.After thirty years of hanging around and playing like the town drunk,a man could not be expected to rush out and plug the breach, just likethat. It would take time.     He rested, sweating, took a pull from the bottle on his hip.     Before they sent him out on this trip they had made him a captain.Well, that was nice. After thirty years he was a captain. For thirtyyears he had bummed all over the west end of space, had scraped his wayalong the outer edges of Mankind, had waited and dozed and patrolledand got drunk, waiting always for something to happen. There were a lotof ways to pass the time while you waited for something to happen, andhe had done them all.     Once he had even studied military tactics.     He could not help smiling at that, even now. Damn it, he'd been green.But he'd been only nineteen when his father died—of a hernia, of acrazy fool thing like a hernia that killed him just because he'd workedtoo long on a heavy planet—and in those days the anti-war conditioningout on the Rim was not very strong. They talked a lot about guardiansof the frontier, and they got him and some other kids and a broken-downdoctor. And ... now he was a captain.     He bent his back savagely, digging at the ground. You wait and you waitand the edge goes off. This thing he had waited for all those damn dayswas upon him now and there was nothing he could do but say the hellwith it and go home. Somewhere along the line, in some dark corner ofthe bars or the jails, in one of the million soul-murdering insultswhich are reserved especially for peacetime soldiers, he had lost thecore of himself, and it didn't particularly matter. That was the point:it made no particular difference if he never got it back. He owednobody. He was tugging at the wire and trying to think of somethingpleasant from the old days, when the wire came loose in his hands.     Although he had been, in his cynical way, expecting it, for a moment itthrew him and he just stared. The end was clean and bright. The wirehad just been cut.  Dylan sat for a long while by the radio shack, holding the ends in hishands. He reached almost automatically for the bottle on his hip andthen, for the first time he could remember, let it go. This was real,there was no time for that.     When Rossel came up, Dylan was still sitting. Rossel was so excited hedid not notice the wire.     Listen, soldier, how many people can your ship take?     Dylan looked at him vaguely. She sleeps two and won't take off withmore'n ten. Why?     His eyes bright and worried, Rossel leaned heavily against the shack.We're overloaded. There are sixty of us and our ship will only takeforty. We came out in groups, we never thought....     Dylan dropped his eyes, swearing silently. You're sure? No baggage, noiron rations; you couldn't get ten more on?     Not a chance. She's only a little ship with one deck—she's all wecould afford.     Dylan whistled. He had begun to feel light-headed. It 'pears thatsomebody's gonna find out first hand what them aliens look like.     It was the wrong thing to say and he knew it. All right, he saidquickly, still staring at the clear-sliced wire, we'll do what we can.Maybe the colony on Three has room. I'll call Bossio and ask.     The colonist had begun to look quite pitifully at the buildings aroundhim and the scurrying people.     Aren't there any fleet ships within radio distance?     Dylan shook his head. The fleet's spread out kind of thin nowadays.Because the other was leaning on him he felt a great irritation, buthe said, as kindly as he could, We'll get 'em all out. One way oranother, we won't leave anybody.     It was then that Rossel saw the wire. Thickly, he asked what hadhappened.     Dylan showed him the two clean ends. Somebody dug it up, cut it, thenburied it again and packed it down real nice.     The damn fool! Rossel exploded.     Who?     Why, one of ... of us, of course. I know nobody ever liked sitting ona live bomb like this, but I never....     You think one of your people did it?     Rossel stared at him. Isn't that obvious?     Why?     Well, they probably thought it was too dangerous, and silly too, likemost government rules. Or maybe one of the kids....  It was then that Dylan told him about the wire on Lupus V. Rossel wassilent. Involuntarily, he glanced at the sky, then he said shakily,Maybe an animal?     Dylan shook his head. No animal did that. Wouldn't have buried it, orfound it in the first place. Heck of a coincidence, don't you think?The wire at Lupus was cut just before an alien attack, and now this oneis cut too—newly cut.     The colonist put one hand to his mouth, his eyes wide and white.     So something, said Dylan, knew enough about this camp to know thata bomb was buried here and also to know why it was here. And thatsomething didn't want the camp destroyed and so came right into thecenter of the camp, traced the wire, dug it up and cut it. And thenwalked right out again.     Listen, said Rossel, I'd better go ask.     He started away but Dylan caught his arm.     Tell them to arm, he said, and try not to scare hell out of them.I'll be with you as soon as I've spliced this wire.     Rossel nodded and went off, running. Dylan knelt with the metal in hishands.     He began to feel that, by God, he was getting cold. He realized thathe'd better go inside soon, but the wire had to be spliced. That wasperhaps the most important thing he could do now, splice the wire.     All right, he asked himself for the thousandth time, who cut it? How?Telepathy? Could they somehow control one of us?     No. If they controlled one, then they could control all, and then therewould be no need for an attack. But you don't know, you don't reallyknow.     Were they small? Little animals?     Unlikely. Biology said that really intelligent life required a sizablebrain and you would have to expect an alien to be at least as largeas a dog. And every form of life on this planet had been screened longbefore a colony had been allowed in. If any new animals had suddenlyshown up, Rossel would certainly know about it.     He would ask Rossel. He would damn sure have to ask Rossel.     He finished splicing the wire and tucked it into the ground. Then hestraightened up and, before he went into the radio shack, he pulled outhis pistol. He checked it, primed it, and tried to remember the lasttime he had fired it. He never had—he never had fired a gun.  The snow began falling near noon. There was nothing anybody could dobut stand in the silence and watch it come down in a white rushingwall, and watch the trees and the hills drown in the whiteness, untilthere was nothing on the planet but the buildings and a few warm lightsand the snow.     By one o'clock the visibility was down to zero and Dylan decided totry to contact Bossio again and tell him to hurry. But Bossio stilldidn't answer. Dylan stared long and thoughtfully out the windowthrough the snow at the gray shrouded shapes of bushes and trees whichwere beginning to become horrifying. It must be that Bossio was stilldrunk—maybe sleeping it off before making planetfall on Three. Dylanheld no grudge. Bossio was a kid and alone. It took a special kindof guts to take a ship out into space alone, when Things could bewaiting....     A young girl, pink and lovely in a thick fur jacket, came into theshack and told him breathlessly that her father, Mr. Rush, would liketo know if he wanted sentries posted. Dylan hadn't thought about it buthe said yes right away, beginning to feel both pleased and irritated atthe same time, because now they were coming to him.     He pushed out into the cold and went to find Rossel. With the snow itwas bad enough, but if they were still here when the sun went down theywouldn't have a chance. Most of the men were out stripping down theirship and that would take a while. He wondered why Rossel hadn't yet puta call through to Three, asking about room on the ship there. The onlyanswer he could find was that Rossel knew that there was no room, andhe wanted to put off the answer as long as possible. And, in a way, youcould not blame him.     Rossel was in his cabin with the big, gloomy man—who turned out tobe Rush, the one who had asked about sentries. Rush was methodicallycleaning an old hunting rifle. Rossel was surprisingly full of hope.     Listen, there's a mail ship due in, been due since yesterday. We mightget the rest of the folks out on that.     Dylan shrugged. Don't count on it.     But they have a contract!     The soldier grinned.     The big man, Rush, was paying no attention. Quite suddenly he said:Who cut that wire, Cap?  Dylan swung slowly to look at him. As far as I can figure, an aliencut it.     Rush shook his head. No. Ain't been no aliens near this camp, andno peculiar animals either. We got a planet-wide radar, and ain't nounidentified ships come near, not since we first landed more'n a yearago. He lifted the rifle and peered through the bore. Uh-uh. One ofus did it.     The man had been thinking. And he knew the planet.     Telepathy? asked Dylan.     Might be.     Can't see it. You people live too close, you'd notice right away ifone of you wasn't ... himself. And, if they've got one, why not all?     Rush calmly—at least outwardly calmly—lit his pipe. There was astrength in this man that Dylan had missed before.     Don't know, he said gruffly. But these are aliens, mister. And untilI know different I'm keepin' an eye on my neighbor.     He gave Rossel a sour look and Rossel stared back, uncomprehending.     Then Rossel jumped. My God!     Dylan moved to quiet him. Look, is there any animal at all that evercomes near here that's as large as a dog?     After a pause, Rush answered. Yep, there's one. The viggle. It's likea reg'lar monkey but with four legs. Biology cleared 'em before welanded. We shoot one now and then when they get pesky. He rose slowly,the rifle held under his arm. I b'lieve we might just as well go postthem sentries.     Dylan wanted to go on with this but there was nothing much else tosay. Rossel went with them as far as the radio shack, with a strainedexpression on his face, to put through that call to Three.     When he was gone Rush asked Dylan, Where you want them sentries? I gotWalt Halloran and Web Eggers and six others lined up.     Dylan stopped and looked around grimly at the circling wall of snow.You know the site better than I do. Post 'em in a ring, on rises,within calling distance. Have 'em check with each other every fiveminutes. I'll go help your people at the ship.     The gloomy man nodded and fluffed up his collar. Nice day forhuntin', he said, and then he was gone with the snow quickly coveringhis footprints.  The Alien lay wrapped in a thick electric cocoon, buried in a widewarm room beneath the base of a tree. The tree served him as antennae;curiously he gazed into a small view-screen and watched the humanscome. He saw them fan out, eight of them, and sink down in the snow. Hesaw that they were armed.       He pulsed thoughtfully, extending a part of himself to absorb a spicedlizard. Since the morning, when the new ship had come, he had beenwatching steadily, and now it was apparent that the humans were awareof their danger. Undoubtedly they were preparing to leave.     That was unfortunate. The attack was not scheduled until late thatnight and he could not, of course, press the assault by day. But      flexibility     , he reminded himself sternly,      is the first principle ofabsorption     , and therefore he moved to alter his plans. A projectionreached out to dial several knobs on a large box before him, and thehour of assault was moved forward to dusk. A glance at the chronometertold him that it was already well into the night on Planet Three, andthat the attack there had probably begun.     The Alien felt the first tenuous pulsing of anticipation. He layquietly, watching the small square lights of windows against the snow,thanking the Unexplainable that matters had been so devised that hewould not have to venture out into that miserable cold.     Presently an alarming thought struck him. These humans moved withuncommon speed for intelligent creatures. Even without devices, it wasdistinctly possible that they could be gone before nightfall. He couldtake no chance, of course. He spun more dials and pressed a singlebutton, and lay back again comfortably, warmly, to watch the disablingof the colonists' ship.  When Three did not answer, Rossel was nervously gazing at the snow,thinking of other things, and he called again. Several moments laterthe realization of what was happening struck him like a blow. Threehad never once failed to answer. All they had to do when they heardthe signal buzz was go into the radio shack and say hello. That wasall they had to do. He called again and again, but nobody answered.There was no static and no interference and he didn't hear a thing. Hechecked frenziedly through his own apparatus and tried again, but theair was as dead as deep space. He raced out to tell Dylan.     Dylan accepted it. He had known none of the people on Three and whathe felt now was a much greater urgency to be out of here. He saidhopeful things to Rossel, and then went out to the ship and joined themen in lightening her. About the ship at least, he knew something andhe was able to tell them what partitions and frames could go and whatwould have to stay or the ship would never get off the planet. Buteven stripped down, it couldn't take them all. When he knew that, herealized that he himself would have to stay here, for it was only thenthat he thought of Bossio.     Three was dead. Bossio had gone down there some time ago and, if Threewas dead and Bossio had not called, then the fact was that Bossio wasgone too. For a long, long moment Dylan stood rooted in the snow.More than the fact that he would have to stay here was the unspoken,unalterable, heart-numbing knowledge that Bossio was dead—the onething that Dylan could not accept. Bossio was the only friend he had.In all this dog-eared, aimless, ape-run Universe Bossio was all hisfriendship and his trust.     He left the ship blindly and went back to the settlement. Now thepeople were quiet and really frightened, and some of the women werebeginning to cry. He noticed now that they had begun to look at himwith hope as he passed, and in his own grief, humanly, he swore.     Bossio—a big-grinning kid with no parents, no enemies, nogrudges—Bossio was already dead because he had come out here and triedto help these people. People who had kicked or ignored him all the daysof his life. And, in a short while, Dylan would also stay behind anddie to save the life of somebody he never knew and who, twenty-fourhours earlier, would have been ashamed to be found in his company. Now,when it was far, far too late, they were coming to the army for help.  But in the end, damn it, he could not hate these people. All they hadever wanted was peace, and even though they had never understood thatthe Universe is unknowable and that you must always have big shoulders,still they had always sought only for peace. If peace leads to noconflict at all and then decay, well, that was something that had to belearned. So he could not hate these people.     But he could not help them either. He turned from their eyes and wentinto the radio shack. It had begun to dawn on the women that they mightbe leaving without their husbands or sons, and he did not want to seethe fierce struggle that he was sure would take place. He sat alone andtried, for the last time, to call Bossio.     After a while, an old woman found him and offered him coffee. It wasa very decent thing to do, to think of him at a time like this, andhe was so suddenly grateful he could only nod. The woman said that hemust be cold in that thin army thing and that she had brought along amackinaw for him. She poured the coffee and left him alone.     They were thinking of him now, he knew, because they were thinking ofeveryone who had to stay. Throw the dog a bone. Dammit, don't be likethat, he told himself. He had not had anything to eat all day and thecoffee was warm and strong. He decided he might be of some help at theship.     It was stripped down now and they were loading. He was startled to seea great group of them standing in the snow, removing their clothes.Then he understood. The clothes of forty people would change theweight by enough to get a few more aboard. There was no fighting. Someof the women were almost hysterical and a few had refused to go andwere still in their cabins, but the process was orderly. Children wentautomatically, as did the youngest husbands and all the women. Theelders were shuffling around in the snow, waving their arms to keepthemselves warm. Some of them were laughing to keep their spirits up.     In the end, the ship took forty-six people.     Rossel was one of the ones that would not be going. Dylan saw himstanding by the airlock holding his wife in his arms, his face buriedin her soft brown hair. A sense of great sympathy, totally unexpected,rose up in Dylan, and a little of the lostness of thirty years wentslipping away. These were his people. It was a thing he had neverunderstood before, because he had never once been among men in greattrouble. He waited and watched, learning, trying to digest this whilethere was still time. Then the semi-naked colonists were inside andthe airlock closed. But when the ship tried to lift, there was a sharpburning smell—she couldn't get off the ground.  ","The army has no respect from the colonists; they don’t want anything to do with it because they associate it with war. The people at this time have been conditioned to despise war and anything to do with it. When they see Captain Dylan standing by his ship and facing the village, they think he is ridiculous or possibly drunk. Rossel noticed that Dylan appeared like a typical soldier: not very neat and not very clean, and his salute lacked proper military precision. And when Lt. Bossio tosses Dylan a bottle of liquor, Rossel isn’t surprised because of the reputation soldiers have for being drunks; in fact, Rossel is disgusted by the liquor and Bossio’s drunkenness. When aliens attacked Lupus V in 2360, the army found the destruction and dead and discovered why their security bomb hadn’t detonated. There was little the army could do about the alien attack because the army had become so small and weak. There had been peace for 500 years when people didn’t need the army, so its equipment was old, and many of the soldiers were from the bottom of society: drinkers and gamblers. So the army is just notifying other colonies of the attack and warning them to evacuate. When the colonists learn that they have to evacuate due to the threat of an alien attack, Rossel demands that the fleet defend them, and another man named Rush asks where the army fleet is, expecting it to come to their defense. When Dylan explains there is no fleet, just a few hundred obsolete ships, he is tempted to tell them that no one wants an army until it is needed. Dylan himself has been in the army for 30 years and has never seen any action. And when Rossel realizes the colony’s ship won’t hold all of the colonists, he asks if any fleet ships are within radio distance that they could summon to help with their evacuation, hoping that the army is near enough to be of help. Ironically, the army that they despise now offers their only hope.  "
"What is the significance of the cut wire? </s>     SOLDIER BOY     By MICHAEL SHAARA     Illustrated by EMSH     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction July 1953.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        It's one thing to laugh at a man because his job is useless       and outdated—another to depend on him when it suddenly isn't.          In the northland, deep, and in a great cave, by an everburning firethe Warrior sleeps. For this is the resting time, the time of peace,and so shall it be for a thousand years. And yet we shall summon himagain, my children, when we are sore in need, and out of the north hewill come, and again and again, each time we call, out of the dark andthe cold, with the fire in his hands, he will come.       —      Scandinavian legend        Throughout the night, thick clouds had been piling in the north; inthe morning, it was misty and cold. By eight o'clock a wet, heavy,snow-smelling breeze had begun to set in, and because the crops wereall down and the winter planting done, the colonists brewed hot coffeeand remained inside. The wind blew steadily, icily from the north. Itwas well below freezing when, some time after nine, an army ship landedin a field near the settlement.     There was still time. There were some last brief moments in which thecolonists could act and feel as they had always done. They thereforegrumbled in annoyance. They wanted no soldiers here. The few who hadconvenient windows stared out with distaste and a mild curiosity, butno one went out to greet them.     After a while a rather tall, frail-looking man came out of the shipand stood upon the hard ground looking toward the village. He remainedthere, waiting stiffly, his face turned from the wind. It was a sillything to do. He was obviously not coming in, either out of pride orjust plain orneriness.     Well, I never, a nice lady said.     What's he just      standing     there for? another lady said.     And all of them thought: well, God knows what's in the mind of asoldier, and right away many people concluded that he must be drunk.The seed of peace was deeply planted in these people, in the childrenand the women, very, very deep. And because they had been taught, oh socarefully, to hate war they had also been taught, quite incidentally,to despise soldiers.     The lone man kept standing in the freezing wind.  Eventually, because even a soldier can look small and cold andpathetic, Bob Rossel had to get up out of a nice, warm bed and go outin that miserable cold to meet him.     The soldier saluted. Like most soldiers, he was not too neat and nottoo clean and the salute was sloppy. Although he was bigger thanRossel he did not seem bigger. And, because of the cold, there weretears gathering in the ends of his eyes.     Captain Dylan, sir. His voice was low and did not carry. I have amessage from Fleet Headquarters. Are you in charge here?     Rossel, a small sober man, grunted. Nobody's in charge here. If youwant a spokesman I guess I'll do. What's up?     The captain regarded him briefly out of pale blue, expressionless eyes.Then he pulled an envelope from an inside pocket, handed it to Rossel.It was a thick, official-looking thing and Rossel hefted it idly. Hewas about to ask again what was it all about when the airlock of thehovering ship swung open creakily. A beefy, black-haired young manappeared unsteadily in the doorway, called to Dylan.     C'n I go now, Jim?     Dylan turned and nodded.     Be back for you tonight, the young man called, and then, grinning,he yelled Catch and tossed down a bottle. The captain caught it andput it unconcernedly into his pocket while Rossel stared in disgust. Amoment later the airlock closed and the ship prepared to lift.     Was he      drunk     ? Rossel began angrily. Was that a bottle of      liquor     ?     The soldier was looking at him calmly, coldly. He indicated theenvelope in Rossel's hand. You'd better read that and get moving. Wehaven't much time.     He turned and walked toward the buildings and Rossel had to follow. AsRossel drew near the walls the watchers could see his lips moving butcould not hear him. Just then the ship lifted and they turned to watchthat, and followed it upward, red spark-tailed, into the gray spongyclouds and the cold.       After a while the ship went out of sight, and nobody ever saw it again.  The first contact Man had ever had with an intelligent alien raceoccurred out on the perimeter in a small quiet place a long way fromhome. Late in the year 2360—the exact date remains unknown—an alienforce attacked and destroyed the colony at Lupus V. The wreckage andthe dead were found by a mailship which flashed off screaming for thearmy.     When the army came it found this: Of the seventy registered colonists,thirty-one were dead. The rest, including some women and children,were missing. All technical equipment, all radios, guns, machines,even books, were also missing. The buildings had been burned, so werethe bodies. Apparently the aliens had a heat ray. What else they had,nobody knew. After a few days of walking around in the ash, one soldierfinally stumbled on something.     For security reasons, there was a detonator in one of the mainbuildings. In case of enemy attack, Security had provided a bomb to beburied in the center of each colony, because it was important to blowa whole village to hell and gone rather than let a hostile alien learnvital facts about human technology and body chemistry. There was a bombat Lupus V too, and though it had been detonated it had not blown. Thedetonating wire had been cut.     In the heart of the camp, hidden from view under twelve inches ofearth, the wire had been dug up and cut.     The army could not understand it and had no time to try. After fivehundred years of peace and anti-war conditioning the army was small,weak and without respect. Therefore, the army did nothing but spreadthe news, and Man began to fall back.     In a thickening, hastening stream he came back from the hard-wonstars, blowing up his homes behind him, stunned and cursing. Most ofthe colonists got out in time. A few, the farthest and loneliest, diedin fire before the army ships could reach them. And the men in thoseships, drinkers and gamblers and veterans of nothing, the dregs of asociety which had grown beyond them, were for a long while the onlydefense Earth had.     This was the message Captain Dylan had brought, come out from Earthwith a bottle on his hip.  An obscenely cheerful expression upon his gaunt, not too well shavenface, Captain Dylan perched himself upon the edge of a table andlistened, one long booted leg swinging idly. One by one the colonistswere beginning to understand. War is huge and comes with greatsuddenness and always without reason, and there is inevitably a wait,between acts, between the news and the motion, the fear and the rage.     Dylan waited. These people were taking it well, much better than thosein the cities had taken it. But then, these were pioneers. Dylangrinned. Pioneers. Before you settle a planet you boil it and bakeit and purge it of all possible disease. Then you step down gingerlyand inflate your plastic houses, which harden and become warm andimpregnable; and send your machines out to plant and harvest; and setup automatic factories to transmute dirt into coffee; and, without everhaving lifted a finger, you have braved the wilderness, hewed a homeout of the living rock and become a pioneer. Dylan grinned again. Butat least this was better than the wailing of the cities.     This Dylan thought, although he was himself no fighter, no man at allby any standards. This he thought because he was a soldier and anoutcast; to every drunken man the fall of the sober is a happy thing.He stirred restlessly.     By this time the colonists had begun to realize that there wasn't muchto say, and a tall, handsome woman was murmuring distractedly: Lupus,Lupus—doesn't that mean wolves or something?     Dylan began to wish they would get moving, these pioneers. It was verypossible that the aliens would be here soon, and there was no need fordiscussion. There was only one thing to do and that was to clear thehell out, quickly and without argument. They began to see it.     But, when the fear had died down, the resentment came. A number ofwomen began to cluster around Dylan and complain, working up theiranger. Dylan said nothing. Then the man Rossel pushed forward andconfronted him, speaking with a vast annoyance.     See here, soldier, this is our planet. I mean to say, this is our      home     . We demand some protection from the fleet. By God, we've beenpaying the freight for you boys all these years and it's high time youearned your keep. We demand....     It went on and on while Dylan looked at the clock and waited. He hopedthat he could end this quickly. A big gloomy man was in front of himnow and giving him that name of ancient contempt, soldier boy. Thegloomy man wanted to know where the fleet was.     There is no fleet. There are a few hundred half-shot old tubs thatwere obsolete before you were born. There are four or five new jobs forthe brass and the government. That's all the fleet there is.  Dylan wanted to go on about that, to remind them that nobody had wantedthe army, that the fleet had grown smaller and smaller ... but this wasnot the time. It was ten-thirty already and the damned aliens might becoming in right now for all he knew, and all they did was talk. He hadrealized a long time ago that no peace-loving nation in the historyof Earth had ever kept itself strong, and although peace was a nobledream, it was ended now and it was time to move.     We'd better get going, he finally said, and there was quiet.Lieutenant Bossio has gone on to your sister colony at Planet Three ofthis system. He'll return to pick me up by nightfall and I'm instructedto have you gone by then.     For a long moment they waited, and then one man abruptly walked off andthe rest followed quickly; in a moment they were all gone. One or twostopped long enough to complain about the fleet, and the big gloomy mansaid he wanted guns, that's all, and there wouldn't nobody get him offhis planet. When he left, Dylan breathed with relief and went out tocheck the bomb, grateful for the action.     Most of it had to be done in the open. He found a metal bar in theradio shack and began chopping at the frozen ground, following thewire. It was the first thing he had done with his hands in weeks, andit felt fine.     Dylan had been called up out of a bar—he and Bossio—and told what hadhappened, and in three weeks now they had cleared four colonies. Thiswould be the last, and the tension here was beginning to get to him.After thirty years of hanging around and playing like the town drunk,a man could not be expected to rush out and plug the breach, just likethat. It would take time.     He rested, sweating, took a pull from the bottle on his hip.     Before they sent him out on this trip they had made him a captain.Well, that was nice. After thirty years he was a captain. For thirtyyears he had bummed all over the west end of space, had scraped his wayalong the outer edges of Mankind, had waited and dozed and patrolledand got drunk, waiting always for something to happen. There were a lotof ways to pass the time while you waited for something to happen, andhe had done them all.     Once he had even studied military tactics.     He could not help smiling at that, even now. Damn it, he'd been green.But he'd been only nineteen when his father died—of a hernia, of acrazy fool thing like a hernia that killed him just because he'd workedtoo long on a heavy planet—and in those days the anti-war conditioningout on the Rim was not very strong. They talked a lot about guardiansof the frontier, and they got him and some other kids and a broken-downdoctor. And ... now he was a captain.     He bent his back savagely, digging at the ground. You wait and you waitand the edge goes off. This thing he had waited for all those damn dayswas upon him now and there was nothing he could do but say the hellwith it and go home. Somewhere along the line, in some dark corner ofthe bars or the jails, in one of the million soul-murdering insultswhich are reserved especially for peacetime soldiers, he had lost thecore of himself, and it didn't particularly matter. That was the point:it made no particular difference if he never got it back. He owednobody. He was tugging at the wire and trying to think of somethingpleasant from the old days, when the wire came loose in his hands.     Although he had been, in his cynical way, expecting it, for a moment itthrew him and he just stared. The end was clean and bright. The wirehad just been cut.  Dylan sat for a long while by the radio shack, holding the ends in hishands. He reached almost automatically for the bottle on his hip andthen, for the first time he could remember, let it go. This was real,there was no time for that.     When Rossel came up, Dylan was still sitting. Rossel was so excited hedid not notice the wire.     Listen, soldier, how many people can your ship take?     Dylan looked at him vaguely. She sleeps two and won't take off withmore'n ten. Why?     His eyes bright and worried, Rossel leaned heavily against the shack.We're overloaded. There are sixty of us and our ship will only takeforty. We came out in groups, we never thought....     Dylan dropped his eyes, swearing silently. You're sure? No baggage, noiron rations; you couldn't get ten more on?     Not a chance. She's only a little ship with one deck—she's all wecould afford.     Dylan whistled. He had begun to feel light-headed. It 'pears thatsomebody's gonna find out first hand what them aliens look like.     It was the wrong thing to say and he knew it. All right, he saidquickly, still staring at the clear-sliced wire, we'll do what we can.Maybe the colony on Three has room. I'll call Bossio and ask.     The colonist had begun to look quite pitifully at the buildings aroundhim and the scurrying people.     Aren't there any fleet ships within radio distance?     Dylan shook his head. The fleet's spread out kind of thin nowadays.Because the other was leaning on him he felt a great irritation, buthe said, as kindly as he could, We'll get 'em all out. One way oranother, we won't leave anybody.     It was then that Rossel saw the wire. Thickly, he asked what hadhappened.     Dylan showed him the two clean ends. Somebody dug it up, cut it, thenburied it again and packed it down real nice.     The damn fool! Rossel exploded.     Who?     Why, one of ... of us, of course. I know nobody ever liked sitting ona live bomb like this, but I never....     You think one of your people did it?     Rossel stared at him. Isn't that obvious?     Why?     Well, they probably thought it was too dangerous, and silly too, likemost government rules. Or maybe one of the kids....  It was then that Dylan told him about the wire on Lupus V. Rossel wassilent. Involuntarily, he glanced at the sky, then he said shakily,Maybe an animal?     Dylan shook his head. No animal did that. Wouldn't have buried it, orfound it in the first place. Heck of a coincidence, don't you think?The wire at Lupus was cut just before an alien attack, and now this oneis cut too—newly cut.     The colonist put one hand to his mouth, his eyes wide and white.     So something, said Dylan, knew enough about this camp to know thata bomb was buried here and also to know why it was here. And thatsomething didn't want the camp destroyed and so came right into thecenter of the camp, traced the wire, dug it up and cut it. And thenwalked right out again.     Listen, said Rossel, I'd better go ask.     He started away but Dylan caught his arm.     Tell them to arm, he said, and try not to scare hell out of them.I'll be with you as soon as I've spliced this wire.     Rossel nodded and went off, running. Dylan knelt with the metal in hishands.     He began to feel that, by God, he was getting cold. He realized thathe'd better go inside soon, but the wire had to be spliced. That wasperhaps the most important thing he could do now, splice the wire.     All right, he asked himself for the thousandth time, who cut it? How?Telepathy? Could they somehow control one of us?     No. If they controlled one, then they could control all, and then therewould be no need for an attack. But you don't know, you don't reallyknow.     Were they small? Little animals?     Unlikely. Biology said that really intelligent life required a sizablebrain and you would have to expect an alien to be at least as largeas a dog. And every form of life on this planet had been screened longbefore a colony had been allowed in. If any new animals had suddenlyshown up, Rossel would certainly know about it.     He would ask Rossel. He would damn sure have to ask Rossel.     He finished splicing the wire and tucked it into the ground. Then hestraightened up and, before he went into the radio shack, he pulled outhis pistol. He checked it, primed it, and tried to remember the lasttime he had fired it. He never had—he never had fired a gun.  The snow began falling near noon. There was nothing anybody could dobut stand in the silence and watch it come down in a white rushingwall, and watch the trees and the hills drown in the whiteness, untilthere was nothing on the planet but the buildings and a few warm lightsand the snow.     By one o'clock the visibility was down to zero and Dylan decided totry to contact Bossio again and tell him to hurry. But Bossio stilldidn't answer. Dylan stared long and thoughtfully out the windowthrough the snow at the gray shrouded shapes of bushes and trees whichwere beginning to become horrifying. It must be that Bossio was stilldrunk—maybe sleeping it off before making planetfall on Three. Dylanheld no grudge. Bossio was a kid and alone. It took a special kindof guts to take a ship out into space alone, when Things could bewaiting....     A young girl, pink and lovely in a thick fur jacket, came into theshack and told him breathlessly that her father, Mr. Rush, would liketo know if he wanted sentries posted. Dylan hadn't thought about it buthe said yes right away, beginning to feel both pleased and irritated atthe same time, because now they were coming to him.     He pushed out into the cold and went to find Rossel. With the snow itwas bad enough, but if they were still here when the sun went down theywouldn't have a chance. Most of the men were out stripping down theirship and that would take a while. He wondered why Rossel hadn't yet puta call through to Three, asking about room on the ship there. The onlyanswer he could find was that Rossel knew that there was no room, andhe wanted to put off the answer as long as possible. And, in a way, youcould not blame him.     Rossel was in his cabin with the big, gloomy man—who turned out tobe Rush, the one who had asked about sentries. Rush was methodicallycleaning an old hunting rifle. Rossel was surprisingly full of hope.     Listen, there's a mail ship due in, been due since yesterday. We mightget the rest of the folks out on that.     Dylan shrugged. Don't count on it.     But they have a contract!     The soldier grinned.     The big man, Rush, was paying no attention. Quite suddenly he said:Who cut that wire, Cap?  Dylan swung slowly to look at him. As far as I can figure, an aliencut it.     Rush shook his head. No. Ain't been no aliens near this camp, andno peculiar animals either. We got a planet-wide radar, and ain't nounidentified ships come near, not since we first landed more'n a yearago. He lifted the rifle and peered through the bore. Uh-uh. One ofus did it.     The man had been thinking. And he knew the planet.     Telepathy? asked Dylan.     Might be.     Can't see it. You people live too close, you'd notice right away ifone of you wasn't ... himself. And, if they've got one, why not all?     Rush calmly—at least outwardly calmly—lit his pipe. There was astrength in this man that Dylan had missed before.     Don't know, he said gruffly. But these are aliens, mister. And untilI know different I'm keepin' an eye on my neighbor.     He gave Rossel a sour look and Rossel stared back, uncomprehending.     Then Rossel jumped. My God!     Dylan moved to quiet him. Look, is there any animal at all that evercomes near here that's as large as a dog?     After a pause, Rush answered. Yep, there's one. The viggle. It's likea reg'lar monkey but with four legs. Biology cleared 'em before welanded. We shoot one now and then when they get pesky. He rose slowly,the rifle held under his arm. I b'lieve we might just as well go postthem sentries.     Dylan wanted to go on with this but there was nothing much else tosay. Rossel went with them as far as the radio shack, with a strainedexpression on his face, to put through that call to Three.     When he was gone Rush asked Dylan, Where you want them sentries? I gotWalt Halloran and Web Eggers and six others lined up.     Dylan stopped and looked around grimly at the circling wall of snow.You know the site better than I do. Post 'em in a ring, on rises,within calling distance. Have 'em check with each other every fiveminutes. I'll go help your people at the ship.     The gloomy man nodded and fluffed up his collar. Nice day forhuntin', he said, and then he was gone with the snow quickly coveringhis footprints.  The Alien lay wrapped in a thick electric cocoon, buried in a widewarm room beneath the base of a tree. The tree served him as antennae;curiously he gazed into a small view-screen and watched the humanscome. He saw them fan out, eight of them, and sink down in the snow. Hesaw that they were armed.       He pulsed thoughtfully, extending a part of himself to absorb a spicedlizard. Since the morning, when the new ship had come, he had beenwatching steadily, and now it was apparent that the humans were awareof their danger. Undoubtedly they were preparing to leave.     That was unfortunate. The attack was not scheduled until late thatnight and he could not, of course, press the assault by day. But      flexibility     , he reminded himself sternly,      is the first principle ofabsorption     , and therefore he moved to alter his plans. A projectionreached out to dial several knobs on a large box before him, and thehour of assault was moved forward to dusk. A glance at the chronometertold him that it was already well into the night on Planet Three, andthat the attack there had probably begun.     The Alien felt the first tenuous pulsing of anticipation. He layquietly, watching the small square lights of windows against the snow,thanking the Unexplainable that matters had been so devised that hewould not have to venture out into that miserable cold.     Presently an alarming thought struck him. These humans moved withuncommon speed for intelligent creatures. Even without devices, it wasdistinctly possible that they could be gone before nightfall. He couldtake no chance, of course. He spun more dials and pressed a singlebutton, and lay back again comfortably, warmly, to watch the disablingof the colonists' ship.  When Three did not answer, Rossel was nervously gazing at the snow,thinking of other things, and he called again. Several moments laterthe realization of what was happening struck him like a blow. Threehad never once failed to answer. All they had to do when they heardthe signal buzz was go into the radio shack and say hello. That wasall they had to do. He called again and again, but nobody answered.There was no static and no interference and he didn't hear a thing. Hechecked frenziedly through his own apparatus and tried again, but theair was as dead as deep space. He raced out to tell Dylan.     Dylan accepted it. He had known none of the people on Three and whathe felt now was a much greater urgency to be out of here. He saidhopeful things to Rossel, and then went out to the ship and joined themen in lightening her. About the ship at least, he knew something andhe was able to tell them what partitions and frames could go and whatwould have to stay or the ship would never get off the planet. Buteven stripped down, it couldn't take them all. When he knew that, herealized that he himself would have to stay here, for it was only thenthat he thought of Bossio.     Three was dead. Bossio had gone down there some time ago and, if Threewas dead and Bossio had not called, then the fact was that Bossio wasgone too. For a long, long moment Dylan stood rooted in the snow.More than the fact that he would have to stay here was the unspoken,unalterable, heart-numbing knowledge that Bossio was dead—the onething that Dylan could not accept. Bossio was the only friend he had.In all this dog-eared, aimless, ape-run Universe Bossio was all hisfriendship and his trust.     He left the ship blindly and went back to the settlement. Now thepeople were quiet and really frightened, and some of the women werebeginning to cry. He noticed now that they had begun to look at himwith hope as he passed, and in his own grief, humanly, he swore.     Bossio—a big-grinning kid with no parents, no enemies, nogrudges—Bossio was already dead because he had come out here and triedto help these people. People who had kicked or ignored him all the daysof his life. And, in a short while, Dylan would also stay behind anddie to save the life of somebody he never knew and who, twenty-fourhours earlier, would have been ashamed to be found in his company. Now,when it was far, far too late, they were coming to the army for help.  But in the end, damn it, he could not hate these people. All they hadever wanted was peace, and even though they had never understood thatthe Universe is unknowable and that you must always have big shoulders,still they had always sought only for peace. If peace leads to noconflict at all and then decay, well, that was something that had to belearned. So he could not hate these people.     But he could not help them either. He turned from their eyes and wentinto the radio shack. It had begun to dawn on the women that they mightbe leaving without their husbands or sons, and he did not want to seethe fierce struggle that he was sure would take place. He sat alone andtried, for the last time, to call Bossio.     After a while, an old woman found him and offered him coffee. It wasa very decent thing to do, to think of him at a time like this, andhe was so suddenly grateful he could only nod. The woman said that hemust be cold in that thin army thing and that she had brought along amackinaw for him. She poured the coffee and left him alone.     They were thinking of him now, he knew, because they were thinking ofeveryone who had to stay. Throw the dog a bone. Dammit, don't be likethat, he told himself. He had not had anything to eat all day and thecoffee was warm and strong. He decided he might be of some help at theship.     It was stripped down now and they were loading. He was startled to seea great group of them standing in the snow, removing their clothes.Then he understood. The clothes of forty people would change theweight by enough to get a few more aboard. There was no fighting. Someof the women were almost hysterical and a few had refused to go andwere still in their cabins, but the process was orderly. Children wentautomatically, as did the youngest husbands and all the women. Theelders were shuffling around in the snow, waving their arms to keepthemselves warm. Some of them were laughing to keep their spirits up.     In the end, the ship took forty-six people.     Rossel was one of the ones that would not be going. Dylan saw himstanding by the airlock holding his wife in his arms, his face buriedin her soft brown hair. A sense of great sympathy, totally unexpected,rose up in Dylan, and a little of the lostness of thirty years wentslipping away. These were his people. It was a thing he had neverunderstood before, because he had never once been among men in greattrouble. He waited and watched, learning, trying to digest this whilethere was still time. Then the semi-naked colonists were inside andthe airlock closed. But when the ship tried to lift, there was a sharpburning smell—she couldn't get off the ground.  ","When the army investigates the destruction of Lupus V, it discovers that the wire to the bomb that would blow up the community had been cut. The wire was hidden 12 inches under the ground, so it would not have been easy to find. Since the wire was cut, the bomb didn’t explode, enabling the aliens to take the women and children, along with all the technology, from the planet. The purpose of the bomb was to prevent the aliens from gaining knowledge of human technology and body chemistry; presumably, aliens would be able to use this information against humans in the future. Because Dylan knows of the cut wire on Lupus V, he checks the wire for the bomb on the planet he has come to evacuate. When he discovers the wire is cut here, too, he notes that the ends are clean, so someone made the cut recently. The ground over the wire was packed down, so whoever cut it also wanted to hide that it had been tampered with. Rossel assumes one of the colonists must have cut the wire, possibly thinking it was dangerous for the colonists and just a silly government rule. After Dylan tells him about the wire being cut on Lupus V, Rossel plans to question everyone. Dylan wonders if the aliens could have cut it by telepathy of one of the colonists but rules that out because if they could control one human, they could control all of them. Dylan then wonders if an alien has done it. No one knows what the aliens look like, but for them to have intelligence, they would need a large brain, making the alien about the size of a large dog. Dylan knows all the animals on the planet had been vetted before the colony was settled. When he tells the others his suspicion, Rush says the only animal they’ve seen nearby is a viggle, which is something like a monkey with four legs. The viggle passed Biology’s screening, so the viggle is ruled out. Although Dylan doesn’t discover the alien hidden in its electric cocoon, he is convinced that aliens cut the wire. He is also convinced that the alien attack is imminent."
"What is the plot of the story? </s>     Butterfly 9     By DONALD KEITH     Illustrated by GAUGHAN     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction January 1957.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        Jeff needed a job and this man had a job to       offer—one where giant economy-size trouble       had labels like fakemake, bumsy and peekage!        I     At first, Jeff scarcely noticed the bold-looking man at the next table.Nor did Ann. Their minds were busy with Jeff's troubles.     You're still the smartest color engineer in television, Ann told Jeffas they dallied with their food. You'll bounce back. Now eat yoursupper.     This beanery is too noisy and hot, he grumbled. I can't eat. Can'ttalk. Can't think. He took a silver pillbox from his pocket andfumbled for a black one. Those were vitamin pills; the big red andyellow ones were sleeping capsules. He gulped the pill.     Ann looked disapproving in a wifely way. Lately you chew pills likepopcorn, she said. Do you really need so many?     I need something. I'm sure losing my grip.     Ann stared at him. Baby! How silly! Nothing happened, except you lostyour lease. You'll build up a better company in a new spot. We're youngyet.  Jeff sighed and glanced around the crowded little restaurant. He wishedhe could fly away somewhere. At that moment, he met the gaze of themustachioed man at the next table.     The fellow seemed to be watching him and Ann. Something in hisconfident gaze made Jeff uneasy. Had they met before?     Ann whispered, So you noticed him, too. Maybe he's following us. Ithink I saw him on the parking lot where we left the car.     Jeff shrugged his big shoulders. If he's following us, he's nuts.We've got no secrets and no money.     It must be my maddening beauty, said Ann.     I'll kick him cross-eyed if he starts anything, Jeff said. I'm justin the mood.     Ann giggled. Honey, what big veins you have! Forget him. Let's talkabout the engineering lab you're going to start. And let's eat.     He groaned. I lose my appetite every time I think about the buildingbeing sold. It isn't worth the twelve grand. I wouldn't buy it for thatif I could. What burns me is that, five years ago, I could have boughtit for two thousand.     If only we could go back five years. She shrugged fatalistically.But since we can't—     The character at the next table leaned over and spoke to them,grinning. You like to get away? You wish to go back?     Jeff glanced across in annoyance. The man was evidently a salesman,with extra gall.     Not now, thanks, Jeff said. Haven't time.     The man waved his thick hand at the clock, as if to abolish time.Time? That is nothing. Your little lady. She spoke of go back fiveyears. Maybe I help you.     He spoke in an odd clipped way, obviously a foreigner. His shirt wasyellow. His suit had a silky sheen. Its peculiar tailoring emphasizedthe bulges in his stubby, muscular torso.     Ann smiled back at him. You talk as if you could take us back to 1952.Is that what you really mean?     Why not? You think this silly. But I can show you.     Jeff rose to go. Mister, you better get to a doctor. Ann, it's time westarted home.  Ann laid a hand on his sleeve. I haven't finished eating. Let'schat with the gent. She added in an undertone to Jeff, Must be apsycho—but sort of an inspired one.     The man said to Ann, You are kind lady, I think. Good to crazy people.I join you.     He did not wait for consent, but slid into a seat at their table withan easy grace that was almost arrogant.     You are unhappy in 1957, he went on. Discouraged. Restless. Why nottake trip to another time?     Why not? Ann said gaily. How much does it cost?     Free trial trip. Cost nothing. See whether you like. Then maybe wetalk money. He handed Jeff a card made of a stiff plastic substance.     Jeff glanced at it, then handed it to Ann with a half-smile. It read:     4-D TRAVEL BEURO     Greet Snader, Traffic Ajent     Mr. Snader's bureau is different, Jeff said to his wife. He evenspells it different.     Snader chuckled. I come from other time. We spell otherwise.     You mean you come from the future?     Just different time. I show you. You come with me?     Come where? Jeff asked, studying Snader's mocking eyes. The mandidn't seem a mere eccentric. He had a peculiar suggestion of humor andforce.     Come on little trip to different time, invited Snader. He addedpersuasively, Could be back here in hour.     It would be painless, I suppose? Jeff gave it a touch of derision.     Maybe not. That is risk you take. But look at me. I make trips everyday. I look damaged?     As a matter of fact, he did. His thick-fleshed face bore a scar andhis nose was broad and flat, as if it had been broken. But Jeffpolitely agreed that he did not look damaged.     Ann was enjoying this. Tell me more, Mr. Snader. How does your timetravel work?     Cannot explain. Same if you are asked how subway train works. Toocomplicated. He flashed his white teeth. You think time travel notpossible. Just like television not possible to your grandfather.     Ann said, Why invite us? We're not rich enough for expensive trips.     Invite many people, Snader said quickly. Not expensive. You knowMissing Persons lists, from police? Dozens people disappear. They gowith me to other time. Many stay.     Oh, sure, Jeff said. But how do you select the ones to invite?     Find ones like you, Mr. Elliott. Ones who want change, escape.  Jeff was slightly startled. How did this fellow know his name wasElliott?     Before he could ask, Ann popped another question. Mr. Snader, youheard us talking. You know we're in trouble because Jeff missed a goodchance five years ago. Do you claim people can really go back into thepast and correct mistakes they've made?     They can go back. What they do when arrive? Depends on them.     Don't you wish it were true? she sighed to Jeff.     You afraid to believe, said Snader, a glimmer of amusement in hisrestless eyes. Why not try? What you lose? Come on, look at station.Very near here.     Ann jumped up. It might be fun, Jeff. Let's see what he means, ifanything.     Jeff's pulse quickened. He too felt a sort of midsummer night'smadness—a yearning to forget his troubles. Okay, just for kicks. Butwe go in my car.     Snader moved ahead to the cashier's stand. Jeff watched the weasel-likegrace of his short, broad body.     This is no ordinary oddball, Jeff told Ann. He's tricky. He's gotsome gimmick.     First I just played him along, to see how loony he was, Ann said.Now I wonder who's kidding whom. She concluded thoughtfully, He'skind of handsome, in a tough way.      II     Snader's station proved to be a middle-sized, middle-cost home in agood neighborhood. Lights glowed in the windows. Jeff could hear thewhisper of traffic on a boulevard a few blocks away. Through the warmdusk, he could dimly see the mountains on the horizon. All was peaceful.     Snader unlocked the front door with a key which he drew from a finemetal chain around his neck. He swept open the front door with aflourish and beamed at them, but Ann drew back.     'Walk into my parlor, said the spider to the fly,' she murmured toJeff. This could be a gambling hell. Or a dope den.     No matter what kind of clip joint, it can't clip us much, he said.There's only four bucks in my wallet. My guess is it's a 'temple' forsome daffy religious sect.     They went in. A fat man smiled at them from a desk in the hall. Snadersaid, Meet Peter Powers. Local agent of our bureau.     The man didn't get up, but nodded comfortably and waved them toward thenext room, after a glance at Snader's key.     The key opened this room's door, too. Its spring lock snapped shutafter them.     The room was like a doctor's waiting room, with easy chairs along thewalls. Its only peculiar aspects were a sign hanging from the middleof the ceiling and two movie screens—or were they giant televisionscreens?—occupying a whole wall at either end of the room.     The sign bore the number 701 in bright yellow on black. Beneath it, anarrow pointed to the screen on the left with the word      Ante     , and tothe right with the word      Post     .       Jeff studied the big screens. On each, a picture was in motion. Oneappeared to be moving through a long corridor, lined with seats likea railroad club car. The picture seemed to rush at them from the leftwall. When he turned to the right, a similar endless chair-linedcorridor moved toward him from that direction.     Somebody worked hard on this layout, he said to Snader. What's itfor?     Time travel, said Snader. You like?     Almost as good as Disneyland. These movies represent the stream oftime, I suppose?  Instead of answering, Snader pointed to the screen. The picture showeda group of people chatting in a fast-moving corridor. As it hurtledtoward them, Snader flipped his hand in a genial salute. Two people inthe picture waved back.     Ann gasped. It was just as if they saw us.     They did, Snader said. No movie. Time travelers. In fourthdimension. To you, they look like flat picture. To them, we look flat.     What's he supposed to be? Jeff asked as the onrushing picture showedthem briefly a figure bound hand and foot, huddled in one of thechairs. He stared at them piteously for an instant before the picturesurged past.     Snader showed his teeth. That was convict from my time. We havecriminals, like in your time. But we do not kill. We make them work.Where he going? To end of line. To earliest year this time groovereach. About 600 A.D., your calendar. Authorities pick up whenhe get there. Put him to work.     What kind of work? Jeff asked.     Building the groove further back.     Sounds like interesting work.     Snader chortled and slapped him on the back. Maybe you see it someday, but forget that now. You come with me. Little trip.     Jeff was perspiring. This was odder than he expected. Whatever thefakery, it was clever. His curiosity as a technician made him want toknow about it. He asked Snader, Where do you propose to go? And how?     Snader said, Watch me. Then look at other wall.     He moved gracefully to the screen on the left wall, stepped into it anddisappeared. It was as if he had slid into opaque water.     Jeff and Ann blinked in mystification. Then they remembered hisinstruction to watch the other screen. They turned. After a moment, inthe far distance down the long moving corridor, they could see a stockyfigure. The motion of the picture brought him nearer. In a few seconds,he was recognizable as Snader—and as the picture brought him forward,he stepped down out of it and was with them again.     Simple, Snader said. I rode to next station. Then crossed over. Tookother carrier back here.     Brother, that's the best trick I've seen in years, Jeff said. Howdid you do it? Can I do it, too?     I show you. Grinning like a wildcat, Snader linked his arms with Annand Jeff, and walked them toward the screen. Now, he said. Step in.  Jeff submitted to Snader's pressure and stepped cautiously into thescreen. Amazingly, he felt no resistance at all, no sense of change ormotion. It was like stepping through a fog-bank into another room.     In fact, that was what they seemed to have done. They were in thechair-lined corridor. As Snader turned them around and seated them,they faced another moving picture screen. It seemed to rush through adark tunnel toward a lighted square in the far distance.     The square grew on the screen. Soon they saw it was another room likethe waiting room they had left, except that the number hanging from theceiling was 702. They seemed to glide through it. Then they were in thedark tunnel again.     Ann was clutching Jeff's arm. He patted her hand. Fun, hey? Like Alicethrough the looking-glass.     You really think we're going back in time? she whispered.     Hardly! But we're seeing a million-dollar trick. I can't even begin tofigure it out yet.     Another lighted room grew out of the tunnel on the screen, and whenthey had flickered through it, another and then another.     Mr. Snader, Ann said unsteadily, how long—how many years back areyou taking us?     Snader was humming to himself. Six years. Station 725 fine place tostop.     For a little while, Jeff let himself think it might be true. Six yearsago, your dad was alive, he mused to Ann. If this should somehow bereal, we could see him again.     We could if we went to our house. He lived with us then, remember?Would we see ourselves, six years younger? Or would—     Snader took Jeff's arm and pulled him to his feet. The screen wasmoving through a room numbered 724.     Soon now, Snader grunted happily. Then no more questions.     He took an arm of each as he had before. When the screen was filled bya room with the number 725, he propelled them forward into it.       Again there was no sense of motion. They had simply stepped through abright wall they could not feel. They found themselves in a replica ofthe room they had left at 701. On the wall, a picture of the continuousclub-car corridor rolled toward them in a silent, endless stream.     The same room, Ann said in disappointment. They just changed thenumber. We haven't been anywhere.  Snader was fishing under his shirt for the key. He gave Ann a glancethat was almost a leer. Then he carefully unlocked the door.     In the hall, a motherly old lady bustled up, but Snader brushed pasther. Official, he said, showing her the key. No lodging.     He unlocked the front door without another word and carefully shut itbehind them as Jeff and Ann followed him out of the house.     Hey, where's my car? Jeff demanded, looking up and down the street.     The whole street looked different. Where he had parked his roadster,there was now a long black limousine.     Your car is in future, Snader said briskly. Where it belong. Getin. He opened the door of the limousine.     Jeff felt a little flame of excitement licking inside him. Somethingwas happening, he felt. Something exciting and dangerous.     Snader, he said, if you're kidnaping us, you made a mistake. Nobodyon Earth will pay ransom for us.     Snader seemed amused. You are foolish fellow. Silly talk about ransom.You in different time now.     When does this gag stop? Jeff demanded irritably. You haven't fooledus. We're still in 1957.     You are? Look around.     Jeff looked at the street again. He secretly admitted to himselfthat these were different trees and houses than he remembered. Eventhe telephone poles and street lights seemed peculiar, vaguelyforeign-looking. It must be an elaborate practical joke. Snader hadprobably ushered them into one house, then through a tunnel and outanother house.     Get in, Snader said curtly.     Jeff decided to go along with the hoax or whatever it was. He couldsee no serious risk. He helped Ann into the back seat and sat besideher. Snader slammed the door and slid into the driver's seat. Hestarted the engine with a roar and they rocketed away from the curb,narrowly missing another car.     Jeff yelled, Easy, man! Look where you're going!     Snader guffawed. Tonight, you look where you are going.     Ann clung to Jeff. Did you notice the house we came out of?     What about it?     It looked as though they were afraid people might try to break in.There were bars at the windows.     Lots of houses are built that way, honey. Let's see, where are we? Heglanced at house numbers. This is the 800 block. Remember that. Andthe street— He peered up at a sign as they whirled around a corner.The street is Green Thru-Way. I never heard of a street like that.      III     They were headed back toward what should have been the boulevard. Thecar zoomed through a cloverleaf turn and up onto a broad freeway. Jeffknew for certain there was no freeway there in 1957—nor in any earlieryear. But on the horizon, he could see the familiar dark bulk of themountains. The whole line of moonlit ridges was the same as always.     Ann, he said slowly, I think this is for real. Somehow I guess weescaped from 1957. We've been transported in time.     She squeezed his arm. If I'm dreaming, don't wake me! I was scared aminute ago. But now, oh, boy!     Likewise. But I still wonder what Snader's angle is. He leanedforward and tapped the driver on his meaty shoulder. You brought usinto the future instead of the past, didn't you?     It was hard to know whether Snader was sleepy or just bored, but heshrugged briefly to show there was no reply coming. Then he yawned.     Jeff smiled tightly. I guess we'll find out in good time. Let's sitback and enjoy the strangest ride of our lives.     As the limousine swept along through the traffic, there were plentyof big signs for turn-offs, but none gave any hint where they were.The names were unfamiliar. Even the language seemed grotesque. RiteChannel for Creepers, he read. Yaw for Torrey Rushway flared at himfrom a fork in the freeway.     This can't be the future, Ann said. This limousine is almost new,but it doesn't even have an automatic gear shift—     She broke off as the car shot down a ramp off the freeway and pulled upin front of an apartment house. Just beyond was a big shopping center,ablaze with lights and swarming with shoppers. Jeff did not recognizeit, in spite of his familiarity with the city.     Snader bounded out, pulled open the rear door and jerked his head in acommanding gesture. But Jeff did not get out. He told Snader, Let'shave some answers before we go any further.     Snader gave him a hard grin. You hear everything upstairs.     The building appeared harmless enough. Jeff looked thoughtfully at Ann.     She said, It's just an apartment house. We've come this far. Might aswell go in and see what's there.     Snader led them in, up to the sixth floor in an elevator and along acorridor with heavy carpets and soft gold lights. He knocked on a door.  A tall, silver-haired, important-looking man opened it and greeted themheartily.     Solid man, Greet! he exclaimed. You're a real scratcher! And is thisour sharp? He gave Jeff a friendly but appraising look.     Just what you order, Snader said proudly. His name—Jeff Elliott.Fine sharp. Best in his circuit. He brings his lifemate, too. AnnElliott.     The old man rubbed his smooth hands together. Prime! I wish joy, hesaid to Ann and Jeff. I'm Septo Kersey. Come in. Bullen's waiting.     He led them into a spacious drawing room with great windows looking outon the lights of the city. There was a leather chair in a corner, andin it sat a heavy man with a grim mouth. He made no move, but grunteda perfunctory Wish joy when Kersey introduced them. His cold eyesstudied Jeff while Kersey seated them in big chairs.     Snader did not sit down, however. No need for me now, he said, andmoved toward the door with a mocking wave at Ann.     Bullen nodded. You get the rest of your pay when Elliott proves out.     Here, wait a minute! Jeff called. But Snader was gone.     Sit still, Bullen growled to Jeff. You understand radioptics?     The blood went to Jeff's head. My business is television, if that'swhat you mean. What's this about?     Tell him, Kersey, the big man said, and stared out the window.     Kersey began, You understand, I think, that you have come back intime. About six years back.     That's a matter of opinion, but go on.     I am general manager of Continental Radioptic Combine, owned by Mr.Dumont Bullen. He nodded toward the big man. Chromatics have notyet been developed here in connection with radioptics. They are wellunderstood in your time, are they not?     What's chromatics? Color television?     Exactly. You are an expert in—ah—colored television, I think.     Jeff nodded. So what?     The old man beamed at him. You are here to work for our company. Youwill enable us to be first with chromatics in this time wave.     Jeff stood up. Don't tell me who I'll work for.  Bullen slapped a big fist on the arm of his chair. No fog about this!You're bought and paid for, Elliott! You'll get a fair labor contract,but you do what I say!     Why, the man thinks he owns you. Ann laughed shakily.     You'll find my barmen know their law, Bullen said. This isn't theway I like to recruit. But it was only way to get a man with yourknowledge.     Kersey said politely, You are here illegally, with no immigratepermit or citizen file. Therefore you cannot get work. But Mr. Bullenhas taken an interest in your trouble. Through his influence, you canmake a living. We even set aside an apartment in this building for youto live in. You are really very luxe, do you see?     Jeff's legs felt weak. These highbinders seemed brutally confident. Hewondered how he and Ann would find their way home through the strangestreets. But he put on a bold front.     I don't believe your line about time travel and I don't plan to workfor you, he said. My wife and I are walking out right now. Try andstop us, legally or any other way.     Kersey's smooth old face turned hard. But, unexpectedly, Bullenchuckled deep in his throat. Good pop and bang. Like to see it. Goon, walk out. You hang in trouble, call up here—Butterfly 9, ask forBullen. Whole exchange us. I'll meet you here about eleven tomorrowpre-noon.     Don't hold your breath. Let's go, Ann.     When they were on the sidewalk, Ann took a deep breath. We made it.For a minute, I thought there'd be a brawl. Why did they let us go?     No telling. Maybe they're harmless lunatics—or practical jokers. Helooked over his shoulder as they walked down the street, but there wasno sign of pursuit. It's a long time since supper.  Her hand was cold in his and her face was white. To take her mind offtheir problem, he ambled toward the lighted shop windows.     Look at that sign, he said, pointing to a poster over a display ofneckties. 'Sleek neck-sashes, only a Dick and a dollop!' How do theyexpect to sell stuff with that crazy lingo?     It's jive talk. They must cater to the high-school crowd. Annglanced nervously at the strolling people around them. Jeff, whereare we? This isn't any part of the city I've ever seen. It doesn'teven look much like America. Her voice rose. The way the women aredressed—it's not old-fashioned, just different.     Baby, don't be scared. This is an adventure. Let's have fun. Hepressed her hand soothingly and pulled her toward a lunch counter.     If the haberdasher's sign was jive, the restaurant spoke the samejargon. The signs on the wall and the bill of fare were baffling. Jeffpondered the list of beef shingles, scorchers, smack sticks and fruitchills, until he noticed that a couple at the counter were eating whatclearly were hamburgers—though the buns looked more like tortillas.     Jeff jerked his thumb at them and told the waitress, Two, please.     When the sandwiches arrived, they were ordinary enough. He and Ann atein silence. A feeling of foreboding hung over them.     When they finished, the clerk gave him a check marked 1/20. Jeff lookedat it thoughtfully, shrugged and handed it to the cashier with twodollar bills.     The man at the desk glanced at them and laughed. Stage money, eh?     No, that's good money, Jeff assured him with a rather hollow smile.They're just new bills, that's all.     The cashier picked one up and looked at it curiously. I'm afraid it'sno good here, he said, and pushed it back.     The bottom dropped out of Jeff's stomach. What kind of money do youwant? This is all I have.     The cashier's smile faded. He caught the eye of a man in uniform on oneof the stools. The uniform was dark green, but the man acted like apoliceman. He loomed up beside Jeff.     What's the rasper? he demanded. Other customers, waiting to pay theirchecks, eyed Jeff curiously.     I guess I'm in trouble, Jeff told him. I'm a stranger here and I gotsomething to eat under the impression that my money was legal tender.Do you know where I can exchange it?  The officer picked up the dollar bill and fingered it with evidentinterest. He turned it over and studied the printing. United States ofAmerica, he read aloud. What are those?     It's the name of the country I come from, Jeff said carefully.I—uh—got on the wrong train, apparently, and must have come furtherthan I thought. What's the name of this place?     This is Costa, West Goodland, in the Continental Federation. Say, youmust come from an umpty remote part of the world if you don't knowabout this country. His eyes narrowed. Where'd you learn to speakFederal, if you come from so far?     Jeff said helplessly, I can't explain, if you don't know about theUnited States. Listen, can you take me to a bank, or some place wherethey know about foreign exchange?     The policeman scowled. How'd you get into this country, anyway? Yougot immigrate clearance?     An angry muttering started among the bystanders.     The policeman made up his mind. You come with me.     At the police station, Jeff put his elbows dejectedly on the highcounter while the policeman talked to an officer in charge. Some menwhom Jeff took for reporters got up from a table and eased over tolisten.     I don't know whether to charge them with fakemake, bumsy, peekage orlunate, the policeman said as he finished.     His superior gave Jeff a long puzzled stare.     Jeff sighed. I know it sounds impossible, but a man brought me insomething he claimed was a time traveler. You speak the same language Ido—more or less—but everything else is kind of unfamiliar. I belongin the United States, a country in North America. I can't believe I'mso far in the future that the United States has been forgotten.     There ensued a long, confused, inconclusive interrogation.     The man behind the desk asked questions which seemed stupid to Jeff andgot answers which probably seemed stupid to him.     The reporters quizzed Jeff gleefully. Come out, what are youadvertising? they kept asking. Who got you up to this?     The police puzzled over his driver's license and the other cards in hiswallet. They asked repeatedly about the lack of a Work License, whichJeff took to be some sort of union card. Evidently there was gravedoubt that he had any legal right to be in the country.     In the end, Jeff and Ann were locked in separate cells for the night.Jeff groaned and pounded the bars as he thought of his wife, imprisonedand alone in a smelly jail. After hours of pacing the cell, he lay downin the cot and reached automatically for his silver pillbox. Then hehesitated.     In past weeks, his insomnia had grown worse and worse, so that latelyhe had begun taking stronger pills. After a longing glance at thebig red and yellow capsules, he put the box away. Whatever tomorrowbrought, it wouldn't find him slow and drowsy.      IV     He passed a wakeful night. In the early morning, he looked up to see alittle man with a briefcase at his cell door.     Wish joy, Mr. Elliott, the man said coolly. I am one of Mr. Bullen'sbarmen. You know, represent at law? He sent me to arrange your release,if you are ready to be reasonable.     Jeff lay there and put his hands behind his head. I doubt if I'mready. I'm comfortable here. By the way, how did you know where I was?     No problem. When we read in this morning's newspapers about a manclaiming to be a time traveler, we knew.     All right. Now start explaining. Until I understand where I am, Bullenisn't getting me out of here.     The lawyer smiled and sat down. Mr. Kersey told you yesterday—you'vegone back six years. But you'll need some mental gymnastics tounderstand. Time is a dimension, not a stream of events like a moviefilm. A film never changes. Space does—and time does. For example, ifa movie showed a burning house at Sixth and Main, would you expect tofind a house burning whenever you returned to that corner?     You mean to say that if I went back to 1865, I wouldn't find the CivilWar was over and Lincoln had been assassinated?     If you go back to the time you call 1865—which is most easilydone—you will find that the people there know nothing of a Lincoln orthat war.     Jeff looked blank. What are they doing then?     The little man spread his hands. What are the people doing now atSixth and Main? Certainly not the same things they were doing the dayof the fire. We're talking about a dimension, not an event. Don't yougrasp the difference between the two?     Nope. To me, 1865 means the end of the Civil War. How else can youspeak of a point in time except by the events that happened then?     Well, if you go to a place in three-dimensional space—say, a lakein the mountains—how do you identify that place? By looking forlandmarks. It doesn't matter that an eagle is soaring over a mountainpeak. That's only an event. The peak is the landmark. You follow me?     So far. Keep talking.  ","Jeff Elliott and his wife Ann meet a peculiar stranger, Mr. Snader, at a restaurant in the year 1957 as they are discussing Jeff’s desire to go 5 years into the past to buy a building for $2000 that would’ve changed his luck entirely. The stranger had been listening to their conversation and was seeking someone with Jeff’s credentials (color television engineer) to complete an illegal job he’d been hired for. Jeff and Ann have no idea that Mr. Snader is on such a job, but entertain his quirky conversation.Mr. Snader has a friendly and persuasive personality, narrowly convincing Jeff and Ann to follow him to his time travel station and take a free trip to see if they like it. The Elliots do not perceive the situation as dangerous, and continue choosing to trust him at each step. Ultimately, the Elliots are escorted six years back in time through a time travelling process that appears like stepping through a screen, but their past is nothing like they remember. It is a different place entirely, and though they are frightened, their excitement and perhaps also their complete reliance on Mr. Snader to get them back home, causes them to keep following him even though he has become mean with them. Mr. Snader takes the Elliotts to an apartment house to meet Septo Kersey and Dumont Bullen, the general manager of Continental Radioptic Combine. It’s revealed that Mr. Snader tricked the Elliots, and brought them to Mr. Bullen who had illegally sought Jeff’s services as a color engineer to profit his own interests by creating color television that did not yet exist in their time. Jeff was furious, and totally helpless.Jeff and Ann were allowed to leave, because their captors were certain that they could not actually escape them. They had no idea how to leave this timeline, and had no way of finding justice being illegally present with no work permits. When Jeff and Ann stop for lunch and try to pay with the money in their pockets (which appears as illegal tender), they are approached by an officer and find out they are in a place called Costa, West Goodland, in the Continental Federation. Everyone in the interaction is deeply confused, because time travel is not understood to be possible by the public - Jeff and Ann look crazy. Both are escorted to separate jail cells in a prison.One of Mr. Bullen's barmen, a lawyer, was sent to arrange Jeff’s release, if he was willing to cooperate and go work for Mr. Bullen. The lawyer has to explain to Jeff the concept of time travelling before he can get any cooperation, and so says that time travel is entering a different dimension, not moving along a linear timeline. Things look so different to Jeff in the past because he didn’t travel back a linear path to exactly the way things were when he experienced these things six years ago. The story ends during their discussion."
"Describe the settings the story takes place in. </s>     Butterfly 9     By DONALD KEITH     Illustrated by GAUGHAN     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction January 1957.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        Jeff needed a job and this man had a job to       offer—one where giant economy-size trouble       had labels like fakemake, bumsy and peekage!        I     At first, Jeff scarcely noticed the bold-looking man at the next table.Nor did Ann. Their minds were busy with Jeff's troubles.     You're still the smartest color engineer in television, Ann told Jeffas they dallied with their food. You'll bounce back. Now eat yoursupper.     This beanery is too noisy and hot, he grumbled. I can't eat. Can'ttalk. Can't think. He took a silver pillbox from his pocket andfumbled for a black one. Those were vitamin pills; the big red andyellow ones were sleeping capsules. He gulped the pill.     Ann looked disapproving in a wifely way. Lately you chew pills likepopcorn, she said. Do you really need so many?     I need something. I'm sure losing my grip.     Ann stared at him. Baby! How silly! Nothing happened, except you lostyour lease. You'll build up a better company in a new spot. We're youngyet.  Jeff sighed and glanced around the crowded little restaurant. He wishedhe could fly away somewhere. At that moment, he met the gaze of themustachioed man at the next table.     The fellow seemed to be watching him and Ann. Something in hisconfident gaze made Jeff uneasy. Had they met before?     Ann whispered, So you noticed him, too. Maybe he's following us. Ithink I saw him on the parking lot where we left the car.     Jeff shrugged his big shoulders. If he's following us, he's nuts.We've got no secrets and no money.     It must be my maddening beauty, said Ann.     I'll kick him cross-eyed if he starts anything, Jeff said. I'm justin the mood.     Ann giggled. Honey, what big veins you have! Forget him. Let's talkabout the engineering lab you're going to start. And let's eat.     He groaned. I lose my appetite every time I think about the buildingbeing sold. It isn't worth the twelve grand. I wouldn't buy it for thatif I could. What burns me is that, five years ago, I could have boughtit for two thousand.     If only we could go back five years. She shrugged fatalistically.But since we can't—     The character at the next table leaned over and spoke to them,grinning. You like to get away? You wish to go back?     Jeff glanced across in annoyance. The man was evidently a salesman,with extra gall.     Not now, thanks, Jeff said. Haven't time.     The man waved his thick hand at the clock, as if to abolish time.Time? That is nothing. Your little lady. She spoke of go back fiveyears. Maybe I help you.     He spoke in an odd clipped way, obviously a foreigner. His shirt wasyellow. His suit had a silky sheen. Its peculiar tailoring emphasizedthe bulges in his stubby, muscular torso.     Ann smiled back at him. You talk as if you could take us back to 1952.Is that what you really mean?     Why not? You think this silly. But I can show you.     Jeff rose to go. Mister, you better get to a doctor. Ann, it's time westarted home.  Ann laid a hand on his sleeve. I haven't finished eating. Let'schat with the gent. She added in an undertone to Jeff, Must be apsycho—but sort of an inspired one.     The man said to Ann, You are kind lady, I think. Good to crazy people.I join you.     He did not wait for consent, but slid into a seat at their table withan easy grace that was almost arrogant.     You are unhappy in 1957, he went on. Discouraged. Restless. Why nottake trip to another time?     Why not? Ann said gaily. How much does it cost?     Free trial trip. Cost nothing. See whether you like. Then maybe wetalk money. He handed Jeff a card made of a stiff plastic substance.     Jeff glanced at it, then handed it to Ann with a half-smile. It read:     4-D TRAVEL BEURO     Greet Snader, Traffic Ajent     Mr. Snader's bureau is different, Jeff said to his wife. He evenspells it different.     Snader chuckled. I come from other time. We spell otherwise.     You mean you come from the future?     Just different time. I show you. You come with me?     Come where? Jeff asked, studying Snader's mocking eyes. The mandidn't seem a mere eccentric. He had a peculiar suggestion of humor andforce.     Come on little trip to different time, invited Snader. He addedpersuasively, Could be back here in hour.     It would be painless, I suppose? Jeff gave it a touch of derision.     Maybe not. That is risk you take. But look at me. I make trips everyday. I look damaged?     As a matter of fact, he did. His thick-fleshed face bore a scar andhis nose was broad and flat, as if it had been broken. But Jeffpolitely agreed that he did not look damaged.     Ann was enjoying this. Tell me more, Mr. Snader. How does your timetravel work?     Cannot explain. Same if you are asked how subway train works. Toocomplicated. He flashed his white teeth. You think time travel notpossible. Just like television not possible to your grandfather.     Ann said, Why invite us? We're not rich enough for expensive trips.     Invite many people, Snader said quickly. Not expensive. You knowMissing Persons lists, from police? Dozens people disappear. They gowith me to other time. Many stay.     Oh, sure, Jeff said. But how do you select the ones to invite?     Find ones like you, Mr. Elliott. Ones who want change, escape.  Jeff was slightly startled. How did this fellow know his name wasElliott?     Before he could ask, Ann popped another question. Mr. Snader, youheard us talking. You know we're in trouble because Jeff missed a goodchance five years ago. Do you claim people can really go back into thepast and correct mistakes they've made?     They can go back. What they do when arrive? Depends on them.     Don't you wish it were true? she sighed to Jeff.     You afraid to believe, said Snader, a glimmer of amusement in hisrestless eyes. Why not try? What you lose? Come on, look at station.Very near here.     Ann jumped up. It might be fun, Jeff. Let's see what he means, ifanything.     Jeff's pulse quickened. He too felt a sort of midsummer night'smadness—a yearning to forget his troubles. Okay, just for kicks. Butwe go in my car.     Snader moved ahead to the cashier's stand. Jeff watched the weasel-likegrace of his short, broad body.     This is no ordinary oddball, Jeff told Ann. He's tricky. He's gotsome gimmick.     First I just played him along, to see how loony he was, Ann said.Now I wonder who's kidding whom. She concluded thoughtfully, He'skind of handsome, in a tough way.      II     Snader's station proved to be a middle-sized, middle-cost home in agood neighborhood. Lights glowed in the windows. Jeff could hear thewhisper of traffic on a boulevard a few blocks away. Through the warmdusk, he could dimly see the mountains on the horizon. All was peaceful.     Snader unlocked the front door with a key which he drew from a finemetal chain around his neck. He swept open the front door with aflourish and beamed at them, but Ann drew back.     'Walk into my parlor, said the spider to the fly,' she murmured toJeff. This could be a gambling hell. Or a dope den.     No matter what kind of clip joint, it can't clip us much, he said.There's only four bucks in my wallet. My guess is it's a 'temple' forsome daffy religious sect.     They went in. A fat man smiled at them from a desk in the hall. Snadersaid, Meet Peter Powers. Local agent of our bureau.     The man didn't get up, but nodded comfortably and waved them toward thenext room, after a glance at Snader's key.     The key opened this room's door, too. Its spring lock snapped shutafter them.     The room was like a doctor's waiting room, with easy chairs along thewalls. Its only peculiar aspects were a sign hanging from the middleof the ceiling and two movie screens—or were they giant televisionscreens?—occupying a whole wall at either end of the room.     The sign bore the number 701 in bright yellow on black. Beneath it, anarrow pointed to the screen on the left with the word      Ante     , and tothe right with the word      Post     .       Jeff studied the big screens. On each, a picture was in motion. Oneappeared to be moving through a long corridor, lined with seats likea railroad club car. The picture seemed to rush at them from the leftwall. When he turned to the right, a similar endless chair-linedcorridor moved toward him from that direction.     Somebody worked hard on this layout, he said to Snader. What's itfor?     Time travel, said Snader. You like?     Almost as good as Disneyland. These movies represent the stream oftime, I suppose?  Instead of answering, Snader pointed to the screen. The picture showeda group of people chatting in a fast-moving corridor. As it hurtledtoward them, Snader flipped his hand in a genial salute. Two people inthe picture waved back.     Ann gasped. It was just as if they saw us.     They did, Snader said. No movie. Time travelers. In fourthdimension. To you, they look like flat picture. To them, we look flat.     What's he supposed to be? Jeff asked as the onrushing picture showedthem briefly a figure bound hand and foot, huddled in one of thechairs. He stared at them piteously for an instant before the picturesurged past.     Snader showed his teeth. That was convict from my time. We havecriminals, like in your time. But we do not kill. We make them work.Where he going? To end of line. To earliest year this time groovereach. About 600 A.D., your calendar. Authorities pick up whenhe get there. Put him to work.     What kind of work? Jeff asked.     Building the groove further back.     Sounds like interesting work.     Snader chortled and slapped him on the back. Maybe you see it someday, but forget that now. You come with me. Little trip.     Jeff was perspiring. This was odder than he expected. Whatever thefakery, it was clever. His curiosity as a technician made him want toknow about it. He asked Snader, Where do you propose to go? And how?     Snader said, Watch me. Then look at other wall.     He moved gracefully to the screen on the left wall, stepped into it anddisappeared. It was as if he had slid into opaque water.     Jeff and Ann blinked in mystification. Then they remembered hisinstruction to watch the other screen. They turned. After a moment, inthe far distance down the long moving corridor, they could see a stockyfigure. The motion of the picture brought him nearer. In a few seconds,he was recognizable as Snader—and as the picture brought him forward,he stepped down out of it and was with them again.     Simple, Snader said. I rode to next station. Then crossed over. Tookother carrier back here.     Brother, that's the best trick I've seen in years, Jeff said. Howdid you do it? Can I do it, too?     I show you. Grinning like a wildcat, Snader linked his arms with Annand Jeff, and walked them toward the screen. Now, he said. Step in.  Jeff submitted to Snader's pressure and stepped cautiously into thescreen. Amazingly, he felt no resistance at all, no sense of change ormotion. It was like stepping through a fog-bank into another room.     In fact, that was what they seemed to have done. They were in thechair-lined corridor. As Snader turned them around and seated them,they faced another moving picture screen. It seemed to rush through adark tunnel toward a lighted square in the far distance.     The square grew on the screen. Soon they saw it was another room likethe waiting room they had left, except that the number hanging from theceiling was 702. They seemed to glide through it. Then they were in thedark tunnel again.     Ann was clutching Jeff's arm. He patted her hand. Fun, hey? Like Alicethrough the looking-glass.     You really think we're going back in time? she whispered.     Hardly! But we're seeing a million-dollar trick. I can't even begin tofigure it out yet.     Another lighted room grew out of the tunnel on the screen, and whenthey had flickered through it, another and then another.     Mr. Snader, Ann said unsteadily, how long—how many years back areyou taking us?     Snader was humming to himself. Six years. Station 725 fine place tostop.     For a little while, Jeff let himself think it might be true. Six yearsago, your dad was alive, he mused to Ann. If this should somehow bereal, we could see him again.     We could if we went to our house. He lived with us then, remember?Would we see ourselves, six years younger? Or would—     Snader took Jeff's arm and pulled him to his feet. The screen wasmoving through a room numbered 724.     Soon now, Snader grunted happily. Then no more questions.     He took an arm of each as he had before. When the screen was filled bya room with the number 725, he propelled them forward into it.       Again there was no sense of motion. They had simply stepped through abright wall they could not feel. They found themselves in a replica ofthe room they had left at 701. On the wall, a picture of the continuousclub-car corridor rolled toward them in a silent, endless stream.     The same room, Ann said in disappointment. They just changed thenumber. We haven't been anywhere.  Snader was fishing under his shirt for the key. He gave Ann a glancethat was almost a leer. Then he carefully unlocked the door.     In the hall, a motherly old lady bustled up, but Snader brushed pasther. Official, he said, showing her the key. No lodging.     He unlocked the front door without another word and carefully shut itbehind them as Jeff and Ann followed him out of the house.     Hey, where's my car? Jeff demanded, looking up and down the street.     The whole street looked different. Where he had parked his roadster,there was now a long black limousine.     Your car is in future, Snader said briskly. Where it belong. Getin. He opened the door of the limousine.     Jeff felt a little flame of excitement licking inside him. Somethingwas happening, he felt. Something exciting and dangerous.     Snader, he said, if you're kidnaping us, you made a mistake. Nobodyon Earth will pay ransom for us.     Snader seemed amused. You are foolish fellow. Silly talk about ransom.You in different time now.     When does this gag stop? Jeff demanded irritably. You haven't fooledus. We're still in 1957.     You are? Look around.     Jeff looked at the street again. He secretly admitted to himselfthat these were different trees and houses than he remembered. Eventhe telephone poles and street lights seemed peculiar, vaguelyforeign-looking. It must be an elaborate practical joke. Snader hadprobably ushered them into one house, then through a tunnel and outanother house.     Get in, Snader said curtly.     Jeff decided to go along with the hoax or whatever it was. He couldsee no serious risk. He helped Ann into the back seat and sat besideher. Snader slammed the door and slid into the driver's seat. Hestarted the engine with a roar and they rocketed away from the curb,narrowly missing another car.     Jeff yelled, Easy, man! Look where you're going!     Snader guffawed. Tonight, you look where you are going.     Ann clung to Jeff. Did you notice the house we came out of?     What about it?     It looked as though they were afraid people might try to break in.There were bars at the windows.     Lots of houses are built that way, honey. Let's see, where are we? Heglanced at house numbers. This is the 800 block. Remember that. Andthe street— He peered up at a sign as they whirled around a corner.The street is Green Thru-Way. I never heard of a street like that.      III     They were headed back toward what should have been the boulevard. Thecar zoomed through a cloverleaf turn and up onto a broad freeway. Jeffknew for certain there was no freeway there in 1957—nor in any earlieryear. But on the horizon, he could see the familiar dark bulk of themountains. The whole line of moonlit ridges was the same as always.     Ann, he said slowly, I think this is for real. Somehow I guess weescaped from 1957. We've been transported in time.     She squeezed his arm. If I'm dreaming, don't wake me! I was scared aminute ago. But now, oh, boy!     Likewise. But I still wonder what Snader's angle is. He leanedforward and tapped the driver on his meaty shoulder. You brought usinto the future instead of the past, didn't you?     It was hard to know whether Snader was sleepy or just bored, but heshrugged briefly to show there was no reply coming. Then he yawned.     Jeff smiled tightly. I guess we'll find out in good time. Let's sitback and enjoy the strangest ride of our lives.     As the limousine swept along through the traffic, there were plentyof big signs for turn-offs, but none gave any hint where they were.The names were unfamiliar. Even the language seemed grotesque. RiteChannel for Creepers, he read. Yaw for Torrey Rushway flared at himfrom a fork in the freeway.     This can't be the future, Ann said. This limousine is almost new,but it doesn't even have an automatic gear shift—     She broke off as the car shot down a ramp off the freeway and pulled upin front of an apartment house. Just beyond was a big shopping center,ablaze with lights and swarming with shoppers. Jeff did not recognizeit, in spite of his familiarity with the city.     Snader bounded out, pulled open the rear door and jerked his head in acommanding gesture. But Jeff did not get out. He told Snader, Let'shave some answers before we go any further.     Snader gave him a hard grin. You hear everything upstairs.     The building appeared harmless enough. Jeff looked thoughtfully at Ann.     She said, It's just an apartment house. We've come this far. Might aswell go in and see what's there.     Snader led them in, up to the sixth floor in an elevator and along acorridor with heavy carpets and soft gold lights. He knocked on a door.  A tall, silver-haired, important-looking man opened it and greeted themheartily.     Solid man, Greet! he exclaimed. You're a real scratcher! And is thisour sharp? He gave Jeff a friendly but appraising look.     Just what you order, Snader said proudly. His name—Jeff Elliott.Fine sharp. Best in his circuit. He brings his lifemate, too. AnnElliott.     The old man rubbed his smooth hands together. Prime! I wish joy, hesaid to Ann and Jeff. I'm Septo Kersey. Come in. Bullen's waiting.     He led them into a spacious drawing room with great windows looking outon the lights of the city. There was a leather chair in a corner, andin it sat a heavy man with a grim mouth. He made no move, but grunteda perfunctory Wish joy when Kersey introduced them. His cold eyesstudied Jeff while Kersey seated them in big chairs.     Snader did not sit down, however. No need for me now, he said, andmoved toward the door with a mocking wave at Ann.     Bullen nodded. You get the rest of your pay when Elliott proves out.     Here, wait a minute! Jeff called. But Snader was gone.     Sit still, Bullen growled to Jeff. You understand radioptics?     The blood went to Jeff's head. My business is television, if that'swhat you mean. What's this about?     Tell him, Kersey, the big man said, and stared out the window.     Kersey began, You understand, I think, that you have come back intime. About six years back.     That's a matter of opinion, but go on.     I am general manager of Continental Radioptic Combine, owned by Mr.Dumont Bullen. He nodded toward the big man. Chromatics have notyet been developed here in connection with radioptics. They are wellunderstood in your time, are they not?     What's chromatics? Color television?     Exactly. You are an expert in—ah—colored television, I think.     Jeff nodded. So what?     The old man beamed at him. You are here to work for our company. Youwill enable us to be first with chromatics in this time wave.     Jeff stood up. Don't tell me who I'll work for.  Bullen slapped a big fist on the arm of his chair. No fog about this!You're bought and paid for, Elliott! You'll get a fair labor contract,but you do what I say!     Why, the man thinks he owns you. Ann laughed shakily.     You'll find my barmen know their law, Bullen said. This isn't theway I like to recruit. But it was only way to get a man with yourknowledge.     Kersey said politely, You are here illegally, with no immigratepermit or citizen file. Therefore you cannot get work. But Mr. Bullenhas taken an interest in your trouble. Through his influence, you canmake a living. We even set aside an apartment in this building for youto live in. You are really very luxe, do you see?     Jeff's legs felt weak. These highbinders seemed brutally confident. Hewondered how he and Ann would find their way home through the strangestreets. But he put on a bold front.     I don't believe your line about time travel and I don't plan to workfor you, he said. My wife and I are walking out right now. Try andstop us, legally or any other way.     Kersey's smooth old face turned hard. But, unexpectedly, Bullenchuckled deep in his throat. Good pop and bang. Like to see it. Goon, walk out. You hang in trouble, call up here—Butterfly 9, ask forBullen. Whole exchange us. I'll meet you here about eleven tomorrowpre-noon.     Don't hold your breath. Let's go, Ann.     When they were on the sidewalk, Ann took a deep breath. We made it.For a minute, I thought there'd be a brawl. Why did they let us go?     No telling. Maybe they're harmless lunatics—or practical jokers. Helooked over his shoulder as they walked down the street, but there wasno sign of pursuit. It's a long time since supper.  Her hand was cold in his and her face was white. To take her mind offtheir problem, he ambled toward the lighted shop windows.     Look at that sign, he said, pointing to a poster over a display ofneckties. 'Sleek neck-sashes, only a Dick and a dollop!' How do theyexpect to sell stuff with that crazy lingo?     It's jive talk. They must cater to the high-school crowd. Annglanced nervously at the strolling people around them. Jeff, whereare we? This isn't any part of the city I've ever seen. It doesn'teven look much like America. Her voice rose. The way the women aredressed—it's not old-fashioned, just different.     Baby, don't be scared. This is an adventure. Let's have fun. Hepressed her hand soothingly and pulled her toward a lunch counter.     If the haberdasher's sign was jive, the restaurant spoke the samejargon. The signs on the wall and the bill of fare were baffling. Jeffpondered the list of beef shingles, scorchers, smack sticks and fruitchills, until he noticed that a couple at the counter were eating whatclearly were hamburgers—though the buns looked more like tortillas.     Jeff jerked his thumb at them and told the waitress, Two, please.     When the sandwiches arrived, they were ordinary enough. He and Ann atein silence. A feeling of foreboding hung over them.     When they finished, the clerk gave him a check marked 1/20. Jeff lookedat it thoughtfully, shrugged and handed it to the cashier with twodollar bills.     The man at the desk glanced at them and laughed. Stage money, eh?     No, that's good money, Jeff assured him with a rather hollow smile.They're just new bills, that's all.     The cashier picked one up and looked at it curiously. I'm afraid it'sno good here, he said, and pushed it back.     The bottom dropped out of Jeff's stomach. What kind of money do youwant? This is all I have.     The cashier's smile faded. He caught the eye of a man in uniform on oneof the stools. The uniform was dark green, but the man acted like apoliceman. He loomed up beside Jeff.     What's the rasper? he demanded. Other customers, waiting to pay theirchecks, eyed Jeff curiously.     I guess I'm in trouble, Jeff told him. I'm a stranger here and I gotsomething to eat under the impression that my money was legal tender.Do you know where I can exchange it?  The officer picked up the dollar bill and fingered it with evidentinterest. He turned it over and studied the printing. United States ofAmerica, he read aloud. What are those?     It's the name of the country I come from, Jeff said carefully.I—uh—got on the wrong train, apparently, and must have come furtherthan I thought. What's the name of this place?     This is Costa, West Goodland, in the Continental Federation. Say, youmust come from an umpty remote part of the world if you don't knowabout this country. His eyes narrowed. Where'd you learn to speakFederal, if you come from so far?     Jeff said helplessly, I can't explain, if you don't know about theUnited States. Listen, can you take me to a bank, or some place wherethey know about foreign exchange?     The policeman scowled. How'd you get into this country, anyway? Yougot immigrate clearance?     An angry muttering started among the bystanders.     The policeman made up his mind. You come with me.     At the police station, Jeff put his elbows dejectedly on the highcounter while the policeman talked to an officer in charge. Some menwhom Jeff took for reporters got up from a table and eased over tolisten.     I don't know whether to charge them with fakemake, bumsy, peekage orlunate, the policeman said as he finished.     His superior gave Jeff a long puzzled stare.     Jeff sighed. I know it sounds impossible, but a man brought me insomething he claimed was a time traveler. You speak the same language Ido—more or less—but everything else is kind of unfamiliar. I belongin the United States, a country in North America. I can't believe I'mso far in the future that the United States has been forgotten.     There ensued a long, confused, inconclusive interrogation.     The man behind the desk asked questions which seemed stupid to Jeff andgot answers which probably seemed stupid to him.     The reporters quizzed Jeff gleefully. Come out, what are youadvertising? they kept asking. Who got you up to this?     The police puzzled over his driver's license and the other cards in hiswallet. They asked repeatedly about the lack of a Work License, whichJeff took to be some sort of union card. Evidently there was gravedoubt that he had any legal right to be in the country.     In the end, Jeff and Ann were locked in separate cells for the night.Jeff groaned and pounded the bars as he thought of his wife, imprisonedand alone in a smelly jail. After hours of pacing the cell, he lay downin the cot and reached automatically for his silver pillbox. Then hehesitated.     In past weeks, his insomnia had grown worse and worse, so that latelyhe had begun taking stronger pills. After a longing glance at thebig red and yellow capsules, he put the box away. Whatever tomorrowbrought, it wouldn't find him slow and drowsy.      IV     He passed a wakeful night. In the early morning, he looked up to see alittle man with a briefcase at his cell door.     Wish joy, Mr. Elliott, the man said coolly. I am one of Mr. Bullen'sbarmen. You know, represent at law? He sent me to arrange your release,if you are ready to be reasonable.     Jeff lay there and put his hands behind his head. I doubt if I'mready. I'm comfortable here. By the way, how did you know where I was?     No problem. When we read in this morning's newspapers about a manclaiming to be a time traveler, we knew.     All right. Now start explaining. Until I understand where I am, Bullenisn't getting me out of here.     The lawyer smiled and sat down. Mr. Kersey told you yesterday—you'vegone back six years. But you'll need some mental gymnastics tounderstand. Time is a dimension, not a stream of events like a moviefilm. A film never changes. Space does—and time does. For example, ifa movie showed a burning house at Sixth and Main, would you expect tofind a house burning whenever you returned to that corner?     You mean to say that if I went back to 1865, I wouldn't find the CivilWar was over and Lincoln had been assassinated?     If you go back to the time you call 1865—which is most easilydone—you will find that the people there know nothing of a Lincoln orthat war.     Jeff looked blank. What are they doing then?     The little man spread his hands. What are the people doing now atSixth and Main? Certainly not the same things they were doing the dayof the fire. We're talking about a dimension, not an event. Don't yougrasp the difference between the two?     Nope. To me, 1865 means the end of the Civil War. How else can youspeak of a point in time except by the events that happened then?     Well, if you go to a place in three-dimensional space—say, a lakein the mountains—how do you identify that place? By looking forlandmarks. It doesn't matter that an eagle is soaring over a mountainpeak. That's only an event. The peak is the landmark. You follow me?     So far. Keep talking.  ","The story takes place on Earth, in the year 1957. It opens in a restaurant, and quickly transitions to Mr. Snader’s 4-D TRAVEL BEURO time travel station, inside of a “middle-sized, middle-cost home in a good neighborhood.” They could hear traffic dimly in the station and see mountains out the windows on the horizon.  The time travelling room appears like a doctor's waiting room, with chair lined walls. There is a station sign - 701 - that hangs on the ceiling and two movie screens on the far ends of the room. Stepping through one screen would take them forwards in time, and one backwards in time. The Elliotts go to station 725, which Mr. Snader tells them is six years in the past.The past is very unfamiliar, more industrialized with more highways than they remember. After travelling in a limousine, they transition to a 6th floor apartment house of a building with heavy carpets and soft lighting.The final settings are a lunch counter, with unfamiliar food to the Elliotts, and finally their jail cells."
"What is the significance of time in the story? </s>     Butterfly 9     By DONALD KEITH     Illustrated by GAUGHAN     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction January 1957.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        Jeff needed a job and this man had a job to       offer—one where giant economy-size trouble       had labels like fakemake, bumsy and peekage!        I     At first, Jeff scarcely noticed the bold-looking man at the next table.Nor did Ann. Their minds were busy with Jeff's troubles.     You're still the smartest color engineer in television, Ann told Jeffas they dallied with their food. You'll bounce back. Now eat yoursupper.     This beanery is too noisy and hot, he grumbled. I can't eat. Can'ttalk. Can't think. He took a silver pillbox from his pocket andfumbled for a black one. Those were vitamin pills; the big red andyellow ones were sleeping capsules. He gulped the pill.     Ann looked disapproving in a wifely way. Lately you chew pills likepopcorn, she said. Do you really need so many?     I need something. I'm sure losing my grip.     Ann stared at him. Baby! How silly! Nothing happened, except you lostyour lease. You'll build up a better company in a new spot. We're youngyet.  Jeff sighed and glanced around the crowded little restaurant. He wishedhe could fly away somewhere. At that moment, he met the gaze of themustachioed man at the next table.     The fellow seemed to be watching him and Ann. Something in hisconfident gaze made Jeff uneasy. Had they met before?     Ann whispered, So you noticed him, too. Maybe he's following us. Ithink I saw him on the parking lot where we left the car.     Jeff shrugged his big shoulders. If he's following us, he's nuts.We've got no secrets and no money.     It must be my maddening beauty, said Ann.     I'll kick him cross-eyed if he starts anything, Jeff said. I'm justin the mood.     Ann giggled. Honey, what big veins you have! Forget him. Let's talkabout the engineering lab you're going to start. And let's eat.     He groaned. I lose my appetite every time I think about the buildingbeing sold. It isn't worth the twelve grand. I wouldn't buy it for thatif I could. What burns me is that, five years ago, I could have boughtit for two thousand.     If only we could go back five years. She shrugged fatalistically.But since we can't—     The character at the next table leaned over and spoke to them,grinning. You like to get away? You wish to go back?     Jeff glanced across in annoyance. The man was evidently a salesman,with extra gall.     Not now, thanks, Jeff said. Haven't time.     The man waved his thick hand at the clock, as if to abolish time.Time? That is nothing. Your little lady. She spoke of go back fiveyears. Maybe I help you.     He spoke in an odd clipped way, obviously a foreigner. His shirt wasyellow. His suit had a silky sheen. Its peculiar tailoring emphasizedthe bulges in his stubby, muscular torso.     Ann smiled back at him. You talk as if you could take us back to 1952.Is that what you really mean?     Why not? You think this silly. But I can show you.     Jeff rose to go. Mister, you better get to a doctor. Ann, it's time westarted home.  Ann laid a hand on his sleeve. I haven't finished eating. Let'schat with the gent. She added in an undertone to Jeff, Must be apsycho—but sort of an inspired one.     The man said to Ann, You are kind lady, I think. Good to crazy people.I join you.     He did not wait for consent, but slid into a seat at their table withan easy grace that was almost arrogant.     You are unhappy in 1957, he went on. Discouraged. Restless. Why nottake trip to another time?     Why not? Ann said gaily. How much does it cost?     Free trial trip. Cost nothing. See whether you like. Then maybe wetalk money. He handed Jeff a card made of a stiff plastic substance.     Jeff glanced at it, then handed it to Ann with a half-smile. It read:     4-D TRAVEL BEURO     Greet Snader, Traffic Ajent     Mr. Snader's bureau is different, Jeff said to his wife. He evenspells it different.     Snader chuckled. I come from other time. We spell otherwise.     You mean you come from the future?     Just different time. I show you. You come with me?     Come where? Jeff asked, studying Snader's mocking eyes. The mandidn't seem a mere eccentric. He had a peculiar suggestion of humor andforce.     Come on little trip to different time, invited Snader. He addedpersuasively, Could be back here in hour.     It would be painless, I suppose? Jeff gave it a touch of derision.     Maybe not. That is risk you take. But look at me. I make trips everyday. I look damaged?     As a matter of fact, he did. His thick-fleshed face bore a scar andhis nose was broad and flat, as if it had been broken. But Jeffpolitely agreed that he did not look damaged.     Ann was enjoying this. Tell me more, Mr. Snader. How does your timetravel work?     Cannot explain. Same if you are asked how subway train works. Toocomplicated. He flashed his white teeth. You think time travel notpossible. Just like television not possible to your grandfather.     Ann said, Why invite us? We're not rich enough for expensive trips.     Invite many people, Snader said quickly. Not expensive. You knowMissing Persons lists, from police? Dozens people disappear. They gowith me to other time. Many stay.     Oh, sure, Jeff said. But how do you select the ones to invite?     Find ones like you, Mr. Elliott. Ones who want change, escape.  Jeff was slightly startled. How did this fellow know his name wasElliott?     Before he could ask, Ann popped another question. Mr. Snader, youheard us talking. You know we're in trouble because Jeff missed a goodchance five years ago. Do you claim people can really go back into thepast and correct mistakes they've made?     They can go back. What they do when arrive? Depends on them.     Don't you wish it were true? she sighed to Jeff.     You afraid to believe, said Snader, a glimmer of amusement in hisrestless eyes. Why not try? What you lose? Come on, look at station.Very near here.     Ann jumped up. It might be fun, Jeff. Let's see what he means, ifanything.     Jeff's pulse quickened. He too felt a sort of midsummer night'smadness—a yearning to forget his troubles. Okay, just for kicks. Butwe go in my car.     Snader moved ahead to the cashier's stand. Jeff watched the weasel-likegrace of his short, broad body.     This is no ordinary oddball, Jeff told Ann. He's tricky. He's gotsome gimmick.     First I just played him along, to see how loony he was, Ann said.Now I wonder who's kidding whom. She concluded thoughtfully, He'skind of handsome, in a tough way.      II     Snader's station proved to be a middle-sized, middle-cost home in agood neighborhood. Lights glowed in the windows. Jeff could hear thewhisper of traffic on a boulevard a few blocks away. Through the warmdusk, he could dimly see the mountains on the horizon. All was peaceful.     Snader unlocked the front door with a key which he drew from a finemetal chain around his neck. He swept open the front door with aflourish and beamed at them, but Ann drew back.     'Walk into my parlor, said the spider to the fly,' she murmured toJeff. This could be a gambling hell. Or a dope den.     No matter what kind of clip joint, it can't clip us much, he said.There's only four bucks in my wallet. My guess is it's a 'temple' forsome daffy religious sect.     They went in. A fat man smiled at them from a desk in the hall. Snadersaid, Meet Peter Powers. Local agent of our bureau.     The man didn't get up, but nodded comfortably and waved them toward thenext room, after a glance at Snader's key.     The key opened this room's door, too. Its spring lock snapped shutafter them.     The room was like a doctor's waiting room, with easy chairs along thewalls. Its only peculiar aspects were a sign hanging from the middleof the ceiling and two movie screens—or were they giant televisionscreens?—occupying a whole wall at either end of the room.     The sign bore the number 701 in bright yellow on black. Beneath it, anarrow pointed to the screen on the left with the word      Ante     , and tothe right with the word      Post     .       Jeff studied the big screens. On each, a picture was in motion. Oneappeared to be moving through a long corridor, lined with seats likea railroad club car. The picture seemed to rush at them from the leftwall. When he turned to the right, a similar endless chair-linedcorridor moved toward him from that direction.     Somebody worked hard on this layout, he said to Snader. What's itfor?     Time travel, said Snader. You like?     Almost as good as Disneyland. These movies represent the stream oftime, I suppose?  Instead of answering, Snader pointed to the screen. The picture showeda group of people chatting in a fast-moving corridor. As it hurtledtoward them, Snader flipped his hand in a genial salute. Two people inthe picture waved back.     Ann gasped. It was just as if they saw us.     They did, Snader said. No movie. Time travelers. In fourthdimension. To you, they look like flat picture. To them, we look flat.     What's he supposed to be? Jeff asked as the onrushing picture showedthem briefly a figure bound hand and foot, huddled in one of thechairs. He stared at them piteously for an instant before the picturesurged past.     Snader showed his teeth. That was convict from my time. We havecriminals, like in your time. But we do not kill. We make them work.Where he going? To end of line. To earliest year this time groovereach. About 600 A.D., your calendar. Authorities pick up whenhe get there. Put him to work.     What kind of work? Jeff asked.     Building the groove further back.     Sounds like interesting work.     Snader chortled and slapped him on the back. Maybe you see it someday, but forget that now. You come with me. Little trip.     Jeff was perspiring. This was odder than he expected. Whatever thefakery, it was clever. His curiosity as a technician made him want toknow about it. He asked Snader, Where do you propose to go? And how?     Snader said, Watch me. Then look at other wall.     He moved gracefully to the screen on the left wall, stepped into it anddisappeared. It was as if he had slid into opaque water.     Jeff and Ann blinked in mystification. Then they remembered hisinstruction to watch the other screen. They turned. After a moment, inthe far distance down the long moving corridor, they could see a stockyfigure. The motion of the picture brought him nearer. In a few seconds,he was recognizable as Snader—and as the picture brought him forward,he stepped down out of it and was with them again.     Simple, Snader said. I rode to next station. Then crossed over. Tookother carrier back here.     Brother, that's the best trick I've seen in years, Jeff said. Howdid you do it? Can I do it, too?     I show you. Grinning like a wildcat, Snader linked his arms with Annand Jeff, and walked them toward the screen. Now, he said. Step in.  Jeff submitted to Snader's pressure and stepped cautiously into thescreen. Amazingly, he felt no resistance at all, no sense of change ormotion. It was like stepping through a fog-bank into another room.     In fact, that was what they seemed to have done. They were in thechair-lined corridor. As Snader turned them around and seated them,they faced another moving picture screen. It seemed to rush through adark tunnel toward a lighted square in the far distance.     The square grew on the screen. Soon they saw it was another room likethe waiting room they had left, except that the number hanging from theceiling was 702. They seemed to glide through it. Then they were in thedark tunnel again.     Ann was clutching Jeff's arm. He patted her hand. Fun, hey? Like Alicethrough the looking-glass.     You really think we're going back in time? she whispered.     Hardly! But we're seeing a million-dollar trick. I can't even begin tofigure it out yet.     Another lighted room grew out of the tunnel on the screen, and whenthey had flickered through it, another and then another.     Mr. Snader, Ann said unsteadily, how long—how many years back areyou taking us?     Snader was humming to himself. Six years. Station 725 fine place tostop.     For a little while, Jeff let himself think it might be true. Six yearsago, your dad was alive, he mused to Ann. If this should somehow bereal, we could see him again.     We could if we went to our house. He lived with us then, remember?Would we see ourselves, six years younger? Or would—     Snader took Jeff's arm and pulled him to his feet. The screen wasmoving through a room numbered 724.     Soon now, Snader grunted happily. Then no more questions.     He took an arm of each as he had before. When the screen was filled bya room with the number 725, he propelled them forward into it.       Again there was no sense of motion. They had simply stepped through abright wall they could not feel. They found themselves in a replica ofthe room they had left at 701. On the wall, a picture of the continuousclub-car corridor rolled toward them in a silent, endless stream.     The same room, Ann said in disappointment. They just changed thenumber. We haven't been anywhere.  Snader was fishing under his shirt for the key. He gave Ann a glancethat was almost a leer. Then he carefully unlocked the door.     In the hall, a motherly old lady bustled up, but Snader brushed pasther. Official, he said, showing her the key. No lodging.     He unlocked the front door without another word and carefully shut itbehind them as Jeff and Ann followed him out of the house.     Hey, where's my car? Jeff demanded, looking up and down the street.     The whole street looked different. Where he had parked his roadster,there was now a long black limousine.     Your car is in future, Snader said briskly. Where it belong. Getin. He opened the door of the limousine.     Jeff felt a little flame of excitement licking inside him. Somethingwas happening, he felt. Something exciting and dangerous.     Snader, he said, if you're kidnaping us, you made a mistake. Nobodyon Earth will pay ransom for us.     Snader seemed amused. You are foolish fellow. Silly talk about ransom.You in different time now.     When does this gag stop? Jeff demanded irritably. You haven't fooledus. We're still in 1957.     You are? Look around.     Jeff looked at the street again. He secretly admitted to himselfthat these were different trees and houses than he remembered. Eventhe telephone poles and street lights seemed peculiar, vaguelyforeign-looking. It must be an elaborate practical joke. Snader hadprobably ushered them into one house, then through a tunnel and outanother house.     Get in, Snader said curtly.     Jeff decided to go along with the hoax or whatever it was. He couldsee no serious risk. He helped Ann into the back seat and sat besideher. Snader slammed the door and slid into the driver's seat. Hestarted the engine with a roar and they rocketed away from the curb,narrowly missing another car.     Jeff yelled, Easy, man! Look where you're going!     Snader guffawed. Tonight, you look where you are going.     Ann clung to Jeff. Did you notice the house we came out of?     What about it?     It looked as though they were afraid people might try to break in.There were bars at the windows.     Lots of houses are built that way, honey. Let's see, where are we? Heglanced at house numbers. This is the 800 block. Remember that. Andthe street— He peered up at a sign as they whirled around a corner.The street is Green Thru-Way. I never heard of a street like that.      III     They were headed back toward what should have been the boulevard. Thecar zoomed through a cloverleaf turn and up onto a broad freeway. Jeffknew for certain there was no freeway there in 1957—nor in any earlieryear. But on the horizon, he could see the familiar dark bulk of themountains. The whole line of moonlit ridges was the same as always.     Ann, he said slowly, I think this is for real. Somehow I guess weescaped from 1957. We've been transported in time.     She squeezed his arm. If I'm dreaming, don't wake me! I was scared aminute ago. But now, oh, boy!     Likewise. But I still wonder what Snader's angle is. He leanedforward and tapped the driver on his meaty shoulder. You brought usinto the future instead of the past, didn't you?     It was hard to know whether Snader was sleepy or just bored, but heshrugged briefly to show there was no reply coming. Then he yawned.     Jeff smiled tightly. I guess we'll find out in good time. Let's sitback and enjoy the strangest ride of our lives.     As the limousine swept along through the traffic, there were plentyof big signs for turn-offs, but none gave any hint where they were.The names were unfamiliar. Even the language seemed grotesque. RiteChannel for Creepers, he read. Yaw for Torrey Rushway flared at himfrom a fork in the freeway.     This can't be the future, Ann said. This limousine is almost new,but it doesn't even have an automatic gear shift—     She broke off as the car shot down a ramp off the freeway and pulled upin front of an apartment house. Just beyond was a big shopping center,ablaze with lights and swarming with shoppers. Jeff did not recognizeit, in spite of his familiarity with the city.     Snader bounded out, pulled open the rear door and jerked his head in acommanding gesture. But Jeff did not get out. He told Snader, Let'shave some answers before we go any further.     Snader gave him a hard grin. You hear everything upstairs.     The building appeared harmless enough. Jeff looked thoughtfully at Ann.     She said, It's just an apartment house. We've come this far. Might aswell go in and see what's there.     Snader led them in, up to the sixth floor in an elevator and along acorridor with heavy carpets and soft gold lights. He knocked on a door.  A tall, silver-haired, important-looking man opened it and greeted themheartily.     Solid man, Greet! he exclaimed. You're a real scratcher! And is thisour sharp? He gave Jeff a friendly but appraising look.     Just what you order, Snader said proudly. His name—Jeff Elliott.Fine sharp. Best in his circuit. He brings his lifemate, too. AnnElliott.     The old man rubbed his smooth hands together. Prime! I wish joy, hesaid to Ann and Jeff. I'm Septo Kersey. Come in. Bullen's waiting.     He led them into a spacious drawing room with great windows looking outon the lights of the city. There was a leather chair in a corner, andin it sat a heavy man with a grim mouth. He made no move, but grunteda perfunctory Wish joy when Kersey introduced them. His cold eyesstudied Jeff while Kersey seated them in big chairs.     Snader did not sit down, however. No need for me now, he said, andmoved toward the door with a mocking wave at Ann.     Bullen nodded. You get the rest of your pay when Elliott proves out.     Here, wait a minute! Jeff called. But Snader was gone.     Sit still, Bullen growled to Jeff. You understand radioptics?     The blood went to Jeff's head. My business is television, if that'swhat you mean. What's this about?     Tell him, Kersey, the big man said, and stared out the window.     Kersey began, You understand, I think, that you have come back intime. About six years back.     That's a matter of opinion, but go on.     I am general manager of Continental Radioptic Combine, owned by Mr.Dumont Bullen. He nodded toward the big man. Chromatics have notyet been developed here in connection with radioptics. They are wellunderstood in your time, are they not?     What's chromatics? Color television?     Exactly. You are an expert in—ah—colored television, I think.     Jeff nodded. So what?     The old man beamed at him. You are here to work for our company. Youwill enable us to be first with chromatics in this time wave.     Jeff stood up. Don't tell me who I'll work for.  Bullen slapped a big fist on the arm of his chair. No fog about this!You're bought and paid for, Elliott! You'll get a fair labor contract,but you do what I say!     Why, the man thinks he owns you. Ann laughed shakily.     You'll find my barmen know their law, Bullen said. This isn't theway I like to recruit. But it was only way to get a man with yourknowledge.     Kersey said politely, You are here illegally, with no immigratepermit or citizen file. Therefore you cannot get work. But Mr. Bullenhas taken an interest in your trouble. Through his influence, you canmake a living. We even set aside an apartment in this building for youto live in. You are really very luxe, do you see?     Jeff's legs felt weak. These highbinders seemed brutally confident. Hewondered how he and Ann would find their way home through the strangestreets. But he put on a bold front.     I don't believe your line about time travel and I don't plan to workfor you, he said. My wife and I are walking out right now. Try andstop us, legally or any other way.     Kersey's smooth old face turned hard. But, unexpectedly, Bullenchuckled deep in his throat. Good pop and bang. Like to see it. Goon, walk out. You hang in trouble, call up here—Butterfly 9, ask forBullen. Whole exchange us. I'll meet you here about eleven tomorrowpre-noon.     Don't hold your breath. Let's go, Ann.     When they were on the sidewalk, Ann took a deep breath. We made it.For a minute, I thought there'd be a brawl. Why did they let us go?     No telling. Maybe they're harmless lunatics—or practical jokers. Helooked over his shoulder as they walked down the street, but there wasno sign of pursuit. It's a long time since supper.  Her hand was cold in his and her face was white. To take her mind offtheir problem, he ambled toward the lighted shop windows.     Look at that sign, he said, pointing to a poster over a display ofneckties. 'Sleek neck-sashes, only a Dick and a dollop!' How do theyexpect to sell stuff with that crazy lingo?     It's jive talk. They must cater to the high-school crowd. Annglanced nervously at the strolling people around them. Jeff, whereare we? This isn't any part of the city I've ever seen. It doesn'teven look much like America. Her voice rose. The way the women aredressed—it's not old-fashioned, just different.     Baby, don't be scared. This is an adventure. Let's have fun. Hepressed her hand soothingly and pulled her toward a lunch counter.     If the haberdasher's sign was jive, the restaurant spoke the samejargon. The signs on the wall and the bill of fare were baffling. Jeffpondered the list of beef shingles, scorchers, smack sticks and fruitchills, until he noticed that a couple at the counter were eating whatclearly were hamburgers—though the buns looked more like tortillas.     Jeff jerked his thumb at them and told the waitress, Two, please.     When the sandwiches arrived, they were ordinary enough. He and Ann atein silence. A feeling of foreboding hung over them.     When they finished, the clerk gave him a check marked 1/20. Jeff lookedat it thoughtfully, shrugged and handed it to the cashier with twodollar bills.     The man at the desk glanced at them and laughed. Stage money, eh?     No, that's good money, Jeff assured him with a rather hollow smile.They're just new bills, that's all.     The cashier picked one up and looked at it curiously. I'm afraid it'sno good here, he said, and pushed it back.     The bottom dropped out of Jeff's stomach. What kind of money do youwant? This is all I have.     The cashier's smile faded. He caught the eye of a man in uniform on oneof the stools. The uniform was dark green, but the man acted like apoliceman. He loomed up beside Jeff.     What's the rasper? he demanded. Other customers, waiting to pay theirchecks, eyed Jeff curiously.     I guess I'm in trouble, Jeff told him. I'm a stranger here and I gotsomething to eat under the impression that my money was legal tender.Do you know where I can exchange it?  The officer picked up the dollar bill and fingered it with evidentinterest. He turned it over and studied the printing. United States ofAmerica, he read aloud. What are those?     It's the name of the country I come from, Jeff said carefully.I—uh—got on the wrong train, apparently, and must have come furtherthan I thought. What's the name of this place?     This is Costa, West Goodland, in the Continental Federation. Say, youmust come from an umpty remote part of the world if you don't knowabout this country. His eyes narrowed. Where'd you learn to speakFederal, if you come from so far?     Jeff said helplessly, I can't explain, if you don't know about theUnited States. Listen, can you take me to a bank, or some place wherethey know about foreign exchange?     The policeman scowled. How'd you get into this country, anyway? Yougot immigrate clearance?     An angry muttering started among the bystanders.     The policeman made up his mind. You come with me.     At the police station, Jeff put his elbows dejectedly on the highcounter while the policeman talked to an officer in charge. Some menwhom Jeff took for reporters got up from a table and eased over tolisten.     I don't know whether to charge them with fakemake, bumsy, peekage orlunate, the policeman said as he finished.     His superior gave Jeff a long puzzled stare.     Jeff sighed. I know it sounds impossible, but a man brought me insomething he claimed was a time traveler. You speak the same language Ido—more or less—but everything else is kind of unfamiliar. I belongin the United States, a country in North America. I can't believe I'mso far in the future that the United States has been forgotten.     There ensued a long, confused, inconclusive interrogation.     The man behind the desk asked questions which seemed stupid to Jeff andgot answers which probably seemed stupid to him.     The reporters quizzed Jeff gleefully. Come out, what are youadvertising? they kept asking. Who got you up to this?     The police puzzled over his driver's license and the other cards in hiswallet. They asked repeatedly about the lack of a Work License, whichJeff took to be some sort of union card. Evidently there was gravedoubt that he had any legal right to be in the country.     In the end, Jeff and Ann were locked in separate cells for the night.Jeff groaned and pounded the bars as he thought of his wife, imprisonedand alone in a smelly jail. After hours of pacing the cell, he lay downin the cot and reached automatically for his silver pillbox. Then hehesitated.     In past weeks, his insomnia had grown worse and worse, so that latelyhe had begun taking stronger pills. After a longing glance at thebig red and yellow capsules, he put the box away. Whatever tomorrowbrought, it wouldn't find him slow and drowsy.      IV     He passed a wakeful night. In the early morning, he looked up to see alittle man with a briefcase at his cell door.     Wish joy, Mr. Elliott, the man said coolly. I am one of Mr. Bullen'sbarmen. You know, represent at law? He sent me to arrange your release,if you are ready to be reasonable.     Jeff lay there and put his hands behind his head. I doubt if I'mready. I'm comfortable here. By the way, how did you know where I was?     No problem. When we read in this morning's newspapers about a manclaiming to be a time traveler, we knew.     All right. Now start explaining. Until I understand where I am, Bullenisn't getting me out of here.     The lawyer smiled and sat down. Mr. Kersey told you yesterday—you'vegone back six years. But you'll need some mental gymnastics tounderstand. Time is a dimension, not a stream of events like a moviefilm. A film never changes. Space does—and time does. For example, ifa movie showed a burning house at Sixth and Main, would you expect tofind a house burning whenever you returned to that corner?     You mean to say that if I went back to 1865, I wouldn't find the CivilWar was over and Lincoln had been assassinated?     If you go back to the time you call 1865—which is most easilydone—you will find that the people there know nothing of a Lincoln orthat war.     Jeff looked blank. What are they doing then?     The little man spread his hands. What are the people doing now atSixth and Main? Certainly not the same things they were doing the dayof the fire. We're talking about a dimension, not an event. Don't yougrasp the difference between the two?     Nope. To me, 1865 means the end of the Civil War. How else can youspeak of a point in time except by the events that happened then?     Well, if you go to a place in three-dimensional space—say, a lakein the mountains—how do you identify that place? By looking forlandmarks. It doesn't matter that an eagle is soaring over a mountainpeak. That's only an event. The peak is the landmark. You follow me?     So far. Keep talking.  ","Time travel is suggested as a way to solve troubles. To fix regrets. Ironically, it is not this at all, because the way time travel works is not linear. Thus, it’s not possible to go back to an exact moment in your past and make a different decision.Jeff is very impatient about the time they are spending with Mr. Snader, but continues to be roped into one thing and the next by convincing himself that they are in no real danger. There is a kind of tension between Jeff feeling like he is wasting time, but then allowing time to run on as their involvement with Mr. Snader deepens further and further until they lose 6 years of time completely."
"What is the relationship like between Jeff and Ann? </s>     Butterfly 9     By DONALD KEITH     Illustrated by GAUGHAN     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction January 1957.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        Jeff needed a job and this man had a job to       offer—one where giant economy-size trouble       had labels like fakemake, bumsy and peekage!        I     At first, Jeff scarcely noticed the bold-looking man at the next table.Nor did Ann. Their minds were busy with Jeff's troubles.     You're still the smartest color engineer in television, Ann told Jeffas they dallied with their food. You'll bounce back. Now eat yoursupper.     This beanery is too noisy and hot, he grumbled. I can't eat. Can'ttalk. Can't think. He took a silver pillbox from his pocket andfumbled for a black one. Those were vitamin pills; the big red andyellow ones were sleeping capsules. He gulped the pill.     Ann looked disapproving in a wifely way. Lately you chew pills likepopcorn, she said. Do you really need so many?     I need something. I'm sure losing my grip.     Ann stared at him. Baby! How silly! Nothing happened, except you lostyour lease. You'll build up a better company in a new spot. We're youngyet.  Jeff sighed and glanced around the crowded little restaurant. He wishedhe could fly away somewhere. At that moment, he met the gaze of themustachioed man at the next table.     The fellow seemed to be watching him and Ann. Something in hisconfident gaze made Jeff uneasy. Had they met before?     Ann whispered, So you noticed him, too. Maybe he's following us. Ithink I saw him on the parking lot where we left the car.     Jeff shrugged his big shoulders. If he's following us, he's nuts.We've got no secrets and no money.     It must be my maddening beauty, said Ann.     I'll kick him cross-eyed if he starts anything, Jeff said. I'm justin the mood.     Ann giggled. Honey, what big veins you have! Forget him. Let's talkabout the engineering lab you're going to start. And let's eat.     He groaned. I lose my appetite every time I think about the buildingbeing sold. It isn't worth the twelve grand. I wouldn't buy it for thatif I could. What burns me is that, five years ago, I could have boughtit for two thousand.     If only we could go back five years. She shrugged fatalistically.But since we can't—     The character at the next table leaned over and spoke to them,grinning. You like to get away? You wish to go back?     Jeff glanced across in annoyance. The man was evidently a salesman,with extra gall.     Not now, thanks, Jeff said. Haven't time.     The man waved his thick hand at the clock, as if to abolish time.Time? That is nothing. Your little lady. She spoke of go back fiveyears. Maybe I help you.     He spoke in an odd clipped way, obviously a foreigner. His shirt wasyellow. His suit had a silky sheen. Its peculiar tailoring emphasizedthe bulges in his stubby, muscular torso.     Ann smiled back at him. You talk as if you could take us back to 1952.Is that what you really mean?     Why not? You think this silly. But I can show you.     Jeff rose to go. Mister, you better get to a doctor. Ann, it's time westarted home.  Ann laid a hand on his sleeve. I haven't finished eating. Let'schat with the gent. She added in an undertone to Jeff, Must be apsycho—but sort of an inspired one.     The man said to Ann, You are kind lady, I think. Good to crazy people.I join you.     He did not wait for consent, but slid into a seat at their table withan easy grace that was almost arrogant.     You are unhappy in 1957, he went on. Discouraged. Restless. Why nottake trip to another time?     Why not? Ann said gaily. How much does it cost?     Free trial trip. Cost nothing. See whether you like. Then maybe wetalk money. He handed Jeff a card made of a stiff plastic substance.     Jeff glanced at it, then handed it to Ann with a half-smile. It read:     4-D TRAVEL BEURO     Greet Snader, Traffic Ajent     Mr. Snader's bureau is different, Jeff said to his wife. He evenspells it different.     Snader chuckled. I come from other time. We spell otherwise.     You mean you come from the future?     Just different time. I show you. You come with me?     Come where? Jeff asked, studying Snader's mocking eyes. The mandidn't seem a mere eccentric. He had a peculiar suggestion of humor andforce.     Come on little trip to different time, invited Snader. He addedpersuasively, Could be back here in hour.     It would be painless, I suppose? Jeff gave it a touch of derision.     Maybe not. That is risk you take. But look at me. I make trips everyday. I look damaged?     As a matter of fact, he did. His thick-fleshed face bore a scar andhis nose was broad and flat, as if it had been broken. But Jeffpolitely agreed that he did not look damaged.     Ann was enjoying this. Tell me more, Mr. Snader. How does your timetravel work?     Cannot explain. Same if you are asked how subway train works. Toocomplicated. He flashed his white teeth. You think time travel notpossible. Just like television not possible to your grandfather.     Ann said, Why invite us? We're not rich enough for expensive trips.     Invite many people, Snader said quickly. Not expensive. You knowMissing Persons lists, from police? Dozens people disappear. They gowith me to other time. Many stay.     Oh, sure, Jeff said. But how do you select the ones to invite?     Find ones like you, Mr. Elliott. Ones who want change, escape.  Jeff was slightly startled. How did this fellow know his name wasElliott?     Before he could ask, Ann popped another question. Mr. Snader, youheard us talking. You know we're in trouble because Jeff missed a goodchance five years ago. Do you claim people can really go back into thepast and correct mistakes they've made?     They can go back. What they do when arrive? Depends on them.     Don't you wish it were true? she sighed to Jeff.     You afraid to believe, said Snader, a glimmer of amusement in hisrestless eyes. Why not try? What you lose? Come on, look at station.Very near here.     Ann jumped up. It might be fun, Jeff. Let's see what he means, ifanything.     Jeff's pulse quickened. He too felt a sort of midsummer night'smadness—a yearning to forget his troubles. Okay, just for kicks. Butwe go in my car.     Snader moved ahead to the cashier's stand. Jeff watched the weasel-likegrace of his short, broad body.     This is no ordinary oddball, Jeff told Ann. He's tricky. He's gotsome gimmick.     First I just played him along, to see how loony he was, Ann said.Now I wonder who's kidding whom. She concluded thoughtfully, He'skind of handsome, in a tough way.      II     Snader's station proved to be a middle-sized, middle-cost home in agood neighborhood. Lights glowed in the windows. Jeff could hear thewhisper of traffic on a boulevard a few blocks away. Through the warmdusk, he could dimly see the mountains on the horizon. All was peaceful.     Snader unlocked the front door with a key which he drew from a finemetal chain around his neck. He swept open the front door with aflourish and beamed at them, but Ann drew back.     'Walk into my parlor, said the spider to the fly,' she murmured toJeff. This could be a gambling hell. Or a dope den.     No matter what kind of clip joint, it can't clip us much, he said.There's only four bucks in my wallet. My guess is it's a 'temple' forsome daffy religious sect.     They went in. A fat man smiled at them from a desk in the hall. Snadersaid, Meet Peter Powers. Local agent of our bureau.     The man didn't get up, but nodded comfortably and waved them toward thenext room, after a glance at Snader's key.     The key opened this room's door, too. Its spring lock snapped shutafter them.     The room was like a doctor's waiting room, with easy chairs along thewalls. Its only peculiar aspects were a sign hanging from the middleof the ceiling and two movie screens—or were they giant televisionscreens?—occupying a whole wall at either end of the room.     The sign bore the number 701 in bright yellow on black. Beneath it, anarrow pointed to the screen on the left with the word      Ante     , and tothe right with the word      Post     .       Jeff studied the big screens. On each, a picture was in motion. Oneappeared to be moving through a long corridor, lined with seats likea railroad club car. The picture seemed to rush at them from the leftwall. When he turned to the right, a similar endless chair-linedcorridor moved toward him from that direction.     Somebody worked hard on this layout, he said to Snader. What's itfor?     Time travel, said Snader. You like?     Almost as good as Disneyland. These movies represent the stream oftime, I suppose?  Instead of answering, Snader pointed to the screen. The picture showeda group of people chatting in a fast-moving corridor. As it hurtledtoward them, Snader flipped his hand in a genial salute. Two people inthe picture waved back.     Ann gasped. It was just as if they saw us.     They did, Snader said. No movie. Time travelers. In fourthdimension. To you, they look like flat picture. To them, we look flat.     What's he supposed to be? Jeff asked as the onrushing picture showedthem briefly a figure bound hand and foot, huddled in one of thechairs. He stared at them piteously for an instant before the picturesurged past.     Snader showed his teeth. That was convict from my time. We havecriminals, like in your time. But we do not kill. We make them work.Where he going? To end of line. To earliest year this time groovereach. About 600 A.D., your calendar. Authorities pick up whenhe get there. Put him to work.     What kind of work? Jeff asked.     Building the groove further back.     Sounds like interesting work.     Snader chortled and slapped him on the back. Maybe you see it someday, but forget that now. You come with me. Little trip.     Jeff was perspiring. This was odder than he expected. Whatever thefakery, it was clever. His curiosity as a technician made him want toknow about it. He asked Snader, Where do you propose to go? And how?     Snader said, Watch me. Then look at other wall.     He moved gracefully to the screen on the left wall, stepped into it anddisappeared. It was as if he had slid into opaque water.     Jeff and Ann blinked in mystification. Then they remembered hisinstruction to watch the other screen. They turned. After a moment, inthe far distance down the long moving corridor, they could see a stockyfigure. The motion of the picture brought him nearer. In a few seconds,he was recognizable as Snader—and as the picture brought him forward,he stepped down out of it and was with them again.     Simple, Snader said. I rode to next station. Then crossed over. Tookother carrier back here.     Brother, that's the best trick I've seen in years, Jeff said. Howdid you do it? Can I do it, too?     I show you. Grinning like a wildcat, Snader linked his arms with Annand Jeff, and walked them toward the screen. Now, he said. Step in.  Jeff submitted to Snader's pressure and stepped cautiously into thescreen. Amazingly, he felt no resistance at all, no sense of change ormotion. It was like stepping through a fog-bank into another room.     In fact, that was what they seemed to have done. They were in thechair-lined corridor. As Snader turned them around and seated them,they faced another moving picture screen. It seemed to rush through adark tunnel toward a lighted square in the far distance.     The square grew on the screen. Soon they saw it was another room likethe waiting room they had left, except that the number hanging from theceiling was 702. They seemed to glide through it. Then they were in thedark tunnel again.     Ann was clutching Jeff's arm. He patted her hand. Fun, hey? Like Alicethrough the looking-glass.     You really think we're going back in time? she whispered.     Hardly! But we're seeing a million-dollar trick. I can't even begin tofigure it out yet.     Another lighted room grew out of the tunnel on the screen, and whenthey had flickered through it, another and then another.     Mr. Snader, Ann said unsteadily, how long—how many years back areyou taking us?     Snader was humming to himself. Six years. Station 725 fine place tostop.     For a little while, Jeff let himself think it might be true. Six yearsago, your dad was alive, he mused to Ann. If this should somehow bereal, we could see him again.     We could if we went to our house. He lived with us then, remember?Would we see ourselves, six years younger? Or would—     Snader took Jeff's arm and pulled him to his feet. The screen wasmoving through a room numbered 724.     Soon now, Snader grunted happily. Then no more questions.     He took an arm of each as he had before. When the screen was filled bya room with the number 725, he propelled them forward into it.       Again there was no sense of motion. They had simply stepped through abright wall they could not feel. They found themselves in a replica ofthe room they had left at 701. On the wall, a picture of the continuousclub-car corridor rolled toward them in a silent, endless stream.     The same room, Ann said in disappointment. They just changed thenumber. We haven't been anywhere.  Snader was fishing under his shirt for the key. He gave Ann a glancethat was almost a leer. Then he carefully unlocked the door.     In the hall, a motherly old lady bustled up, but Snader brushed pasther. Official, he said, showing her the key. No lodging.     He unlocked the front door without another word and carefully shut itbehind them as Jeff and Ann followed him out of the house.     Hey, where's my car? Jeff demanded, looking up and down the street.     The whole street looked different. Where he had parked his roadster,there was now a long black limousine.     Your car is in future, Snader said briskly. Where it belong. Getin. He opened the door of the limousine.     Jeff felt a little flame of excitement licking inside him. Somethingwas happening, he felt. Something exciting and dangerous.     Snader, he said, if you're kidnaping us, you made a mistake. Nobodyon Earth will pay ransom for us.     Snader seemed amused. You are foolish fellow. Silly talk about ransom.You in different time now.     When does this gag stop? Jeff demanded irritably. You haven't fooledus. We're still in 1957.     You are? Look around.     Jeff looked at the street again. He secretly admitted to himselfthat these were different trees and houses than he remembered. Eventhe telephone poles and street lights seemed peculiar, vaguelyforeign-looking. It must be an elaborate practical joke. Snader hadprobably ushered them into one house, then through a tunnel and outanother house.     Get in, Snader said curtly.     Jeff decided to go along with the hoax or whatever it was. He couldsee no serious risk. He helped Ann into the back seat and sat besideher. Snader slammed the door and slid into the driver's seat. Hestarted the engine with a roar and they rocketed away from the curb,narrowly missing another car.     Jeff yelled, Easy, man! Look where you're going!     Snader guffawed. Tonight, you look where you are going.     Ann clung to Jeff. Did you notice the house we came out of?     What about it?     It looked as though they were afraid people might try to break in.There were bars at the windows.     Lots of houses are built that way, honey. Let's see, where are we? Heglanced at house numbers. This is the 800 block. Remember that. Andthe street— He peered up at a sign as they whirled around a corner.The street is Green Thru-Way. I never heard of a street like that.      III     They were headed back toward what should have been the boulevard. Thecar zoomed through a cloverleaf turn and up onto a broad freeway. Jeffknew for certain there was no freeway there in 1957—nor in any earlieryear. But on the horizon, he could see the familiar dark bulk of themountains. The whole line of moonlit ridges was the same as always.     Ann, he said slowly, I think this is for real. Somehow I guess weescaped from 1957. We've been transported in time.     She squeezed his arm. If I'm dreaming, don't wake me! I was scared aminute ago. But now, oh, boy!     Likewise. But I still wonder what Snader's angle is. He leanedforward and tapped the driver on his meaty shoulder. You brought usinto the future instead of the past, didn't you?     It was hard to know whether Snader was sleepy or just bored, but heshrugged briefly to show there was no reply coming. Then he yawned.     Jeff smiled tightly. I guess we'll find out in good time. Let's sitback and enjoy the strangest ride of our lives.     As the limousine swept along through the traffic, there were plentyof big signs for turn-offs, but none gave any hint where they were.The names were unfamiliar. Even the language seemed grotesque. RiteChannel for Creepers, he read. Yaw for Torrey Rushway flared at himfrom a fork in the freeway.     This can't be the future, Ann said. This limousine is almost new,but it doesn't even have an automatic gear shift—     She broke off as the car shot down a ramp off the freeway and pulled upin front of an apartment house. Just beyond was a big shopping center,ablaze with lights and swarming with shoppers. Jeff did not recognizeit, in spite of his familiarity with the city.     Snader bounded out, pulled open the rear door and jerked his head in acommanding gesture. But Jeff did not get out. He told Snader, Let'shave some answers before we go any further.     Snader gave him a hard grin. You hear everything upstairs.     The building appeared harmless enough. Jeff looked thoughtfully at Ann.     She said, It's just an apartment house. We've come this far. Might aswell go in and see what's there.     Snader led them in, up to the sixth floor in an elevator and along acorridor with heavy carpets and soft gold lights. He knocked on a door.  A tall, silver-haired, important-looking man opened it and greeted themheartily.     Solid man, Greet! he exclaimed. You're a real scratcher! And is thisour sharp? He gave Jeff a friendly but appraising look.     Just what you order, Snader said proudly. His name—Jeff Elliott.Fine sharp. Best in his circuit. He brings his lifemate, too. AnnElliott.     The old man rubbed his smooth hands together. Prime! I wish joy, hesaid to Ann and Jeff. I'm Septo Kersey. Come in. Bullen's waiting.     He led them into a spacious drawing room with great windows looking outon the lights of the city. There was a leather chair in a corner, andin it sat a heavy man with a grim mouth. He made no move, but grunteda perfunctory Wish joy when Kersey introduced them. His cold eyesstudied Jeff while Kersey seated them in big chairs.     Snader did not sit down, however. No need for me now, he said, andmoved toward the door with a mocking wave at Ann.     Bullen nodded. You get the rest of your pay when Elliott proves out.     Here, wait a minute! Jeff called. But Snader was gone.     Sit still, Bullen growled to Jeff. You understand radioptics?     The blood went to Jeff's head. My business is television, if that'swhat you mean. What's this about?     Tell him, Kersey, the big man said, and stared out the window.     Kersey began, You understand, I think, that you have come back intime. About six years back.     That's a matter of opinion, but go on.     I am general manager of Continental Radioptic Combine, owned by Mr.Dumont Bullen. He nodded toward the big man. Chromatics have notyet been developed here in connection with radioptics. They are wellunderstood in your time, are they not?     What's chromatics? Color television?     Exactly. You are an expert in—ah—colored television, I think.     Jeff nodded. So what?     The old man beamed at him. You are here to work for our company. Youwill enable us to be first with chromatics in this time wave.     Jeff stood up. Don't tell me who I'll work for.  Bullen slapped a big fist on the arm of his chair. No fog about this!You're bought and paid for, Elliott! You'll get a fair labor contract,but you do what I say!     Why, the man thinks he owns you. Ann laughed shakily.     You'll find my barmen know their law, Bullen said. This isn't theway I like to recruit. But it was only way to get a man with yourknowledge.     Kersey said politely, You are here illegally, with no immigratepermit or citizen file. Therefore you cannot get work. But Mr. Bullenhas taken an interest in your trouble. Through his influence, you canmake a living. We even set aside an apartment in this building for youto live in. You are really very luxe, do you see?     Jeff's legs felt weak. These highbinders seemed brutally confident. Hewondered how he and Ann would find their way home through the strangestreets. But he put on a bold front.     I don't believe your line about time travel and I don't plan to workfor you, he said. My wife and I are walking out right now. Try andstop us, legally or any other way.     Kersey's smooth old face turned hard. But, unexpectedly, Bullenchuckled deep in his throat. Good pop and bang. Like to see it. Goon, walk out. You hang in trouble, call up here—Butterfly 9, ask forBullen. Whole exchange us. I'll meet you here about eleven tomorrowpre-noon.     Don't hold your breath. Let's go, Ann.     When they were on the sidewalk, Ann took a deep breath. We made it.For a minute, I thought there'd be a brawl. Why did they let us go?     No telling. Maybe they're harmless lunatics—or practical jokers. Helooked over his shoulder as they walked down the street, but there wasno sign of pursuit. It's a long time since supper.  Her hand was cold in his and her face was white. To take her mind offtheir problem, he ambled toward the lighted shop windows.     Look at that sign, he said, pointing to a poster over a display ofneckties. 'Sleek neck-sashes, only a Dick and a dollop!' How do theyexpect to sell stuff with that crazy lingo?     It's jive talk. They must cater to the high-school crowd. Annglanced nervously at the strolling people around them. Jeff, whereare we? This isn't any part of the city I've ever seen. It doesn'teven look much like America. Her voice rose. The way the women aredressed—it's not old-fashioned, just different.     Baby, don't be scared. This is an adventure. Let's have fun. Hepressed her hand soothingly and pulled her toward a lunch counter.     If the haberdasher's sign was jive, the restaurant spoke the samejargon. The signs on the wall and the bill of fare were baffling. Jeffpondered the list of beef shingles, scorchers, smack sticks and fruitchills, until he noticed that a couple at the counter were eating whatclearly were hamburgers—though the buns looked more like tortillas.     Jeff jerked his thumb at them and told the waitress, Two, please.     When the sandwiches arrived, they were ordinary enough. He and Ann atein silence. A feeling of foreboding hung over them.     When they finished, the clerk gave him a check marked 1/20. Jeff lookedat it thoughtfully, shrugged and handed it to the cashier with twodollar bills.     The man at the desk glanced at them and laughed. Stage money, eh?     No, that's good money, Jeff assured him with a rather hollow smile.They're just new bills, that's all.     The cashier picked one up and looked at it curiously. I'm afraid it'sno good here, he said, and pushed it back.     The bottom dropped out of Jeff's stomach. What kind of money do youwant? This is all I have.     The cashier's smile faded. He caught the eye of a man in uniform on oneof the stools. The uniform was dark green, but the man acted like apoliceman. He loomed up beside Jeff.     What's the rasper? he demanded. Other customers, waiting to pay theirchecks, eyed Jeff curiously.     I guess I'm in trouble, Jeff told him. I'm a stranger here and I gotsomething to eat under the impression that my money was legal tender.Do you know where I can exchange it?  The officer picked up the dollar bill and fingered it with evidentinterest. He turned it over and studied the printing. United States ofAmerica, he read aloud. What are those?     It's the name of the country I come from, Jeff said carefully.I—uh—got on the wrong train, apparently, and must have come furtherthan I thought. What's the name of this place?     This is Costa, West Goodland, in the Continental Federation. Say, youmust come from an umpty remote part of the world if you don't knowabout this country. His eyes narrowed. Where'd you learn to speakFederal, if you come from so far?     Jeff said helplessly, I can't explain, if you don't know about theUnited States. Listen, can you take me to a bank, or some place wherethey know about foreign exchange?     The policeman scowled. How'd you get into this country, anyway? Yougot immigrate clearance?     An angry muttering started among the bystanders.     The policeman made up his mind. You come with me.     At the police station, Jeff put his elbows dejectedly on the highcounter while the policeman talked to an officer in charge. Some menwhom Jeff took for reporters got up from a table and eased over tolisten.     I don't know whether to charge them with fakemake, bumsy, peekage orlunate, the policeman said as he finished.     His superior gave Jeff a long puzzled stare.     Jeff sighed. I know it sounds impossible, but a man brought me insomething he claimed was a time traveler. You speak the same language Ido—more or less—but everything else is kind of unfamiliar. I belongin the United States, a country in North America. I can't believe I'mso far in the future that the United States has been forgotten.     There ensued a long, confused, inconclusive interrogation.     The man behind the desk asked questions which seemed stupid to Jeff andgot answers which probably seemed stupid to him.     The reporters quizzed Jeff gleefully. Come out, what are youadvertising? they kept asking. Who got you up to this?     The police puzzled over his driver's license and the other cards in hiswallet. They asked repeatedly about the lack of a Work License, whichJeff took to be some sort of union card. Evidently there was gravedoubt that he had any legal right to be in the country.     In the end, Jeff and Ann were locked in separate cells for the night.Jeff groaned and pounded the bars as he thought of his wife, imprisonedand alone in a smelly jail. After hours of pacing the cell, he lay downin the cot and reached automatically for his silver pillbox. Then hehesitated.     In past weeks, his insomnia had grown worse and worse, so that latelyhe had begun taking stronger pills. After a longing glance at thebig red and yellow capsules, he put the box away. Whatever tomorrowbrought, it wouldn't find him slow and drowsy.      IV     He passed a wakeful night. In the early morning, he looked up to see alittle man with a briefcase at his cell door.     Wish joy, Mr. Elliott, the man said coolly. I am one of Mr. Bullen'sbarmen. You know, represent at law? He sent me to arrange your release,if you are ready to be reasonable.     Jeff lay there and put his hands behind his head. I doubt if I'mready. I'm comfortable here. By the way, how did you know where I was?     No problem. When we read in this morning's newspapers about a manclaiming to be a time traveler, we knew.     All right. Now start explaining. Until I understand where I am, Bullenisn't getting me out of here.     The lawyer smiled and sat down. Mr. Kersey told you yesterday—you'vegone back six years. But you'll need some mental gymnastics tounderstand. Time is a dimension, not a stream of events like a moviefilm. A film never changes. Space does—and time does. For example, ifa movie showed a burning house at Sixth and Main, would you expect tofind a house burning whenever you returned to that corner?     You mean to say that if I went back to 1865, I wouldn't find the CivilWar was over and Lincoln had been assassinated?     If you go back to the time you call 1865—which is most easilydone—you will find that the people there know nothing of a Lincoln orthat war.     Jeff looked blank. What are they doing then?     The little man spread his hands. What are the people doing now atSixth and Main? Certainly not the same things they were doing the dayof the fire. We're talking about a dimension, not an event. Don't yougrasp the difference between the two?     Nope. To me, 1865 means the end of the Civil War. How else can youspeak of a point in time except by the events that happened then?     Well, if you go to a place in three-dimensional space—say, a lakein the mountains—how do you identify that place? By looking forlandmarks. It doesn't matter that an eagle is soaring over a mountainpeak. That's only an event. The peak is the landmark. You follow me?     So far. Keep talking.  ","Jeff and Ann Elliott are a married couple. Ann is supportive of Jeff, and assures him that with their youth he will be able to rebuild his failed business. She reassures him throughout the story, even at points where it ultimately leads them into deeper trouble - such as when she tells him it wouldn’t hurt to try Mr. Snader’s time travel. Jeff is protective of Ann on several occasions, like at the start of the story suggesting he would start a brawl at the restaurant if the stranger was interested in Ann’s beauty. He is also upset enough with his business struggles that he needs to take sleeping pills, of which Ann is concerned about the amount.They remain together in the story until they are held in separate jail cells. They do not have any major disagreements in the story, and seem to enjoy their time together, only hoping to improve their lot by trying a risky time travel adventure."
"What is the relationship like between the Elliotts and Mr. Snader? </s>     Butterfly 9     By DONALD KEITH     Illustrated by GAUGHAN     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction January 1957.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        Jeff needed a job and this man had a job to       offer—one where giant economy-size trouble       had labels like fakemake, bumsy and peekage!        I     At first, Jeff scarcely noticed the bold-looking man at the next table.Nor did Ann. Their minds were busy with Jeff's troubles.     You're still the smartest color engineer in television, Ann told Jeffas they dallied with their food. You'll bounce back. Now eat yoursupper.     This beanery is too noisy and hot, he grumbled. I can't eat. Can'ttalk. Can't think. He took a silver pillbox from his pocket andfumbled for a black one. Those were vitamin pills; the big red andyellow ones were sleeping capsules. He gulped the pill.     Ann looked disapproving in a wifely way. Lately you chew pills likepopcorn, she said. Do you really need so many?     I need something. I'm sure losing my grip.     Ann stared at him. Baby! How silly! Nothing happened, except you lostyour lease. You'll build up a better company in a new spot. We're youngyet.  Jeff sighed and glanced around the crowded little restaurant. He wishedhe could fly away somewhere. At that moment, he met the gaze of themustachioed man at the next table.     The fellow seemed to be watching him and Ann. Something in hisconfident gaze made Jeff uneasy. Had they met before?     Ann whispered, So you noticed him, too. Maybe he's following us. Ithink I saw him on the parking lot where we left the car.     Jeff shrugged his big shoulders. If he's following us, he's nuts.We've got no secrets and no money.     It must be my maddening beauty, said Ann.     I'll kick him cross-eyed if he starts anything, Jeff said. I'm justin the mood.     Ann giggled. Honey, what big veins you have! Forget him. Let's talkabout the engineering lab you're going to start. And let's eat.     He groaned. I lose my appetite every time I think about the buildingbeing sold. It isn't worth the twelve grand. I wouldn't buy it for thatif I could. What burns me is that, five years ago, I could have boughtit for two thousand.     If only we could go back five years. She shrugged fatalistically.But since we can't—     The character at the next table leaned over and spoke to them,grinning. You like to get away? You wish to go back?     Jeff glanced across in annoyance. The man was evidently a salesman,with extra gall.     Not now, thanks, Jeff said. Haven't time.     The man waved his thick hand at the clock, as if to abolish time.Time? That is nothing. Your little lady. She spoke of go back fiveyears. Maybe I help you.     He spoke in an odd clipped way, obviously a foreigner. His shirt wasyellow. His suit had a silky sheen. Its peculiar tailoring emphasizedthe bulges in his stubby, muscular torso.     Ann smiled back at him. You talk as if you could take us back to 1952.Is that what you really mean?     Why not? You think this silly. But I can show you.     Jeff rose to go. Mister, you better get to a doctor. Ann, it's time westarted home.  Ann laid a hand on his sleeve. I haven't finished eating. Let'schat with the gent. She added in an undertone to Jeff, Must be apsycho—but sort of an inspired one.     The man said to Ann, You are kind lady, I think. Good to crazy people.I join you.     He did not wait for consent, but slid into a seat at their table withan easy grace that was almost arrogant.     You are unhappy in 1957, he went on. Discouraged. Restless. Why nottake trip to another time?     Why not? Ann said gaily. How much does it cost?     Free trial trip. Cost nothing. See whether you like. Then maybe wetalk money. He handed Jeff a card made of a stiff plastic substance.     Jeff glanced at it, then handed it to Ann with a half-smile. It read:     4-D TRAVEL BEURO     Greet Snader, Traffic Ajent     Mr. Snader's bureau is different, Jeff said to his wife. He evenspells it different.     Snader chuckled. I come from other time. We spell otherwise.     You mean you come from the future?     Just different time. I show you. You come with me?     Come where? Jeff asked, studying Snader's mocking eyes. The mandidn't seem a mere eccentric. He had a peculiar suggestion of humor andforce.     Come on little trip to different time, invited Snader. He addedpersuasively, Could be back here in hour.     It would be painless, I suppose? Jeff gave it a touch of derision.     Maybe not. That is risk you take. But look at me. I make trips everyday. I look damaged?     As a matter of fact, he did. His thick-fleshed face bore a scar andhis nose was broad and flat, as if it had been broken. But Jeffpolitely agreed that he did not look damaged.     Ann was enjoying this. Tell me more, Mr. Snader. How does your timetravel work?     Cannot explain. Same if you are asked how subway train works. Toocomplicated. He flashed his white teeth. You think time travel notpossible. Just like television not possible to your grandfather.     Ann said, Why invite us? We're not rich enough for expensive trips.     Invite many people, Snader said quickly. Not expensive. You knowMissing Persons lists, from police? Dozens people disappear. They gowith me to other time. Many stay.     Oh, sure, Jeff said. But how do you select the ones to invite?     Find ones like you, Mr. Elliott. Ones who want change, escape.  Jeff was slightly startled. How did this fellow know his name wasElliott?     Before he could ask, Ann popped another question. Mr. Snader, youheard us talking. You know we're in trouble because Jeff missed a goodchance five years ago. Do you claim people can really go back into thepast and correct mistakes they've made?     They can go back. What they do when arrive? Depends on them.     Don't you wish it were true? she sighed to Jeff.     You afraid to believe, said Snader, a glimmer of amusement in hisrestless eyes. Why not try? What you lose? Come on, look at station.Very near here.     Ann jumped up. It might be fun, Jeff. Let's see what he means, ifanything.     Jeff's pulse quickened. He too felt a sort of midsummer night'smadness—a yearning to forget his troubles. Okay, just for kicks. Butwe go in my car.     Snader moved ahead to the cashier's stand. Jeff watched the weasel-likegrace of his short, broad body.     This is no ordinary oddball, Jeff told Ann. He's tricky. He's gotsome gimmick.     First I just played him along, to see how loony he was, Ann said.Now I wonder who's kidding whom. She concluded thoughtfully, He'skind of handsome, in a tough way.      II     Snader's station proved to be a middle-sized, middle-cost home in agood neighborhood. Lights glowed in the windows. Jeff could hear thewhisper of traffic on a boulevard a few blocks away. Through the warmdusk, he could dimly see the mountains on the horizon. All was peaceful.     Snader unlocked the front door with a key which he drew from a finemetal chain around his neck. He swept open the front door with aflourish and beamed at them, but Ann drew back.     'Walk into my parlor, said the spider to the fly,' she murmured toJeff. This could be a gambling hell. Or a dope den.     No matter what kind of clip joint, it can't clip us much, he said.There's only four bucks in my wallet. My guess is it's a 'temple' forsome daffy religious sect.     They went in. A fat man smiled at them from a desk in the hall. Snadersaid, Meet Peter Powers. Local agent of our bureau.     The man didn't get up, but nodded comfortably and waved them toward thenext room, after a glance at Snader's key.     The key opened this room's door, too. Its spring lock snapped shutafter them.     The room was like a doctor's waiting room, with easy chairs along thewalls. Its only peculiar aspects were a sign hanging from the middleof the ceiling and two movie screens—or were they giant televisionscreens?—occupying a whole wall at either end of the room.     The sign bore the number 701 in bright yellow on black. Beneath it, anarrow pointed to the screen on the left with the word      Ante     , and tothe right with the word      Post     .       Jeff studied the big screens. On each, a picture was in motion. Oneappeared to be moving through a long corridor, lined with seats likea railroad club car. The picture seemed to rush at them from the leftwall. When he turned to the right, a similar endless chair-linedcorridor moved toward him from that direction.     Somebody worked hard on this layout, he said to Snader. What's itfor?     Time travel, said Snader. You like?     Almost as good as Disneyland. These movies represent the stream oftime, I suppose?  Instead of answering, Snader pointed to the screen. The picture showeda group of people chatting in a fast-moving corridor. As it hurtledtoward them, Snader flipped his hand in a genial salute. Two people inthe picture waved back.     Ann gasped. It was just as if they saw us.     They did, Snader said. No movie. Time travelers. In fourthdimension. To you, they look like flat picture. To them, we look flat.     What's he supposed to be? Jeff asked as the onrushing picture showedthem briefly a figure bound hand and foot, huddled in one of thechairs. He stared at them piteously for an instant before the picturesurged past.     Snader showed his teeth. That was convict from my time. We havecriminals, like in your time. But we do not kill. We make them work.Where he going? To end of line. To earliest year this time groovereach. About 600 A.D., your calendar. Authorities pick up whenhe get there. Put him to work.     What kind of work? Jeff asked.     Building the groove further back.     Sounds like interesting work.     Snader chortled and slapped him on the back. Maybe you see it someday, but forget that now. You come with me. Little trip.     Jeff was perspiring. This was odder than he expected. Whatever thefakery, it was clever. His curiosity as a technician made him want toknow about it. He asked Snader, Where do you propose to go? And how?     Snader said, Watch me. Then look at other wall.     He moved gracefully to the screen on the left wall, stepped into it anddisappeared. It was as if he had slid into opaque water.     Jeff and Ann blinked in mystification. Then they remembered hisinstruction to watch the other screen. They turned. After a moment, inthe far distance down the long moving corridor, they could see a stockyfigure. The motion of the picture brought him nearer. In a few seconds,he was recognizable as Snader—and as the picture brought him forward,he stepped down out of it and was with them again.     Simple, Snader said. I rode to next station. Then crossed over. Tookother carrier back here.     Brother, that's the best trick I've seen in years, Jeff said. Howdid you do it? Can I do it, too?     I show you. Grinning like a wildcat, Snader linked his arms with Annand Jeff, and walked them toward the screen. Now, he said. Step in.  Jeff submitted to Snader's pressure and stepped cautiously into thescreen. Amazingly, he felt no resistance at all, no sense of change ormotion. It was like stepping through a fog-bank into another room.     In fact, that was what they seemed to have done. They were in thechair-lined corridor. As Snader turned them around and seated them,they faced another moving picture screen. It seemed to rush through adark tunnel toward a lighted square in the far distance.     The square grew on the screen. Soon they saw it was another room likethe waiting room they had left, except that the number hanging from theceiling was 702. They seemed to glide through it. Then they were in thedark tunnel again.     Ann was clutching Jeff's arm. He patted her hand. Fun, hey? Like Alicethrough the looking-glass.     You really think we're going back in time? she whispered.     Hardly! But we're seeing a million-dollar trick. I can't even begin tofigure it out yet.     Another lighted room grew out of the tunnel on the screen, and whenthey had flickered through it, another and then another.     Mr. Snader, Ann said unsteadily, how long—how many years back areyou taking us?     Snader was humming to himself. Six years. Station 725 fine place tostop.     For a little while, Jeff let himself think it might be true. Six yearsago, your dad was alive, he mused to Ann. If this should somehow bereal, we could see him again.     We could if we went to our house. He lived with us then, remember?Would we see ourselves, six years younger? Or would—     Snader took Jeff's arm and pulled him to his feet. The screen wasmoving through a room numbered 724.     Soon now, Snader grunted happily. Then no more questions.     He took an arm of each as he had before. When the screen was filled bya room with the number 725, he propelled them forward into it.       Again there was no sense of motion. They had simply stepped through abright wall they could not feel. They found themselves in a replica ofthe room they had left at 701. On the wall, a picture of the continuousclub-car corridor rolled toward them in a silent, endless stream.     The same room, Ann said in disappointment. They just changed thenumber. We haven't been anywhere.  Snader was fishing under his shirt for the key. He gave Ann a glancethat was almost a leer. Then he carefully unlocked the door.     In the hall, a motherly old lady bustled up, but Snader brushed pasther. Official, he said, showing her the key. No lodging.     He unlocked the front door without another word and carefully shut itbehind them as Jeff and Ann followed him out of the house.     Hey, where's my car? Jeff demanded, looking up and down the street.     The whole street looked different. Where he had parked his roadster,there was now a long black limousine.     Your car is in future, Snader said briskly. Where it belong. Getin. He opened the door of the limousine.     Jeff felt a little flame of excitement licking inside him. Somethingwas happening, he felt. Something exciting and dangerous.     Snader, he said, if you're kidnaping us, you made a mistake. Nobodyon Earth will pay ransom for us.     Snader seemed amused. You are foolish fellow. Silly talk about ransom.You in different time now.     When does this gag stop? Jeff demanded irritably. You haven't fooledus. We're still in 1957.     You are? Look around.     Jeff looked at the street again. He secretly admitted to himselfthat these were different trees and houses than he remembered. Eventhe telephone poles and street lights seemed peculiar, vaguelyforeign-looking. It must be an elaborate practical joke. Snader hadprobably ushered them into one house, then through a tunnel and outanother house.     Get in, Snader said curtly.     Jeff decided to go along with the hoax or whatever it was. He couldsee no serious risk. He helped Ann into the back seat and sat besideher. Snader slammed the door and slid into the driver's seat. Hestarted the engine with a roar and they rocketed away from the curb,narrowly missing another car.     Jeff yelled, Easy, man! Look where you're going!     Snader guffawed. Tonight, you look where you are going.     Ann clung to Jeff. Did you notice the house we came out of?     What about it?     It looked as though they were afraid people might try to break in.There were bars at the windows.     Lots of houses are built that way, honey. Let's see, where are we? Heglanced at house numbers. This is the 800 block. Remember that. Andthe street— He peered up at a sign as they whirled around a corner.The street is Green Thru-Way. I never heard of a street like that.      III     They were headed back toward what should have been the boulevard. Thecar zoomed through a cloverleaf turn and up onto a broad freeway. Jeffknew for certain there was no freeway there in 1957—nor in any earlieryear. But on the horizon, he could see the familiar dark bulk of themountains. The whole line of moonlit ridges was the same as always.     Ann, he said slowly, I think this is for real. Somehow I guess weescaped from 1957. We've been transported in time.     She squeezed his arm. If I'm dreaming, don't wake me! I was scared aminute ago. But now, oh, boy!     Likewise. But I still wonder what Snader's angle is. He leanedforward and tapped the driver on his meaty shoulder. You brought usinto the future instead of the past, didn't you?     It was hard to know whether Snader was sleepy or just bored, but heshrugged briefly to show there was no reply coming. Then he yawned.     Jeff smiled tightly. I guess we'll find out in good time. Let's sitback and enjoy the strangest ride of our lives.     As the limousine swept along through the traffic, there were plentyof big signs for turn-offs, but none gave any hint where they were.The names were unfamiliar. Even the language seemed grotesque. RiteChannel for Creepers, he read. Yaw for Torrey Rushway flared at himfrom a fork in the freeway.     This can't be the future, Ann said. This limousine is almost new,but it doesn't even have an automatic gear shift—     She broke off as the car shot down a ramp off the freeway and pulled upin front of an apartment house. Just beyond was a big shopping center,ablaze with lights and swarming with shoppers. Jeff did not recognizeit, in spite of his familiarity with the city.     Snader bounded out, pulled open the rear door and jerked his head in acommanding gesture. But Jeff did not get out. He told Snader, Let'shave some answers before we go any further.     Snader gave him a hard grin. You hear everything upstairs.     The building appeared harmless enough. Jeff looked thoughtfully at Ann.     She said, It's just an apartment house. We've come this far. Might aswell go in and see what's there.     Snader led them in, up to the sixth floor in an elevator and along acorridor with heavy carpets and soft gold lights. He knocked on a door.  A tall, silver-haired, important-looking man opened it and greeted themheartily.     Solid man, Greet! he exclaimed. You're a real scratcher! And is thisour sharp? He gave Jeff a friendly but appraising look.     Just what you order, Snader said proudly. His name—Jeff Elliott.Fine sharp. Best in his circuit. He brings his lifemate, too. AnnElliott.     The old man rubbed his smooth hands together. Prime! I wish joy, hesaid to Ann and Jeff. I'm Septo Kersey. Come in. Bullen's waiting.     He led them into a spacious drawing room with great windows looking outon the lights of the city. There was a leather chair in a corner, andin it sat a heavy man with a grim mouth. He made no move, but grunteda perfunctory Wish joy when Kersey introduced them. His cold eyesstudied Jeff while Kersey seated them in big chairs.     Snader did not sit down, however. No need for me now, he said, andmoved toward the door with a mocking wave at Ann.     Bullen nodded. You get the rest of your pay when Elliott proves out.     Here, wait a minute! Jeff called. But Snader was gone.     Sit still, Bullen growled to Jeff. You understand radioptics?     The blood went to Jeff's head. My business is television, if that'swhat you mean. What's this about?     Tell him, Kersey, the big man said, and stared out the window.     Kersey began, You understand, I think, that you have come back intime. About six years back.     That's a matter of opinion, but go on.     I am general manager of Continental Radioptic Combine, owned by Mr.Dumont Bullen. He nodded toward the big man. Chromatics have notyet been developed here in connection with radioptics. They are wellunderstood in your time, are they not?     What's chromatics? Color television?     Exactly. You are an expert in—ah—colored television, I think.     Jeff nodded. So what?     The old man beamed at him. You are here to work for our company. Youwill enable us to be first with chromatics in this time wave.     Jeff stood up. Don't tell me who I'll work for.  Bullen slapped a big fist on the arm of his chair. No fog about this!You're bought and paid for, Elliott! You'll get a fair labor contract,but you do what I say!     Why, the man thinks he owns you. Ann laughed shakily.     You'll find my barmen know their law, Bullen said. This isn't theway I like to recruit. But it was only way to get a man with yourknowledge.     Kersey said politely, You are here illegally, with no immigratepermit or citizen file. Therefore you cannot get work. But Mr. Bullenhas taken an interest in your trouble. Through his influence, you canmake a living. We even set aside an apartment in this building for youto live in. You are really very luxe, do you see?     Jeff's legs felt weak. These highbinders seemed brutally confident. Hewondered how he and Ann would find their way home through the strangestreets. But he put on a bold front.     I don't believe your line about time travel and I don't plan to workfor you, he said. My wife and I are walking out right now. Try andstop us, legally or any other way.     Kersey's smooth old face turned hard. But, unexpectedly, Bullenchuckled deep in his throat. Good pop and bang. Like to see it. Goon, walk out. You hang in trouble, call up here—Butterfly 9, ask forBullen. Whole exchange us. I'll meet you here about eleven tomorrowpre-noon.     Don't hold your breath. Let's go, Ann.     When they were on the sidewalk, Ann took a deep breath. We made it.For a minute, I thought there'd be a brawl. Why did they let us go?     No telling. Maybe they're harmless lunatics—or practical jokers. Helooked over his shoulder as they walked down the street, but there wasno sign of pursuit. It's a long time since supper.  Her hand was cold in his and her face was white. To take her mind offtheir problem, he ambled toward the lighted shop windows.     Look at that sign, he said, pointing to a poster over a display ofneckties. 'Sleek neck-sashes, only a Dick and a dollop!' How do theyexpect to sell stuff with that crazy lingo?     It's jive talk. They must cater to the high-school crowd. Annglanced nervously at the strolling people around them. Jeff, whereare we? This isn't any part of the city I've ever seen. It doesn'teven look much like America. Her voice rose. The way the women aredressed—it's not old-fashioned, just different.     Baby, don't be scared. This is an adventure. Let's have fun. Hepressed her hand soothingly and pulled her toward a lunch counter.     If the haberdasher's sign was jive, the restaurant spoke the samejargon. The signs on the wall and the bill of fare were baffling. Jeffpondered the list of beef shingles, scorchers, smack sticks and fruitchills, until he noticed that a couple at the counter were eating whatclearly were hamburgers—though the buns looked more like tortillas.     Jeff jerked his thumb at them and told the waitress, Two, please.     When the sandwiches arrived, they were ordinary enough. He and Ann atein silence. A feeling of foreboding hung over them.     When they finished, the clerk gave him a check marked 1/20. Jeff lookedat it thoughtfully, shrugged and handed it to the cashier with twodollar bills.     The man at the desk glanced at them and laughed. Stage money, eh?     No, that's good money, Jeff assured him with a rather hollow smile.They're just new bills, that's all.     The cashier picked one up and looked at it curiously. I'm afraid it'sno good here, he said, and pushed it back.     The bottom dropped out of Jeff's stomach. What kind of money do youwant? This is all I have.     The cashier's smile faded. He caught the eye of a man in uniform on oneof the stools. The uniform was dark green, but the man acted like apoliceman. He loomed up beside Jeff.     What's the rasper? he demanded. Other customers, waiting to pay theirchecks, eyed Jeff curiously.     I guess I'm in trouble, Jeff told him. I'm a stranger here and I gotsomething to eat under the impression that my money was legal tender.Do you know where I can exchange it?  The officer picked up the dollar bill and fingered it with evidentinterest. He turned it over and studied the printing. United States ofAmerica, he read aloud. What are those?     It's the name of the country I come from, Jeff said carefully.I—uh—got on the wrong train, apparently, and must have come furtherthan I thought. What's the name of this place?     This is Costa, West Goodland, in the Continental Federation. Say, youmust come from an umpty remote part of the world if you don't knowabout this country. His eyes narrowed. Where'd you learn to speakFederal, if you come from so far?     Jeff said helplessly, I can't explain, if you don't know about theUnited States. Listen, can you take me to a bank, or some place wherethey know about foreign exchange?     The policeman scowled. How'd you get into this country, anyway? Yougot immigrate clearance?     An angry muttering started among the bystanders.     The policeman made up his mind. You come with me.     At the police station, Jeff put his elbows dejectedly on the highcounter while the policeman talked to an officer in charge. Some menwhom Jeff took for reporters got up from a table and eased over tolisten.     I don't know whether to charge them with fakemake, bumsy, peekage orlunate, the policeman said as he finished.     His superior gave Jeff a long puzzled stare.     Jeff sighed. I know it sounds impossible, but a man brought me insomething he claimed was a time traveler. You speak the same language Ido—more or less—but everything else is kind of unfamiliar. I belongin the United States, a country in North America. I can't believe I'mso far in the future that the United States has been forgotten.     There ensued a long, confused, inconclusive interrogation.     The man behind the desk asked questions which seemed stupid to Jeff andgot answers which probably seemed stupid to him.     The reporters quizzed Jeff gleefully. Come out, what are youadvertising? they kept asking. Who got you up to this?     The police puzzled over his driver's license and the other cards in hiswallet. They asked repeatedly about the lack of a Work License, whichJeff took to be some sort of union card. Evidently there was gravedoubt that he had any legal right to be in the country.     In the end, Jeff and Ann were locked in separate cells for the night.Jeff groaned and pounded the bars as he thought of his wife, imprisonedand alone in a smelly jail. After hours of pacing the cell, he lay downin the cot and reached automatically for his silver pillbox. Then hehesitated.     In past weeks, his insomnia had grown worse and worse, so that latelyhe had begun taking stronger pills. After a longing glance at thebig red and yellow capsules, he put the box away. Whatever tomorrowbrought, it wouldn't find him slow and drowsy.      IV     He passed a wakeful night. In the early morning, he looked up to see alittle man with a briefcase at his cell door.     Wish joy, Mr. Elliott, the man said coolly. I am one of Mr. Bullen'sbarmen. You know, represent at law? He sent me to arrange your release,if you are ready to be reasonable.     Jeff lay there and put his hands behind his head. I doubt if I'mready. I'm comfortable here. By the way, how did you know where I was?     No problem. When we read in this morning's newspapers about a manclaiming to be a time traveler, we knew.     All right. Now start explaining. Until I understand where I am, Bullenisn't getting me out of here.     The lawyer smiled and sat down. Mr. Kersey told you yesterday—you'vegone back six years. But you'll need some mental gymnastics tounderstand. Time is a dimension, not a stream of events like a moviefilm. A film never changes. Space does—and time does. For example, ifa movie showed a burning house at Sixth and Main, would you expect tofind a house burning whenever you returned to that corner?     You mean to say that if I went back to 1865, I wouldn't find the CivilWar was over and Lincoln had been assassinated?     If you go back to the time you call 1865—which is most easilydone—you will find that the people there know nothing of a Lincoln orthat war.     Jeff looked blank. What are they doing then?     The little man spread his hands. What are the people doing now atSixth and Main? Certainly not the same things they were doing the dayof the fire. We're talking about a dimension, not an event. Don't yougrasp the difference between the two?     Nope. To me, 1865 means the end of the Civil War. How else can youspeak of a point in time except by the events that happened then?     Well, if you go to a place in three-dimensional space—say, a lakein the mountains—how do you identify that place? By looking forlandmarks. It doesn't matter that an eagle is soaring over a mountainpeak. That's only an event. The peak is the landmark. You follow me?     So far. Keep talking.  ","Initially, the Elliotts find Mr. Snader to be peculiar with his mustache, facial scar, traces of a broken nose, and accented speech. Jeff is not interested in engaging with him, but Ann continues to deepen their conversation with him at the restaurant thinking that Mr. Snader is insane and she will humor his ideas.Mr. Snader shows hints of being forceful to the Elliots throughout the story. His persuasiveness to come to his time travel station is forceful at times, he takes their arms to escort them into the future portal (as if he wants to ensure their compliance), and once they are roaming the city in the future Mr. Snader largely drops the act and stops being nice to the Elliots altogether (ignoring their requests for him to drive safely, and being curt with them to get them into his drop off spot with Mr. Bullen).The Elliots are captivated by the silliness of Mr. Snader’s story at first, believing it is a magic trick right up until they travel into the past, and then seem largely blinded by their curiosity and excitement to think critically about how much danger they are really in. They acknowledge Mr. Snader is being deceitful at times, like when Jeff asks for his questions to be answered, but become so reliant on Mr. Snader’s support to get them back home that they remain with him. When Mr. Snader’s plan is revealed - that he has delivered the Eliotts into the past to be forced into labor to create a color television company - they feel betrayed by Mr. Snader."
"What is the plot of the story? </s>     TROUBLE ON TYCHO     By NELSON S. BOND     Isobar and his squeeze-pipes were the bane of     the Moon Station's existence. But there came     the day when his comrades found that the worth     of a man lies sometimes in his nuisance value.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories March 1943.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      The audiophone buzzed thrice—one long, followed by two shorts—andIsobar Jones pressed the stud activating its glowing scanner-disc.     Hummm? he said absent-mindedly.     The selenoplate glowed faintly, and the image of the Dome Commanderappeared.     Report ready, Jones?     Almost, acknowledged Isobar gloomily. It prob'ly ain't right,though. How anybody can be expected to get      anything     right on thisdagnabbed hunk o' green cheese—     Send it up, interrupted Colonel Eagan, as soon as you can. Sparks ismaking Terra contact now. That is all.     That ain't all! declared Isobar indignantly. How about my bag—?     It      was all     , so far as the D.C. was concerned. Isobar was talkingto himself. The plate dulled. Isobar said, Nuts! and returned tohis duties. He jotted neat ditto marks under the word Clear which,six months ago, he had placed beneath the column headed:      Cond. ofObs.     He noted the proper figures under the headings      Sun Spots     :      MaxFreq.     —      Min. Freq.     ; then he sketched careful curves in blue and redink upon the Mercator projection of Earth which was his daily worksheet.     This done, he drew a clean sheet of paper out of his desk drawer,frowned thoughtfully at the tabulated results of his observations, andbegan writing.           Weather forecast for Terra     , he wrote, his pen making scratchingsounds.     The audiophone rasped again. Isobar jabbed the stud and answeredwithout looking.     O.Q., he said wearily. O.Q. I told you it would be ready in a coupleo' minutes. Keep your pants on!     I—er—I beg your pardon, Isobar? queried a mild voice.     Isobar started. His sallow cheeks achieved a sickly salmon hue. Heblinked nervously.     Oh, jumpin' jimminy! he gulped.       You     , Miss Sally! Golly—'scuse me!I didn't realize—     The Dome Commander's niece giggled.     That's all right, Isobar. I just called to ask you about the weatherin Oceania Sector 4B next week. I've got a swimming date at Waikiki,but I won't make the shuttle unless the weather's going to be nice.     It is, promised Isobar. It'll be swell all weekend, Miss Sally.Fine sunshiny weather. You can go.     That's wonderful. Thanks so much, Isobar.     Don't mention it, ma'am, said Isobar, and returned to his work.     South America. Africa. Asia. Pan-Europa. Swiftly he outlined themeteorological prospects for each sector. He enjoyed this part of hisjob. As he wrote forecasts for each area, in his mind's eye he sawhimself enjoying such pastimes as each geographical division's terrainrendered possible.  If home is where the heart is, Horatio Jones—known better as Isobarto his associates at the Experimental Dome on Luna—was a long, longway from home. His lean, gangling frame was immured, and had been forsix tedious Earth months, beneath the      impervite     hemisphere of LunarIII—that frontier outpost which served as a rocket refueling station,teleradio transmission point and meteorological base.     Six solid months! Six sad, dreary months! thought Isobar, Locked upin an airtight Dome like—like a goldfish in a glass bowl! Sunlight?Oh, sure! But filtered through ultraviolet wave-traps so it could notburn, it left the skin pale and lustreless and clammy as the belly of atoad. Fresh air? Pooh! Nothing but that everlasting sickening, scented,reoxygenated stuff gushing from atmo-conditioning units.     Excitement? Adventure? The romance he had been led to expect when hesigned on for frontier service? Bah! Only a weary, monotonous, routineexistence.     A pain! declared Isobar Jones. That's what it is; a pain in thestummick. Not even allowed to—Yeah?     It was Sparks, audioing from the Dome's transmission turret. He said,Hyah, Jonesy! How comes with the report?     Done, said Isobar. I was just gettin' the sheets together for you.     O.Q. But just bring      it     . Nothing else.     Isobar bridled.     I don't know what you're talkin' about.     Oh, no? Well, I'm talking about that squawk-filled doodlesack ofyours, sonny boy. Don't bring that bag-full of noise up here with you.     Isobar said defiantly, It ain't a doodlesack. It's a bagpipe. And Iguess I can play it if I want to—     Not, said Sparks emphatically, in      my     cubby! I've got sensitiveeardrums. Well, stir your stumps! I've got to get the report rollingquick today. Big doings up here.     Yeah? What?     Well, it's Roberts and Brown—     What about 'em?     They've gone Outside to make foundation repairs.     Lucky stiffs! commented Isobar ruefully.     Lucky, no. Stiffs, maybe—if they should meet any Grannies. Well,scoot along. I'm on the ether in four point sixteen minutes.     Be right up, promised Isobar, and, sheets in hand, he ambled from hiscloistered cell toward the central section of the Dome.     He didn't leave Sparks' turret after the sheets were delivered.Instead, he hung around, fidgeting so obtrusively that Riley finallyturned to him in sheer exasperation.     Sweet snakes of Saturn, Jonesy, what's the trouble? Bugs in yourbritches?     Isobar said, H-huh? Oh, you mean—Oh, thanks, no! I just thought mebbeyou wouldn't mind if I—well—er—     I get it! Sparks grinned. Want to play peekaboo while the contact'sopen, eh? Well, O.Q. Watch the birdie!     He twisted dials, adjusted verniers, fingered a host ofincomprehensible keys. Current hummed and howled. Then a plate beforehim cleared, and the voice of the Earth operator came in, enunciatingwith painstaking clarity:     Earth answering Luna. Earth answering Luna's call. Can you hear me,Luna? Can you hear—?     I can not only hear you, snorted Riley, I can see you and smell you,as well. Stop hamming it, stupid! You're lousing up the earth!     The now-visible face of the Earth radioman drew into a grimace ofdispleasure.     Oh, it's      you     ? Funny man, eh? Funny man Riley?     Sure, said Riley agreeably. I'm a scream. Four-alarm Riley,the cosmic comedian—didn't you know? Flick on your dictacoder,oyster-puss; here's the weather report. He read it. '      Weatherforecast for Terra, week of May 15-21     —'     Ask him, whispered Isobar eagerly. Sparks, don't forget to ask him!  Riley motioned for silence, but nodded. He finished the weather report,entered the Dome Commander's log upon the Home Office records, anddictated a short entry from the Luna Biological Commission. Then:     That is all, he concluded.     O.Q., verified the other radioman. Isobar writhed anxiously, proddedRiley's shoulder.     Ask him, Sparks! Go on ask him!     Oh, cut jets, will you? snapped Sparks. The Terra operator lookedstartled.     How's that? I didn't say a word—     Don't be a dope, said Sparks, you dope! I wasn't talking to you.I'm entertaining a visitor, a refugee from a cuckoo clock. Look, do mea favor, chum? Can you twist your mike around so it's pointing out awindow?     What? Why—why, yes, but—     Without buts, said Sparks grumpily. Yours not to reason why; yoursbut to do or don't. Will you do it?     Well, sure. But I don't understand— The silver platter which hadmirrored the radioman's face clouded as the Earth operator twirled theinconoscope. Walls and desks of an ordinary broadcasting office spunbriefly into view; then the plate reflected a glimpse of an Earthlylandscape. Soft blue sky warmed by an atmosphere-shielded sun ... greentrees firmly rooted in still-greener grass ... flowers ... birds ...people....     Enough? asked Sparks.     Isobar Jones awakened from his trance, eyes dulling. Reluctantly henodded. Riley stared at him strangely, almost gently. To the otherradioman, O.Q., pal, he said. Cut!     Cut! agreed the other. The plate blanked out.     Thanks, Sparks, said Isobar.     Nothing, shrugged Riley       He twisted     the mike; not me. But—how comeyou always want to take a squint at Earth when the circuit's open,Jonesy? Homesick?     Sort of, admitted Isobar guiltily.     Well, hell, aren't we all? But we can't leave here for another sixmonths at least. Not till our tricks are up. I should think it'd onlymake you feel worse to see Earth.     It ain't Earth I'm homesick for, explained Isobar. It's—well, it'sthe things that go with it. I mean things like grass and flowers andtrees.     Sparks grinned; a mirthless, lopsided grin.     We've got      them     right here on Luna. Go look out the tower window,Jonesy. The Dome's nestled smack in the middle of the prettiest,greenest little valley you ever saw.     I know, complained Isobar. And that's what makes it even worse. Allthat pretty, soft, green stuff Outside—and we ain't allowed to go outin it. Sometimes I get so mad I'd like to—     To, interrupted a crisp voice, what?     Isobar spun, flushing; his eyes dropped before those of Dome CommanderEagan. He squirmed.     N-nothing, sir. I was only saying—     I heard you, Jones. And please let me hear no more of such talk, sir!It is strictly forbidden for anyone to go Outside except in cases ofabsolute necessity. Such labor as caused Patrolmen Brown and Roberts togo, for example—     Any word from them yet, sir? asked Sparks eagerly.     Not yet. But we're expecting them to return at any minute now. Jones!Where are      you     going?     Why—why, just back to my quarters, sir.     That's what I thought. And what did you plan to do there?     Isobar said stubbornly, Well, I sort of figured I'd amuse myself for awhile—     I thought that, too. And with      what     , pray, Jones?     With the only dratted thing, said Isobar, suddenly petulant, thatgives me any fun around this dagnabbed place! With my bagpipe.  Commander Eagan said, You'd better find some new way of amusingyourself, Jones. Have you read General Order 17?     Isobar said, I seen it. But if you think—     It says, stated Eagan deliberately, '      In order that work or restperiods of the Dome's staff may not be disturbed, it is hereby orderedthat the playing or practicing of all or any musical instruments mustbe discontinued immediately. By order of the Dome Commander     ,' Thatmeans you, Jones!     But, dingbust it! keened Isobar, it don't disturb nobody for me toplay my bagpipes! I know these lunks around here don't appreciate goodmusic, so I always go in my office and lock the door after me—     But the Dome, pointed out Commander Eagan, has an air-conditioningsystem which can't be shut off. The ungodly moans ofyour—er—so-called musical instrument can be heard through the entirestructure.     He suddenly seemed to gain stature.     No, Jones, this order is final! You cannot disrupt our entireorganization for your own—er—amusement.     But— said Isobar.     No!     Isobar wriggled desperately. Life on Luna was sorry enough already.If now they took from him the last remaining solace he had, the lastamusement which lightened his moments of freedom—     Look, Commander! he pleaded, I tell you what I'll do. I won't bothernobody. I'll go Outside and play it—     Outside! Eagan stared at him incredulously. Are you mad? How aboutthe Grannies?     Isobar knew all about the Grannies. The only mobile form of lifefound by space-questing man on Earth's satellite, their name was anabbreviation of the descriptive one applied to them by the first Lunarexployers: Granitebacks. This was no exaggeration; if anything, it wasan understatement. For the Grannies, though possessed of certain lowintelligence, had quickly proven themselves a deadly, unyielding andimplacable foe.     Worse yet, they were an enemy almost indestructible! No man had everyet brought to Earth laboratories the carcass of a Grannie; sciencewas completely baffled in its endeavors to explain the composition ofGraniteback physiology—but it was known, from bitter experience, thatthe carapace or exoskeleton of the Grannies was formed of somethingharder than steel, diamond, or battleplate! This flesh could bepenetrated by no weapon known to man; neither by steel nor flame,by electronic nor ionic wave, nor by the lethal, newly discoveredatomo-needle dispenser.     All this Isobar knew about the Grannies. Yet:     They ain't been any Grannies seen around the Dome, he said, fora 'coon's age. Anyhow, if I seen any comin', I could run right backinside—     No! said Commander Eagan flatly. Absolutely,      no     ! I have no timefor such nonsense. You know the orders—obey them! And now, gentlemen,good afternoon!     He left. Sparks turned to Isobar, grinning.     Well, he said, one man's fish—hey, Jonesy? Too bad you can't playyour doodlesack any more, but frankly, I'm just as glad. Of all theawful screeching wails—     But Isobar Jones, generally mild and gentle, was now in a perfectfury. His pale eyes blazed, he stomped his foot on the floor, and fromhis lips poured a stream of such angry invective that Riley lookedstartled. Words that, to Isobar, were the utter dregs of violentprofanity.     Oh, dagnab it! fumed Isobar Jones. Oh, tarnation and dingbust!Oh—      fiddlesticks     !      II     And so, chuckled Riley, he left, bubbling like a kettle on a red-hotoven. But, boy! was he ever mad! Just about ready to bust, he was.     Some minutes had passed since Isobar had left; Riley was talking to Dr.Loesch, head of the Dome's Physics Research Division. The older mannodded commiseratingly.     It is funny, yes, he agreed, but at the same time it is notaltogether amusing. I feel sorry for him. He is a very unhappy man, ourpoor Isobar.     Yeah, I know, said Riley, but, hell, we all get a little bithomesick now and then. He ought to learn to—     Excuse me, my boy, interrupted the aged physicist, his voice gentle,it is not mere homesickness that troubles our friend. It is somethingdeeper, much more vital and serious. It is what my people call:      weltschmertz     . There is no accurate translation in English. It means'world sickness,' or better, 'world weariness'—something like that butintensified a thousandfold.     It is a deeply-rooted mental condition, sometimes a dangerous frameof mind. Under its grip, men do wild things. Hating the world on whichthey find themselves, they rebel in curious ways. Suicide ... mad actsof valor ... deeds of cunning or knavery....     You mean, demanded Sparks anxiously, Isobar ain't got all hisbuttons?     Not that exactly. He is perfectly sane. But he is in a dark morassof despair. He may try      anything     to retrieve his lost happiness, ridhis soul of its dark oppression. His world-sickness is like a cryinghunger—By the way, where is he now?     Below, I guess. In his quarters.     Ah, good! Perhaps he is sleeping. Let us hope so. In slumber he willfind peace and forgetfulness.     But Dr. Loesch would have been far less sanguine had some power thegiftie gi'en him of watching Isobar Jones at that moment.     Isobar was not asleep. Far from it. Wide awake and very much astir, hewas acting in a singularly sinister role: that of a slinking, furtiveculprit.     Returning to his private cubicle after his conversation with DomeCommander Eagan, he had stalked straightway to the cabinet wherein wasencased his precious set of bagpipes. These he had taken from theirpegs, gazed upon defiantly, and fondled with almost parental affection.     So I can't play you, huh? he muttered darkly. It disturbs the peaceo' the dingfounded, dumblasted Dome staff, does it? Well, we'll      see     about that!     And tucking the bag under his arm, he had cautiously slipped from theroom, down little-used corridors, and now he stood before the huge      impervite     gates which were the entrance to the Dome and the doorwayto Outside.     On all save those occasions when a spacecraft landed in the cradleadjacent the gateway, these portals were doubly locked and barred. Buttoday they had been unbolted that the two maintenance men might ventureout. And since it was quite possible that Brown and Roberts might haveto get inside in a hurry, their bolts remained drawn. Sole guardian ofthe entrance was a very bored Junior Patrolman.     Up to this worthy strode Isobar Jones, confident and assured, exudingan aura of propriety.     Very well, Wilkins, he said. I'll take over now. You may go to themeeting.     Wilkins looked at him bewilderedly.     Huh? Whuzzat, Mr. Jones?     Isobar's eyebrows arched.     You mean you haven't been notified?     Notified of      what     ?     Why, the general council of all Patrolmen! Weren't you told that Iwould take your place here while you reported to G.H.Q.?     I ain't, puzzled Wilkins, heard nothing about it. Maybe I ought tocall the office, maybe?     And he moved the wall-audio. But Isobar said swiftly. That—er—won'tbe necessary, Wilkins. My orders were plain enough. Now, you just runalong. I'll watch this entrance for you.     We-e-ell, said Wilkins, if you say so. Orders is orders. But keep asharp eye out, Mister Jones, in case Roberts and Brown should come backsudden-like.     I will, promised Isobar, don't worry.  Wilkins moved away. Isobar waited until the Patrolman was completelyout of sight. Then swiftly he pulled open the massive gate, slippedthrough, and closed it behind him.     A flood of warmth, exhilarating after the constantly regulatedtemperature of the Dome, descended upon him. Fresh air, thin, butfragrant with the scent of growing things, made his pulses stir withjoyous abandon. He was Outside! He was Outside, in good sunlight, atlast! After six long and dreary months!     Raptly, blissfully, all thought of caution tossed to the gentle breezesthat ruffled his sparse hair, Isobar Jones stepped forward into thelunar valley....     How long he wandered thus, carefree and utterly content, he could notafterward say. It seemed like minutes; it must have been longer. Heonly knew that the grass was green beneath his feet, the trees were alacy network through which warm sunlight filtered benevolently, thechirrupings of small insects and the rustling whisper of the breezesformed a tiny symphony of happiness through which he moved as onecharmed.     It did not occur to him that he had wandered too far from the Dome'sentrance until, strolling through an enchanting flower-decked glade, hewas startled to hear—off to his right—the sharp, explosive bark of aHaemholtz ray pistol.     He whirled, staring about him wildly, and discovered that though hismeandering had kept him near the Dome, he had unconsciously followedits hemispherical perimeter to a point nearly two miles from theGateway. By the placement of ports and windows, Isobar was able tojudge his location perfectly; he was opposite that portion of thestructure which housed Sparks' radio turret.     And the shooting? That could only be—     He did not have to name its reason, even to himself. For at thatmoment, there came racing around the curve of the Dome a pair offigures, Patrolmen clad in fatigue drab. Roberts and Brown. Roberts wasstaggering, one foot dragged awkwardly as he ran; Brown's left arm,bloodstained from shoulder to elbow, hung limply at his side, but inhis good right fist he held a spitting Haemholtz with which he tried tocover his comrade's sluggish retreat.     And behind these two, grim, grey, gaunt figures that moved withastonishing speed despite their massive bulk, came three ... six ... adozen of those lunarites whom all men feared. The Grannies!      III     Simultaneously with his recognition of the pair, Joe Roberts saw him. Agasp of relief escaped the wounded man.     Jones! Thank the Lord! Then you picked up our cry for help? Quick,man—where is it? Theres not a moment to waste!     W-where, faltered Isobar feebly, is      what     ?     The tank, of course! Didn't you hear our telecast? We can't possiblymake it back to the gate without an armored car. My foot's broken,and— Roberts stopped suddenly, an abrupt horror in his eyes. Youdon't have one! You're here      alone     ! Then you didn't pick up our call?But, why—?     Never mind that, snapped Isobar, now! Placid by nature, he couldmove when urgency drove. His quick mind saw the immediateness of theirperil. Unarmed, he could not help the Patrolmen fight a delaying actionagainst their foes, nor could he hasten their retreat. Anyway, weaponswere useless, and time was of the essence. There was but one temporaryway of staving off disaster. Over here ... this tree! Quick! Up yougo! Give him a lift, Brown—There! That's the stuff!     He was the last to scramble up the gnarled bole to a tentative leafysanctuary. He had barely gained the security of the lowermost boughwhen a thundering crash resounded, the sturdy trunk trembled beneathhis clutch. Stony claws gouged yellow parallels in the bark scantinches beneath one kicking foot, then the Granny fell back with a thud.The Graniteback was      not     a climber. It was far too ungainly, much tooweighty for that.     Roberts said weakly, Th-thanks, Jonesy! That was a close call.     That goes for me, too, Jonesy, added Brown from an upper bough.But I'm afraid you just delayed matters. This tree's O.Q. as longas it lasts, but— He stared down upon the gathering knot ofGrannies unhappily—it's not going to last long with that bunch ofsuperdreadnaughts working out on it! Hold tight, fellows! Here theycome!     For the Grannies, who had huddled for a moment as if in telepathicconsultation, now joined forces, turned, and as one body chargedheadlong toward the tree. The unified force of their attack was likethe shattering impact of a battering ram. Bark rasped and grittedbeneath the besieged men's hands, dry leaves and twigs pelted aboutthem in a tiny rain, tormented fibrous sinews groaned as the agedforest monarch shuddered in agony.     Desperately they clung to their perches. Though the great tree bent, itdid not break. But when it stopped trembling, it was canted drunkenlyto one side, and the erstwhile solid earth about its base was brokenand cracked—revealing fleshy tentacles uprooted from ancient moorings!  Brown stared at this evidence of the Grannies' power withterror-fascinated eyes. His voice was none too firm.     Lord! Piledrivers! A couple more like that—     Isobar nodded. He knew what falling into the clutch of the Granniesmeant. He had once seen the grisly aftermath of a Graniteback feast.Even now their adversaries had drawn back for a second attack. A suddenidea struck him. A straw of hope at which he grasped feverishly.     You telecast a message to the Dome? Help should be on the way by now.If we can just hold out—     But Roberts shook his head.     We sent a message, Jonesy, but I don't think it got through. I've justbeen looking at my portable. It seems to be busted. Happened when theyfirst attacked us, I guess. I tripped and fell on it.     Isobar's last hope flickered out.     Then I—I guess it won't be long now, he mourned. If we could haveonly got a message through, they would have sent out an armored car topick us up. But as it is—     Brown's shrug displayed a bravado he did not feel.     Well, that's the way it goes. We knew what we were risking when wevolunteered to come Outside. This damn moon! It'll never be wortha plugged credit until men find some way to fight those murderousstones-on-legs!     Roberts said, That's right. But what are      you     doing out here, Isobar?And why, for Pete's sake, the bagpipes?     Oh—the pipes? Isobar flushed painfully. He had almost forgottenhis original reason for adventuring Outside, had quite forgottenhis instrument, and was now rather amazed to discover that somehowthroughout all the excitement he had held onto it. Why, I justhappened to—Oh!      the pipes!          Hold on! roared Roberts. His warning came just in time. Once more,the three tree-sitters shook like dried peas in a pod as their leafyrefuge trembled before the locomotive onslaught of the lunar beasts.This time the already-exposed roots strained and lifted, severalsnapped; when the Grannies again withdrew, complacently unaware thatthe lethal ray of Brown's Haemholtz was wasting itself upon theiradamant hides in futile fury, the tree was bent at a precarious angle.     Brown sobbed, not with fear but with impotent anger, and in a gestureof enraged desperation, hurled his now-empty weapon at the retreatingGrannies.     No good! Not a damn bit of good! Oh, if there was only some way offighting those filthy things—     But Isobar Jones had a one-track mind. The pipes! he cried again,excitedly. That's the answer! And he drew the instrument into playingposition, bag cuddled beneath one arm-pit, drones stiffly erect overhis shoulder, blow-pipe at his lips. His cheeks puffed, his breathexpelled. The giant lung swelled, the chaunter emitted its distinctive,fearsome,       Kaa-aa-o-o-o-oro-oong!          Roberts moaned.     Oh, Lord! A guy can't even die in peace!     And Brown stared at him hopelessly.     It's no use, Isobar. You trying to scare them off? They have no senseof hearing. That's been proven—     Isobar took his lips from the reed to explain.     It's not that. I'm trying to rouse the boys in the Dome. We're rightopposite the atmosphere-conditioning-unit. See that grilled duct overthere? That's an inhalation-vent. The portable transmitter's out oforder, and our voices ain't strong enough to carry into the Dome—butthe sound of these pipes is! And Commander Eagan told me just a shortwhile ago that the sound of the pipes carries all over the building!     If they hear this, they'll get mad because I'm disobeyin' orders.They'll start lookin' for me. If they can't find me inside, maybethey'll look Outside. See that window? That's Sparks' turret. If we canmake him look out here—           Stop talking!      roared Roberts. Stop talking, guy, and startblowing! I think you've got something there. Anyhow, it's our lasthope.      Blow!          And quick! appended Brown. For here they come!        Isobar played, blew with all his might, while the Grannies raged below.        He meant the Grannies. Again they were huddling for attack, once more,a solid phalanx of indestructible, granite flesh, they were smashingdown upon the tree.           Haa-a-roong!      blew Isobar Jones.      IV     And—even he could not have foreseen the astounding results ofhis piping! What happened next was as astonishing as it wasincomprehensible. For as the pipes, filled now and primed to burst intowhatever substitute for melody they were prodded into, wailed intoaction—the Grannies' rush came to an abrupt halt!     As one, they stopped cold in their tracks and turned dull, colorless,questioning eyes upward into the tree whence came this weird andvibrant droning!     So stunned with surprise was Isobar that his grip on the pipes relaxed,his lips almost slipped from the reed. But Brown's delighted bellowlifted his paralysis.     Sacred rings of Saturn-look! They      like     it! Keep playing, Jonesy!Play, boy, like you never played before!     And Roberts roared, above the skirling of the      piobaireachd     intowhich Isobar had instinctively swung, Music hath charms to soothe thesavage beast! Then we were wrong. They      can     hear, after all! See that?They're lying down to listen—like so many lambs! Keep playing, Isobar!For once in my life I'm glad to hear that lovely, wonderful music!     Isobar needed no urging. He, too, had noted how the Grannies' attackhad stopped, how every last one of the gaunt grey beasts had suddenly,quietly, almost happily, dropped to its haunches at the base of thetree.     There was no doubt about it; the Grannies      liked     this music. Eyesraptly fixed, unblinking, unwavering, they froze into postures ofgentle beatitude. One stirred once, dangerously, as for a moment Isobarpaused to catch his breath, but Isobar hastily lipped the blow-pipewith redoubled eagerness, and the Granny relapsed into quietude.     Followed then what, under somewhat different circumstances, should havebeen a piper's dream. For Isobar had an audience which would not—andin two cases      dared     not—allow him to stop playing. And to thisaudience he played over and over again his entire repertoire. Marches,flings, dances—the stirring      Rhoderik Dhu     and the lilting      LassiesO'Skye     , the mournful      Coghiegh nha Shie     whose keening is like thesound of a sobbing nation.       The Cock o' the North     , he played, and      Mironton     ...      Wee Flow'r o'Dee     and      MacArthur's March     ...      La Cucuracha     and—     And his lungs were parched, his lips dry as swabs of cotton. Bloodpounded through his temples, throbbing in time to the drone of thechaunter, and a dark mist gathered before his eyes. He tore theblow-pipe from his lips, gasped,     Keep playing! came the dim, distant howl of Johnny Brown. Just a fewminutes longer, Jonesy! Relief is on the way. Sparks saw us from histurret window five minutes ago!     And Isobar played on. How, or what, he did not know. The memory ofthose next few minutes was never afterward clear in his mind. All heknew was that above the skirling drone of his pipes there came anothersound, the metallic clanking of a man-made machine ... an armored tank,sent from the Dome to rescue the beleaguered trio.     He was conscious, then, of a friendly voice shouting words ofencouragement, of Joe Roberts calling a warning to those below.     Careful, boys! Drive the tank right up beneath us so we can hop in andget out of here! Watch the Grannies—they'll be after us the minuteIsobar stops playing!     Then the answer from below. The fantastic answer in Sparks' familiarvoice. The answer that caused the bagpipes to slip from Isobar'sfingers as Isobar Jones passed out in a dead faint:     After you? Those Grannies? Hell's howling acres—      those Grannies arestone dead     !  ","Isobar Jones’ first call of the day was from Dome Commander Colonel Eagon telling him to deliver his weather reports to Riley Sparks, the Terra contact, ASAP. He works diligently but is soon called again, this time by Eagon’s niece who wants to know about the weather in a certain sector. Shyly, he answers then quickly finished his work. Sparks calls him and asks him to bring his reports to him, as well as informing him that Roberts and Browns were sent Outside for repair work. Sparks makes fun of Isobar’s bagpipes. In Sparks’ office, Isobar delivers his work then waits for him to make the call. Once he’s delivered the report, Sparks asks the Earthman to turn his microphone around. As he does so, the video changes from his face to that of Earth, beautiful trees, and green grass. Isobar is grateful to Sparks and tells him so. They talk about Isobar’s homesickness until Colonel Eagon walks in to hear them discussing the Outisde. He quickly shuts it down and informs Isobar that it is now forbidden for him to play his bagpipe, due to the horrendous noise. Beyond frustrated, Isobar runs back to his rooms, grabs his bagpipes, and sneaks his way Outside by tricking the patrolman. Once he’s breathing in the thin air, he calms down and makes his way two miles out from the gate. Suddenly, he hears the sound of a gun and is brought back to reality. Roberts and Brown rush into view, both injured but grateful to see him, thinking he answered their distress call. However, he didn’t bring an armored tank with him, only a pair of bagpipes. A dozen Granniebacks run behind them, so Isobar helps Roberts and Brown climb a tree to escape. The Grannies are unable to climb trees due to their significant size, but they can tear it down. As they pull and heave on the trunk, Isobar has the idea to play his bagpipes so the Dome will hear it and come looking for them. Roberts thinks it’s a good idea, so he begins to play, and slowly the Grannies all relax and lay down on the ground. They’re all amazed, but when Isobar stops playing, one of the Grannies starts to move again. He plays his entire repertoire and more before the armored tank arrives. The men from the dome reveal that the Grannies are dead, and the sound of the bagpipes must be what killed them. Isobar saved the team. "
"What is the significance of the bagpipes? </s>     TROUBLE ON TYCHO     By NELSON S. BOND     Isobar and his squeeze-pipes were the bane of     the Moon Station's existence. But there came     the day when his comrades found that the worth     of a man lies sometimes in his nuisance value.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories March 1943.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      The audiophone buzzed thrice—one long, followed by two shorts—andIsobar Jones pressed the stud activating its glowing scanner-disc.     Hummm? he said absent-mindedly.     The selenoplate glowed faintly, and the image of the Dome Commanderappeared.     Report ready, Jones?     Almost, acknowledged Isobar gloomily. It prob'ly ain't right,though. How anybody can be expected to get      anything     right on thisdagnabbed hunk o' green cheese—     Send it up, interrupted Colonel Eagan, as soon as you can. Sparks ismaking Terra contact now. That is all.     That ain't all! declared Isobar indignantly. How about my bag—?     It      was all     , so far as the D.C. was concerned. Isobar was talkingto himself. The plate dulled. Isobar said, Nuts! and returned tohis duties. He jotted neat ditto marks under the word Clear which,six months ago, he had placed beneath the column headed:      Cond. ofObs.     He noted the proper figures under the headings      Sun Spots     :      MaxFreq.     —      Min. Freq.     ; then he sketched careful curves in blue and redink upon the Mercator projection of Earth which was his daily worksheet.     This done, he drew a clean sheet of paper out of his desk drawer,frowned thoughtfully at the tabulated results of his observations, andbegan writing.           Weather forecast for Terra     , he wrote, his pen making scratchingsounds.     The audiophone rasped again. Isobar jabbed the stud and answeredwithout looking.     O.Q., he said wearily. O.Q. I told you it would be ready in a coupleo' minutes. Keep your pants on!     I—er—I beg your pardon, Isobar? queried a mild voice.     Isobar started. His sallow cheeks achieved a sickly salmon hue. Heblinked nervously.     Oh, jumpin' jimminy! he gulped.       You     , Miss Sally! Golly—'scuse me!I didn't realize—     The Dome Commander's niece giggled.     That's all right, Isobar. I just called to ask you about the weatherin Oceania Sector 4B next week. I've got a swimming date at Waikiki,but I won't make the shuttle unless the weather's going to be nice.     It is, promised Isobar. It'll be swell all weekend, Miss Sally.Fine sunshiny weather. You can go.     That's wonderful. Thanks so much, Isobar.     Don't mention it, ma'am, said Isobar, and returned to his work.     South America. Africa. Asia. Pan-Europa. Swiftly he outlined themeteorological prospects for each sector. He enjoyed this part of hisjob. As he wrote forecasts for each area, in his mind's eye he sawhimself enjoying such pastimes as each geographical division's terrainrendered possible.  If home is where the heart is, Horatio Jones—known better as Isobarto his associates at the Experimental Dome on Luna—was a long, longway from home. His lean, gangling frame was immured, and had been forsix tedious Earth months, beneath the      impervite     hemisphere of LunarIII—that frontier outpost which served as a rocket refueling station,teleradio transmission point and meteorological base.     Six solid months! Six sad, dreary months! thought Isobar, Locked upin an airtight Dome like—like a goldfish in a glass bowl! Sunlight?Oh, sure! But filtered through ultraviolet wave-traps so it could notburn, it left the skin pale and lustreless and clammy as the belly of atoad. Fresh air? Pooh! Nothing but that everlasting sickening, scented,reoxygenated stuff gushing from atmo-conditioning units.     Excitement? Adventure? The romance he had been led to expect when hesigned on for frontier service? Bah! Only a weary, monotonous, routineexistence.     A pain! declared Isobar Jones. That's what it is; a pain in thestummick. Not even allowed to—Yeah?     It was Sparks, audioing from the Dome's transmission turret. He said,Hyah, Jonesy! How comes with the report?     Done, said Isobar. I was just gettin' the sheets together for you.     O.Q. But just bring      it     . Nothing else.     Isobar bridled.     I don't know what you're talkin' about.     Oh, no? Well, I'm talking about that squawk-filled doodlesack ofyours, sonny boy. Don't bring that bag-full of noise up here with you.     Isobar said defiantly, It ain't a doodlesack. It's a bagpipe. And Iguess I can play it if I want to—     Not, said Sparks emphatically, in      my     cubby! I've got sensitiveeardrums. Well, stir your stumps! I've got to get the report rollingquick today. Big doings up here.     Yeah? What?     Well, it's Roberts and Brown—     What about 'em?     They've gone Outside to make foundation repairs.     Lucky stiffs! commented Isobar ruefully.     Lucky, no. Stiffs, maybe—if they should meet any Grannies. Well,scoot along. I'm on the ether in four point sixteen minutes.     Be right up, promised Isobar, and, sheets in hand, he ambled from hiscloistered cell toward the central section of the Dome.     He didn't leave Sparks' turret after the sheets were delivered.Instead, he hung around, fidgeting so obtrusively that Riley finallyturned to him in sheer exasperation.     Sweet snakes of Saturn, Jonesy, what's the trouble? Bugs in yourbritches?     Isobar said, H-huh? Oh, you mean—Oh, thanks, no! I just thought mebbeyou wouldn't mind if I—well—er—     I get it! Sparks grinned. Want to play peekaboo while the contact'sopen, eh? Well, O.Q. Watch the birdie!     He twisted dials, adjusted verniers, fingered a host ofincomprehensible keys. Current hummed and howled. Then a plate beforehim cleared, and the voice of the Earth operator came in, enunciatingwith painstaking clarity:     Earth answering Luna. Earth answering Luna's call. Can you hear me,Luna? Can you hear—?     I can not only hear you, snorted Riley, I can see you and smell you,as well. Stop hamming it, stupid! You're lousing up the earth!     The now-visible face of the Earth radioman drew into a grimace ofdispleasure.     Oh, it's      you     ? Funny man, eh? Funny man Riley?     Sure, said Riley agreeably. I'm a scream. Four-alarm Riley,the cosmic comedian—didn't you know? Flick on your dictacoder,oyster-puss; here's the weather report. He read it. '      Weatherforecast for Terra, week of May 15-21     —'     Ask him, whispered Isobar eagerly. Sparks, don't forget to ask him!  Riley motioned for silence, but nodded. He finished the weather report,entered the Dome Commander's log upon the Home Office records, anddictated a short entry from the Luna Biological Commission. Then:     That is all, he concluded.     O.Q., verified the other radioman. Isobar writhed anxiously, proddedRiley's shoulder.     Ask him, Sparks! Go on ask him!     Oh, cut jets, will you? snapped Sparks. The Terra operator lookedstartled.     How's that? I didn't say a word—     Don't be a dope, said Sparks, you dope! I wasn't talking to you.I'm entertaining a visitor, a refugee from a cuckoo clock. Look, do mea favor, chum? Can you twist your mike around so it's pointing out awindow?     What? Why—why, yes, but—     Without buts, said Sparks grumpily. Yours not to reason why; yoursbut to do or don't. Will you do it?     Well, sure. But I don't understand— The silver platter which hadmirrored the radioman's face clouded as the Earth operator twirled theinconoscope. Walls and desks of an ordinary broadcasting office spunbriefly into view; then the plate reflected a glimpse of an Earthlylandscape. Soft blue sky warmed by an atmosphere-shielded sun ... greentrees firmly rooted in still-greener grass ... flowers ... birds ...people....     Enough? asked Sparks.     Isobar Jones awakened from his trance, eyes dulling. Reluctantly henodded. Riley stared at him strangely, almost gently. To the otherradioman, O.Q., pal, he said. Cut!     Cut! agreed the other. The plate blanked out.     Thanks, Sparks, said Isobar.     Nothing, shrugged Riley       He twisted     the mike; not me. But—how comeyou always want to take a squint at Earth when the circuit's open,Jonesy? Homesick?     Sort of, admitted Isobar guiltily.     Well, hell, aren't we all? But we can't leave here for another sixmonths at least. Not till our tricks are up. I should think it'd onlymake you feel worse to see Earth.     It ain't Earth I'm homesick for, explained Isobar. It's—well, it'sthe things that go with it. I mean things like grass and flowers andtrees.     Sparks grinned; a mirthless, lopsided grin.     We've got      them     right here on Luna. Go look out the tower window,Jonesy. The Dome's nestled smack in the middle of the prettiest,greenest little valley you ever saw.     I know, complained Isobar. And that's what makes it even worse. Allthat pretty, soft, green stuff Outside—and we ain't allowed to go outin it. Sometimes I get so mad I'd like to—     To, interrupted a crisp voice, what?     Isobar spun, flushing; his eyes dropped before those of Dome CommanderEagan. He squirmed.     N-nothing, sir. I was only saying—     I heard you, Jones. And please let me hear no more of such talk, sir!It is strictly forbidden for anyone to go Outside except in cases ofabsolute necessity. Such labor as caused Patrolmen Brown and Roberts togo, for example—     Any word from them yet, sir? asked Sparks eagerly.     Not yet. But we're expecting them to return at any minute now. Jones!Where are      you     going?     Why—why, just back to my quarters, sir.     That's what I thought. And what did you plan to do there?     Isobar said stubbornly, Well, I sort of figured I'd amuse myself for awhile—     I thought that, too. And with      what     , pray, Jones?     With the only dratted thing, said Isobar, suddenly petulant, thatgives me any fun around this dagnabbed place! With my bagpipe.  Commander Eagan said, You'd better find some new way of amusingyourself, Jones. Have you read General Order 17?     Isobar said, I seen it. But if you think—     It says, stated Eagan deliberately, '      In order that work or restperiods of the Dome's staff may not be disturbed, it is hereby orderedthat the playing or practicing of all or any musical instruments mustbe discontinued immediately. By order of the Dome Commander     ,' Thatmeans you, Jones!     But, dingbust it! keened Isobar, it don't disturb nobody for me toplay my bagpipes! I know these lunks around here don't appreciate goodmusic, so I always go in my office and lock the door after me—     But the Dome, pointed out Commander Eagan, has an air-conditioningsystem which can't be shut off. The ungodly moans ofyour—er—so-called musical instrument can be heard through the entirestructure.     He suddenly seemed to gain stature.     No, Jones, this order is final! You cannot disrupt our entireorganization for your own—er—amusement.     But— said Isobar.     No!     Isobar wriggled desperately. Life on Luna was sorry enough already.If now they took from him the last remaining solace he had, the lastamusement which lightened his moments of freedom—     Look, Commander! he pleaded, I tell you what I'll do. I won't bothernobody. I'll go Outside and play it—     Outside! Eagan stared at him incredulously. Are you mad? How aboutthe Grannies?     Isobar knew all about the Grannies. The only mobile form of lifefound by space-questing man on Earth's satellite, their name was anabbreviation of the descriptive one applied to them by the first Lunarexployers: Granitebacks. This was no exaggeration; if anything, it wasan understatement. For the Grannies, though possessed of certain lowintelligence, had quickly proven themselves a deadly, unyielding andimplacable foe.     Worse yet, they were an enemy almost indestructible! No man had everyet brought to Earth laboratories the carcass of a Grannie; sciencewas completely baffled in its endeavors to explain the composition ofGraniteback physiology—but it was known, from bitter experience, thatthe carapace or exoskeleton of the Grannies was formed of somethingharder than steel, diamond, or battleplate! This flesh could bepenetrated by no weapon known to man; neither by steel nor flame,by electronic nor ionic wave, nor by the lethal, newly discoveredatomo-needle dispenser.     All this Isobar knew about the Grannies. Yet:     They ain't been any Grannies seen around the Dome, he said, fora 'coon's age. Anyhow, if I seen any comin', I could run right backinside—     No! said Commander Eagan flatly. Absolutely,      no     ! I have no timefor such nonsense. You know the orders—obey them! And now, gentlemen,good afternoon!     He left. Sparks turned to Isobar, grinning.     Well, he said, one man's fish—hey, Jonesy? Too bad you can't playyour doodlesack any more, but frankly, I'm just as glad. Of all theawful screeching wails—     But Isobar Jones, generally mild and gentle, was now in a perfectfury. His pale eyes blazed, he stomped his foot on the floor, and fromhis lips poured a stream of such angry invective that Riley lookedstartled. Words that, to Isobar, were the utter dregs of violentprofanity.     Oh, dagnab it! fumed Isobar Jones. Oh, tarnation and dingbust!Oh—      fiddlesticks     !      II     And so, chuckled Riley, he left, bubbling like a kettle on a red-hotoven. But, boy! was he ever mad! Just about ready to bust, he was.     Some minutes had passed since Isobar had left; Riley was talking to Dr.Loesch, head of the Dome's Physics Research Division. The older mannodded commiseratingly.     It is funny, yes, he agreed, but at the same time it is notaltogether amusing. I feel sorry for him. He is a very unhappy man, ourpoor Isobar.     Yeah, I know, said Riley, but, hell, we all get a little bithomesick now and then. He ought to learn to—     Excuse me, my boy, interrupted the aged physicist, his voice gentle,it is not mere homesickness that troubles our friend. It is somethingdeeper, much more vital and serious. It is what my people call:      weltschmertz     . There is no accurate translation in English. It means'world sickness,' or better, 'world weariness'—something like that butintensified a thousandfold.     It is a deeply-rooted mental condition, sometimes a dangerous frameof mind. Under its grip, men do wild things. Hating the world on whichthey find themselves, they rebel in curious ways. Suicide ... mad actsof valor ... deeds of cunning or knavery....     You mean, demanded Sparks anxiously, Isobar ain't got all hisbuttons?     Not that exactly. He is perfectly sane. But he is in a dark morassof despair. He may try      anything     to retrieve his lost happiness, ridhis soul of its dark oppression. His world-sickness is like a cryinghunger—By the way, where is he now?     Below, I guess. In his quarters.     Ah, good! Perhaps he is sleeping. Let us hope so. In slumber he willfind peace and forgetfulness.     But Dr. Loesch would have been far less sanguine had some power thegiftie gi'en him of watching Isobar Jones at that moment.     Isobar was not asleep. Far from it. Wide awake and very much astir, hewas acting in a singularly sinister role: that of a slinking, furtiveculprit.     Returning to his private cubicle after his conversation with DomeCommander Eagan, he had stalked straightway to the cabinet wherein wasencased his precious set of bagpipes. These he had taken from theirpegs, gazed upon defiantly, and fondled with almost parental affection.     So I can't play you, huh? he muttered darkly. It disturbs the peaceo' the dingfounded, dumblasted Dome staff, does it? Well, we'll      see     about that!     And tucking the bag under his arm, he had cautiously slipped from theroom, down little-used corridors, and now he stood before the huge      impervite     gates which were the entrance to the Dome and the doorwayto Outside.     On all save those occasions when a spacecraft landed in the cradleadjacent the gateway, these portals were doubly locked and barred. Buttoday they had been unbolted that the two maintenance men might ventureout. And since it was quite possible that Brown and Roberts might haveto get inside in a hurry, their bolts remained drawn. Sole guardian ofthe entrance was a very bored Junior Patrolman.     Up to this worthy strode Isobar Jones, confident and assured, exudingan aura of propriety.     Very well, Wilkins, he said. I'll take over now. You may go to themeeting.     Wilkins looked at him bewilderedly.     Huh? Whuzzat, Mr. Jones?     Isobar's eyebrows arched.     You mean you haven't been notified?     Notified of      what     ?     Why, the general council of all Patrolmen! Weren't you told that Iwould take your place here while you reported to G.H.Q.?     I ain't, puzzled Wilkins, heard nothing about it. Maybe I ought tocall the office, maybe?     And he moved the wall-audio. But Isobar said swiftly. That—er—won'tbe necessary, Wilkins. My orders were plain enough. Now, you just runalong. I'll watch this entrance for you.     We-e-ell, said Wilkins, if you say so. Orders is orders. But keep asharp eye out, Mister Jones, in case Roberts and Brown should come backsudden-like.     I will, promised Isobar, don't worry.  Wilkins moved away. Isobar waited until the Patrolman was completelyout of sight. Then swiftly he pulled open the massive gate, slippedthrough, and closed it behind him.     A flood of warmth, exhilarating after the constantly regulatedtemperature of the Dome, descended upon him. Fresh air, thin, butfragrant with the scent of growing things, made his pulses stir withjoyous abandon. He was Outside! He was Outside, in good sunlight, atlast! After six long and dreary months!     Raptly, blissfully, all thought of caution tossed to the gentle breezesthat ruffled his sparse hair, Isobar Jones stepped forward into thelunar valley....     How long he wandered thus, carefree and utterly content, he could notafterward say. It seemed like minutes; it must have been longer. Heonly knew that the grass was green beneath his feet, the trees were alacy network through which warm sunlight filtered benevolently, thechirrupings of small insects and the rustling whisper of the breezesformed a tiny symphony of happiness through which he moved as onecharmed.     It did not occur to him that he had wandered too far from the Dome'sentrance until, strolling through an enchanting flower-decked glade, hewas startled to hear—off to his right—the sharp, explosive bark of aHaemholtz ray pistol.     He whirled, staring about him wildly, and discovered that though hismeandering had kept him near the Dome, he had unconsciously followedits hemispherical perimeter to a point nearly two miles from theGateway. By the placement of ports and windows, Isobar was able tojudge his location perfectly; he was opposite that portion of thestructure which housed Sparks' radio turret.     And the shooting? That could only be—     He did not have to name its reason, even to himself. For at thatmoment, there came racing around the curve of the Dome a pair offigures, Patrolmen clad in fatigue drab. Roberts and Brown. Roberts wasstaggering, one foot dragged awkwardly as he ran; Brown's left arm,bloodstained from shoulder to elbow, hung limply at his side, but inhis good right fist he held a spitting Haemholtz with which he tried tocover his comrade's sluggish retreat.     And behind these two, grim, grey, gaunt figures that moved withastonishing speed despite their massive bulk, came three ... six ... adozen of those lunarites whom all men feared. The Grannies!      III     Simultaneously with his recognition of the pair, Joe Roberts saw him. Agasp of relief escaped the wounded man.     Jones! Thank the Lord! Then you picked up our cry for help? Quick,man—where is it? Theres not a moment to waste!     W-where, faltered Isobar feebly, is      what     ?     The tank, of course! Didn't you hear our telecast? We can't possiblymake it back to the gate without an armored car. My foot's broken,and— Roberts stopped suddenly, an abrupt horror in his eyes. Youdon't have one! You're here      alone     ! Then you didn't pick up our call?But, why—?     Never mind that, snapped Isobar, now! Placid by nature, he couldmove when urgency drove. His quick mind saw the immediateness of theirperil. Unarmed, he could not help the Patrolmen fight a delaying actionagainst their foes, nor could he hasten their retreat. Anyway, weaponswere useless, and time was of the essence. There was but one temporaryway of staving off disaster. Over here ... this tree! Quick! Up yougo! Give him a lift, Brown—There! That's the stuff!     He was the last to scramble up the gnarled bole to a tentative leafysanctuary. He had barely gained the security of the lowermost boughwhen a thundering crash resounded, the sturdy trunk trembled beneathhis clutch. Stony claws gouged yellow parallels in the bark scantinches beneath one kicking foot, then the Granny fell back with a thud.The Graniteback was      not     a climber. It was far too ungainly, much tooweighty for that.     Roberts said weakly, Th-thanks, Jonesy! That was a close call.     That goes for me, too, Jonesy, added Brown from an upper bough.But I'm afraid you just delayed matters. This tree's O.Q. as longas it lasts, but— He stared down upon the gathering knot ofGrannies unhappily—it's not going to last long with that bunch ofsuperdreadnaughts working out on it! Hold tight, fellows! Here theycome!     For the Grannies, who had huddled for a moment as if in telepathicconsultation, now joined forces, turned, and as one body chargedheadlong toward the tree. The unified force of their attack was likethe shattering impact of a battering ram. Bark rasped and grittedbeneath the besieged men's hands, dry leaves and twigs pelted aboutthem in a tiny rain, tormented fibrous sinews groaned as the agedforest monarch shuddered in agony.     Desperately they clung to their perches. Though the great tree bent, itdid not break. But when it stopped trembling, it was canted drunkenlyto one side, and the erstwhile solid earth about its base was brokenand cracked—revealing fleshy tentacles uprooted from ancient moorings!  Brown stared at this evidence of the Grannies' power withterror-fascinated eyes. His voice was none too firm.     Lord! Piledrivers! A couple more like that—     Isobar nodded. He knew what falling into the clutch of the Granniesmeant. He had once seen the grisly aftermath of a Graniteback feast.Even now their adversaries had drawn back for a second attack. A suddenidea struck him. A straw of hope at which he grasped feverishly.     You telecast a message to the Dome? Help should be on the way by now.If we can just hold out—     But Roberts shook his head.     We sent a message, Jonesy, but I don't think it got through. I've justbeen looking at my portable. It seems to be busted. Happened when theyfirst attacked us, I guess. I tripped and fell on it.     Isobar's last hope flickered out.     Then I—I guess it won't be long now, he mourned. If we could haveonly got a message through, they would have sent out an armored car topick us up. But as it is—     Brown's shrug displayed a bravado he did not feel.     Well, that's the way it goes. We knew what we were risking when wevolunteered to come Outside. This damn moon! It'll never be wortha plugged credit until men find some way to fight those murderousstones-on-legs!     Roberts said, That's right. But what are      you     doing out here, Isobar?And why, for Pete's sake, the bagpipes?     Oh—the pipes? Isobar flushed painfully. He had almost forgottenhis original reason for adventuring Outside, had quite forgottenhis instrument, and was now rather amazed to discover that somehowthroughout all the excitement he had held onto it. Why, I justhappened to—Oh!      the pipes!          Hold on! roared Roberts. His warning came just in time. Once more,the three tree-sitters shook like dried peas in a pod as their leafyrefuge trembled before the locomotive onslaught of the lunar beasts.This time the already-exposed roots strained and lifted, severalsnapped; when the Grannies again withdrew, complacently unaware thatthe lethal ray of Brown's Haemholtz was wasting itself upon theiradamant hides in futile fury, the tree was bent at a precarious angle.     Brown sobbed, not with fear but with impotent anger, and in a gestureof enraged desperation, hurled his now-empty weapon at the retreatingGrannies.     No good! Not a damn bit of good! Oh, if there was only some way offighting those filthy things—     But Isobar Jones had a one-track mind. The pipes! he cried again,excitedly. That's the answer! And he drew the instrument into playingposition, bag cuddled beneath one arm-pit, drones stiffly erect overhis shoulder, blow-pipe at his lips. His cheeks puffed, his breathexpelled. The giant lung swelled, the chaunter emitted its distinctive,fearsome,       Kaa-aa-o-o-o-oro-oong!          Roberts moaned.     Oh, Lord! A guy can't even die in peace!     And Brown stared at him hopelessly.     It's no use, Isobar. You trying to scare them off? They have no senseof hearing. That's been proven—     Isobar took his lips from the reed to explain.     It's not that. I'm trying to rouse the boys in the Dome. We're rightopposite the atmosphere-conditioning-unit. See that grilled duct overthere? That's an inhalation-vent. The portable transmitter's out oforder, and our voices ain't strong enough to carry into the Dome—butthe sound of these pipes is! And Commander Eagan told me just a shortwhile ago that the sound of the pipes carries all over the building!     If they hear this, they'll get mad because I'm disobeyin' orders.They'll start lookin' for me. If they can't find me inside, maybethey'll look Outside. See that window? That's Sparks' turret. If we canmake him look out here—           Stop talking!      roared Roberts. Stop talking, guy, and startblowing! I think you've got something there. Anyhow, it's our lasthope.      Blow!          And quick! appended Brown. For here they come!        Isobar played, blew with all his might, while the Grannies raged below.        He meant the Grannies. Again they were huddling for attack, once more,a solid phalanx of indestructible, granite flesh, they were smashingdown upon the tree.           Haa-a-roong!      blew Isobar Jones.      IV     And—even he could not have foreseen the astounding results ofhis piping! What happened next was as astonishing as it wasincomprehensible. For as the pipes, filled now and primed to burst intowhatever substitute for melody they were prodded into, wailed intoaction—the Grannies' rush came to an abrupt halt!     As one, they stopped cold in their tracks and turned dull, colorless,questioning eyes upward into the tree whence came this weird andvibrant droning!     So stunned with surprise was Isobar that his grip on the pipes relaxed,his lips almost slipped from the reed. But Brown's delighted bellowlifted his paralysis.     Sacred rings of Saturn-look! They      like     it! Keep playing, Jonesy!Play, boy, like you never played before!     And Roberts roared, above the skirling of the      piobaireachd     intowhich Isobar had instinctively swung, Music hath charms to soothe thesavage beast! Then we were wrong. They      can     hear, after all! See that?They're lying down to listen—like so many lambs! Keep playing, Isobar!For once in my life I'm glad to hear that lovely, wonderful music!     Isobar needed no urging. He, too, had noted how the Grannies' attackhad stopped, how every last one of the gaunt grey beasts had suddenly,quietly, almost happily, dropped to its haunches at the base of thetree.     There was no doubt about it; the Grannies      liked     this music. Eyesraptly fixed, unblinking, unwavering, they froze into postures ofgentle beatitude. One stirred once, dangerously, as for a moment Isobarpaused to catch his breath, but Isobar hastily lipped the blow-pipewith redoubled eagerness, and the Granny relapsed into quietude.     Followed then what, under somewhat different circumstances, should havebeen a piper's dream. For Isobar had an audience which would not—andin two cases      dared     not—allow him to stop playing. And to thisaudience he played over and over again his entire repertoire. Marches,flings, dances—the stirring      Rhoderik Dhu     and the lilting      LassiesO'Skye     , the mournful      Coghiegh nha Shie     whose keening is like thesound of a sobbing nation.       The Cock o' the North     , he played, and      Mironton     ...      Wee Flow'r o'Dee     and      MacArthur's March     ...      La Cucuracha     and—     And his lungs were parched, his lips dry as swabs of cotton. Bloodpounded through his temples, throbbing in time to the drone of thechaunter, and a dark mist gathered before his eyes. He tore theblow-pipe from his lips, gasped,     Keep playing! came the dim, distant howl of Johnny Brown. Just a fewminutes longer, Jonesy! Relief is on the way. Sparks saw us from histurret window five minutes ago!     And Isobar played on. How, or what, he did not know. The memory ofthose next few minutes was never afterward clear in his mind. All heknew was that above the skirling drone of his pipes there came anothersound, the metallic clanking of a man-made machine ... an armored tank,sent from the Dome to rescue the beleaguered trio.     He was conscious, then, of a friendly voice shouting words ofencouragement, of Joe Roberts calling a warning to those below.     Careful, boys! Drive the tank right up beneath us so we can hop in andget out of here! Watch the Grannies—they'll be after us the minuteIsobar stops playing!     Then the answer from below. The fantastic answer in Sparks' familiarvoice. The answer that caused the bagpipes to slip from Isobar'sfingers as Isobar Jones passed out in a dead faint:     After you? Those Grannies? Hell's howling acres—      those Grannies arestone dead     !  ","The bagpipes are Isobar’s one relief and a reminder of home. Isobar Jones hates his new job and position on Luna III and plays the bagpipes as a form of therapy. When they are taken away from him, he quickly revolts and rushes Outside to play once more. Though the bagpipes are initially only significant to Isobar, they quickly become the savior of the whole story. After Roberts and Brown run into Isobar, followed by Grannies, they climb a tree and hope for the best. Isobar plays the bagpipes as a way to alert those in the dome that they are outside, seeing as the air conditioning valve was near. However, as it turns out, the Grannies are able to hear, and the sound of the bagpipes slowly but surely killed them. The bagpipes saved Isobar’s life in multiple ways, as well as that of Roberts and Brown. They also proved to be a scientific breakthrough, as they are the only thing to ever kill a Grannie. "
"Describe the Grannies, or Granitebacks. </s>     TROUBLE ON TYCHO     By NELSON S. BOND     Isobar and his squeeze-pipes were the bane of     the Moon Station's existence. But there came     the day when his comrades found that the worth     of a man lies sometimes in his nuisance value.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories March 1943.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      The audiophone buzzed thrice—one long, followed by two shorts—andIsobar Jones pressed the stud activating its glowing scanner-disc.     Hummm? he said absent-mindedly.     The selenoplate glowed faintly, and the image of the Dome Commanderappeared.     Report ready, Jones?     Almost, acknowledged Isobar gloomily. It prob'ly ain't right,though. How anybody can be expected to get      anything     right on thisdagnabbed hunk o' green cheese—     Send it up, interrupted Colonel Eagan, as soon as you can. Sparks ismaking Terra contact now. That is all.     That ain't all! declared Isobar indignantly. How about my bag—?     It      was all     , so far as the D.C. was concerned. Isobar was talkingto himself. The plate dulled. Isobar said, Nuts! and returned tohis duties. He jotted neat ditto marks under the word Clear which,six months ago, he had placed beneath the column headed:      Cond. ofObs.     He noted the proper figures under the headings      Sun Spots     :      MaxFreq.     —      Min. Freq.     ; then he sketched careful curves in blue and redink upon the Mercator projection of Earth which was his daily worksheet.     This done, he drew a clean sheet of paper out of his desk drawer,frowned thoughtfully at the tabulated results of his observations, andbegan writing.           Weather forecast for Terra     , he wrote, his pen making scratchingsounds.     The audiophone rasped again. Isobar jabbed the stud and answeredwithout looking.     O.Q., he said wearily. O.Q. I told you it would be ready in a coupleo' minutes. Keep your pants on!     I—er—I beg your pardon, Isobar? queried a mild voice.     Isobar started. His sallow cheeks achieved a sickly salmon hue. Heblinked nervously.     Oh, jumpin' jimminy! he gulped.       You     , Miss Sally! Golly—'scuse me!I didn't realize—     The Dome Commander's niece giggled.     That's all right, Isobar. I just called to ask you about the weatherin Oceania Sector 4B next week. I've got a swimming date at Waikiki,but I won't make the shuttle unless the weather's going to be nice.     It is, promised Isobar. It'll be swell all weekend, Miss Sally.Fine sunshiny weather. You can go.     That's wonderful. Thanks so much, Isobar.     Don't mention it, ma'am, said Isobar, and returned to his work.     South America. Africa. Asia. Pan-Europa. Swiftly he outlined themeteorological prospects for each sector. He enjoyed this part of hisjob. As he wrote forecasts for each area, in his mind's eye he sawhimself enjoying such pastimes as each geographical division's terrainrendered possible.  If home is where the heart is, Horatio Jones—known better as Isobarto his associates at the Experimental Dome on Luna—was a long, longway from home. His lean, gangling frame was immured, and had been forsix tedious Earth months, beneath the      impervite     hemisphere of LunarIII—that frontier outpost which served as a rocket refueling station,teleradio transmission point and meteorological base.     Six solid months! Six sad, dreary months! thought Isobar, Locked upin an airtight Dome like—like a goldfish in a glass bowl! Sunlight?Oh, sure! But filtered through ultraviolet wave-traps so it could notburn, it left the skin pale and lustreless and clammy as the belly of atoad. Fresh air? Pooh! Nothing but that everlasting sickening, scented,reoxygenated stuff gushing from atmo-conditioning units.     Excitement? Adventure? The romance he had been led to expect when hesigned on for frontier service? Bah! Only a weary, monotonous, routineexistence.     A pain! declared Isobar Jones. That's what it is; a pain in thestummick. Not even allowed to—Yeah?     It was Sparks, audioing from the Dome's transmission turret. He said,Hyah, Jonesy! How comes with the report?     Done, said Isobar. I was just gettin' the sheets together for you.     O.Q. But just bring      it     . Nothing else.     Isobar bridled.     I don't know what you're talkin' about.     Oh, no? Well, I'm talking about that squawk-filled doodlesack ofyours, sonny boy. Don't bring that bag-full of noise up here with you.     Isobar said defiantly, It ain't a doodlesack. It's a bagpipe. And Iguess I can play it if I want to—     Not, said Sparks emphatically, in      my     cubby! I've got sensitiveeardrums. Well, stir your stumps! I've got to get the report rollingquick today. Big doings up here.     Yeah? What?     Well, it's Roberts and Brown—     What about 'em?     They've gone Outside to make foundation repairs.     Lucky stiffs! commented Isobar ruefully.     Lucky, no. Stiffs, maybe—if they should meet any Grannies. Well,scoot along. I'm on the ether in four point sixteen minutes.     Be right up, promised Isobar, and, sheets in hand, he ambled from hiscloistered cell toward the central section of the Dome.     He didn't leave Sparks' turret after the sheets were delivered.Instead, he hung around, fidgeting so obtrusively that Riley finallyturned to him in sheer exasperation.     Sweet snakes of Saturn, Jonesy, what's the trouble? Bugs in yourbritches?     Isobar said, H-huh? Oh, you mean—Oh, thanks, no! I just thought mebbeyou wouldn't mind if I—well—er—     I get it! Sparks grinned. Want to play peekaboo while the contact'sopen, eh? Well, O.Q. Watch the birdie!     He twisted dials, adjusted verniers, fingered a host ofincomprehensible keys. Current hummed and howled. Then a plate beforehim cleared, and the voice of the Earth operator came in, enunciatingwith painstaking clarity:     Earth answering Luna. Earth answering Luna's call. Can you hear me,Luna? Can you hear—?     I can not only hear you, snorted Riley, I can see you and smell you,as well. Stop hamming it, stupid! You're lousing up the earth!     The now-visible face of the Earth radioman drew into a grimace ofdispleasure.     Oh, it's      you     ? Funny man, eh? Funny man Riley?     Sure, said Riley agreeably. I'm a scream. Four-alarm Riley,the cosmic comedian—didn't you know? Flick on your dictacoder,oyster-puss; here's the weather report. He read it. '      Weatherforecast for Terra, week of May 15-21     —'     Ask him, whispered Isobar eagerly. Sparks, don't forget to ask him!  Riley motioned for silence, but nodded. He finished the weather report,entered the Dome Commander's log upon the Home Office records, anddictated a short entry from the Luna Biological Commission. Then:     That is all, he concluded.     O.Q., verified the other radioman. Isobar writhed anxiously, proddedRiley's shoulder.     Ask him, Sparks! Go on ask him!     Oh, cut jets, will you? snapped Sparks. The Terra operator lookedstartled.     How's that? I didn't say a word—     Don't be a dope, said Sparks, you dope! I wasn't talking to you.I'm entertaining a visitor, a refugee from a cuckoo clock. Look, do mea favor, chum? Can you twist your mike around so it's pointing out awindow?     What? Why—why, yes, but—     Without buts, said Sparks grumpily. Yours not to reason why; yoursbut to do or don't. Will you do it?     Well, sure. But I don't understand— The silver platter which hadmirrored the radioman's face clouded as the Earth operator twirled theinconoscope. Walls and desks of an ordinary broadcasting office spunbriefly into view; then the plate reflected a glimpse of an Earthlylandscape. Soft blue sky warmed by an atmosphere-shielded sun ... greentrees firmly rooted in still-greener grass ... flowers ... birds ...people....     Enough? asked Sparks.     Isobar Jones awakened from his trance, eyes dulling. Reluctantly henodded. Riley stared at him strangely, almost gently. To the otherradioman, O.Q., pal, he said. Cut!     Cut! agreed the other. The plate blanked out.     Thanks, Sparks, said Isobar.     Nothing, shrugged Riley       He twisted     the mike; not me. But—how comeyou always want to take a squint at Earth when the circuit's open,Jonesy? Homesick?     Sort of, admitted Isobar guiltily.     Well, hell, aren't we all? But we can't leave here for another sixmonths at least. Not till our tricks are up. I should think it'd onlymake you feel worse to see Earth.     It ain't Earth I'm homesick for, explained Isobar. It's—well, it'sthe things that go with it. I mean things like grass and flowers andtrees.     Sparks grinned; a mirthless, lopsided grin.     We've got      them     right here on Luna. Go look out the tower window,Jonesy. The Dome's nestled smack in the middle of the prettiest,greenest little valley you ever saw.     I know, complained Isobar. And that's what makes it even worse. Allthat pretty, soft, green stuff Outside—and we ain't allowed to go outin it. Sometimes I get so mad I'd like to—     To, interrupted a crisp voice, what?     Isobar spun, flushing; his eyes dropped before those of Dome CommanderEagan. He squirmed.     N-nothing, sir. I was only saying—     I heard you, Jones. And please let me hear no more of such talk, sir!It is strictly forbidden for anyone to go Outside except in cases ofabsolute necessity. Such labor as caused Patrolmen Brown and Roberts togo, for example—     Any word from them yet, sir? asked Sparks eagerly.     Not yet. But we're expecting them to return at any minute now. Jones!Where are      you     going?     Why—why, just back to my quarters, sir.     That's what I thought. And what did you plan to do there?     Isobar said stubbornly, Well, I sort of figured I'd amuse myself for awhile—     I thought that, too. And with      what     , pray, Jones?     With the only dratted thing, said Isobar, suddenly petulant, thatgives me any fun around this dagnabbed place! With my bagpipe.  Commander Eagan said, You'd better find some new way of amusingyourself, Jones. Have you read General Order 17?     Isobar said, I seen it. But if you think—     It says, stated Eagan deliberately, '      In order that work or restperiods of the Dome's staff may not be disturbed, it is hereby orderedthat the playing or practicing of all or any musical instruments mustbe discontinued immediately. By order of the Dome Commander     ,' Thatmeans you, Jones!     But, dingbust it! keened Isobar, it don't disturb nobody for me toplay my bagpipes! I know these lunks around here don't appreciate goodmusic, so I always go in my office and lock the door after me—     But the Dome, pointed out Commander Eagan, has an air-conditioningsystem which can't be shut off. The ungodly moans ofyour—er—so-called musical instrument can be heard through the entirestructure.     He suddenly seemed to gain stature.     No, Jones, this order is final! You cannot disrupt our entireorganization for your own—er—amusement.     But— said Isobar.     No!     Isobar wriggled desperately. Life on Luna was sorry enough already.If now they took from him the last remaining solace he had, the lastamusement which lightened his moments of freedom—     Look, Commander! he pleaded, I tell you what I'll do. I won't bothernobody. I'll go Outside and play it—     Outside! Eagan stared at him incredulously. Are you mad? How aboutthe Grannies?     Isobar knew all about the Grannies. The only mobile form of lifefound by space-questing man on Earth's satellite, their name was anabbreviation of the descriptive one applied to them by the first Lunarexployers: Granitebacks. This was no exaggeration; if anything, it wasan understatement. For the Grannies, though possessed of certain lowintelligence, had quickly proven themselves a deadly, unyielding andimplacable foe.     Worse yet, they were an enemy almost indestructible! No man had everyet brought to Earth laboratories the carcass of a Grannie; sciencewas completely baffled in its endeavors to explain the composition ofGraniteback physiology—but it was known, from bitter experience, thatthe carapace or exoskeleton of the Grannies was formed of somethingharder than steel, diamond, or battleplate! This flesh could bepenetrated by no weapon known to man; neither by steel nor flame,by electronic nor ionic wave, nor by the lethal, newly discoveredatomo-needle dispenser.     All this Isobar knew about the Grannies. Yet:     They ain't been any Grannies seen around the Dome, he said, fora 'coon's age. Anyhow, if I seen any comin', I could run right backinside—     No! said Commander Eagan flatly. Absolutely,      no     ! I have no timefor such nonsense. You know the orders—obey them! And now, gentlemen,good afternoon!     He left. Sparks turned to Isobar, grinning.     Well, he said, one man's fish—hey, Jonesy? Too bad you can't playyour doodlesack any more, but frankly, I'm just as glad. Of all theawful screeching wails—     But Isobar Jones, generally mild and gentle, was now in a perfectfury. His pale eyes blazed, he stomped his foot on the floor, and fromhis lips poured a stream of such angry invective that Riley lookedstartled. Words that, to Isobar, were the utter dregs of violentprofanity.     Oh, dagnab it! fumed Isobar Jones. Oh, tarnation and dingbust!Oh—      fiddlesticks     !      II     And so, chuckled Riley, he left, bubbling like a kettle on a red-hotoven. But, boy! was he ever mad! Just about ready to bust, he was.     Some minutes had passed since Isobar had left; Riley was talking to Dr.Loesch, head of the Dome's Physics Research Division. The older mannodded commiseratingly.     It is funny, yes, he agreed, but at the same time it is notaltogether amusing. I feel sorry for him. He is a very unhappy man, ourpoor Isobar.     Yeah, I know, said Riley, but, hell, we all get a little bithomesick now and then. He ought to learn to—     Excuse me, my boy, interrupted the aged physicist, his voice gentle,it is not mere homesickness that troubles our friend. It is somethingdeeper, much more vital and serious. It is what my people call:      weltschmertz     . There is no accurate translation in English. It means'world sickness,' or better, 'world weariness'—something like that butintensified a thousandfold.     It is a deeply-rooted mental condition, sometimes a dangerous frameof mind. Under its grip, men do wild things. Hating the world on whichthey find themselves, they rebel in curious ways. Suicide ... mad actsof valor ... deeds of cunning or knavery....     You mean, demanded Sparks anxiously, Isobar ain't got all hisbuttons?     Not that exactly. He is perfectly sane. But he is in a dark morassof despair. He may try      anything     to retrieve his lost happiness, ridhis soul of its dark oppression. His world-sickness is like a cryinghunger—By the way, where is he now?     Below, I guess. In his quarters.     Ah, good! Perhaps he is sleeping. Let us hope so. In slumber he willfind peace and forgetfulness.     But Dr. Loesch would have been far less sanguine had some power thegiftie gi'en him of watching Isobar Jones at that moment.     Isobar was not asleep. Far from it. Wide awake and very much astir, hewas acting in a singularly sinister role: that of a slinking, furtiveculprit.     Returning to his private cubicle after his conversation with DomeCommander Eagan, he had stalked straightway to the cabinet wherein wasencased his precious set of bagpipes. These he had taken from theirpegs, gazed upon defiantly, and fondled with almost parental affection.     So I can't play you, huh? he muttered darkly. It disturbs the peaceo' the dingfounded, dumblasted Dome staff, does it? Well, we'll      see     about that!     And tucking the bag under his arm, he had cautiously slipped from theroom, down little-used corridors, and now he stood before the huge      impervite     gates which were the entrance to the Dome and the doorwayto Outside.     On all save those occasions when a spacecraft landed in the cradleadjacent the gateway, these portals were doubly locked and barred. Buttoday they had been unbolted that the two maintenance men might ventureout. And since it was quite possible that Brown and Roberts might haveto get inside in a hurry, their bolts remained drawn. Sole guardian ofthe entrance was a very bored Junior Patrolman.     Up to this worthy strode Isobar Jones, confident and assured, exudingan aura of propriety.     Very well, Wilkins, he said. I'll take over now. You may go to themeeting.     Wilkins looked at him bewilderedly.     Huh? Whuzzat, Mr. Jones?     Isobar's eyebrows arched.     You mean you haven't been notified?     Notified of      what     ?     Why, the general council of all Patrolmen! Weren't you told that Iwould take your place here while you reported to G.H.Q.?     I ain't, puzzled Wilkins, heard nothing about it. Maybe I ought tocall the office, maybe?     And he moved the wall-audio. But Isobar said swiftly. That—er—won'tbe necessary, Wilkins. My orders were plain enough. Now, you just runalong. I'll watch this entrance for you.     We-e-ell, said Wilkins, if you say so. Orders is orders. But keep asharp eye out, Mister Jones, in case Roberts and Brown should come backsudden-like.     I will, promised Isobar, don't worry.  Wilkins moved away. Isobar waited until the Patrolman was completelyout of sight. Then swiftly he pulled open the massive gate, slippedthrough, and closed it behind him.     A flood of warmth, exhilarating after the constantly regulatedtemperature of the Dome, descended upon him. Fresh air, thin, butfragrant with the scent of growing things, made his pulses stir withjoyous abandon. He was Outside! He was Outside, in good sunlight, atlast! After six long and dreary months!     Raptly, blissfully, all thought of caution tossed to the gentle breezesthat ruffled his sparse hair, Isobar Jones stepped forward into thelunar valley....     How long he wandered thus, carefree and utterly content, he could notafterward say. It seemed like minutes; it must have been longer. Heonly knew that the grass was green beneath his feet, the trees were alacy network through which warm sunlight filtered benevolently, thechirrupings of small insects and the rustling whisper of the breezesformed a tiny symphony of happiness through which he moved as onecharmed.     It did not occur to him that he had wandered too far from the Dome'sentrance until, strolling through an enchanting flower-decked glade, hewas startled to hear—off to his right—the sharp, explosive bark of aHaemholtz ray pistol.     He whirled, staring about him wildly, and discovered that though hismeandering had kept him near the Dome, he had unconsciously followedits hemispherical perimeter to a point nearly two miles from theGateway. By the placement of ports and windows, Isobar was able tojudge his location perfectly; he was opposite that portion of thestructure which housed Sparks' radio turret.     And the shooting? That could only be—     He did not have to name its reason, even to himself. For at thatmoment, there came racing around the curve of the Dome a pair offigures, Patrolmen clad in fatigue drab. Roberts and Brown. Roberts wasstaggering, one foot dragged awkwardly as he ran; Brown's left arm,bloodstained from shoulder to elbow, hung limply at his side, but inhis good right fist he held a spitting Haemholtz with which he tried tocover his comrade's sluggish retreat.     And behind these two, grim, grey, gaunt figures that moved withastonishing speed despite their massive bulk, came three ... six ... adozen of those lunarites whom all men feared. The Grannies!      III     Simultaneously with his recognition of the pair, Joe Roberts saw him. Agasp of relief escaped the wounded man.     Jones! Thank the Lord! Then you picked up our cry for help? Quick,man—where is it? Theres not a moment to waste!     W-where, faltered Isobar feebly, is      what     ?     The tank, of course! Didn't you hear our telecast? We can't possiblymake it back to the gate without an armored car. My foot's broken,and— Roberts stopped suddenly, an abrupt horror in his eyes. Youdon't have one! You're here      alone     ! Then you didn't pick up our call?But, why—?     Never mind that, snapped Isobar, now! Placid by nature, he couldmove when urgency drove. His quick mind saw the immediateness of theirperil. Unarmed, he could not help the Patrolmen fight a delaying actionagainst their foes, nor could he hasten their retreat. Anyway, weaponswere useless, and time was of the essence. There was but one temporaryway of staving off disaster. Over here ... this tree! Quick! Up yougo! Give him a lift, Brown—There! That's the stuff!     He was the last to scramble up the gnarled bole to a tentative leafysanctuary. He had barely gained the security of the lowermost boughwhen a thundering crash resounded, the sturdy trunk trembled beneathhis clutch. Stony claws gouged yellow parallels in the bark scantinches beneath one kicking foot, then the Granny fell back with a thud.The Graniteback was      not     a climber. It was far too ungainly, much tooweighty for that.     Roberts said weakly, Th-thanks, Jonesy! That was a close call.     That goes for me, too, Jonesy, added Brown from an upper bough.But I'm afraid you just delayed matters. This tree's O.Q. as longas it lasts, but— He stared down upon the gathering knot ofGrannies unhappily—it's not going to last long with that bunch ofsuperdreadnaughts working out on it! Hold tight, fellows! Here theycome!     For the Grannies, who had huddled for a moment as if in telepathicconsultation, now joined forces, turned, and as one body chargedheadlong toward the tree. The unified force of their attack was likethe shattering impact of a battering ram. Bark rasped and grittedbeneath the besieged men's hands, dry leaves and twigs pelted aboutthem in a tiny rain, tormented fibrous sinews groaned as the agedforest monarch shuddered in agony.     Desperately they clung to their perches. Though the great tree bent, itdid not break. But when it stopped trembling, it was canted drunkenlyto one side, and the erstwhile solid earth about its base was brokenand cracked—revealing fleshy tentacles uprooted from ancient moorings!  Brown stared at this evidence of the Grannies' power withterror-fascinated eyes. His voice was none too firm.     Lord! Piledrivers! A couple more like that—     Isobar nodded. He knew what falling into the clutch of the Granniesmeant. He had once seen the grisly aftermath of a Graniteback feast.Even now their adversaries had drawn back for a second attack. A suddenidea struck him. A straw of hope at which he grasped feverishly.     You telecast a message to the Dome? Help should be on the way by now.If we can just hold out—     But Roberts shook his head.     We sent a message, Jonesy, but I don't think it got through. I've justbeen looking at my portable. It seems to be busted. Happened when theyfirst attacked us, I guess. I tripped and fell on it.     Isobar's last hope flickered out.     Then I—I guess it won't be long now, he mourned. If we could haveonly got a message through, they would have sent out an armored car topick us up. But as it is—     Brown's shrug displayed a bravado he did not feel.     Well, that's the way it goes. We knew what we were risking when wevolunteered to come Outside. This damn moon! It'll never be wortha plugged credit until men find some way to fight those murderousstones-on-legs!     Roberts said, That's right. But what are      you     doing out here, Isobar?And why, for Pete's sake, the bagpipes?     Oh—the pipes? Isobar flushed painfully. He had almost forgottenhis original reason for adventuring Outside, had quite forgottenhis instrument, and was now rather amazed to discover that somehowthroughout all the excitement he had held onto it. Why, I justhappened to—Oh!      the pipes!          Hold on! roared Roberts. His warning came just in time. Once more,the three tree-sitters shook like dried peas in a pod as their leafyrefuge trembled before the locomotive onslaught of the lunar beasts.This time the already-exposed roots strained and lifted, severalsnapped; when the Grannies again withdrew, complacently unaware thatthe lethal ray of Brown's Haemholtz was wasting itself upon theiradamant hides in futile fury, the tree was bent at a precarious angle.     Brown sobbed, not with fear but with impotent anger, and in a gestureof enraged desperation, hurled his now-empty weapon at the retreatingGrannies.     No good! Not a damn bit of good! Oh, if there was only some way offighting those filthy things—     But Isobar Jones had a one-track mind. The pipes! he cried again,excitedly. That's the answer! And he drew the instrument into playingposition, bag cuddled beneath one arm-pit, drones stiffly erect overhis shoulder, blow-pipe at his lips. His cheeks puffed, his breathexpelled. The giant lung swelled, the chaunter emitted its distinctive,fearsome,       Kaa-aa-o-o-o-oro-oong!          Roberts moaned.     Oh, Lord! A guy can't even die in peace!     And Brown stared at him hopelessly.     It's no use, Isobar. You trying to scare them off? They have no senseof hearing. That's been proven—     Isobar took his lips from the reed to explain.     It's not that. I'm trying to rouse the boys in the Dome. We're rightopposite the atmosphere-conditioning-unit. See that grilled duct overthere? That's an inhalation-vent. The portable transmitter's out oforder, and our voices ain't strong enough to carry into the Dome—butthe sound of these pipes is! And Commander Eagan told me just a shortwhile ago that the sound of the pipes carries all over the building!     If they hear this, they'll get mad because I'm disobeyin' orders.They'll start lookin' for me. If they can't find me inside, maybethey'll look Outside. See that window? That's Sparks' turret. If we canmake him look out here—           Stop talking!      roared Roberts. Stop talking, guy, and startblowing! I think you've got something there. Anyhow, it's our lasthope.      Blow!          And quick! appended Brown. For here they come!        Isobar played, blew with all his might, while the Grannies raged below.        He meant the Grannies. Again they were huddling for attack, once more,a solid phalanx of indestructible, granite flesh, they were smashingdown upon the tree.           Haa-a-roong!      blew Isobar Jones.      IV     And—even he could not have foreseen the astounding results ofhis piping! What happened next was as astonishing as it wasincomprehensible. For as the pipes, filled now and primed to burst intowhatever substitute for melody they were prodded into, wailed intoaction—the Grannies' rush came to an abrupt halt!     As one, they stopped cold in their tracks and turned dull, colorless,questioning eyes upward into the tree whence came this weird andvibrant droning!     So stunned with surprise was Isobar that his grip on the pipes relaxed,his lips almost slipped from the reed. But Brown's delighted bellowlifted his paralysis.     Sacred rings of Saturn-look! They      like     it! Keep playing, Jonesy!Play, boy, like you never played before!     And Roberts roared, above the skirling of the      piobaireachd     intowhich Isobar had instinctively swung, Music hath charms to soothe thesavage beast! Then we were wrong. They      can     hear, after all! See that?They're lying down to listen—like so many lambs! Keep playing, Isobar!For once in my life I'm glad to hear that lovely, wonderful music!     Isobar needed no urging. He, too, had noted how the Grannies' attackhad stopped, how every last one of the gaunt grey beasts had suddenly,quietly, almost happily, dropped to its haunches at the base of thetree.     There was no doubt about it; the Grannies      liked     this music. Eyesraptly fixed, unblinking, unwavering, they froze into postures ofgentle beatitude. One stirred once, dangerously, as for a moment Isobarpaused to catch his breath, but Isobar hastily lipped the blow-pipewith redoubled eagerness, and the Granny relapsed into quietude.     Followed then what, under somewhat different circumstances, should havebeen a piper's dream. For Isobar had an audience which would not—andin two cases      dared     not—allow him to stop playing. And to thisaudience he played over and over again his entire repertoire. Marches,flings, dances—the stirring      Rhoderik Dhu     and the lilting      LassiesO'Skye     , the mournful      Coghiegh nha Shie     whose keening is like thesound of a sobbing nation.       The Cock o' the North     , he played, and      Mironton     ...      Wee Flow'r o'Dee     and      MacArthur's March     ...      La Cucuracha     and—     And his lungs were parched, his lips dry as swabs of cotton. Bloodpounded through his temples, throbbing in time to the drone of thechaunter, and a dark mist gathered before his eyes. He tore theblow-pipe from his lips, gasped,     Keep playing! came the dim, distant howl of Johnny Brown. Just a fewminutes longer, Jonesy! Relief is on the way. Sparks saw us from histurret window five minutes ago!     And Isobar played on. How, or what, he did not know. The memory ofthose next few minutes was never afterward clear in his mind. All heknew was that above the skirling drone of his pipes there came anothersound, the metallic clanking of a man-made machine ... an armored tank,sent from the Dome to rescue the beleaguered trio.     He was conscious, then, of a friendly voice shouting words ofencouragement, of Joe Roberts calling a warning to those below.     Careful, boys! Drive the tank right up beneath us so we can hop in andget out of here! Watch the Grannies—they'll be after us the minuteIsobar stops playing!     Then the answer from below. The fantastic answer in Sparks' familiarvoice. The answer that caused the bagpipes to slip from Isobar'sfingers as Isobar Jones passed out in a dead faint:     After you? Those Grannies? Hell's howling acres—      those Grannies arestone dead     !  ","Granitebacks are huge creatures that live on Luna III. Their immense size, hulking form, and impenetrable body make them practically indestructible. As of the beginning of this story, no Grannie had ever been killed. It was also believed that they were unable to hear, lacking ear canals, and potentially intelligence. Their exoskeleton or carapace was impenetrable, even harder than diamond or steel. Each weapon the Earthman devised to use against the Grannies failed. However, at the end of the story, it’s revealed that Grannies can, in fact, hear and are deeply affected by the sounds of the bagpipe. Isobar’s playing kills them all within 10 minutes and allows him and his companions to escape safe and sound. "
"What is the setting of the story? </s>     TROUBLE ON TYCHO     By NELSON S. BOND     Isobar and his squeeze-pipes were the bane of     the Moon Station's existence. But there came     the day when his comrades found that the worth     of a man lies sometimes in his nuisance value.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories March 1943.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      The audiophone buzzed thrice—one long, followed by two shorts—andIsobar Jones pressed the stud activating its glowing scanner-disc.     Hummm? he said absent-mindedly.     The selenoplate glowed faintly, and the image of the Dome Commanderappeared.     Report ready, Jones?     Almost, acknowledged Isobar gloomily. It prob'ly ain't right,though. How anybody can be expected to get      anything     right on thisdagnabbed hunk o' green cheese—     Send it up, interrupted Colonel Eagan, as soon as you can. Sparks ismaking Terra contact now. That is all.     That ain't all! declared Isobar indignantly. How about my bag—?     It      was all     , so far as the D.C. was concerned. Isobar was talkingto himself. The plate dulled. Isobar said, Nuts! and returned tohis duties. He jotted neat ditto marks under the word Clear which,six months ago, he had placed beneath the column headed:      Cond. ofObs.     He noted the proper figures under the headings      Sun Spots     :      MaxFreq.     —      Min. Freq.     ; then he sketched careful curves in blue and redink upon the Mercator projection of Earth which was his daily worksheet.     This done, he drew a clean sheet of paper out of his desk drawer,frowned thoughtfully at the tabulated results of his observations, andbegan writing.           Weather forecast for Terra     , he wrote, his pen making scratchingsounds.     The audiophone rasped again. Isobar jabbed the stud and answeredwithout looking.     O.Q., he said wearily. O.Q. I told you it would be ready in a coupleo' minutes. Keep your pants on!     I—er—I beg your pardon, Isobar? queried a mild voice.     Isobar started. His sallow cheeks achieved a sickly salmon hue. Heblinked nervously.     Oh, jumpin' jimminy! he gulped.       You     , Miss Sally! Golly—'scuse me!I didn't realize—     The Dome Commander's niece giggled.     That's all right, Isobar. I just called to ask you about the weatherin Oceania Sector 4B next week. I've got a swimming date at Waikiki,but I won't make the shuttle unless the weather's going to be nice.     It is, promised Isobar. It'll be swell all weekend, Miss Sally.Fine sunshiny weather. You can go.     That's wonderful. Thanks so much, Isobar.     Don't mention it, ma'am, said Isobar, and returned to his work.     South America. Africa. Asia. Pan-Europa. Swiftly he outlined themeteorological prospects for each sector. He enjoyed this part of hisjob. As he wrote forecasts for each area, in his mind's eye he sawhimself enjoying such pastimes as each geographical division's terrainrendered possible.  If home is where the heart is, Horatio Jones—known better as Isobarto his associates at the Experimental Dome on Luna—was a long, longway from home. His lean, gangling frame was immured, and had been forsix tedious Earth months, beneath the      impervite     hemisphere of LunarIII—that frontier outpost which served as a rocket refueling station,teleradio transmission point and meteorological base.     Six solid months! Six sad, dreary months! thought Isobar, Locked upin an airtight Dome like—like a goldfish in a glass bowl! Sunlight?Oh, sure! But filtered through ultraviolet wave-traps so it could notburn, it left the skin pale and lustreless and clammy as the belly of atoad. Fresh air? Pooh! Nothing but that everlasting sickening, scented,reoxygenated stuff gushing from atmo-conditioning units.     Excitement? Adventure? The romance he had been led to expect when hesigned on for frontier service? Bah! Only a weary, monotonous, routineexistence.     A pain! declared Isobar Jones. That's what it is; a pain in thestummick. Not even allowed to—Yeah?     It was Sparks, audioing from the Dome's transmission turret. He said,Hyah, Jonesy! How comes with the report?     Done, said Isobar. I was just gettin' the sheets together for you.     O.Q. But just bring      it     . Nothing else.     Isobar bridled.     I don't know what you're talkin' about.     Oh, no? Well, I'm talking about that squawk-filled doodlesack ofyours, sonny boy. Don't bring that bag-full of noise up here with you.     Isobar said defiantly, It ain't a doodlesack. It's a bagpipe. And Iguess I can play it if I want to—     Not, said Sparks emphatically, in      my     cubby! I've got sensitiveeardrums. Well, stir your stumps! I've got to get the report rollingquick today. Big doings up here.     Yeah? What?     Well, it's Roberts and Brown—     What about 'em?     They've gone Outside to make foundation repairs.     Lucky stiffs! commented Isobar ruefully.     Lucky, no. Stiffs, maybe—if they should meet any Grannies. Well,scoot along. I'm on the ether in four point sixteen minutes.     Be right up, promised Isobar, and, sheets in hand, he ambled from hiscloistered cell toward the central section of the Dome.     He didn't leave Sparks' turret after the sheets were delivered.Instead, he hung around, fidgeting so obtrusively that Riley finallyturned to him in sheer exasperation.     Sweet snakes of Saturn, Jonesy, what's the trouble? Bugs in yourbritches?     Isobar said, H-huh? Oh, you mean—Oh, thanks, no! I just thought mebbeyou wouldn't mind if I—well—er—     I get it! Sparks grinned. Want to play peekaboo while the contact'sopen, eh? Well, O.Q. Watch the birdie!     He twisted dials, adjusted verniers, fingered a host ofincomprehensible keys. Current hummed and howled. Then a plate beforehim cleared, and the voice of the Earth operator came in, enunciatingwith painstaking clarity:     Earth answering Luna. Earth answering Luna's call. Can you hear me,Luna? Can you hear—?     I can not only hear you, snorted Riley, I can see you and smell you,as well. Stop hamming it, stupid! You're lousing up the earth!     The now-visible face of the Earth radioman drew into a grimace ofdispleasure.     Oh, it's      you     ? Funny man, eh? Funny man Riley?     Sure, said Riley agreeably. I'm a scream. Four-alarm Riley,the cosmic comedian—didn't you know? Flick on your dictacoder,oyster-puss; here's the weather report. He read it. '      Weatherforecast for Terra, week of May 15-21     —'     Ask him, whispered Isobar eagerly. Sparks, don't forget to ask him!  Riley motioned for silence, but nodded. He finished the weather report,entered the Dome Commander's log upon the Home Office records, anddictated a short entry from the Luna Biological Commission. Then:     That is all, he concluded.     O.Q., verified the other radioman. Isobar writhed anxiously, proddedRiley's shoulder.     Ask him, Sparks! Go on ask him!     Oh, cut jets, will you? snapped Sparks. The Terra operator lookedstartled.     How's that? I didn't say a word—     Don't be a dope, said Sparks, you dope! I wasn't talking to you.I'm entertaining a visitor, a refugee from a cuckoo clock. Look, do mea favor, chum? Can you twist your mike around so it's pointing out awindow?     What? Why—why, yes, but—     Without buts, said Sparks grumpily. Yours not to reason why; yoursbut to do or don't. Will you do it?     Well, sure. But I don't understand— The silver platter which hadmirrored the radioman's face clouded as the Earth operator twirled theinconoscope. Walls and desks of an ordinary broadcasting office spunbriefly into view; then the plate reflected a glimpse of an Earthlylandscape. Soft blue sky warmed by an atmosphere-shielded sun ... greentrees firmly rooted in still-greener grass ... flowers ... birds ...people....     Enough? asked Sparks.     Isobar Jones awakened from his trance, eyes dulling. Reluctantly henodded. Riley stared at him strangely, almost gently. To the otherradioman, O.Q., pal, he said. Cut!     Cut! agreed the other. The plate blanked out.     Thanks, Sparks, said Isobar.     Nothing, shrugged Riley       He twisted     the mike; not me. But—how comeyou always want to take a squint at Earth when the circuit's open,Jonesy? Homesick?     Sort of, admitted Isobar guiltily.     Well, hell, aren't we all? But we can't leave here for another sixmonths at least. Not till our tricks are up. I should think it'd onlymake you feel worse to see Earth.     It ain't Earth I'm homesick for, explained Isobar. It's—well, it'sthe things that go with it. I mean things like grass and flowers andtrees.     Sparks grinned; a mirthless, lopsided grin.     We've got      them     right here on Luna. Go look out the tower window,Jonesy. The Dome's nestled smack in the middle of the prettiest,greenest little valley you ever saw.     I know, complained Isobar. And that's what makes it even worse. Allthat pretty, soft, green stuff Outside—and we ain't allowed to go outin it. Sometimes I get so mad I'd like to—     To, interrupted a crisp voice, what?     Isobar spun, flushing; his eyes dropped before those of Dome CommanderEagan. He squirmed.     N-nothing, sir. I was only saying—     I heard you, Jones. And please let me hear no more of such talk, sir!It is strictly forbidden for anyone to go Outside except in cases ofabsolute necessity. Such labor as caused Patrolmen Brown and Roberts togo, for example—     Any word from them yet, sir? asked Sparks eagerly.     Not yet. But we're expecting them to return at any minute now. Jones!Where are      you     going?     Why—why, just back to my quarters, sir.     That's what I thought. And what did you plan to do there?     Isobar said stubbornly, Well, I sort of figured I'd amuse myself for awhile—     I thought that, too. And with      what     , pray, Jones?     With the only dratted thing, said Isobar, suddenly petulant, thatgives me any fun around this dagnabbed place! With my bagpipe.  Commander Eagan said, You'd better find some new way of amusingyourself, Jones. Have you read General Order 17?     Isobar said, I seen it. But if you think—     It says, stated Eagan deliberately, '      In order that work or restperiods of the Dome's staff may not be disturbed, it is hereby orderedthat the playing or practicing of all or any musical instruments mustbe discontinued immediately. By order of the Dome Commander     ,' Thatmeans you, Jones!     But, dingbust it! keened Isobar, it don't disturb nobody for me toplay my bagpipes! I know these lunks around here don't appreciate goodmusic, so I always go in my office and lock the door after me—     But the Dome, pointed out Commander Eagan, has an air-conditioningsystem which can't be shut off. The ungodly moans ofyour—er—so-called musical instrument can be heard through the entirestructure.     He suddenly seemed to gain stature.     No, Jones, this order is final! You cannot disrupt our entireorganization for your own—er—amusement.     But— said Isobar.     No!     Isobar wriggled desperately. Life on Luna was sorry enough already.If now they took from him the last remaining solace he had, the lastamusement which lightened his moments of freedom—     Look, Commander! he pleaded, I tell you what I'll do. I won't bothernobody. I'll go Outside and play it—     Outside! Eagan stared at him incredulously. Are you mad? How aboutthe Grannies?     Isobar knew all about the Grannies. The only mobile form of lifefound by space-questing man on Earth's satellite, their name was anabbreviation of the descriptive one applied to them by the first Lunarexployers: Granitebacks. This was no exaggeration; if anything, it wasan understatement. For the Grannies, though possessed of certain lowintelligence, had quickly proven themselves a deadly, unyielding andimplacable foe.     Worse yet, they were an enemy almost indestructible! No man had everyet brought to Earth laboratories the carcass of a Grannie; sciencewas completely baffled in its endeavors to explain the composition ofGraniteback physiology—but it was known, from bitter experience, thatthe carapace or exoskeleton of the Grannies was formed of somethingharder than steel, diamond, or battleplate! This flesh could bepenetrated by no weapon known to man; neither by steel nor flame,by electronic nor ionic wave, nor by the lethal, newly discoveredatomo-needle dispenser.     All this Isobar knew about the Grannies. Yet:     They ain't been any Grannies seen around the Dome, he said, fora 'coon's age. Anyhow, if I seen any comin', I could run right backinside—     No! said Commander Eagan flatly. Absolutely,      no     ! I have no timefor such nonsense. You know the orders—obey them! And now, gentlemen,good afternoon!     He left. Sparks turned to Isobar, grinning.     Well, he said, one man's fish—hey, Jonesy? Too bad you can't playyour doodlesack any more, but frankly, I'm just as glad. Of all theawful screeching wails—     But Isobar Jones, generally mild and gentle, was now in a perfectfury. His pale eyes blazed, he stomped his foot on the floor, and fromhis lips poured a stream of such angry invective that Riley lookedstartled. Words that, to Isobar, were the utter dregs of violentprofanity.     Oh, dagnab it! fumed Isobar Jones. Oh, tarnation and dingbust!Oh—      fiddlesticks     !      II     And so, chuckled Riley, he left, bubbling like a kettle on a red-hotoven. But, boy! was he ever mad! Just about ready to bust, he was.     Some minutes had passed since Isobar had left; Riley was talking to Dr.Loesch, head of the Dome's Physics Research Division. The older mannodded commiseratingly.     It is funny, yes, he agreed, but at the same time it is notaltogether amusing. I feel sorry for him. He is a very unhappy man, ourpoor Isobar.     Yeah, I know, said Riley, but, hell, we all get a little bithomesick now and then. He ought to learn to—     Excuse me, my boy, interrupted the aged physicist, his voice gentle,it is not mere homesickness that troubles our friend. It is somethingdeeper, much more vital and serious. It is what my people call:      weltschmertz     . There is no accurate translation in English. It means'world sickness,' or better, 'world weariness'—something like that butintensified a thousandfold.     It is a deeply-rooted mental condition, sometimes a dangerous frameof mind. Under its grip, men do wild things. Hating the world on whichthey find themselves, they rebel in curious ways. Suicide ... mad actsof valor ... deeds of cunning or knavery....     You mean, demanded Sparks anxiously, Isobar ain't got all hisbuttons?     Not that exactly. He is perfectly sane. But he is in a dark morassof despair. He may try      anything     to retrieve his lost happiness, ridhis soul of its dark oppression. His world-sickness is like a cryinghunger—By the way, where is he now?     Below, I guess. In his quarters.     Ah, good! Perhaps he is sleeping. Let us hope so. In slumber he willfind peace and forgetfulness.     But Dr. Loesch would have been far less sanguine had some power thegiftie gi'en him of watching Isobar Jones at that moment.     Isobar was not asleep. Far from it. Wide awake and very much astir, hewas acting in a singularly sinister role: that of a slinking, furtiveculprit.     Returning to his private cubicle after his conversation with DomeCommander Eagan, he had stalked straightway to the cabinet wherein wasencased his precious set of bagpipes. These he had taken from theirpegs, gazed upon defiantly, and fondled with almost parental affection.     So I can't play you, huh? he muttered darkly. It disturbs the peaceo' the dingfounded, dumblasted Dome staff, does it? Well, we'll      see     about that!     And tucking the bag under his arm, he had cautiously slipped from theroom, down little-used corridors, and now he stood before the huge      impervite     gates which were the entrance to the Dome and the doorwayto Outside.     On all save those occasions when a spacecraft landed in the cradleadjacent the gateway, these portals were doubly locked and barred. Buttoday they had been unbolted that the two maintenance men might ventureout. And since it was quite possible that Brown and Roberts might haveto get inside in a hurry, their bolts remained drawn. Sole guardian ofthe entrance was a very bored Junior Patrolman.     Up to this worthy strode Isobar Jones, confident and assured, exudingan aura of propriety.     Very well, Wilkins, he said. I'll take over now. You may go to themeeting.     Wilkins looked at him bewilderedly.     Huh? Whuzzat, Mr. Jones?     Isobar's eyebrows arched.     You mean you haven't been notified?     Notified of      what     ?     Why, the general council of all Patrolmen! Weren't you told that Iwould take your place here while you reported to G.H.Q.?     I ain't, puzzled Wilkins, heard nothing about it. Maybe I ought tocall the office, maybe?     And he moved the wall-audio. But Isobar said swiftly. That—er—won'tbe necessary, Wilkins. My orders were plain enough. Now, you just runalong. I'll watch this entrance for you.     We-e-ell, said Wilkins, if you say so. Orders is orders. But keep asharp eye out, Mister Jones, in case Roberts and Brown should come backsudden-like.     I will, promised Isobar, don't worry.  Wilkins moved away. Isobar waited until the Patrolman was completelyout of sight. Then swiftly he pulled open the massive gate, slippedthrough, and closed it behind him.     A flood of warmth, exhilarating after the constantly regulatedtemperature of the Dome, descended upon him. Fresh air, thin, butfragrant with the scent of growing things, made his pulses stir withjoyous abandon. He was Outside! He was Outside, in good sunlight, atlast! After six long and dreary months!     Raptly, blissfully, all thought of caution tossed to the gentle breezesthat ruffled his sparse hair, Isobar Jones stepped forward into thelunar valley....     How long he wandered thus, carefree and utterly content, he could notafterward say. It seemed like minutes; it must have been longer. Heonly knew that the grass was green beneath his feet, the trees were alacy network through which warm sunlight filtered benevolently, thechirrupings of small insects and the rustling whisper of the breezesformed a tiny symphony of happiness through which he moved as onecharmed.     It did not occur to him that he had wandered too far from the Dome'sentrance until, strolling through an enchanting flower-decked glade, hewas startled to hear—off to his right—the sharp, explosive bark of aHaemholtz ray pistol.     He whirled, staring about him wildly, and discovered that though hismeandering had kept him near the Dome, he had unconsciously followedits hemispherical perimeter to a point nearly two miles from theGateway. By the placement of ports and windows, Isobar was able tojudge his location perfectly; he was opposite that portion of thestructure which housed Sparks' radio turret.     And the shooting? That could only be—     He did not have to name its reason, even to himself. For at thatmoment, there came racing around the curve of the Dome a pair offigures, Patrolmen clad in fatigue drab. Roberts and Brown. Roberts wasstaggering, one foot dragged awkwardly as he ran; Brown's left arm,bloodstained from shoulder to elbow, hung limply at his side, but inhis good right fist he held a spitting Haemholtz with which he tried tocover his comrade's sluggish retreat.     And behind these two, grim, grey, gaunt figures that moved withastonishing speed despite their massive bulk, came three ... six ... adozen of those lunarites whom all men feared. The Grannies!      III     Simultaneously with his recognition of the pair, Joe Roberts saw him. Agasp of relief escaped the wounded man.     Jones! Thank the Lord! Then you picked up our cry for help? Quick,man—where is it? Theres not a moment to waste!     W-where, faltered Isobar feebly, is      what     ?     The tank, of course! Didn't you hear our telecast? We can't possiblymake it back to the gate without an armored car. My foot's broken,and— Roberts stopped suddenly, an abrupt horror in his eyes. Youdon't have one! You're here      alone     ! Then you didn't pick up our call?But, why—?     Never mind that, snapped Isobar, now! Placid by nature, he couldmove when urgency drove. His quick mind saw the immediateness of theirperil. Unarmed, he could not help the Patrolmen fight a delaying actionagainst their foes, nor could he hasten their retreat. Anyway, weaponswere useless, and time was of the essence. There was but one temporaryway of staving off disaster. Over here ... this tree! Quick! Up yougo! Give him a lift, Brown—There! That's the stuff!     He was the last to scramble up the gnarled bole to a tentative leafysanctuary. He had barely gained the security of the lowermost boughwhen a thundering crash resounded, the sturdy trunk trembled beneathhis clutch. Stony claws gouged yellow parallels in the bark scantinches beneath one kicking foot, then the Granny fell back with a thud.The Graniteback was      not     a climber. It was far too ungainly, much tooweighty for that.     Roberts said weakly, Th-thanks, Jonesy! That was a close call.     That goes for me, too, Jonesy, added Brown from an upper bough.But I'm afraid you just delayed matters. This tree's O.Q. as longas it lasts, but— He stared down upon the gathering knot ofGrannies unhappily—it's not going to last long with that bunch ofsuperdreadnaughts working out on it! Hold tight, fellows! Here theycome!     For the Grannies, who had huddled for a moment as if in telepathicconsultation, now joined forces, turned, and as one body chargedheadlong toward the tree. The unified force of their attack was likethe shattering impact of a battering ram. Bark rasped and grittedbeneath the besieged men's hands, dry leaves and twigs pelted aboutthem in a tiny rain, tormented fibrous sinews groaned as the agedforest monarch shuddered in agony.     Desperately they clung to their perches. Though the great tree bent, itdid not break. But when it stopped trembling, it was canted drunkenlyto one side, and the erstwhile solid earth about its base was brokenand cracked—revealing fleshy tentacles uprooted from ancient moorings!  Brown stared at this evidence of the Grannies' power withterror-fascinated eyes. His voice was none too firm.     Lord! Piledrivers! A couple more like that—     Isobar nodded. He knew what falling into the clutch of the Granniesmeant. He had once seen the grisly aftermath of a Graniteback feast.Even now their adversaries had drawn back for a second attack. A suddenidea struck him. A straw of hope at which he grasped feverishly.     You telecast a message to the Dome? Help should be on the way by now.If we can just hold out—     But Roberts shook his head.     We sent a message, Jonesy, but I don't think it got through. I've justbeen looking at my portable. It seems to be busted. Happened when theyfirst attacked us, I guess. I tripped and fell on it.     Isobar's last hope flickered out.     Then I—I guess it won't be long now, he mourned. If we could haveonly got a message through, they would have sent out an armored car topick us up. But as it is—     Brown's shrug displayed a bravado he did not feel.     Well, that's the way it goes. We knew what we were risking when wevolunteered to come Outside. This damn moon! It'll never be wortha plugged credit until men find some way to fight those murderousstones-on-legs!     Roberts said, That's right. But what are      you     doing out here, Isobar?And why, for Pete's sake, the bagpipes?     Oh—the pipes? Isobar flushed painfully. He had almost forgottenhis original reason for adventuring Outside, had quite forgottenhis instrument, and was now rather amazed to discover that somehowthroughout all the excitement he had held onto it. Why, I justhappened to—Oh!      the pipes!          Hold on! roared Roberts. His warning came just in time. Once more,the three tree-sitters shook like dried peas in a pod as their leafyrefuge trembled before the locomotive onslaught of the lunar beasts.This time the already-exposed roots strained and lifted, severalsnapped; when the Grannies again withdrew, complacently unaware thatthe lethal ray of Brown's Haemholtz was wasting itself upon theiradamant hides in futile fury, the tree was bent at a precarious angle.     Brown sobbed, not with fear but with impotent anger, and in a gestureof enraged desperation, hurled his now-empty weapon at the retreatingGrannies.     No good! Not a damn bit of good! Oh, if there was only some way offighting those filthy things—     But Isobar Jones had a one-track mind. The pipes! he cried again,excitedly. That's the answer! And he drew the instrument into playingposition, bag cuddled beneath one arm-pit, drones stiffly erect overhis shoulder, blow-pipe at his lips. His cheeks puffed, his breathexpelled. The giant lung swelled, the chaunter emitted its distinctive,fearsome,       Kaa-aa-o-o-o-oro-oong!          Roberts moaned.     Oh, Lord! A guy can't even die in peace!     And Brown stared at him hopelessly.     It's no use, Isobar. You trying to scare them off? They have no senseof hearing. That's been proven—     Isobar took his lips from the reed to explain.     It's not that. I'm trying to rouse the boys in the Dome. We're rightopposite the atmosphere-conditioning-unit. See that grilled duct overthere? That's an inhalation-vent. The portable transmitter's out oforder, and our voices ain't strong enough to carry into the Dome—butthe sound of these pipes is! And Commander Eagan told me just a shortwhile ago that the sound of the pipes carries all over the building!     If they hear this, they'll get mad because I'm disobeyin' orders.They'll start lookin' for me. If they can't find me inside, maybethey'll look Outside. See that window? That's Sparks' turret. If we canmake him look out here—           Stop talking!      roared Roberts. Stop talking, guy, and startblowing! I think you've got something there. Anyhow, it's our lasthope.      Blow!          And quick! appended Brown. For here they come!        Isobar played, blew with all his might, while the Grannies raged below.        He meant the Grannies. Again they were huddling for attack, once more,a solid phalanx of indestructible, granite flesh, they were smashingdown upon the tree.           Haa-a-roong!      blew Isobar Jones.      IV     And—even he could not have foreseen the astounding results ofhis piping! What happened next was as astonishing as it wasincomprehensible. For as the pipes, filled now and primed to burst intowhatever substitute for melody they were prodded into, wailed intoaction—the Grannies' rush came to an abrupt halt!     As one, they stopped cold in their tracks and turned dull, colorless,questioning eyes upward into the tree whence came this weird andvibrant droning!     So stunned with surprise was Isobar that his grip on the pipes relaxed,his lips almost slipped from the reed. But Brown's delighted bellowlifted his paralysis.     Sacred rings of Saturn-look! They      like     it! Keep playing, Jonesy!Play, boy, like you never played before!     And Roberts roared, above the skirling of the      piobaireachd     intowhich Isobar had instinctively swung, Music hath charms to soothe thesavage beast! Then we were wrong. They      can     hear, after all! See that?They're lying down to listen—like so many lambs! Keep playing, Isobar!For once in my life I'm glad to hear that lovely, wonderful music!     Isobar needed no urging. He, too, had noted how the Grannies' attackhad stopped, how every last one of the gaunt grey beasts had suddenly,quietly, almost happily, dropped to its haunches at the base of thetree.     There was no doubt about it; the Grannies      liked     this music. Eyesraptly fixed, unblinking, unwavering, they froze into postures ofgentle beatitude. One stirred once, dangerously, as for a moment Isobarpaused to catch his breath, but Isobar hastily lipped the blow-pipewith redoubled eagerness, and the Granny relapsed into quietude.     Followed then what, under somewhat different circumstances, should havebeen a piper's dream. For Isobar had an audience which would not—andin two cases      dared     not—allow him to stop playing. And to thisaudience he played over and over again his entire repertoire. Marches,flings, dances—the stirring      Rhoderik Dhu     and the lilting      LassiesO'Skye     , the mournful      Coghiegh nha Shie     whose keening is like thesound of a sobbing nation.       The Cock o' the North     , he played, and      Mironton     ...      Wee Flow'r o'Dee     and      MacArthur's March     ...      La Cucuracha     and—     And his lungs were parched, his lips dry as swabs of cotton. Bloodpounded through his temples, throbbing in time to the drone of thechaunter, and a dark mist gathered before his eyes. He tore theblow-pipe from his lips, gasped,     Keep playing! came the dim, distant howl of Johnny Brown. Just a fewminutes longer, Jonesy! Relief is on the way. Sparks saw us from histurret window five minutes ago!     And Isobar played on. How, or what, he did not know. The memory ofthose next few minutes was never afterward clear in his mind. All heknew was that above the skirling drone of his pipes there came anothersound, the metallic clanking of a man-made machine ... an armored tank,sent from the Dome to rescue the beleaguered trio.     He was conscious, then, of a friendly voice shouting words ofencouragement, of Joe Roberts calling a warning to those below.     Careful, boys! Drive the tank right up beneath us so we can hop in andget out of here! Watch the Grannies—they'll be after us the minuteIsobar stops playing!     Then the answer from below. The fantastic answer in Sparks' familiarvoice. The answer that caused the bagpipes to slip from Isobar'sfingers as Isobar Jones passed out in a dead faint:     After you? Those Grannies? Hell's howling acres—      those Grannies arestone dead     !  ","Trouble on Tycho takes place on Luna III, a new frontier for space technology. The planet itself is lush and green, with a beautiful network of trees and greenery. However, it is inhabited by Granitebacks, an unbeatable foe known to kill any Earthmen who dare cross their path. So, the new inhabitants of Luna III built a giant dome to keep themselves safe from the Grannies, at least until they devised a way to beat them. The dome allows its residents to see out but makes it very difficult for them to escape. The inhabitants are there to provide Earth with news from space as well as other meteorological forecasts. The dome has air-conditioning and thick glass walls, so there’s no fresh air or real sunlight, only the meager, filtered kind. "
"Who is Isobar Jones and what happens to him throughout the story? </s>     TROUBLE ON TYCHO     By NELSON S. BOND     Isobar and his squeeze-pipes were the bane of     the Moon Station's existence. But there came     the day when his comrades found that the worth     of a man lies sometimes in his nuisance value.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories March 1943.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      The audiophone buzzed thrice—one long, followed by two shorts—andIsobar Jones pressed the stud activating its glowing scanner-disc.     Hummm? he said absent-mindedly.     The selenoplate glowed faintly, and the image of the Dome Commanderappeared.     Report ready, Jones?     Almost, acknowledged Isobar gloomily. It prob'ly ain't right,though. How anybody can be expected to get      anything     right on thisdagnabbed hunk o' green cheese—     Send it up, interrupted Colonel Eagan, as soon as you can. Sparks ismaking Terra contact now. That is all.     That ain't all! declared Isobar indignantly. How about my bag—?     It      was all     , so far as the D.C. was concerned. Isobar was talkingto himself. The plate dulled. Isobar said, Nuts! and returned tohis duties. He jotted neat ditto marks under the word Clear which,six months ago, he had placed beneath the column headed:      Cond. ofObs.     He noted the proper figures under the headings      Sun Spots     :      MaxFreq.     —      Min. Freq.     ; then he sketched careful curves in blue and redink upon the Mercator projection of Earth which was his daily worksheet.     This done, he drew a clean sheet of paper out of his desk drawer,frowned thoughtfully at the tabulated results of his observations, andbegan writing.           Weather forecast for Terra     , he wrote, his pen making scratchingsounds.     The audiophone rasped again. Isobar jabbed the stud and answeredwithout looking.     O.Q., he said wearily. O.Q. I told you it would be ready in a coupleo' minutes. Keep your pants on!     I—er—I beg your pardon, Isobar? queried a mild voice.     Isobar started. His sallow cheeks achieved a sickly salmon hue. Heblinked nervously.     Oh, jumpin' jimminy! he gulped.       You     , Miss Sally! Golly—'scuse me!I didn't realize—     The Dome Commander's niece giggled.     That's all right, Isobar. I just called to ask you about the weatherin Oceania Sector 4B next week. I've got a swimming date at Waikiki,but I won't make the shuttle unless the weather's going to be nice.     It is, promised Isobar. It'll be swell all weekend, Miss Sally.Fine sunshiny weather. You can go.     That's wonderful. Thanks so much, Isobar.     Don't mention it, ma'am, said Isobar, and returned to his work.     South America. Africa. Asia. Pan-Europa. Swiftly he outlined themeteorological prospects for each sector. He enjoyed this part of hisjob. As he wrote forecasts for each area, in his mind's eye he sawhimself enjoying such pastimes as each geographical division's terrainrendered possible.  If home is where the heart is, Horatio Jones—known better as Isobarto his associates at the Experimental Dome on Luna—was a long, longway from home. His lean, gangling frame was immured, and had been forsix tedious Earth months, beneath the      impervite     hemisphere of LunarIII—that frontier outpost which served as a rocket refueling station,teleradio transmission point and meteorological base.     Six solid months! Six sad, dreary months! thought Isobar, Locked upin an airtight Dome like—like a goldfish in a glass bowl! Sunlight?Oh, sure! But filtered through ultraviolet wave-traps so it could notburn, it left the skin pale and lustreless and clammy as the belly of atoad. Fresh air? Pooh! Nothing but that everlasting sickening, scented,reoxygenated stuff gushing from atmo-conditioning units.     Excitement? Adventure? The romance he had been led to expect when hesigned on for frontier service? Bah! Only a weary, monotonous, routineexistence.     A pain! declared Isobar Jones. That's what it is; a pain in thestummick. Not even allowed to—Yeah?     It was Sparks, audioing from the Dome's transmission turret. He said,Hyah, Jonesy! How comes with the report?     Done, said Isobar. I was just gettin' the sheets together for you.     O.Q. But just bring      it     . Nothing else.     Isobar bridled.     I don't know what you're talkin' about.     Oh, no? Well, I'm talking about that squawk-filled doodlesack ofyours, sonny boy. Don't bring that bag-full of noise up here with you.     Isobar said defiantly, It ain't a doodlesack. It's a bagpipe. And Iguess I can play it if I want to—     Not, said Sparks emphatically, in      my     cubby! I've got sensitiveeardrums. Well, stir your stumps! I've got to get the report rollingquick today. Big doings up here.     Yeah? What?     Well, it's Roberts and Brown—     What about 'em?     They've gone Outside to make foundation repairs.     Lucky stiffs! commented Isobar ruefully.     Lucky, no. Stiffs, maybe—if they should meet any Grannies. Well,scoot along. I'm on the ether in four point sixteen minutes.     Be right up, promised Isobar, and, sheets in hand, he ambled from hiscloistered cell toward the central section of the Dome.     He didn't leave Sparks' turret after the sheets were delivered.Instead, he hung around, fidgeting so obtrusively that Riley finallyturned to him in sheer exasperation.     Sweet snakes of Saturn, Jonesy, what's the trouble? Bugs in yourbritches?     Isobar said, H-huh? Oh, you mean—Oh, thanks, no! I just thought mebbeyou wouldn't mind if I—well—er—     I get it! Sparks grinned. Want to play peekaboo while the contact'sopen, eh? Well, O.Q. Watch the birdie!     He twisted dials, adjusted verniers, fingered a host ofincomprehensible keys. Current hummed and howled. Then a plate beforehim cleared, and the voice of the Earth operator came in, enunciatingwith painstaking clarity:     Earth answering Luna. Earth answering Luna's call. Can you hear me,Luna? Can you hear—?     I can not only hear you, snorted Riley, I can see you and smell you,as well. Stop hamming it, stupid! You're lousing up the earth!     The now-visible face of the Earth radioman drew into a grimace ofdispleasure.     Oh, it's      you     ? Funny man, eh? Funny man Riley?     Sure, said Riley agreeably. I'm a scream. Four-alarm Riley,the cosmic comedian—didn't you know? Flick on your dictacoder,oyster-puss; here's the weather report. He read it. '      Weatherforecast for Terra, week of May 15-21     —'     Ask him, whispered Isobar eagerly. Sparks, don't forget to ask him!  Riley motioned for silence, but nodded. He finished the weather report,entered the Dome Commander's log upon the Home Office records, anddictated a short entry from the Luna Biological Commission. Then:     That is all, he concluded.     O.Q., verified the other radioman. Isobar writhed anxiously, proddedRiley's shoulder.     Ask him, Sparks! Go on ask him!     Oh, cut jets, will you? snapped Sparks. The Terra operator lookedstartled.     How's that? I didn't say a word—     Don't be a dope, said Sparks, you dope! I wasn't talking to you.I'm entertaining a visitor, a refugee from a cuckoo clock. Look, do mea favor, chum? Can you twist your mike around so it's pointing out awindow?     What? Why—why, yes, but—     Without buts, said Sparks grumpily. Yours not to reason why; yoursbut to do or don't. Will you do it?     Well, sure. But I don't understand— The silver platter which hadmirrored the radioman's face clouded as the Earth operator twirled theinconoscope. Walls and desks of an ordinary broadcasting office spunbriefly into view; then the plate reflected a glimpse of an Earthlylandscape. Soft blue sky warmed by an atmosphere-shielded sun ... greentrees firmly rooted in still-greener grass ... flowers ... birds ...people....     Enough? asked Sparks.     Isobar Jones awakened from his trance, eyes dulling. Reluctantly henodded. Riley stared at him strangely, almost gently. To the otherradioman, O.Q., pal, he said. Cut!     Cut! agreed the other. The plate blanked out.     Thanks, Sparks, said Isobar.     Nothing, shrugged Riley       He twisted     the mike; not me. But—how comeyou always want to take a squint at Earth when the circuit's open,Jonesy? Homesick?     Sort of, admitted Isobar guiltily.     Well, hell, aren't we all? But we can't leave here for another sixmonths at least. Not till our tricks are up. I should think it'd onlymake you feel worse to see Earth.     It ain't Earth I'm homesick for, explained Isobar. It's—well, it'sthe things that go with it. I mean things like grass and flowers andtrees.     Sparks grinned; a mirthless, lopsided grin.     We've got      them     right here on Luna. Go look out the tower window,Jonesy. The Dome's nestled smack in the middle of the prettiest,greenest little valley you ever saw.     I know, complained Isobar. And that's what makes it even worse. Allthat pretty, soft, green stuff Outside—and we ain't allowed to go outin it. Sometimes I get so mad I'd like to—     To, interrupted a crisp voice, what?     Isobar spun, flushing; his eyes dropped before those of Dome CommanderEagan. He squirmed.     N-nothing, sir. I was only saying—     I heard you, Jones. And please let me hear no more of such talk, sir!It is strictly forbidden for anyone to go Outside except in cases ofabsolute necessity. Such labor as caused Patrolmen Brown and Roberts togo, for example—     Any word from them yet, sir? asked Sparks eagerly.     Not yet. But we're expecting them to return at any minute now. Jones!Where are      you     going?     Why—why, just back to my quarters, sir.     That's what I thought. And what did you plan to do there?     Isobar said stubbornly, Well, I sort of figured I'd amuse myself for awhile—     I thought that, too. And with      what     , pray, Jones?     With the only dratted thing, said Isobar, suddenly petulant, thatgives me any fun around this dagnabbed place! With my bagpipe.  Commander Eagan said, You'd better find some new way of amusingyourself, Jones. Have you read General Order 17?     Isobar said, I seen it. But if you think—     It says, stated Eagan deliberately, '      In order that work or restperiods of the Dome's staff may not be disturbed, it is hereby orderedthat the playing or practicing of all or any musical instruments mustbe discontinued immediately. By order of the Dome Commander     ,' Thatmeans you, Jones!     But, dingbust it! keened Isobar, it don't disturb nobody for me toplay my bagpipes! I know these lunks around here don't appreciate goodmusic, so I always go in my office and lock the door after me—     But the Dome, pointed out Commander Eagan, has an air-conditioningsystem which can't be shut off. The ungodly moans ofyour—er—so-called musical instrument can be heard through the entirestructure.     He suddenly seemed to gain stature.     No, Jones, this order is final! You cannot disrupt our entireorganization for your own—er—amusement.     But— said Isobar.     No!     Isobar wriggled desperately. Life on Luna was sorry enough already.If now they took from him the last remaining solace he had, the lastamusement which lightened his moments of freedom—     Look, Commander! he pleaded, I tell you what I'll do. I won't bothernobody. I'll go Outside and play it—     Outside! Eagan stared at him incredulously. Are you mad? How aboutthe Grannies?     Isobar knew all about the Grannies. The only mobile form of lifefound by space-questing man on Earth's satellite, their name was anabbreviation of the descriptive one applied to them by the first Lunarexployers: Granitebacks. This was no exaggeration; if anything, it wasan understatement. For the Grannies, though possessed of certain lowintelligence, had quickly proven themselves a deadly, unyielding andimplacable foe.     Worse yet, they were an enemy almost indestructible! No man had everyet brought to Earth laboratories the carcass of a Grannie; sciencewas completely baffled in its endeavors to explain the composition ofGraniteback physiology—but it was known, from bitter experience, thatthe carapace or exoskeleton of the Grannies was formed of somethingharder than steel, diamond, or battleplate! This flesh could bepenetrated by no weapon known to man; neither by steel nor flame,by electronic nor ionic wave, nor by the lethal, newly discoveredatomo-needle dispenser.     All this Isobar knew about the Grannies. Yet:     They ain't been any Grannies seen around the Dome, he said, fora 'coon's age. Anyhow, if I seen any comin', I could run right backinside—     No! said Commander Eagan flatly. Absolutely,      no     ! I have no timefor such nonsense. You know the orders—obey them! And now, gentlemen,good afternoon!     He left. Sparks turned to Isobar, grinning.     Well, he said, one man's fish—hey, Jonesy? Too bad you can't playyour doodlesack any more, but frankly, I'm just as glad. Of all theawful screeching wails—     But Isobar Jones, generally mild and gentle, was now in a perfectfury. His pale eyes blazed, he stomped his foot on the floor, and fromhis lips poured a stream of such angry invective that Riley lookedstartled. Words that, to Isobar, were the utter dregs of violentprofanity.     Oh, dagnab it! fumed Isobar Jones. Oh, tarnation and dingbust!Oh—      fiddlesticks     !      II     And so, chuckled Riley, he left, bubbling like a kettle on a red-hotoven. But, boy! was he ever mad! Just about ready to bust, he was.     Some minutes had passed since Isobar had left; Riley was talking to Dr.Loesch, head of the Dome's Physics Research Division. The older mannodded commiseratingly.     It is funny, yes, he agreed, but at the same time it is notaltogether amusing. I feel sorry for him. He is a very unhappy man, ourpoor Isobar.     Yeah, I know, said Riley, but, hell, we all get a little bithomesick now and then. He ought to learn to—     Excuse me, my boy, interrupted the aged physicist, his voice gentle,it is not mere homesickness that troubles our friend. It is somethingdeeper, much more vital and serious. It is what my people call:      weltschmertz     . There is no accurate translation in English. It means'world sickness,' or better, 'world weariness'—something like that butintensified a thousandfold.     It is a deeply-rooted mental condition, sometimes a dangerous frameof mind. Under its grip, men do wild things. Hating the world on whichthey find themselves, they rebel in curious ways. Suicide ... mad actsof valor ... deeds of cunning or knavery....     You mean, demanded Sparks anxiously, Isobar ain't got all hisbuttons?     Not that exactly. He is perfectly sane. But he is in a dark morassof despair. He may try      anything     to retrieve his lost happiness, ridhis soul of its dark oppression. His world-sickness is like a cryinghunger—By the way, where is he now?     Below, I guess. In his quarters.     Ah, good! Perhaps he is sleeping. Let us hope so. In slumber he willfind peace and forgetfulness.     But Dr. Loesch would have been far less sanguine had some power thegiftie gi'en him of watching Isobar Jones at that moment.     Isobar was not asleep. Far from it. Wide awake and very much astir, hewas acting in a singularly sinister role: that of a slinking, furtiveculprit.     Returning to his private cubicle after his conversation with DomeCommander Eagan, he had stalked straightway to the cabinet wherein wasencased his precious set of bagpipes. These he had taken from theirpegs, gazed upon defiantly, and fondled with almost parental affection.     So I can't play you, huh? he muttered darkly. It disturbs the peaceo' the dingfounded, dumblasted Dome staff, does it? Well, we'll      see     about that!     And tucking the bag under his arm, he had cautiously slipped from theroom, down little-used corridors, and now he stood before the huge      impervite     gates which were the entrance to the Dome and the doorwayto Outside.     On all save those occasions when a spacecraft landed in the cradleadjacent the gateway, these portals were doubly locked and barred. Buttoday they had been unbolted that the two maintenance men might ventureout. And since it was quite possible that Brown and Roberts might haveto get inside in a hurry, their bolts remained drawn. Sole guardian ofthe entrance was a very bored Junior Patrolman.     Up to this worthy strode Isobar Jones, confident and assured, exudingan aura of propriety.     Very well, Wilkins, he said. I'll take over now. You may go to themeeting.     Wilkins looked at him bewilderedly.     Huh? Whuzzat, Mr. Jones?     Isobar's eyebrows arched.     You mean you haven't been notified?     Notified of      what     ?     Why, the general council of all Patrolmen! Weren't you told that Iwould take your place here while you reported to G.H.Q.?     I ain't, puzzled Wilkins, heard nothing about it. Maybe I ought tocall the office, maybe?     And he moved the wall-audio. But Isobar said swiftly. That—er—won'tbe necessary, Wilkins. My orders were plain enough. Now, you just runalong. I'll watch this entrance for you.     We-e-ell, said Wilkins, if you say so. Orders is orders. But keep asharp eye out, Mister Jones, in case Roberts and Brown should come backsudden-like.     I will, promised Isobar, don't worry.  Wilkins moved away. Isobar waited until the Patrolman was completelyout of sight. Then swiftly he pulled open the massive gate, slippedthrough, and closed it behind him.     A flood of warmth, exhilarating after the constantly regulatedtemperature of the Dome, descended upon him. Fresh air, thin, butfragrant with the scent of growing things, made his pulses stir withjoyous abandon. He was Outside! He was Outside, in good sunlight, atlast! After six long and dreary months!     Raptly, blissfully, all thought of caution tossed to the gentle breezesthat ruffled his sparse hair, Isobar Jones stepped forward into thelunar valley....     How long he wandered thus, carefree and utterly content, he could notafterward say. It seemed like minutes; it must have been longer. Heonly knew that the grass was green beneath his feet, the trees were alacy network through which warm sunlight filtered benevolently, thechirrupings of small insects and the rustling whisper of the breezesformed a tiny symphony of happiness through which he moved as onecharmed.     It did not occur to him that he had wandered too far from the Dome'sentrance until, strolling through an enchanting flower-decked glade, hewas startled to hear—off to his right—the sharp, explosive bark of aHaemholtz ray pistol.     He whirled, staring about him wildly, and discovered that though hismeandering had kept him near the Dome, he had unconsciously followedits hemispherical perimeter to a point nearly two miles from theGateway. By the placement of ports and windows, Isobar was able tojudge his location perfectly; he was opposite that portion of thestructure which housed Sparks' radio turret.     And the shooting? That could only be—     He did not have to name its reason, even to himself. For at thatmoment, there came racing around the curve of the Dome a pair offigures, Patrolmen clad in fatigue drab. Roberts and Brown. Roberts wasstaggering, one foot dragged awkwardly as he ran; Brown's left arm,bloodstained from shoulder to elbow, hung limply at his side, but inhis good right fist he held a spitting Haemholtz with which he tried tocover his comrade's sluggish retreat.     And behind these two, grim, grey, gaunt figures that moved withastonishing speed despite their massive bulk, came three ... six ... adozen of those lunarites whom all men feared. The Grannies!      III     Simultaneously with his recognition of the pair, Joe Roberts saw him. Agasp of relief escaped the wounded man.     Jones! Thank the Lord! Then you picked up our cry for help? Quick,man—where is it? Theres not a moment to waste!     W-where, faltered Isobar feebly, is      what     ?     The tank, of course! Didn't you hear our telecast? We can't possiblymake it back to the gate without an armored car. My foot's broken,and— Roberts stopped suddenly, an abrupt horror in his eyes. Youdon't have one! You're here      alone     ! Then you didn't pick up our call?But, why—?     Never mind that, snapped Isobar, now! Placid by nature, he couldmove when urgency drove. His quick mind saw the immediateness of theirperil. Unarmed, he could not help the Patrolmen fight a delaying actionagainst their foes, nor could he hasten their retreat. Anyway, weaponswere useless, and time was of the essence. There was but one temporaryway of staving off disaster. Over here ... this tree! Quick! Up yougo! Give him a lift, Brown—There! That's the stuff!     He was the last to scramble up the gnarled bole to a tentative leafysanctuary. He had barely gained the security of the lowermost boughwhen a thundering crash resounded, the sturdy trunk trembled beneathhis clutch. Stony claws gouged yellow parallels in the bark scantinches beneath one kicking foot, then the Granny fell back with a thud.The Graniteback was      not     a climber. It was far too ungainly, much tooweighty for that.     Roberts said weakly, Th-thanks, Jonesy! That was a close call.     That goes for me, too, Jonesy, added Brown from an upper bough.But I'm afraid you just delayed matters. This tree's O.Q. as longas it lasts, but— He stared down upon the gathering knot ofGrannies unhappily—it's not going to last long with that bunch ofsuperdreadnaughts working out on it! Hold tight, fellows! Here theycome!     For the Grannies, who had huddled for a moment as if in telepathicconsultation, now joined forces, turned, and as one body chargedheadlong toward the tree. The unified force of their attack was likethe shattering impact of a battering ram. Bark rasped and grittedbeneath the besieged men's hands, dry leaves and twigs pelted aboutthem in a tiny rain, tormented fibrous sinews groaned as the agedforest monarch shuddered in agony.     Desperately they clung to their perches. Though the great tree bent, itdid not break. But when it stopped trembling, it was canted drunkenlyto one side, and the erstwhile solid earth about its base was brokenand cracked—revealing fleshy tentacles uprooted from ancient moorings!  Brown stared at this evidence of the Grannies' power withterror-fascinated eyes. His voice was none too firm.     Lord! Piledrivers! A couple more like that—     Isobar nodded. He knew what falling into the clutch of the Granniesmeant. He had once seen the grisly aftermath of a Graniteback feast.Even now their adversaries had drawn back for a second attack. A suddenidea struck him. A straw of hope at which he grasped feverishly.     You telecast a message to the Dome? Help should be on the way by now.If we can just hold out—     But Roberts shook his head.     We sent a message, Jonesy, but I don't think it got through. I've justbeen looking at my portable. It seems to be busted. Happened when theyfirst attacked us, I guess. I tripped and fell on it.     Isobar's last hope flickered out.     Then I—I guess it won't be long now, he mourned. If we could haveonly got a message through, they would have sent out an armored car topick us up. But as it is—     Brown's shrug displayed a bravado he did not feel.     Well, that's the way it goes. We knew what we were risking when wevolunteered to come Outside. This damn moon! It'll never be wortha plugged credit until men find some way to fight those murderousstones-on-legs!     Roberts said, That's right. But what are      you     doing out here, Isobar?And why, for Pete's sake, the bagpipes?     Oh—the pipes? Isobar flushed painfully. He had almost forgottenhis original reason for adventuring Outside, had quite forgottenhis instrument, and was now rather amazed to discover that somehowthroughout all the excitement he had held onto it. Why, I justhappened to—Oh!      the pipes!          Hold on! roared Roberts. His warning came just in time. Once more,the three tree-sitters shook like dried peas in a pod as their leafyrefuge trembled before the locomotive onslaught of the lunar beasts.This time the already-exposed roots strained and lifted, severalsnapped; when the Grannies again withdrew, complacently unaware thatthe lethal ray of Brown's Haemholtz was wasting itself upon theiradamant hides in futile fury, the tree was bent at a precarious angle.     Brown sobbed, not with fear but with impotent anger, and in a gestureof enraged desperation, hurled his now-empty weapon at the retreatingGrannies.     No good! Not a damn bit of good! Oh, if there was only some way offighting those filthy things—     But Isobar Jones had a one-track mind. The pipes! he cried again,excitedly. That's the answer! And he drew the instrument into playingposition, bag cuddled beneath one arm-pit, drones stiffly erect overhis shoulder, blow-pipe at his lips. His cheeks puffed, his breathexpelled. The giant lung swelled, the chaunter emitted its distinctive,fearsome,       Kaa-aa-o-o-o-oro-oong!          Roberts moaned.     Oh, Lord! A guy can't even die in peace!     And Brown stared at him hopelessly.     It's no use, Isobar. You trying to scare them off? They have no senseof hearing. That's been proven—     Isobar took his lips from the reed to explain.     It's not that. I'm trying to rouse the boys in the Dome. We're rightopposite the atmosphere-conditioning-unit. See that grilled duct overthere? That's an inhalation-vent. The portable transmitter's out oforder, and our voices ain't strong enough to carry into the Dome—butthe sound of these pipes is! And Commander Eagan told me just a shortwhile ago that the sound of the pipes carries all over the building!     If they hear this, they'll get mad because I'm disobeyin' orders.They'll start lookin' for me. If they can't find me inside, maybethey'll look Outside. See that window? That's Sparks' turret. If we canmake him look out here—           Stop talking!      roared Roberts. Stop talking, guy, and startblowing! I think you've got something there. Anyhow, it's our lasthope.      Blow!          And quick! appended Brown. For here they come!        Isobar played, blew with all his might, while the Grannies raged below.        He meant the Grannies. Again they were huddling for attack, once more,a solid phalanx of indestructible, granite flesh, they were smashingdown upon the tree.           Haa-a-roong!      blew Isobar Jones.      IV     And—even he could not have foreseen the astounding results ofhis piping! What happened next was as astonishing as it wasincomprehensible. For as the pipes, filled now and primed to burst intowhatever substitute for melody they were prodded into, wailed intoaction—the Grannies' rush came to an abrupt halt!     As one, they stopped cold in their tracks and turned dull, colorless,questioning eyes upward into the tree whence came this weird andvibrant droning!     So stunned with surprise was Isobar that his grip on the pipes relaxed,his lips almost slipped from the reed. But Brown's delighted bellowlifted his paralysis.     Sacred rings of Saturn-look! They      like     it! Keep playing, Jonesy!Play, boy, like you never played before!     And Roberts roared, above the skirling of the      piobaireachd     intowhich Isobar had instinctively swung, Music hath charms to soothe thesavage beast! Then we were wrong. They      can     hear, after all! See that?They're lying down to listen—like so many lambs! Keep playing, Isobar!For once in my life I'm glad to hear that lovely, wonderful music!     Isobar needed no urging. He, too, had noted how the Grannies' attackhad stopped, how every last one of the gaunt grey beasts had suddenly,quietly, almost happily, dropped to its haunches at the base of thetree.     There was no doubt about it; the Grannies      liked     this music. Eyesraptly fixed, unblinking, unwavering, they froze into postures ofgentle beatitude. One stirred once, dangerously, as for a moment Isobarpaused to catch his breath, but Isobar hastily lipped the blow-pipewith redoubled eagerness, and the Granny relapsed into quietude.     Followed then what, under somewhat different circumstances, should havebeen a piper's dream. For Isobar had an audience which would not—andin two cases      dared     not—allow him to stop playing. And to thisaudience he played over and over again his entire repertoire. Marches,flings, dances—the stirring      Rhoderik Dhu     and the lilting      LassiesO'Skye     , the mournful      Coghiegh nha Shie     whose keening is like thesound of a sobbing nation.       The Cock o' the North     , he played, and      Mironton     ...      Wee Flow'r o'Dee     and      MacArthur's March     ...      La Cucuracha     and—     And his lungs were parched, his lips dry as swabs of cotton. Bloodpounded through his temples, throbbing in time to the drone of thechaunter, and a dark mist gathered before his eyes. He tore theblow-pipe from his lips, gasped,     Keep playing! came the dim, distant howl of Johnny Brown. Just a fewminutes longer, Jonesy! Relief is on the way. Sparks saw us from histurret window five minutes ago!     And Isobar played on. How, or what, he did not know. The memory ofthose next few minutes was never afterward clear in his mind. All heknew was that above the skirling drone of his pipes there came anothersound, the metallic clanking of a man-made machine ... an armored tank,sent from the Dome to rescue the beleaguered trio.     He was conscious, then, of a friendly voice shouting words ofencouragement, of Joe Roberts calling a warning to those below.     Careful, boys! Drive the tank right up beneath us so we can hop in andget out of here! Watch the Grannies—they'll be after us the minuteIsobar stops playing!     Then the answer from below. The fantastic answer in Sparks' familiarvoice. The answer that caused the bagpipes to slip from Isobar'sfingers as Isobar Jones passed out in a dead faint:     After you? Those Grannies? Hell's howling acres—      those Grannies arestone dead     !  ","Isobar Jones, real name Horatio, has been living on Luna III for six long months now. Working as a meteorologist for Earth and radio operator, he spends his days locked in the Experimental Dome of Luna meant to protect them from the Grannies, the indestructible creatures in the Outside. His only relief comes from playing his bagpipes, but his weariness, homesickness, and blues were catching up to him. After sending out his forecasts to Earth, Isobar reveals his deep desire to escape the dome and venture Outside. Caught by Colonel Eagon, he is punished by a new commandment stating that no musical instrument can be played as it disturbs the rest of the dome. An ardent player of the bagpipes, he is heartily disappointed and upset by the news. His weariness or weltschmertz as Dr. Loesch called it makes Isobar take his bagpipes Outside the dome so he can play in peace. He tricks the junior station manning the door and slips out once he’s out of sight. After walking for a long time through the beautiful scenery, he hears the sound of a gun firing. Knowing what this means, fear quickly strikes deep inside him. Roberts and Brown come towards him, followed by a dozen Grannies. Isobar helps them climb a tree while explaining that he doesn’t actually have the armored tank they called for. Once there, he explains his idea to them about playing his bagpipes so that the Dome would hear them and come to their rescue. The air conditioning valve was nearby, so the sound would carry. As he begins to play, the Grannies fall to the ground and remain there. Supposedly resting, Isobar keeps playing until backup arrives. They are shocked to find that Isobar’s playing didn’t just put the Grannies to sleep, it actually killed them. Isobar made a huge scientific discovery and rescued his companions. "
"What is the plot of the story? </s>          He was something out of a nightmare but his music was straightfrom heaven. He was a ragged little man out of a hole but hewas money in the bank to Stanley's four-piece combo. He was     —whoops!...       The Holes and John Smith     By Edward W. Ludwig       Illustration by Kelly Freas     It all began on a Saturdaynight at      The Space Room     . Ifyou've seen any recent Martiantravel folders, you know the place:A picturesque oasis of old Martiancharm, situated on the beauteousGrand Canal in the heart ofMarsport. Only half a mile fromhistoric Chandler Field, landingsite of the first Martian expeditionnearly fifty years ago in 1990. Avisitor to the hotel, lunch room orcocktail lounge will thrill at thesight of hardy space pioneers minglingside by side with colorfulMartian tribesmen. An evening at      The Space Room     is an amazing,unforgettable experience.     Of course, the folders neglect toadd that the most amazing aspect isthe scent of the Canal's stagnantwater—and that the most unforgettableexperience is seeing the root-of-all-evilevaporate from yourpocketbook like snow from theGreat Red Desert.     We were sitting on the bandstandof the candle-lit cocktail lounge.Me—Jimmie Stanley—and myfour-piece combo. Maybe you'veseen our motto back on Earth:The Hottest Music This Side ofMercury.     But there weren't four of us tonight.Only three. Ziggy, our bassfiddle man, had nearly sliced offtwo fingers while opening a can ofSaturnian ice-fish, thus decreasingthe number of our personnel by atragic twenty-five per cent.     Which was why Ke-teeli, ourboss, was descending upon us withall the grace of an enraged Venusianvinosaur.     Where ees museek? he shrilledin his nasal tenor. He was almostskeleton thin, like most Martians,and so tall that if he fell down he'dbe half way home.     I gulped. Our bass man can'tbe here, but we've called the Marsportlocal for another. He'll be hereany minute.     Ke-teeli, sometimes referred toas Goon-Face and The Eye, leeredcoldly down at me from his eight-foot-three.His eyes were like blackneedle points set deep in a mask ofdry, ancient, reddish leather.     Ees no feedle man, ees no job,he squeaked.     I sighed. This was the week ourcontract ended. Goon-Face had displayedlittle enough enthusiasm forour music as it was. His commentswere either, Ees too loud, too fast,or Ees too slow, too soft. The realcause of his concern being, I suspected,the infrequency with whichhis cash register tinkled.     But, I added, even if the newman doesn't come,      we're     still here.We'll play for you. I glanced atthe conglomeration of uniformedspacemen, white-suited tourists,and loin-clothed natives who sat atancient stone tables. You wouldn'twant to disappoint your customers,would you?     Ke-teeli snorted. Maybe ees betterdey be deesappointed. Ees betterno museek den bad museek.     Fat Boy, our clarinetist who doubleson Martian horn-harp, made afeeble attempt at optimism. Don'tworry, Mr. Ke-teeli. That new bassman will be here.     Sure, said Hammer-Head, ourred-haired vibro-drummer. I thinkI hear him coming now.     Suspiciously, Ke-teeli eyed theentrance. There was only silence.His naked, parchment-like chestswelled as if it were an expandingballoon.     Five meenutes! he shrieked.Eef no feedle, den you go! Andhe whirled away.     We waited.     Fat Boy's two hundred andeighty-odd pounds were droopedover his chair like the blubber of anexhausted, beach-stranded whale.     Well, he muttered, there's alwaysthe uranium pits of Neptune.Course, you don't live more thanfive years there—     Maybe we could make it backto Lunar City, suggested Hammer-Head.     Using what for fare? I asked.Your brains?     Hammer-Head groaned. No. Iguess it'll have to be the black pitsof Neptune. The home of washed-upinterplanetary musicians. It's toobad. We're so young, too.     The seconds swept by. Ke-teeliwas casting his razor-edged glare inour direction. I brushed the chewedfinger nails from the keyboard ofmy electronic piano.     Then it happened.  From the entrance of      TheSpace Room     came a thumpingand a grating and a banging. Suddenly,sweeping across the dancefloor like a cold wind, was a bassfiddle, an enormous black monstrosity,a refugee from a pawnbroker'sattic. It was queerly shaped. It wastoo tall, too wide. It was more likea monstrous, midnight-black hour-glassthan a bass.     The fiddle was not unaccompaniedas I'd first imagined. Behindit, streaking over the floor in awaltz of agony, was a little guy, ananimated matchstick with a flat,broad face that seemed to havebeen compressed in a vice. His sandcoloredmop of hair reminded meof a field of dry grass, the longstrands forming loops that flankedthe sides of his face.     His pale blue eyes were watery,like twin pools of fog. His tightfittingsuit, as black as the bass,was something off a park bench. Itwas impossible to guess his age. Hecould have been anywhere betweentwenty and forty.     The bass thumped down uponthe bandstand.     Hello, he puffed. I'm JohnSmith, from the Marsport union.He spoke shrilly and rapidly, as ifanxious to conclude the routine ofintroductions. I'm sorry I'm late,but I was working on my plan.     A moment's silence.     Your plan? I echoed at last.     How to get back home, hesnapped as if I should have knownit already.     Hummm, I thought.     My gaze turned to the dancefloor. Goon-Face had his eyes onus, and they were as cold as six Indiansgoing South.     We'll talk about your plan atintermission, I said, shivering.Now, we'd better start playing.John, do you know      On An AsteroidWith You     ?     I know      everything     , said JohnSmith.     I turned to my piano with ashudder. I didn't dare look at thathorrible fiddle again. I didn't darethink what kind of soul-chillingtones might emerge from its ancientdepths.     And I didn't dare look again atthe second monstrosity, the onenamed John Smith. I closed myeyes and plunged into a four-barintro.     Hammer-Head joined in onvibro-drums and Fat Boy on clarinet,and then—     My eyes burst open. A shivercoursed down my spine like giganticmice feet.     The tones that surged from thatmonstrous bass were ecstatic. Theywere out of a jazzman's Heaven.They were great rolling clouds thatseemed to envelop the entire universewith their vibrance. Theyheld a depth and a volume and arichness that were astounding, thatwere like no others I'd ever heard.     First they went      Boom-de-boom-de-boom-de-boom     ,and then,      boom-de-de-boom-de-de-boom-de-de-boom     ,just like the tones of all bassfiddles.     But there was something else, too.There were overtones, so that Johnwasn't just playing a single note,but a whole chord with each beat.And the fullness, the depth of thoseincredible chords actually set myblood tingling. I could      feel     thetingling just as one can feel the vibrationof a plucked guitar string.     I glanced at the cash customers.They looked like weary warriorsgetting their first glimpse of Valhalla.Gap-jawed and wide-eyed,they seemed in a kind of ecstatichypnosis. Even the silent, bland-facedMartians stopped sippingtheir wine-syrup and nodded theirdark heads in time with the rhythm.     I looked at The Eye. The transformationof his gaunt featureswas miraculous. Shadows of gloomdissolved and were replaced bya black-toothed, crescent-shapedsmile of delight. His eyes shone likethose of a kid seeing Santa Claus.     We finished      On An Asteroid WithYou     , modulated into      Sweet Sallyfrom Saturn     and finished with      Tighten Your Lips on Titan     .     We waited for the applause ofthe Earth people and the shrillingof the Martians to die down. ThenI turned to John and his fiddle.     If I didn't hear it, I gasped,I wouldn't believe it!     And the fiddle's so old, too!added Hammer-Head who, althoughsober, seemed quite drunk.     Old? said John Smith. Ofcourse it's old. It's over five thousandyears old. I was lucky to findit in a pawnshop. Only it's not afiddle but a      Zloomph     . This is theonly one in existence. He pattedthe thing tenderly. I tried the holein it but it isn't the right one.     I wondered what the hell he wastalking about. I studied the black,mirror-like wood. The aperture inthe vesonator was like that of anybass fiddle.     Isn't right for what? I had toask.     He turned his sad eyes to me.For going home, he said.     Hummm, I thought.  We played. Tune after tune.John knew them all, from thelatest pop melodies to a swing versionof the classic      Rhapsody of TheStars     . He was a quiet guy duringthe next couple of hours, and gettingmore than a few words fromhim seemed as hard as extracting atooth. He'd stand by his fiddle—Imean, his      Zloomph     —with a dreamyexpression in those watery eyes,staring at nothing.     But after one number he studiedFat Boy's clarinet for a moment.Nice clarinet, he mused. Has anunusual hole in the front.     Fat Boy scratched the back ofhis head. You—you mean here?Where the music comes out?     John Smith nodded. Unusual.     Hummm, I thought again.     Awhile later I caught him eyeingmy piano keyboard. What'sthe matter, John?     He pointed.     Oh, there, I said. A cigarettefell out of my ashtray, burnt a holein the key. If The Eye sees it, he'llswear at me in seven languages.     Even there, he said softly,even there....     There was no doubt about it.John Smith was peculiar, but hewas the best bass man this side of amusician's Nirvana.     It didn't take a genius to figureout our situation. Item one: Goon-Face'scountenance had evidencedan excellent imitation of Mephistophelesbefore John began to play.Item two: Goon-Face had beamedlike a kitten with a quart of creamafter John began to play.     Conclusion: If we wanted tokeep eating, we'd have to persuadeJohn Smith to join our combo.     At intermission I said, Howabout a drink, John? Maybe a shotof wine-syrup?     He shook his head.     Then maybe a Venusian fizz?     His grunt was negative.     Then some old-fashioned beer?     He smiled. Yes, I      like     beer.     I escorted him to the bar and assistedhim in his arduous climb ontoa stool.     John, I ventured after he'dtaken an experimental sip, wherehave you been hiding? A guy likeyou should be playing every night.     John yawned. Just got here. FiguredI might need some money soI went to the union. Then I workedon my plan.     Then you need a job. Howabout playing with us steady? Welike your style a lot.     He made a long, low hummingsound which I interpreted as anexpression of intense concentration.I don't know, he finally drawled.     It'd be a steady job, John. Inspirationstruck me. And listen, Ihave an apartment. It's got everything,solar shower, automatic chef,'copter landing—if we ever get a'copter. Plenty of room there fortwo people. You can stay with meand it won't cost you a cent. Andwe'll even pay you over unionwages.     His watery gaze wandered lazilyto the bar mirror, down to the glitteringarray of bottles and then outto the dance floor.     He yawned again and spokeslowly, as if each word were a leadenweight cast reluctantly from histongue:     No, I don't ... care much ...about playing.     What      do     you like to do, John?     His string-bean of a body stiffened.I like to study ancient history ...and I must work on myplan.     Oh Lord, that plan again!     I took a deep breath. Tell meabout it, John. It      must     be interesting.     He made queer clicking noiseswith his mouth that reminded meof a mechanical toy being woundinto motion. The whole foundationof this or any other culture isbased on the history of all the timedimensions, each interwoven withthe other, throughout the ages. Andthe holes provide a means of studyingall of it first hand.       Oh, oh     , I thought.      But you stillhave to eat. Remember, you stillhave to eat.       Trouble is, he went on, thereare so many holes in this universe.     Holes? I kept a straight face.     Certainly. Look around you. Allyou see is holes. These beer bottlesare just holes surrounded by glass.The doors and windows—they'reholes in walls. The mine tunnelsmake a network of holes under thedesert. Caves are holes, animals livein holes, our faces have holes,clothes have holes—millions andmillions of holes!     I winced and thought, humorhim because you gotta eat, yougotta eat.     His voice trembled with emotion.Why, they're everywhere. They'rein pots and pans, in pipes, in rocketjets, in bumpy roads. There are buttonholesand well holes, and shoelaceholes. There are doughnutholes and stocking holes and woodpeckerholes and cheese holes.Oceans lie in holes in the earth,and rivers and canals and valleys.The craters of the Moon are holes.Everything is—     But, John, I said as patiently aspossible, what have these holesgot to do with you?     He glowered at me as if I wereunworthy of such a confidence.What have they to do with me?he shrilled. I can't find the rightone—that's what!     I closed my eyes. Which particularhole are you looking for, John?     He was speaking rapidly againnow.     I was hurrying back to the Universitywith the      Zloomph     to provea point of ancient history to thosefools. They don't believe that instrumentswhich make music actuallyexisted before the tapes! Itwas dark—and some fool researcherhad forgotten to set a force-fieldover the hole—I fell through.     I closed my eyes. Now wait aminute. Did you drop something,lose it in the hole—is that why youhave to find it?     Oh I didn't lose anything important,he snapped,       just     my owntime dimension. And if I don't getback they will think I couldn't provemy theory, that I'm ashamed tocome back, and I'll be discredited.     His chest sagged for an instant.Then he straightened. But there'sstill time for my plan to work out—withthe relative difference takeninto account. Only I get so tiredjust thinking about it.     Yes, I can see where thinkingabout it would tire any one.     He nodded. But it can't be toofar away.     I'd like to hear more about it,I said. But if you're not going toplay with us—     Oh, I'll play with you, hebeamed. I can talk to      you     .      You     understand.     Thank heaven!  Heaven lasted for just threedays. During those seventy-twogolden hours the melodious tinklingof The Eye's cash register was asconstant as that of Santa's sleighbells.     John became the hero of tourists,spacemen, and Martians, but neverthelesshe remained stubbornlyaloof. He was quiet, moody, playinghis      Zloomph     automatically. He'dreveal definite indications of belongingto Homo Sapiens only whendrinking beer and talking about hisholes.     Goon-Face was still cautious.     Contract? he wheezed. Maybe.We see. Eef feedleman stay, wehave contract. He stay, yes?     Oh, sure, I said. He'll stay—justas long as you want him.     Den he sign contract, too. Nobeeg feedle, no contract.     Sure. We'll get him to sign it.I laughed hollowly. Don't worry,Mr. Ke-teeli.     Just a few minutes later tragedystruck.     A reporter from the      MarsportTimes     ambled into interview theMan of The Hour. The interview,unfortunately, was conducted overthe bar and accompanied by a generousguzzling of beer. Fat Boy,Hammer-Head and I watchedfrom a table. Knowing John as wedid, a silent prayer was in our eyes.     This is the first time he's talkedto anybody, Fat Boy breathed.I—I'm scared.     Nothing can happen, I said,optimistically. This'll be good publicity.     We watched.     John murmured something. Thereporter, a paunchy, balding man,scribbled furiously in his notebook.     John yawned, muttered somethingelse. The reporter continuedto scribble.     John sipped beer. His eyesbrightened, and he began to talkmore rapidly.     The reporter frowned, stoppedwriting, and studied John curiously.     John finished his first beer,started on his second. His eyes werewild, and he was talking more andmore rapidly.     He's doing it, Hammer-Headgroaned. He's telling him!     I rose swiftly. We better getover there. We should have knownbetter—     We were too late. The reporterhad already slapped on his hat andwas striding to the exit. John turnedto us, dazed, his enthusiasm vanishinglike air from a punctured balloon.     He wouldn't listen, he said,weakly. I tried to tell him, but hesaid he'd come back when I'msober. I'm sober now. So I quit.I've got to find my hole.     I patted him on the back. No,John, we'll help you. Don't quit.We'll—well, we'll help you.     We're working on a plan, too,said Fat Boy in a burst of inspiration.We're going to make a morescientific approach.     How? John asked.     Fat Boy gulped.     Just wait another day, I said.We'll have it worked out. Just bepatient another day. You can'tleave now, not after all your work.     No, I guess not, he sighed. I'llstay—until tomorrow.  All night the thought creptthrough my brain like a teasingspider:      What can we do to makehim stay? What can we tell him?What, what, what?       Unable to sleep the next morning,I left John to his snoring andwent for an aspirin and black coffee.All the possible schemes weredrumming through my mind: findingan Earth blonde to captureJohn's interest, having him electro-hypnotized,breaking his leg, forginga letter from this mythical universitytelling him his theory wasproved valid and for him to takea nice long vacation now. He wasa screwball about holes and forcefields and dimensional worlds butfor that music of his I'd baby himthe rest of his life.     It was early afternoon when Itrudged back to my apartment.     John was squatting on the livingroom floor, surrounded by a forestof empty beer bottles. His eyes werebulging, his hair was even wilderthan usual, and he was swaying.     John! I cried. You're drunk!     His watery eyes squinted at me.No, not drunk. Just scared. I'mawful scared!     But you mustn't be scared. Thatreporter was just stupid. We'll helpyou with your theory.     His body trembled. No, it isn'tthat. It isn't the reporter.     Then what is it, John?     It's my body. It's—     Yes, what about your body?Are you sick?     His face was white with terror.No, my—      my body's full of holes     .Suppose it's one of those holes!How will I get back if it is?     He rose and staggered to his      Zloomph     , clutching it as though itwere somehow a source of strengthand consolation.     I patted him gingerly on the arm.Now John. You've just had toomuch beer, that's all. Let's go outand get some air and some strongblack coffee. C'mon now.     We staggered out into the morningdarkness, the three of us. John,the      Zloomph     , and I.     I was hanging on to him tryingto see around and over and evenunder the      Zloomph     —steering by asort of radar-like sixth sense. Thestreet lights on Marsport are prettydim compared to Earthside. Ididn't see the open manhole thatthe workmen had figured would beall right at that time of night. Itgets pretty damned cold around 4: A.M.of a Martian morning, and Iguess the men were warming upwith a little nip at the bar acrossthe street.     Then—he was gone.     John just slipped out of my grasp—      Zloomph     and all—and was gone—completelyand irrevocably gone.I even risked a broken neck andjumped in the manhole after him.Nothing—nothing but the smell ofozone and an echo bouncing crazilyoff the walls of the conduit.     —is it.—is it.—is it.—is it.     John Smith was gone, so utterlyand completely and tragically goneit was as if he'd never existed....  Tonight is our last night at      TheSpace Room     . Goon-Face is scowlingagain with the icy fury of aPlutonian monsoon. As Goon-Facehas said, No beeg feedle, no contract.     Without John, we're notes in alost chord.     We've searched everything, inhospitals, morgues, jails, night clubs,hotels. We've hounded spaceportsand 'copter terminals. Nowhere, nowhereis John Smith.     Ziggy, whose two fingers havehealed, has already bowed to whatseems inevitable. He's signed up forthat trip to Neptune's uraniumpits. There's plenty of room formore volunteers, he tells us. But Ispend my time cussing the guy whoforgot to set the force field at theother end of the hole and let Johnand his      Zloomph     back into his owntime dimension. I cuss harder whenI think how we were robbed of thebest bass player in the galaxy.     And without a corpus delecti wecan't even sue the city.       ... THE END    ","The setting is primarily at an event space called the Space Room. Jimmie Stanley and his band perform there. They are sitting in the cocktail lounge waiting for the replacement for their fiddle player to arrive. Their boss, Ke-teeli, is upset that the fiddle player is not yet there. He is threatening to not let them play at the venue anymore. Eventually, their replacement player arrives at the venue. However, Jimmie has serious doubts that man will be able to play well because his instrument does not look like a fiddle and he appears disheveled. When the band does play with the new member, John Smith, he and his instrument – the Zloomph – sounds amazing. The audience shows a good reception as does the boss. Jimmie wants John to join the band, but John has other concerns. He continuously mentions holes and seems obsessed over finding holes. Eventually, Jimmie learns why John is interested in holes. John claims that he accidentally went through a hole and left his time dimension. He is in search of holes in order to find his original time dimension. Jimmie attempts to play along with John’s claims and even offers to let John stay at his apartment in order to entice him to join the band. John continues to drink beer and talk about holes during the story. One night, Jimmie returns back to his apartment and finds John drunk on the floor. He takes John, and the instrument, outside to calm John down. When they go outside, John and his instrument fall through a hole and are not seen again. Jimmie and the rest of the band assume that John managed to find his way back to his own time zone.  "
"Why is John Smith interested in holes? </s>          He was something out of a nightmare but his music was straightfrom heaven. He was a ragged little man out of a hole but hewas money in the bank to Stanley's four-piece combo. He was     —whoops!...       The Holes and John Smith     By Edward W. Ludwig       Illustration by Kelly Freas     It all began on a Saturdaynight at      The Space Room     . Ifyou've seen any recent Martiantravel folders, you know the place:A picturesque oasis of old Martiancharm, situated on the beauteousGrand Canal in the heart ofMarsport. Only half a mile fromhistoric Chandler Field, landingsite of the first Martian expeditionnearly fifty years ago in 1990. Avisitor to the hotel, lunch room orcocktail lounge will thrill at thesight of hardy space pioneers minglingside by side with colorfulMartian tribesmen. An evening at      The Space Room     is an amazing,unforgettable experience.     Of course, the folders neglect toadd that the most amazing aspect isthe scent of the Canal's stagnantwater—and that the most unforgettableexperience is seeing the root-of-all-evilevaporate from yourpocketbook like snow from theGreat Red Desert.     We were sitting on the bandstandof the candle-lit cocktail lounge.Me—Jimmie Stanley—and myfour-piece combo. Maybe you'veseen our motto back on Earth:The Hottest Music This Side ofMercury.     But there weren't four of us tonight.Only three. Ziggy, our bassfiddle man, had nearly sliced offtwo fingers while opening a can ofSaturnian ice-fish, thus decreasingthe number of our personnel by atragic twenty-five per cent.     Which was why Ke-teeli, ourboss, was descending upon us withall the grace of an enraged Venusianvinosaur.     Where ees museek? he shrilledin his nasal tenor. He was almostskeleton thin, like most Martians,and so tall that if he fell down he'dbe half way home.     I gulped. Our bass man can'tbe here, but we've called the Marsportlocal for another. He'll be hereany minute.     Ke-teeli, sometimes referred toas Goon-Face and The Eye, leeredcoldly down at me from his eight-foot-three.His eyes were like blackneedle points set deep in a mask ofdry, ancient, reddish leather.     Ees no feedle man, ees no job,he squeaked.     I sighed. This was the week ourcontract ended. Goon-Face had displayedlittle enough enthusiasm forour music as it was. His commentswere either, Ees too loud, too fast,or Ees too slow, too soft. The realcause of his concern being, I suspected,the infrequency with whichhis cash register tinkled.     But, I added, even if the newman doesn't come,      we're     still here.We'll play for you. I glanced atthe conglomeration of uniformedspacemen, white-suited tourists,and loin-clothed natives who sat atancient stone tables. You wouldn'twant to disappoint your customers,would you?     Ke-teeli snorted. Maybe ees betterdey be deesappointed. Ees betterno museek den bad museek.     Fat Boy, our clarinetist who doubleson Martian horn-harp, made afeeble attempt at optimism. Don'tworry, Mr. Ke-teeli. That new bassman will be here.     Sure, said Hammer-Head, ourred-haired vibro-drummer. I thinkI hear him coming now.     Suspiciously, Ke-teeli eyed theentrance. There was only silence.His naked, parchment-like chestswelled as if it were an expandingballoon.     Five meenutes! he shrieked.Eef no feedle, den you go! Andhe whirled away.     We waited.     Fat Boy's two hundred andeighty-odd pounds were droopedover his chair like the blubber of anexhausted, beach-stranded whale.     Well, he muttered, there's alwaysthe uranium pits of Neptune.Course, you don't live more thanfive years there—     Maybe we could make it backto Lunar City, suggested Hammer-Head.     Using what for fare? I asked.Your brains?     Hammer-Head groaned. No. Iguess it'll have to be the black pitsof Neptune. The home of washed-upinterplanetary musicians. It's toobad. We're so young, too.     The seconds swept by. Ke-teeliwas casting his razor-edged glare inour direction. I brushed the chewedfinger nails from the keyboard ofmy electronic piano.     Then it happened.  From the entrance of      TheSpace Room     came a thumpingand a grating and a banging. Suddenly,sweeping across the dancefloor like a cold wind, was a bassfiddle, an enormous black monstrosity,a refugee from a pawnbroker'sattic. It was queerly shaped. It wastoo tall, too wide. It was more likea monstrous, midnight-black hour-glassthan a bass.     The fiddle was not unaccompaniedas I'd first imagined. Behindit, streaking over the floor in awaltz of agony, was a little guy, ananimated matchstick with a flat,broad face that seemed to havebeen compressed in a vice. His sandcoloredmop of hair reminded meof a field of dry grass, the longstrands forming loops that flankedthe sides of his face.     His pale blue eyes were watery,like twin pools of fog. His tightfittingsuit, as black as the bass,was something off a park bench. Itwas impossible to guess his age. Hecould have been anywhere betweentwenty and forty.     The bass thumped down uponthe bandstand.     Hello, he puffed. I'm JohnSmith, from the Marsport union.He spoke shrilly and rapidly, as ifanxious to conclude the routine ofintroductions. I'm sorry I'm late,but I was working on my plan.     A moment's silence.     Your plan? I echoed at last.     How to get back home, hesnapped as if I should have knownit already.     Hummm, I thought.     My gaze turned to the dancefloor. Goon-Face had his eyes onus, and they were as cold as six Indiansgoing South.     We'll talk about your plan atintermission, I said, shivering.Now, we'd better start playing.John, do you know      On An AsteroidWith You     ?     I know      everything     , said JohnSmith.     I turned to my piano with ashudder. I didn't dare look at thathorrible fiddle again. I didn't darethink what kind of soul-chillingtones might emerge from its ancientdepths.     And I didn't dare look again atthe second monstrosity, the onenamed John Smith. I closed myeyes and plunged into a four-barintro.     Hammer-Head joined in onvibro-drums and Fat Boy on clarinet,and then—     My eyes burst open. A shivercoursed down my spine like giganticmice feet.     The tones that surged from thatmonstrous bass were ecstatic. Theywere out of a jazzman's Heaven.They were great rolling clouds thatseemed to envelop the entire universewith their vibrance. Theyheld a depth and a volume and arichness that were astounding, thatwere like no others I'd ever heard.     First they went      Boom-de-boom-de-boom-de-boom     ,and then,      boom-de-de-boom-de-de-boom-de-de-boom     ,just like the tones of all bassfiddles.     But there was something else, too.There were overtones, so that Johnwasn't just playing a single note,but a whole chord with each beat.And the fullness, the depth of thoseincredible chords actually set myblood tingling. I could      feel     thetingling just as one can feel the vibrationof a plucked guitar string.     I glanced at the cash customers.They looked like weary warriorsgetting their first glimpse of Valhalla.Gap-jawed and wide-eyed,they seemed in a kind of ecstatichypnosis. Even the silent, bland-facedMartians stopped sippingtheir wine-syrup and nodded theirdark heads in time with the rhythm.     I looked at The Eye. The transformationof his gaunt featureswas miraculous. Shadows of gloomdissolved and were replaced bya black-toothed, crescent-shapedsmile of delight. His eyes shone likethose of a kid seeing Santa Claus.     We finished      On An Asteroid WithYou     , modulated into      Sweet Sallyfrom Saturn     and finished with      Tighten Your Lips on Titan     .     We waited for the applause ofthe Earth people and the shrillingof the Martians to die down. ThenI turned to John and his fiddle.     If I didn't hear it, I gasped,I wouldn't believe it!     And the fiddle's so old, too!added Hammer-Head who, althoughsober, seemed quite drunk.     Old? said John Smith. Ofcourse it's old. It's over five thousandyears old. I was lucky to findit in a pawnshop. Only it's not afiddle but a      Zloomph     . This is theonly one in existence. He pattedthe thing tenderly. I tried the holein it but it isn't the right one.     I wondered what the hell he wastalking about. I studied the black,mirror-like wood. The aperture inthe vesonator was like that of anybass fiddle.     Isn't right for what? I had toask.     He turned his sad eyes to me.For going home, he said.     Hummm, I thought.  We played. Tune after tune.John knew them all, from thelatest pop melodies to a swing versionof the classic      Rhapsody of TheStars     . He was a quiet guy duringthe next couple of hours, and gettingmore than a few words fromhim seemed as hard as extracting atooth. He'd stand by his fiddle—Imean, his      Zloomph     —with a dreamyexpression in those watery eyes,staring at nothing.     But after one number he studiedFat Boy's clarinet for a moment.Nice clarinet, he mused. Has anunusual hole in the front.     Fat Boy scratched the back ofhis head. You—you mean here?Where the music comes out?     John Smith nodded. Unusual.     Hummm, I thought again.     Awhile later I caught him eyeingmy piano keyboard. What'sthe matter, John?     He pointed.     Oh, there, I said. A cigarettefell out of my ashtray, burnt a holein the key. If The Eye sees it, he'llswear at me in seven languages.     Even there, he said softly,even there....     There was no doubt about it.John Smith was peculiar, but hewas the best bass man this side of amusician's Nirvana.     It didn't take a genius to figureout our situation. Item one: Goon-Face'scountenance had evidencedan excellent imitation of Mephistophelesbefore John began to play.Item two: Goon-Face had beamedlike a kitten with a quart of creamafter John began to play.     Conclusion: If we wanted tokeep eating, we'd have to persuadeJohn Smith to join our combo.     At intermission I said, Howabout a drink, John? Maybe a shotof wine-syrup?     He shook his head.     Then maybe a Venusian fizz?     His grunt was negative.     Then some old-fashioned beer?     He smiled. Yes, I      like     beer.     I escorted him to the bar and assistedhim in his arduous climb ontoa stool.     John, I ventured after he'dtaken an experimental sip, wherehave you been hiding? A guy likeyou should be playing every night.     John yawned. Just got here. FiguredI might need some money soI went to the union. Then I workedon my plan.     Then you need a job. Howabout playing with us steady? Welike your style a lot.     He made a long, low hummingsound which I interpreted as anexpression of intense concentration.I don't know, he finally drawled.     It'd be a steady job, John. Inspirationstruck me. And listen, Ihave an apartment. It's got everything,solar shower, automatic chef,'copter landing—if we ever get a'copter. Plenty of room there fortwo people. You can stay with meand it won't cost you a cent. Andwe'll even pay you over unionwages.     His watery gaze wandered lazilyto the bar mirror, down to the glitteringarray of bottles and then outto the dance floor.     He yawned again and spokeslowly, as if each word were a leadenweight cast reluctantly from histongue:     No, I don't ... care much ...about playing.     What      do     you like to do, John?     His string-bean of a body stiffened.I like to study ancient history ...and I must work on myplan.     Oh Lord, that plan again!     I took a deep breath. Tell meabout it, John. It      must     be interesting.     He made queer clicking noiseswith his mouth that reminded meof a mechanical toy being woundinto motion. The whole foundationof this or any other culture isbased on the history of all the timedimensions, each interwoven withthe other, throughout the ages. Andthe holes provide a means of studyingall of it first hand.       Oh, oh     , I thought.      But you stillhave to eat. Remember, you stillhave to eat.       Trouble is, he went on, thereare so many holes in this universe.     Holes? I kept a straight face.     Certainly. Look around you. Allyou see is holes. These beer bottlesare just holes surrounded by glass.The doors and windows—they'reholes in walls. The mine tunnelsmake a network of holes under thedesert. Caves are holes, animals livein holes, our faces have holes,clothes have holes—millions andmillions of holes!     I winced and thought, humorhim because you gotta eat, yougotta eat.     His voice trembled with emotion.Why, they're everywhere. They'rein pots and pans, in pipes, in rocketjets, in bumpy roads. There are buttonholesand well holes, and shoelaceholes. There are doughnutholes and stocking holes and woodpeckerholes and cheese holes.Oceans lie in holes in the earth,and rivers and canals and valleys.The craters of the Moon are holes.Everything is—     But, John, I said as patiently aspossible, what have these holesgot to do with you?     He glowered at me as if I wereunworthy of such a confidence.What have they to do with me?he shrilled. I can't find the rightone—that's what!     I closed my eyes. Which particularhole are you looking for, John?     He was speaking rapidly againnow.     I was hurrying back to the Universitywith the      Zloomph     to provea point of ancient history to thosefools. They don't believe that instrumentswhich make music actuallyexisted before the tapes! Itwas dark—and some fool researcherhad forgotten to set a force-fieldover the hole—I fell through.     I closed my eyes. Now wait aminute. Did you drop something,lose it in the hole—is that why youhave to find it?     Oh I didn't lose anything important,he snapped,       just     my owntime dimension. And if I don't getback they will think I couldn't provemy theory, that I'm ashamed tocome back, and I'll be discredited.     His chest sagged for an instant.Then he straightened. But there'sstill time for my plan to work out—withthe relative difference takeninto account. Only I get so tiredjust thinking about it.     Yes, I can see where thinkingabout it would tire any one.     He nodded. But it can't be toofar away.     I'd like to hear more about it,I said. But if you're not going toplay with us—     Oh, I'll play with you, hebeamed. I can talk to      you     .      You     understand.     Thank heaven!  Heaven lasted for just threedays. During those seventy-twogolden hours the melodious tinklingof The Eye's cash register was asconstant as that of Santa's sleighbells.     John became the hero of tourists,spacemen, and Martians, but neverthelesshe remained stubbornlyaloof. He was quiet, moody, playinghis      Zloomph     automatically. He'dreveal definite indications of belongingto Homo Sapiens only whendrinking beer and talking about hisholes.     Goon-Face was still cautious.     Contract? he wheezed. Maybe.We see. Eef feedleman stay, wehave contract. He stay, yes?     Oh, sure, I said. He'll stay—justas long as you want him.     Den he sign contract, too. Nobeeg feedle, no contract.     Sure. We'll get him to sign it.I laughed hollowly. Don't worry,Mr. Ke-teeli.     Just a few minutes later tragedystruck.     A reporter from the      MarsportTimes     ambled into interview theMan of The Hour. The interview,unfortunately, was conducted overthe bar and accompanied by a generousguzzling of beer. Fat Boy,Hammer-Head and I watchedfrom a table. Knowing John as wedid, a silent prayer was in our eyes.     This is the first time he's talkedto anybody, Fat Boy breathed.I—I'm scared.     Nothing can happen, I said,optimistically. This'll be good publicity.     We watched.     John murmured something. Thereporter, a paunchy, balding man,scribbled furiously in his notebook.     John yawned, muttered somethingelse. The reporter continuedto scribble.     John sipped beer. His eyesbrightened, and he began to talkmore rapidly.     The reporter frowned, stoppedwriting, and studied John curiously.     John finished his first beer,started on his second. His eyes werewild, and he was talking more andmore rapidly.     He's doing it, Hammer-Headgroaned. He's telling him!     I rose swiftly. We better getover there. We should have knownbetter—     We were too late. The reporterhad already slapped on his hat andwas striding to the exit. John turnedto us, dazed, his enthusiasm vanishinglike air from a punctured balloon.     He wouldn't listen, he said,weakly. I tried to tell him, but hesaid he'd come back when I'msober. I'm sober now. So I quit.I've got to find my hole.     I patted him on the back. No,John, we'll help you. Don't quit.We'll—well, we'll help you.     We're working on a plan, too,said Fat Boy in a burst of inspiration.We're going to make a morescientific approach.     How? John asked.     Fat Boy gulped.     Just wait another day, I said.We'll have it worked out. Just bepatient another day. You can'tleave now, not after all your work.     No, I guess not, he sighed. I'llstay—until tomorrow.  All night the thought creptthrough my brain like a teasingspider:      What can we do to makehim stay? What can we tell him?What, what, what?       Unable to sleep the next morning,I left John to his snoring andwent for an aspirin and black coffee.All the possible schemes weredrumming through my mind: findingan Earth blonde to captureJohn's interest, having him electro-hypnotized,breaking his leg, forginga letter from this mythical universitytelling him his theory wasproved valid and for him to takea nice long vacation now. He wasa screwball about holes and forcefields and dimensional worlds butfor that music of his I'd baby himthe rest of his life.     It was early afternoon when Itrudged back to my apartment.     John was squatting on the livingroom floor, surrounded by a forestof empty beer bottles. His eyes werebulging, his hair was even wilderthan usual, and he was swaying.     John! I cried. You're drunk!     His watery eyes squinted at me.No, not drunk. Just scared. I'mawful scared!     But you mustn't be scared. Thatreporter was just stupid. We'll helpyou with your theory.     His body trembled. No, it isn'tthat. It isn't the reporter.     Then what is it, John?     It's my body. It's—     Yes, what about your body?Are you sick?     His face was white with terror.No, my—      my body's full of holes     .Suppose it's one of those holes!How will I get back if it is?     He rose and staggered to his      Zloomph     , clutching it as though itwere somehow a source of strengthand consolation.     I patted him gingerly on the arm.Now John. You've just had toomuch beer, that's all. Let's go outand get some air and some strongblack coffee. C'mon now.     We staggered out into the morningdarkness, the three of us. John,the      Zloomph     , and I.     I was hanging on to him tryingto see around and over and evenunder the      Zloomph     —steering by asort of radar-like sixth sense. Thestreet lights on Marsport are prettydim compared to Earthside. Ididn't see the open manhole thatthe workmen had figured would beall right at that time of night. Itgets pretty damned cold around 4: A.M.of a Martian morning, and Iguess the men were warming upwith a little nip at the bar acrossthe street.     Then—he was gone.     John just slipped out of my grasp—      Zloomph     and all—and was gone—completelyand irrevocably gone.I even risked a broken neck andjumped in the manhole after him.Nothing—nothing but the smell ofozone and an echo bouncing crazilyoff the walls of the conduit.     —is it.—is it.—is it.—is it.     John Smith was gone, so utterlyand completely and tragically goneit was as if he'd never existed....  Tonight is our last night at      TheSpace Room     . Goon-Face is scowlingagain with the icy fury of aPlutonian monsoon. As Goon-Facehas said, No beeg feedle, no contract.     Without John, we're notes in alost chord.     We've searched everything, inhospitals, morgues, jails, night clubs,hotels. We've hounded spaceportsand 'copter terminals. Nowhere, nowhereis John Smith.     Ziggy, whose two fingers havehealed, has already bowed to whatseems inevitable. He's signed up forthat trip to Neptune's uraniumpits. There's plenty of room formore volunteers, he tells us. But Ispend my time cussing the guy whoforgot to set the force field at theother end of the hole and let Johnand his      Zloomph     back into his owntime dimension. I cuss harder whenI think how we were robbed of thebest bass player in the galaxy.     And without a corpus delecti wecan't even sue the city.       ... THE END    ","John Smith is interested in holes because he wants to go back to his own time dimension. He explains to Jimmie that his colleagues did not believe that before the tapes, instruments that played music existed. He further details that on his way back to the University with his instrument, the Zloomph, he fell through a hole and out of his own time dimension. He states that a researcher is to blame for not securing a force field over the hole to prevent someone from falling through. John Smith is interested in holes because he believes that any hole could potentially bring him back to his own time dimension so that he can prove that this theory was credit. He does not want people to think that he was wrong. "
"What is the relationship between The Goon and the band? </s>          He was something out of a nightmare but his music was straightfrom heaven. He was a ragged little man out of a hole but hewas money in the bank to Stanley's four-piece combo. He was     —whoops!...       The Holes and John Smith     By Edward W. Ludwig       Illustration by Kelly Freas     It all began on a Saturdaynight at      The Space Room     . Ifyou've seen any recent Martiantravel folders, you know the place:A picturesque oasis of old Martiancharm, situated on the beauteousGrand Canal in the heart ofMarsport. Only half a mile fromhistoric Chandler Field, landingsite of the first Martian expeditionnearly fifty years ago in 1990. Avisitor to the hotel, lunch room orcocktail lounge will thrill at thesight of hardy space pioneers minglingside by side with colorfulMartian tribesmen. An evening at      The Space Room     is an amazing,unforgettable experience.     Of course, the folders neglect toadd that the most amazing aspect isthe scent of the Canal's stagnantwater—and that the most unforgettableexperience is seeing the root-of-all-evilevaporate from yourpocketbook like snow from theGreat Red Desert.     We were sitting on the bandstandof the candle-lit cocktail lounge.Me—Jimmie Stanley—and myfour-piece combo. Maybe you'veseen our motto back on Earth:The Hottest Music This Side ofMercury.     But there weren't four of us tonight.Only three. Ziggy, our bassfiddle man, had nearly sliced offtwo fingers while opening a can ofSaturnian ice-fish, thus decreasingthe number of our personnel by atragic twenty-five per cent.     Which was why Ke-teeli, ourboss, was descending upon us withall the grace of an enraged Venusianvinosaur.     Where ees museek? he shrilledin his nasal tenor. He was almostskeleton thin, like most Martians,and so tall that if he fell down he'dbe half way home.     I gulped. Our bass man can'tbe here, but we've called the Marsportlocal for another. He'll be hereany minute.     Ke-teeli, sometimes referred toas Goon-Face and The Eye, leeredcoldly down at me from his eight-foot-three.His eyes were like blackneedle points set deep in a mask ofdry, ancient, reddish leather.     Ees no feedle man, ees no job,he squeaked.     I sighed. This was the week ourcontract ended. Goon-Face had displayedlittle enough enthusiasm forour music as it was. His commentswere either, Ees too loud, too fast,or Ees too slow, too soft. The realcause of his concern being, I suspected,the infrequency with whichhis cash register tinkled.     But, I added, even if the newman doesn't come,      we're     still here.We'll play for you. I glanced atthe conglomeration of uniformedspacemen, white-suited tourists,and loin-clothed natives who sat atancient stone tables. You wouldn'twant to disappoint your customers,would you?     Ke-teeli snorted. Maybe ees betterdey be deesappointed. Ees betterno museek den bad museek.     Fat Boy, our clarinetist who doubleson Martian horn-harp, made afeeble attempt at optimism. Don'tworry, Mr. Ke-teeli. That new bassman will be here.     Sure, said Hammer-Head, ourred-haired vibro-drummer. I thinkI hear him coming now.     Suspiciously, Ke-teeli eyed theentrance. There was only silence.His naked, parchment-like chestswelled as if it were an expandingballoon.     Five meenutes! he shrieked.Eef no feedle, den you go! Andhe whirled away.     We waited.     Fat Boy's two hundred andeighty-odd pounds were droopedover his chair like the blubber of anexhausted, beach-stranded whale.     Well, he muttered, there's alwaysthe uranium pits of Neptune.Course, you don't live more thanfive years there—     Maybe we could make it backto Lunar City, suggested Hammer-Head.     Using what for fare? I asked.Your brains?     Hammer-Head groaned. No. Iguess it'll have to be the black pitsof Neptune. The home of washed-upinterplanetary musicians. It's toobad. We're so young, too.     The seconds swept by. Ke-teeliwas casting his razor-edged glare inour direction. I brushed the chewedfinger nails from the keyboard ofmy electronic piano.     Then it happened.  From the entrance of      TheSpace Room     came a thumpingand a grating and a banging. Suddenly,sweeping across the dancefloor like a cold wind, was a bassfiddle, an enormous black monstrosity,a refugee from a pawnbroker'sattic. It was queerly shaped. It wastoo tall, too wide. It was more likea monstrous, midnight-black hour-glassthan a bass.     The fiddle was not unaccompaniedas I'd first imagined. Behindit, streaking over the floor in awaltz of agony, was a little guy, ananimated matchstick with a flat,broad face that seemed to havebeen compressed in a vice. His sandcoloredmop of hair reminded meof a field of dry grass, the longstrands forming loops that flankedthe sides of his face.     His pale blue eyes were watery,like twin pools of fog. His tightfittingsuit, as black as the bass,was something off a park bench. Itwas impossible to guess his age. Hecould have been anywhere betweentwenty and forty.     The bass thumped down uponthe bandstand.     Hello, he puffed. I'm JohnSmith, from the Marsport union.He spoke shrilly and rapidly, as ifanxious to conclude the routine ofintroductions. I'm sorry I'm late,but I was working on my plan.     A moment's silence.     Your plan? I echoed at last.     How to get back home, hesnapped as if I should have knownit already.     Hummm, I thought.     My gaze turned to the dancefloor. Goon-Face had his eyes onus, and they were as cold as six Indiansgoing South.     We'll talk about your plan atintermission, I said, shivering.Now, we'd better start playing.John, do you know      On An AsteroidWith You     ?     I know      everything     , said JohnSmith.     I turned to my piano with ashudder. I didn't dare look at thathorrible fiddle again. I didn't darethink what kind of soul-chillingtones might emerge from its ancientdepths.     And I didn't dare look again atthe second monstrosity, the onenamed John Smith. I closed myeyes and plunged into a four-barintro.     Hammer-Head joined in onvibro-drums and Fat Boy on clarinet,and then—     My eyes burst open. A shivercoursed down my spine like giganticmice feet.     The tones that surged from thatmonstrous bass were ecstatic. Theywere out of a jazzman's Heaven.They were great rolling clouds thatseemed to envelop the entire universewith their vibrance. Theyheld a depth and a volume and arichness that were astounding, thatwere like no others I'd ever heard.     First they went      Boom-de-boom-de-boom-de-boom     ,and then,      boom-de-de-boom-de-de-boom-de-de-boom     ,just like the tones of all bassfiddles.     But there was something else, too.There were overtones, so that Johnwasn't just playing a single note,but a whole chord with each beat.And the fullness, the depth of thoseincredible chords actually set myblood tingling. I could      feel     thetingling just as one can feel the vibrationof a plucked guitar string.     I glanced at the cash customers.They looked like weary warriorsgetting their first glimpse of Valhalla.Gap-jawed and wide-eyed,they seemed in a kind of ecstatichypnosis. Even the silent, bland-facedMartians stopped sippingtheir wine-syrup and nodded theirdark heads in time with the rhythm.     I looked at The Eye. The transformationof his gaunt featureswas miraculous. Shadows of gloomdissolved and were replaced bya black-toothed, crescent-shapedsmile of delight. His eyes shone likethose of a kid seeing Santa Claus.     We finished      On An Asteroid WithYou     , modulated into      Sweet Sallyfrom Saturn     and finished with      Tighten Your Lips on Titan     .     We waited for the applause ofthe Earth people and the shrillingof the Martians to die down. ThenI turned to John and his fiddle.     If I didn't hear it, I gasped,I wouldn't believe it!     And the fiddle's so old, too!added Hammer-Head who, althoughsober, seemed quite drunk.     Old? said John Smith. Ofcourse it's old. It's over five thousandyears old. I was lucky to findit in a pawnshop. Only it's not afiddle but a      Zloomph     . This is theonly one in existence. He pattedthe thing tenderly. I tried the holein it but it isn't the right one.     I wondered what the hell he wastalking about. I studied the black,mirror-like wood. The aperture inthe vesonator was like that of anybass fiddle.     Isn't right for what? I had toask.     He turned his sad eyes to me.For going home, he said.     Hummm, I thought.  We played. Tune after tune.John knew them all, from thelatest pop melodies to a swing versionof the classic      Rhapsody of TheStars     . He was a quiet guy duringthe next couple of hours, and gettingmore than a few words fromhim seemed as hard as extracting atooth. He'd stand by his fiddle—Imean, his      Zloomph     —with a dreamyexpression in those watery eyes,staring at nothing.     But after one number he studiedFat Boy's clarinet for a moment.Nice clarinet, he mused. Has anunusual hole in the front.     Fat Boy scratched the back ofhis head. You—you mean here?Where the music comes out?     John Smith nodded. Unusual.     Hummm, I thought again.     Awhile later I caught him eyeingmy piano keyboard. What'sthe matter, John?     He pointed.     Oh, there, I said. A cigarettefell out of my ashtray, burnt a holein the key. If The Eye sees it, he'llswear at me in seven languages.     Even there, he said softly,even there....     There was no doubt about it.John Smith was peculiar, but hewas the best bass man this side of amusician's Nirvana.     It didn't take a genius to figureout our situation. Item one: Goon-Face'scountenance had evidencedan excellent imitation of Mephistophelesbefore John began to play.Item two: Goon-Face had beamedlike a kitten with a quart of creamafter John began to play.     Conclusion: If we wanted tokeep eating, we'd have to persuadeJohn Smith to join our combo.     At intermission I said, Howabout a drink, John? Maybe a shotof wine-syrup?     He shook his head.     Then maybe a Venusian fizz?     His grunt was negative.     Then some old-fashioned beer?     He smiled. Yes, I      like     beer.     I escorted him to the bar and assistedhim in his arduous climb ontoa stool.     John, I ventured after he'dtaken an experimental sip, wherehave you been hiding? A guy likeyou should be playing every night.     John yawned. Just got here. FiguredI might need some money soI went to the union. Then I workedon my plan.     Then you need a job. Howabout playing with us steady? Welike your style a lot.     He made a long, low hummingsound which I interpreted as anexpression of intense concentration.I don't know, he finally drawled.     It'd be a steady job, John. Inspirationstruck me. And listen, Ihave an apartment. It's got everything,solar shower, automatic chef,'copter landing—if we ever get a'copter. Plenty of room there fortwo people. You can stay with meand it won't cost you a cent. Andwe'll even pay you over unionwages.     His watery gaze wandered lazilyto the bar mirror, down to the glitteringarray of bottles and then outto the dance floor.     He yawned again and spokeslowly, as if each word were a leadenweight cast reluctantly from histongue:     No, I don't ... care much ...about playing.     What      do     you like to do, John?     His string-bean of a body stiffened.I like to study ancient history ...and I must work on myplan.     Oh Lord, that plan again!     I took a deep breath. Tell meabout it, John. It      must     be interesting.     He made queer clicking noiseswith his mouth that reminded meof a mechanical toy being woundinto motion. The whole foundationof this or any other culture isbased on the history of all the timedimensions, each interwoven withthe other, throughout the ages. Andthe holes provide a means of studyingall of it first hand.       Oh, oh     , I thought.      But you stillhave to eat. Remember, you stillhave to eat.       Trouble is, he went on, thereare so many holes in this universe.     Holes? I kept a straight face.     Certainly. Look around you. Allyou see is holes. These beer bottlesare just holes surrounded by glass.The doors and windows—they'reholes in walls. The mine tunnelsmake a network of holes under thedesert. Caves are holes, animals livein holes, our faces have holes,clothes have holes—millions andmillions of holes!     I winced and thought, humorhim because you gotta eat, yougotta eat.     His voice trembled with emotion.Why, they're everywhere. They'rein pots and pans, in pipes, in rocketjets, in bumpy roads. There are buttonholesand well holes, and shoelaceholes. There are doughnutholes and stocking holes and woodpeckerholes and cheese holes.Oceans lie in holes in the earth,and rivers and canals and valleys.The craters of the Moon are holes.Everything is—     But, John, I said as patiently aspossible, what have these holesgot to do with you?     He glowered at me as if I wereunworthy of such a confidence.What have they to do with me?he shrilled. I can't find the rightone—that's what!     I closed my eyes. Which particularhole are you looking for, John?     He was speaking rapidly againnow.     I was hurrying back to the Universitywith the      Zloomph     to provea point of ancient history to thosefools. They don't believe that instrumentswhich make music actuallyexisted before the tapes! Itwas dark—and some fool researcherhad forgotten to set a force-fieldover the hole—I fell through.     I closed my eyes. Now wait aminute. Did you drop something,lose it in the hole—is that why youhave to find it?     Oh I didn't lose anything important,he snapped,       just     my owntime dimension. And if I don't getback they will think I couldn't provemy theory, that I'm ashamed tocome back, and I'll be discredited.     His chest sagged for an instant.Then he straightened. But there'sstill time for my plan to work out—withthe relative difference takeninto account. Only I get so tiredjust thinking about it.     Yes, I can see where thinkingabout it would tire any one.     He nodded. But it can't be toofar away.     I'd like to hear more about it,I said. But if you're not going toplay with us—     Oh, I'll play with you, hebeamed. I can talk to      you     .      You     understand.     Thank heaven!  Heaven lasted for just threedays. During those seventy-twogolden hours the melodious tinklingof The Eye's cash register was asconstant as that of Santa's sleighbells.     John became the hero of tourists,spacemen, and Martians, but neverthelesshe remained stubbornlyaloof. He was quiet, moody, playinghis      Zloomph     automatically. He'dreveal definite indications of belongingto Homo Sapiens only whendrinking beer and talking about hisholes.     Goon-Face was still cautious.     Contract? he wheezed. Maybe.We see. Eef feedleman stay, wehave contract. He stay, yes?     Oh, sure, I said. He'll stay—justas long as you want him.     Den he sign contract, too. Nobeeg feedle, no contract.     Sure. We'll get him to sign it.I laughed hollowly. Don't worry,Mr. Ke-teeli.     Just a few minutes later tragedystruck.     A reporter from the      MarsportTimes     ambled into interview theMan of The Hour. The interview,unfortunately, was conducted overthe bar and accompanied by a generousguzzling of beer. Fat Boy,Hammer-Head and I watchedfrom a table. Knowing John as wedid, a silent prayer was in our eyes.     This is the first time he's talkedto anybody, Fat Boy breathed.I—I'm scared.     Nothing can happen, I said,optimistically. This'll be good publicity.     We watched.     John murmured something. Thereporter, a paunchy, balding man,scribbled furiously in his notebook.     John yawned, muttered somethingelse. The reporter continuedto scribble.     John sipped beer. His eyesbrightened, and he began to talkmore rapidly.     The reporter frowned, stoppedwriting, and studied John curiously.     John finished his first beer,started on his second. His eyes werewild, and he was talking more andmore rapidly.     He's doing it, Hammer-Headgroaned. He's telling him!     I rose swiftly. We better getover there. We should have knownbetter—     We were too late. The reporterhad already slapped on his hat andwas striding to the exit. John turnedto us, dazed, his enthusiasm vanishinglike air from a punctured balloon.     He wouldn't listen, he said,weakly. I tried to tell him, but hesaid he'd come back when I'msober. I'm sober now. So I quit.I've got to find my hole.     I patted him on the back. No,John, we'll help you. Don't quit.We'll—well, we'll help you.     We're working on a plan, too,said Fat Boy in a burst of inspiration.We're going to make a morescientific approach.     How? John asked.     Fat Boy gulped.     Just wait another day, I said.We'll have it worked out. Just bepatient another day. You can'tleave now, not after all your work.     No, I guess not, he sighed. I'llstay—until tomorrow.  All night the thought creptthrough my brain like a teasingspider:      What can we do to makehim stay? What can we tell him?What, what, what?       Unable to sleep the next morning,I left John to his snoring andwent for an aspirin and black coffee.All the possible schemes weredrumming through my mind: findingan Earth blonde to captureJohn's interest, having him electro-hypnotized,breaking his leg, forginga letter from this mythical universitytelling him his theory wasproved valid and for him to takea nice long vacation now. He wasa screwball about holes and forcefields and dimensional worlds butfor that music of his I'd baby himthe rest of his life.     It was early afternoon when Itrudged back to my apartment.     John was squatting on the livingroom floor, surrounded by a forestof empty beer bottles. His eyes werebulging, his hair was even wilderthan usual, and he was swaying.     John! I cried. You're drunk!     His watery eyes squinted at me.No, not drunk. Just scared. I'mawful scared!     But you mustn't be scared. Thatreporter was just stupid. We'll helpyou with your theory.     His body trembled. No, it isn'tthat. It isn't the reporter.     Then what is it, John?     It's my body. It's—     Yes, what about your body?Are you sick?     His face was white with terror.No, my—      my body's full of holes     .Suppose it's one of those holes!How will I get back if it is?     He rose and staggered to his      Zloomph     , clutching it as though itwere somehow a source of strengthand consolation.     I patted him gingerly on the arm.Now John. You've just had toomuch beer, that's all. Let's go outand get some air and some strongblack coffee. C'mon now.     We staggered out into the morningdarkness, the three of us. John,the      Zloomph     , and I.     I was hanging on to him tryingto see around and over and evenunder the      Zloomph     —steering by asort of radar-like sixth sense. Thestreet lights on Marsport are prettydim compared to Earthside. Ididn't see the open manhole thatthe workmen had figured would beall right at that time of night. Itgets pretty damned cold around 4: A.M.of a Martian morning, and Iguess the men were warming upwith a little nip at the bar acrossthe street.     Then—he was gone.     John just slipped out of my grasp—      Zloomph     and all—and was gone—completelyand irrevocably gone.I even risked a broken neck andjumped in the manhole after him.Nothing—nothing but the smell ofozone and an echo bouncing crazilyoff the walls of the conduit.     —is it.—is it.—is it.—is it.     John Smith was gone, so utterlyand completely and tragically goneit was as if he'd never existed....  Tonight is our last night at      TheSpace Room     . Goon-Face is scowlingagain with the icy fury of aPlutonian monsoon. As Goon-Facehas said, No beeg feedle, no contract.     Without John, we're notes in alost chord.     We've searched everything, inhospitals, morgues, jails, night clubs,hotels. We've hounded spaceportsand 'copter terminals. Nowhere, nowhereis John Smith.     Ziggy, whose two fingers havehealed, has already bowed to whatseems inevitable. He's signed up forthat trip to Neptune's uraniumpits. There's plenty of room formore volunteers, he tells us. But Ispend my time cussing the guy whoforgot to set the force field at theother end of the hole and let Johnand his      Zloomph     back into his owntime dimension. I cuss harder whenI think how we were robbed of thebest bass player in the galaxy.     And without a corpus delecti wecan't even sue the city.       ... THE END    ","The Goon has many names and is also referred to as Ke-teeli and The Face. Ke-teeli is the boss of the three current members of the band, one member is out because he is injured. Ke-teeli owns an establishment that the band performs at. However, Ke-teeli repeatedly expresses his frustration and distaste over the band’s music. Jimmie Stanley believes that Ke-teeli is really more unhappy with the lack of money that his establishment, The Space Room, is earning. When John Smith joins the band with his Zloomph instrument, The Goon seems to respond well. More cash is flowing into the business as the audience agrees with the music. However, The Goon will not let the bandmates sign a contract with him for their unemployment unless they can guarantee that John Smith and his Zloomph instrument will join them. "
"Why is it important to Jimmie for John to continue playing with the band? </s>          He was something out of a nightmare but his music was straightfrom heaven. He was a ragged little man out of a hole but hewas money in the bank to Stanley's four-piece combo. He was     —whoops!...       The Holes and John Smith     By Edward W. Ludwig       Illustration by Kelly Freas     It all began on a Saturdaynight at      The Space Room     . Ifyou've seen any recent Martiantravel folders, you know the place:A picturesque oasis of old Martiancharm, situated on the beauteousGrand Canal in the heart ofMarsport. Only half a mile fromhistoric Chandler Field, landingsite of the first Martian expeditionnearly fifty years ago in 1990. Avisitor to the hotel, lunch room orcocktail lounge will thrill at thesight of hardy space pioneers minglingside by side with colorfulMartian tribesmen. An evening at      The Space Room     is an amazing,unforgettable experience.     Of course, the folders neglect toadd that the most amazing aspect isthe scent of the Canal's stagnantwater—and that the most unforgettableexperience is seeing the root-of-all-evilevaporate from yourpocketbook like snow from theGreat Red Desert.     We were sitting on the bandstandof the candle-lit cocktail lounge.Me—Jimmie Stanley—and myfour-piece combo. Maybe you'veseen our motto back on Earth:The Hottest Music This Side ofMercury.     But there weren't four of us tonight.Only three. Ziggy, our bassfiddle man, had nearly sliced offtwo fingers while opening a can ofSaturnian ice-fish, thus decreasingthe number of our personnel by atragic twenty-five per cent.     Which was why Ke-teeli, ourboss, was descending upon us withall the grace of an enraged Venusianvinosaur.     Where ees museek? he shrilledin his nasal tenor. He was almostskeleton thin, like most Martians,and so tall that if he fell down he'dbe half way home.     I gulped. Our bass man can'tbe here, but we've called the Marsportlocal for another. He'll be hereany minute.     Ke-teeli, sometimes referred toas Goon-Face and The Eye, leeredcoldly down at me from his eight-foot-three.His eyes were like blackneedle points set deep in a mask ofdry, ancient, reddish leather.     Ees no feedle man, ees no job,he squeaked.     I sighed. This was the week ourcontract ended. Goon-Face had displayedlittle enough enthusiasm forour music as it was. His commentswere either, Ees too loud, too fast,or Ees too slow, too soft. The realcause of his concern being, I suspected,the infrequency with whichhis cash register tinkled.     But, I added, even if the newman doesn't come,      we're     still here.We'll play for you. I glanced atthe conglomeration of uniformedspacemen, white-suited tourists,and loin-clothed natives who sat atancient stone tables. You wouldn'twant to disappoint your customers,would you?     Ke-teeli snorted. Maybe ees betterdey be deesappointed. Ees betterno museek den bad museek.     Fat Boy, our clarinetist who doubleson Martian horn-harp, made afeeble attempt at optimism. Don'tworry, Mr. Ke-teeli. That new bassman will be here.     Sure, said Hammer-Head, ourred-haired vibro-drummer. I thinkI hear him coming now.     Suspiciously, Ke-teeli eyed theentrance. There was only silence.His naked, parchment-like chestswelled as if it were an expandingballoon.     Five meenutes! he shrieked.Eef no feedle, den you go! Andhe whirled away.     We waited.     Fat Boy's two hundred andeighty-odd pounds were droopedover his chair like the blubber of anexhausted, beach-stranded whale.     Well, he muttered, there's alwaysthe uranium pits of Neptune.Course, you don't live more thanfive years there—     Maybe we could make it backto Lunar City, suggested Hammer-Head.     Using what for fare? I asked.Your brains?     Hammer-Head groaned. No. Iguess it'll have to be the black pitsof Neptune. The home of washed-upinterplanetary musicians. It's toobad. We're so young, too.     The seconds swept by. Ke-teeliwas casting his razor-edged glare inour direction. I brushed the chewedfinger nails from the keyboard ofmy electronic piano.     Then it happened.  From the entrance of      TheSpace Room     came a thumpingand a grating and a banging. Suddenly,sweeping across the dancefloor like a cold wind, was a bassfiddle, an enormous black monstrosity,a refugee from a pawnbroker'sattic. It was queerly shaped. It wastoo tall, too wide. It was more likea monstrous, midnight-black hour-glassthan a bass.     The fiddle was not unaccompaniedas I'd first imagined. Behindit, streaking over the floor in awaltz of agony, was a little guy, ananimated matchstick with a flat,broad face that seemed to havebeen compressed in a vice. His sandcoloredmop of hair reminded meof a field of dry grass, the longstrands forming loops that flankedthe sides of his face.     His pale blue eyes were watery,like twin pools of fog. His tightfittingsuit, as black as the bass,was something off a park bench. Itwas impossible to guess his age. Hecould have been anywhere betweentwenty and forty.     The bass thumped down uponthe bandstand.     Hello, he puffed. I'm JohnSmith, from the Marsport union.He spoke shrilly and rapidly, as ifanxious to conclude the routine ofintroductions. I'm sorry I'm late,but I was working on my plan.     A moment's silence.     Your plan? I echoed at last.     How to get back home, hesnapped as if I should have knownit already.     Hummm, I thought.     My gaze turned to the dancefloor. Goon-Face had his eyes onus, and they were as cold as six Indiansgoing South.     We'll talk about your plan atintermission, I said, shivering.Now, we'd better start playing.John, do you know      On An AsteroidWith You     ?     I know      everything     , said JohnSmith.     I turned to my piano with ashudder. I didn't dare look at thathorrible fiddle again. I didn't darethink what kind of soul-chillingtones might emerge from its ancientdepths.     And I didn't dare look again atthe second monstrosity, the onenamed John Smith. I closed myeyes and plunged into a four-barintro.     Hammer-Head joined in onvibro-drums and Fat Boy on clarinet,and then—     My eyes burst open. A shivercoursed down my spine like giganticmice feet.     The tones that surged from thatmonstrous bass were ecstatic. Theywere out of a jazzman's Heaven.They were great rolling clouds thatseemed to envelop the entire universewith their vibrance. Theyheld a depth and a volume and arichness that were astounding, thatwere like no others I'd ever heard.     First they went      Boom-de-boom-de-boom-de-boom     ,and then,      boom-de-de-boom-de-de-boom-de-de-boom     ,just like the tones of all bassfiddles.     But there was something else, too.There were overtones, so that Johnwasn't just playing a single note,but a whole chord with each beat.And the fullness, the depth of thoseincredible chords actually set myblood tingling. I could      feel     thetingling just as one can feel the vibrationof a plucked guitar string.     I glanced at the cash customers.They looked like weary warriorsgetting their first glimpse of Valhalla.Gap-jawed and wide-eyed,they seemed in a kind of ecstatichypnosis. Even the silent, bland-facedMartians stopped sippingtheir wine-syrup and nodded theirdark heads in time with the rhythm.     I looked at The Eye. The transformationof his gaunt featureswas miraculous. Shadows of gloomdissolved and were replaced bya black-toothed, crescent-shapedsmile of delight. His eyes shone likethose of a kid seeing Santa Claus.     We finished      On An Asteroid WithYou     , modulated into      Sweet Sallyfrom Saturn     and finished with      Tighten Your Lips on Titan     .     We waited for the applause ofthe Earth people and the shrillingof the Martians to die down. ThenI turned to John and his fiddle.     If I didn't hear it, I gasped,I wouldn't believe it!     And the fiddle's so old, too!added Hammer-Head who, althoughsober, seemed quite drunk.     Old? said John Smith. Ofcourse it's old. It's over five thousandyears old. I was lucky to findit in a pawnshop. Only it's not afiddle but a      Zloomph     . This is theonly one in existence. He pattedthe thing tenderly. I tried the holein it but it isn't the right one.     I wondered what the hell he wastalking about. I studied the black,mirror-like wood. The aperture inthe vesonator was like that of anybass fiddle.     Isn't right for what? I had toask.     He turned his sad eyes to me.For going home, he said.     Hummm, I thought.  We played. Tune after tune.John knew them all, from thelatest pop melodies to a swing versionof the classic      Rhapsody of TheStars     . He was a quiet guy duringthe next couple of hours, and gettingmore than a few words fromhim seemed as hard as extracting atooth. He'd stand by his fiddle—Imean, his      Zloomph     —with a dreamyexpression in those watery eyes,staring at nothing.     But after one number he studiedFat Boy's clarinet for a moment.Nice clarinet, he mused. Has anunusual hole in the front.     Fat Boy scratched the back ofhis head. You—you mean here?Where the music comes out?     John Smith nodded. Unusual.     Hummm, I thought again.     Awhile later I caught him eyeingmy piano keyboard. What'sthe matter, John?     He pointed.     Oh, there, I said. A cigarettefell out of my ashtray, burnt a holein the key. If The Eye sees it, he'llswear at me in seven languages.     Even there, he said softly,even there....     There was no doubt about it.John Smith was peculiar, but hewas the best bass man this side of amusician's Nirvana.     It didn't take a genius to figureout our situation. Item one: Goon-Face'scountenance had evidencedan excellent imitation of Mephistophelesbefore John began to play.Item two: Goon-Face had beamedlike a kitten with a quart of creamafter John began to play.     Conclusion: If we wanted tokeep eating, we'd have to persuadeJohn Smith to join our combo.     At intermission I said, Howabout a drink, John? Maybe a shotof wine-syrup?     He shook his head.     Then maybe a Venusian fizz?     His grunt was negative.     Then some old-fashioned beer?     He smiled. Yes, I      like     beer.     I escorted him to the bar and assistedhim in his arduous climb ontoa stool.     John, I ventured after he'dtaken an experimental sip, wherehave you been hiding? A guy likeyou should be playing every night.     John yawned. Just got here. FiguredI might need some money soI went to the union. Then I workedon my plan.     Then you need a job. Howabout playing with us steady? Welike your style a lot.     He made a long, low hummingsound which I interpreted as anexpression of intense concentration.I don't know, he finally drawled.     It'd be a steady job, John. Inspirationstruck me. And listen, Ihave an apartment. It's got everything,solar shower, automatic chef,'copter landing—if we ever get a'copter. Plenty of room there fortwo people. You can stay with meand it won't cost you a cent. Andwe'll even pay you over unionwages.     His watery gaze wandered lazilyto the bar mirror, down to the glitteringarray of bottles and then outto the dance floor.     He yawned again and spokeslowly, as if each word were a leadenweight cast reluctantly from histongue:     No, I don't ... care much ...about playing.     What      do     you like to do, John?     His string-bean of a body stiffened.I like to study ancient history ...and I must work on myplan.     Oh Lord, that plan again!     I took a deep breath. Tell meabout it, John. It      must     be interesting.     He made queer clicking noiseswith his mouth that reminded meof a mechanical toy being woundinto motion. The whole foundationof this or any other culture isbased on the history of all the timedimensions, each interwoven withthe other, throughout the ages. Andthe holes provide a means of studyingall of it first hand.       Oh, oh     , I thought.      But you stillhave to eat. Remember, you stillhave to eat.       Trouble is, he went on, thereare so many holes in this universe.     Holes? I kept a straight face.     Certainly. Look around you. Allyou see is holes. These beer bottlesare just holes surrounded by glass.The doors and windows—they'reholes in walls. The mine tunnelsmake a network of holes under thedesert. Caves are holes, animals livein holes, our faces have holes,clothes have holes—millions andmillions of holes!     I winced and thought, humorhim because you gotta eat, yougotta eat.     His voice trembled with emotion.Why, they're everywhere. They'rein pots and pans, in pipes, in rocketjets, in bumpy roads. There are buttonholesand well holes, and shoelaceholes. There are doughnutholes and stocking holes and woodpeckerholes and cheese holes.Oceans lie in holes in the earth,and rivers and canals and valleys.The craters of the Moon are holes.Everything is—     But, John, I said as patiently aspossible, what have these holesgot to do with you?     He glowered at me as if I wereunworthy of such a confidence.What have they to do with me?he shrilled. I can't find the rightone—that's what!     I closed my eyes. Which particularhole are you looking for, John?     He was speaking rapidly againnow.     I was hurrying back to the Universitywith the      Zloomph     to provea point of ancient history to thosefools. They don't believe that instrumentswhich make music actuallyexisted before the tapes! Itwas dark—and some fool researcherhad forgotten to set a force-fieldover the hole—I fell through.     I closed my eyes. Now wait aminute. Did you drop something,lose it in the hole—is that why youhave to find it?     Oh I didn't lose anything important,he snapped,       just     my owntime dimension. And if I don't getback they will think I couldn't provemy theory, that I'm ashamed tocome back, and I'll be discredited.     His chest sagged for an instant.Then he straightened. But there'sstill time for my plan to work out—withthe relative difference takeninto account. Only I get so tiredjust thinking about it.     Yes, I can see where thinkingabout it would tire any one.     He nodded. But it can't be toofar away.     I'd like to hear more about it,I said. But if you're not going toplay with us—     Oh, I'll play with you, hebeamed. I can talk to      you     .      You     understand.     Thank heaven!  Heaven lasted for just threedays. During those seventy-twogolden hours the melodious tinklingof The Eye's cash register was asconstant as that of Santa's sleighbells.     John became the hero of tourists,spacemen, and Martians, but neverthelesshe remained stubbornlyaloof. He was quiet, moody, playinghis      Zloomph     automatically. He'dreveal definite indications of belongingto Homo Sapiens only whendrinking beer and talking about hisholes.     Goon-Face was still cautious.     Contract? he wheezed. Maybe.We see. Eef feedleman stay, wehave contract. He stay, yes?     Oh, sure, I said. He'll stay—justas long as you want him.     Den he sign contract, too. Nobeeg feedle, no contract.     Sure. We'll get him to sign it.I laughed hollowly. Don't worry,Mr. Ke-teeli.     Just a few minutes later tragedystruck.     A reporter from the      MarsportTimes     ambled into interview theMan of The Hour. The interview,unfortunately, was conducted overthe bar and accompanied by a generousguzzling of beer. Fat Boy,Hammer-Head and I watchedfrom a table. Knowing John as wedid, a silent prayer was in our eyes.     This is the first time he's talkedto anybody, Fat Boy breathed.I—I'm scared.     Nothing can happen, I said,optimistically. This'll be good publicity.     We watched.     John murmured something. Thereporter, a paunchy, balding man,scribbled furiously in his notebook.     John yawned, muttered somethingelse. The reporter continuedto scribble.     John sipped beer. His eyesbrightened, and he began to talkmore rapidly.     The reporter frowned, stoppedwriting, and studied John curiously.     John finished his first beer,started on his second. His eyes werewild, and he was talking more andmore rapidly.     He's doing it, Hammer-Headgroaned. He's telling him!     I rose swiftly. We better getover there. We should have knownbetter—     We were too late. The reporterhad already slapped on his hat andwas striding to the exit. John turnedto us, dazed, his enthusiasm vanishinglike air from a punctured balloon.     He wouldn't listen, he said,weakly. I tried to tell him, but hesaid he'd come back when I'msober. I'm sober now. So I quit.I've got to find my hole.     I patted him on the back. No,John, we'll help you. Don't quit.We'll—well, we'll help you.     We're working on a plan, too,said Fat Boy in a burst of inspiration.We're going to make a morescientific approach.     How? John asked.     Fat Boy gulped.     Just wait another day, I said.We'll have it worked out. Just bepatient another day. You can'tleave now, not after all your work.     No, I guess not, he sighed. I'llstay—until tomorrow.  All night the thought creptthrough my brain like a teasingspider:      What can we do to makehim stay? What can we tell him?What, what, what?       Unable to sleep the next morning,I left John to his snoring andwent for an aspirin and black coffee.All the possible schemes weredrumming through my mind: findingan Earth blonde to captureJohn's interest, having him electro-hypnotized,breaking his leg, forginga letter from this mythical universitytelling him his theory wasproved valid and for him to takea nice long vacation now. He wasa screwball about holes and forcefields and dimensional worlds butfor that music of his I'd baby himthe rest of his life.     It was early afternoon when Itrudged back to my apartment.     John was squatting on the livingroom floor, surrounded by a forestof empty beer bottles. His eyes werebulging, his hair was even wilderthan usual, and he was swaying.     John! I cried. You're drunk!     His watery eyes squinted at me.No, not drunk. Just scared. I'mawful scared!     But you mustn't be scared. Thatreporter was just stupid. We'll helpyou with your theory.     His body trembled. No, it isn'tthat. It isn't the reporter.     Then what is it, John?     It's my body. It's—     Yes, what about your body?Are you sick?     His face was white with terror.No, my—      my body's full of holes     .Suppose it's one of those holes!How will I get back if it is?     He rose and staggered to his      Zloomph     , clutching it as though itwere somehow a source of strengthand consolation.     I patted him gingerly on the arm.Now John. You've just had toomuch beer, that's all. Let's go outand get some air and some strongblack coffee. C'mon now.     We staggered out into the morningdarkness, the three of us. John,the      Zloomph     , and I.     I was hanging on to him tryingto see around and over and evenunder the      Zloomph     —steering by asort of radar-like sixth sense. Thestreet lights on Marsport are prettydim compared to Earthside. Ididn't see the open manhole thatthe workmen had figured would beall right at that time of night. Itgets pretty damned cold around 4: A.M.of a Martian morning, and Iguess the men were warming upwith a little nip at the bar acrossthe street.     Then—he was gone.     John just slipped out of my grasp—      Zloomph     and all—and was gone—completelyand irrevocably gone.I even risked a broken neck andjumped in the manhole after him.Nothing—nothing but the smell ofozone and an echo bouncing crazilyoff the walls of the conduit.     —is it.—is it.—is it.—is it.     John Smith was gone, so utterlyand completely and tragically goneit was as if he'd never existed....  Tonight is our last night at      TheSpace Room     . Goon-Face is scowlingagain with the icy fury of aPlutonian monsoon. As Goon-Facehas said, No beeg feedle, no contract.     Without John, we're notes in alost chord.     We've searched everything, inhospitals, morgues, jails, night clubs,hotels. We've hounded spaceportsand 'copter terminals. Nowhere, nowhereis John Smith.     Ziggy, whose two fingers havehealed, has already bowed to whatseems inevitable. He's signed up forthat trip to Neptune's uraniumpits. There's plenty of room formore volunteers, he tells us. But Ispend my time cussing the guy whoforgot to set the force field at theother end of the hole and let Johnand his      Zloomph     back into his owntime dimension. I cuss harder whenI think how we were robbed of thebest bass player in the galaxy.     And without a corpus delecti wecan't even sue the city.       ... THE END    ","Jimmie’s friend, Hammer-Head talks about the black puts of Neptune as a place that he and the rest of the band will likely go to if they do not secure a contract with The Goon. The black pits of Neptune is a place for musicians that are past their prime. The Goon does not enjoy the band’s music and threatens to not let them play at his establishment anymore. However, The Goon likes the music when John Smith plays with the band and especially the reception of the audience when John Smith is playing with the band. The Goon says that he will give the band a contract as long as John Smith agrees to join with his Zloomph. It is important to Jimmie for John to continue playing with the band so that they can get an employment contract from The Goon. "
"Describe John Smith and his instrument. </s>          He was something out of a nightmare but his music was straightfrom heaven. He was a ragged little man out of a hole but hewas money in the bank to Stanley's four-piece combo. He was     —whoops!...       The Holes and John Smith     By Edward W. Ludwig       Illustration by Kelly Freas     It all began on a Saturdaynight at      The Space Room     . Ifyou've seen any recent Martiantravel folders, you know the place:A picturesque oasis of old Martiancharm, situated on the beauteousGrand Canal in the heart ofMarsport. Only half a mile fromhistoric Chandler Field, landingsite of the first Martian expeditionnearly fifty years ago in 1990. Avisitor to the hotel, lunch room orcocktail lounge will thrill at thesight of hardy space pioneers minglingside by side with colorfulMartian tribesmen. An evening at      The Space Room     is an amazing,unforgettable experience.     Of course, the folders neglect toadd that the most amazing aspect isthe scent of the Canal's stagnantwater—and that the most unforgettableexperience is seeing the root-of-all-evilevaporate from yourpocketbook like snow from theGreat Red Desert.     We were sitting on the bandstandof the candle-lit cocktail lounge.Me—Jimmie Stanley—and myfour-piece combo. Maybe you'veseen our motto back on Earth:The Hottest Music This Side ofMercury.     But there weren't four of us tonight.Only three. Ziggy, our bassfiddle man, had nearly sliced offtwo fingers while opening a can ofSaturnian ice-fish, thus decreasingthe number of our personnel by atragic twenty-five per cent.     Which was why Ke-teeli, ourboss, was descending upon us withall the grace of an enraged Venusianvinosaur.     Where ees museek? he shrilledin his nasal tenor. He was almostskeleton thin, like most Martians,and so tall that if he fell down he'dbe half way home.     I gulped. Our bass man can'tbe here, but we've called the Marsportlocal for another. He'll be hereany minute.     Ke-teeli, sometimes referred toas Goon-Face and The Eye, leeredcoldly down at me from his eight-foot-three.His eyes were like blackneedle points set deep in a mask ofdry, ancient, reddish leather.     Ees no feedle man, ees no job,he squeaked.     I sighed. This was the week ourcontract ended. Goon-Face had displayedlittle enough enthusiasm forour music as it was. His commentswere either, Ees too loud, too fast,or Ees too slow, too soft. The realcause of his concern being, I suspected,the infrequency with whichhis cash register tinkled.     But, I added, even if the newman doesn't come,      we're     still here.We'll play for you. I glanced atthe conglomeration of uniformedspacemen, white-suited tourists,and loin-clothed natives who sat atancient stone tables. You wouldn'twant to disappoint your customers,would you?     Ke-teeli snorted. Maybe ees betterdey be deesappointed. Ees betterno museek den bad museek.     Fat Boy, our clarinetist who doubleson Martian horn-harp, made afeeble attempt at optimism. Don'tworry, Mr. Ke-teeli. That new bassman will be here.     Sure, said Hammer-Head, ourred-haired vibro-drummer. I thinkI hear him coming now.     Suspiciously, Ke-teeli eyed theentrance. There was only silence.His naked, parchment-like chestswelled as if it were an expandingballoon.     Five meenutes! he shrieked.Eef no feedle, den you go! Andhe whirled away.     We waited.     Fat Boy's two hundred andeighty-odd pounds were droopedover his chair like the blubber of anexhausted, beach-stranded whale.     Well, he muttered, there's alwaysthe uranium pits of Neptune.Course, you don't live more thanfive years there—     Maybe we could make it backto Lunar City, suggested Hammer-Head.     Using what for fare? I asked.Your brains?     Hammer-Head groaned. No. Iguess it'll have to be the black pitsof Neptune. The home of washed-upinterplanetary musicians. It's toobad. We're so young, too.     The seconds swept by. Ke-teeliwas casting his razor-edged glare inour direction. I brushed the chewedfinger nails from the keyboard ofmy electronic piano.     Then it happened.  From the entrance of      TheSpace Room     came a thumpingand a grating and a banging. Suddenly,sweeping across the dancefloor like a cold wind, was a bassfiddle, an enormous black monstrosity,a refugee from a pawnbroker'sattic. It was queerly shaped. It wastoo tall, too wide. It was more likea monstrous, midnight-black hour-glassthan a bass.     The fiddle was not unaccompaniedas I'd first imagined. Behindit, streaking over the floor in awaltz of agony, was a little guy, ananimated matchstick with a flat,broad face that seemed to havebeen compressed in a vice. His sandcoloredmop of hair reminded meof a field of dry grass, the longstrands forming loops that flankedthe sides of his face.     His pale blue eyes were watery,like twin pools of fog. His tightfittingsuit, as black as the bass,was something off a park bench. Itwas impossible to guess his age. Hecould have been anywhere betweentwenty and forty.     The bass thumped down uponthe bandstand.     Hello, he puffed. I'm JohnSmith, from the Marsport union.He spoke shrilly and rapidly, as ifanxious to conclude the routine ofintroductions. I'm sorry I'm late,but I was working on my plan.     A moment's silence.     Your plan? I echoed at last.     How to get back home, hesnapped as if I should have knownit already.     Hummm, I thought.     My gaze turned to the dancefloor. Goon-Face had his eyes onus, and they were as cold as six Indiansgoing South.     We'll talk about your plan atintermission, I said, shivering.Now, we'd better start playing.John, do you know      On An AsteroidWith You     ?     I know      everything     , said JohnSmith.     I turned to my piano with ashudder. I didn't dare look at thathorrible fiddle again. I didn't darethink what kind of soul-chillingtones might emerge from its ancientdepths.     And I didn't dare look again atthe second monstrosity, the onenamed John Smith. I closed myeyes and plunged into a four-barintro.     Hammer-Head joined in onvibro-drums and Fat Boy on clarinet,and then—     My eyes burst open. A shivercoursed down my spine like giganticmice feet.     The tones that surged from thatmonstrous bass were ecstatic. Theywere out of a jazzman's Heaven.They were great rolling clouds thatseemed to envelop the entire universewith their vibrance. Theyheld a depth and a volume and arichness that were astounding, thatwere like no others I'd ever heard.     First they went      Boom-de-boom-de-boom-de-boom     ,and then,      boom-de-de-boom-de-de-boom-de-de-boom     ,just like the tones of all bassfiddles.     But there was something else, too.There were overtones, so that Johnwasn't just playing a single note,but a whole chord with each beat.And the fullness, the depth of thoseincredible chords actually set myblood tingling. I could      feel     thetingling just as one can feel the vibrationof a plucked guitar string.     I glanced at the cash customers.They looked like weary warriorsgetting their first glimpse of Valhalla.Gap-jawed and wide-eyed,they seemed in a kind of ecstatichypnosis. Even the silent, bland-facedMartians stopped sippingtheir wine-syrup and nodded theirdark heads in time with the rhythm.     I looked at The Eye. The transformationof his gaunt featureswas miraculous. Shadows of gloomdissolved and were replaced bya black-toothed, crescent-shapedsmile of delight. His eyes shone likethose of a kid seeing Santa Claus.     We finished      On An Asteroid WithYou     , modulated into      Sweet Sallyfrom Saturn     and finished with      Tighten Your Lips on Titan     .     We waited for the applause ofthe Earth people and the shrillingof the Martians to die down. ThenI turned to John and his fiddle.     If I didn't hear it, I gasped,I wouldn't believe it!     And the fiddle's so old, too!added Hammer-Head who, althoughsober, seemed quite drunk.     Old? said John Smith. Ofcourse it's old. It's over five thousandyears old. I was lucky to findit in a pawnshop. Only it's not afiddle but a      Zloomph     . This is theonly one in existence. He pattedthe thing tenderly. I tried the holein it but it isn't the right one.     I wondered what the hell he wastalking about. I studied the black,mirror-like wood. The aperture inthe vesonator was like that of anybass fiddle.     Isn't right for what? I had toask.     He turned his sad eyes to me.For going home, he said.     Hummm, I thought.  We played. Tune after tune.John knew them all, from thelatest pop melodies to a swing versionof the classic      Rhapsody of TheStars     . He was a quiet guy duringthe next couple of hours, and gettingmore than a few words fromhim seemed as hard as extracting atooth. He'd stand by his fiddle—Imean, his      Zloomph     —with a dreamyexpression in those watery eyes,staring at nothing.     But after one number he studiedFat Boy's clarinet for a moment.Nice clarinet, he mused. Has anunusual hole in the front.     Fat Boy scratched the back ofhis head. You—you mean here?Where the music comes out?     John Smith nodded. Unusual.     Hummm, I thought again.     Awhile later I caught him eyeingmy piano keyboard. What'sthe matter, John?     He pointed.     Oh, there, I said. A cigarettefell out of my ashtray, burnt a holein the key. If The Eye sees it, he'llswear at me in seven languages.     Even there, he said softly,even there....     There was no doubt about it.John Smith was peculiar, but hewas the best bass man this side of amusician's Nirvana.     It didn't take a genius to figureout our situation. Item one: Goon-Face'scountenance had evidencedan excellent imitation of Mephistophelesbefore John began to play.Item two: Goon-Face had beamedlike a kitten with a quart of creamafter John began to play.     Conclusion: If we wanted tokeep eating, we'd have to persuadeJohn Smith to join our combo.     At intermission I said, Howabout a drink, John? Maybe a shotof wine-syrup?     He shook his head.     Then maybe a Venusian fizz?     His grunt was negative.     Then some old-fashioned beer?     He smiled. Yes, I      like     beer.     I escorted him to the bar and assistedhim in his arduous climb ontoa stool.     John, I ventured after he'dtaken an experimental sip, wherehave you been hiding? A guy likeyou should be playing every night.     John yawned. Just got here. FiguredI might need some money soI went to the union. Then I workedon my plan.     Then you need a job. Howabout playing with us steady? Welike your style a lot.     He made a long, low hummingsound which I interpreted as anexpression of intense concentration.I don't know, he finally drawled.     It'd be a steady job, John. Inspirationstruck me. And listen, Ihave an apartment. It's got everything,solar shower, automatic chef,'copter landing—if we ever get a'copter. Plenty of room there fortwo people. You can stay with meand it won't cost you a cent. Andwe'll even pay you over unionwages.     His watery gaze wandered lazilyto the bar mirror, down to the glitteringarray of bottles and then outto the dance floor.     He yawned again and spokeslowly, as if each word were a leadenweight cast reluctantly from histongue:     No, I don't ... care much ...about playing.     What      do     you like to do, John?     His string-bean of a body stiffened.I like to study ancient history ...and I must work on myplan.     Oh Lord, that plan again!     I took a deep breath. Tell meabout it, John. It      must     be interesting.     He made queer clicking noiseswith his mouth that reminded meof a mechanical toy being woundinto motion. The whole foundationof this or any other culture isbased on the history of all the timedimensions, each interwoven withthe other, throughout the ages. Andthe holes provide a means of studyingall of it first hand.       Oh, oh     , I thought.      But you stillhave to eat. Remember, you stillhave to eat.       Trouble is, he went on, thereare so many holes in this universe.     Holes? I kept a straight face.     Certainly. Look around you. Allyou see is holes. These beer bottlesare just holes surrounded by glass.The doors and windows—they'reholes in walls. The mine tunnelsmake a network of holes under thedesert. Caves are holes, animals livein holes, our faces have holes,clothes have holes—millions andmillions of holes!     I winced and thought, humorhim because you gotta eat, yougotta eat.     His voice trembled with emotion.Why, they're everywhere. They'rein pots and pans, in pipes, in rocketjets, in bumpy roads. There are buttonholesand well holes, and shoelaceholes. There are doughnutholes and stocking holes and woodpeckerholes and cheese holes.Oceans lie in holes in the earth,and rivers and canals and valleys.The craters of the Moon are holes.Everything is—     But, John, I said as patiently aspossible, what have these holesgot to do with you?     He glowered at me as if I wereunworthy of such a confidence.What have they to do with me?he shrilled. I can't find the rightone—that's what!     I closed my eyes. Which particularhole are you looking for, John?     He was speaking rapidly againnow.     I was hurrying back to the Universitywith the      Zloomph     to provea point of ancient history to thosefools. They don't believe that instrumentswhich make music actuallyexisted before the tapes! Itwas dark—and some fool researcherhad forgotten to set a force-fieldover the hole—I fell through.     I closed my eyes. Now wait aminute. Did you drop something,lose it in the hole—is that why youhave to find it?     Oh I didn't lose anything important,he snapped,       just     my owntime dimension. And if I don't getback they will think I couldn't provemy theory, that I'm ashamed tocome back, and I'll be discredited.     His chest sagged for an instant.Then he straightened. But there'sstill time for my plan to work out—withthe relative difference takeninto account. Only I get so tiredjust thinking about it.     Yes, I can see where thinkingabout it would tire any one.     He nodded. But it can't be toofar away.     I'd like to hear more about it,I said. But if you're not going toplay with us—     Oh, I'll play with you, hebeamed. I can talk to      you     .      You     understand.     Thank heaven!  Heaven lasted for just threedays. During those seventy-twogolden hours the melodious tinklingof The Eye's cash register was asconstant as that of Santa's sleighbells.     John became the hero of tourists,spacemen, and Martians, but neverthelesshe remained stubbornlyaloof. He was quiet, moody, playinghis      Zloomph     automatically. He'dreveal definite indications of belongingto Homo Sapiens only whendrinking beer and talking about hisholes.     Goon-Face was still cautious.     Contract? he wheezed. Maybe.We see. Eef feedleman stay, wehave contract. He stay, yes?     Oh, sure, I said. He'll stay—justas long as you want him.     Den he sign contract, too. Nobeeg feedle, no contract.     Sure. We'll get him to sign it.I laughed hollowly. Don't worry,Mr. Ke-teeli.     Just a few minutes later tragedystruck.     A reporter from the      MarsportTimes     ambled into interview theMan of The Hour. The interview,unfortunately, was conducted overthe bar and accompanied by a generousguzzling of beer. Fat Boy,Hammer-Head and I watchedfrom a table. Knowing John as wedid, a silent prayer was in our eyes.     This is the first time he's talkedto anybody, Fat Boy breathed.I—I'm scared.     Nothing can happen, I said,optimistically. This'll be good publicity.     We watched.     John murmured something. Thereporter, a paunchy, balding man,scribbled furiously in his notebook.     John yawned, muttered somethingelse. The reporter continuedto scribble.     John sipped beer. His eyesbrightened, and he began to talkmore rapidly.     The reporter frowned, stoppedwriting, and studied John curiously.     John finished his first beer,started on his second. His eyes werewild, and he was talking more andmore rapidly.     He's doing it, Hammer-Headgroaned. He's telling him!     I rose swiftly. We better getover there. We should have knownbetter—     We were too late. The reporterhad already slapped on his hat andwas striding to the exit. John turnedto us, dazed, his enthusiasm vanishinglike air from a punctured balloon.     He wouldn't listen, he said,weakly. I tried to tell him, but hesaid he'd come back when I'msober. I'm sober now. So I quit.I've got to find my hole.     I patted him on the back. No,John, we'll help you. Don't quit.We'll—well, we'll help you.     We're working on a plan, too,said Fat Boy in a burst of inspiration.We're going to make a morescientific approach.     How? John asked.     Fat Boy gulped.     Just wait another day, I said.We'll have it worked out. Just bepatient another day. You can'tleave now, not after all your work.     No, I guess not, he sighed. I'llstay—until tomorrow.  All night the thought creptthrough my brain like a teasingspider:      What can we do to makehim stay? What can we tell him?What, what, what?       Unable to sleep the next morning,I left John to his snoring andwent for an aspirin and black coffee.All the possible schemes weredrumming through my mind: findingan Earth blonde to captureJohn's interest, having him electro-hypnotized,breaking his leg, forginga letter from this mythical universitytelling him his theory wasproved valid and for him to takea nice long vacation now. He wasa screwball about holes and forcefields and dimensional worlds butfor that music of his I'd baby himthe rest of his life.     It was early afternoon when Itrudged back to my apartment.     John was squatting on the livingroom floor, surrounded by a forestof empty beer bottles. His eyes werebulging, his hair was even wilderthan usual, and he was swaying.     John! I cried. You're drunk!     His watery eyes squinted at me.No, not drunk. Just scared. I'mawful scared!     But you mustn't be scared. Thatreporter was just stupid. We'll helpyou with your theory.     His body trembled. No, it isn'tthat. It isn't the reporter.     Then what is it, John?     It's my body. It's—     Yes, what about your body?Are you sick?     His face was white with terror.No, my—      my body's full of holes     .Suppose it's one of those holes!How will I get back if it is?     He rose and staggered to his      Zloomph     , clutching it as though itwere somehow a source of strengthand consolation.     I patted him gingerly on the arm.Now John. You've just had toomuch beer, that's all. Let's go outand get some air and some strongblack coffee. C'mon now.     We staggered out into the morningdarkness, the three of us. John,the      Zloomph     , and I.     I was hanging on to him tryingto see around and over and evenunder the      Zloomph     —steering by asort of radar-like sixth sense. Thestreet lights on Marsport are prettydim compared to Earthside. Ididn't see the open manhole thatthe workmen had figured would beall right at that time of night. Itgets pretty damned cold around 4: A.M.of a Martian morning, and Iguess the men were warming upwith a little nip at the bar acrossthe street.     Then—he was gone.     John just slipped out of my grasp—      Zloomph     and all—and was gone—completelyand irrevocably gone.I even risked a broken neck andjumped in the manhole after him.Nothing—nothing but the smell ofozone and an echo bouncing crazilyoff the walls of the conduit.     —is it.—is it.—is it.—is it.     John Smith was gone, so utterlyand completely and tragically goneit was as if he'd never existed....  Tonight is our last night at      TheSpace Room     . Goon-Face is scowlingagain with the icy fury of aPlutonian monsoon. As Goon-Facehas said, No beeg feedle, no contract.     Without John, we're notes in alost chord.     We've searched everything, inhospitals, morgues, jails, night clubs,hotels. We've hounded spaceportsand 'copter terminals. Nowhere, nowhereis John Smith.     Ziggy, whose two fingers havehealed, has already bowed to whatseems inevitable. He's signed up forthat trip to Neptune's uraniumpits. There's plenty of room formore volunteers, he tells us. But Ispend my time cussing the guy whoforgot to set the force field at theother end of the hole and let Johnand his      Zloomph     back into his owntime dimension. I cuss harder whenI think how we were robbed of thebest bass player in the galaxy.     And without a corpus delecti wecan't even sue the city.       ... THE END    ","John Smith is a human from Earth that is described as a very shot guy with a broad face and light blue eyes. He works with the Marsport union. When he enters the Space Room establishment, he is dressed in a tight black suit and is carrying his instrument, the Zloomph. John states that the Zloomph that he carries is an instrument that is over five thousand years old. He excitedly states that he found it in a pawn shop and that it’s the only one in existence. The Zloomph itself is described as being incredibly large, and very black. The tones that emitted from it were jazz-like and received well by the band, the audience, and The Goon. "
"What is the plot of the story? </s>    Transcriber's Note:     This etext was produced from IF Worlds of Science Fiction June 1954. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.         THE VALLEY       By Richard Stockham       Illustrated by Ed Emsh         If you can't find it countless millions of miles in space,come back to Earth. You might find it just on the other sideof the fence—where the grass is always greener.        The Ship dove into Earth's sea of atmosphere like a great, silverfish.     Inside the ship, a man and woman stood looking down at the expanse ofland that curved away to a growing horizon. They saw the yellow groundcracked like a dried skin; and the polished stone of the mountains andthe seas that were shrunken away in the dust. And they saw how thecity circled the sea, as a circle of men surround a water hole in adesert under a blazing sun.     The ship's radio cried out. You've made it! Thank God! You've madeit!     Another voice, shaking, said, President—Davis is—overwhelmed. Hecan't go on. On his behalf and on behalf of all the people—with ourhope that was almost dead, we greet you. A pause. Please come in!     The voice was silent. The air screamed against the hull of the ship.     I can't tell them, said the man.     Please come in! said the radio. Do you hear me?     The woman looked up at the man. You've got to Michael!     Two thousand years. From one end of the galaxy to the other. Not onegrain of dust we can live on. Just Earth. And it's burned to acinder.     A note of hysteria stabbed into the radio voice. Are you all right?Stand by! We're sending a rescue ship.     They've got a right to know what we've found, said the woman. Theysent us out. They've waited so long—.     He stared into space. It's hopeless. If we'd found another planetthey could live on, they'd do the same as they've done here.     He touched the tiny golden locket that hung around his neck. Rightnow, I could press this and scratch myself and the whole farce wouldbe over.     No. A thousand of us died. You've got to think of them.     We'll go back out into space, he said. It's clean out there. I'mtired. Two thousand years of reincarnation.     She spoke softly. We've been together for a long time. I've lovedyou. I've asked very little. But I need to stay on Earth. Please,Michael.     He looked at her for a moment. Then he flipped a switch. Milky Way toEarth. Never mind the rescue ship. We're all right. We're coming in.  The great, white ship settled to Earth that was like a plain afterflood waters have drained away.     The man and woman came out into the blazing sunlight.     A shout, like the crashing of a thousand surfs, rose and broke overthem. The man and woman descended the gang-plank toward the officialsgathered on the platform. They glanced around at the massed field ofwhite faces beneath them; saw those same faces that had been turnedtoward them two thousand years past; remembered the cheers and thecries that had crashed around them then, as they and the thousand hadstood before the towering spires of the ships, before the takeoff.     And, as then, there were no children among the milling, graspingthrong. Only the same clutching hands and voices and arms, asking foran answer, a salvation, a happy end.     Now the officials gathered around the man and the woman, and spoke tothem in voices of reverence.     A microphone was thrust into Michael's hand with the whisperedadmonition to tell the people of the great new life waiting for them,open and green and moist, on a virgin planet.     The cries of the people were slipping away and a stillness growinglike an ocean calm and, within it, the sound of the pumps, throbbing,sucking the water from the seas.     And then Michael's voice, The thousand who left with us are dead. Forsome time we've known the other planets in our solar system wereuninhabitable. Now we've been from one end of the galaxy to the other.And this is what we've found.... We were given Earth. There's no placeelse for us. The rest of the planets in the galaxy were given toothers. There's no place else for them. We've all had a chance to makethe best of Earth. Instead we've made the worst of it. So we're hereto stay—and die. He handed the microphone back.     The silence did not change.     The President grasped Michael's arm. What're you saying?     A buzzing rose up from the people like that of a swarm of frightenedbees. The sea of white faces swayed and their voices began to cry. Thedin and motion held, long and drawn out, with a wail now and afluttering beneath it.     Michael and the woman stood above them in the center of the pale,hovering faces of the officials.     Good God, said the President. You've got to tell them what you saidisn't true!     We've been searching two thousand years for a truth, said Michael.A thousand of us have died finding it. I've told it. That's the wayit's got to be.     The President swayed, took the microphone in his hands.     There's been some mistake! he cried. Go back to the pumps and thedistilleries! Go back to the water vats and the gardens and theflocks! Go back! Work and wait! We'll get the full truth to you.Everything's going to be      all right     !     Obediently the mass of faces separated, as though they were being spunaway on a whirling disk. Michael and the woman were swallowed up, likepebbles inside a closing hand, and carried away from the great, whiteship.  They ushered the man and woman into the beamed and paneled councilchambers and sat them in thick chairs before the wall of polished wooddesks across which stared the line of faces, silent and waiting. Andon a far wall, facing them all, hung a silver screen, fifty feetsquare.     The President stood. Members of the council. He paused. As youheard, they report—complete failure. He turned to Michael. And now,the proof.     Michael stood beside the motion picture projector, close to his chair.The lights dimmed. There was only the sound of the pumps throbbing inthe darkness close and far away, above and beneath and all around.Suddenly on the screen appeared an endless depth of blackness filledwith a mass of glowing white, which extended into the room around thewatching people, seeming to touch them and then spreading, like anocean, farther away and out and out into an endless distance.     Now streaks of yellow fire shot into the picture, like a swarm oflightning bugs, the thin sharp nosed shadows of space ships, hurtling,like comets, toward the clustered star smear. And then silent thoughtsflashed from the screen into the minds of the spectators; of timepassing in months, years and centuries, passing and passing until theythemselves seemed to be rushing and rushing into the blackness towardblinding balls of white light, the size of moons.     The dark shapes of smaller spheres circling the blinding ones movedforward into the picture; red, blue, green, yellow, purple and manymixtures of all these, and then one planet filled the screen, seemingto be inflated, like a balloon, into a shining red ball. There was arazor edge of horizon then and pink sky and an expanse of crimson.Flat, yellow creatures lay all around, expanding and contracting. Aroaring rose and fell like the roaring of a million winds. Then fearflowed out of the picture into the minds of the watchers so that theygasped and cringed, and a silent voice told them that the atmosphereof this planet would disintegrate a human being.     Now the red ball seemed to pull away from them into the blackness andthe blinding balls of light, and all around could be seen the streaksof rocket flame shooting away in all directions.     Suddenly a flash cut the blackness, like the flare of a match, anddied, and the watchers caught from the screen the awareness of thedeath of a ship.     They were also aware of the rushing of time through centuries and theysaw the streaking rocket flames and planets rushing at them; sawcreatures in squares and circles, in threads wriggling, in lumps andblobs, rolling jumping and crawling; saw them in cloud forms whiskingabout, changing their shapes, and in flowing wavelets of water. Theysaw creatures hopping about on one leg and others crawling atincredible speeds on a thousand; saw some with all the numbers of legsand arms in between; and were aware of creatures that were there butinvisible.     And those watching the screen on which time and distance were acompressed and distilled kaleidoscope, saw planet after planet andthousands at a time; heard strange noises; rasping and roaring, clinksand whistles, screams and crying, sighing and moaning. And they wereaware through all this of atmosphere and ground inimical to man, somethat would evaporate at the touch of a human body, or would burst intoflame, or swallow, or turn from liquid to solid or solid to liquid.They saw and heard chemical analyses, were aware of this ocean ofblackness and clouds of white through which man might move, and mustever move, because he could live only upon this floating dust speckthat was Earth.     The picture faded in, close to one of the long, needle nosed crafts,showing inside, a man and a woman. Time was telescoped again while theman cut a tiny piece of scar tissue from his arm and that of thewoman, put them in bottles and set them into compartments wheresolutions dripped rhythmically into the bottles, the temperature washeld at that of the human body, and synthetic sunlight focused uponthem from many pencil like tubes.     The watchers in the council chamber saw the bits of tissue swell intohuman embryos in a few seconds, and grow arms and legs and faces andextend themselves into babies. Saw them taken from the bottles andcared for, and become replicas of the man and woman controlling theship, who, all this time were aging, until life went out of theirbodies. Then the ones who had been the scar tissue disintegrated themin the coffin-like tubes and let their dust be sucked out intospace—all this through millions of miles and a hundred years,compressed for the watchers into sixty seconds and a few feet ofspace.     Instantly there was black space on the screen again, with the fingersof flame pointing out behind the dark bodies of the ships.     And then the spectators saw one ship shudder and swerve into ablazing, bluish white star, like a gnat flying into a white hot poker;saw another drop away and away, out and out into the blackness pastthe swirling white rim of the galaxy, and sink into a darknothingness.     Great balls of rock showered like hail onto other ships, smashing theminto grotesque tin cans. The stream of fire at the tail of anothership suddenly died and the ship floated into an orbit around a great,yellow planet, ten times the size of Jupiter, then was sucked into it.Another burst like a bomb, flinging a man and woman out into thedarkness, where they hung suspended, frozen into statues, like bodiesdrowned in the depths of an Arctic sea.     At this instant from the watching council, there were screams ofhorror and voices crying out, Shut it off! Shut it off! There was amoving about in the darkness. Murmurs and harsh cries of disapprovalgrew in volume.     Another ship in the picture was split down the side by a meteor andthe bodies inside were impaled on jagged blades of steel, thecontorted, bloody faces lighted by bursts of flame. And the screamsand cries of the spectators rose higher, Shut it off.... Oh Lord....     Lights flashed through the room and the picture died.  Michael and Mary, both staring, saw, along the line of desks, theagonized faces, some staring like white stones, others hidden inclutching fingers, as though they had been confronted by a Medusa.There was the sound of heavy breathing that mixed with the throbbingof the pumps. The President held tightly to the edges of his desk toquiet his trembling.     There—there've been changes, he said, since you've been out inspace. There isn't a person on Earth who's seen a violent death forhundreds of years.     Michael faced him, frowning. I don't follow you.     Dying violently happened so seldom on Earth that, after a long time,the sight of it began to drive some people mad. And then one day a manwas struck by one of the ground cars and      everyone     who saw it wentinsane. Since then we've eliminated accidents, even the idea. Now, noone is aware that death by violence is even a possibility.     I'm sorry, said Michael, we've been so close to violent death forso long.... What you've seen is part of the proof you asked for.     What you showed us was a picture, said the President. If it hadbeen real, we'd all be insane by now. If it were shown to the peoplethere'd be mass hysteria.     But even if we'd found another habitable planet, getting to it wouldinvolve just what we've shown you. Maybe only a tenth of the peoplewho left Earth, or a hundredth, would ever reach a destination out inspace.     We couldn't tolerate such a possibility, said the Presidentgravely. We'd have to find a way around it.     The pumps throbbed like giant hearts all through the stillness in thecouncil chambers. The faces along the line of desks were smoothingout; the terror in them was fading away.     And yet the Earth is almost dead, said Michael quietly, and youcan't bring it back to life.     The sins of our past, Mr. Nelson, said the President. The Atomicwars five thousand years ago. And the greed. It was too late a longtime ago. That, of course, is why the expedition was sent out. And nowyou've come back to us with this terrible news. He looked around,slowly, then back to Michael. Can you give us any hope at all?     None.     Another expedition? To Andromeda perhaps? With you the leader?     Michael shook his head. We're finished with expeditions, Mr.President.     There were mutterings in the council, and hastily whisperedconsultations. Now they were watching the man and woman again.     We feel, said the President, it would be dangerous to allow you togo out among the people. They've been informed that your statementwasn't entirely true. This was necessary, to avoid a panic. The peoplesimply must not know the whole truth. He paused. Now we ask you tokeep in mind that whatever we decide about the two of you will be forthe good of the people.     Michael and Mary were silent.     You'll wait outside the council chambers, the President went on,until we have reached our decision.     As the man and woman were led away, the pumps beat in the stillness,and at the edge of the shrinking seas the salt thick waters were beingpulled into the distilleries, and from them into the tier upon tier ofartificial gardens that sat like giant bee hives all around theshoreline; and the mounds of salt glistening in the sunlight behindthe gardens were growing into mountains.  In their rooms, Michael and Mary were talking through the hours, andwaiting. All around them were fragile, form-fitting chairs andtranslucent walls and a ceiling that, holding the light of the sunwhen they had first seen it, was now filled with moonlight.     Standing at a circular window, ten feet in diameter, Michael saw, farbelow, the lights of the city extending into the darkness along theshoreline of the sea.     We should have delivered our message by radio, he said, and goneback into space.     You could probably still go, she said quietly.     He came and stood beside her. I couldn't stand being out in space, oranywhere, without you.     She looked up at him. We could go out into the wilderness, Michael,outside the force walls. We could go far away.     He turned from her. It's all dead. What would be the use?     I came from the Earth, she said quietly. And I've got to go back toit. Space is so cold and frightening. Steel walls and blackness andthe rockets and the little pinpoints of light. It's a prison.     But to die out there in the desert, in that dust. Then he paused andlooked away from her. We're crazy—talking as though we had achoice.     Maybe they'll have to      give     us a choice.     What're you talking about?     They went into hysterics at the sight of those bodies in the picture.Those young bodies that didn't die of old age.     He waited.     They can't stand the sight of people dying violently.     Her hand went to her throat and touched the tiny locket.     These lockets were given to us so we'd have a choice betweensuffering or quick painless death.... We still have a choice.     He touched the locket at his own throat and was very still for a longmoment. So we threaten to kill ourselves, before their eyes. Whatwould it do to them?     He was still for a long time. Sometimes, Mary, I think I don't knowyou at all. A pause. And so now you and I are back where we started.Which'll it be, space or Earth?     Michael. Her voice trembled. I—I don't know how to say this.     He waited, frowning, watching her intently.     I'm—going to have a child.     His face went blank.     Then he stepped forward and took her by the shoulders. He saw thesoftness there in her face; saw her eyes bright as though the sun wereshining in them; saw a flush in her cheeks, as though she had beenrunning. And suddenly his throat was full.     No, he said thickly. I can't believe it.     It's true.     He held her for a long time, then he turned his eyes aside.     Yes, I can see it is.     I—I can't put into words why I let it happen, Michael.     He shook his head. I don't know—what to—to say. It's soincredible.     Maybe—I got so—tired—just seeing the two of us over and over againand the culturing of the scar tissue, for twenty centuries. Maybe thatwas it. It was just—something I felt I      had     to do. Some—      real     lifeagain. Something new. I felt a need to produce something out ofmyself. It all started way out in space, while we were getting closeto the solar system. I began to wonder if we'd ever get out of theship alive or if we'd ever see a sunset again or a dawn or the nightor morning like we'd seen on Earth—so—so long ago. And then I      had     to let it happen. It was a vague and strange thing. There wassomething forcing me. But at the same time I wanted it, too. I seemedto be willing it, seemed to be feeling it was a necessary thing. Shepaused, frowning. I didn't stop to think—it would be like this.     Such a thing, he said, smiling grimly, hasn't happened on Earth forthree thousand years. I can remember in school, reading in the historybooks, how the whole Earth was overcrowded and how the food and waterhad to be rationed and then how the laws were passed forbidding birthand after that how the people died and there weren't any more babiesborn, until at last there was plenty of what the Earth had to give,for everyone. And then the news was broken to everyone about theculturing of the scar tissue, and there were a few dissenters but theywere soon conditioned out of their dissension and the population wasstabilized. He paused. After all this past history, I don't thinkthe council could endure what you've done.     No, she said quietly. I don't think they could.     And so this will be just for      us     . He took her in his arms. If Iremember rightly, this is a traditional action. A pause. Now I'll gowith you out onto the Earth—if we can swing it. When we get outsidethe city, or if we do—Well, we'll see.     They were very still together and then he turned and stood by thewindow and looked down upon the city and she came and stood besidehim.  They both saw it at the same time. And they watched, without speaking,both knowing what was in the other's mind and heart. They watched thegiant four dimensional screens all through the city. A green, lushplanet showed bright and clear on them and there were ships standingamong the trees and men walking through the grass, that moved gentlylike the swells on a calm ocean, while into their minds came thethoughts projected from the screen:     This will be your new home. It was found and then lost. But anotherexpedition will be sent out to find it again. Be of good hope.Everything will be all right.     Michael turned from the window. So there's our evidence. Two thousandyears. All the others killed getting it. And with a simple twist, itbecomes a lie.     Mary sat down and buried her face in her hands.     What a terrible failure there's been here, said Michael. Theneglect and destruction of a whole planet. It's like a family lettingtheir home decay all around them, and living in smaller and smallerrooms of it, until at last the rooms are all gone, and since theycan't find another home, they all die in the ruins of the last room.     I can't face dying, Mary said quietly, squeezed in with all thesepeople, in this tomb they've made around the seas. I want to have theopen sky and the quiet away from those awful pounding pumps when Idie. I want the spread of the Earth all around and the clean air. Iwant to be a real part of the Earth again.     Michael barely nodded in agreement. He was standing very still now.     And then there was the sound of the door opening.     They both rose, like mourners at a funeral, and went into the councilchambers.  Again they sat in the thick chairs before the wall of desks with thefaces of the council looking across it like defenders.     The pumps were beating, beating all through the room and the quiet.     The President was standing. He faced Michael and Mary, and seemed toset himself as though to deliver a blow, or to receive one.     Michael and Mary, he said, his voice struggling against a tightness,we've considered a long time concerning what is to be done with youand the report you brought back to us from the galaxy. He tookanother swallow of water. To protect the sanity of the people, we'vechanged your report. We've also decided that the people must beprotected from the possibility of your spreading the truth, as you didat the landing field. So, for the good of the people, you'll beisolated. All comforts will be given you. After all, in a sense, you      are     heroes and martyrs. Your scar tissue will be cultured as it hasbeen in the past, and you will stay in solitary confinement until thetime when, perhaps, we can migrate to another planet. We feel thathope must not be destroyed. And so another expedition is being sentout. It may be that, in time, on another planet, you'll be able totake your place in our society.     He paused. Is there anything you wish to say?     Yes, there is.     Proceed.     Michael stared straight at the President. After a long moment, heraised his hand to the tiny locket at his throat.     Perhaps you remember, he said, the lockets given to every member ofthe expedition the night before we left. I still have mine. He raisedit. So does my wife. They were designed to kill the wearer instantlyand painlessly if he were ever faced with pain or a terror he couldn'tendure.     The President was standing again. A stir ran along the barricade ofdesks.     We can't endure the city, went on Michael, or its life and the waysof the people. He glanced along the line of staring faces.     If what I think you're about to say is true, said the President in ashaking voice, it would have been better if you'd never been born.     Let's face facts, Mr. President. We were      born     and haven'tdied—yet. A pause. And we can kill ourselves right here before youreyes. It'd be painless to us. We'd be unconscious. But there would behorrible convulsions and grimaces. Our bodies would be twisted andtorn. They'd thresh about. The deaths you saw in the picture happeneda long time ago, in outer space. You all went into hysterics at thesight of them. Our deaths now would be close and terrible to see.     The President staggered as though about to faint. There was a stirringand muttering and a jumping up along the desks. Voices cried out, inanger and fear. Arms waved and fists pounded. Hands clasped andunclasped and clawed at collars, and there was a pell mell rushingaround the President. They yelled at each other and clasped each otherby the shoulders, turned away and back again, and then suddenly becamevery still.     Now they began to step down from the raised line of desks, thePresident leading them, and came close to the man and woman, gatheringaround them in a wide half circle.     Michael and Mary were holding the lockets close to their throats. Thehalf circle of people, with the President at its center was movingcloser and closer. They were sweaty faces and red ones and dry whiteones and hands were raised to seize them.     Michael put his arm around Mary's waist. He felt the trembling in herbody and the waiting for death.     Stop! he said quietly.     They halted, in slight confusion, barely drawing back.     If you want to see us die—just come a step closer.... And rememberwhat'll happen to you.     The faces began turning to each other and there was an undertone ofmuttering and whispering. A ghastly thing.... Instant.... Nothing todo.... Space's broken their minds.... They'll do it.... Eyes'remad.... What can we do?... What?... The sweaty faces, the cold whiteones, the flushed hot ones: all began to turn to the President, whowas staring at the two before him like a man watching himself die in amirror.     I command you, he suddenly said, in a choked voice, to—to give methose—lockets! It's your—duty!     We've only one duty, Mr. President, said Michael sharply. Toourselves.     You're sick. Give yourselves over to us. We'll help you.     We've made our choice. We want an answer. Quickly! Now!     The President's body sagged. What—what is it you want?     Michael threw the words. To go beyond the force fields of the city.To go far out onto the Earth and live as long as we can, and then todie a natural death.     The half circle of faces turned to each other and muttered andwhispered again. In the name of God.... Let them go.... Contaminateus.... Like animals.... Get them out of here....      Let     them befinished.... Best for us all.... And them....     There was a turning to the President again and hands thrusting himforward to within one step of Michael and Mary, who were standingthere close together, as though attached.     Haltingly he said, Go. Please go. Out onto the Earth—to die. You      will     die. The Earth is dead out there. You'll never see the city oryour people again.     We want a ground car, said Michael. And supplies.     A ground car, repeated the President. And—supplies.... Yes.     You can give us an escort, if you want to, out beyond the first rangeof mountains.     There will be no escort, said the President firmly. No one has beenallowed to go out upon the Earth or to fly above it for many hundredsof years. We know it's there. That's enough. We couldn't bear thesight of it. He took a step back. And we can't bear the sight of youany longer. Go now. Quickly!     Michael and Mary did not let go of the lockets as they watched thehalf circle of faces move backward, staring, as though at corpses thatshould sink to the floor.  It was night. The city had been lost beyond the dead mounds of Earththat rolled away behind them, like a thousand ancient tombs. Theground car sat still on a crumbling road.     Looking up through the car's driving blister, they saw the stars sunkinto the blue black ocean of space; saw the path of the Milky Wayalong which they had rushed, while they had been searching franticallyfor the place of salvation.     If any one of the other couples had made it back, said Mary, do youthink they'd be with us?     I think they'd either be with us, he said, or out in spaceagain—or in prison.     She stared ahead along the beam of headlight that stabbed out into thenight over the decaying road.     How sorry are you, she said quietly, coming with me?     All I know is, if I were out in space for long without you, I'd killmyself.     Are we going to die out here, Michael? she said, gesturing towardthe wall of night that stood at the end of the headlight, with theland?     He turned from her, frowning, and drove the ground car forward,watching the headlights push back the darkness.     They followed the crumbling highway all night until light crept acrossthe bald and cracked hills. The morning sun looked down upon thedesolation ten feet above the horizon when the car stopped. They satfor a long time then, looking out upon the Earth's parched andinflamed skin. In the distance a wall of mountains rose like a greatpile of bleached bones. Close ahead the rolling plains were motionlesswaves of dead Earth with a slight breeze stirring up little swirls ofdust.     I'm getting out, she said.     I haven't the slightest idea how much farther to go, or why, saidMichael shrugging. It's all the same. Dirt and hills and mountainsand sun and dust. It's really not much different from being out inspace. We live in the car just like in a space ship. We've enoughconcentrated supplies to last for a year. How far do we go? Why?When?     They stepped upon the Earth and felt the warmth of the sun andstrolled toward the top of the hill.     The air smells clean, he said.     The ground feels good. I think I'll take off my shoes. She did.Take off your boots, Michael. Try it.     Wearily he pulled off his boots, stood in his bare feet. It takes meback.     Yes, she said and began walking toward the hilltop.     He followed, his boots slung around his neck. There was a roadsomewhere, with the dust between my toes. Or was it a dream?     I guess when the past is old enough, she said, it becomes a dream.     He watched her footprints in the dust. God, listen to the quiet.     I can't seem to remember so much quiet around me. There's always beenthe sound of a space ship, or the pumps back in the cities.     He did not answer but continued to watch her footsteps and to feel thedust squishing up between his toes. Then suddenly:     Mary!     She stopped, whirling around.     He was staring down at her feet.     She followed his gaze.     It's grass! He bent down. Three blades.     She knelt beside him. They touched the green blades.     They're new, he said.     They stared, like religious devotees concentrating upon some sacredobject.     He rose, pulling her up with him. They hurried to the top of the hilland stood very still, looking down into a valley. There were tinypatches of green and little trees sprouting, and here and there, apale flower. The green was in a cluster, in the center of the valleyand there was a tiny glint of sunlight in its center.     Oh!     Her hand found his.     They ran down the gentle slope, feeling the patches of green touchtheir feet, smelling a new freshness in the air. And coming to thelittle spring, they stood beside it and watched the crystal water thattrickled along the valley floor and lost itself around a bend. Theysaw a furry, little animal scurry away and heard the twitter of a birdand saw it resting on a slim, bending branch. They heard the buzz of abee, saw it light on a pale flower at their feet and work at thesweetness inside.     Mary knelt down and drank from the spring.     It's so cool. It must come from deep down.     It does, he said. There were tears in his eyes and a tightness inhis throat. From deep down.     We can      live     here, Michael!     Slowly he looked all around until his sight stopped at the bottom of ahill. We'll build our house just beyond those rocks. We'll dig andplant and you'll have the child.     Yes! she said. Oh yes!     And the ones back in the city will know the Earth again. Sometimewe'll lead them back here and show them the Earth is coming alive. Hepaused. By following what we had to do for ourselves, we've found away to save them.     They remained kneeling in the silence beside the pool for a long time.They felt the sun on their backs and looked into the clean depth ofthe water deeply aware of the new life breathing all around them andof themselves absorbing it, and at the same time giving back to it thelife that was their own.     There was only this quiet and breathing and warmth until Michael stoodand picked up a rock and walked toward the base of the hill where hehad decided to build the house.     ... THE END   ","Michael and Mary were sent to look for another planet for humans to live on. After looking for two thousand years, their ""Milky Way"" expedition had failed to find an alternative, but humans were desperate because Earth was scorched and not easily liveable. The President is taken aback by the news, and his council looked at some footage from the expedition, watching ships explode and seeing dangerous atmospheres that would not sustain human life. A thousand people were grown from cultured scar tissue only to die violent deaths, so people yelled for the video to be shut off. President Davis explains that violent death is an unfamiliar thing to the contemporary humans, so he decided to lie to the public about the expedition details. Michael had promised Mary they would stay on Earth, but the government lying to the public was hard--Mary suggests that Michael can still leave, but he doesn't want to go without her, and she wants to stay on the planet she came from, even if it means a difficult life on Earth. They remember their lockets, that give them the option of a quick death in case they had gotten trapped in a dangerous situation, but they don't want to threaten to kill themselves either. Mary admits she's pregnant, which is surprising because humans in this day are cultured from scar tissue. With heavy hearts, they looked out onto the city where the large TV screens were promising the public an idyllic planet that would one day be recovered again, through a different mission, which is disheartening because their own mission had turned into a lie. They went back into the council chambers and sat again. Michael and Mary were told they'd be kept in solitary confinement to protect the public, which was ironic since Mary wanted to stay on Earth to avoid loneliness. Michael reminds the President of the lockets he and his wife have, and there is panic--what is there to do? The President demanded they hand over the lockets, but Michael and Mary stay strong and ask to be let outside of the city's protective barrier so that they can experience a natural death. The President conceded, so that he didn't have to look at them anymore, and gave them the car that they asked for. They have supplies to last a year, but don't know where to go or what to do. They get out of their car and take their shoes off to walk around, experiencing quiet for the first time in memory. To their surprise, they found three blades of grass, and run to a hill to see other patches of green in the area, some animals, and a small spring. They have hope: they can build a house, have a child, and eventually they can show the ones in the city that there is hope much closer than they realized. "
"Describe Michael and Mary's relationship and their conflicting preferences </s>    Transcriber's Note:     This etext was produced from IF Worlds of Science Fiction June 1954. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.         THE VALLEY       By Richard Stockham       Illustrated by Ed Emsh         If you can't find it countless millions of miles in space,come back to Earth. You might find it just on the other sideof the fence—where the grass is always greener.        The Ship dove into Earth's sea of atmosphere like a great, silverfish.     Inside the ship, a man and woman stood looking down at the expanse ofland that curved away to a growing horizon. They saw the yellow groundcracked like a dried skin; and the polished stone of the mountains andthe seas that were shrunken away in the dust. And they saw how thecity circled the sea, as a circle of men surround a water hole in adesert under a blazing sun.     The ship's radio cried out. You've made it! Thank God! You've madeit!     Another voice, shaking, said, President—Davis is—overwhelmed. Hecan't go on. On his behalf and on behalf of all the people—with ourhope that was almost dead, we greet you. A pause. Please come in!     The voice was silent. The air screamed against the hull of the ship.     I can't tell them, said the man.     Please come in! said the radio. Do you hear me?     The woman looked up at the man. You've got to Michael!     Two thousand years. From one end of the galaxy to the other. Not onegrain of dust we can live on. Just Earth. And it's burned to acinder.     A note of hysteria stabbed into the radio voice. Are you all right?Stand by! We're sending a rescue ship.     They've got a right to know what we've found, said the woman. Theysent us out. They've waited so long—.     He stared into space. It's hopeless. If we'd found another planetthey could live on, they'd do the same as they've done here.     He touched the tiny golden locket that hung around his neck. Rightnow, I could press this and scratch myself and the whole farce wouldbe over.     No. A thousand of us died. You've got to think of them.     We'll go back out into space, he said. It's clean out there. I'mtired. Two thousand years of reincarnation.     She spoke softly. We've been together for a long time. I've lovedyou. I've asked very little. But I need to stay on Earth. Please,Michael.     He looked at her for a moment. Then he flipped a switch. Milky Way toEarth. Never mind the rescue ship. We're all right. We're coming in.  The great, white ship settled to Earth that was like a plain afterflood waters have drained away.     The man and woman came out into the blazing sunlight.     A shout, like the crashing of a thousand surfs, rose and broke overthem. The man and woman descended the gang-plank toward the officialsgathered on the platform. They glanced around at the massed field ofwhite faces beneath them; saw those same faces that had been turnedtoward them two thousand years past; remembered the cheers and thecries that had crashed around them then, as they and the thousand hadstood before the towering spires of the ships, before the takeoff.     And, as then, there were no children among the milling, graspingthrong. Only the same clutching hands and voices and arms, asking foran answer, a salvation, a happy end.     Now the officials gathered around the man and the woman, and spoke tothem in voices of reverence.     A microphone was thrust into Michael's hand with the whisperedadmonition to tell the people of the great new life waiting for them,open and green and moist, on a virgin planet.     The cries of the people were slipping away and a stillness growinglike an ocean calm and, within it, the sound of the pumps, throbbing,sucking the water from the seas.     And then Michael's voice, The thousand who left with us are dead. Forsome time we've known the other planets in our solar system wereuninhabitable. Now we've been from one end of the galaxy to the other.And this is what we've found.... We were given Earth. There's no placeelse for us. The rest of the planets in the galaxy were given toothers. There's no place else for them. We've all had a chance to makethe best of Earth. Instead we've made the worst of it. So we're hereto stay—and die. He handed the microphone back.     The silence did not change.     The President grasped Michael's arm. What're you saying?     A buzzing rose up from the people like that of a swarm of frightenedbees. The sea of white faces swayed and their voices began to cry. Thedin and motion held, long and drawn out, with a wail now and afluttering beneath it.     Michael and the woman stood above them in the center of the pale,hovering faces of the officials.     Good God, said the President. You've got to tell them what you saidisn't true!     We've been searching two thousand years for a truth, said Michael.A thousand of us have died finding it. I've told it. That's the wayit's got to be.     The President swayed, took the microphone in his hands.     There's been some mistake! he cried. Go back to the pumps and thedistilleries! Go back to the water vats and the gardens and theflocks! Go back! Work and wait! We'll get the full truth to you.Everything's going to be      all right     !     Obediently the mass of faces separated, as though they were being spunaway on a whirling disk. Michael and the woman were swallowed up, likepebbles inside a closing hand, and carried away from the great, whiteship.  They ushered the man and woman into the beamed and paneled councilchambers and sat them in thick chairs before the wall of polished wooddesks across which stared the line of faces, silent and waiting. Andon a far wall, facing them all, hung a silver screen, fifty feetsquare.     The President stood. Members of the council. He paused. As youheard, they report—complete failure. He turned to Michael. And now,the proof.     Michael stood beside the motion picture projector, close to his chair.The lights dimmed. There was only the sound of the pumps throbbing inthe darkness close and far away, above and beneath and all around.Suddenly on the screen appeared an endless depth of blackness filledwith a mass of glowing white, which extended into the room around thewatching people, seeming to touch them and then spreading, like anocean, farther away and out and out into an endless distance.     Now streaks of yellow fire shot into the picture, like a swarm oflightning bugs, the thin sharp nosed shadows of space ships, hurtling,like comets, toward the clustered star smear. And then silent thoughtsflashed from the screen into the minds of the spectators; of timepassing in months, years and centuries, passing and passing until theythemselves seemed to be rushing and rushing into the blackness towardblinding balls of white light, the size of moons.     The dark shapes of smaller spheres circling the blinding ones movedforward into the picture; red, blue, green, yellow, purple and manymixtures of all these, and then one planet filled the screen, seemingto be inflated, like a balloon, into a shining red ball. There was arazor edge of horizon then and pink sky and an expanse of crimson.Flat, yellow creatures lay all around, expanding and contracting. Aroaring rose and fell like the roaring of a million winds. Then fearflowed out of the picture into the minds of the watchers so that theygasped and cringed, and a silent voice told them that the atmosphereof this planet would disintegrate a human being.     Now the red ball seemed to pull away from them into the blackness andthe blinding balls of light, and all around could be seen the streaksof rocket flame shooting away in all directions.     Suddenly a flash cut the blackness, like the flare of a match, anddied, and the watchers caught from the screen the awareness of thedeath of a ship.     They were also aware of the rushing of time through centuries and theysaw the streaking rocket flames and planets rushing at them; sawcreatures in squares and circles, in threads wriggling, in lumps andblobs, rolling jumping and crawling; saw them in cloud forms whiskingabout, changing their shapes, and in flowing wavelets of water. Theysaw creatures hopping about on one leg and others crawling atincredible speeds on a thousand; saw some with all the numbers of legsand arms in between; and were aware of creatures that were there butinvisible.     And those watching the screen on which time and distance were acompressed and distilled kaleidoscope, saw planet after planet andthousands at a time; heard strange noises; rasping and roaring, clinksand whistles, screams and crying, sighing and moaning. And they wereaware through all this of atmosphere and ground inimical to man, somethat would evaporate at the touch of a human body, or would burst intoflame, or swallow, or turn from liquid to solid or solid to liquid.They saw and heard chemical analyses, were aware of this ocean ofblackness and clouds of white through which man might move, and mustever move, because he could live only upon this floating dust speckthat was Earth.     The picture faded in, close to one of the long, needle nosed crafts,showing inside, a man and a woman. Time was telescoped again while theman cut a tiny piece of scar tissue from his arm and that of thewoman, put them in bottles and set them into compartments wheresolutions dripped rhythmically into the bottles, the temperature washeld at that of the human body, and synthetic sunlight focused uponthem from many pencil like tubes.     The watchers in the council chamber saw the bits of tissue swell intohuman embryos in a few seconds, and grow arms and legs and faces andextend themselves into babies. Saw them taken from the bottles andcared for, and become replicas of the man and woman controlling theship, who, all this time were aging, until life went out of theirbodies. Then the ones who had been the scar tissue disintegrated themin the coffin-like tubes and let their dust be sucked out intospace—all this through millions of miles and a hundred years,compressed for the watchers into sixty seconds and a few feet ofspace.     Instantly there was black space on the screen again, with the fingersof flame pointing out behind the dark bodies of the ships.     And then the spectators saw one ship shudder and swerve into ablazing, bluish white star, like a gnat flying into a white hot poker;saw another drop away and away, out and out into the blackness pastthe swirling white rim of the galaxy, and sink into a darknothingness.     Great balls of rock showered like hail onto other ships, smashing theminto grotesque tin cans. The stream of fire at the tail of anothership suddenly died and the ship floated into an orbit around a great,yellow planet, ten times the size of Jupiter, then was sucked into it.Another burst like a bomb, flinging a man and woman out into thedarkness, where they hung suspended, frozen into statues, like bodiesdrowned in the depths of an Arctic sea.     At this instant from the watching council, there were screams ofhorror and voices crying out, Shut it off! Shut it off! There was amoving about in the darkness. Murmurs and harsh cries of disapprovalgrew in volume.     Another ship in the picture was split down the side by a meteor andthe bodies inside were impaled on jagged blades of steel, thecontorted, bloody faces lighted by bursts of flame. And the screamsand cries of the spectators rose higher, Shut it off.... Oh Lord....     Lights flashed through the room and the picture died.  Michael and Mary, both staring, saw, along the line of desks, theagonized faces, some staring like white stones, others hidden inclutching fingers, as though they had been confronted by a Medusa.There was the sound of heavy breathing that mixed with the throbbingof the pumps. The President held tightly to the edges of his desk toquiet his trembling.     There—there've been changes, he said, since you've been out inspace. There isn't a person on Earth who's seen a violent death forhundreds of years.     Michael faced him, frowning. I don't follow you.     Dying violently happened so seldom on Earth that, after a long time,the sight of it began to drive some people mad. And then one day a manwas struck by one of the ground cars and      everyone     who saw it wentinsane. Since then we've eliminated accidents, even the idea. Now, noone is aware that death by violence is even a possibility.     I'm sorry, said Michael, we've been so close to violent death forso long.... What you've seen is part of the proof you asked for.     What you showed us was a picture, said the President. If it hadbeen real, we'd all be insane by now. If it were shown to the peoplethere'd be mass hysteria.     But even if we'd found another habitable planet, getting to it wouldinvolve just what we've shown you. Maybe only a tenth of the peoplewho left Earth, or a hundredth, would ever reach a destination out inspace.     We couldn't tolerate such a possibility, said the Presidentgravely. We'd have to find a way around it.     The pumps throbbed like giant hearts all through the stillness in thecouncil chambers. The faces along the line of desks were smoothingout; the terror in them was fading away.     And yet the Earth is almost dead, said Michael quietly, and youcan't bring it back to life.     The sins of our past, Mr. Nelson, said the President. The Atomicwars five thousand years ago. And the greed. It was too late a longtime ago. That, of course, is why the expedition was sent out. And nowyou've come back to us with this terrible news. He looked around,slowly, then back to Michael. Can you give us any hope at all?     None.     Another expedition? To Andromeda perhaps? With you the leader?     Michael shook his head. We're finished with expeditions, Mr.President.     There were mutterings in the council, and hastily whisperedconsultations. Now they were watching the man and woman again.     We feel, said the President, it would be dangerous to allow you togo out among the people. They've been informed that your statementwasn't entirely true. This was necessary, to avoid a panic. The peoplesimply must not know the whole truth. He paused. Now we ask you tokeep in mind that whatever we decide about the two of you will be forthe good of the people.     Michael and Mary were silent.     You'll wait outside the council chambers, the President went on,until we have reached our decision.     As the man and woman were led away, the pumps beat in the stillness,and at the edge of the shrinking seas the salt thick waters were beingpulled into the distilleries, and from them into the tier upon tier ofartificial gardens that sat like giant bee hives all around theshoreline; and the mounds of salt glistening in the sunlight behindthe gardens were growing into mountains.  In their rooms, Michael and Mary were talking through the hours, andwaiting. All around them were fragile, form-fitting chairs andtranslucent walls and a ceiling that, holding the light of the sunwhen they had first seen it, was now filled with moonlight.     Standing at a circular window, ten feet in diameter, Michael saw, farbelow, the lights of the city extending into the darkness along theshoreline of the sea.     We should have delivered our message by radio, he said, and goneback into space.     You could probably still go, she said quietly.     He came and stood beside her. I couldn't stand being out in space, oranywhere, without you.     She looked up at him. We could go out into the wilderness, Michael,outside the force walls. We could go far away.     He turned from her. It's all dead. What would be the use?     I came from the Earth, she said quietly. And I've got to go back toit. Space is so cold and frightening. Steel walls and blackness andthe rockets and the little pinpoints of light. It's a prison.     But to die out there in the desert, in that dust. Then he paused andlooked away from her. We're crazy—talking as though we had achoice.     Maybe they'll have to      give     us a choice.     What're you talking about?     They went into hysterics at the sight of those bodies in the picture.Those young bodies that didn't die of old age.     He waited.     They can't stand the sight of people dying violently.     Her hand went to her throat and touched the tiny locket.     These lockets were given to us so we'd have a choice betweensuffering or quick painless death.... We still have a choice.     He touched the locket at his own throat and was very still for a longmoment. So we threaten to kill ourselves, before their eyes. Whatwould it do to them?     He was still for a long time. Sometimes, Mary, I think I don't knowyou at all. A pause. And so now you and I are back where we started.Which'll it be, space or Earth?     Michael. Her voice trembled. I—I don't know how to say this.     He waited, frowning, watching her intently.     I'm—going to have a child.     His face went blank.     Then he stepped forward and took her by the shoulders. He saw thesoftness there in her face; saw her eyes bright as though the sun wereshining in them; saw a flush in her cheeks, as though she had beenrunning. And suddenly his throat was full.     No, he said thickly. I can't believe it.     It's true.     He held her for a long time, then he turned his eyes aside.     Yes, I can see it is.     I—I can't put into words why I let it happen, Michael.     He shook his head. I don't know—what to—to say. It's soincredible.     Maybe—I got so—tired—just seeing the two of us over and over againand the culturing of the scar tissue, for twenty centuries. Maybe thatwas it. It was just—something I felt I      had     to do. Some—      real     lifeagain. Something new. I felt a need to produce something out ofmyself. It all started way out in space, while we were getting closeto the solar system. I began to wonder if we'd ever get out of theship alive or if we'd ever see a sunset again or a dawn or the nightor morning like we'd seen on Earth—so—so long ago. And then I      had     to let it happen. It was a vague and strange thing. There wassomething forcing me. But at the same time I wanted it, too. I seemedto be willing it, seemed to be feeling it was a necessary thing. Shepaused, frowning. I didn't stop to think—it would be like this.     Such a thing, he said, smiling grimly, hasn't happened on Earth forthree thousand years. I can remember in school, reading in the historybooks, how the whole Earth was overcrowded and how the food and waterhad to be rationed and then how the laws were passed forbidding birthand after that how the people died and there weren't any more babiesborn, until at last there was plenty of what the Earth had to give,for everyone. And then the news was broken to everyone about theculturing of the scar tissue, and there were a few dissenters but theywere soon conditioned out of their dissension and the population wasstabilized. He paused. After all this past history, I don't thinkthe council could endure what you've done.     No, she said quietly. I don't think they could.     And so this will be just for      us     . He took her in his arms. If Iremember rightly, this is a traditional action. A pause. Now I'll gowith you out onto the Earth—if we can swing it. When we get outsidethe city, or if we do—Well, we'll see.     They were very still together and then he turned and stood by thewindow and looked down upon the city and she came and stood besidehim.  They both saw it at the same time. And they watched, without speaking,both knowing what was in the other's mind and heart. They watched thegiant four dimensional screens all through the city. A green, lushplanet showed bright and clear on them and there were ships standingamong the trees and men walking through the grass, that moved gentlylike the swells on a calm ocean, while into their minds came thethoughts projected from the screen:     This will be your new home. It was found and then lost. But anotherexpedition will be sent out to find it again. Be of good hope.Everything will be all right.     Michael turned from the window. So there's our evidence. Two thousandyears. All the others killed getting it. And with a simple twist, itbecomes a lie.     Mary sat down and buried her face in her hands.     What a terrible failure there's been here, said Michael. Theneglect and destruction of a whole planet. It's like a family lettingtheir home decay all around them, and living in smaller and smallerrooms of it, until at last the rooms are all gone, and since theycan't find another home, they all die in the ruins of the last room.     I can't face dying, Mary said quietly, squeezed in with all thesepeople, in this tomb they've made around the seas. I want to have theopen sky and the quiet away from those awful pounding pumps when Idie. I want the spread of the Earth all around and the clean air. Iwant to be a real part of the Earth again.     Michael barely nodded in agreement. He was standing very still now.     And then there was the sound of the door opening.     They both rose, like mourners at a funeral, and went into the councilchambers.  Again they sat in the thick chairs before the wall of desks with thefaces of the council looking across it like defenders.     The pumps were beating, beating all through the room and the quiet.     The President was standing. He faced Michael and Mary, and seemed toset himself as though to deliver a blow, or to receive one.     Michael and Mary, he said, his voice struggling against a tightness,we've considered a long time concerning what is to be done with youand the report you brought back to us from the galaxy. He tookanother swallow of water. To protect the sanity of the people, we'vechanged your report. We've also decided that the people must beprotected from the possibility of your spreading the truth, as you didat the landing field. So, for the good of the people, you'll beisolated. All comforts will be given you. After all, in a sense, you      are     heroes and martyrs. Your scar tissue will be cultured as it hasbeen in the past, and you will stay in solitary confinement until thetime when, perhaps, we can migrate to another planet. We feel thathope must not be destroyed. And so another expedition is being sentout. It may be that, in time, on another planet, you'll be able totake your place in our society.     He paused. Is there anything you wish to say?     Yes, there is.     Proceed.     Michael stared straight at the President. After a long moment, heraised his hand to the tiny locket at his throat.     Perhaps you remember, he said, the lockets given to every member ofthe expedition the night before we left. I still have mine. He raisedit. So does my wife. They were designed to kill the wearer instantlyand painlessly if he were ever faced with pain or a terror he couldn'tendure.     The President was standing again. A stir ran along the barricade ofdesks.     We can't endure the city, went on Michael, or its life and the waysof the people. He glanced along the line of staring faces.     If what I think you're about to say is true, said the President in ashaking voice, it would have been better if you'd never been born.     Let's face facts, Mr. President. We were      born     and haven'tdied—yet. A pause. And we can kill ourselves right here before youreyes. It'd be painless to us. We'd be unconscious. But there would behorrible convulsions and grimaces. Our bodies would be twisted andtorn. They'd thresh about. The deaths you saw in the picture happeneda long time ago, in outer space. You all went into hysterics at thesight of them. Our deaths now would be close and terrible to see.     The President staggered as though about to faint. There was a stirringand muttering and a jumping up along the desks. Voices cried out, inanger and fear. Arms waved and fists pounded. Hands clasped andunclasped and clawed at collars, and there was a pell mell rushingaround the President. They yelled at each other and clasped each otherby the shoulders, turned away and back again, and then suddenly becamevery still.     Now they began to step down from the raised line of desks, thePresident leading them, and came close to the man and woman, gatheringaround them in a wide half circle.     Michael and Mary were holding the lockets close to their throats. Thehalf circle of people, with the President at its center was movingcloser and closer. They were sweaty faces and red ones and dry whiteones and hands were raised to seize them.     Michael put his arm around Mary's waist. He felt the trembling in herbody and the waiting for death.     Stop! he said quietly.     They halted, in slight confusion, barely drawing back.     If you want to see us die—just come a step closer.... And rememberwhat'll happen to you.     The faces began turning to each other and there was an undertone ofmuttering and whispering. A ghastly thing.... Instant.... Nothing todo.... Space's broken their minds.... They'll do it.... Eyes'remad.... What can we do?... What?... The sweaty faces, the cold whiteones, the flushed hot ones: all began to turn to the President, whowas staring at the two before him like a man watching himself die in amirror.     I command you, he suddenly said, in a choked voice, to—to give methose—lockets! It's your—duty!     We've only one duty, Mr. President, said Michael sharply. Toourselves.     You're sick. Give yourselves over to us. We'll help you.     We've made our choice. We want an answer. Quickly! Now!     The President's body sagged. What—what is it you want?     Michael threw the words. To go beyond the force fields of the city.To go far out onto the Earth and live as long as we can, and then todie a natural death.     The half circle of faces turned to each other and muttered andwhispered again. In the name of God.... Let them go.... Contaminateus.... Like animals.... Get them out of here....      Let     them befinished.... Best for us all.... And them....     There was a turning to the President again and hands thrusting himforward to within one step of Michael and Mary, who were standingthere close together, as though attached.     Haltingly he said, Go. Please go. Out onto the Earth—to die. You      will     die. The Earth is dead out there. You'll never see the city oryour people again.     We want a ground car, said Michael. And supplies.     A ground car, repeated the President. And—supplies.... Yes.     You can give us an escort, if you want to, out beyond the first rangeof mountains.     There will be no escort, said the President firmly. No one has beenallowed to go out upon the Earth or to fly above it for many hundredsof years. We know it's there. That's enough. We couldn't bear thesight of it. He took a step back. And we can't bear the sight of youany longer. Go now. Quickly!     Michael and Mary did not let go of the lockets as they watched thehalf circle of faces move backward, staring, as though at corpses thatshould sink to the floor.  It was night. The city had been lost beyond the dead mounds of Earththat rolled away behind them, like a thousand ancient tombs. Theground car sat still on a crumbling road.     Looking up through the car's driving blister, they saw the stars sunkinto the blue black ocean of space; saw the path of the Milky Wayalong which they had rushed, while they had been searching franticallyfor the place of salvation.     If any one of the other couples had made it back, said Mary, do youthink they'd be with us?     I think they'd either be with us, he said, or out in spaceagain—or in prison.     She stared ahead along the beam of headlight that stabbed out into thenight over the decaying road.     How sorry are you, she said quietly, coming with me?     All I know is, if I were out in space for long without you, I'd killmyself.     Are we going to die out here, Michael? she said, gesturing towardthe wall of night that stood at the end of the headlight, with theland?     He turned from her, frowning, and drove the ground car forward,watching the headlights push back the darkness.     They followed the crumbling highway all night until light crept acrossthe bald and cracked hills. The morning sun looked down upon thedesolation ten feet above the horizon when the car stopped. They satfor a long time then, looking out upon the Earth's parched andinflamed skin. In the distance a wall of mountains rose like a greatpile of bleached bones. Close ahead the rolling plains were motionlesswaves of dead Earth with a slight breeze stirring up little swirls ofdust.     I'm getting out, she said.     I haven't the slightest idea how much farther to go, or why, saidMichael shrugging. It's all the same. Dirt and hills and mountainsand sun and dust. It's really not much different from being out inspace. We live in the car just like in a space ship. We've enoughconcentrated supplies to last for a year. How far do we go? Why?When?     They stepped upon the Earth and felt the warmth of the sun andstrolled toward the top of the hill.     The air smells clean, he said.     The ground feels good. I think I'll take off my shoes. She did.Take off your boots, Michael. Try it.     Wearily he pulled off his boots, stood in his bare feet. It takes meback.     Yes, she said and began walking toward the hilltop.     He followed, his boots slung around his neck. There was a roadsomewhere, with the dust between my toes. Or was it a dream?     I guess when the past is old enough, she said, it becomes a dream.     He watched her footprints in the dust. God, listen to the quiet.     I can't seem to remember so much quiet around me. There's always beenthe sound of a space ship, or the pumps back in the cities.     He did not answer but continued to watch her footsteps and to feel thedust squishing up between his toes. Then suddenly:     Mary!     She stopped, whirling around.     He was staring down at her feet.     She followed his gaze.     It's grass! He bent down. Three blades.     She knelt beside him. They touched the green blades.     They're new, he said.     They stared, like religious devotees concentrating upon some sacredobject.     He rose, pulling her up with him. They hurried to the top of the hilland stood very still, looking down into a valley. There were tinypatches of green and little trees sprouting, and here and there, apale flower. The green was in a cluster, in the center of the valleyand there was a tiny glint of sunlight in its center.     Oh!     Her hand found his.     They ran down the gentle slope, feeling the patches of green touchtheir feet, smelling a new freshness in the air. And coming to thelittle spring, they stood beside it and watched the crystal water thattrickled along the valley floor and lost itself around a bend. Theysaw a furry, little animal scurry away and heard the twitter of a birdand saw it resting on a slim, bending branch. They heard the buzz of abee, saw it light on a pale flower at their feet and work at thesweetness inside.     Mary knelt down and drank from the spring.     It's so cool. It must come from deep down.     It does, he said. There were tears in his eyes and a tightness inhis throat. From deep down.     We can      live     here, Michael!     Slowly he looked all around until his sight stopped at the bottom of ahill. We'll build our house just beyond those rocks. We'll dig andplant and you'll have the child.     Yes! she said. Oh yes!     And the ones back in the city will know the Earth again. Sometimewe'll lead them back here and show them the Earth is coming alive. Hepaused. By following what we had to do for ourselves, we've found away to save them.     They remained kneeling in the silence beside the pool for a long time.They felt the sun on their backs and looked into the clean depth ofthe water deeply aware of the new life breathing all around them andof themselves absorbing it, and at the same time giving back to it thelife that was their own.     There was only this quiet and breathing and warmth until Michael stoodand picked up a rock and walked toward the base of the hill where hehad decided to build the house.     ... THE END   ","Michael and Mary are two humans who were sent on an expedition to find a habitable planet elsewhere in the solar system after humans destroyed their own planet during the Atomic Wars, and continued to drive it into the ground through their own greed for resources. Three thousand years after the Wars, the expedition was sent out (so five thousand years have passed in total since the Wars). Michael and Mary are the only two people who survived, and their return was two thousand years after they left Earth. They are married, though contemporary relationships do not involve much physical touching as compared to the twenty-first century, in a few ways. When Michael hugs Mary to comfort her, he mentions that it is a custom of the past. In their society, it is illegal to have children through sexual intercourse, so it is a surprise at the end of the story when Mary admits that she might be pregnant. They have endured a lot together on their mission in outer space, and have had to watch a lot of people die. It was very isolating to be in space, living on a ship, and this is part of their other major discussion: what to do when their mission was over. Michael had some desire to stay in space and not return to the scorched planet. However, Mary wanted to return to Earth, and the two of them wanted to stay together no matter what. This turned out to work in their favor: staying on Earth but wanting to stay alive is what gave them the opportunity to find the patches of life they found at the end of the story. "
"Describe the mission that Michael and Mary were sent on </s>    Transcriber's Note:     This etext was produced from IF Worlds of Science Fiction June 1954. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.         THE VALLEY       By Richard Stockham       Illustrated by Ed Emsh         If you can't find it countless millions of miles in space,come back to Earth. You might find it just on the other sideof the fence—where the grass is always greener.        The Ship dove into Earth's sea of atmosphere like a great, silverfish.     Inside the ship, a man and woman stood looking down at the expanse ofland that curved away to a growing horizon. They saw the yellow groundcracked like a dried skin; and the polished stone of the mountains andthe seas that were shrunken away in the dust. And they saw how thecity circled the sea, as a circle of men surround a water hole in adesert under a blazing sun.     The ship's radio cried out. You've made it! Thank God! You've madeit!     Another voice, shaking, said, President—Davis is—overwhelmed. Hecan't go on. On his behalf and on behalf of all the people—with ourhope that was almost dead, we greet you. A pause. Please come in!     The voice was silent. The air screamed against the hull of the ship.     I can't tell them, said the man.     Please come in! said the radio. Do you hear me?     The woman looked up at the man. You've got to Michael!     Two thousand years. From one end of the galaxy to the other. Not onegrain of dust we can live on. Just Earth. And it's burned to acinder.     A note of hysteria stabbed into the radio voice. Are you all right?Stand by! We're sending a rescue ship.     They've got a right to know what we've found, said the woman. Theysent us out. They've waited so long—.     He stared into space. It's hopeless. If we'd found another planetthey could live on, they'd do the same as they've done here.     He touched the tiny golden locket that hung around his neck. Rightnow, I could press this and scratch myself and the whole farce wouldbe over.     No. A thousand of us died. You've got to think of them.     We'll go back out into space, he said. It's clean out there. I'mtired. Two thousand years of reincarnation.     She spoke softly. We've been together for a long time. I've lovedyou. I've asked very little. But I need to stay on Earth. Please,Michael.     He looked at her for a moment. Then he flipped a switch. Milky Way toEarth. Never mind the rescue ship. We're all right. We're coming in.  The great, white ship settled to Earth that was like a plain afterflood waters have drained away.     The man and woman came out into the blazing sunlight.     A shout, like the crashing of a thousand surfs, rose and broke overthem. The man and woman descended the gang-plank toward the officialsgathered on the platform. They glanced around at the massed field ofwhite faces beneath them; saw those same faces that had been turnedtoward them two thousand years past; remembered the cheers and thecries that had crashed around them then, as they and the thousand hadstood before the towering spires of the ships, before the takeoff.     And, as then, there were no children among the milling, graspingthrong. Only the same clutching hands and voices and arms, asking foran answer, a salvation, a happy end.     Now the officials gathered around the man and the woman, and spoke tothem in voices of reverence.     A microphone was thrust into Michael's hand with the whisperedadmonition to tell the people of the great new life waiting for them,open and green and moist, on a virgin planet.     The cries of the people were slipping away and a stillness growinglike an ocean calm and, within it, the sound of the pumps, throbbing,sucking the water from the seas.     And then Michael's voice, The thousand who left with us are dead. Forsome time we've known the other planets in our solar system wereuninhabitable. Now we've been from one end of the galaxy to the other.And this is what we've found.... We were given Earth. There's no placeelse for us. The rest of the planets in the galaxy were given toothers. There's no place else for them. We've all had a chance to makethe best of Earth. Instead we've made the worst of it. So we're hereto stay—and die. He handed the microphone back.     The silence did not change.     The President grasped Michael's arm. What're you saying?     A buzzing rose up from the people like that of a swarm of frightenedbees. The sea of white faces swayed and their voices began to cry. Thedin and motion held, long and drawn out, with a wail now and afluttering beneath it.     Michael and the woman stood above them in the center of the pale,hovering faces of the officials.     Good God, said the President. You've got to tell them what you saidisn't true!     We've been searching two thousand years for a truth, said Michael.A thousand of us have died finding it. I've told it. That's the wayit's got to be.     The President swayed, took the microphone in his hands.     There's been some mistake! he cried. Go back to the pumps and thedistilleries! Go back to the water vats and the gardens and theflocks! Go back! Work and wait! We'll get the full truth to you.Everything's going to be      all right     !     Obediently the mass of faces separated, as though they were being spunaway on a whirling disk. Michael and the woman were swallowed up, likepebbles inside a closing hand, and carried away from the great, whiteship.  They ushered the man and woman into the beamed and paneled councilchambers and sat them in thick chairs before the wall of polished wooddesks across which stared the line of faces, silent and waiting. Andon a far wall, facing them all, hung a silver screen, fifty feetsquare.     The President stood. Members of the council. He paused. As youheard, they report—complete failure. He turned to Michael. And now,the proof.     Michael stood beside the motion picture projector, close to his chair.The lights dimmed. There was only the sound of the pumps throbbing inthe darkness close and far away, above and beneath and all around.Suddenly on the screen appeared an endless depth of blackness filledwith a mass of glowing white, which extended into the room around thewatching people, seeming to touch them and then spreading, like anocean, farther away and out and out into an endless distance.     Now streaks of yellow fire shot into the picture, like a swarm oflightning bugs, the thin sharp nosed shadows of space ships, hurtling,like comets, toward the clustered star smear. And then silent thoughtsflashed from the screen into the minds of the spectators; of timepassing in months, years and centuries, passing and passing until theythemselves seemed to be rushing and rushing into the blackness towardblinding balls of white light, the size of moons.     The dark shapes of smaller spheres circling the blinding ones movedforward into the picture; red, blue, green, yellow, purple and manymixtures of all these, and then one planet filled the screen, seemingto be inflated, like a balloon, into a shining red ball. There was arazor edge of horizon then and pink sky and an expanse of crimson.Flat, yellow creatures lay all around, expanding and contracting. Aroaring rose and fell like the roaring of a million winds. Then fearflowed out of the picture into the minds of the watchers so that theygasped and cringed, and a silent voice told them that the atmosphereof this planet would disintegrate a human being.     Now the red ball seemed to pull away from them into the blackness andthe blinding balls of light, and all around could be seen the streaksof rocket flame shooting away in all directions.     Suddenly a flash cut the blackness, like the flare of a match, anddied, and the watchers caught from the screen the awareness of thedeath of a ship.     They were also aware of the rushing of time through centuries and theysaw the streaking rocket flames and planets rushing at them; sawcreatures in squares and circles, in threads wriggling, in lumps andblobs, rolling jumping and crawling; saw them in cloud forms whiskingabout, changing their shapes, and in flowing wavelets of water. Theysaw creatures hopping about on one leg and others crawling atincredible speeds on a thousand; saw some with all the numbers of legsand arms in between; and were aware of creatures that were there butinvisible.     And those watching the screen on which time and distance were acompressed and distilled kaleidoscope, saw planet after planet andthousands at a time; heard strange noises; rasping and roaring, clinksand whistles, screams and crying, sighing and moaning. And they wereaware through all this of atmosphere and ground inimical to man, somethat would evaporate at the touch of a human body, or would burst intoflame, or swallow, or turn from liquid to solid or solid to liquid.They saw and heard chemical analyses, were aware of this ocean ofblackness and clouds of white through which man might move, and mustever move, because he could live only upon this floating dust speckthat was Earth.     The picture faded in, close to one of the long, needle nosed crafts,showing inside, a man and a woman. Time was telescoped again while theman cut a tiny piece of scar tissue from his arm and that of thewoman, put them in bottles and set them into compartments wheresolutions dripped rhythmically into the bottles, the temperature washeld at that of the human body, and synthetic sunlight focused uponthem from many pencil like tubes.     The watchers in the council chamber saw the bits of tissue swell intohuman embryos in a few seconds, and grow arms and legs and faces andextend themselves into babies. Saw them taken from the bottles andcared for, and become replicas of the man and woman controlling theship, who, all this time were aging, until life went out of theirbodies. Then the ones who had been the scar tissue disintegrated themin the coffin-like tubes and let their dust be sucked out intospace—all this through millions of miles and a hundred years,compressed for the watchers into sixty seconds and a few feet ofspace.     Instantly there was black space on the screen again, with the fingersof flame pointing out behind the dark bodies of the ships.     And then the spectators saw one ship shudder and swerve into ablazing, bluish white star, like a gnat flying into a white hot poker;saw another drop away and away, out and out into the blackness pastthe swirling white rim of the galaxy, and sink into a darknothingness.     Great balls of rock showered like hail onto other ships, smashing theminto grotesque tin cans. The stream of fire at the tail of anothership suddenly died and the ship floated into an orbit around a great,yellow planet, ten times the size of Jupiter, then was sucked into it.Another burst like a bomb, flinging a man and woman out into thedarkness, where they hung suspended, frozen into statues, like bodiesdrowned in the depths of an Arctic sea.     At this instant from the watching council, there were screams ofhorror and voices crying out, Shut it off! Shut it off! There was amoving about in the darkness. Murmurs and harsh cries of disapprovalgrew in volume.     Another ship in the picture was split down the side by a meteor andthe bodies inside were impaled on jagged blades of steel, thecontorted, bloody faces lighted by bursts of flame. And the screamsand cries of the spectators rose higher, Shut it off.... Oh Lord....     Lights flashed through the room and the picture died.  Michael and Mary, both staring, saw, along the line of desks, theagonized faces, some staring like white stones, others hidden inclutching fingers, as though they had been confronted by a Medusa.There was the sound of heavy breathing that mixed with the throbbingof the pumps. The President held tightly to the edges of his desk toquiet his trembling.     There—there've been changes, he said, since you've been out inspace. There isn't a person on Earth who's seen a violent death forhundreds of years.     Michael faced him, frowning. I don't follow you.     Dying violently happened so seldom on Earth that, after a long time,the sight of it began to drive some people mad. And then one day a manwas struck by one of the ground cars and      everyone     who saw it wentinsane. Since then we've eliminated accidents, even the idea. Now, noone is aware that death by violence is even a possibility.     I'm sorry, said Michael, we've been so close to violent death forso long.... What you've seen is part of the proof you asked for.     What you showed us was a picture, said the President. If it hadbeen real, we'd all be insane by now. If it were shown to the peoplethere'd be mass hysteria.     But even if we'd found another habitable planet, getting to it wouldinvolve just what we've shown you. Maybe only a tenth of the peoplewho left Earth, or a hundredth, would ever reach a destination out inspace.     We couldn't tolerate such a possibility, said the Presidentgravely. We'd have to find a way around it.     The pumps throbbed like giant hearts all through the stillness in thecouncil chambers. The faces along the line of desks were smoothingout; the terror in them was fading away.     And yet the Earth is almost dead, said Michael quietly, and youcan't bring it back to life.     The sins of our past, Mr. Nelson, said the President. The Atomicwars five thousand years ago. And the greed. It was too late a longtime ago. That, of course, is why the expedition was sent out. And nowyou've come back to us with this terrible news. He looked around,slowly, then back to Michael. Can you give us any hope at all?     None.     Another expedition? To Andromeda perhaps? With you the leader?     Michael shook his head. We're finished with expeditions, Mr.President.     There were mutterings in the council, and hastily whisperedconsultations. Now they were watching the man and woman again.     We feel, said the President, it would be dangerous to allow you togo out among the people. They've been informed that your statementwasn't entirely true. This was necessary, to avoid a panic. The peoplesimply must not know the whole truth. He paused. Now we ask you tokeep in mind that whatever we decide about the two of you will be forthe good of the people.     Michael and Mary were silent.     You'll wait outside the council chambers, the President went on,until we have reached our decision.     As the man and woman were led away, the pumps beat in the stillness,and at the edge of the shrinking seas the salt thick waters were beingpulled into the distilleries, and from them into the tier upon tier ofartificial gardens that sat like giant bee hives all around theshoreline; and the mounds of salt glistening in the sunlight behindthe gardens were growing into mountains.  In their rooms, Michael and Mary were talking through the hours, andwaiting. All around them were fragile, form-fitting chairs andtranslucent walls and a ceiling that, holding the light of the sunwhen they had first seen it, was now filled with moonlight.     Standing at a circular window, ten feet in diameter, Michael saw, farbelow, the lights of the city extending into the darkness along theshoreline of the sea.     We should have delivered our message by radio, he said, and goneback into space.     You could probably still go, she said quietly.     He came and stood beside her. I couldn't stand being out in space, oranywhere, without you.     She looked up at him. We could go out into the wilderness, Michael,outside the force walls. We could go far away.     He turned from her. It's all dead. What would be the use?     I came from the Earth, she said quietly. And I've got to go back toit. Space is so cold and frightening. Steel walls and blackness andthe rockets and the little pinpoints of light. It's a prison.     But to die out there in the desert, in that dust. Then he paused andlooked away from her. We're crazy—talking as though we had achoice.     Maybe they'll have to      give     us a choice.     What're you talking about?     They went into hysterics at the sight of those bodies in the picture.Those young bodies that didn't die of old age.     He waited.     They can't stand the sight of people dying violently.     Her hand went to her throat and touched the tiny locket.     These lockets were given to us so we'd have a choice betweensuffering or quick painless death.... We still have a choice.     He touched the locket at his own throat and was very still for a longmoment. So we threaten to kill ourselves, before their eyes. Whatwould it do to them?     He was still for a long time. Sometimes, Mary, I think I don't knowyou at all. A pause. And so now you and I are back where we started.Which'll it be, space or Earth?     Michael. Her voice trembled. I—I don't know how to say this.     He waited, frowning, watching her intently.     I'm—going to have a child.     His face went blank.     Then he stepped forward and took her by the shoulders. He saw thesoftness there in her face; saw her eyes bright as though the sun wereshining in them; saw a flush in her cheeks, as though she had beenrunning. And suddenly his throat was full.     No, he said thickly. I can't believe it.     It's true.     He held her for a long time, then he turned his eyes aside.     Yes, I can see it is.     I—I can't put into words why I let it happen, Michael.     He shook his head. I don't know—what to—to say. It's soincredible.     Maybe—I got so—tired—just seeing the two of us over and over againand the culturing of the scar tissue, for twenty centuries. Maybe thatwas it. It was just—something I felt I      had     to do. Some—      real     lifeagain. Something new. I felt a need to produce something out ofmyself. It all started way out in space, while we were getting closeto the solar system. I began to wonder if we'd ever get out of theship alive or if we'd ever see a sunset again or a dawn or the nightor morning like we'd seen on Earth—so—so long ago. And then I      had     to let it happen. It was a vague and strange thing. There wassomething forcing me. But at the same time I wanted it, too. I seemedto be willing it, seemed to be feeling it was a necessary thing. Shepaused, frowning. I didn't stop to think—it would be like this.     Such a thing, he said, smiling grimly, hasn't happened on Earth forthree thousand years. I can remember in school, reading in the historybooks, how the whole Earth was overcrowded and how the food and waterhad to be rationed and then how the laws were passed forbidding birthand after that how the people died and there weren't any more babiesborn, until at last there was plenty of what the Earth had to give,for everyone. And then the news was broken to everyone about theculturing of the scar tissue, and there were a few dissenters but theywere soon conditioned out of their dissension and the population wasstabilized. He paused. After all this past history, I don't thinkthe council could endure what you've done.     No, she said quietly. I don't think they could.     And so this will be just for      us     . He took her in his arms. If Iremember rightly, this is a traditional action. A pause. Now I'll gowith you out onto the Earth—if we can swing it. When we get outsidethe city, or if we do—Well, we'll see.     They were very still together and then he turned and stood by thewindow and looked down upon the city and she came and stood besidehim.  They both saw it at the same time. And they watched, without speaking,both knowing what was in the other's mind and heart. They watched thegiant four dimensional screens all through the city. A green, lushplanet showed bright and clear on them and there were ships standingamong the trees and men walking through the grass, that moved gentlylike the swells on a calm ocean, while into their minds came thethoughts projected from the screen:     This will be your new home. It was found and then lost. But anotherexpedition will be sent out to find it again. Be of good hope.Everything will be all right.     Michael turned from the window. So there's our evidence. Two thousandyears. All the others killed getting it. And with a simple twist, itbecomes a lie.     Mary sat down and buried her face in her hands.     What a terrible failure there's been here, said Michael. Theneglect and destruction of a whole planet. It's like a family lettingtheir home decay all around them, and living in smaller and smallerrooms of it, until at last the rooms are all gone, and since theycan't find another home, they all die in the ruins of the last room.     I can't face dying, Mary said quietly, squeezed in with all thesepeople, in this tomb they've made around the seas. I want to have theopen sky and the quiet away from those awful pounding pumps when Idie. I want the spread of the Earth all around and the clean air. Iwant to be a real part of the Earth again.     Michael barely nodded in agreement. He was standing very still now.     And then there was the sound of the door opening.     They both rose, like mourners at a funeral, and went into the councilchambers.  Again they sat in the thick chairs before the wall of desks with thefaces of the council looking across it like defenders.     The pumps were beating, beating all through the room and the quiet.     The President was standing. He faced Michael and Mary, and seemed toset himself as though to deliver a blow, or to receive one.     Michael and Mary, he said, his voice struggling against a tightness,we've considered a long time concerning what is to be done with youand the report you brought back to us from the galaxy. He tookanother swallow of water. To protect the sanity of the people, we'vechanged your report. We've also decided that the people must beprotected from the possibility of your spreading the truth, as you didat the landing field. So, for the good of the people, you'll beisolated. All comforts will be given you. After all, in a sense, you      are     heroes and martyrs. Your scar tissue will be cultured as it hasbeen in the past, and you will stay in solitary confinement until thetime when, perhaps, we can migrate to another planet. We feel thathope must not be destroyed. And so another expedition is being sentout. It may be that, in time, on another planet, you'll be able totake your place in our society.     He paused. Is there anything you wish to say?     Yes, there is.     Proceed.     Michael stared straight at the President. After a long moment, heraised his hand to the tiny locket at his throat.     Perhaps you remember, he said, the lockets given to every member ofthe expedition the night before we left. I still have mine. He raisedit. So does my wife. They were designed to kill the wearer instantlyand painlessly if he were ever faced with pain or a terror he couldn'tendure.     The President was standing again. A stir ran along the barricade ofdesks.     We can't endure the city, went on Michael, or its life and the waysof the people. He glanced along the line of staring faces.     If what I think you're about to say is true, said the President in ashaking voice, it would have been better if you'd never been born.     Let's face facts, Mr. President. We were      born     and haven'tdied—yet. A pause. And we can kill ourselves right here before youreyes. It'd be painless to us. We'd be unconscious. But there would behorrible convulsions and grimaces. Our bodies would be twisted andtorn. They'd thresh about. The deaths you saw in the picture happeneda long time ago, in outer space. You all went into hysterics at thesight of them. Our deaths now would be close and terrible to see.     The President staggered as though about to faint. There was a stirringand muttering and a jumping up along the desks. Voices cried out, inanger and fear. Arms waved and fists pounded. Hands clasped andunclasped and clawed at collars, and there was a pell mell rushingaround the President. They yelled at each other and clasped each otherby the shoulders, turned away and back again, and then suddenly becamevery still.     Now they began to step down from the raised line of desks, thePresident leading them, and came close to the man and woman, gatheringaround them in a wide half circle.     Michael and Mary were holding the lockets close to their throats. Thehalf circle of people, with the President at its center was movingcloser and closer. They were sweaty faces and red ones and dry whiteones and hands were raised to seize them.     Michael put his arm around Mary's waist. He felt the trembling in herbody and the waiting for death.     Stop! he said quietly.     They halted, in slight confusion, barely drawing back.     If you want to see us die—just come a step closer.... And rememberwhat'll happen to you.     The faces began turning to each other and there was an undertone ofmuttering and whispering. A ghastly thing.... Instant.... Nothing todo.... Space's broken their minds.... They'll do it.... Eyes'remad.... What can we do?... What?... The sweaty faces, the cold whiteones, the flushed hot ones: all began to turn to the President, whowas staring at the two before him like a man watching himself die in amirror.     I command you, he suddenly said, in a choked voice, to—to give methose—lockets! It's your—duty!     We've only one duty, Mr. President, said Michael sharply. Toourselves.     You're sick. Give yourselves over to us. We'll help you.     We've made our choice. We want an answer. Quickly! Now!     The President's body sagged. What—what is it you want?     Michael threw the words. To go beyond the force fields of the city.To go far out onto the Earth and live as long as we can, and then todie a natural death.     The half circle of faces turned to each other and muttered andwhispered again. In the name of God.... Let them go.... Contaminateus.... Like animals.... Get them out of here....      Let     them befinished.... Best for us all.... And them....     There was a turning to the President again and hands thrusting himforward to within one step of Michael and Mary, who were standingthere close together, as though attached.     Haltingly he said, Go. Please go. Out onto the Earth—to die. You      will     die. The Earth is dead out there. You'll never see the city oryour people again.     We want a ground car, said Michael. And supplies.     A ground car, repeated the President. And—supplies.... Yes.     You can give us an escort, if you want to, out beyond the first rangeof mountains.     There will be no escort, said the President firmly. No one has beenallowed to go out upon the Earth or to fly above it for many hundredsof years. We know it's there. That's enough. We couldn't bear thesight of it. He took a step back. And we can't bear the sight of youany longer. Go now. Quickly!     Michael and Mary did not let go of the lockets as they watched thehalf circle of faces move backward, staring, as though at corpses thatshould sink to the floor.  It was night. The city had been lost beyond the dead mounds of Earththat rolled away behind them, like a thousand ancient tombs. Theground car sat still on a crumbling road.     Looking up through the car's driving blister, they saw the stars sunkinto the blue black ocean of space; saw the path of the Milky Wayalong which they had rushed, while they had been searching franticallyfor the place of salvation.     If any one of the other couples had made it back, said Mary, do youthink they'd be with us?     I think they'd either be with us, he said, or out in spaceagain—or in prison.     She stared ahead along the beam of headlight that stabbed out into thenight over the decaying road.     How sorry are you, she said quietly, coming with me?     All I know is, if I were out in space for long without you, I'd killmyself.     Are we going to die out here, Michael? she said, gesturing towardthe wall of night that stood at the end of the headlight, with theland?     He turned from her, frowning, and drove the ground car forward,watching the headlights push back the darkness.     They followed the crumbling highway all night until light crept acrossthe bald and cracked hills. The morning sun looked down upon thedesolation ten feet above the horizon when the car stopped. They satfor a long time then, looking out upon the Earth's parched andinflamed skin. In the distance a wall of mountains rose like a greatpile of bleached bones. Close ahead the rolling plains were motionlesswaves of dead Earth with a slight breeze stirring up little swirls ofdust.     I'm getting out, she said.     I haven't the slightest idea how much farther to go, or why, saidMichael shrugging. It's all the same. Dirt and hills and mountainsand sun and dust. It's really not much different from being out inspace. We live in the car just like in a space ship. We've enoughconcentrated supplies to last for a year. How far do we go? Why?When?     They stepped upon the Earth and felt the warmth of the sun andstrolled toward the top of the hill.     The air smells clean, he said.     The ground feels good. I think I'll take off my shoes. She did.Take off your boots, Michael. Try it.     Wearily he pulled off his boots, stood in his bare feet. It takes meback.     Yes, she said and began walking toward the hilltop.     He followed, his boots slung around his neck. There was a roadsomewhere, with the dust between my toes. Or was it a dream?     I guess when the past is old enough, she said, it becomes a dream.     He watched her footprints in the dust. God, listen to the quiet.     I can't seem to remember so much quiet around me. There's always beenthe sound of a space ship, or the pumps back in the cities.     He did not answer but continued to watch her footsteps and to feel thedust squishing up between his toes. Then suddenly:     Mary!     She stopped, whirling around.     He was staring down at her feet.     She followed his gaze.     It's grass! He bent down. Three blades.     She knelt beside him. They touched the green blades.     They're new, he said.     They stared, like religious devotees concentrating upon some sacredobject.     He rose, pulling her up with him. They hurried to the top of the hilland stood very still, looking down into a valley. There were tinypatches of green and little trees sprouting, and here and there, apale flower. The green was in a cluster, in the center of the valleyand there was a tiny glint of sunlight in its center.     Oh!     Her hand found his.     They ran down the gentle slope, feeling the patches of green touchtheir feet, smelling a new freshness in the air. And coming to thelittle spring, they stood beside it and watched the crystal water thattrickled along the valley floor and lost itself around a bend. Theysaw a furry, little animal scurry away and heard the twitter of a birdand saw it resting on a slim, bending branch. They heard the buzz of abee, saw it light on a pale flower at their feet and work at thesweetness inside.     Mary knelt down and drank from the spring.     It's so cool. It must come from deep down.     It does, he said. There were tears in his eyes and a tightness inhis throat. From deep down.     We can      live     here, Michael!     Slowly he looked all around until his sight stopped at the bottom of ahill. We'll build our house just beyond those rocks. We'll dig andplant and you'll have the child.     Yes! she said. Oh yes!     And the ones back in the city will know the Earth again. Sometimewe'll lead them back here and show them the Earth is coming alive. Hepaused. By following what we had to do for ourselves, we've found away to save them.     They remained kneeling in the silence beside the pool for a long time.They felt the sun on their backs and looked into the clean depth ofthe water deeply aware of the new life breathing all around them andof themselves absorbing it, and at the same time giving back to it thelife that was their own.     There was only this quiet and breathing and warmth until Michael stoodand picked up a rock and walked toward the base of the hill where hehad decided to build the house.     ... THE END   ","Michael and Mary were on a mission to find a habitable planet after the Atomic Wars decimated Earth, making it barely habitable. It was a long journey, and the two have been gone from Earth for a long time--they had undergone reincarnation for two thousand years. However, nobody else on the expedition made it--all of the children who were created through the culturing of scar tissue died in various ways, including ships suffering violent explosions and being struck by rocks in space. This meant that a thousand other people died, and Mary wanted to keep living for the sake of these people that perished on the mission. They returned to Earth on their ship called the Milky Way with the bad news that none of the planets they encountered would have been able to sustain human life, and even if they had found one, the journey there would have been so dangerous that a vast majority of the people who attempted to travel there would never have made it alive."
"Describe the President's communciations to the public and the reasoning behind his choices </s>    Transcriber's Note:     This etext was produced from IF Worlds of Science Fiction June 1954. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.         THE VALLEY       By Richard Stockham       Illustrated by Ed Emsh         If you can't find it countless millions of miles in space,come back to Earth. You might find it just on the other sideof the fence—where the grass is always greener.        The Ship dove into Earth's sea of atmosphere like a great, silverfish.     Inside the ship, a man and woman stood looking down at the expanse ofland that curved away to a growing horizon. They saw the yellow groundcracked like a dried skin; and the polished stone of the mountains andthe seas that were shrunken away in the dust. And they saw how thecity circled the sea, as a circle of men surround a water hole in adesert under a blazing sun.     The ship's radio cried out. You've made it! Thank God! You've madeit!     Another voice, shaking, said, President—Davis is—overwhelmed. Hecan't go on. On his behalf and on behalf of all the people—with ourhope that was almost dead, we greet you. A pause. Please come in!     The voice was silent. The air screamed against the hull of the ship.     I can't tell them, said the man.     Please come in! said the radio. Do you hear me?     The woman looked up at the man. You've got to Michael!     Two thousand years. From one end of the galaxy to the other. Not onegrain of dust we can live on. Just Earth. And it's burned to acinder.     A note of hysteria stabbed into the radio voice. Are you all right?Stand by! We're sending a rescue ship.     They've got a right to know what we've found, said the woman. Theysent us out. They've waited so long—.     He stared into space. It's hopeless. If we'd found another planetthey could live on, they'd do the same as they've done here.     He touched the tiny golden locket that hung around his neck. Rightnow, I could press this and scratch myself and the whole farce wouldbe over.     No. A thousand of us died. You've got to think of them.     We'll go back out into space, he said. It's clean out there. I'mtired. Two thousand years of reincarnation.     She spoke softly. We've been together for a long time. I've lovedyou. I've asked very little. But I need to stay on Earth. Please,Michael.     He looked at her for a moment. Then he flipped a switch. Milky Way toEarth. Never mind the rescue ship. We're all right. We're coming in.  The great, white ship settled to Earth that was like a plain afterflood waters have drained away.     The man and woman came out into the blazing sunlight.     A shout, like the crashing of a thousand surfs, rose and broke overthem. The man and woman descended the gang-plank toward the officialsgathered on the platform. They glanced around at the massed field ofwhite faces beneath them; saw those same faces that had been turnedtoward them two thousand years past; remembered the cheers and thecries that had crashed around them then, as they and the thousand hadstood before the towering spires of the ships, before the takeoff.     And, as then, there were no children among the milling, graspingthrong. Only the same clutching hands and voices and arms, asking foran answer, a salvation, a happy end.     Now the officials gathered around the man and the woman, and spoke tothem in voices of reverence.     A microphone was thrust into Michael's hand with the whisperedadmonition to tell the people of the great new life waiting for them,open and green and moist, on a virgin planet.     The cries of the people were slipping away and a stillness growinglike an ocean calm and, within it, the sound of the pumps, throbbing,sucking the water from the seas.     And then Michael's voice, The thousand who left with us are dead. Forsome time we've known the other planets in our solar system wereuninhabitable. Now we've been from one end of the galaxy to the other.And this is what we've found.... We were given Earth. There's no placeelse for us. The rest of the planets in the galaxy were given toothers. There's no place else for them. We've all had a chance to makethe best of Earth. Instead we've made the worst of it. So we're hereto stay—and die. He handed the microphone back.     The silence did not change.     The President grasped Michael's arm. What're you saying?     A buzzing rose up from the people like that of a swarm of frightenedbees. The sea of white faces swayed and their voices began to cry. Thedin and motion held, long and drawn out, with a wail now and afluttering beneath it.     Michael and the woman stood above them in the center of the pale,hovering faces of the officials.     Good God, said the President. You've got to tell them what you saidisn't true!     We've been searching two thousand years for a truth, said Michael.A thousand of us have died finding it. I've told it. That's the wayit's got to be.     The President swayed, took the microphone in his hands.     There's been some mistake! he cried. Go back to the pumps and thedistilleries! Go back to the water vats and the gardens and theflocks! Go back! Work and wait! We'll get the full truth to you.Everything's going to be      all right     !     Obediently the mass of faces separated, as though they were being spunaway on a whirling disk. Michael and the woman were swallowed up, likepebbles inside a closing hand, and carried away from the great, whiteship.  They ushered the man and woman into the beamed and paneled councilchambers and sat them in thick chairs before the wall of polished wooddesks across which stared the line of faces, silent and waiting. Andon a far wall, facing them all, hung a silver screen, fifty feetsquare.     The President stood. Members of the council. He paused. As youheard, they report—complete failure. He turned to Michael. And now,the proof.     Michael stood beside the motion picture projector, close to his chair.The lights dimmed. There was only the sound of the pumps throbbing inthe darkness close and far away, above and beneath and all around.Suddenly on the screen appeared an endless depth of blackness filledwith a mass of glowing white, which extended into the room around thewatching people, seeming to touch them and then spreading, like anocean, farther away and out and out into an endless distance.     Now streaks of yellow fire shot into the picture, like a swarm oflightning bugs, the thin sharp nosed shadows of space ships, hurtling,like comets, toward the clustered star smear. And then silent thoughtsflashed from the screen into the minds of the spectators; of timepassing in months, years and centuries, passing and passing until theythemselves seemed to be rushing and rushing into the blackness towardblinding balls of white light, the size of moons.     The dark shapes of smaller spheres circling the blinding ones movedforward into the picture; red, blue, green, yellow, purple and manymixtures of all these, and then one planet filled the screen, seemingto be inflated, like a balloon, into a shining red ball. There was arazor edge of horizon then and pink sky and an expanse of crimson.Flat, yellow creatures lay all around, expanding and contracting. Aroaring rose and fell like the roaring of a million winds. Then fearflowed out of the picture into the minds of the watchers so that theygasped and cringed, and a silent voice told them that the atmosphereof this planet would disintegrate a human being.     Now the red ball seemed to pull away from them into the blackness andthe blinding balls of light, and all around could be seen the streaksof rocket flame shooting away in all directions.     Suddenly a flash cut the blackness, like the flare of a match, anddied, and the watchers caught from the screen the awareness of thedeath of a ship.     They were also aware of the rushing of time through centuries and theysaw the streaking rocket flames and planets rushing at them; sawcreatures in squares and circles, in threads wriggling, in lumps andblobs, rolling jumping and crawling; saw them in cloud forms whiskingabout, changing their shapes, and in flowing wavelets of water. Theysaw creatures hopping about on one leg and others crawling atincredible speeds on a thousand; saw some with all the numbers of legsand arms in between; and were aware of creatures that were there butinvisible.     And those watching the screen on which time and distance were acompressed and distilled kaleidoscope, saw planet after planet andthousands at a time; heard strange noises; rasping and roaring, clinksand whistles, screams and crying, sighing and moaning. And they wereaware through all this of atmosphere and ground inimical to man, somethat would evaporate at the touch of a human body, or would burst intoflame, or swallow, or turn from liquid to solid or solid to liquid.They saw and heard chemical analyses, were aware of this ocean ofblackness and clouds of white through which man might move, and mustever move, because he could live only upon this floating dust speckthat was Earth.     The picture faded in, close to one of the long, needle nosed crafts,showing inside, a man and a woman. Time was telescoped again while theman cut a tiny piece of scar tissue from his arm and that of thewoman, put them in bottles and set them into compartments wheresolutions dripped rhythmically into the bottles, the temperature washeld at that of the human body, and synthetic sunlight focused uponthem from many pencil like tubes.     The watchers in the council chamber saw the bits of tissue swell intohuman embryos in a few seconds, and grow arms and legs and faces andextend themselves into babies. Saw them taken from the bottles andcared for, and become replicas of the man and woman controlling theship, who, all this time were aging, until life went out of theirbodies. Then the ones who had been the scar tissue disintegrated themin the coffin-like tubes and let their dust be sucked out intospace—all this through millions of miles and a hundred years,compressed for the watchers into sixty seconds and a few feet ofspace.     Instantly there was black space on the screen again, with the fingersof flame pointing out behind the dark bodies of the ships.     And then the spectators saw one ship shudder and swerve into ablazing, bluish white star, like a gnat flying into a white hot poker;saw another drop away and away, out and out into the blackness pastthe swirling white rim of the galaxy, and sink into a darknothingness.     Great balls of rock showered like hail onto other ships, smashing theminto grotesque tin cans. The stream of fire at the tail of anothership suddenly died and the ship floated into an orbit around a great,yellow planet, ten times the size of Jupiter, then was sucked into it.Another burst like a bomb, flinging a man and woman out into thedarkness, where they hung suspended, frozen into statues, like bodiesdrowned in the depths of an Arctic sea.     At this instant from the watching council, there were screams ofhorror and voices crying out, Shut it off! Shut it off! There was amoving about in the darkness. Murmurs and harsh cries of disapprovalgrew in volume.     Another ship in the picture was split down the side by a meteor andthe bodies inside were impaled on jagged blades of steel, thecontorted, bloody faces lighted by bursts of flame. And the screamsand cries of the spectators rose higher, Shut it off.... Oh Lord....     Lights flashed through the room and the picture died.  Michael and Mary, both staring, saw, along the line of desks, theagonized faces, some staring like white stones, others hidden inclutching fingers, as though they had been confronted by a Medusa.There was the sound of heavy breathing that mixed with the throbbingof the pumps. The President held tightly to the edges of his desk toquiet his trembling.     There—there've been changes, he said, since you've been out inspace. There isn't a person on Earth who's seen a violent death forhundreds of years.     Michael faced him, frowning. I don't follow you.     Dying violently happened so seldom on Earth that, after a long time,the sight of it began to drive some people mad. And then one day a manwas struck by one of the ground cars and      everyone     who saw it wentinsane. Since then we've eliminated accidents, even the idea. Now, noone is aware that death by violence is even a possibility.     I'm sorry, said Michael, we've been so close to violent death forso long.... What you've seen is part of the proof you asked for.     What you showed us was a picture, said the President. If it hadbeen real, we'd all be insane by now. If it were shown to the peoplethere'd be mass hysteria.     But even if we'd found another habitable planet, getting to it wouldinvolve just what we've shown you. Maybe only a tenth of the peoplewho left Earth, or a hundredth, would ever reach a destination out inspace.     We couldn't tolerate such a possibility, said the Presidentgravely. We'd have to find a way around it.     The pumps throbbed like giant hearts all through the stillness in thecouncil chambers. The faces along the line of desks were smoothingout; the terror in them was fading away.     And yet the Earth is almost dead, said Michael quietly, and youcan't bring it back to life.     The sins of our past, Mr. Nelson, said the President. The Atomicwars five thousand years ago. And the greed. It was too late a longtime ago. That, of course, is why the expedition was sent out. And nowyou've come back to us with this terrible news. He looked around,slowly, then back to Michael. Can you give us any hope at all?     None.     Another expedition? To Andromeda perhaps? With you the leader?     Michael shook his head. We're finished with expeditions, Mr.President.     There were mutterings in the council, and hastily whisperedconsultations. Now they were watching the man and woman again.     We feel, said the President, it would be dangerous to allow you togo out among the people. They've been informed that your statementwasn't entirely true. This was necessary, to avoid a panic. The peoplesimply must not know the whole truth. He paused. Now we ask you tokeep in mind that whatever we decide about the two of you will be forthe good of the people.     Michael and Mary were silent.     You'll wait outside the council chambers, the President went on,until we have reached our decision.     As the man and woman were led away, the pumps beat in the stillness,and at the edge of the shrinking seas the salt thick waters were beingpulled into the distilleries, and from them into the tier upon tier ofartificial gardens that sat like giant bee hives all around theshoreline; and the mounds of salt glistening in the sunlight behindthe gardens were growing into mountains.  In their rooms, Michael and Mary were talking through the hours, andwaiting. All around them were fragile, form-fitting chairs andtranslucent walls and a ceiling that, holding the light of the sunwhen they had first seen it, was now filled with moonlight.     Standing at a circular window, ten feet in diameter, Michael saw, farbelow, the lights of the city extending into the darkness along theshoreline of the sea.     We should have delivered our message by radio, he said, and goneback into space.     You could probably still go, she said quietly.     He came and stood beside her. I couldn't stand being out in space, oranywhere, without you.     She looked up at him. We could go out into the wilderness, Michael,outside the force walls. We could go far away.     He turned from her. It's all dead. What would be the use?     I came from the Earth, she said quietly. And I've got to go back toit. Space is so cold and frightening. Steel walls and blackness andthe rockets and the little pinpoints of light. It's a prison.     But to die out there in the desert, in that dust. Then he paused andlooked away from her. We're crazy—talking as though we had achoice.     Maybe they'll have to      give     us a choice.     What're you talking about?     They went into hysterics at the sight of those bodies in the picture.Those young bodies that didn't die of old age.     He waited.     They can't stand the sight of people dying violently.     Her hand went to her throat and touched the tiny locket.     These lockets were given to us so we'd have a choice betweensuffering or quick painless death.... We still have a choice.     He touched the locket at his own throat and was very still for a longmoment. So we threaten to kill ourselves, before their eyes. Whatwould it do to them?     He was still for a long time. Sometimes, Mary, I think I don't knowyou at all. A pause. And so now you and I are back where we started.Which'll it be, space or Earth?     Michael. Her voice trembled. I—I don't know how to say this.     He waited, frowning, watching her intently.     I'm—going to have a child.     His face went blank.     Then he stepped forward and took her by the shoulders. He saw thesoftness there in her face; saw her eyes bright as though the sun wereshining in them; saw a flush in her cheeks, as though she had beenrunning. And suddenly his throat was full.     No, he said thickly. I can't believe it.     It's true.     He held her for a long time, then he turned his eyes aside.     Yes, I can see it is.     I—I can't put into words why I let it happen, Michael.     He shook his head. I don't know—what to—to say. It's soincredible.     Maybe—I got so—tired—just seeing the two of us over and over againand the culturing of the scar tissue, for twenty centuries. Maybe thatwas it. It was just—something I felt I      had     to do. Some—      real     lifeagain. Something new. I felt a need to produce something out ofmyself. It all started way out in space, while we were getting closeto the solar system. I began to wonder if we'd ever get out of theship alive or if we'd ever see a sunset again or a dawn or the nightor morning like we'd seen on Earth—so—so long ago. And then I      had     to let it happen. It was a vague and strange thing. There wassomething forcing me. But at the same time I wanted it, too. I seemedto be willing it, seemed to be feeling it was a necessary thing. Shepaused, frowning. I didn't stop to think—it would be like this.     Such a thing, he said, smiling grimly, hasn't happened on Earth forthree thousand years. I can remember in school, reading in the historybooks, how the whole Earth was overcrowded and how the food and waterhad to be rationed and then how the laws were passed forbidding birthand after that how the people died and there weren't any more babiesborn, until at last there was plenty of what the Earth had to give,for everyone. And then the news was broken to everyone about theculturing of the scar tissue, and there were a few dissenters but theywere soon conditioned out of their dissension and the population wasstabilized. He paused. After all this past history, I don't thinkthe council could endure what you've done.     No, she said quietly. I don't think they could.     And so this will be just for      us     . He took her in his arms. If Iremember rightly, this is a traditional action. A pause. Now I'll gowith you out onto the Earth—if we can swing it. When we get outsidethe city, or if we do—Well, we'll see.     They were very still together and then he turned and stood by thewindow and looked down upon the city and she came and stood besidehim.  They both saw it at the same time. And they watched, without speaking,both knowing what was in the other's mind and heart. They watched thegiant four dimensional screens all through the city. A green, lushplanet showed bright and clear on them and there were ships standingamong the trees and men walking through the grass, that moved gentlylike the swells on a calm ocean, while into their minds came thethoughts projected from the screen:     This will be your new home. It was found and then lost. But anotherexpedition will be sent out to find it again. Be of good hope.Everything will be all right.     Michael turned from the window. So there's our evidence. Two thousandyears. All the others killed getting it. And with a simple twist, itbecomes a lie.     Mary sat down and buried her face in her hands.     What a terrible failure there's been here, said Michael. Theneglect and destruction of a whole planet. It's like a family lettingtheir home decay all around them, and living in smaller and smallerrooms of it, until at last the rooms are all gone, and since theycan't find another home, they all die in the ruins of the last room.     I can't face dying, Mary said quietly, squeezed in with all thesepeople, in this tomb they've made around the seas. I want to have theopen sky and the quiet away from those awful pounding pumps when Idie. I want the spread of the Earth all around and the clean air. Iwant to be a real part of the Earth again.     Michael barely nodded in agreement. He was standing very still now.     And then there was the sound of the door opening.     They both rose, like mourners at a funeral, and went into the councilchambers.  Again they sat in the thick chairs before the wall of desks with thefaces of the council looking across it like defenders.     The pumps were beating, beating all through the room and the quiet.     The President was standing. He faced Michael and Mary, and seemed toset himself as though to deliver a blow, or to receive one.     Michael and Mary, he said, his voice struggling against a tightness,we've considered a long time concerning what is to be done with youand the report you brought back to us from the galaxy. He tookanother swallow of water. To protect the sanity of the people, we'vechanged your report. We've also decided that the people must beprotected from the possibility of your spreading the truth, as you didat the landing field. So, for the good of the people, you'll beisolated. All comforts will be given you. After all, in a sense, you      are     heroes and martyrs. Your scar tissue will be cultured as it hasbeen in the past, and you will stay in solitary confinement until thetime when, perhaps, we can migrate to another planet. We feel thathope must not be destroyed. And so another expedition is being sentout. It may be that, in time, on another planet, you'll be able totake your place in our society.     He paused. Is there anything you wish to say?     Yes, there is.     Proceed.     Michael stared straight at the President. After a long moment, heraised his hand to the tiny locket at his throat.     Perhaps you remember, he said, the lockets given to every member ofthe expedition the night before we left. I still have mine. He raisedit. So does my wife. They were designed to kill the wearer instantlyand painlessly if he were ever faced with pain or a terror he couldn'tendure.     The President was standing again. A stir ran along the barricade ofdesks.     We can't endure the city, went on Michael, or its life and the waysof the people. He glanced along the line of staring faces.     If what I think you're about to say is true, said the President in ashaking voice, it would have been better if you'd never been born.     Let's face facts, Mr. President. We were      born     and haven'tdied—yet. A pause. And we can kill ourselves right here before youreyes. It'd be painless to us. We'd be unconscious. But there would behorrible convulsions and grimaces. Our bodies would be twisted andtorn. They'd thresh about. The deaths you saw in the picture happeneda long time ago, in outer space. You all went into hysterics at thesight of them. Our deaths now would be close and terrible to see.     The President staggered as though about to faint. There was a stirringand muttering and a jumping up along the desks. Voices cried out, inanger and fear. Arms waved and fists pounded. Hands clasped andunclasped and clawed at collars, and there was a pell mell rushingaround the President. They yelled at each other and clasped each otherby the shoulders, turned away and back again, and then suddenly becamevery still.     Now they began to step down from the raised line of desks, thePresident leading them, and came close to the man and woman, gatheringaround them in a wide half circle.     Michael and Mary were holding the lockets close to their throats. Thehalf circle of people, with the President at its center was movingcloser and closer. They were sweaty faces and red ones and dry whiteones and hands were raised to seize them.     Michael put his arm around Mary's waist. He felt the trembling in herbody and the waiting for death.     Stop! he said quietly.     They halted, in slight confusion, barely drawing back.     If you want to see us die—just come a step closer.... And rememberwhat'll happen to you.     The faces began turning to each other and there was an undertone ofmuttering and whispering. A ghastly thing.... Instant.... Nothing todo.... Space's broken their minds.... They'll do it.... Eyes'remad.... What can we do?... What?... The sweaty faces, the cold whiteones, the flushed hot ones: all began to turn to the President, whowas staring at the two before him like a man watching himself die in amirror.     I command you, he suddenly said, in a choked voice, to—to give methose—lockets! It's your—duty!     We've only one duty, Mr. President, said Michael sharply. Toourselves.     You're sick. Give yourselves over to us. We'll help you.     We've made our choice. We want an answer. Quickly! Now!     The President's body sagged. What—what is it you want?     Michael threw the words. To go beyond the force fields of the city.To go far out onto the Earth and live as long as we can, and then todie a natural death.     The half circle of faces turned to each other and muttered andwhispered again. In the name of God.... Let them go.... Contaminateus.... Like animals.... Get them out of here....      Let     them befinished.... Best for us all.... And them....     There was a turning to the President again and hands thrusting himforward to within one step of Michael and Mary, who were standingthere close together, as though attached.     Haltingly he said, Go. Please go. Out onto the Earth—to die. You      will     die. The Earth is dead out there. You'll never see the city oryour people again.     We want a ground car, said Michael. And supplies.     A ground car, repeated the President. And—supplies.... Yes.     You can give us an escort, if you want to, out beyond the first rangeof mountains.     There will be no escort, said the President firmly. No one has beenallowed to go out upon the Earth or to fly above it for many hundredsof years. We know it's there. That's enough. We couldn't bear thesight of it. He took a step back. And we can't bear the sight of youany longer. Go now. Quickly!     Michael and Mary did not let go of the lockets as they watched thehalf circle of faces move backward, staring, as though at corpses thatshould sink to the floor.  It was night. The city had been lost beyond the dead mounds of Earththat rolled away behind them, like a thousand ancient tombs. Theground car sat still on a crumbling road.     Looking up through the car's driving blister, they saw the stars sunkinto the blue black ocean of space; saw the path of the Milky Wayalong which they had rushed, while they had been searching franticallyfor the place of salvation.     If any one of the other couples had made it back, said Mary, do youthink they'd be with us?     I think they'd either be with us, he said, or out in spaceagain—or in prison.     She stared ahead along the beam of headlight that stabbed out into thenight over the decaying road.     How sorry are you, she said quietly, coming with me?     All I know is, if I were out in space for long without you, I'd killmyself.     Are we going to die out here, Michael? she said, gesturing towardthe wall of night that stood at the end of the headlight, with theland?     He turned from her, frowning, and drove the ground car forward,watching the headlights push back the darkness.     They followed the crumbling highway all night until light crept acrossthe bald and cracked hills. The morning sun looked down upon thedesolation ten feet above the horizon when the car stopped. They satfor a long time then, looking out upon the Earth's parched andinflamed skin. In the distance a wall of mountains rose like a greatpile of bleached bones. Close ahead the rolling plains were motionlesswaves of dead Earth with a slight breeze stirring up little swirls ofdust.     I'm getting out, she said.     I haven't the slightest idea how much farther to go, or why, saidMichael shrugging. It's all the same. Dirt and hills and mountainsand sun and dust. It's really not much different from being out inspace. We live in the car just like in a space ship. We've enoughconcentrated supplies to last for a year. How far do we go? Why?When?     They stepped upon the Earth and felt the warmth of the sun andstrolled toward the top of the hill.     The air smells clean, he said.     The ground feels good. I think I'll take off my shoes. She did.Take off your boots, Michael. Try it.     Wearily he pulled off his boots, stood in his bare feet. It takes meback.     Yes, she said and began walking toward the hilltop.     He followed, his boots slung around his neck. There was a roadsomewhere, with the dust between my toes. Or was it a dream?     I guess when the past is old enough, she said, it becomes a dream.     He watched her footprints in the dust. God, listen to the quiet.     I can't seem to remember so much quiet around me. There's always beenthe sound of a space ship, or the pumps back in the cities.     He did not answer but continued to watch her footsteps and to feel thedust squishing up between his toes. Then suddenly:     Mary!     She stopped, whirling around.     He was staring down at her feet.     She followed his gaze.     It's grass! He bent down. Three blades.     She knelt beside him. They touched the green blades.     They're new, he said.     They stared, like religious devotees concentrating upon some sacredobject.     He rose, pulling her up with him. They hurried to the top of the hilland stood very still, looking down into a valley. There were tinypatches of green and little trees sprouting, and here and there, apale flower. The green was in a cluster, in the center of the valleyand there was a tiny glint of sunlight in its center.     Oh!     Her hand found his.     They ran down the gentle slope, feeling the patches of green touchtheir feet, smelling a new freshness in the air. And coming to thelittle spring, they stood beside it and watched the crystal water thattrickled along the valley floor and lost itself around a bend. Theysaw a furry, little animal scurry away and heard the twitter of a birdand saw it resting on a slim, bending branch. They heard the buzz of abee, saw it light on a pale flower at their feet and work at thesweetness inside.     Mary knelt down and drank from the spring.     It's so cool. It must come from deep down.     It does, he said. There were tears in his eyes and a tightness inhis throat. From deep down.     We can      live     here, Michael!     Slowly he looked all around until his sight stopped at the bottom of ahill. We'll build our house just beyond those rocks. We'll dig andplant and you'll have the child.     Yes! she said. Oh yes!     And the ones back in the city will know the Earth again. Sometimewe'll lead them back here and show them the Earth is coming alive. Hepaused. By following what we had to do for ourselves, we've found away to save them.     They remained kneeling in the silence beside the pool for a long time.They felt the sun on their backs and looked into the clean depth ofthe water deeply aware of the new life breathing all around them andof themselves absorbing it, and at the same time giving back to it thelife that was their own.     There was only this quiet and breathing and warmth until Michael stoodand picked up a rock and walked toward the base of the hill where hehad decided to build the house.     ... THE END   ","In the earth of the future that is at the center of this story, the society has managed to reduce accidents so much that violent deaths do not happen. This happened because some people reacted with hysterics to witnessing death of this type, so efforts were made to avoid the issue entirely, which had been successful for the past few hundred years. President Davis did not want the public to hear any more details about the expedition after Michael and Mary first addressed everyone. He says that the only reason the public has not lost all sense after seeing some of the footage from the expedition is that it was visual media and stories, but not something people witnessed first-hand for themselves. However, he does not want to expose the people to the violent deaths that the people on the expedition suffered, so he claims that Michael and Mary did not tell the truth, in an effort to save face. The President considers this type of lying to be for the good of the people, who cannot handle the reality of the expedition. He also does not think that the people could handle the loss of hope for another planet to live on, which is why he plays the ad campaigns for a new expediton in a different solar system that aims to eventually find (or rediscover, in his words) another planet for humans to inhabit, perhaps in Andromeda. In this way, the President thinks it is better for his people to have false hope instead of no hope at all. The reader sees the irony in this at the end of the story when Michael and Mary find the patch of life that has started to re-establish itself outside of the boundaries of the city they ventured from. "
"What is the role of the lockets in the story and how do they connect to the various societies </s>    Transcriber's Note:     This etext was produced from IF Worlds of Science Fiction June 1954. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.         THE VALLEY       By Richard Stockham       Illustrated by Ed Emsh         If you can't find it countless millions of miles in space,come back to Earth. You might find it just on the other sideof the fence—where the grass is always greener.        The Ship dove into Earth's sea of atmosphere like a great, silverfish.     Inside the ship, a man and woman stood looking down at the expanse ofland that curved away to a growing horizon. They saw the yellow groundcracked like a dried skin; and the polished stone of the mountains andthe seas that were shrunken away in the dust. And they saw how thecity circled the sea, as a circle of men surround a water hole in adesert under a blazing sun.     The ship's radio cried out. You've made it! Thank God! You've madeit!     Another voice, shaking, said, President—Davis is—overwhelmed. Hecan't go on. On his behalf and on behalf of all the people—with ourhope that was almost dead, we greet you. A pause. Please come in!     The voice was silent. The air screamed against the hull of the ship.     I can't tell them, said the man.     Please come in! said the radio. Do you hear me?     The woman looked up at the man. You've got to Michael!     Two thousand years. From one end of the galaxy to the other. Not onegrain of dust we can live on. Just Earth. And it's burned to acinder.     A note of hysteria stabbed into the radio voice. Are you all right?Stand by! We're sending a rescue ship.     They've got a right to know what we've found, said the woman. Theysent us out. They've waited so long—.     He stared into space. It's hopeless. If we'd found another planetthey could live on, they'd do the same as they've done here.     He touched the tiny golden locket that hung around his neck. Rightnow, I could press this and scratch myself and the whole farce wouldbe over.     No. A thousand of us died. You've got to think of them.     We'll go back out into space, he said. It's clean out there. I'mtired. Two thousand years of reincarnation.     She spoke softly. We've been together for a long time. I've lovedyou. I've asked very little. But I need to stay on Earth. Please,Michael.     He looked at her for a moment. Then he flipped a switch. Milky Way toEarth. Never mind the rescue ship. We're all right. We're coming in.  The great, white ship settled to Earth that was like a plain afterflood waters have drained away.     The man and woman came out into the blazing sunlight.     A shout, like the crashing of a thousand surfs, rose and broke overthem. The man and woman descended the gang-plank toward the officialsgathered on the platform. They glanced around at the massed field ofwhite faces beneath them; saw those same faces that had been turnedtoward them two thousand years past; remembered the cheers and thecries that had crashed around them then, as they and the thousand hadstood before the towering spires of the ships, before the takeoff.     And, as then, there were no children among the milling, graspingthrong. Only the same clutching hands and voices and arms, asking foran answer, a salvation, a happy end.     Now the officials gathered around the man and the woman, and spoke tothem in voices of reverence.     A microphone was thrust into Michael's hand with the whisperedadmonition to tell the people of the great new life waiting for them,open and green and moist, on a virgin planet.     The cries of the people were slipping away and a stillness growinglike an ocean calm and, within it, the sound of the pumps, throbbing,sucking the water from the seas.     And then Michael's voice, The thousand who left with us are dead. Forsome time we've known the other planets in our solar system wereuninhabitable. Now we've been from one end of the galaxy to the other.And this is what we've found.... We were given Earth. There's no placeelse for us. The rest of the planets in the galaxy were given toothers. There's no place else for them. We've all had a chance to makethe best of Earth. Instead we've made the worst of it. So we're hereto stay—and die. He handed the microphone back.     The silence did not change.     The President grasped Michael's arm. What're you saying?     A buzzing rose up from the people like that of a swarm of frightenedbees. The sea of white faces swayed and their voices began to cry. Thedin and motion held, long and drawn out, with a wail now and afluttering beneath it.     Michael and the woman stood above them in the center of the pale,hovering faces of the officials.     Good God, said the President. You've got to tell them what you saidisn't true!     We've been searching two thousand years for a truth, said Michael.A thousand of us have died finding it. I've told it. That's the wayit's got to be.     The President swayed, took the microphone in his hands.     There's been some mistake! he cried. Go back to the pumps and thedistilleries! Go back to the water vats and the gardens and theflocks! Go back! Work and wait! We'll get the full truth to you.Everything's going to be      all right     !     Obediently the mass of faces separated, as though they were being spunaway on a whirling disk. Michael and the woman were swallowed up, likepebbles inside a closing hand, and carried away from the great, whiteship.  They ushered the man and woman into the beamed and paneled councilchambers and sat them in thick chairs before the wall of polished wooddesks across which stared the line of faces, silent and waiting. Andon a far wall, facing them all, hung a silver screen, fifty feetsquare.     The President stood. Members of the council. He paused. As youheard, they report—complete failure. He turned to Michael. And now,the proof.     Michael stood beside the motion picture projector, close to his chair.The lights dimmed. There was only the sound of the pumps throbbing inthe darkness close and far away, above and beneath and all around.Suddenly on the screen appeared an endless depth of blackness filledwith a mass of glowing white, which extended into the room around thewatching people, seeming to touch them and then spreading, like anocean, farther away and out and out into an endless distance.     Now streaks of yellow fire shot into the picture, like a swarm oflightning bugs, the thin sharp nosed shadows of space ships, hurtling,like comets, toward the clustered star smear. And then silent thoughtsflashed from the screen into the minds of the spectators; of timepassing in months, years and centuries, passing and passing until theythemselves seemed to be rushing and rushing into the blackness towardblinding balls of white light, the size of moons.     The dark shapes of smaller spheres circling the blinding ones movedforward into the picture; red, blue, green, yellow, purple and manymixtures of all these, and then one planet filled the screen, seemingto be inflated, like a balloon, into a shining red ball. There was arazor edge of horizon then and pink sky and an expanse of crimson.Flat, yellow creatures lay all around, expanding and contracting. Aroaring rose and fell like the roaring of a million winds. Then fearflowed out of the picture into the minds of the watchers so that theygasped and cringed, and a silent voice told them that the atmosphereof this planet would disintegrate a human being.     Now the red ball seemed to pull away from them into the blackness andthe blinding balls of light, and all around could be seen the streaksof rocket flame shooting away in all directions.     Suddenly a flash cut the blackness, like the flare of a match, anddied, and the watchers caught from the screen the awareness of thedeath of a ship.     They were also aware of the rushing of time through centuries and theysaw the streaking rocket flames and planets rushing at them; sawcreatures in squares and circles, in threads wriggling, in lumps andblobs, rolling jumping and crawling; saw them in cloud forms whiskingabout, changing their shapes, and in flowing wavelets of water. Theysaw creatures hopping about on one leg and others crawling atincredible speeds on a thousand; saw some with all the numbers of legsand arms in between; and were aware of creatures that were there butinvisible.     And those watching the screen on which time and distance were acompressed and distilled kaleidoscope, saw planet after planet andthousands at a time; heard strange noises; rasping and roaring, clinksand whistles, screams and crying, sighing and moaning. And they wereaware through all this of atmosphere and ground inimical to man, somethat would evaporate at the touch of a human body, or would burst intoflame, or swallow, or turn from liquid to solid or solid to liquid.They saw and heard chemical analyses, were aware of this ocean ofblackness and clouds of white through which man might move, and mustever move, because he could live only upon this floating dust speckthat was Earth.     The picture faded in, close to one of the long, needle nosed crafts,showing inside, a man and a woman. Time was telescoped again while theman cut a tiny piece of scar tissue from his arm and that of thewoman, put them in bottles and set them into compartments wheresolutions dripped rhythmically into the bottles, the temperature washeld at that of the human body, and synthetic sunlight focused uponthem from many pencil like tubes.     The watchers in the council chamber saw the bits of tissue swell intohuman embryos in a few seconds, and grow arms and legs and faces andextend themselves into babies. Saw them taken from the bottles andcared for, and become replicas of the man and woman controlling theship, who, all this time were aging, until life went out of theirbodies. Then the ones who had been the scar tissue disintegrated themin the coffin-like tubes and let their dust be sucked out intospace—all this through millions of miles and a hundred years,compressed for the watchers into sixty seconds and a few feet ofspace.     Instantly there was black space on the screen again, with the fingersof flame pointing out behind the dark bodies of the ships.     And then the spectators saw one ship shudder and swerve into ablazing, bluish white star, like a gnat flying into a white hot poker;saw another drop away and away, out and out into the blackness pastthe swirling white rim of the galaxy, and sink into a darknothingness.     Great balls of rock showered like hail onto other ships, smashing theminto grotesque tin cans. The stream of fire at the tail of anothership suddenly died and the ship floated into an orbit around a great,yellow planet, ten times the size of Jupiter, then was sucked into it.Another burst like a bomb, flinging a man and woman out into thedarkness, where they hung suspended, frozen into statues, like bodiesdrowned in the depths of an Arctic sea.     At this instant from the watching council, there were screams ofhorror and voices crying out, Shut it off! Shut it off! There was amoving about in the darkness. Murmurs and harsh cries of disapprovalgrew in volume.     Another ship in the picture was split down the side by a meteor andthe bodies inside were impaled on jagged blades of steel, thecontorted, bloody faces lighted by bursts of flame. And the screamsand cries of the spectators rose higher, Shut it off.... Oh Lord....     Lights flashed through the room and the picture died.  Michael and Mary, both staring, saw, along the line of desks, theagonized faces, some staring like white stones, others hidden inclutching fingers, as though they had been confronted by a Medusa.There was the sound of heavy breathing that mixed with the throbbingof the pumps. The President held tightly to the edges of his desk toquiet his trembling.     There—there've been changes, he said, since you've been out inspace. There isn't a person on Earth who's seen a violent death forhundreds of years.     Michael faced him, frowning. I don't follow you.     Dying violently happened so seldom on Earth that, after a long time,the sight of it began to drive some people mad. And then one day a manwas struck by one of the ground cars and      everyone     who saw it wentinsane. Since then we've eliminated accidents, even the idea. Now, noone is aware that death by violence is even a possibility.     I'm sorry, said Michael, we've been so close to violent death forso long.... What you've seen is part of the proof you asked for.     What you showed us was a picture, said the President. If it hadbeen real, we'd all be insane by now. If it were shown to the peoplethere'd be mass hysteria.     But even if we'd found another habitable planet, getting to it wouldinvolve just what we've shown you. Maybe only a tenth of the peoplewho left Earth, or a hundredth, would ever reach a destination out inspace.     We couldn't tolerate such a possibility, said the Presidentgravely. We'd have to find a way around it.     The pumps throbbed like giant hearts all through the stillness in thecouncil chambers. The faces along the line of desks were smoothingout; the terror in them was fading away.     And yet the Earth is almost dead, said Michael quietly, and youcan't bring it back to life.     The sins of our past, Mr. Nelson, said the President. The Atomicwars five thousand years ago. And the greed. It was too late a longtime ago. That, of course, is why the expedition was sent out. And nowyou've come back to us with this terrible news. He looked around,slowly, then back to Michael. Can you give us any hope at all?     None.     Another expedition? To Andromeda perhaps? With you the leader?     Michael shook his head. We're finished with expeditions, Mr.President.     There were mutterings in the council, and hastily whisperedconsultations. Now they were watching the man and woman again.     We feel, said the President, it would be dangerous to allow you togo out among the people. They've been informed that your statementwasn't entirely true. This was necessary, to avoid a panic. The peoplesimply must not know the whole truth. He paused. Now we ask you tokeep in mind that whatever we decide about the two of you will be forthe good of the people.     Michael and Mary were silent.     You'll wait outside the council chambers, the President went on,until we have reached our decision.     As the man and woman were led away, the pumps beat in the stillness,and at the edge of the shrinking seas the salt thick waters were beingpulled into the distilleries, and from them into the tier upon tier ofartificial gardens that sat like giant bee hives all around theshoreline; and the mounds of salt glistening in the sunlight behindthe gardens were growing into mountains.  In their rooms, Michael and Mary were talking through the hours, andwaiting. All around them were fragile, form-fitting chairs andtranslucent walls and a ceiling that, holding the light of the sunwhen they had first seen it, was now filled with moonlight.     Standing at a circular window, ten feet in diameter, Michael saw, farbelow, the lights of the city extending into the darkness along theshoreline of the sea.     We should have delivered our message by radio, he said, and goneback into space.     You could probably still go, she said quietly.     He came and stood beside her. I couldn't stand being out in space, oranywhere, without you.     She looked up at him. We could go out into the wilderness, Michael,outside the force walls. We could go far away.     He turned from her. It's all dead. What would be the use?     I came from the Earth, she said quietly. And I've got to go back toit. Space is so cold and frightening. Steel walls and blackness andthe rockets and the little pinpoints of light. It's a prison.     But to die out there in the desert, in that dust. Then he paused andlooked away from her. We're crazy—talking as though we had achoice.     Maybe they'll have to      give     us a choice.     What're you talking about?     They went into hysterics at the sight of those bodies in the picture.Those young bodies that didn't die of old age.     He waited.     They can't stand the sight of people dying violently.     Her hand went to her throat and touched the tiny locket.     These lockets were given to us so we'd have a choice betweensuffering or quick painless death.... We still have a choice.     He touched the locket at his own throat and was very still for a longmoment. So we threaten to kill ourselves, before their eyes. Whatwould it do to them?     He was still for a long time. Sometimes, Mary, I think I don't knowyou at all. A pause. And so now you and I are back where we started.Which'll it be, space or Earth?     Michael. Her voice trembled. I—I don't know how to say this.     He waited, frowning, watching her intently.     I'm—going to have a child.     His face went blank.     Then he stepped forward and took her by the shoulders. He saw thesoftness there in her face; saw her eyes bright as though the sun wereshining in them; saw a flush in her cheeks, as though she had beenrunning. And suddenly his throat was full.     No, he said thickly. I can't believe it.     It's true.     He held her for a long time, then he turned his eyes aside.     Yes, I can see it is.     I—I can't put into words why I let it happen, Michael.     He shook his head. I don't know—what to—to say. It's soincredible.     Maybe—I got so—tired—just seeing the two of us over and over againand the culturing of the scar tissue, for twenty centuries. Maybe thatwas it. It was just—something I felt I      had     to do. Some—      real     lifeagain. Something new. I felt a need to produce something out ofmyself. It all started way out in space, while we were getting closeto the solar system. I began to wonder if we'd ever get out of theship alive or if we'd ever see a sunset again or a dawn or the nightor morning like we'd seen on Earth—so—so long ago. And then I      had     to let it happen. It was a vague and strange thing. There wassomething forcing me. But at the same time I wanted it, too. I seemedto be willing it, seemed to be feeling it was a necessary thing. Shepaused, frowning. I didn't stop to think—it would be like this.     Such a thing, he said, smiling grimly, hasn't happened on Earth forthree thousand years. I can remember in school, reading in the historybooks, how the whole Earth was overcrowded and how the food and waterhad to be rationed and then how the laws were passed forbidding birthand after that how the people died and there weren't any more babiesborn, until at last there was plenty of what the Earth had to give,for everyone. And then the news was broken to everyone about theculturing of the scar tissue, and there were a few dissenters but theywere soon conditioned out of their dissension and the population wasstabilized. He paused. After all this past history, I don't thinkthe council could endure what you've done.     No, she said quietly. I don't think they could.     And so this will be just for      us     . He took her in his arms. If Iremember rightly, this is a traditional action. A pause. Now I'll gowith you out onto the Earth—if we can swing it. When we get outsidethe city, or if we do—Well, we'll see.     They were very still together and then he turned and stood by thewindow and looked down upon the city and she came and stood besidehim.  They both saw it at the same time. And they watched, without speaking,both knowing what was in the other's mind and heart. They watched thegiant four dimensional screens all through the city. A green, lushplanet showed bright and clear on them and there were ships standingamong the trees and men walking through the grass, that moved gentlylike the swells on a calm ocean, while into their minds came thethoughts projected from the screen:     This will be your new home. It was found and then lost. But anotherexpedition will be sent out to find it again. Be of good hope.Everything will be all right.     Michael turned from the window. So there's our evidence. Two thousandyears. All the others killed getting it. And with a simple twist, itbecomes a lie.     Mary sat down and buried her face in her hands.     What a terrible failure there's been here, said Michael. Theneglect and destruction of a whole planet. It's like a family lettingtheir home decay all around them, and living in smaller and smallerrooms of it, until at last the rooms are all gone, and since theycan't find another home, they all die in the ruins of the last room.     I can't face dying, Mary said quietly, squeezed in with all thesepeople, in this tomb they've made around the seas. I want to have theopen sky and the quiet away from those awful pounding pumps when Idie. I want the spread of the Earth all around and the clean air. Iwant to be a real part of the Earth again.     Michael barely nodded in agreement. He was standing very still now.     And then there was the sound of the door opening.     They both rose, like mourners at a funeral, and went into the councilchambers.  Again they sat in the thick chairs before the wall of desks with thefaces of the council looking across it like defenders.     The pumps were beating, beating all through the room and the quiet.     The President was standing. He faced Michael and Mary, and seemed toset himself as though to deliver a blow, or to receive one.     Michael and Mary, he said, his voice struggling against a tightness,we've considered a long time concerning what is to be done with youand the report you brought back to us from the galaxy. He tookanother swallow of water. To protect the sanity of the people, we'vechanged your report. We've also decided that the people must beprotected from the possibility of your spreading the truth, as you didat the landing field. So, for the good of the people, you'll beisolated. All comforts will be given you. After all, in a sense, you      are     heroes and martyrs. Your scar tissue will be cultured as it hasbeen in the past, and you will stay in solitary confinement until thetime when, perhaps, we can migrate to another planet. We feel thathope must not be destroyed. And so another expedition is being sentout. It may be that, in time, on another planet, you'll be able totake your place in our society.     He paused. Is there anything you wish to say?     Yes, there is.     Proceed.     Michael stared straight at the President. After a long moment, heraised his hand to the tiny locket at his throat.     Perhaps you remember, he said, the lockets given to every member ofthe expedition the night before we left. I still have mine. He raisedit. So does my wife. They were designed to kill the wearer instantlyand painlessly if he were ever faced with pain or a terror he couldn'tendure.     The President was standing again. A stir ran along the barricade ofdesks.     We can't endure the city, went on Michael, or its life and the waysof the people. He glanced along the line of staring faces.     If what I think you're about to say is true, said the President in ashaking voice, it would have been better if you'd never been born.     Let's face facts, Mr. President. We were      born     and haven'tdied—yet. A pause. And we can kill ourselves right here before youreyes. It'd be painless to us. We'd be unconscious. But there would behorrible convulsions and grimaces. Our bodies would be twisted andtorn. They'd thresh about. The deaths you saw in the picture happeneda long time ago, in outer space. You all went into hysterics at thesight of them. Our deaths now would be close and terrible to see.     The President staggered as though about to faint. There was a stirringand muttering and a jumping up along the desks. Voices cried out, inanger and fear. Arms waved and fists pounded. Hands clasped andunclasped and clawed at collars, and there was a pell mell rushingaround the President. They yelled at each other and clasped each otherby the shoulders, turned away and back again, and then suddenly becamevery still.     Now they began to step down from the raised line of desks, thePresident leading them, and came close to the man and woman, gatheringaround them in a wide half circle.     Michael and Mary were holding the lockets close to their throats. Thehalf circle of people, with the President at its center was movingcloser and closer. They were sweaty faces and red ones and dry whiteones and hands were raised to seize them.     Michael put his arm around Mary's waist. He felt the trembling in herbody and the waiting for death.     Stop! he said quietly.     They halted, in slight confusion, barely drawing back.     If you want to see us die—just come a step closer.... And rememberwhat'll happen to you.     The faces began turning to each other and there was an undertone ofmuttering and whispering. A ghastly thing.... Instant.... Nothing todo.... Space's broken their minds.... They'll do it.... Eyes'remad.... What can we do?... What?... The sweaty faces, the cold whiteones, the flushed hot ones: all began to turn to the President, whowas staring at the two before him like a man watching himself die in amirror.     I command you, he suddenly said, in a choked voice, to—to give methose—lockets! It's your—duty!     We've only one duty, Mr. President, said Michael sharply. Toourselves.     You're sick. Give yourselves over to us. We'll help you.     We've made our choice. We want an answer. Quickly! Now!     The President's body sagged. What—what is it you want?     Michael threw the words. To go beyond the force fields of the city.To go far out onto the Earth and live as long as we can, and then todie a natural death.     The half circle of faces turned to each other and muttered andwhispered again. In the name of God.... Let them go.... Contaminateus.... Like animals.... Get them out of here....      Let     them befinished.... Best for us all.... And them....     There was a turning to the President again and hands thrusting himforward to within one step of Michael and Mary, who were standingthere close together, as though attached.     Haltingly he said, Go. Please go. Out onto the Earth—to die. You      will     die. The Earth is dead out there. You'll never see the city oryour people again.     We want a ground car, said Michael. And supplies.     A ground car, repeated the President. And—supplies.... Yes.     You can give us an escort, if you want to, out beyond the first rangeof mountains.     There will be no escort, said the President firmly. No one has beenallowed to go out upon the Earth or to fly above it for many hundredsof years. We know it's there. That's enough. We couldn't bear thesight of it. He took a step back. And we can't bear the sight of youany longer. Go now. Quickly!     Michael and Mary did not let go of the lockets as they watched thehalf circle of faces move backward, staring, as though at corpses thatshould sink to the floor.  It was night. The city had been lost beyond the dead mounds of Earththat rolled away behind them, like a thousand ancient tombs. Theground car sat still on a crumbling road.     Looking up through the car's driving blister, they saw the stars sunkinto the blue black ocean of space; saw the path of the Milky Wayalong which they had rushed, while they had been searching franticallyfor the place of salvation.     If any one of the other couples had made it back, said Mary, do youthink they'd be with us?     I think they'd either be with us, he said, or out in spaceagain—or in prison.     She stared ahead along the beam of headlight that stabbed out into thenight over the decaying road.     How sorry are you, she said quietly, coming with me?     All I know is, if I were out in space for long without you, I'd killmyself.     Are we going to die out here, Michael? she said, gesturing towardthe wall of night that stood at the end of the headlight, with theland?     He turned from her, frowning, and drove the ground car forward,watching the headlights push back the darkness.     They followed the crumbling highway all night until light crept acrossthe bald and cracked hills. The morning sun looked down upon thedesolation ten feet above the horizon when the car stopped. They satfor a long time then, looking out upon the Earth's parched andinflamed skin. In the distance a wall of mountains rose like a greatpile of bleached bones. Close ahead the rolling plains were motionlesswaves of dead Earth with a slight breeze stirring up little swirls ofdust.     I'm getting out, she said.     I haven't the slightest idea how much farther to go, or why, saidMichael shrugging. It's all the same. Dirt and hills and mountainsand sun and dust. It's really not much different from being out inspace. We live in the car just like in a space ship. We've enoughconcentrated supplies to last for a year. How far do we go? Why?When?     They stepped upon the Earth and felt the warmth of the sun andstrolled toward the top of the hill.     The air smells clean, he said.     The ground feels good. I think I'll take off my shoes. She did.Take off your boots, Michael. Try it.     Wearily he pulled off his boots, stood in his bare feet. It takes meback.     Yes, she said and began walking toward the hilltop.     He followed, his boots slung around his neck. There was a roadsomewhere, with the dust between my toes. Or was it a dream?     I guess when the past is old enough, she said, it becomes a dream.     He watched her footprints in the dust. God, listen to the quiet.     I can't seem to remember so much quiet around me. There's always beenthe sound of a space ship, or the pumps back in the cities.     He did not answer but continued to watch her footsteps and to feel thedust squishing up between his toes. Then suddenly:     Mary!     She stopped, whirling around.     He was staring down at her feet.     She followed his gaze.     It's grass! He bent down. Three blades.     She knelt beside him. They touched the green blades.     They're new, he said.     They stared, like religious devotees concentrating upon some sacredobject.     He rose, pulling her up with him. They hurried to the top of the hilland stood very still, looking down into a valley. There were tinypatches of green and little trees sprouting, and here and there, apale flower. The green was in a cluster, in the center of the valleyand there was a tiny glint of sunlight in its center.     Oh!     Her hand found his.     They ran down the gentle slope, feeling the patches of green touchtheir feet, smelling a new freshness in the air. And coming to thelittle spring, they stood beside it and watched the crystal water thattrickled along the valley floor and lost itself around a bend. Theysaw a furry, little animal scurry away and heard the twitter of a birdand saw it resting on a slim, bending branch. They heard the buzz of abee, saw it light on a pale flower at their feet and work at thesweetness inside.     Mary knelt down and drank from the spring.     It's so cool. It must come from deep down.     It does, he said. There were tears in his eyes and a tightness inhis throat. From deep down.     We can      live     here, Michael!     Slowly he looked all around until his sight stopped at the bottom of ahill. We'll build our house just beyond those rocks. We'll dig andplant and you'll have the child.     Yes! she said. Oh yes!     And the ones back in the city will know the Earth again. Sometimewe'll lead them back here and show them the Earth is coming alive. Hepaused. By following what we had to do for ourselves, we've found away to save them.     They remained kneeling in the silence beside the pool for a long time.They felt the sun on their backs and looked into the clean depth ofthe water deeply aware of the new life breathing all around them andof themselves absorbing it, and at the same time giving back to it thelife that was their own.     There was only this quiet and breathing and warmth until Michael stoodand picked up a rock and walked toward the base of the hill where hehad decided to build the house.     ... THE END   ","Michael and Mary, who have both just returned from a long expedition in a spacecraft, each keep a small golden locket around their neck. They were given these when they left on their mission, as a sort of escape hatch: if they were ever caught in a dangerous situation where they would have to die painful deaths, they could scratch themselves with the locket and they would die a quick and painless death instead of suffering. This is the first hint we see at the society's growing avoidance of painful deaths. For the people on the expedition, they were a tool to be used in case of emergency for the sake of the person wearing them. In the context of the society on Earth, however, they were a tool to negotiate the terms of how Michael and Mary would live. They considered threatening using these lockets to kill themselves, which they eventually did in a discussion with the President and his council. After they used the lockets, although they would die painless deaths, it would look very painful to the witnesses as the bodies experienced shock, so President Davis didn't want his people to see this. "
"What is the plot of the story? </s>     Jack of No Trades     By EVELYN E. SMITH     Illustrated by CAVAT     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy October 1955.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright     on this publication was renewed.]        I was psick of Psi powers, not having any. Or didn't I? Maybe they'dpsee otherwise psomeday!        I walked into the dining room and collided with a floating mass offabric, which promptly draped itself over me like a sentient shroud.     Oh, for God's sake, Kevin! my middle brother's voice came muffledthrough the folds. If you can't help, at least don't hinder!     I managed to struggle out of the tablecloth, even though it seemed tobe trying to wrap itself around me. When Danny got excited, he lost hismental grip.     I could help, I yelled as soon as I got my head free, if anybodywould let me and, what's more, I could set the table a damn sightfaster by hand than you do with 'kinesis.     Just then Father appeared at the head of the table. He could as easilyhave walked downstairs as teleported, but I belonged to a family ofexhibitionists. And Father tended to show off as if he were still akid. Not that he looked his age—he was big and blond, like Danny andTim and me, and could have passed for our older brother.     Boys, boys! he reproved us. Danny, you ought to be ashamed ofyourself—picking on poor Kev.     Even if it hadn't been Danny's fault, he would still have been blamed.     Nobody was ever supposed to raise a voice or a hand or a thought topoor afflicted Kev, because nature had picked on me enough. And thenicer everybody was to me, the nastier I became, since only when theylost their tempers could I get—or so I believed—their true attitudetoward me.     How else could I tell?     Sorry, fella, Dan apologized to me. The tablecloth spread itself outon the table. Wrinkles, he grumbled to himself. Wrinkles. And I hadit so nice and smooth before. Mother will be furious.     If she were going to be furious, she'd be furious already, Fatherreminded him sadly. It must be tough to be married to a deep-probetelepath, I thought, and I felt a sudden wave of sympathy for him. Itwas so seldom I got the chance to feel sorry for anyone except myself.But I think you'll find she understands.     She knows, all right, Danny remarked as he went on into the kitchen,but I'm not sure she always understands.     I was surprised to find him so perceptive on the abstract level,because he wasn't what you might call an understanding person, either.  There are tensions in this room, my sister announced as she slouchedin, not quite awake yet, and hatred. I could feel them all the wayupstairs. And today I'm working on the Sleepsweet Mattress copy, so Imust feel absolutely tranquil. Everyone will think beautiful thoughts,please.     She sat down just as a glass of orange juice was arriving at herplace; Danny apparently didn't know she'd come in already. The glassbumped into the back of her neck, tilted and poured its contents overher shoulder and down her very considerable decolletage. Being a mereprimitive, I couldn't help laughing.     Danny, you fumbler! she screamed.     Danny erupted from the kitchen. How many times have I asked all of younot to sit down until I've got everything on the table? Always a lot ofinterfering busybodies getting in the way.     I don't see why you have to set the table at all, she retorted. Arobot could do it better and faster than you. Even Kev could. Sheturned quickly toward me. Oh, I am sorry, Kevin.     I didn't say anything; I was too busy pressing my hands down on theback of the chair to make my knuckles turn white.     Sylvia's face turned even whiter. Father, stop him—      stop     him! He'shating again! I can't stand it!     Father looked at me, then at her. I don't think he can help it,Sylvia.     I grinned. That's right—I'm just a poor atavism with no control overmyself a-tall.     Finally my mother came in from the kitchen; she was an old-fashionedwoman and didn't hold with robocooks. One quick glance at me gave herthe complete details, even though I quickly protested, It's illegal toprobe anyone without permission.     I used to probe you to find out when you needed your diapers changed,she said tartly, and I'll probe you now. You should watch yourself,Sylvia—poor Kevin isn't responsible.     She didn't need to probe to get the blast of naked emotion that spurtedout from me. My sister screamed and even Father looked uncomfortable.Danny stomped back into the kitchen, muttering to himself.     Mother's lips tightened. Sylvia, go upstairs and change your dress.Kevin, do I have to make an appointment for you at the clinic again?A psychiatrist never diagnosed members of his own family—that is, notofficially; they couldn't help offering thumbnail diagnoses any morethan they could help having thumbnails.     No use, I said, deciding it was safe to drop into my chair. Who canadjust me to an environment to which I'm fundamentally unsuited?     Maybe there is something physically wrong with him, Amy, my fathersuggested hopefully. Maybe you should make an appointment for him atthe cure-all?     Mother shook her neatly coiffed head. He's been to it dozens of timesand he always checks out in splendid shape. None of us can spare thetime to go with him again, just on an off-chance, and he could hardlybe allowed to make such a long trip all by himself. Pity there isn't amachine in every community, but, then, we don't really need them.  Now that the virus diseases had been licked, people hardly evergot sick any more and, when they did, it was mostly psychosomatic.Life was so well organized that there weren't even many accidentsthese days. It was a safe, orderly existence for those who fittedinto it—which accounted for more than ninety-five per cent of thepopulation. The only ones who didn't adjust were those who couldn't,like me—psi-deficients, throwbacks to an earlier era. There were nophysical cripples, because anybody could have a new arm or a new leggrafted on, but you couldn't graft psi powers onto an atavism or, ifyou could, the technique hadn't been developed yet.     I feel a sense of impending doom brooding over this household, myyoungest brother remarked cheerfully as he vaulted into his chair.     You always do, Timothy, my mother said, unfolding her napkin. And Imust say it's not in good taste, especially at breakfast.     He reached for his juice. Guess this is a doomed household. And whatwas all that emotional uproar about?     The usual, Sylvia said from the doorway before anyone else couldanswer. She slid warily into her chair. Hey, Dan, I'm here! shecalled. If anything else comes in, it comes in manually, understand?     Oh, all right. Dan emerged from the kitchen with a tray of foodfloating ahead of him.     The usual? Trouble with Kev? Tim looked at me narrowly. Somehow mysense of ominousness is connected with him.     Well, that's perfectly natural— Sylvia began, then stopped as Mothercaught her eye.     I didn't mean that, Tim said. I still say Kev's got something wecan't figure out.     You've been saying that for years, Danny protested, and he's beentested for every faculty under the Sun. He can't telepath or teleportor telekinesthesize or even teletype. He can't precognize or prefix orprepossess. He can't—     Strictly a bundle of no-talent, that's me, I interrupted, trying tokeep my animal feelings from getting the better of me. That was how myfamily thought of me, I knew—as an animal, and not a very lovable one,either.     No, Tim said, he's just got something we haven't developed a testfor. It'll come out some day, you'll see. He smiled at me.  I smiled at him gratefully; he was the only member of my family whoreally seemed to like me in spite of my handicap. It won't work, Tim.I know you're trying to be kind, but—     He's not saying it just to be kind, my mother put in. He means it.Not that I want to arouse false hopes, Kevin, she added with grimscrupulousness. Tim's awfully young yet and I wouldn't trust hisextracurricular prognostications too far.     Nonetheless, I couldn't help feeling a feeble renewal of old hopes.After all, young or not, Tim was a hell of a good prognosticator; hewouldn't have risen so rapidly to the position he held in the WeatherBureau if he hadn't been pretty near tops in foreboding.     Mother smiled sadly at my thoughts, but I didn't let that discourageme. As Danny had said, she      knew     but she didn't really      understand     .Nobody, for all of his or her psi power, really understood me.  Breakfast was finally over and the rest of my family dispersed to theirvarious jobs. Father simply took his briefcase and disappeared—he wasa traveling salesman and he had a morning appointment clear across thecontinent. The others, not having his particular gift, had to takethe helibus to their different destinations. Mother, as I said, was apsychiatrist. Sylvia wrote advertising copy. Tim was a meteorologist.Dan was a junior executive in a furniture moving company and expected apromotion to senior rank as soon as he achieved a better mental grip onpianos.     Only I had no job, no profession, no place in life. Of course therewere certain menial tasks a psi-negative could perform, but my parentswould have none of them—partly for my sake, but mostly for the sake oftheir own community standing.     We don't need what little money Kev could bring in, my father alwayssaid. I can afford to support my family. He can stay home and takecare of the house.     And that's what I did. Not that there was much to do except call atechno whenever one of the servomechanisms missed a beat. True enough,those things had to be watched mighty carefully because, if they brokedown, it sometimes took days before the repair and/or replacementrobots could come. There never were enough of them because ours was aconstructive society. Still, being a machine-sitter isn't very much ofa career. And every function that wasn't the prerogative of a machinecould be done ten times more quickly and efficiently by some member ofmy family than I could do it. If I went ahead and did something anyway,they would just do it all over again when they got home.     So I had nothing to do all day. I had a special dispensation totake books out of the local Archives, because I was a deficient andcouldn't receive the tellie programs. Almost everybody on Earth wastelepathic to some degree and could get the amplified projections evenif he couldn't transmit or receive with his natural powers. But I gotnothing. I had to derive all my recreation from reading, and you canget awfully tired of books, especially when they're all at least ahundred years old and written by primitives. I could borrow soundtapes, but they also bored me after a while.     I thought maybe I could develop a talent for composing or painting,which would classify me as a telesensitive—artistic ability beingconsidered as the oldest, if least important, psi power—but I couldn'teven do anything like that.     About all there was left for me was to take long walks. Athletics wereout of the question; I couldn't compete with psi-boys and they didn'twant to compete with me. All the people in the neighborhood knew meand were nice to me, but I didn't need to be a 'path to tell what theywere saying to one another when I hove into sight. There's that oldestFaraday boy. Pity, such a talented family, to have a defective.       I didn't have a girl, either. Although some of them were sort ofattracted to me—I could see that—they could hardly go out with mewithout exposing themselves to ridicule. In their sandals, I would havedone the same thing, but that didn't stop me from hating them.  I wished I had been born a couple of hundred years ago—before peoplestarted playing around with nuclear energy and filling the air withradiations that they were afraid would turn human beings into hideousmonsters. Instead, they developed the psi powers that had always beenlatent in the species until we developed into a race of supermen. Idon't know why I say      we     —in 1960 or so, I might have been consideredsuperior, but in 2102 I was just the Faradays' idiot boy.     Exploring space should have been my hope. If there had been anythinguseful or interesting on any of the other planets, I might have founda niche for myself there. In totally new surroundings, the psi powersgeared to another environment might not be an advantage. But by thetime I was ten, it was discovered that the other planets were justbarren hunks of rock, with pressures and climates and atmospheresdrastically unsuited to human life. A year or so before, the hyperdrivehad been developed on Earth and ships had been sent out to explore thestars, but I had no hope left in that direction any more.     I was an atavism in a world of peace and plenty. Peace, because peoplecouldn't indulge in war or even crime with so many telepaths runningaround—not because, I told myself, the capacity for primitive behaviorwasn't just as latent in everybody else as the psi talent seemed latentin me. Tim must be right, I thought—I must have some undreamed-ofpower that only the right circumstances would bring out. But what wasthat power?     For years I had speculated on what my potential talent might be,explored every wild possibility I could conceive of and found noneproductive of even an ambiguous result with which I could fool myself.As I approached adulthood, I began to concede that I was probablynothing more than what I seemed to be—a simple psi-negative. Yet, fromtime to time, hope surged up again, as it had today, in spite of myknowledge that my hope was an impossibility. Who ever heard of latentpsi powers showing themselves in an individual as old as twenty-six?     I was almost alone in the parks where I used to walk, because peopleliked to commune with one another those days rather than with nature.Even gardening had very little popularity. But I found myself most athome in those woodland—or, rather, pseudo-woodland—surroundings,able to identify more readily with the trees and flowers than I couldwith my own kind. A fallen tree or a broken blossom would excite moresympathy from me than the minor catastrophes that will beset anyhousehold, no matter how gifted, and I would shy away from bloodynoses or cut fingers, thus giving myself a reputation for callousnessas well as extrasensory imbecility.     However, I was no more callous in steering clear of human breakdownsthan I was in not shedding tears over the household machines when theybroke down, for I felt no more closely akin to my parents and siblingsthan I did to the mechanisms that served and, sometimes, failed us.  On that day, I walked farther than I had intended and, by the time Igot back home, I found the rest of my family had returned before me.They seemed to be excited about something and were surprised to see meso calm.     Aren't you even interested in anything outside your own immediateconcerns, Kev? Sylvia demanded, despite Father's efforts to shush her.     Can't you remember that Kev isn't able to receive the tellies? Timshot back at her. He probably doesn't even know what's happened.     Well, what did happen? I asked, trying not to snap.     One starship got back from Alpha Centauri, Danny said excitedly.There are two inhabited Earth-type planets there!     This was for me; this was it at last! I tried not to show myenthusiasm, though I knew that was futile. My relatives could keeptheir thoughts and emotions from me; I couldn't keep mine from them.What kind of life inhabits them? Humanoid?     Uh-uh. Danny shook his head. And hostile. The crew of the starshipsays they were attacked immediately on landing. When they turned andleft, they were followed here by one of the alien ships. Must be apretty advanced race to have spaceships. Anyhow, the extraterrestrialship headed back as soon as it got a fix on where ours was going.     But if they're hostile, I said thoughtfully, it might mean war.     Of course. That's why everybody's so wrought up. We hope it's peace,but we'll have to prepare for war just in case.     There hadn't been a war on Earth for well over a hundred years, butwe hadn't been so foolish as to obliterate all knowledge of militarytechniques and weapons. The alien ship wouldn't be able to come backwith reinforcements—if such were its intention—in less than sixmonths. This meant time to get together a stockpile of weapons, thoughwe had no idea of how effective our defenses would be against thealiens' armament.     They might have strange and terrible weapons against which we wouldbe powerless. On the other hand, our side would have the benefitsof telekinetically guided missiles, teleported saboteurs, telepathsto pick up the alien strategy, and prognosticators to determine theoutcome of each battle and see whether it was worth fighting in thefirst place.     Everybody on Earth hoped for peace. Everybody, that is, except me. Ihad been unable to achieve any sense of identity with the world inwhich I lived, and it was almost worth the loss of personal survivalto know that my own smug species could look silly against a still moretalented race.  It isn't so much our defense that worries me, my mother muttered, aslack of adequate medical machinery. War is bound to mean casualtiesand there aren't enough cure-alls on the planet to take care of them.It's useless to expect the government to build more right now; they'llbe too busy producing weapons. Sylvia, you'd better take a leave ofabsence from your job and come down to Psycho Center to learn first-aidtechniques. And you too, Kevin, she added, obviously a littlesurprised herself at what she was saying. Probably you'd be evenbetter at it than Sylvia since you aren't sensitive to other people'spain.     I looked at her.     It      is     an ill wind, she agreed, smiling wryly, but don't let mecatch you thinking that way, Kevin. Can't you see it would be betterthat there should be no war and you should remain useless?     I couldn't see it, of course, and she knew that, with her wretchedtalent for stripping away my feeble attempts at privacy. Psi-powersusually included some ability to form a mental shield; being withoutone, I was necessarily devoid of the other.     My attitude didn't matter, though, because it was definitely war. Thealiens came back with a fleet clearly bent on our annihilation—eventhe 'paths couldn't figure out their motives, for the thought patternwas entirely different from ours—and the war was on.     I had enjoyed learning first-aid; it was the first time I had everworked with people as an equal. And I was good at it because psi-powersaren't much of an advantage there. Telekinesis maybe a little, butI was big enough to lift anybody without needing any superhumanabilities—normal human abilities, rather.     Gee, Mr. Faraday, one of the other students breathed, you're sostrong. And without 'kinesis or anything.     I looked at her and liked what I saw. She was blonde and pretty. Myname's not Mr. Faraday, I said. It's Kevin.     My name's Lucy, she giggled.     No girl had ever giggled at me in that way before. Immediately Istarted to envision a beautiful future for the two of us, then flushedwhen I realized that she might be a telepath. But she was winding atourniquet around the arm of another member of the class with apparentunconcern.     Hey, quit that! the windee yelled. You're making it too tight! I'llbe mortified!     So Lucy was obviously not a telepath. Later I found out she was onlya low-grade telesensitive—just a poetess—so I had nothing to worryabout as far as having my thoughts read went. I was a little afraid ofSylvia's kidding me about my first romance, but, as it happened, shegot interested in one of the guys who was taking the class with us, andshe was not only too busy to be bothered with me, but in too vulnerablea position herself.     However, when the actual bombs—or their alien equivalent—struck nearour town, I wasn't nearly so happy, especially after they startedcarrying the wounded into the Psycho Center, which had been turned intoa hospital for the duration. I took one look at the gory scene—I hadnever seen anybody really injured before; few people had, as a matterof fact—and started for the door. But Mother was already blocking theway. It was easy to see from which side of the family Tim had got histalent for prognostication.     If the telepaths who can pick up all the pain can stand this, Kevin,she said,       you     certainly can. And there was no kindness at all inthe      you     .     She gave me a shove toward the nearest stretcher. Go on—now's yourchance to show you're of some use in this world.  Gritting my teeth, I turned to the man on the stretcher. Something hadpretty near torn half his face away. It was all there, but not in theright place, and it wasn't pretty. I turned away, caught my mother'seye, and then I didn't even dare to throw up. I looked at that smashedface again and all the first-aid lessons I'd had flew out of my head asif some super-psi had plucked them from me.     The man was bleeding terribly. I had never seen blood pouring out likethat before. The first thing to do, I figured sickly, was mop it up. Iwet a sponge and dabbed gingerly at the face, but my hands were shakingso hard that the sponge slipped and my fingers were on the raw gapingwound. I could feel the warm viscosity of the blood and nothing, noteven my mother, could keep my meal down this time, I thought.     Mother had uttered a sound of exasperation as I dropped the sponge. Icould hear her coming toward me. Then I heard her gasp. I looked at mypatient and my mouth dropped open. For suddenly there was no wound,no wound at all—just a little blood and the fellow's face was wholeagain. Not even a scar.     Wha—wha happened? he asked. It doesn't hurt any more!     He touched his cheek and looked up at me with frightened eyes. And Iwas frightened, too—too frightened to be sick, too frightened to doanything but stare witlessly at him.     Touch some of the others, quick! my mother commanded, pushingastounded attendants away from stretchers.     I touched broken limbs and torn bodies and shattered heads, and theywere whole again right away. Everybody in the room was looking at me inthe way I had always dreamed of being looked at. Lucy was opening andshutting her beautiful mouth like a beautiful fish. In fact, the wholething was just like a dream, except that I was awake. I couldn't haveimagined all those horrors.     But the horrors soon weren't horrors any more. I began to find themalmost pleasing; the worse a wound was, the more I appreciated it.There was so much more satisfaction, virtually an esthetic thrill, inseeing a horrible jagged tear smooth away, heal, not in days, as itwould have done under the cure-all, but in seconds.     Timothy was right, my mother said, her eyes filled with tears, andI was wrong ever to have doubted. You have a gift, son— and she saidthe word son loud and clear so that everybody could hear it—thegreatest gift of all, that of healing. She looked at me proudly. AndLucy and the others looked at me as if I were a god or something.     I felt ... well, good.  I wonder why we never thought of healing as a potential psi-power, mymother said to me later, when I was catching a snatch of rest and shewas lighting cigarettes and offering me cups of coffee in an attempt tomake up twenty-six years of indifference, perhaps dislike, all at once.The ability to heal      is     recorded in history, only we never paid muchattention to it.     Recorded? I asked, a little jealously.     Of course, she smiled. Remember the King's Evil?     I should have known without her reminding me, after all the old books Ihad read. Scrofula, wasn't it? They called it that because the touchof certain kings was supposed to cure it ... and other diseases, too, Iguess.     She nodded. Certain people must have had the healing power and that'sprobably why they originally got to be the rulers.     In a very short time, I became a pretty important person. All the otherdeficients in the world were tested for the healing power and all ofthem turned out negative. I proved to be the only human healer alive,and not only that, I could work a thousand times more efficiently andeffectively than any of the machines. The government built a hospitaljust for my work! Wounded people were ferried there from all over theworld and I cured them. I could do practically everything except raisethe dead and sometimes I wondered whether, with a little practice, Iwouldn't be able to do even that.     When I came to my new office, whom did I find waiting there for me butLucy, her trim figure enhanced by a snug blue and white uniform. I'myour assistant, Kev, she said shyly.     I looked at her. You are?     I—I hope you want me, she went on, coyness now mixing withapprehension.     I gave her shoulder a squeeze. I do want you, Lucy. More than I cantell you now. After all this is over, there's something more I want tosay. But right now— I clapped her arm—there's a job to be done.     Yes, Kevin, she said, glaring at me for some reason I didn't havetime to investigate or interpret at the moment. My patients werewaiting for me.     They gave me everything else I could possibly need, except enoughsleep, and I myself didn't want that. I wanted to heal. I wanted toshow my fellow human beings that, though I couldn't receive or transmitthoughts or foretell the future or move things with my mind, all thosepowers were useless without life, and that was what I could give.     I took pride in my work. It was good to stop pain and ugliness, to knowthat, if it weren't for me, these people would be dead or permanentlydisfigured. In a sense, they were—well, my children; I felt a warmglow of affection toward them.     They felt the same way toward me. I knew because the secret of thehospital soon leaked out—during all those years of peace, thegovernment had lost whatever facility it had for keeping secrets—andpeople used to come in droves, hoping for a glimpse of me.  The government pointed out that such crowds outside the building mightattract the enemy's attention. I was the most important individual onEarth, they told my followers, and my safety couldn't be risked. Thehuman race at this stage was pretty docile. The crowds went away. Andit was right that they should; I didn't want to be risked any more thanthey wanted to risk me.     Plenty of people did come to see me officially—the President,generals, all kinds of big wheels, bringing citations, medals and otherobsolete honors they'd revived primarily for me. It was wonderful. Ibegan to love everybody.     Don't you think you're putting too much of yourself into this, Kev?Lucy asked me one day.     I gave her an incredulous glance. You mean I shouldn't help people?     Of course you should help them. I didn't mean anything like that.Just ... well, you're getting too bound up in your work.     Why shouldn't I be? Then the truth, as I thought, dawned on me. Areyou jealous, Lucy?     She lowered her eyes. Not only that, but the war's bound to come toan end, you know, and—     It was the first part of her sentence that interested me. Why, do youmean—     And just then a fresh batch of casualties arrived and I had to tend tothem. For the next few days, I was so busy, I didn't get the chance tohave the long talk with Lucy I'd wanted....     Then, after only four months, the war suddenly stopped. It seemedthat the aliens' weapons, despite their undeniable mysteriousness,were not equal to ours. And they had the added disadvantage of beinglight-years away from home base. So the remnant of their fleet took offand blew itself up just outside of Mars, which we understood to be theequivalent of unconditional surrender. And it was; we never heard fromthe Centaurians again.     Peace once more. I had a little mopping up to do at the hospital; thenI collected my possessions and went back home after a dignitary—onlythe Vice President this time—had thanked me on behalf of a gratefulcountry. I wasn't needed any more.  ","This story takes place in the year 2102 and centers around a family with powers, including telekenisis and teleportation. The narrator is Kevin, one of the sons: he is the only person in the family without powers, a ""psi-deficient"", so he stays at home to take care of the house. The story starts at the breakfast table, where the father teleports in, the mother probes the others' thoughts, and there is grumbling about the goings-on in the household. Timothy, the youngest brother, senses turmoil in the family but is also the most hopeful--he figures that Kevin has a gift they just haven't discovered yet, which is encouraging to Kevin. After everyone else in the family leaves for their jobs, Kevin is left to think about his situation, so he goes for a long walk. Reading is his only other real source of entertainment; he doesn't have many friends because nobody wanted to play sports with someone without telepathic abilities. He couldn't explore space because other planets weren't habitable, so he wondered what would make him stand out. The reader learns that the psi powers were latent in humans and developed with exposure to nuclear energy. When he gets home from his walk, Kevin's entire family is there, processing some news. There are two inhabited planets in Alpha Centauri, and the aliens there might be preparing for war.  Kevin partly hoped there would be war for a change of pace, and his mom figured people should start learning first-aid, including Kevin. He had a benefit over his sister because he couldn't sense others' pain in the same way. He met a girl named Lucy in his first-aid class who he liked, and she was a ""low-grade telesensitive"" so he didn't have to worry about his thoughts being read. Once the aliens attacked, things got hard as Kevin had to face the injured people bought to his care. This was especially shocking because injury was not common in his world. This was where Kevin finally found his power: touching the injured people healed them almost instantly. It turned out he was the only human with this power, which was invaluable -- a hospital was even built just for Kevin to work in, where Lucy became his assistant. All at once, he became the most important human on the planet, but the humans had to hide this from their alien adversaries. Lucy was jealous of Kevin but also worried about what would happen to Kevin when the war ended, which it eventually did four months later. The story ends with Kevin returning home after the Vice President informed him that his services were no longer needed. "
"Describe Tim's role in the family. </s>     Jack of No Trades     By EVELYN E. SMITH     Illustrated by CAVAT     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy October 1955.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright     on this publication was renewed.]        I was psick of Psi powers, not having any. Or didn't I? Maybe they'dpsee otherwise psomeday!        I walked into the dining room and collided with a floating mass offabric, which promptly draped itself over me like a sentient shroud.     Oh, for God's sake, Kevin! my middle brother's voice came muffledthrough the folds. If you can't help, at least don't hinder!     I managed to struggle out of the tablecloth, even though it seemed tobe trying to wrap itself around me. When Danny got excited, he lost hismental grip.     I could help, I yelled as soon as I got my head free, if anybodywould let me and, what's more, I could set the table a damn sightfaster by hand than you do with 'kinesis.     Just then Father appeared at the head of the table. He could as easilyhave walked downstairs as teleported, but I belonged to a family ofexhibitionists. And Father tended to show off as if he were still akid. Not that he looked his age—he was big and blond, like Danny andTim and me, and could have passed for our older brother.     Boys, boys! he reproved us. Danny, you ought to be ashamed ofyourself—picking on poor Kev.     Even if it hadn't been Danny's fault, he would still have been blamed.     Nobody was ever supposed to raise a voice or a hand or a thought topoor afflicted Kev, because nature had picked on me enough. And thenicer everybody was to me, the nastier I became, since only when theylost their tempers could I get—or so I believed—their true attitudetoward me.     How else could I tell?     Sorry, fella, Dan apologized to me. The tablecloth spread itself outon the table. Wrinkles, he grumbled to himself. Wrinkles. And I hadit so nice and smooth before. Mother will be furious.     If she were going to be furious, she'd be furious already, Fatherreminded him sadly. It must be tough to be married to a deep-probetelepath, I thought, and I felt a sudden wave of sympathy for him. Itwas so seldom I got the chance to feel sorry for anyone except myself.But I think you'll find she understands.     She knows, all right, Danny remarked as he went on into the kitchen,but I'm not sure she always understands.     I was surprised to find him so perceptive on the abstract level,because he wasn't what you might call an understanding person, either.  There are tensions in this room, my sister announced as she slouchedin, not quite awake yet, and hatred. I could feel them all the wayupstairs. And today I'm working on the Sleepsweet Mattress copy, so Imust feel absolutely tranquil. Everyone will think beautiful thoughts,please.     She sat down just as a glass of orange juice was arriving at herplace; Danny apparently didn't know she'd come in already. The glassbumped into the back of her neck, tilted and poured its contents overher shoulder and down her very considerable decolletage. Being a mereprimitive, I couldn't help laughing.     Danny, you fumbler! she screamed.     Danny erupted from the kitchen. How many times have I asked all of younot to sit down until I've got everything on the table? Always a lot ofinterfering busybodies getting in the way.     I don't see why you have to set the table at all, she retorted. Arobot could do it better and faster than you. Even Kev could. Sheturned quickly toward me. Oh, I am sorry, Kevin.     I didn't say anything; I was too busy pressing my hands down on theback of the chair to make my knuckles turn white.     Sylvia's face turned even whiter. Father, stop him—      stop     him! He'shating again! I can't stand it!     Father looked at me, then at her. I don't think he can help it,Sylvia.     I grinned. That's right—I'm just a poor atavism with no control overmyself a-tall.     Finally my mother came in from the kitchen; she was an old-fashionedwoman and didn't hold with robocooks. One quick glance at me gave herthe complete details, even though I quickly protested, It's illegal toprobe anyone without permission.     I used to probe you to find out when you needed your diapers changed,she said tartly, and I'll probe you now. You should watch yourself,Sylvia—poor Kevin isn't responsible.     She didn't need to probe to get the blast of naked emotion that spurtedout from me. My sister screamed and even Father looked uncomfortable.Danny stomped back into the kitchen, muttering to himself.     Mother's lips tightened. Sylvia, go upstairs and change your dress.Kevin, do I have to make an appointment for you at the clinic again?A psychiatrist never diagnosed members of his own family—that is, notofficially; they couldn't help offering thumbnail diagnoses any morethan they could help having thumbnails.     No use, I said, deciding it was safe to drop into my chair. Who canadjust me to an environment to which I'm fundamentally unsuited?     Maybe there is something physically wrong with him, Amy, my fathersuggested hopefully. Maybe you should make an appointment for him atthe cure-all?     Mother shook her neatly coiffed head. He's been to it dozens of timesand he always checks out in splendid shape. None of us can spare thetime to go with him again, just on an off-chance, and he could hardlybe allowed to make such a long trip all by himself. Pity there isn't amachine in every community, but, then, we don't really need them.  Now that the virus diseases had been licked, people hardly evergot sick any more and, when they did, it was mostly psychosomatic.Life was so well organized that there weren't even many accidentsthese days. It was a safe, orderly existence for those who fittedinto it—which accounted for more than ninety-five per cent of thepopulation. The only ones who didn't adjust were those who couldn't,like me—psi-deficients, throwbacks to an earlier era. There were nophysical cripples, because anybody could have a new arm or a new leggrafted on, but you couldn't graft psi powers onto an atavism or, ifyou could, the technique hadn't been developed yet.     I feel a sense of impending doom brooding over this household, myyoungest brother remarked cheerfully as he vaulted into his chair.     You always do, Timothy, my mother said, unfolding her napkin. And Imust say it's not in good taste, especially at breakfast.     He reached for his juice. Guess this is a doomed household. And whatwas all that emotional uproar about?     The usual, Sylvia said from the doorway before anyone else couldanswer. She slid warily into her chair. Hey, Dan, I'm here! shecalled. If anything else comes in, it comes in manually, understand?     Oh, all right. Dan emerged from the kitchen with a tray of foodfloating ahead of him.     The usual? Trouble with Kev? Tim looked at me narrowly. Somehow mysense of ominousness is connected with him.     Well, that's perfectly natural— Sylvia began, then stopped as Mothercaught her eye.     I didn't mean that, Tim said. I still say Kev's got something wecan't figure out.     You've been saying that for years, Danny protested, and he's beentested for every faculty under the Sun. He can't telepath or teleportor telekinesthesize or even teletype. He can't precognize or prefix orprepossess. He can't—     Strictly a bundle of no-talent, that's me, I interrupted, trying tokeep my animal feelings from getting the better of me. That was how myfamily thought of me, I knew—as an animal, and not a very lovable one,either.     No, Tim said, he's just got something we haven't developed a testfor. It'll come out some day, you'll see. He smiled at me.  I smiled at him gratefully; he was the only member of my family whoreally seemed to like me in spite of my handicap. It won't work, Tim.I know you're trying to be kind, but—     He's not saying it just to be kind, my mother put in. He means it.Not that I want to arouse false hopes, Kevin, she added with grimscrupulousness. Tim's awfully young yet and I wouldn't trust hisextracurricular prognostications too far.     Nonetheless, I couldn't help feeling a feeble renewal of old hopes.After all, young or not, Tim was a hell of a good prognosticator; hewouldn't have risen so rapidly to the position he held in the WeatherBureau if he hadn't been pretty near tops in foreboding.     Mother smiled sadly at my thoughts, but I didn't let that discourageme. As Danny had said, she      knew     but she didn't really      understand     .Nobody, for all of his or her psi power, really understood me.  Breakfast was finally over and the rest of my family dispersed to theirvarious jobs. Father simply took his briefcase and disappeared—he wasa traveling salesman and he had a morning appointment clear across thecontinent. The others, not having his particular gift, had to takethe helibus to their different destinations. Mother, as I said, was apsychiatrist. Sylvia wrote advertising copy. Tim was a meteorologist.Dan was a junior executive in a furniture moving company and expected apromotion to senior rank as soon as he achieved a better mental grip onpianos.     Only I had no job, no profession, no place in life. Of course therewere certain menial tasks a psi-negative could perform, but my parentswould have none of them—partly for my sake, but mostly for the sake oftheir own community standing.     We don't need what little money Kev could bring in, my father alwayssaid. I can afford to support my family. He can stay home and takecare of the house.     And that's what I did. Not that there was much to do except call atechno whenever one of the servomechanisms missed a beat. True enough,those things had to be watched mighty carefully because, if they brokedown, it sometimes took days before the repair and/or replacementrobots could come. There never were enough of them because ours was aconstructive society. Still, being a machine-sitter isn't very much ofa career. And every function that wasn't the prerogative of a machinecould be done ten times more quickly and efficiently by some member ofmy family than I could do it. If I went ahead and did something anyway,they would just do it all over again when they got home.     So I had nothing to do all day. I had a special dispensation totake books out of the local Archives, because I was a deficient andcouldn't receive the tellie programs. Almost everybody on Earth wastelepathic to some degree and could get the amplified projections evenif he couldn't transmit or receive with his natural powers. But I gotnothing. I had to derive all my recreation from reading, and you canget awfully tired of books, especially when they're all at least ahundred years old and written by primitives. I could borrow soundtapes, but they also bored me after a while.     I thought maybe I could develop a talent for composing or painting,which would classify me as a telesensitive—artistic ability beingconsidered as the oldest, if least important, psi power—but I couldn'teven do anything like that.     About all there was left for me was to take long walks. Athletics wereout of the question; I couldn't compete with psi-boys and they didn'twant to compete with me. All the people in the neighborhood knew meand were nice to me, but I didn't need to be a 'path to tell what theywere saying to one another when I hove into sight. There's that oldestFaraday boy. Pity, such a talented family, to have a defective.       I didn't have a girl, either. Although some of them were sort ofattracted to me—I could see that—they could hardly go out with mewithout exposing themselves to ridicule. In their sandals, I would havedone the same thing, but that didn't stop me from hating them.  I wished I had been born a couple of hundred years ago—before peoplestarted playing around with nuclear energy and filling the air withradiations that they were afraid would turn human beings into hideousmonsters. Instead, they developed the psi powers that had always beenlatent in the species until we developed into a race of supermen. Idon't know why I say      we     —in 1960 or so, I might have been consideredsuperior, but in 2102 I was just the Faradays' idiot boy.     Exploring space should have been my hope. If there had been anythinguseful or interesting on any of the other planets, I might have founda niche for myself there. In totally new surroundings, the psi powersgeared to another environment might not be an advantage. But by thetime I was ten, it was discovered that the other planets were justbarren hunks of rock, with pressures and climates and atmospheresdrastically unsuited to human life. A year or so before, the hyperdrivehad been developed on Earth and ships had been sent out to explore thestars, but I had no hope left in that direction any more.     I was an atavism in a world of peace and plenty. Peace, because peoplecouldn't indulge in war or even crime with so many telepaths runningaround—not because, I told myself, the capacity for primitive behaviorwasn't just as latent in everybody else as the psi talent seemed latentin me. Tim must be right, I thought—I must have some undreamed-ofpower that only the right circumstances would bring out. But what wasthat power?     For years I had speculated on what my potential talent might be,explored every wild possibility I could conceive of and found noneproductive of even an ambiguous result with which I could fool myself.As I approached adulthood, I began to concede that I was probablynothing more than what I seemed to be—a simple psi-negative. Yet, fromtime to time, hope surged up again, as it had today, in spite of myknowledge that my hope was an impossibility. Who ever heard of latentpsi powers showing themselves in an individual as old as twenty-six?     I was almost alone in the parks where I used to walk, because peopleliked to commune with one another those days rather than with nature.Even gardening had very little popularity. But I found myself most athome in those woodland—or, rather, pseudo-woodland—surroundings,able to identify more readily with the trees and flowers than I couldwith my own kind. A fallen tree or a broken blossom would excite moresympathy from me than the minor catastrophes that will beset anyhousehold, no matter how gifted, and I would shy away from bloodynoses or cut fingers, thus giving myself a reputation for callousnessas well as extrasensory imbecility.     However, I was no more callous in steering clear of human breakdownsthan I was in not shedding tears over the household machines when theybroke down, for I felt no more closely akin to my parents and siblingsthan I did to the mechanisms that served and, sometimes, failed us.  On that day, I walked farther than I had intended and, by the time Igot back home, I found the rest of my family had returned before me.They seemed to be excited about something and were surprised to see meso calm.     Aren't you even interested in anything outside your own immediateconcerns, Kev? Sylvia demanded, despite Father's efforts to shush her.     Can't you remember that Kev isn't able to receive the tellies? Timshot back at her. He probably doesn't even know what's happened.     Well, what did happen? I asked, trying not to snap.     One starship got back from Alpha Centauri, Danny said excitedly.There are two inhabited Earth-type planets there!     This was for me; this was it at last! I tried not to show myenthusiasm, though I knew that was futile. My relatives could keeptheir thoughts and emotions from me; I couldn't keep mine from them.What kind of life inhabits them? Humanoid?     Uh-uh. Danny shook his head. And hostile. The crew of the starshipsays they were attacked immediately on landing. When they turned andleft, they were followed here by one of the alien ships. Must be apretty advanced race to have spaceships. Anyhow, the extraterrestrialship headed back as soon as it got a fix on where ours was going.     But if they're hostile, I said thoughtfully, it might mean war.     Of course. That's why everybody's so wrought up. We hope it's peace,but we'll have to prepare for war just in case.     There hadn't been a war on Earth for well over a hundred years, butwe hadn't been so foolish as to obliterate all knowledge of militarytechniques and weapons. The alien ship wouldn't be able to come backwith reinforcements—if such were its intention—in less than sixmonths. This meant time to get together a stockpile of weapons, thoughwe had no idea of how effective our defenses would be against thealiens' armament.     They might have strange and terrible weapons against which we wouldbe powerless. On the other hand, our side would have the benefitsof telekinetically guided missiles, teleported saboteurs, telepathsto pick up the alien strategy, and prognosticators to determine theoutcome of each battle and see whether it was worth fighting in thefirst place.     Everybody on Earth hoped for peace. Everybody, that is, except me. Ihad been unable to achieve any sense of identity with the world inwhich I lived, and it was almost worth the loss of personal survivalto know that my own smug species could look silly against a still moretalented race.  It isn't so much our defense that worries me, my mother muttered, aslack of adequate medical machinery. War is bound to mean casualtiesand there aren't enough cure-alls on the planet to take care of them.It's useless to expect the government to build more right now; they'llbe too busy producing weapons. Sylvia, you'd better take a leave ofabsence from your job and come down to Psycho Center to learn first-aidtechniques. And you too, Kevin, she added, obviously a littlesurprised herself at what she was saying. Probably you'd be evenbetter at it than Sylvia since you aren't sensitive to other people'spain.     I looked at her.     It      is     an ill wind, she agreed, smiling wryly, but don't let mecatch you thinking that way, Kevin. Can't you see it would be betterthat there should be no war and you should remain useless?     I couldn't see it, of course, and she knew that, with her wretchedtalent for stripping away my feeble attempts at privacy. Psi-powersusually included some ability to form a mental shield; being withoutone, I was necessarily devoid of the other.     My attitude didn't matter, though, because it was definitely war. Thealiens came back with a fleet clearly bent on our annihilation—eventhe 'paths couldn't figure out their motives, for the thought patternwas entirely different from ours—and the war was on.     I had enjoyed learning first-aid; it was the first time I had everworked with people as an equal. And I was good at it because psi-powersaren't much of an advantage there. Telekinesis maybe a little, butI was big enough to lift anybody without needing any superhumanabilities—normal human abilities, rather.     Gee, Mr. Faraday, one of the other students breathed, you're sostrong. And without 'kinesis or anything.     I looked at her and liked what I saw. She was blonde and pretty. Myname's not Mr. Faraday, I said. It's Kevin.     My name's Lucy, she giggled.     No girl had ever giggled at me in that way before. Immediately Istarted to envision a beautiful future for the two of us, then flushedwhen I realized that she might be a telepath. But she was winding atourniquet around the arm of another member of the class with apparentunconcern.     Hey, quit that! the windee yelled. You're making it too tight! I'llbe mortified!     So Lucy was obviously not a telepath. Later I found out she was onlya low-grade telesensitive—just a poetess—so I had nothing to worryabout as far as having my thoughts read went. I was a little afraid ofSylvia's kidding me about my first romance, but, as it happened, shegot interested in one of the guys who was taking the class with us, andshe was not only too busy to be bothered with me, but in too vulnerablea position herself.     However, when the actual bombs—or their alien equivalent—struck nearour town, I wasn't nearly so happy, especially after they startedcarrying the wounded into the Psycho Center, which had been turned intoa hospital for the duration. I took one look at the gory scene—I hadnever seen anybody really injured before; few people had, as a matterof fact—and started for the door. But Mother was already blocking theway. It was easy to see from which side of the family Tim had got histalent for prognostication.     If the telepaths who can pick up all the pain can stand this, Kevin,she said,       you     certainly can. And there was no kindness at all inthe      you     .     She gave me a shove toward the nearest stretcher. Go on—now's yourchance to show you're of some use in this world.  Gritting my teeth, I turned to the man on the stretcher. Something hadpretty near torn half his face away. It was all there, but not in theright place, and it wasn't pretty. I turned away, caught my mother'seye, and then I didn't even dare to throw up. I looked at that smashedface again and all the first-aid lessons I'd had flew out of my head asif some super-psi had plucked them from me.     The man was bleeding terribly. I had never seen blood pouring out likethat before. The first thing to do, I figured sickly, was mop it up. Iwet a sponge and dabbed gingerly at the face, but my hands were shakingso hard that the sponge slipped and my fingers were on the raw gapingwound. I could feel the warm viscosity of the blood and nothing, noteven my mother, could keep my meal down this time, I thought.     Mother had uttered a sound of exasperation as I dropped the sponge. Icould hear her coming toward me. Then I heard her gasp. I looked at mypatient and my mouth dropped open. For suddenly there was no wound,no wound at all—just a little blood and the fellow's face was wholeagain. Not even a scar.     Wha—wha happened? he asked. It doesn't hurt any more!     He touched his cheek and looked up at me with frightened eyes. And Iwas frightened, too—too frightened to be sick, too frightened to doanything but stare witlessly at him.     Touch some of the others, quick! my mother commanded, pushingastounded attendants away from stretchers.     I touched broken limbs and torn bodies and shattered heads, and theywere whole again right away. Everybody in the room was looking at me inthe way I had always dreamed of being looked at. Lucy was opening andshutting her beautiful mouth like a beautiful fish. In fact, the wholething was just like a dream, except that I was awake. I couldn't haveimagined all those horrors.     But the horrors soon weren't horrors any more. I began to find themalmost pleasing; the worse a wound was, the more I appreciated it.There was so much more satisfaction, virtually an esthetic thrill, inseeing a horrible jagged tear smooth away, heal, not in days, as itwould have done under the cure-all, but in seconds.     Timothy was right, my mother said, her eyes filled with tears, andI was wrong ever to have doubted. You have a gift, son— and she saidthe word son loud and clear so that everybody could hear it—thegreatest gift of all, that of healing. She looked at me proudly. AndLucy and the others looked at me as if I were a god or something.     I felt ... well, good.  I wonder why we never thought of healing as a potential psi-power, mymother said to me later, when I was catching a snatch of rest and shewas lighting cigarettes and offering me cups of coffee in an attempt tomake up twenty-six years of indifference, perhaps dislike, all at once.The ability to heal      is     recorded in history, only we never paid muchattention to it.     Recorded? I asked, a little jealously.     Of course, she smiled. Remember the King's Evil?     I should have known without her reminding me, after all the old books Ihad read. Scrofula, wasn't it? They called it that because the touchof certain kings was supposed to cure it ... and other diseases, too, Iguess.     She nodded. Certain people must have had the healing power and that'sprobably why they originally got to be the rulers.     In a very short time, I became a pretty important person. All the otherdeficients in the world were tested for the healing power and all ofthem turned out negative. I proved to be the only human healer alive,and not only that, I could work a thousand times more efficiently andeffectively than any of the machines. The government built a hospitaljust for my work! Wounded people were ferried there from all over theworld and I cured them. I could do practically everything except raisethe dead and sometimes I wondered whether, with a little practice, Iwouldn't be able to do even that.     When I came to my new office, whom did I find waiting there for me butLucy, her trim figure enhanced by a snug blue and white uniform. I'myour assistant, Kev, she said shyly.     I looked at her. You are?     I—I hope you want me, she went on, coyness now mixing withapprehension.     I gave her shoulder a squeeze. I do want you, Lucy. More than I cantell you now. After all this is over, there's something more I want tosay. But right now— I clapped her arm—there's a job to be done.     Yes, Kevin, she said, glaring at me for some reason I didn't havetime to investigate or interpret at the moment. My patients werewaiting for me.     They gave me everything else I could possibly need, except enoughsleep, and I myself didn't want that. I wanted to heal. I wanted toshow my fellow human beings that, though I couldn't receive or transmitthoughts or foretell the future or move things with my mind, all thosepowers were useless without life, and that was what I could give.     I took pride in my work. It was good to stop pain and ugliness, to knowthat, if it weren't for me, these people would be dead or permanentlydisfigured. In a sense, they were—well, my children; I felt a warmglow of affection toward them.     They felt the same way toward me. I knew because the secret of thehospital soon leaked out—during all those years of peace, thegovernment had lost whatever facility it had for keeping secrets—andpeople used to come in droves, hoping for a glimpse of me.  The government pointed out that such crowds outside the building mightattract the enemy's attention. I was the most important individual onEarth, they told my followers, and my safety couldn't be risked. Thehuman race at this stage was pretty docile. The crowds went away. Andit was right that they should; I didn't want to be risked any more thanthey wanted to risk me.     Plenty of people did come to see me officially—the President,generals, all kinds of big wheels, bringing citations, medals and otherobsolete honors they'd revived primarily for me. It was wonderful. Ibegan to love everybody.     Don't you think you're putting too much of yourself into this, Kev?Lucy asked me one day.     I gave her an incredulous glance. You mean I shouldn't help people?     Of course you should help them. I didn't mean anything like that.Just ... well, you're getting too bound up in your work.     Why shouldn't I be? Then the truth, as I thought, dawned on me. Areyou jealous, Lucy?     She lowered her eyes. Not only that, but the war's bound to come toan end, you know, and—     It was the first part of her sentence that interested me. Why, do youmean—     And just then a fresh batch of casualties arrived and I had to tend tothem. For the next few days, I was so busy, I didn't get the chance tohave the long talk with Lucy I'd wanted....     Then, after only four months, the war suddenly stopped. It seemedthat the aliens' weapons, despite their undeniable mysteriousness,were not equal to ours. And they had the added disadvantage of beinglight-years away from home base. So the remnant of their fleet took offand blew itself up just outside of Mars, which we understood to be theequivalent of unconditional surrender. And it was; we never heard fromthe Centaurians again.     Peace once more. I had a little mopping up to do at the hospital; thenI collected my possessions and went back home after a dignitary—onlythe Vice President this time—had thanked me on behalf of a gratefulcountry. I wasn't needed any more.  ","Tim is Kevin's youngest brother, and works as a meteorologist for the Weather Bureau. His ability is that of prognostication, meaning he is able to predict certain things about the future. This includes positive and negative things. For instance, at the beginning of the story, he feels a sense of impending doom. At the same time, he is the only one who has a positive outlook on Kevin's situation: he suspects that Kevin has a power that hasn't been discovered or isn't well-understood yet, but the rest of the family (including Kevin himself) figure that he doesn't have any special abilities at all. This is particularly contrasted with Kevin's mother, who doesn't ever speak highly of Kevin. Tim's encouragement gives Kevin hope for his own future regularly, and it helps him to know that someone is nice to him and doesn't think he is useless. "
"Describe the circumstances that led to Kevin's power not being discovered until he was twenty-six years old. </s>     Jack of No Trades     By EVELYN E. SMITH     Illustrated by CAVAT     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy October 1955.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright     on this publication was renewed.]        I was psick of Psi powers, not having any. Or didn't I? Maybe they'dpsee otherwise psomeday!        I walked into the dining room and collided with a floating mass offabric, which promptly draped itself over me like a sentient shroud.     Oh, for God's sake, Kevin! my middle brother's voice came muffledthrough the folds. If you can't help, at least don't hinder!     I managed to struggle out of the tablecloth, even though it seemed tobe trying to wrap itself around me. When Danny got excited, he lost hismental grip.     I could help, I yelled as soon as I got my head free, if anybodywould let me and, what's more, I could set the table a damn sightfaster by hand than you do with 'kinesis.     Just then Father appeared at the head of the table. He could as easilyhave walked downstairs as teleported, but I belonged to a family ofexhibitionists. And Father tended to show off as if he were still akid. Not that he looked his age—he was big and blond, like Danny andTim and me, and could have passed for our older brother.     Boys, boys! he reproved us. Danny, you ought to be ashamed ofyourself—picking on poor Kev.     Even if it hadn't been Danny's fault, he would still have been blamed.     Nobody was ever supposed to raise a voice or a hand or a thought topoor afflicted Kev, because nature had picked on me enough. And thenicer everybody was to me, the nastier I became, since only when theylost their tempers could I get—or so I believed—their true attitudetoward me.     How else could I tell?     Sorry, fella, Dan apologized to me. The tablecloth spread itself outon the table. Wrinkles, he grumbled to himself. Wrinkles. And I hadit so nice and smooth before. Mother will be furious.     If she were going to be furious, she'd be furious already, Fatherreminded him sadly. It must be tough to be married to a deep-probetelepath, I thought, and I felt a sudden wave of sympathy for him. Itwas so seldom I got the chance to feel sorry for anyone except myself.But I think you'll find she understands.     She knows, all right, Danny remarked as he went on into the kitchen,but I'm not sure she always understands.     I was surprised to find him so perceptive on the abstract level,because he wasn't what you might call an understanding person, either.  There are tensions in this room, my sister announced as she slouchedin, not quite awake yet, and hatred. I could feel them all the wayupstairs. And today I'm working on the Sleepsweet Mattress copy, so Imust feel absolutely tranquil. Everyone will think beautiful thoughts,please.     She sat down just as a glass of orange juice was arriving at herplace; Danny apparently didn't know she'd come in already. The glassbumped into the back of her neck, tilted and poured its contents overher shoulder and down her very considerable decolletage. Being a mereprimitive, I couldn't help laughing.     Danny, you fumbler! she screamed.     Danny erupted from the kitchen. How many times have I asked all of younot to sit down until I've got everything on the table? Always a lot ofinterfering busybodies getting in the way.     I don't see why you have to set the table at all, she retorted. Arobot could do it better and faster than you. Even Kev could. Sheturned quickly toward me. Oh, I am sorry, Kevin.     I didn't say anything; I was too busy pressing my hands down on theback of the chair to make my knuckles turn white.     Sylvia's face turned even whiter. Father, stop him—      stop     him! He'shating again! I can't stand it!     Father looked at me, then at her. I don't think he can help it,Sylvia.     I grinned. That's right—I'm just a poor atavism with no control overmyself a-tall.     Finally my mother came in from the kitchen; she was an old-fashionedwoman and didn't hold with robocooks. One quick glance at me gave herthe complete details, even though I quickly protested, It's illegal toprobe anyone without permission.     I used to probe you to find out when you needed your diapers changed,she said tartly, and I'll probe you now. You should watch yourself,Sylvia—poor Kevin isn't responsible.     She didn't need to probe to get the blast of naked emotion that spurtedout from me. My sister screamed and even Father looked uncomfortable.Danny stomped back into the kitchen, muttering to himself.     Mother's lips tightened. Sylvia, go upstairs and change your dress.Kevin, do I have to make an appointment for you at the clinic again?A psychiatrist never diagnosed members of his own family—that is, notofficially; they couldn't help offering thumbnail diagnoses any morethan they could help having thumbnails.     No use, I said, deciding it was safe to drop into my chair. Who canadjust me to an environment to which I'm fundamentally unsuited?     Maybe there is something physically wrong with him, Amy, my fathersuggested hopefully. Maybe you should make an appointment for him atthe cure-all?     Mother shook her neatly coiffed head. He's been to it dozens of timesand he always checks out in splendid shape. None of us can spare thetime to go with him again, just on an off-chance, and he could hardlybe allowed to make such a long trip all by himself. Pity there isn't amachine in every community, but, then, we don't really need them.  Now that the virus diseases had been licked, people hardly evergot sick any more and, when they did, it was mostly psychosomatic.Life was so well organized that there weren't even many accidentsthese days. It was a safe, orderly existence for those who fittedinto it—which accounted for more than ninety-five per cent of thepopulation. The only ones who didn't adjust were those who couldn't,like me—psi-deficients, throwbacks to an earlier era. There were nophysical cripples, because anybody could have a new arm or a new leggrafted on, but you couldn't graft psi powers onto an atavism or, ifyou could, the technique hadn't been developed yet.     I feel a sense of impending doom brooding over this household, myyoungest brother remarked cheerfully as he vaulted into his chair.     You always do, Timothy, my mother said, unfolding her napkin. And Imust say it's not in good taste, especially at breakfast.     He reached for his juice. Guess this is a doomed household. And whatwas all that emotional uproar about?     The usual, Sylvia said from the doorway before anyone else couldanswer. She slid warily into her chair. Hey, Dan, I'm here! shecalled. If anything else comes in, it comes in manually, understand?     Oh, all right. Dan emerged from the kitchen with a tray of foodfloating ahead of him.     The usual? Trouble with Kev? Tim looked at me narrowly. Somehow mysense of ominousness is connected with him.     Well, that's perfectly natural— Sylvia began, then stopped as Mothercaught her eye.     I didn't mean that, Tim said. I still say Kev's got something wecan't figure out.     You've been saying that for years, Danny protested, and he's beentested for every faculty under the Sun. He can't telepath or teleportor telekinesthesize or even teletype. He can't precognize or prefix orprepossess. He can't—     Strictly a bundle of no-talent, that's me, I interrupted, trying tokeep my animal feelings from getting the better of me. That was how myfamily thought of me, I knew—as an animal, and not a very lovable one,either.     No, Tim said, he's just got something we haven't developed a testfor. It'll come out some day, you'll see. He smiled at me.  I smiled at him gratefully; he was the only member of my family whoreally seemed to like me in spite of my handicap. It won't work, Tim.I know you're trying to be kind, but—     He's not saying it just to be kind, my mother put in. He means it.Not that I want to arouse false hopes, Kevin, she added with grimscrupulousness. Tim's awfully young yet and I wouldn't trust hisextracurricular prognostications too far.     Nonetheless, I couldn't help feeling a feeble renewal of old hopes.After all, young or not, Tim was a hell of a good prognosticator; hewouldn't have risen so rapidly to the position he held in the WeatherBureau if he hadn't been pretty near tops in foreboding.     Mother smiled sadly at my thoughts, but I didn't let that discourageme. As Danny had said, she      knew     but she didn't really      understand     .Nobody, for all of his or her psi power, really understood me.  Breakfast was finally over and the rest of my family dispersed to theirvarious jobs. Father simply took his briefcase and disappeared—he wasa traveling salesman and he had a morning appointment clear across thecontinent. The others, not having his particular gift, had to takethe helibus to their different destinations. Mother, as I said, was apsychiatrist. Sylvia wrote advertising copy. Tim was a meteorologist.Dan was a junior executive in a furniture moving company and expected apromotion to senior rank as soon as he achieved a better mental grip onpianos.     Only I had no job, no profession, no place in life. Of course therewere certain menial tasks a psi-negative could perform, but my parentswould have none of them—partly for my sake, but mostly for the sake oftheir own community standing.     We don't need what little money Kev could bring in, my father alwayssaid. I can afford to support my family. He can stay home and takecare of the house.     And that's what I did. Not that there was much to do except call atechno whenever one of the servomechanisms missed a beat. True enough,those things had to be watched mighty carefully because, if they brokedown, it sometimes took days before the repair and/or replacementrobots could come. There never were enough of them because ours was aconstructive society. Still, being a machine-sitter isn't very much ofa career. And every function that wasn't the prerogative of a machinecould be done ten times more quickly and efficiently by some member ofmy family than I could do it. If I went ahead and did something anyway,they would just do it all over again when they got home.     So I had nothing to do all day. I had a special dispensation totake books out of the local Archives, because I was a deficient andcouldn't receive the tellie programs. Almost everybody on Earth wastelepathic to some degree and could get the amplified projections evenif he couldn't transmit or receive with his natural powers. But I gotnothing. I had to derive all my recreation from reading, and you canget awfully tired of books, especially when they're all at least ahundred years old and written by primitives. I could borrow soundtapes, but they also bored me after a while.     I thought maybe I could develop a talent for composing or painting,which would classify me as a telesensitive—artistic ability beingconsidered as the oldest, if least important, psi power—but I couldn'teven do anything like that.     About all there was left for me was to take long walks. Athletics wereout of the question; I couldn't compete with psi-boys and they didn'twant to compete with me. All the people in the neighborhood knew meand were nice to me, but I didn't need to be a 'path to tell what theywere saying to one another when I hove into sight. There's that oldestFaraday boy. Pity, such a talented family, to have a defective.       I didn't have a girl, either. Although some of them were sort ofattracted to me—I could see that—they could hardly go out with mewithout exposing themselves to ridicule. In their sandals, I would havedone the same thing, but that didn't stop me from hating them.  I wished I had been born a couple of hundred years ago—before peoplestarted playing around with nuclear energy and filling the air withradiations that they were afraid would turn human beings into hideousmonsters. Instead, they developed the psi powers that had always beenlatent in the species until we developed into a race of supermen. Idon't know why I say      we     —in 1960 or so, I might have been consideredsuperior, but in 2102 I was just the Faradays' idiot boy.     Exploring space should have been my hope. If there had been anythinguseful or interesting on any of the other planets, I might have founda niche for myself there. In totally new surroundings, the psi powersgeared to another environment might not be an advantage. But by thetime I was ten, it was discovered that the other planets were justbarren hunks of rock, with pressures and climates and atmospheresdrastically unsuited to human life. A year or so before, the hyperdrivehad been developed on Earth and ships had been sent out to explore thestars, but I had no hope left in that direction any more.     I was an atavism in a world of peace and plenty. Peace, because peoplecouldn't indulge in war or even crime with so many telepaths runningaround—not because, I told myself, the capacity for primitive behaviorwasn't just as latent in everybody else as the psi talent seemed latentin me. Tim must be right, I thought—I must have some undreamed-ofpower that only the right circumstances would bring out. But what wasthat power?     For years I had speculated on what my potential talent might be,explored every wild possibility I could conceive of and found noneproductive of even an ambiguous result with which I could fool myself.As I approached adulthood, I began to concede that I was probablynothing more than what I seemed to be—a simple psi-negative. Yet, fromtime to time, hope surged up again, as it had today, in spite of myknowledge that my hope was an impossibility. Who ever heard of latentpsi powers showing themselves in an individual as old as twenty-six?     I was almost alone in the parks where I used to walk, because peopleliked to commune with one another those days rather than with nature.Even gardening had very little popularity. But I found myself most athome in those woodland—or, rather, pseudo-woodland—surroundings,able to identify more readily with the trees and flowers than I couldwith my own kind. A fallen tree or a broken blossom would excite moresympathy from me than the minor catastrophes that will beset anyhousehold, no matter how gifted, and I would shy away from bloodynoses or cut fingers, thus giving myself a reputation for callousnessas well as extrasensory imbecility.     However, I was no more callous in steering clear of human breakdownsthan I was in not shedding tears over the household machines when theybroke down, for I felt no more closely akin to my parents and siblingsthan I did to the mechanisms that served and, sometimes, failed us.  On that day, I walked farther than I had intended and, by the time Igot back home, I found the rest of my family had returned before me.They seemed to be excited about something and were surprised to see meso calm.     Aren't you even interested in anything outside your own immediateconcerns, Kev? Sylvia demanded, despite Father's efforts to shush her.     Can't you remember that Kev isn't able to receive the tellies? Timshot back at her. He probably doesn't even know what's happened.     Well, what did happen? I asked, trying not to snap.     One starship got back from Alpha Centauri, Danny said excitedly.There are two inhabited Earth-type planets there!     This was for me; this was it at last! I tried not to show myenthusiasm, though I knew that was futile. My relatives could keeptheir thoughts and emotions from me; I couldn't keep mine from them.What kind of life inhabits them? Humanoid?     Uh-uh. Danny shook his head. And hostile. The crew of the starshipsays they were attacked immediately on landing. When they turned andleft, they were followed here by one of the alien ships. Must be apretty advanced race to have spaceships. Anyhow, the extraterrestrialship headed back as soon as it got a fix on where ours was going.     But if they're hostile, I said thoughtfully, it might mean war.     Of course. That's why everybody's so wrought up. We hope it's peace,but we'll have to prepare for war just in case.     There hadn't been a war on Earth for well over a hundred years, butwe hadn't been so foolish as to obliterate all knowledge of militarytechniques and weapons. The alien ship wouldn't be able to come backwith reinforcements—if such were its intention—in less than sixmonths. This meant time to get together a stockpile of weapons, thoughwe had no idea of how effective our defenses would be against thealiens' armament.     They might have strange and terrible weapons against which we wouldbe powerless. On the other hand, our side would have the benefitsof telekinetically guided missiles, teleported saboteurs, telepathsto pick up the alien strategy, and prognosticators to determine theoutcome of each battle and see whether it was worth fighting in thefirst place.     Everybody on Earth hoped for peace. Everybody, that is, except me. Ihad been unable to achieve any sense of identity with the world inwhich I lived, and it was almost worth the loss of personal survivalto know that my own smug species could look silly against a still moretalented race.  It isn't so much our defense that worries me, my mother muttered, aslack of adequate medical machinery. War is bound to mean casualtiesand there aren't enough cure-alls on the planet to take care of them.It's useless to expect the government to build more right now; they'llbe too busy producing weapons. Sylvia, you'd better take a leave ofabsence from your job and come down to Psycho Center to learn first-aidtechniques. And you too, Kevin, she added, obviously a littlesurprised herself at what she was saying. Probably you'd be evenbetter at it than Sylvia since you aren't sensitive to other people'spain.     I looked at her.     It      is     an ill wind, she agreed, smiling wryly, but don't let mecatch you thinking that way, Kevin. Can't you see it would be betterthat there should be no war and you should remain useless?     I couldn't see it, of course, and she knew that, with her wretchedtalent for stripping away my feeble attempts at privacy. Psi-powersusually included some ability to form a mental shield; being withoutone, I was necessarily devoid of the other.     My attitude didn't matter, though, because it was definitely war. Thealiens came back with a fleet clearly bent on our annihilation—eventhe 'paths couldn't figure out their motives, for the thought patternwas entirely different from ours—and the war was on.     I had enjoyed learning first-aid; it was the first time I had everworked with people as an equal. And I was good at it because psi-powersaren't much of an advantage there. Telekinesis maybe a little, butI was big enough to lift anybody without needing any superhumanabilities—normal human abilities, rather.     Gee, Mr. Faraday, one of the other students breathed, you're sostrong. And without 'kinesis or anything.     I looked at her and liked what I saw. She was blonde and pretty. Myname's not Mr. Faraday, I said. It's Kevin.     My name's Lucy, she giggled.     No girl had ever giggled at me in that way before. Immediately Istarted to envision a beautiful future for the two of us, then flushedwhen I realized that she might be a telepath. But she was winding atourniquet around the arm of another member of the class with apparentunconcern.     Hey, quit that! the windee yelled. You're making it too tight! I'llbe mortified!     So Lucy was obviously not a telepath. Later I found out she was onlya low-grade telesensitive—just a poetess—so I had nothing to worryabout as far as having my thoughts read went. I was a little afraid ofSylvia's kidding me about my first romance, but, as it happened, shegot interested in one of the guys who was taking the class with us, andshe was not only too busy to be bothered with me, but in too vulnerablea position herself.     However, when the actual bombs—or their alien equivalent—struck nearour town, I wasn't nearly so happy, especially after they startedcarrying the wounded into the Psycho Center, which had been turned intoa hospital for the duration. I took one look at the gory scene—I hadnever seen anybody really injured before; few people had, as a matterof fact—and started for the door. But Mother was already blocking theway. It was easy to see from which side of the family Tim had got histalent for prognostication.     If the telepaths who can pick up all the pain can stand this, Kevin,she said,       you     certainly can. And there was no kindness at all inthe      you     .     She gave me a shove toward the nearest stretcher. Go on—now's yourchance to show you're of some use in this world.  Gritting my teeth, I turned to the man on the stretcher. Something hadpretty near torn half his face away. It was all there, but not in theright place, and it wasn't pretty. I turned away, caught my mother'seye, and then I didn't even dare to throw up. I looked at that smashedface again and all the first-aid lessons I'd had flew out of my head asif some super-psi had plucked them from me.     The man was bleeding terribly. I had never seen blood pouring out likethat before. The first thing to do, I figured sickly, was mop it up. Iwet a sponge and dabbed gingerly at the face, but my hands were shakingso hard that the sponge slipped and my fingers were on the raw gapingwound. I could feel the warm viscosity of the blood and nothing, noteven my mother, could keep my meal down this time, I thought.     Mother had uttered a sound of exasperation as I dropped the sponge. Icould hear her coming toward me. Then I heard her gasp. I looked at mypatient and my mouth dropped open. For suddenly there was no wound,no wound at all—just a little blood and the fellow's face was wholeagain. Not even a scar.     Wha—wha happened? he asked. It doesn't hurt any more!     He touched his cheek and looked up at me with frightened eyes. And Iwas frightened, too—too frightened to be sick, too frightened to doanything but stare witlessly at him.     Touch some of the others, quick! my mother commanded, pushingastounded attendants away from stretchers.     I touched broken limbs and torn bodies and shattered heads, and theywere whole again right away. Everybody in the room was looking at me inthe way I had always dreamed of being looked at. Lucy was opening andshutting her beautiful mouth like a beautiful fish. In fact, the wholething was just like a dream, except that I was awake. I couldn't haveimagined all those horrors.     But the horrors soon weren't horrors any more. I began to find themalmost pleasing; the worse a wound was, the more I appreciated it.There was so much more satisfaction, virtually an esthetic thrill, inseeing a horrible jagged tear smooth away, heal, not in days, as itwould have done under the cure-all, but in seconds.     Timothy was right, my mother said, her eyes filled with tears, andI was wrong ever to have doubted. You have a gift, son— and she saidthe word son loud and clear so that everybody could hear it—thegreatest gift of all, that of healing. She looked at me proudly. AndLucy and the others looked at me as if I were a god or something.     I felt ... well, good.  I wonder why we never thought of healing as a potential psi-power, mymother said to me later, when I was catching a snatch of rest and shewas lighting cigarettes and offering me cups of coffee in an attempt tomake up twenty-six years of indifference, perhaps dislike, all at once.The ability to heal      is     recorded in history, only we never paid muchattention to it.     Recorded? I asked, a little jealously.     Of course, she smiled. Remember the King's Evil?     I should have known without her reminding me, after all the old books Ihad read. Scrofula, wasn't it? They called it that because the touchof certain kings was supposed to cure it ... and other diseases, too, Iguess.     She nodded. Certain people must have had the healing power and that'sprobably why they originally got to be the rulers.     In a very short time, I became a pretty important person. All the otherdeficients in the world were tested for the healing power and all ofthem turned out negative. I proved to be the only human healer alive,and not only that, I could work a thousand times more efficiently andeffectively than any of the machines. The government built a hospitaljust for my work! Wounded people were ferried there from all over theworld and I cured them. I could do practically everything except raisethe dead and sometimes I wondered whether, with a little practice, Iwouldn't be able to do even that.     When I came to my new office, whom did I find waiting there for me butLucy, her trim figure enhanced by a snug blue and white uniform. I'myour assistant, Kev, she said shyly.     I looked at her. You are?     I—I hope you want me, she went on, coyness now mixing withapprehension.     I gave her shoulder a squeeze. I do want you, Lucy. More than I cantell you now. After all this is over, there's something more I want tosay. But right now— I clapped her arm—there's a job to be done.     Yes, Kevin, she said, glaring at me for some reason I didn't havetime to investigate or interpret at the moment. My patients werewaiting for me.     They gave me everything else I could possibly need, except enoughsleep, and I myself didn't want that. I wanted to heal. I wanted toshow my fellow human beings that, though I couldn't receive or transmitthoughts or foretell the future or move things with my mind, all thosepowers were useless without life, and that was what I could give.     I took pride in my work. It was good to stop pain and ugliness, to knowthat, if it weren't for me, these people would be dead or permanentlydisfigured. In a sense, they were—well, my children; I felt a warmglow of affection toward them.     They felt the same way toward me. I knew because the secret of thehospital soon leaked out—during all those years of peace, thegovernment had lost whatever facility it had for keeping secrets—andpeople used to come in droves, hoping for a glimpse of me.  The government pointed out that such crowds outside the building mightattract the enemy's attention. I was the most important individual onEarth, they told my followers, and my safety couldn't be risked. Thehuman race at this stage was pretty docile. The crowds went away. Andit was right that they should; I didn't want to be risked any more thanthey wanted to risk me.     Plenty of people did come to see me officially—the President,generals, all kinds of big wheels, bringing citations, medals and otherobsolete honors they'd revived primarily for me. It was wonderful. Ibegan to love everybody.     Don't you think you're putting too much of yourself into this, Kev?Lucy asked me one day.     I gave her an incredulous glance. You mean I shouldn't help people?     Of course you should help them. I didn't mean anything like that.Just ... well, you're getting too bound up in your work.     Why shouldn't I be? Then the truth, as I thought, dawned on me. Areyou jealous, Lucy?     She lowered her eyes. Not only that, but the war's bound to come toan end, you know, and—     It was the first part of her sentence that interested me. Why, do youmean—     And just then a fresh batch of casualties arrived and I had to tend tothem. For the next few days, I was so busy, I didn't get the chance tohave the long talk with Lucy I'd wanted....     Then, after only four months, the war suddenly stopped. It seemedthat the aliens' weapons, despite their undeniable mysteriousness,were not equal to ours. And they had the added disadvantage of beinglight-years away from home base. So the remnant of their fleet took offand blew itself up just outside of Mars, which we understood to be theequivalent of unconditional surrender. And it was; we never heard fromthe Centaurians again.     Peace once more. I had a little mopping up to do at the hospital; thenI collected my possessions and went back home after a dignitary—onlythe Vice President this time—had thanked me on behalf of a gratefulcountry. I wasn't needed any more.  ","n the year 2102, when this story takes place, 95% of the population has psi-powers. Because of the advancement of technology and medicine, physical ailments are easily and quickly remedied. There is even a cure-all that can heal most things, so it is not often that sickness or injury is relevant to life in the society that Kevin and his family live in. However, everything changes when an alien race from Alpha Centauri wages war on the humans. Unknown weapons mean unknown damage, and injury is out of the humans' control. Because Kevin does not have any psi-powers, he is encouraged to learn first aid so that he can be useful during the war. He is expected to be especially good at first aid because he does not feel the emotions of the injured in the way that telepaths do, and thus he should be able to stay more level-headed. However, he is even more effective in first aid that anyone imagined, because when he touches an injured person they heal almost instantaneously. What usually takes days with cure-all is achieved in mere seconds with a touch of Kevin's hand. It is not only the lack of violence that led to Kevin's power going unnoticed: he is the only person in the world with his powers, which makes it incredibly rare, instead of just being a power that nobody was looking for. "
"How are people without psi-powers seen in this society? </s>     Jack of No Trades     By EVELYN E. SMITH     Illustrated by CAVAT     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy October 1955.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright     on this publication was renewed.]        I was psick of Psi powers, not having any. Or didn't I? Maybe they'dpsee otherwise psomeday!        I walked into the dining room and collided with a floating mass offabric, which promptly draped itself over me like a sentient shroud.     Oh, for God's sake, Kevin! my middle brother's voice came muffledthrough the folds. If you can't help, at least don't hinder!     I managed to struggle out of the tablecloth, even though it seemed tobe trying to wrap itself around me. When Danny got excited, he lost hismental grip.     I could help, I yelled as soon as I got my head free, if anybodywould let me and, what's more, I could set the table a damn sightfaster by hand than you do with 'kinesis.     Just then Father appeared at the head of the table. He could as easilyhave walked downstairs as teleported, but I belonged to a family ofexhibitionists. And Father tended to show off as if he were still akid. Not that he looked his age—he was big and blond, like Danny andTim and me, and could have passed for our older brother.     Boys, boys! he reproved us. Danny, you ought to be ashamed ofyourself—picking on poor Kev.     Even if it hadn't been Danny's fault, he would still have been blamed.     Nobody was ever supposed to raise a voice or a hand or a thought topoor afflicted Kev, because nature had picked on me enough. And thenicer everybody was to me, the nastier I became, since only when theylost their tempers could I get—or so I believed—their true attitudetoward me.     How else could I tell?     Sorry, fella, Dan apologized to me. The tablecloth spread itself outon the table. Wrinkles, he grumbled to himself. Wrinkles. And I hadit so nice and smooth before. Mother will be furious.     If she were going to be furious, she'd be furious already, Fatherreminded him sadly. It must be tough to be married to a deep-probetelepath, I thought, and I felt a sudden wave of sympathy for him. Itwas so seldom I got the chance to feel sorry for anyone except myself.But I think you'll find she understands.     She knows, all right, Danny remarked as he went on into the kitchen,but I'm not sure she always understands.     I was surprised to find him so perceptive on the abstract level,because he wasn't what you might call an understanding person, either.  There are tensions in this room, my sister announced as she slouchedin, not quite awake yet, and hatred. I could feel them all the wayupstairs. And today I'm working on the Sleepsweet Mattress copy, so Imust feel absolutely tranquil. Everyone will think beautiful thoughts,please.     She sat down just as a glass of orange juice was arriving at herplace; Danny apparently didn't know she'd come in already. The glassbumped into the back of her neck, tilted and poured its contents overher shoulder and down her very considerable decolletage. Being a mereprimitive, I couldn't help laughing.     Danny, you fumbler! she screamed.     Danny erupted from the kitchen. How many times have I asked all of younot to sit down until I've got everything on the table? Always a lot ofinterfering busybodies getting in the way.     I don't see why you have to set the table at all, she retorted. Arobot could do it better and faster than you. Even Kev could. Sheturned quickly toward me. Oh, I am sorry, Kevin.     I didn't say anything; I was too busy pressing my hands down on theback of the chair to make my knuckles turn white.     Sylvia's face turned even whiter. Father, stop him—      stop     him! He'shating again! I can't stand it!     Father looked at me, then at her. I don't think he can help it,Sylvia.     I grinned. That's right—I'm just a poor atavism with no control overmyself a-tall.     Finally my mother came in from the kitchen; she was an old-fashionedwoman and didn't hold with robocooks. One quick glance at me gave herthe complete details, even though I quickly protested, It's illegal toprobe anyone without permission.     I used to probe you to find out when you needed your diapers changed,she said tartly, and I'll probe you now. You should watch yourself,Sylvia—poor Kevin isn't responsible.     She didn't need to probe to get the blast of naked emotion that spurtedout from me. My sister screamed and even Father looked uncomfortable.Danny stomped back into the kitchen, muttering to himself.     Mother's lips tightened. Sylvia, go upstairs and change your dress.Kevin, do I have to make an appointment for you at the clinic again?A psychiatrist never diagnosed members of his own family—that is, notofficially; they couldn't help offering thumbnail diagnoses any morethan they could help having thumbnails.     No use, I said, deciding it was safe to drop into my chair. Who canadjust me to an environment to which I'm fundamentally unsuited?     Maybe there is something physically wrong with him, Amy, my fathersuggested hopefully. Maybe you should make an appointment for him atthe cure-all?     Mother shook her neatly coiffed head. He's been to it dozens of timesand he always checks out in splendid shape. None of us can spare thetime to go with him again, just on an off-chance, and he could hardlybe allowed to make such a long trip all by himself. Pity there isn't amachine in every community, but, then, we don't really need them.  Now that the virus diseases had been licked, people hardly evergot sick any more and, when they did, it was mostly psychosomatic.Life was so well organized that there weren't even many accidentsthese days. It was a safe, orderly existence for those who fittedinto it—which accounted for more than ninety-five per cent of thepopulation. The only ones who didn't adjust were those who couldn't,like me—psi-deficients, throwbacks to an earlier era. There were nophysical cripples, because anybody could have a new arm or a new leggrafted on, but you couldn't graft psi powers onto an atavism or, ifyou could, the technique hadn't been developed yet.     I feel a sense of impending doom brooding over this household, myyoungest brother remarked cheerfully as he vaulted into his chair.     You always do, Timothy, my mother said, unfolding her napkin. And Imust say it's not in good taste, especially at breakfast.     He reached for his juice. Guess this is a doomed household. And whatwas all that emotional uproar about?     The usual, Sylvia said from the doorway before anyone else couldanswer. She slid warily into her chair. Hey, Dan, I'm here! shecalled. If anything else comes in, it comes in manually, understand?     Oh, all right. Dan emerged from the kitchen with a tray of foodfloating ahead of him.     The usual? Trouble with Kev? Tim looked at me narrowly. Somehow mysense of ominousness is connected with him.     Well, that's perfectly natural— Sylvia began, then stopped as Mothercaught her eye.     I didn't mean that, Tim said. I still say Kev's got something wecan't figure out.     You've been saying that for years, Danny protested, and he's beentested for every faculty under the Sun. He can't telepath or teleportor telekinesthesize or even teletype. He can't precognize or prefix orprepossess. He can't—     Strictly a bundle of no-talent, that's me, I interrupted, trying tokeep my animal feelings from getting the better of me. That was how myfamily thought of me, I knew—as an animal, and not a very lovable one,either.     No, Tim said, he's just got something we haven't developed a testfor. It'll come out some day, you'll see. He smiled at me.  I smiled at him gratefully; he was the only member of my family whoreally seemed to like me in spite of my handicap. It won't work, Tim.I know you're trying to be kind, but—     He's not saying it just to be kind, my mother put in. He means it.Not that I want to arouse false hopes, Kevin, she added with grimscrupulousness. Tim's awfully young yet and I wouldn't trust hisextracurricular prognostications too far.     Nonetheless, I couldn't help feeling a feeble renewal of old hopes.After all, young or not, Tim was a hell of a good prognosticator; hewouldn't have risen so rapidly to the position he held in the WeatherBureau if he hadn't been pretty near tops in foreboding.     Mother smiled sadly at my thoughts, but I didn't let that discourageme. As Danny had said, she      knew     but she didn't really      understand     .Nobody, for all of his or her psi power, really understood me.  Breakfast was finally over and the rest of my family dispersed to theirvarious jobs. Father simply took his briefcase and disappeared—he wasa traveling salesman and he had a morning appointment clear across thecontinent. The others, not having his particular gift, had to takethe helibus to their different destinations. Mother, as I said, was apsychiatrist. Sylvia wrote advertising copy. Tim was a meteorologist.Dan was a junior executive in a furniture moving company and expected apromotion to senior rank as soon as he achieved a better mental grip onpianos.     Only I had no job, no profession, no place in life. Of course therewere certain menial tasks a psi-negative could perform, but my parentswould have none of them—partly for my sake, but mostly for the sake oftheir own community standing.     We don't need what little money Kev could bring in, my father alwayssaid. I can afford to support my family. He can stay home and takecare of the house.     And that's what I did. Not that there was much to do except call atechno whenever one of the servomechanisms missed a beat. True enough,those things had to be watched mighty carefully because, if they brokedown, it sometimes took days before the repair and/or replacementrobots could come. There never were enough of them because ours was aconstructive society. Still, being a machine-sitter isn't very much ofa career. And every function that wasn't the prerogative of a machinecould be done ten times more quickly and efficiently by some member ofmy family than I could do it. If I went ahead and did something anyway,they would just do it all over again when they got home.     So I had nothing to do all day. I had a special dispensation totake books out of the local Archives, because I was a deficient andcouldn't receive the tellie programs. Almost everybody on Earth wastelepathic to some degree and could get the amplified projections evenif he couldn't transmit or receive with his natural powers. But I gotnothing. I had to derive all my recreation from reading, and you canget awfully tired of books, especially when they're all at least ahundred years old and written by primitives. I could borrow soundtapes, but they also bored me after a while.     I thought maybe I could develop a talent for composing or painting,which would classify me as a telesensitive—artistic ability beingconsidered as the oldest, if least important, psi power—but I couldn'teven do anything like that.     About all there was left for me was to take long walks. Athletics wereout of the question; I couldn't compete with psi-boys and they didn'twant to compete with me. All the people in the neighborhood knew meand were nice to me, but I didn't need to be a 'path to tell what theywere saying to one another when I hove into sight. There's that oldestFaraday boy. Pity, such a talented family, to have a defective.       I didn't have a girl, either. Although some of them were sort ofattracted to me—I could see that—they could hardly go out with mewithout exposing themselves to ridicule. In their sandals, I would havedone the same thing, but that didn't stop me from hating them.  I wished I had been born a couple of hundred years ago—before peoplestarted playing around with nuclear energy and filling the air withradiations that they were afraid would turn human beings into hideousmonsters. Instead, they developed the psi powers that had always beenlatent in the species until we developed into a race of supermen. Idon't know why I say      we     —in 1960 or so, I might have been consideredsuperior, but in 2102 I was just the Faradays' idiot boy.     Exploring space should have been my hope. If there had been anythinguseful or interesting on any of the other planets, I might have founda niche for myself there. In totally new surroundings, the psi powersgeared to another environment might not be an advantage. But by thetime I was ten, it was discovered that the other planets were justbarren hunks of rock, with pressures and climates and atmospheresdrastically unsuited to human life. A year or so before, the hyperdrivehad been developed on Earth and ships had been sent out to explore thestars, but I had no hope left in that direction any more.     I was an atavism in a world of peace and plenty. Peace, because peoplecouldn't indulge in war or even crime with so many telepaths runningaround—not because, I told myself, the capacity for primitive behaviorwasn't just as latent in everybody else as the psi talent seemed latentin me. Tim must be right, I thought—I must have some undreamed-ofpower that only the right circumstances would bring out. But what wasthat power?     For years I had speculated on what my potential talent might be,explored every wild possibility I could conceive of and found noneproductive of even an ambiguous result with which I could fool myself.As I approached adulthood, I began to concede that I was probablynothing more than what I seemed to be—a simple psi-negative. Yet, fromtime to time, hope surged up again, as it had today, in spite of myknowledge that my hope was an impossibility. Who ever heard of latentpsi powers showing themselves in an individual as old as twenty-six?     I was almost alone in the parks where I used to walk, because peopleliked to commune with one another those days rather than with nature.Even gardening had very little popularity. But I found myself most athome in those woodland—or, rather, pseudo-woodland—surroundings,able to identify more readily with the trees and flowers than I couldwith my own kind. A fallen tree or a broken blossom would excite moresympathy from me than the minor catastrophes that will beset anyhousehold, no matter how gifted, and I would shy away from bloodynoses or cut fingers, thus giving myself a reputation for callousnessas well as extrasensory imbecility.     However, I was no more callous in steering clear of human breakdownsthan I was in not shedding tears over the household machines when theybroke down, for I felt no more closely akin to my parents and siblingsthan I did to the mechanisms that served and, sometimes, failed us.  On that day, I walked farther than I had intended and, by the time Igot back home, I found the rest of my family had returned before me.They seemed to be excited about something and were surprised to see meso calm.     Aren't you even interested in anything outside your own immediateconcerns, Kev? Sylvia demanded, despite Father's efforts to shush her.     Can't you remember that Kev isn't able to receive the tellies? Timshot back at her. He probably doesn't even know what's happened.     Well, what did happen? I asked, trying not to snap.     One starship got back from Alpha Centauri, Danny said excitedly.There are two inhabited Earth-type planets there!     This was for me; this was it at last! I tried not to show myenthusiasm, though I knew that was futile. My relatives could keeptheir thoughts and emotions from me; I couldn't keep mine from them.What kind of life inhabits them? Humanoid?     Uh-uh. Danny shook his head. And hostile. The crew of the starshipsays they were attacked immediately on landing. When they turned andleft, they were followed here by one of the alien ships. Must be apretty advanced race to have spaceships. Anyhow, the extraterrestrialship headed back as soon as it got a fix on where ours was going.     But if they're hostile, I said thoughtfully, it might mean war.     Of course. That's why everybody's so wrought up. We hope it's peace,but we'll have to prepare for war just in case.     There hadn't been a war on Earth for well over a hundred years, butwe hadn't been so foolish as to obliterate all knowledge of militarytechniques and weapons. The alien ship wouldn't be able to come backwith reinforcements—if such were its intention—in less than sixmonths. This meant time to get together a stockpile of weapons, thoughwe had no idea of how effective our defenses would be against thealiens' armament.     They might have strange and terrible weapons against which we wouldbe powerless. On the other hand, our side would have the benefitsof telekinetically guided missiles, teleported saboteurs, telepathsto pick up the alien strategy, and prognosticators to determine theoutcome of each battle and see whether it was worth fighting in thefirst place.     Everybody on Earth hoped for peace. Everybody, that is, except me. Ihad been unable to achieve any sense of identity with the world inwhich I lived, and it was almost worth the loss of personal survivalto know that my own smug species could look silly against a still moretalented race.  It isn't so much our defense that worries me, my mother muttered, aslack of adequate medical machinery. War is bound to mean casualtiesand there aren't enough cure-alls on the planet to take care of them.It's useless to expect the government to build more right now; they'llbe too busy producing weapons. Sylvia, you'd better take a leave ofabsence from your job and come down to Psycho Center to learn first-aidtechniques. And you too, Kevin, she added, obviously a littlesurprised herself at what she was saying. Probably you'd be evenbetter at it than Sylvia since you aren't sensitive to other people'spain.     I looked at her.     It      is     an ill wind, she agreed, smiling wryly, but don't let mecatch you thinking that way, Kevin. Can't you see it would be betterthat there should be no war and you should remain useless?     I couldn't see it, of course, and she knew that, with her wretchedtalent for stripping away my feeble attempts at privacy. Psi-powersusually included some ability to form a mental shield; being withoutone, I was necessarily devoid of the other.     My attitude didn't matter, though, because it was definitely war. Thealiens came back with a fleet clearly bent on our annihilation—eventhe 'paths couldn't figure out their motives, for the thought patternwas entirely different from ours—and the war was on.     I had enjoyed learning first-aid; it was the first time I had everworked with people as an equal. And I was good at it because psi-powersaren't much of an advantage there. Telekinesis maybe a little, butI was big enough to lift anybody without needing any superhumanabilities—normal human abilities, rather.     Gee, Mr. Faraday, one of the other students breathed, you're sostrong. And without 'kinesis or anything.     I looked at her and liked what I saw. She was blonde and pretty. Myname's not Mr. Faraday, I said. It's Kevin.     My name's Lucy, she giggled.     No girl had ever giggled at me in that way before. Immediately Istarted to envision a beautiful future for the two of us, then flushedwhen I realized that she might be a telepath. But she was winding atourniquet around the arm of another member of the class with apparentunconcern.     Hey, quit that! the windee yelled. You're making it too tight! I'llbe mortified!     So Lucy was obviously not a telepath. Later I found out she was onlya low-grade telesensitive—just a poetess—so I had nothing to worryabout as far as having my thoughts read went. I was a little afraid ofSylvia's kidding me about my first romance, but, as it happened, shegot interested in one of the guys who was taking the class with us, andshe was not only too busy to be bothered with me, but in too vulnerablea position herself.     However, when the actual bombs—or their alien equivalent—struck nearour town, I wasn't nearly so happy, especially after they startedcarrying the wounded into the Psycho Center, which had been turned intoa hospital for the duration. I took one look at the gory scene—I hadnever seen anybody really injured before; few people had, as a matterof fact—and started for the door. But Mother was already blocking theway. It was easy to see from which side of the family Tim had got histalent for prognostication.     If the telepaths who can pick up all the pain can stand this, Kevin,she said,       you     certainly can. And there was no kindness at all inthe      you     .     She gave me a shove toward the nearest stretcher. Go on—now's yourchance to show you're of some use in this world.  Gritting my teeth, I turned to the man on the stretcher. Something hadpretty near torn half his face away. It was all there, but not in theright place, and it wasn't pretty. I turned away, caught my mother'seye, and then I didn't even dare to throw up. I looked at that smashedface again and all the first-aid lessons I'd had flew out of my head asif some super-psi had plucked them from me.     The man was bleeding terribly. I had never seen blood pouring out likethat before. The first thing to do, I figured sickly, was mop it up. Iwet a sponge and dabbed gingerly at the face, but my hands were shakingso hard that the sponge slipped and my fingers were on the raw gapingwound. I could feel the warm viscosity of the blood and nothing, noteven my mother, could keep my meal down this time, I thought.     Mother had uttered a sound of exasperation as I dropped the sponge. Icould hear her coming toward me. Then I heard her gasp. I looked at mypatient and my mouth dropped open. For suddenly there was no wound,no wound at all—just a little blood and the fellow's face was wholeagain. Not even a scar.     Wha—wha happened? he asked. It doesn't hurt any more!     He touched his cheek and looked up at me with frightened eyes. And Iwas frightened, too—too frightened to be sick, too frightened to doanything but stare witlessly at him.     Touch some of the others, quick! my mother commanded, pushingastounded attendants away from stretchers.     I touched broken limbs and torn bodies and shattered heads, and theywere whole again right away. Everybody in the room was looking at me inthe way I had always dreamed of being looked at. Lucy was opening andshutting her beautiful mouth like a beautiful fish. In fact, the wholething was just like a dream, except that I was awake. I couldn't haveimagined all those horrors.     But the horrors soon weren't horrors any more. I began to find themalmost pleasing; the worse a wound was, the more I appreciated it.There was so much more satisfaction, virtually an esthetic thrill, inseeing a horrible jagged tear smooth away, heal, not in days, as itwould have done under the cure-all, but in seconds.     Timothy was right, my mother said, her eyes filled with tears, andI was wrong ever to have doubted. You have a gift, son— and she saidthe word son loud and clear so that everybody could hear it—thegreatest gift of all, that of healing. She looked at me proudly. AndLucy and the others looked at me as if I were a god or something.     I felt ... well, good.  I wonder why we never thought of healing as a potential psi-power, mymother said to me later, when I was catching a snatch of rest and shewas lighting cigarettes and offering me cups of coffee in an attempt tomake up twenty-six years of indifference, perhaps dislike, all at once.The ability to heal      is     recorded in history, only we never paid muchattention to it.     Recorded? I asked, a little jealously.     Of course, she smiled. Remember the King's Evil?     I should have known without her reminding me, after all the old books Ihad read. Scrofula, wasn't it? They called it that because the touchof certain kings was supposed to cure it ... and other diseases, too, Iguess.     She nodded. Certain people must have had the healing power and that'sprobably why they originally got to be the rulers.     In a very short time, I became a pretty important person. All the otherdeficients in the world were tested for the healing power and all ofthem turned out negative. I proved to be the only human healer alive,and not only that, I could work a thousand times more efficiently andeffectively than any of the machines. The government built a hospitaljust for my work! Wounded people were ferried there from all over theworld and I cured them. I could do practically everything except raisethe dead and sometimes I wondered whether, with a little practice, Iwouldn't be able to do even that.     When I came to my new office, whom did I find waiting there for me butLucy, her trim figure enhanced by a snug blue and white uniform. I'myour assistant, Kev, she said shyly.     I looked at her. You are?     I—I hope you want me, she went on, coyness now mixing withapprehension.     I gave her shoulder a squeeze. I do want you, Lucy. More than I cantell you now. After all this is over, there's something more I want tosay. But right now— I clapped her arm—there's a job to be done.     Yes, Kevin, she said, glaring at me for some reason I didn't havetime to investigate or interpret at the moment. My patients werewaiting for me.     They gave me everything else I could possibly need, except enoughsleep, and I myself didn't want that. I wanted to heal. I wanted toshow my fellow human beings that, though I couldn't receive or transmitthoughts or foretell the future or move things with my mind, all thosepowers were useless without life, and that was what I could give.     I took pride in my work. It was good to stop pain and ugliness, to knowthat, if it weren't for me, these people would be dead or permanentlydisfigured. In a sense, they were—well, my children; I felt a warmglow of affection toward them.     They felt the same way toward me. I knew because the secret of thehospital soon leaked out—during all those years of peace, thegovernment had lost whatever facility it had for keeping secrets—andpeople used to come in droves, hoping for a glimpse of me.  The government pointed out that such crowds outside the building mightattract the enemy's attention. I was the most important individual onEarth, they told my followers, and my safety couldn't be risked. Thehuman race at this stage was pretty docile. The crowds went away. Andit was right that they should; I didn't want to be risked any more thanthey wanted to risk me.     Plenty of people did come to see me officially—the President,generals, all kinds of big wheels, bringing citations, medals and otherobsolete honors they'd revived primarily for me. It was wonderful. Ibegan to love everybody.     Don't you think you're putting too much of yourself into this, Kev?Lucy asked me one day.     I gave her an incredulous glance. You mean I shouldn't help people?     Of course you should help them. I didn't mean anything like that.Just ... well, you're getting too bound up in your work.     Why shouldn't I be? Then the truth, as I thought, dawned on me. Areyou jealous, Lucy?     She lowered her eyes. Not only that, but the war's bound to come toan end, you know, and—     It was the first part of her sentence that interested me. Why, do youmean—     And just then a fresh batch of casualties arrived and I had to tend tothem. For the next few days, I was so busy, I didn't get the chance tohave the long talk with Lucy I'd wanted....     Then, after only four months, the war suddenly stopped. It seemedthat the aliens' weapons, despite their undeniable mysteriousness,were not equal to ours. And they had the added disadvantage of beinglight-years away from home base. So the remnant of their fleet took offand blew itself up just outside of Mars, which we understood to be theequivalent of unconditional surrender. And it was; we never heard fromthe Centaurians again.     Peace once more. I had a little mopping up to do at the hospital; thenI collected my possessions and went back home after a dignitary—onlythe Vice President this time—had thanked me on behalf of a gratefulcountry. I wasn't needed any more.  ","Kevin thinks he is one of the 5% of the population that does not have psi-powers, and we can learn a lot about how society sees this group of people by his interactions with his peers and his family. Before realizing he had powers, Kevin had to stay at home to take care of the house. His family knew that he would not be able to make much money in any kind of job without powers, and it would shame their family for him to be working one of those jobs. Even when he is at home, he's often referred to as slow or useless. He has never had many friends because his peers hated playing sports with him, since they couldn't communicate with their minds, and so Kevin was always at a disadvantage. Similarly, even though he was likeable, girls never wanted to date him. He was also left out of other aspects of society, because a lot of news was delivered via ""tellies"" which is received through psi-powers, so he often has to learn about the goings-on in the society from his family. Kevin learns firsthand how big of a difference it meant for how he was treated once he realized he did have powers after all."
"Describe the relationship between Kevin and his mother </s>     Jack of No Trades     By EVELYN E. SMITH     Illustrated by CAVAT     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy October 1955.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright     on this publication was renewed.]        I was psick of Psi powers, not having any. Or didn't I? Maybe they'dpsee otherwise psomeday!        I walked into the dining room and collided with a floating mass offabric, which promptly draped itself over me like a sentient shroud.     Oh, for God's sake, Kevin! my middle brother's voice came muffledthrough the folds. If you can't help, at least don't hinder!     I managed to struggle out of the tablecloth, even though it seemed tobe trying to wrap itself around me. When Danny got excited, he lost hismental grip.     I could help, I yelled as soon as I got my head free, if anybodywould let me and, what's more, I could set the table a damn sightfaster by hand than you do with 'kinesis.     Just then Father appeared at the head of the table. He could as easilyhave walked downstairs as teleported, but I belonged to a family ofexhibitionists. And Father tended to show off as if he were still akid. Not that he looked his age—he was big and blond, like Danny andTim and me, and could have passed for our older brother.     Boys, boys! he reproved us. Danny, you ought to be ashamed ofyourself—picking on poor Kev.     Even if it hadn't been Danny's fault, he would still have been blamed.     Nobody was ever supposed to raise a voice or a hand or a thought topoor afflicted Kev, because nature had picked on me enough. And thenicer everybody was to me, the nastier I became, since only when theylost their tempers could I get—or so I believed—their true attitudetoward me.     How else could I tell?     Sorry, fella, Dan apologized to me. The tablecloth spread itself outon the table. Wrinkles, he grumbled to himself. Wrinkles. And I hadit so nice and smooth before. Mother will be furious.     If she were going to be furious, she'd be furious already, Fatherreminded him sadly. It must be tough to be married to a deep-probetelepath, I thought, and I felt a sudden wave of sympathy for him. Itwas so seldom I got the chance to feel sorry for anyone except myself.But I think you'll find she understands.     She knows, all right, Danny remarked as he went on into the kitchen,but I'm not sure she always understands.     I was surprised to find him so perceptive on the abstract level,because he wasn't what you might call an understanding person, either.  There are tensions in this room, my sister announced as she slouchedin, not quite awake yet, and hatred. I could feel them all the wayupstairs. And today I'm working on the Sleepsweet Mattress copy, so Imust feel absolutely tranquil. Everyone will think beautiful thoughts,please.     She sat down just as a glass of orange juice was arriving at herplace; Danny apparently didn't know she'd come in already. The glassbumped into the back of her neck, tilted and poured its contents overher shoulder and down her very considerable decolletage. Being a mereprimitive, I couldn't help laughing.     Danny, you fumbler! she screamed.     Danny erupted from the kitchen. How many times have I asked all of younot to sit down until I've got everything on the table? Always a lot ofinterfering busybodies getting in the way.     I don't see why you have to set the table at all, she retorted. Arobot could do it better and faster than you. Even Kev could. Sheturned quickly toward me. Oh, I am sorry, Kevin.     I didn't say anything; I was too busy pressing my hands down on theback of the chair to make my knuckles turn white.     Sylvia's face turned even whiter. Father, stop him—      stop     him! He'shating again! I can't stand it!     Father looked at me, then at her. I don't think he can help it,Sylvia.     I grinned. That's right—I'm just a poor atavism with no control overmyself a-tall.     Finally my mother came in from the kitchen; she was an old-fashionedwoman and didn't hold with robocooks. One quick glance at me gave herthe complete details, even though I quickly protested, It's illegal toprobe anyone without permission.     I used to probe you to find out when you needed your diapers changed,she said tartly, and I'll probe you now. You should watch yourself,Sylvia—poor Kevin isn't responsible.     She didn't need to probe to get the blast of naked emotion that spurtedout from me. My sister screamed and even Father looked uncomfortable.Danny stomped back into the kitchen, muttering to himself.     Mother's lips tightened. Sylvia, go upstairs and change your dress.Kevin, do I have to make an appointment for you at the clinic again?A psychiatrist never diagnosed members of his own family—that is, notofficially; they couldn't help offering thumbnail diagnoses any morethan they could help having thumbnails.     No use, I said, deciding it was safe to drop into my chair. Who canadjust me to an environment to which I'm fundamentally unsuited?     Maybe there is something physically wrong with him, Amy, my fathersuggested hopefully. Maybe you should make an appointment for him atthe cure-all?     Mother shook her neatly coiffed head. He's been to it dozens of timesand he always checks out in splendid shape. None of us can spare thetime to go with him again, just on an off-chance, and he could hardlybe allowed to make such a long trip all by himself. Pity there isn't amachine in every community, but, then, we don't really need them.  Now that the virus diseases had been licked, people hardly evergot sick any more and, when they did, it was mostly psychosomatic.Life was so well organized that there weren't even many accidentsthese days. It was a safe, orderly existence for those who fittedinto it—which accounted for more than ninety-five per cent of thepopulation. The only ones who didn't adjust were those who couldn't,like me—psi-deficients, throwbacks to an earlier era. There were nophysical cripples, because anybody could have a new arm or a new leggrafted on, but you couldn't graft psi powers onto an atavism or, ifyou could, the technique hadn't been developed yet.     I feel a sense of impending doom brooding over this household, myyoungest brother remarked cheerfully as he vaulted into his chair.     You always do, Timothy, my mother said, unfolding her napkin. And Imust say it's not in good taste, especially at breakfast.     He reached for his juice. Guess this is a doomed household. And whatwas all that emotional uproar about?     The usual, Sylvia said from the doorway before anyone else couldanswer. She slid warily into her chair. Hey, Dan, I'm here! shecalled. If anything else comes in, it comes in manually, understand?     Oh, all right. Dan emerged from the kitchen with a tray of foodfloating ahead of him.     The usual? Trouble with Kev? Tim looked at me narrowly. Somehow mysense of ominousness is connected with him.     Well, that's perfectly natural— Sylvia began, then stopped as Mothercaught her eye.     I didn't mean that, Tim said. I still say Kev's got something wecan't figure out.     You've been saying that for years, Danny protested, and he's beentested for every faculty under the Sun. He can't telepath or teleportor telekinesthesize or even teletype. He can't precognize or prefix orprepossess. He can't—     Strictly a bundle of no-talent, that's me, I interrupted, trying tokeep my animal feelings from getting the better of me. That was how myfamily thought of me, I knew—as an animal, and not a very lovable one,either.     No, Tim said, he's just got something we haven't developed a testfor. It'll come out some day, you'll see. He smiled at me.  I smiled at him gratefully; he was the only member of my family whoreally seemed to like me in spite of my handicap. It won't work, Tim.I know you're trying to be kind, but—     He's not saying it just to be kind, my mother put in. He means it.Not that I want to arouse false hopes, Kevin, she added with grimscrupulousness. Tim's awfully young yet and I wouldn't trust hisextracurricular prognostications too far.     Nonetheless, I couldn't help feeling a feeble renewal of old hopes.After all, young or not, Tim was a hell of a good prognosticator; hewouldn't have risen so rapidly to the position he held in the WeatherBureau if he hadn't been pretty near tops in foreboding.     Mother smiled sadly at my thoughts, but I didn't let that discourageme. As Danny had said, she      knew     but she didn't really      understand     .Nobody, for all of his or her psi power, really understood me.  Breakfast was finally over and the rest of my family dispersed to theirvarious jobs. Father simply took his briefcase and disappeared—he wasa traveling salesman and he had a morning appointment clear across thecontinent. The others, not having his particular gift, had to takethe helibus to their different destinations. Mother, as I said, was apsychiatrist. Sylvia wrote advertising copy. Tim was a meteorologist.Dan was a junior executive in a furniture moving company and expected apromotion to senior rank as soon as he achieved a better mental grip onpianos.     Only I had no job, no profession, no place in life. Of course therewere certain menial tasks a psi-negative could perform, but my parentswould have none of them—partly for my sake, but mostly for the sake oftheir own community standing.     We don't need what little money Kev could bring in, my father alwayssaid. I can afford to support my family. He can stay home and takecare of the house.     And that's what I did. Not that there was much to do except call atechno whenever one of the servomechanisms missed a beat. True enough,those things had to be watched mighty carefully because, if they brokedown, it sometimes took days before the repair and/or replacementrobots could come. There never were enough of them because ours was aconstructive society. Still, being a machine-sitter isn't very much ofa career. And every function that wasn't the prerogative of a machinecould be done ten times more quickly and efficiently by some member ofmy family than I could do it. If I went ahead and did something anyway,they would just do it all over again when they got home.     So I had nothing to do all day. I had a special dispensation totake books out of the local Archives, because I was a deficient andcouldn't receive the tellie programs. Almost everybody on Earth wastelepathic to some degree and could get the amplified projections evenif he couldn't transmit or receive with his natural powers. But I gotnothing. I had to derive all my recreation from reading, and you canget awfully tired of books, especially when they're all at least ahundred years old and written by primitives. I could borrow soundtapes, but they also bored me after a while.     I thought maybe I could develop a talent for composing or painting,which would classify me as a telesensitive—artistic ability beingconsidered as the oldest, if least important, psi power—but I couldn'teven do anything like that.     About all there was left for me was to take long walks. Athletics wereout of the question; I couldn't compete with psi-boys and they didn'twant to compete with me. All the people in the neighborhood knew meand were nice to me, but I didn't need to be a 'path to tell what theywere saying to one another when I hove into sight. There's that oldestFaraday boy. Pity, such a talented family, to have a defective.       I didn't have a girl, either. Although some of them were sort ofattracted to me—I could see that—they could hardly go out with mewithout exposing themselves to ridicule. In their sandals, I would havedone the same thing, but that didn't stop me from hating them.  I wished I had been born a couple of hundred years ago—before peoplestarted playing around with nuclear energy and filling the air withradiations that they were afraid would turn human beings into hideousmonsters. Instead, they developed the psi powers that had always beenlatent in the species until we developed into a race of supermen. Idon't know why I say      we     —in 1960 or so, I might have been consideredsuperior, but in 2102 I was just the Faradays' idiot boy.     Exploring space should have been my hope. If there had been anythinguseful or interesting on any of the other planets, I might have founda niche for myself there. In totally new surroundings, the psi powersgeared to another environment might not be an advantage. But by thetime I was ten, it was discovered that the other planets were justbarren hunks of rock, with pressures and climates and atmospheresdrastically unsuited to human life. A year or so before, the hyperdrivehad been developed on Earth and ships had been sent out to explore thestars, but I had no hope left in that direction any more.     I was an atavism in a world of peace and plenty. Peace, because peoplecouldn't indulge in war or even crime with so many telepaths runningaround—not because, I told myself, the capacity for primitive behaviorwasn't just as latent in everybody else as the psi talent seemed latentin me. Tim must be right, I thought—I must have some undreamed-ofpower that only the right circumstances would bring out. But what wasthat power?     For years I had speculated on what my potential talent might be,explored every wild possibility I could conceive of and found noneproductive of even an ambiguous result with which I could fool myself.As I approached adulthood, I began to concede that I was probablynothing more than what I seemed to be—a simple psi-negative. Yet, fromtime to time, hope surged up again, as it had today, in spite of myknowledge that my hope was an impossibility. Who ever heard of latentpsi powers showing themselves in an individual as old as twenty-six?     I was almost alone in the parks where I used to walk, because peopleliked to commune with one another those days rather than with nature.Even gardening had very little popularity. But I found myself most athome in those woodland—or, rather, pseudo-woodland—surroundings,able to identify more readily with the trees and flowers than I couldwith my own kind. A fallen tree or a broken blossom would excite moresympathy from me than the minor catastrophes that will beset anyhousehold, no matter how gifted, and I would shy away from bloodynoses or cut fingers, thus giving myself a reputation for callousnessas well as extrasensory imbecility.     However, I was no more callous in steering clear of human breakdownsthan I was in not shedding tears over the household machines when theybroke down, for I felt no more closely akin to my parents and siblingsthan I did to the mechanisms that served and, sometimes, failed us.  On that day, I walked farther than I had intended and, by the time Igot back home, I found the rest of my family had returned before me.They seemed to be excited about something and were surprised to see meso calm.     Aren't you even interested in anything outside your own immediateconcerns, Kev? Sylvia demanded, despite Father's efforts to shush her.     Can't you remember that Kev isn't able to receive the tellies? Timshot back at her. He probably doesn't even know what's happened.     Well, what did happen? I asked, trying not to snap.     One starship got back from Alpha Centauri, Danny said excitedly.There are two inhabited Earth-type planets there!     This was for me; this was it at last! I tried not to show myenthusiasm, though I knew that was futile. My relatives could keeptheir thoughts and emotions from me; I couldn't keep mine from them.What kind of life inhabits them? Humanoid?     Uh-uh. Danny shook his head. And hostile. The crew of the starshipsays they were attacked immediately on landing. When they turned andleft, they were followed here by one of the alien ships. Must be apretty advanced race to have spaceships. Anyhow, the extraterrestrialship headed back as soon as it got a fix on where ours was going.     But if they're hostile, I said thoughtfully, it might mean war.     Of course. That's why everybody's so wrought up. We hope it's peace,but we'll have to prepare for war just in case.     There hadn't been a war on Earth for well over a hundred years, butwe hadn't been so foolish as to obliterate all knowledge of militarytechniques and weapons. The alien ship wouldn't be able to come backwith reinforcements—if such were its intention—in less than sixmonths. This meant time to get together a stockpile of weapons, thoughwe had no idea of how effective our defenses would be against thealiens' armament.     They might have strange and terrible weapons against which we wouldbe powerless. On the other hand, our side would have the benefitsof telekinetically guided missiles, teleported saboteurs, telepathsto pick up the alien strategy, and prognosticators to determine theoutcome of each battle and see whether it was worth fighting in thefirst place.     Everybody on Earth hoped for peace. Everybody, that is, except me. Ihad been unable to achieve any sense of identity with the world inwhich I lived, and it was almost worth the loss of personal survivalto know that my own smug species could look silly against a still moretalented race.  It isn't so much our defense that worries me, my mother muttered, aslack of adequate medical machinery. War is bound to mean casualtiesand there aren't enough cure-alls on the planet to take care of them.It's useless to expect the government to build more right now; they'llbe too busy producing weapons. Sylvia, you'd better take a leave ofabsence from your job and come down to Psycho Center to learn first-aidtechniques. And you too, Kevin, she added, obviously a littlesurprised herself at what she was saying. Probably you'd be evenbetter at it than Sylvia since you aren't sensitive to other people'spain.     I looked at her.     It      is     an ill wind, she agreed, smiling wryly, but don't let mecatch you thinking that way, Kevin. Can't you see it would be betterthat there should be no war and you should remain useless?     I couldn't see it, of course, and she knew that, with her wretchedtalent for stripping away my feeble attempts at privacy. Psi-powersusually included some ability to form a mental shield; being withoutone, I was necessarily devoid of the other.     My attitude didn't matter, though, because it was definitely war. Thealiens came back with a fleet clearly bent on our annihilation—eventhe 'paths couldn't figure out their motives, for the thought patternwas entirely different from ours—and the war was on.     I had enjoyed learning first-aid; it was the first time I had everworked with people as an equal. And I was good at it because psi-powersaren't much of an advantage there. Telekinesis maybe a little, butI was big enough to lift anybody without needing any superhumanabilities—normal human abilities, rather.     Gee, Mr. Faraday, one of the other students breathed, you're sostrong. And without 'kinesis or anything.     I looked at her and liked what I saw. She was blonde and pretty. Myname's not Mr. Faraday, I said. It's Kevin.     My name's Lucy, she giggled.     No girl had ever giggled at me in that way before. Immediately Istarted to envision a beautiful future for the two of us, then flushedwhen I realized that she might be a telepath. But she was winding atourniquet around the arm of another member of the class with apparentunconcern.     Hey, quit that! the windee yelled. You're making it too tight! I'llbe mortified!     So Lucy was obviously not a telepath. Later I found out she was onlya low-grade telesensitive—just a poetess—so I had nothing to worryabout as far as having my thoughts read went. I was a little afraid ofSylvia's kidding me about my first romance, but, as it happened, shegot interested in one of the guys who was taking the class with us, andshe was not only too busy to be bothered with me, but in too vulnerablea position herself.     However, when the actual bombs—or their alien equivalent—struck nearour town, I wasn't nearly so happy, especially after they startedcarrying the wounded into the Psycho Center, which had been turned intoa hospital for the duration. I took one look at the gory scene—I hadnever seen anybody really injured before; few people had, as a matterof fact—and started for the door. But Mother was already blocking theway. It was easy to see from which side of the family Tim had got histalent for prognostication.     If the telepaths who can pick up all the pain can stand this, Kevin,she said,       you     certainly can. And there was no kindness at all inthe      you     .     She gave me a shove toward the nearest stretcher. Go on—now's yourchance to show you're of some use in this world.  Gritting my teeth, I turned to the man on the stretcher. Something hadpretty near torn half his face away. It was all there, but not in theright place, and it wasn't pretty. I turned away, caught my mother'seye, and then I didn't even dare to throw up. I looked at that smashedface again and all the first-aid lessons I'd had flew out of my head asif some super-psi had plucked them from me.     The man was bleeding terribly. I had never seen blood pouring out likethat before. The first thing to do, I figured sickly, was mop it up. Iwet a sponge and dabbed gingerly at the face, but my hands were shakingso hard that the sponge slipped and my fingers were on the raw gapingwound. I could feel the warm viscosity of the blood and nothing, noteven my mother, could keep my meal down this time, I thought.     Mother had uttered a sound of exasperation as I dropped the sponge. Icould hear her coming toward me. Then I heard her gasp. I looked at mypatient and my mouth dropped open. For suddenly there was no wound,no wound at all—just a little blood and the fellow's face was wholeagain. Not even a scar.     Wha—wha happened? he asked. It doesn't hurt any more!     He touched his cheek and looked up at me with frightened eyes. And Iwas frightened, too—too frightened to be sick, too frightened to doanything but stare witlessly at him.     Touch some of the others, quick! my mother commanded, pushingastounded attendants away from stretchers.     I touched broken limbs and torn bodies and shattered heads, and theywere whole again right away. Everybody in the room was looking at me inthe way I had always dreamed of being looked at. Lucy was opening andshutting her beautiful mouth like a beautiful fish. In fact, the wholething was just like a dream, except that I was awake. I couldn't haveimagined all those horrors.     But the horrors soon weren't horrors any more. I began to find themalmost pleasing; the worse a wound was, the more I appreciated it.There was so much more satisfaction, virtually an esthetic thrill, inseeing a horrible jagged tear smooth away, heal, not in days, as itwould have done under the cure-all, but in seconds.     Timothy was right, my mother said, her eyes filled with tears, andI was wrong ever to have doubted. You have a gift, son— and she saidthe word son loud and clear so that everybody could hear it—thegreatest gift of all, that of healing. She looked at me proudly. AndLucy and the others looked at me as if I were a god or something.     I felt ... well, good.  I wonder why we never thought of healing as a potential psi-power, mymother said to me later, when I was catching a snatch of rest and shewas lighting cigarettes and offering me cups of coffee in an attempt tomake up twenty-six years of indifference, perhaps dislike, all at once.The ability to heal      is     recorded in history, only we never paid muchattention to it.     Recorded? I asked, a little jealously.     Of course, she smiled. Remember the King's Evil?     I should have known without her reminding me, after all the old books Ihad read. Scrofula, wasn't it? They called it that because the touchof certain kings was supposed to cure it ... and other diseases, too, Iguess.     She nodded. Certain people must have had the healing power and that'sprobably why they originally got to be the rulers.     In a very short time, I became a pretty important person. All the otherdeficients in the world were tested for the healing power and all ofthem turned out negative. I proved to be the only human healer alive,and not only that, I could work a thousand times more efficiently andeffectively than any of the machines. The government built a hospitaljust for my work! Wounded people were ferried there from all over theworld and I cured them. I could do practically everything except raisethe dead and sometimes I wondered whether, with a little practice, Iwouldn't be able to do even that.     When I came to my new office, whom did I find waiting there for me butLucy, her trim figure enhanced by a snug blue and white uniform. I'myour assistant, Kev, she said shyly.     I looked at her. You are?     I—I hope you want me, she went on, coyness now mixing withapprehension.     I gave her shoulder a squeeze. I do want you, Lucy. More than I cantell you now. After all this is over, there's something more I want tosay. But right now— I clapped her arm—there's a job to be done.     Yes, Kevin, she said, glaring at me for some reason I didn't havetime to investigate or interpret at the moment. My patients werewaiting for me.     They gave me everything else I could possibly need, except enoughsleep, and I myself didn't want that. I wanted to heal. I wanted toshow my fellow human beings that, though I couldn't receive or transmitthoughts or foretell the future or move things with my mind, all thosepowers were useless without life, and that was what I could give.     I took pride in my work. It was good to stop pain and ugliness, to knowthat, if it weren't for me, these people would be dead or permanentlydisfigured. In a sense, they were—well, my children; I felt a warmglow of affection toward them.     They felt the same way toward me. I knew because the secret of thehospital soon leaked out—during all those years of peace, thegovernment had lost whatever facility it had for keeping secrets—andpeople used to come in droves, hoping for a glimpse of me.  The government pointed out that such crowds outside the building mightattract the enemy's attention. I was the most important individual onEarth, they told my followers, and my safety couldn't be risked. Thehuman race at this stage was pretty docile. The crowds went away. Andit was right that they should; I didn't want to be risked any more thanthey wanted to risk me.     Plenty of people did come to see me officially—the President,generals, all kinds of big wheels, bringing citations, medals and otherobsolete honors they'd revived primarily for me. It was wonderful. Ibegan to love everybody.     Don't you think you're putting too much of yourself into this, Kev?Lucy asked me one day.     I gave her an incredulous glance. You mean I shouldn't help people?     Of course you should help them. I didn't mean anything like that.Just ... well, you're getting too bound up in your work.     Why shouldn't I be? Then the truth, as I thought, dawned on me. Areyou jealous, Lucy?     She lowered her eyes. Not only that, but the war's bound to come toan end, you know, and—     It was the first part of her sentence that interested me. Why, do youmean—     And just then a fresh batch of casualties arrived and I had to tend tothem. For the next few days, I was so busy, I didn't get the chance tohave the long talk with Lucy I'd wanted....     Then, after only four months, the war suddenly stopped. It seemedthat the aliens' weapons, despite their undeniable mysteriousness,were not equal to ours. And they had the added disadvantage of beinglight-years away from home base. So the remnant of their fleet took offand blew itself up just outside of Mars, which we understood to be theequivalent of unconditional surrender. And it was; we never heard fromthe Centaurians again.     Peace once more. I had a little mopping up to do at the hospital; thenI collected my possessions and went back home after a dignitary—onlythe Vice President this time—had thanked me on behalf of a gratefulcountry. I wasn't needed any more.  ","Kevin's mother is a psychiatrist, but she does not want to diagnose her own family member, so she has to entrust Kevin's care to people outside the household. There is a lot of tension between Kevin and his mother at the beginning of the story, and she feels sorry for him whenever he feels hope for the future. It seems that the family knows she can feel the specific thoughts but they don't think she can necessarily where they're coming from, and doesn't have context for these feelings. Even though he is slower at some things than his siblings, his mom encourages him to get trained for first-aid once they know a war is coming; in some sense, he finally has a chance to directly contribute to society, according to his mom, and wouldn't be useless anymore. She also thinks he might have an advantage since he won't feel the others' pain as much. After Kevin finds out that he does have powers, his mom seems to be trying to make up for lost time, trying to bond with him, because she recognizes him as useful now, and is no longer indifferent (or even directly mean) towards him. "
"What is the plot of the story? </s>     Orphans of the Void     By MICHAEL SHAARA     Illustrated by EMSH     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction June 1952.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        Finding a cause worth dying for is no       great trick—the Universe is full of them. Finding       one worth living for is the genuine problem!        In the region of the Coal Sack Nebula, on the dead fourth planet ofa star called Tyban, Captain Steffens of the Mapping Command stoodcounting buildings. Eleven. No, twelve. He wondered if there was anysignificance in the number. He had no idea.     What do you make of it? he asked.     Lieutenant Ball, the executive officer of the ship, almost tried toscratch his head before he remembered that he was wearing a spacesuit.     Looks like a temporary camp, Ball said. Very few buildings, and allbuilt out of native materials, the only stuff available. Castaways,maybe?     Steffens was silent as he walked up onto the rise. The flat weatheredstone jutted out of the sand before him.     No inscriptions, he pointed out.     They would have been worn away. See the wind grooves? Anyway, there'snot another building on the whole damn planet. You wouldn't call itmuch of a civilization.     You don't think these are native?     Ball said he didn't. Steffens nodded.     Standing there and gazing at the stone, Steffens felt the awe of greatage. He had a hunch, deep and intuitive, that this was old—      too     old.He reached out a gloved hand, ran it gently over the smooth stoneridges of the wall. Although the atmosphere was very thin, he noticedthat the buildings had no airlocks.     Ball's voice sounded in his helmet: Want to set up shop, Skipper?     Steffens paused. All right, if you think it will do any good.     You never can tell. Excavation probably won't be much use. Thesethings are on a raised rock foundation, swept clean by the wind. Andyou can see that the rock itself is native— he indicated the ledgebeneath their feet—and was cut out a long while back.     How long?     Ball toed the sand uncomfortably. I wouldn't like to say off-hand.     Make a rough estimate.     Ball looked at the captain, knowing what was in his mind. He smiledwryly and said: Five thousand years? Ten thousand? I don't know.     Steffens whistled.     Ball pointed again at the wall. Look at the striations. You can tellfrom that alone. It would take even a brisk Earth wind      at least     several thousand years to cut that deep, and the wind here has only afraction of that force.     The two men stood for a long moment in silence. Man had been ininterstellar space for three hundred years and this was the firstuncovered evidence of an advanced, space-crossing, alien race. It wasan historic moment, but neither of them was thinking about history.     Man had been in space for only three hundred years. Whatever had builtthese had been in space for thousands of years.     Which ought to give      them     , thought Steffens uncomfortably, one hell ofa good head-start.  While the excav crew worked steadily, turning up nothing, Steffensremained alone among the buildings. Ball came out to him, looked drylyat the walls.     Well, he said, whoever they were, we haven't heard from them since.     No? How can you be sure? Steffens grunted. A space-borne race wasroaming this part of the Galaxy while men were still pitching spearsat each other,      that     long ago. And this planet is only a parsec fromVarius II, a civilization as old as Earth's. Did whoever built theseget to Varius? Or did they get to Earth? How can you know?     He kicked at the sand distractedly. And most important, where are theynow? A race with several thousand years....     Fifteen thousand, Ball said. When Steffens looked up, he added:That's what the geology boys say. Fifteen thousand, at the least.     Steffens turned to stare unhappily at the buildings. When he realizednow how really old they were, a sudden thought struck him.     But why buildings? Why did they have to build in stone, to last?There's something wrong with that. They shouldn't have had a needto build, unless they were castaways. And castaways would have left      something     behind. The only reason they would need a camp would be—     If the ship left and some of them stayed.     Steffens nodded. But then the ship must have come back. Where did itgo? He ceased kicking at the sand and looked up into the blue-blackmidday sky. We'll never know.     How about the other planets? Ball asked.     The report was negative. Inner too hot, outer too heavy and cold. Thethird planet is the only one with a decent temperature range, but      it     has a CO  2  atmosphere.     How about moons?     Steffens shrugged. We could try them and find out.  The third planet was a blank, gleaming ball until they were in close,and then the blankness resolved into folds and piling clouds and dimly,in places, the surface showed through. The ship went down through theclouds, falling the last few miles on her brakers. They came into themisty gas below, leveled off and moved along the edge of the twilightzone.     The moons of this solar system had yielded nothing. The third planet, ahot, heavy world which had no free oxygen and from which the monitorshad detected nothing, was all that was left. Steffens expected nothing,but he had to try.     At a height of several miles, the ship moved up the zone, scanning,moving in the familiar slow spiral of the Mapping Command. Faint darkoutlines of bare rocks and hills moved by below.     Steffens turned the screen to full magnification and watched silently.     After a while he saw a city.     The main screen being on, the whole crew saw it. Someone shouted andthey stopped to stare, and Steffens was about to call for altitude whenhe saw that the city was dead.     He looked down on splintered walls that were like cloudy glass piecesrising above a plain, rising in a shattered circle. Near the centerof the city, there was a huge, charred hole at least three miles indiameter and very deep. In all the piled rubble, nothing moved.     Steffens went down low to make sure, then brought the ship around andheaded out across the main continent into the bright area of the sun.The rocks rolled by below, there was no vegetation at all, and thenthere were more cities—all with the black depression, the circularstamp that blotted away and fused the buildings into nothing.     No one on the ship had anything to say. None had ever seen a war, forthere had not been war on Earth or near it for more than three hundredyears.     The ship circled around to the dark side of the planet. When they weredown below a mile, the radiation counters began to react. It becameapparent, from the dials, that there could be nothing alive.     After a while Ball said: Well, which do you figure? Did our friendsfrom the fourth planet do this, or were they the same people as these?     Steffens did not take his eyes from the screen. They were coming aroundto the daylight side.     We'll go down and look for the answer, he said. Break out theradiation suits.     He paused, thinking. If the ones on the fourth planet were alien tothis world, they were from outer space, could not have come from oneof the other planets here. They had starships and were warlike. Then,thousands of years ago. He began to realize how important it really wasthat Ball's question be answered.     When the ship had gone very low, looking for a landing site, Steffenswas still by the screen. It was Steffens, then, who saw the thing move.     Down far below, it had been a still black shadow, and then it moved.Steffens froze. And he knew, even at that distance, that it was a robot.       Tiny and black, a mass of hanging arms and legs, the thing went glidingdown the slope of a hill. Steffens saw it clearly for a full second,saw the dull ball of its head tilt upward as the ship came over, andthen the hill was past.  Quickly Steffens called for height. The ship bucked beneath him andblasted straight up; some of the crew went crashing to the deck.Steffens remained by the screen, increasing the magnification as theship drew away. And he saw another, then two, then a black glidinggroup, all matched with bunches of hanging arms.     Nothing alive but robots, he thought,      robots     . He adjusted to fullclose up as quickly as he could and the picture focused on the screen.Behind him he heard a crewman grunt in amazement.     A band of clear, plasticlike stuff ran round the head—it would be theeye, a band of eye that saw all ways. On the top of the head was asingle round spot of the plastic, and the rest was black metal, joined,he realized, with fantastic perfection. The angle of sight was nowalmost perpendicular. He could see very little of the branching arms ofthe trunk, but what had been on the screen was enough. They were themost perfect robots he had ever seen.     The ship leveled off. Steffens had no idea what to do; the sudden sightof the moving things had unnerved him. He had already sounded thealert, flicked out the defense screens. Now he had nothing to do. Hetried to concentrate on what the League Law would have him do.     The Law was no help. Contact with planet-bound races was forbiddenunder any circumstances. But could a bunch of robots be called a race?The Law said nothing about robots because Earthmen had none. Thebuilding of imaginative robots was expressly forbidden. But at anyrate, Steffens thought, he had made contact already.     While Steffens stood by the screen, completely bewildered for the firsttime in his space career, Lieutenant Ball came up, hobbling slightly.From the bright new bruise on his cheek, Steffens guessed that thesudden climb had caught him unaware. The exec was pale with surprise.     What were they? he said blankly. Lord, they looked like robots!     They were.     Ball stared confoundedly at the screen. The things were now a confusionof dots in the mist.     Almost humanoid, Steffens said, but not quite.     Ball was slowly absorbing the situation. He turned to gaze inquiringlyat Steffens.     Well, what do we do now?     Steffens shrugged. They saw us. We could leave now and let them quitepossibly make a ... a legend out of our visit, or we could go down andsee if they tie in with the buildings on Tyban IV.           Can     we go down?     Legally? I don't know. If they are robots, yes, since robots cannotconstitute a race. But there's another possibility. He tapped hisfingers on the screen confusedly. They don't have to be robots at all.They could be the natives.     Ball gulped. I don't follow you.     They could be the original inhabitants of this planet—the brains ofthem, at least, protected in radiation-proof metal. Anyway, he added,they're the most perfect mechanicals I've ever seen.     Ball shook his head, sat down abruptly. Steffens turned from thescreen, strode nervously across the Main Deck, thinking.     The Mapping Command, they called it. Theoretically, all he was supposedto do was make a closeup examination of unexplored systems, checkingfor the presence of life-forms as well as for the possibilities ofhuman colonization. Make a check and nothing else. But he knew veryclearly that if he returned to Sirius base without investigating thisrobot situation, he could very well be court-martialed one way or theother, either for breaking the Law of Contact or for dereliction ofduty.     And there was also the possibility, which abruptly occurred to him,that the robots might well be prepared to blow his ship to hell andgone.     He stopped in the center of the deck. A whole new line of thoughtopened up. If the robots were armed and ready ... could this be anoutpost?       An outpost!       He turned and raced for the bridge. If he went in and landed and waslost, then the League might never know in time. If he went in andstirred up trouble....     The thought in his mind was scattered suddenly, like a mist blown away.A voice was speaking in his mind, a deep calm voice that seemed to say:           Greetings. Do not be alarmed. We do not wish you to be alarmed. Ourdesire is only to serve....       Greetings, it said! Greetings! Ball was mumbling incredulouslythrough shocked lips.     Everyone on the ship had heard the voice. When it spoke again, Steffenswas not sure whether it was just one voice or many voices.     We await your coming, it said gravely, and repeated: Our desire isonly to serve.     And then the robots sent a      picture     .     As perfect and as clear as a tridim movie, a rectangular plate tookshape in Steffens' mind. On the face of the plate, standing aloneagainst a background of red-brown, bare rocks, was one of the robots.With slow, perfect movement, the robot carefully lifted one of thehanging arms of its side, of its      right     side, and extended it towardSteffens, a graciously offered hand.     Steffens felt a peculiar, compelling urge to take the hand, realizedright away that the urge to take the hand was not entirely his. Therobot mind had helped.     When the picture vanished, he knew that the others had seen it. Hewaited for a while; there was no further contact, but the feeling ofthe robot's urging was still strong within him. He had an idea that, ifthey wanted to, the robots could control his mind. So when nothing morehappened, he began to lose his fear.     While the crew watched in fascination, Steffens tried to talk back.He concentrated hard on what he was saying, said it aloud for goodmeasure, then held his own hand extended in the robot manner of shakinghands.     Greetings, he said, because it was what      they     had said, andexplained: We have come from the stars.     It was overly dramatic, but so was the whole situation. He wonderedbaffledly if he should have let the Alien Contact crew handle it. Ordersomeone to stand there, feeling like a fool, and      think     a message?     No, it was his responsibility; he had to go on:     We request—we respectfully request permission to land upon yourplanet.  Steffens had not realized that there were so many.     They had been gathering since his ship was first seen, and now therewere hundreds of them clustered upon the hill. Others were arrivingeven as the skiff landed; they glided in over the rocky hills withfantastic ease and power, so that Steffens felt a momentary anxiety.Most of the robots were standing with the silent immobility of metal.Others threaded their way to the fore and came near the skiff, but nonetouched it, and a circle was cleared for Steffens when he came out.       One of the near robots came forward alone, moving, as Steffens nowsaw, on a number of short, incredibly strong and agile legs. The blackthing paused before him, extended a hand as it had done in the picture.Steffens took it, he hoped, warmly; felt the power of the metal throughthe glove of his suit.     Welcome, the robot said, speaking again to his mind, and nowSteffens detected a peculiar alteration in the robot's tone. It wasless friendly now, less—Steffens could not understand—somehow less      interested     , as if the robot had been—expecting someone else.     Thank you, Steffens said. We are deeply grateful for your permissionto land.     Our desire, the robot repeated mechanically, is only to serve.     Suddenly, Steffens began to feel alone, surrounded by machines. Hetried to push the thought out of his mind, because he knew that they      should     seem inhuman. But....     Will the others come down? asked the robot, still mechanically.     Steffens felt his embarrassment. The ship lay high in the mist above,jets throbbing gently.     They must remain with the ship, Steffens said aloud, trusting to therobot's formality not to ask him why. Although, if they could read hismind, there was no need to ask.     For a long while, neither spoke, long enough for Steffens to grow tenseand uncomfortable. He could not think of a thing to say, the robot wasobviously waiting, and so, in desperation, he signaled the Aliencon mento come on out of the skiff.     They came, wonderingly, and the ring of robots widened. Steffens heardthe one robot speak again. The voice was now much more friendly.     We hope you will forgive us for intruding upon your thought. It isour—custom—not to communicate unless we are called upon. But when weobserved that you were in ignorance of our real—nature—and were aboutto leave our planet, we decided to put aside our custom, so that youmight base your decision upon sufficient data.     Steffens replied haltingly that he appreciated their action.     We perceive, the robot went on, that you are unaware of our completeaccess to your mind, and would perhaps be—dismayed—to learn thatwe have been gathering information from you. We must—apologize.Our only purpose was so that we could communicate with you. Onlythat information was taken which is necessary for communicationand—understanding. We will enter your minds henceforth only at yourrequest.     Steffens did not react to the news that his mind was being probedas violently as he might have. Nevertheless it was a shock, and heretreated into observant silence as the Aliencon men went to work.     The robot which seemed to have been doing the speaking was in no waydifferent from any of the others in the group. Since each of the robotswas immediately aware of all that was being said or thought, Steffensguessed that they had sent one forward just for appearance's sake,because they perceived that the Earthmen would feel more at home. Thepicture of the extended hand, the characteristic handshake of Earthmen,had probably been borrowed, too, for the same purpose of making him andthe others feel at ease. The one jarring note was the robot's momentarylapse, those unexplainable few seconds when the things had seemedalmost disappointed. Steffens gave up wondering about that and began toexamine the first robot in detail.     It was not very tall, being at least a foot shorter than the Earthmen.The most peculiar thing about it, except for the circling eye-band ofthe head, was a mass of symbols which were apparently engraved upon themetal chest. Symbols in row upon row—numbers, perhaps—were upon thechest, and repeated again below the level of the arms, and continuedin orderly rows across the front of the robot, all the way down to thebase of the trunk. If they were numbers, Steffens thought, then it wasa remarkably complicated system. But he noticed the same pattern onthe nearer robots, all apparently identical. He was forced to concludethat the symbols were merely decoration and let it go tentatively atthat, although the answer seemed illogical.     It wasn't until he was on his way home that Steffens remembered thesymbols again. And only then did he realized what they were.  After a while, convinced that there was no danger, Steffens had theship brought down. When the crew came out of the airlock, they were metby the robots, and each man found himself with a robot at his side,humbly requesting to be of service. There were literally thousands ofthe robots now, come from all over the barren horizon. The mass of themstood apart, immobile on a plain near the ship, glinting in the sunlike a vast, metallic field of black wheat.     The robots had obviously been built to serve. Steffens began to      feel     their pleasure, to sense it in spite of the blank, expressionlessfaces. They were almost like children in their eagerness, yet they werestill reserved. Whoever had built them, Steffens thought in wonder, hadbuilt them well.     Ball came to join Steffens, staring at the robots through the clearplastic of his helmet with baffledly widened eyes. A robot moved outfrom the mass in the field, allied itself to him. The first to speakhad remained with Steffens.     Realizing that the robot could hear every word he was saying, Ballwas for a while apprehensive. But the sheer unreality of standing andtalking with a multi-limbed, intelligent hunk of dead metal upon thebare rock of a dead, ancient world, the unreality of it slowly died.It was impossible not to like the things. There was something in theirvery lines which was pleasant and relaxing.     Their builders, Steffens thought, had probably thought of that, too.     There's no harm in them, said Ball at last, openly, not minding ifthe robots heard. They seem actually glad we're here. My God, whoeverheard of a robot being glad?     Steffens, embarrassed, spoke quickly to the nearest mechanical: I hopeyou will forgive us our curiosity, but—yours is a remarkable race. Wehave never before made contact with a race like yours. It was saidhaltingly, but it was the best he could do.     The robot made a singularly human nodding motion of its head.     I perceive that the nature of our construction is unfamiliar to you.Your question is whether or not we are entirely 'mechanical.' I amnot exactly certain as to what the word 'mechanical' is intended toconvey—I would have to examine your thought more fully—but I believethat there is fundamental similarity between our structures.     The robot paused. Steffens had a distinct impression that it wasdisconcerted.     I must tell you, the thing went on, that we ourselves are—curious.It stopped suddenly, struggling with a word it could not comprehend.Steffens waited, listening with absolute interest. It said at length:     We know of only two types of living structure. Ours, which is largelymetallic, and that of the      Makers     , which would appear to be somewhatmore like yours. I am not a—doctor—and therefore cannot acquaint youwith the specific details of the Makers' composition, but if you areinterested I will have a doctor brought forward. It will be glad to beof assistance.     It was Steffens' turn to struggle, and the robot waited patiently whileBall and the second robot looked on in silence. The Makers, obviously,were whoever or whatever had built the robots, and the doctors,Steffens decided, were probably just that—doctor-robots, designedspecifically to care for the apparently flesh-bodies of the Makers.     The efficiency of the things continued to amaze him, but the questionhe had been waiting to ask came out now with a rush:     Can you tell us where the Makers are?     Both robots stood motionless. It occurred to Steffens that he couldn'treally be sure which was speaking. The voice that came to him spokewith difficulty.     The Makers—are not here.     Steffens stared in puzzlement. The robot detected his confusion andwent on:     The Makers have gone away. They have been gone for a very long time.     Could that be      pain     in its voice, Steffens wondered, and then thespectre of the ruined cities rose harsh in his mind.     War. The Makers had all been killed in that war. And these had not beenkilled.     He tried to grasp it, but he couldn't. There were robots here in themidst of a radiation so lethal that      nothing     ,      nothing     could live;robots on a dead planet, living in an atmosphere of carbon dioxide.     The carbon dioxide brought him up sharp.     If there had been life here once, there would have been plant life aswell, and therefore oxygen. If the war had been so long ago that thefree oxygen had since gone out of the atmosphere—good God, how oldwere the robots? Steffens looked at Ball, then at the silent robots,then out across the field to where the rest of them stood. The blackwheat. Steffens felt a deep chill.     Were they immortal?  Would you like to see a doctor?     Steffens jumped at the familiar words, then realized to what the robotwas referring.     No, not yet, he said, thank you. He swallowed hard as the robotscontinued waiting patiently.     Could you tell me, he said at last, how old you are? Individually?     By your reckoning, said his robot, and paused to make thecalculation, I am forty-four years, seven months, and eighteen days ofage, with ten years and approximately nine months yet to be alive.     Steffens tried to understand that.     It would perhaps simplify our conversations, said the robot, ifyou were to refer to me by a name, as is your custom. Using thefirst—letters—of my designation, my name would translate as Elb.     Glad to meet you, Steffens mumbled.     You are called 'Stef,' said the robot obligingly. Then it added,pointing an arm at the robot near Ball: The age of—Peb—is seventeenyears, one month and four days. Peb has therefore remaining somethirty-eight years.     Steffens was trying to keep up. Then the life span was obviously aboutfifty-five years. But the cities, and the carbon dioxide? The robot,Elb, had said that the Makers were similar to him, and therefore oxygenand plant life would have been needed. Unless—     He remembered the buildings on Tyban IV.     Unless the Makers had not come from this planet at all.     His mind helplessly began to revolve. It was Ball who restored order.     Do you build yourselves? the exec asked.     Peb answered quickly, that faint note of happiness again apparent, asif the robot was glad for the opportunity of answering.     No, we do not build ourselves. We are made by the— another pause fora word—by the      Factory     .     The Factory?     Yes. It was built by the Makers. Would you care to see it?     Both of the Earthmen nodded dumbly.     Would you prefer to use your—skiff? It is quite a long way from here.     It was indeed a long way, even by skiff. Some of the Aliencon crew wentalong with them. And near the edge of the twilight zone, on the otherside of the world, they saw the Factory outlined in the dim light ofdusk. A huge, fantastic block, wrought of gray and cloudy metal, lay ina valley between two worn mountains. Steffens went down low, circlingin the skiff, stared in awe at the size of the building. Robots movedoutside the thing, little black bugs in the distance—moving aroundtheir birthplace.  The Earthmen remained for several weeks. During that time, Steffens wasusually with Elb, talking now as often as he listened, and the Alienconteam roamed the planet freely, investigating what was certainly thestrangest culture in history. There was still the mystery of thosebuildings on Tyban IV; that, as well as the robots' origin, would haveto be cleared up before they could leave.     Surprisingly, Steffens did not think about the future. Whenever he camenear a robot, he sensed such a general, comfortable air of good feelingthat it warmed him, and he was so preoccupied with watching the robotsthat he did little thinking.     Something he had not realized at the beginning was that he was asunusual to the robots as they were to him. It came to him with a greatshock that not one of the robots had ever seen a living thing. Not abug, a worm, a leaf. They did not know what flesh was. Only the doctorsknew that, and none of them could readily understand what was meant bythe words organic matter. It had taken them some time to recognizethat the Earthmen wore suits which were not parts of their bodies, andit was even more difficult for them to understand why the suits wereneeded.     But when they did understand, the robots did a surprising thing.     At first, because of the excessive radiation, none of the Earthmencould remain outside the ship for long, even in radiation suits. Andone morning, when Steffens came out of the ship, it was to discoverthat hundreds of the robots, working through the night, had effectivelydecontaminated the entire area.     It was at this point that Steffens asked how many robots there were.He learned to his amazement that there were more than nine million.The great mass of them had politely remained a great distance from theship, spread out over the planet, since they were highly radioactive.     Steffens, meanwhile, courteously allowed Elb to probe into his mind.The robot extracted all the knowledge of matter that Steffens held,pondered over the knowledge and tried to digest it, and passed it on tothe other robots. Steffens, in turn, had a difficult time picturing themind of a thing that had never known life.     He had a vague idea of the robot's history—more, perhaps, then theyknew themselves—but he refrained from forming an opinion untilAliencon made its report. What fascinated him was Elb's amazingphilosophy, the only outlook, really, that the robot could have had.  What do you      do     ? Steffens asked.     Elb replied quickly, with characteristic simplicity: We can do verylittle. A certain amount of physical knowledge was imparted to us atbirth by the Makers. We spend the main part of our time expanding thatknowledge wherever possible. We have made some progress in the naturalsciences, and some in mathematics. Our purpose in being, you see, isto serve the Makers. Any ability we can acquire will make us that muchmore fit to serve when the Makers return.     When they return? It had not occurred to Steffens until now that therobots expected the Makers to do so.     Elb regarded him out of the band of the circling eye. I see you hadsurmised that the Makers were not coming back.     If the robot could have laughed, Steffens thought it would have, then.But it just stood there, motionless, its tone politely emphatic.     It has always been our belief that the Makers would return. Why elsewould we have been built?     Steffens thought the robot would go on, but it didn't. The question, toElb, was no question at all.     Although Steffens knew already what the robot could not possibly haveknown—that the Makers were gone and would never come back—he was along time understanding. What he did was push this speculation into theback of his mind, to keep it from Elb. He had no desire to destroy afaith.     But it created a problem in him. He had begun to picture for Elb thestructure of human society, and the robot—a machine which did not eator sleep—listened gravely and tried to understand. One day Steffensmentioned God.     God? the robot repeated without comprehension. What is God?     Steffens explained briefly, and the robot answered:     It is a matter which has troubled us. We thought at first that youwere the Makers returning— Steffens remembered the brief lapse, theseeming disappointment he had sensed—but then we probed your mindsand found that you were not, that you were another kind of being,unlike either the Makers or ourselves. You were not even— Elb caughthimself—you did not happen to be telepaths. Therefore we troubledover who made you. We did detect the word 'Maker' in your theology,but it seemed to have a peculiar— Elb paused for a long while—anuntouchable, intangible meaning which varies among you.     Steffens understood. He nodded.     The Makers were the robots' God, were all the God they needed. TheMakers had built them, the planet, the universe. If he were to ask themwho made the Makers, it would be like their asking him who made God.     It was an ironic parallel, and he smiled to himself.     But on that planet, it was the last time he smiled.  ","Captain Steffens and his crew, including Lieutenant Ball, are exploring the dead (uninhabited) fourth planet of the star called Tybanon in the Coal Sack Nebula. They are on a Mapping Command sent from Earth to explore new planets, assess them for life-forms and evaluate the ability of human colonization.This planet is peculiar because it contains stone building structures that are over 15,000 years old. Steffens and Ball discuss the profound realization that to be that old, the alien race that erected them must be quite advanced, with interstellar travel while humans were still throwing spears around. They conclude there were castaways stranded on the planet that were then evacuated since they could find no other traces of civilization besides the structures.They begin mystery-solving, wondering if the race evacuated to a different planet. The readings from the system indicate that there are moons, and the Third planet has a suitable temperature range for life, but has a CO2 atmosphere. They take their ship down to cruising altitude on the Third planet and find cities that have all been obliterated into black craters at least three miles in diameter and very deep. They are shaken, and then Steffens spots the most perfect robots he has ever seen. They are black plastic, expertly crafted, have hanging arms and legs and move with a gliding motion. He is forbidden by League Law from contacting planet-bound races. He is not clear if robots are a race (sentient robots are banned on Earth) and thinks that he could be in trouble whether he contacts them or not. Contacting them if they are a race would be bad, and also he would be dismissed for not fulfilling his mapping duties if they aren’t a race. As he wonders, the robots contact the humans telepathically, urging them to land since their only desire is to serve and sending a visual of a robot extending a handshake.Steffens decides not to reach out to the Alien Contact branch, and makes contact and lands on the planet. The robots are disappointed when the humans land, but show examples of caring for them like cleaning up the radiation so that the humans can feel more comfortable, and spreading their robot bodies out across the planet because they themselves are radioactive.The humans spend three weeks gathering knowledge of the planet. Steffens begins to inquire about their origins and finds they were constructed by “Makers” who are no longer on the planet, but that the robots believe will return. They were disappointed when the humans landed because they did not communicate telepathically and so could not be the makers. The robots also have Factories on the planet where they are constructed. The story ends with Steffens feeling an irony that he wishes to discover who made the robots, but asking them who their Makers are would be like asking a human who created their god - an impossible question."
"Describe the setting of the story. </s>     Orphans of the Void     By MICHAEL SHAARA     Illustrated by EMSH     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction June 1952.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        Finding a cause worth dying for is no       great trick—the Universe is full of them. Finding       one worth living for is the genuine problem!        In the region of the Coal Sack Nebula, on the dead fourth planet ofa star called Tyban, Captain Steffens of the Mapping Command stoodcounting buildings. Eleven. No, twelve. He wondered if there was anysignificance in the number. He had no idea.     What do you make of it? he asked.     Lieutenant Ball, the executive officer of the ship, almost tried toscratch his head before he remembered that he was wearing a spacesuit.     Looks like a temporary camp, Ball said. Very few buildings, and allbuilt out of native materials, the only stuff available. Castaways,maybe?     Steffens was silent as he walked up onto the rise. The flat weatheredstone jutted out of the sand before him.     No inscriptions, he pointed out.     They would have been worn away. See the wind grooves? Anyway, there'snot another building on the whole damn planet. You wouldn't call itmuch of a civilization.     You don't think these are native?     Ball said he didn't. Steffens nodded.     Standing there and gazing at the stone, Steffens felt the awe of greatage. He had a hunch, deep and intuitive, that this was old—      too     old.He reached out a gloved hand, ran it gently over the smooth stoneridges of the wall. Although the atmosphere was very thin, he noticedthat the buildings had no airlocks.     Ball's voice sounded in his helmet: Want to set up shop, Skipper?     Steffens paused. All right, if you think it will do any good.     You never can tell. Excavation probably won't be much use. Thesethings are on a raised rock foundation, swept clean by the wind. Andyou can see that the rock itself is native— he indicated the ledgebeneath their feet—and was cut out a long while back.     How long?     Ball toed the sand uncomfortably. I wouldn't like to say off-hand.     Make a rough estimate.     Ball looked at the captain, knowing what was in his mind. He smiledwryly and said: Five thousand years? Ten thousand? I don't know.     Steffens whistled.     Ball pointed again at the wall. Look at the striations. You can tellfrom that alone. It would take even a brisk Earth wind      at least     several thousand years to cut that deep, and the wind here has only afraction of that force.     The two men stood for a long moment in silence. Man had been ininterstellar space for three hundred years and this was the firstuncovered evidence of an advanced, space-crossing, alien race. It wasan historic moment, but neither of them was thinking about history.     Man had been in space for only three hundred years. Whatever had builtthese had been in space for thousands of years.     Which ought to give      them     , thought Steffens uncomfortably, one hell ofa good head-start.  While the excav crew worked steadily, turning up nothing, Steffensremained alone among the buildings. Ball came out to him, looked drylyat the walls.     Well, he said, whoever they were, we haven't heard from them since.     No? How can you be sure? Steffens grunted. A space-borne race wasroaming this part of the Galaxy while men were still pitching spearsat each other,      that     long ago. And this planet is only a parsec fromVarius II, a civilization as old as Earth's. Did whoever built theseget to Varius? Or did they get to Earth? How can you know?     He kicked at the sand distractedly. And most important, where are theynow? A race with several thousand years....     Fifteen thousand, Ball said. When Steffens looked up, he added:That's what the geology boys say. Fifteen thousand, at the least.     Steffens turned to stare unhappily at the buildings. When he realizednow how really old they were, a sudden thought struck him.     But why buildings? Why did they have to build in stone, to last?There's something wrong with that. They shouldn't have had a needto build, unless they were castaways. And castaways would have left      something     behind. The only reason they would need a camp would be—     If the ship left and some of them stayed.     Steffens nodded. But then the ship must have come back. Where did itgo? He ceased kicking at the sand and looked up into the blue-blackmidday sky. We'll never know.     How about the other planets? Ball asked.     The report was negative. Inner too hot, outer too heavy and cold. Thethird planet is the only one with a decent temperature range, but      it     has a CO  2  atmosphere.     How about moons?     Steffens shrugged. We could try them and find out.  The third planet was a blank, gleaming ball until they were in close,and then the blankness resolved into folds and piling clouds and dimly,in places, the surface showed through. The ship went down through theclouds, falling the last few miles on her brakers. They came into themisty gas below, leveled off and moved along the edge of the twilightzone.     The moons of this solar system had yielded nothing. The third planet, ahot, heavy world which had no free oxygen and from which the monitorshad detected nothing, was all that was left. Steffens expected nothing,but he had to try.     At a height of several miles, the ship moved up the zone, scanning,moving in the familiar slow spiral of the Mapping Command. Faint darkoutlines of bare rocks and hills moved by below.     Steffens turned the screen to full magnification and watched silently.     After a while he saw a city.     The main screen being on, the whole crew saw it. Someone shouted andthey stopped to stare, and Steffens was about to call for altitude whenhe saw that the city was dead.     He looked down on splintered walls that were like cloudy glass piecesrising above a plain, rising in a shattered circle. Near the centerof the city, there was a huge, charred hole at least three miles indiameter and very deep. In all the piled rubble, nothing moved.     Steffens went down low to make sure, then brought the ship around andheaded out across the main continent into the bright area of the sun.The rocks rolled by below, there was no vegetation at all, and thenthere were more cities—all with the black depression, the circularstamp that blotted away and fused the buildings into nothing.     No one on the ship had anything to say. None had ever seen a war, forthere had not been war on Earth or near it for more than three hundredyears.     The ship circled around to the dark side of the planet. When they weredown below a mile, the radiation counters began to react. It becameapparent, from the dials, that there could be nothing alive.     After a while Ball said: Well, which do you figure? Did our friendsfrom the fourth planet do this, or were they the same people as these?     Steffens did not take his eyes from the screen. They were coming aroundto the daylight side.     We'll go down and look for the answer, he said. Break out theradiation suits.     He paused, thinking. If the ones on the fourth planet were alien tothis world, they were from outer space, could not have come from oneof the other planets here. They had starships and were warlike. Then,thousands of years ago. He began to realize how important it really wasthat Ball's question be answered.     When the ship had gone very low, looking for a landing site, Steffenswas still by the screen. It was Steffens, then, who saw the thing move.     Down far below, it had been a still black shadow, and then it moved.Steffens froze. And he knew, even at that distance, that it was a robot.       Tiny and black, a mass of hanging arms and legs, the thing went glidingdown the slope of a hill. Steffens saw it clearly for a full second,saw the dull ball of its head tilt upward as the ship came over, andthen the hill was past.  Quickly Steffens called for height. The ship bucked beneath him andblasted straight up; some of the crew went crashing to the deck.Steffens remained by the screen, increasing the magnification as theship drew away. And he saw another, then two, then a black glidinggroup, all matched with bunches of hanging arms.     Nothing alive but robots, he thought,      robots     . He adjusted to fullclose up as quickly as he could and the picture focused on the screen.Behind him he heard a crewman grunt in amazement.     A band of clear, plasticlike stuff ran round the head—it would be theeye, a band of eye that saw all ways. On the top of the head was asingle round spot of the plastic, and the rest was black metal, joined,he realized, with fantastic perfection. The angle of sight was nowalmost perpendicular. He could see very little of the branching arms ofthe trunk, but what had been on the screen was enough. They were themost perfect robots he had ever seen.     The ship leveled off. Steffens had no idea what to do; the sudden sightof the moving things had unnerved him. He had already sounded thealert, flicked out the defense screens. Now he had nothing to do. Hetried to concentrate on what the League Law would have him do.     The Law was no help. Contact with planet-bound races was forbiddenunder any circumstances. But could a bunch of robots be called a race?The Law said nothing about robots because Earthmen had none. Thebuilding of imaginative robots was expressly forbidden. But at anyrate, Steffens thought, he had made contact already.     While Steffens stood by the screen, completely bewildered for the firsttime in his space career, Lieutenant Ball came up, hobbling slightly.From the bright new bruise on his cheek, Steffens guessed that thesudden climb had caught him unaware. The exec was pale with surprise.     What were they? he said blankly. Lord, they looked like robots!     They were.     Ball stared confoundedly at the screen. The things were now a confusionof dots in the mist.     Almost humanoid, Steffens said, but not quite.     Ball was slowly absorbing the situation. He turned to gaze inquiringlyat Steffens.     Well, what do we do now?     Steffens shrugged. They saw us. We could leave now and let them quitepossibly make a ... a legend out of our visit, or we could go down andsee if they tie in with the buildings on Tyban IV.           Can     we go down?     Legally? I don't know. If they are robots, yes, since robots cannotconstitute a race. But there's another possibility. He tapped hisfingers on the screen confusedly. They don't have to be robots at all.They could be the natives.     Ball gulped. I don't follow you.     They could be the original inhabitants of this planet—the brains ofthem, at least, protected in radiation-proof metal. Anyway, he added,they're the most perfect mechanicals I've ever seen.     Ball shook his head, sat down abruptly. Steffens turned from thescreen, strode nervously across the Main Deck, thinking.     The Mapping Command, they called it. Theoretically, all he was supposedto do was make a closeup examination of unexplored systems, checkingfor the presence of life-forms as well as for the possibilities ofhuman colonization. Make a check and nothing else. But he knew veryclearly that if he returned to Sirius base without investigating thisrobot situation, he could very well be court-martialed one way or theother, either for breaking the Law of Contact or for dereliction ofduty.     And there was also the possibility, which abruptly occurred to him,that the robots might well be prepared to blow his ship to hell andgone.     He stopped in the center of the deck. A whole new line of thoughtopened up. If the robots were armed and ready ... could this be anoutpost?       An outpost!       He turned and raced for the bridge. If he went in and landed and waslost, then the League might never know in time. If he went in andstirred up trouble....     The thought in his mind was scattered suddenly, like a mist blown away.A voice was speaking in his mind, a deep calm voice that seemed to say:           Greetings. Do not be alarmed. We do not wish you to be alarmed. Ourdesire is only to serve....       Greetings, it said! Greetings! Ball was mumbling incredulouslythrough shocked lips.     Everyone on the ship had heard the voice. When it spoke again, Steffenswas not sure whether it was just one voice or many voices.     We await your coming, it said gravely, and repeated: Our desire isonly to serve.     And then the robots sent a      picture     .     As perfect and as clear as a tridim movie, a rectangular plate tookshape in Steffens' mind. On the face of the plate, standing aloneagainst a background of red-brown, bare rocks, was one of the robots.With slow, perfect movement, the robot carefully lifted one of thehanging arms of its side, of its      right     side, and extended it towardSteffens, a graciously offered hand.     Steffens felt a peculiar, compelling urge to take the hand, realizedright away that the urge to take the hand was not entirely his. Therobot mind had helped.     When the picture vanished, he knew that the others had seen it. Hewaited for a while; there was no further contact, but the feeling ofthe robot's urging was still strong within him. He had an idea that, ifthey wanted to, the robots could control his mind. So when nothing morehappened, he began to lose his fear.     While the crew watched in fascination, Steffens tried to talk back.He concentrated hard on what he was saying, said it aloud for goodmeasure, then held his own hand extended in the robot manner of shakinghands.     Greetings, he said, because it was what      they     had said, andexplained: We have come from the stars.     It was overly dramatic, but so was the whole situation. He wonderedbaffledly if he should have let the Alien Contact crew handle it. Ordersomeone to stand there, feeling like a fool, and      think     a message?     No, it was his responsibility; he had to go on:     We request—we respectfully request permission to land upon yourplanet.  Steffens had not realized that there were so many.     They had been gathering since his ship was first seen, and now therewere hundreds of them clustered upon the hill. Others were arrivingeven as the skiff landed; they glided in over the rocky hills withfantastic ease and power, so that Steffens felt a momentary anxiety.Most of the robots were standing with the silent immobility of metal.Others threaded their way to the fore and came near the skiff, but nonetouched it, and a circle was cleared for Steffens when he came out.       One of the near robots came forward alone, moving, as Steffens nowsaw, on a number of short, incredibly strong and agile legs. The blackthing paused before him, extended a hand as it had done in the picture.Steffens took it, he hoped, warmly; felt the power of the metal throughthe glove of his suit.     Welcome, the robot said, speaking again to his mind, and nowSteffens detected a peculiar alteration in the robot's tone. It wasless friendly now, less—Steffens could not understand—somehow less      interested     , as if the robot had been—expecting someone else.     Thank you, Steffens said. We are deeply grateful for your permissionto land.     Our desire, the robot repeated mechanically, is only to serve.     Suddenly, Steffens began to feel alone, surrounded by machines. Hetried to push the thought out of his mind, because he knew that they      should     seem inhuman. But....     Will the others come down? asked the robot, still mechanically.     Steffens felt his embarrassment. The ship lay high in the mist above,jets throbbing gently.     They must remain with the ship, Steffens said aloud, trusting to therobot's formality not to ask him why. Although, if they could read hismind, there was no need to ask.     For a long while, neither spoke, long enough for Steffens to grow tenseand uncomfortable. He could not think of a thing to say, the robot wasobviously waiting, and so, in desperation, he signaled the Aliencon mento come on out of the skiff.     They came, wonderingly, and the ring of robots widened. Steffens heardthe one robot speak again. The voice was now much more friendly.     We hope you will forgive us for intruding upon your thought. It isour—custom—not to communicate unless we are called upon. But when weobserved that you were in ignorance of our real—nature—and were aboutto leave our planet, we decided to put aside our custom, so that youmight base your decision upon sufficient data.     Steffens replied haltingly that he appreciated their action.     We perceive, the robot went on, that you are unaware of our completeaccess to your mind, and would perhaps be—dismayed—to learn thatwe have been gathering information from you. We must—apologize.Our only purpose was so that we could communicate with you. Onlythat information was taken which is necessary for communicationand—understanding. We will enter your minds henceforth only at yourrequest.     Steffens did not react to the news that his mind was being probedas violently as he might have. Nevertheless it was a shock, and heretreated into observant silence as the Aliencon men went to work.     The robot which seemed to have been doing the speaking was in no waydifferent from any of the others in the group. Since each of the robotswas immediately aware of all that was being said or thought, Steffensguessed that they had sent one forward just for appearance's sake,because they perceived that the Earthmen would feel more at home. Thepicture of the extended hand, the characteristic handshake of Earthmen,had probably been borrowed, too, for the same purpose of making him andthe others feel at ease. The one jarring note was the robot's momentarylapse, those unexplainable few seconds when the things had seemedalmost disappointed. Steffens gave up wondering about that and began toexamine the first robot in detail.     It was not very tall, being at least a foot shorter than the Earthmen.The most peculiar thing about it, except for the circling eye-band ofthe head, was a mass of symbols which were apparently engraved upon themetal chest. Symbols in row upon row—numbers, perhaps—were upon thechest, and repeated again below the level of the arms, and continuedin orderly rows across the front of the robot, all the way down to thebase of the trunk. If they were numbers, Steffens thought, then it wasa remarkably complicated system. But he noticed the same pattern onthe nearer robots, all apparently identical. He was forced to concludethat the symbols were merely decoration and let it go tentatively atthat, although the answer seemed illogical.     It wasn't until he was on his way home that Steffens remembered thesymbols again. And only then did he realized what they were.  After a while, convinced that there was no danger, Steffens had theship brought down. When the crew came out of the airlock, they were metby the robots, and each man found himself with a robot at his side,humbly requesting to be of service. There were literally thousands ofthe robots now, come from all over the barren horizon. The mass of themstood apart, immobile on a plain near the ship, glinting in the sunlike a vast, metallic field of black wheat.     The robots had obviously been built to serve. Steffens began to      feel     their pleasure, to sense it in spite of the blank, expressionlessfaces. They were almost like children in their eagerness, yet they werestill reserved. Whoever had built them, Steffens thought in wonder, hadbuilt them well.     Ball came to join Steffens, staring at the robots through the clearplastic of his helmet with baffledly widened eyes. A robot moved outfrom the mass in the field, allied itself to him. The first to speakhad remained with Steffens.     Realizing that the robot could hear every word he was saying, Ballwas for a while apprehensive. But the sheer unreality of standing andtalking with a multi-limbed, intelligent hunk of dead metal upon thebare rock of a dead, ancient world, the unreality of it slowly died.It was impossible not to like the things. There was something in theirvery lines which was pleasant and relaxing.     Their builders, Steffens thought, had probably thought of that, too.     There's no harm in them, said Ball at last, openly, not minding ifthe robots heard. They seem actually glad we're here. My God, whoeverheard of a robot being glad?     Steffens, embarrassed, spoke quickly to the nearest mechanical: I hopeyou will forgive us our curiosity, but—yours is a remarkable race. Wehave never before made contact with a race like yours. It was saidhaltingly, but it was the best he could do.     The robot made a singularly human nodding motion of its head.     I perceive that the nature of our construction is unfamiliar to you.Your question is whether or not we are entirely 'mechanical.' I amnot exactly certain as to what the word 'mechanical' is intended toconvey—I would have to examine your thought more fully—but I believethat there is fundamental similarity between our structures.     The robot paused. Steffens had a distinct impression that it wasdisconcerted.     I must tell you, the thing went on, that we ourselves are—curious.It stopped suddenly, struggling with a word it could not comprehend.Steffens waited, listening with absolute interest. It said at length:     We know of only two types of living structure. Ours, which is largelymetallic, and that of the      Makers     , which would appear to be somewhatmore like yours. I am not a—doctor—and therefore cannot acquaint youwith the specific details of the Makers' composition, but if you areinterested I will have a doctor brought forward. It will be glad to beof assistance.     It was Steffens' turn to struggle, and the robot waited patiently whileBall and the second robot looked on in silence. The Makers, obviously,were whoever or whatever had built the robots, and the doctors,Steffens decided, were probably just that—doctor-robots, designedspecifically to care for the apparently flesh-bodies of the Makers.     The efficiency of the things continued to amaze him, but the questionhe had been waiting to ask came out now with a rush:     Can you tell us where the Makers are?     Both robots stood motionless. It occurred to Steffens that he couldn'treally be sure which was speaking. The voice that came to him spokewith difficulty.     The Makers—are not here.     Steffens stared in puzzlement. The robot detected his confusion andwent on:     The Makers have gone away. They have been gone for a very long time.     Could that be      pain     in its voice, Steffens wondered, and then thespectre of the ruined cities rose harsh in his mind.     War. The Makers had all been killed in that war. And these had not beenkilled.     He tried to grasp it, but he couldn't. There were robots here in themidst of a radiation so lethal that      nothing     ,      nothing     could live;robots on a dead planet, living in an atmosphere of carbon dioxide.     The carbon dioxide brought him up sharp.     If there had been life here once, there would have been plant life aswell, and therefore oxygen. If the war had been so long ago that thefree oxygen had since gone out of the atmosphere—good God, how oldwere the robots? Steffens looked at Ball, then at the silent robots,then out across the field to where the rest of them stood. The blackwheat. Steffens felt a deep chill.     Were they immortal?  Would you like to see a doctor?     Steffens jumped at the familiar words, then realized to what the robotwas referring.     No, not yet, he said, thank you. He swallowed hard as the robotscontinued waiting patiently.     Could you tell me, he said at last, how old you are? Individually?     By your reckoning, said his robot, and paused to make thecalculation, I am forty-four years, seven months, and eighteen days ofage, with ten years and approximately nine months yet to be alive.     Steffens tried to understand that.     It would perhaps simplify our conversations, said the robot, ifyou were to refer to me by a name, as is your custom. Using thefirst—letters—of my designation, my name would translate as Elb.     Glad to meet you, Steffens mumbled.     You are called 'Stef,' said the robot obligingly. Then it added,pointing an arm at the robot near Ball: The age of—Peb—is seventeenyears, one month and four days. Peb has therefore remaining somethirty-eight years.     Steffens was trying to keep up. Then the life span was obviously aboutfifty-five years. But the cities, and the carbon dioxide? The robot,Elb, had said that the Makers were similar to him, and therefore oxygenand plant life would have been needed. Unless—     He remembered the buildings on Tyban IV.     Unless the Makers had not come from this planet at all.     His mind helplessly began to revolve. It was Ball who restored order.     Do you build yourselves? the exec asked.     Peb answered quickly, that faint note of happiness again apparent, asif the robot was glad for the opportunity of answering.     No, we do not build ourselves. We are made by the— another pause fora word—by the      Factory     .     The Factory?     Yes. It was built by the Makers. Would you care to see it?     Both of the Earthmen nodded dumbly.     Would you prefer to use your—skiff? It is quite a long way from here.     It was indeed a long way, even by skiff. Some of the Aliencon crew wentalong with them. And near the edge of the twilight zone, on the otherside of the world, they saw the Factory outlined in the dim light ofdusk. A huge, fantastic block, wrought of gray and cloudy metal, lay ina valley between two worn mountains. Steffens went down low, circlingin the skiff, stared in awe at the size of the building. Robots movedoutside the thing, little black bugs in the distance—moving aroundtheir birthplace.  The Earthmen remained for several weeks. During that time, Steffens wasusually with Elb, talking now as often as he listened, and the Alienconteam roamed the planet freely, investigating what was certainly thestrangest culture in history. There was still the mystery of thosebuildings on Tyban IV; that, as well as the robots' origin, would haveto be cleared up before they could leave.     Surprisingly, Steffens did not think about the future. Whenever he camenear a robot, he sensed such a general, comfortable air of good feelingthat it warmed him, and he was so preoccupied with watching the robotsthat he did little thinking.     Something he had not realized at the beginning was that he was asunusual to the robots as they were to him. It came to him with a greatshock that not one of the robots had ever seen a living thing. Not abug, a worm, a leaf. They did not know what flesh was. Only the doctorsknew that, and none of them could readily understand what was meant bythe words organic matter. It had taken them some time to recognizethat the Earthmen wore suits which were not parts of their bodies, andit was even more difficult for them to understand why the suits wereneeded.     But when they did understand, the robots did a surprising thing.     At first, because of the excessive radiation, none of the Earthmencould remain outside the ship for long, even in radiation suits. Andone morning, when Steffens came out of the ship, it was to discoverthat hundreds of the robots, working through the night, had effectivelydecontaminated the entire area.     It was at this point that Steffens asked how many robots there were.He learned to his amazement that there were more than nine million.The great mass of them had politely remained a great distance from theship, spread out over the planet, since they were highly radioactive.     Steffens, meanwhile, courteously allowed Elb to probe into his mind.The robot extracted all the knowledge of matter that Steffens held,pondered over the knowledge and tried to digest it, and passed it on tothe other robots. Steffens, in turn, had a difficult time picturing themind of a thing that had never known life.     He had a vague idea of the robot's history—more, perhaps, then theyknew themselves—but he refrained from forming an opinion untilAliencon made its report. What fascinated him was Elb's amazingphilosophy, the only outlook, really, that the robot could have had.  What do you      do     ? Steffens asked.     Elb replied quickly, with characteristic simplicity: We can do verylittle. A certain amount of physical knowledge was imparted to us atbirth by the Makers. We spend the main part of our time expanding thatknowledge wherever possible. We have made some progress in the naturalsciences, and some in mathematics. Our purpose in being, you see, isto serve the Makers. Any ability we can acquire will make us that muchmore fit to serve when the Makers return.     When they return? It had not occurred to Steffens until now that therobots expected the Makers to do so.     Elb regarded him out of the band of the circling eye. I see you hadsurmised that the Makers were not coming back.     If the robot could have laughed, Steffens thought it would have, then.But it just stood there, motionless, its tone politely emphatic.     It has always been our belief that the Makers would return. Why elsewould we have been built?     Steffens thought the robot would go on, but it didn't. The question, toElb, was no question at all.     Although Steffens knew already what the robot could not possibly haveknown—that the Makers were gone and would never come back—he was along time understanding. What he did was push this speculation into theback of his mind, to keep it from Elb. He had no desire to destroy afaith.     But it created a problem in him. He had begun to picture for Elb thestructure of human society, and the robot—a machine which did not eator sleep—listened gravely and tried to understand. One day Steffensmentioned God.     God? the robot repeated without comprehension. What is God?     Steffens explained briefly, and the robot answered:     It is a matter which has troubled us. We thought at first that youwere the Makers returning— Steffens remembered the brief lapse, theseeming disappointment he had sensed—but then we probed your mindsand found that you were not, that you were another kind of being,unlike either the Makers or ourselves. You were not even— Elb caughthimself—you did not happen to be telepaths. Therefore we troubledover who made you. We did detect the word 'Maker' in your theology,but it seemed to have a peculiar— Elb paused for a long while—anuntouchable, intangible meaning which varies among you.     Steffens understood. He nodded.     The Makers were the robots' God, were all the God they needed. TheMakers had built them, the planet, the universe. If he were to ask themwho made the Makers, it would be like their asking him who made God.     It was an ironic parallel, and he smiled to himself.     But on that planet, it was the last time he smiled.  ","The story opens in the Coal Sack Nebula, on the uninhabited fourth planet of a star called Tyban. There are twelve 15,000 year old stone buildings on the dusty uninhabitable planet, the first evidence of another advanced space-crossing alien race.Steffens and his crew travel to the Third planet in the Tyban solar system which seems uninhabited as well, with the cities obliterated into black holes in the ground that are at least three miles wide. The Third planet is Earth-like, with continents, hills and deserts, and of a suitable temperature for life, but with absolutely no vegetation, deathly radiation for humans, and a CO2 atmosphere. They see splintered walls and wreckage, but no life - until their discovery of the robots. There are nine million black, plastic robots slightly shorter than humans on the planet, and they have a huge, grey block building Factory near the edge of the twilight zone in a valley between two mountains where they are produced. Their desire for their human-like Makers to return to them, and their use of telepathic communication and mind-probing sets an eerie vibe over the humans’ exploration of the planet."
"What is the irony of the “Makers” in the story? </s>     Orphans of the Void     By MICHAEL SHAARA     Illustrated by EMSH     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction June 1952.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        Finding a cause worth dying for is no       great trick—the Universe is full of them. Finding       one worth living for is the genuine problem!        In the region of the Coal Sack Nebula, on the dead fourth planet ofa star called Tyban, Captain Steffens of the Mapping Command stoodcounting buildings. Eleven. No, twelve. He wondered if there was anysignificance in the number. He had no idea.     What do you make of it? he asked.     Lieutenant Ball, the executive officer of the ship, almost tried toscratch his head before he remembered that he was wearing a spacesuit.     Looks like a temporary camp, Ball said. Very few buildings, and allbuilt out of native materials, the only stuff available. Castaways,maybe?     Steffens was silent as he walked up onto the rise. The flat weatheredstone jutted out of the sand before him.     No inscriptions, he pointed out.     They would have been worn away. See the wind grooves? Anyway, there'snot another building on the whole damn planet. You wouldn't call itmuch of a civilization.     You don't think these are native?     Ball said he didn't. Steffens nodded.     Standing there and gazing at the stone, Steffens felt the awe of greatage. He had a hunch, deep and intuitive, that this was old—      too     old.He reached out a gloved hand, ran it gently over the smooth stoneridges of the wall. Although the atmosphere was very thin, he noticedthat the buildings had no airlocks.     Ball's voice sounded in his helmet: Want to set up shop, Skipper?     Steffens paused. All right, if you think it will do any good.     You never can tell. Excavation probably won't be much use. Thesethings are on a raised rock foundation, swept clean by the wind. Andyou can see that the rock itself is native— he indicated the ledgebeneath their feet—and was cut out a long while back.     How long?     Ball toed the sand uncomfortably. I wouldn't like to say off-hand.     Make a rough estimate.     Ball looked at the captain, knowing what was in his mind. He smiledwryly and said: Five thousand years? Ten thousand? I don't know.     Steffens whistled.     Ball pointed again at the wall. Look at the striations. You can tellfrom that alone. It would take even a brisk Earth wind      at least     several thousand years to cut that deep, and the wind here has only afraction of that force.     The two men stood for a long moment in silence. Man had been ininterstellar space for three hundred years and this was the firstuncovered evidence of an advanced, space-crossing, alien race. It wasan historic moment, but neither of them was thinking about history.     Man had been in space for only three hundred years. Whatever had builtthese had been in space for thousands of years.     Which ought to give      them     , thought Steffens uncomfortably, one hell ofa good head-start.  While the excav crew worked steadily, turning up nothing, Steffensremained alone among the buildings. Ball came out to him, looked drylyat the walls.     Well, he said, whoever they were, we haven't heard from them since.     No? How can you be sure? Steffens grunted. A space-borne race wasroaming this part of the Galaxy while men were still pitching spearsat each other,      that     long ago. And this planet is only a parsec fromVarius II, a civilization as old as Earth's. Did whoever built theseget to Varius? Or did they get to Earth? How can you know?     He kicked at the sand distractedly. And most important, where are theynow? A race with several thousand years....     Fifteen thousand, Ball said. When Steffens looked up, he added:That's what the geology boys say. Fifteen thousand, at the least.     Steffens turned to stare unhappily at the buildings. When he realizednow how really old they were, a sudden thought struck him.     But why buildings? Why did they have to build in stone, to last?There's something wrong with that. They shouldn't have had a needto build, unless they were castaways. And castaways would have left      something     behind. The only reason they would need a camp would be—     If the ship left and some of them stayed.     Steffens nodded. But then the ship must have come back. Where did itgo? He ceased kicking at the sand and looked up into the blue-blackmidday sky. We'll never know.     How about the other planets? Ball asked.     The report was negative. Inner too hot, outer too heavy and cold. Thethird planet is the only one with a decent temperature range, but      it     has a CO  2  atmosphere.     How about moons?     Steffens shrugged. We could try them and find out.  The third planet was a blank, gleaming ball until they were in close,and then the blankness resolved into folds and piling clouds and dimly,in places, the surface showed through. The ship went down through theclouds, falling the last few miles on her brakers. They came into themisty gas below, leveled off and moved along the edge of the twilightzone.     The moons of this solar system had yielded nothing. The third planet, ahot, heavy world which had no free oxygen and from which the monitorshad detected nothing, was all that was left. Steffens expected nothing,but he had to try.     At a height of several miles, the ship moved up the zone, scanning,moving in the familiar slow spiral of the Mapping Command. Faint darkoutlines of bare rocks and hills moved by below.     Steffens turned the screen to full magnification and watched silently.     After a while he saw a city.     The main screen being on, the whole crew saw it. Someone shouted andthey stopped to stare, and Steffens was about to call for altitude whenhe saw that the city was dead.     He looked down on splintered walls that were like cloudy glass piecesrising above a plain, rising in a shattered circle. Near the centerof the city, there was a huge, charred hole at least three miles indiameter and very deep. In all the piled rubble, nothing moved.     Steffens went down low to make sure, then brought the ship around andheaded out across the main continent into the bright area of the sun.The rocks rolled by below, there was no vegetation at all, and thenthere were more cities—all with the black depression, the circularstamp that blotted away and fused the buildings into nothing.     No one on the ship had anything to say. None had ever seen a war, forthere had not been war on Earth or near it for more than three hundredyears.     The ship circled around to the dark side of the planet. When they weredown below a mile, the radiation counters began to react. It becameapparent, from the dials, that there could be nothing alive.     After a while Ball said: Well, which do you figure? Did our friendsfrom the fourth planet do this, or were they the same people as these?     Steffens did not take his eyes from the screen. They were coming aroundto the daylight side.     We'll go down and look for the answer, he said. Break out theradiation suits.     He paused, thinking. If the ones on the fourth planet were alien tothis world, they were from outer space, could not have come from oneof the other planets here. They had starships and were warlike. Then,thousands of years ago. He began to realize how important it really wasthat Ball's question be answered.     When the ship had gone very low, looking for a landing site, Steffenswas still by the screen. It was Steffens, then, who saw the thing move.     Down far below, it had been a still black shadow, and then it moved.Steffens froze. And he knew, even at that distance, that it was a robot.       Tiny and black, a mass of hanging arms and legs, the thing went glidingdown the slope of a hill. Steffens saw it clearly for a full second,saw the dull ball of its head tilt upward as the ship came over, andthen the hill was past.  Quickly Steffens called for height. The ship bucked beneath him andblasted straight up; some of the crew went crashing to the deck.Steffens remained by the screen, increasing the magnification as theship drew away. And he saw another, then two, then a black glidinggroup, all matched with bunches of hanging arms.     Nothing alive but robots, he thought,      robots     . He adjusted to fullclose up as quickly as he could and the picture focused on the screen.Behind him he heard a crewman grunt in amazement.     A band of clear, plasticlike stuff ran round the head—it would be theeye, a band of eye that saw all ways. On the top of the head was asingle round spot of the plastic, and the rest was black metal, joined,he realized, with fantastic perfection. The angle of sight was nowalmost perpendicular. He could see very little of the branching arms ofthe trunk, but what had been on the screen was enough. They were themost perfect robots he had ever seen.     The ship leveled off. Steffens had no idea what to do; the sudden sightof the moving things had unnerved him. He had already sounded thealert, flicked out the defense screens. Now he had nothing to do. Hetried to concentrate on what the League Law would have him do.     The Law was no help. Contact with planet-bound races was forbiddenunder any circumstances. But could a bunch of robots be called a race?The Law said nothing about robots because Earthmen had none. Thebuilding of imaginative robots was expressly forbidden. But at anyrate, Steffens thought, he had made contact already.     While Steffens stood by the screen, completely bewildered for the firsttime in his space career, Lieutenant Ball came up, hobbling slightly.From the bright new bruise on his cheek, Steffens guessed that thesudden climb had caught him unaware. The exec was pale with surprise.     What were they? he said blankly. Lord, they looked like robots!     They were.     Ball stared confoundedly at the screen. The things were now a confusionof dots in the mist.     Almost humanoid, Steffens said, but not quite.     Ball was slowly absorbing the situation. He turned to gaze inquiringlyat Steffens.     Well, what do we do now?     Steffens shrugged. They saw us. We could leave now and let them quitepossibly make a ... a legend out of our visit, or we could go down andsee if they tie in with the buildings on Tyban IV.           Can     we go down?     Legally? I don't know. If they are robots, yes, since robots cannotconstitute a race. But there's another possibility. He tapped hisfingers on the screen confusedly. They don't have to be robots at all.They could be the natives.     Ball gulped. I don't follow you.     They could be the original inhabitants of this planet—the brains ofthem, at least, protected in radiation-proof metal. Anyway, he added,they're the most perfect mechanicals I've ever seen.     Ball shook his head, sat down abruptly. Steffens turned from thescreen, strode nervously across the Main Deck, thinking.     The Mapping Command, they called it. Theoretically, all he was supposedto do was make a closeup examination of unexplored systems, checkingfor the presence of life-forms as well as for the possibilities ofhuman colonization. Make a check and nothing else. But he knew veryclearly that if he returned to Sirius base without investigating thisrobot situation, he could very well be court-martialed one way or theother, either for breaking the Law of Contact or for dereliction ofduty.     And there was also the possibility, which abruptly occurred to him,that the robots might well be prepared to blow his ship to hell andgone.     He stopped in the center of the deck. A whole new line of thoughtopened up. If the robots were armed and ready ... could this be anoutpost?       An outpost!       He turned and raced for the bridge. If he went in and landed and waslost, then the League might never know in time. If he went in andstirred up trouble....     The thought in his mind was scattered suddenly, like a mist blown away.A voice was speaking in his mind, a deep calm voice that seemed to say:           Greetings. Do not be alarmed. We do not wish you to be alarmed. Ourdesire is only to serve....       Greetings, it said! Greetings! Ball was mumbling incredulouslythrough shocked lips.     Everyone on the ship had heard the voice. When it spoke again, Steffenswas not sure whether it was just one voice or many voices.     We await your coming, it said gravely, and repeated: Our desire isonly to serve.     And then the robots sent a      picture     .     As perfect and as clear as a tridim movie, a rectangular plate tookshape in Steffens' mind. On the face of the plate, standing aloneagainst a background of red-brown, bare rocks, was one of the robots.With slow, perfect movement, the robot carefully lifted one of thehanging arms of its side, of its      right     side, and extended it towardSteffens, a graciously offered hand.     Steffens felt a peculiar, compelling urge to take the hand, realizedright away that the urge to take the hand was not entirely his. Therobot mind had helped.     When the picture vanished, he knew that the others had seen it. Hewaited for a while; there was no further contact, but the feeling ofthe robot's urging was still strong within him. He had an idea that, ifthey wanted to, the robots could control his mind. So when nothing morehappened, he began to lose his fear.     While the crew watched in fascination, Steffens tried to talk back.He concentrated hard on what he was saying, said it aloud for goodmeasure, then held his own hand extended in the robot manner of shakinghands.     Greetings, he said, because it was what      they     had said, andexplained: We have come from the stars.     It was overly dramatic, but so was the whole situation. He wonderedbaffledly if he should have let the Alien Contact crew handle it. Ordersomeone to stand there, feeling like a fool, and      think     a message?     No, it was his responsibility; he had to go on:     We request—we respectfully request permission to land upon yourplanet.  Steffens had not realized that there were so many.     They had been gathering since his ship was first seen, and now therewere hundreds of them clustered upon the hill. Others were arrivingeven as the skiff landed; they glided in over the rocky hills withfantastic ease and power, so that Steffens felt a momentary anxiety.Most of the robots were standing with the silent immobility of metal.Others threaded their way to the fore and came near the skiff, but nonetouched it, and a circle was cleared for Steffens when he came out.       One of the near robots came forward alone, moving, as Steffens nowsaw, on a number of short, incredibly strong and agile legs. The blackthing paused before him, extended a hand as it had done in the picture.Steffens took it, he hoped, warmly; felt the power of the metal throughthe glove of his suit.     Welcome, the robot said, speaking again to his mind, and nowSteffens detected a peculiar alteration in the robot's tone. It wasless friendly now, less—Steffens could not understand—somehow less      interested     , as if the robot had been—expecting someone else.     Thank you, Steffens said. We are deeply grateful for your permissionto land.     Our desire, the robot repeated mechanically, is only to serve.     Suddenly, Steffens began to feel alone, surrounded by machines. Hetried to push the thought out of his mind, because he knew that they      should     seem inhuman. But....     Will the others come down? asked the robot, still mechanically.     Steffens felt his embarrassment. The ship lay high in the mist above,jets throbbing gently.     They must remain with the ship, Steffens said aloud, trusting to therobot's formality not to ask him why. Although, if they could read hismind, there was no need to ask.     For a long while, neither spoke, long enough for Steffens to grow tenseand uncomfortable. He could not think of a thing to say, the robot wasobviously waiting, and so, in desperation, he signaled the Aliencon mento come on out of the skiff.     They came, wonderingly, and the ring of robots widened. Steffens heardthe one robot speak again. The voice was now much more friendly.     We hope you will forgive us for intruding upon your thought. It isour—custom—not to communicate unless we are called upon. But when weobserved that you were in ignorance of our real—nature—and were aboutto leave our planet, we decided to put aside our custom, so that youmight base your decision upon sufficient data.     Steffens replied haltingly that he appreciated their action.     We perceive, the robot went on, that you are unaware of our completeaccess to your mind, and would perhaps be—dismayed—to learn thatwe have been gathering information from you. We must—apologize.Our only purpose was so that we could communicate with you. Onlythat information was taken which is necessary for communicationand—understanding. We will enter your minds henceforth only at yourrequest.     Steffens did not react to the news that his mind was being probedas violently as he might have. Nevertheless it was a shock, and heretreated into observant silence as the Aliencon men went to work.     The robot which seemed to have been doing the speaking was in no waydifferent from any of the others in the group. Since each of the robotswas immediately aware of all that was being said or thought, Steffensguessed that they had sent one forward just for appearance's sake,because they perceived that the Earthmen would feel more at home. Thepicture of the extended hand, the characteristic handshake of Earthmen,had probably been borrowed, too, for the same purpose of making him andthe others feel at ease. The one jarring note was the robot's momentarylapse, those unexplainable few seconds when the things had seemedalmost disappointed. Steffens gave up wondering about that and began toexamine the first robot in detail.     It was not very tall, being at least a foot shorter than the Earthmen.The most peculiar thing about it, except for the circling eye-band ofthe head, was a mass of symbols which were apparently engraved upon themetal chest. Symbols in row upon row—numbers, perhaps—were upon thechest, and repeated again below the level of the arms, and continuedin orderly rows across the front of the robot, all the way down to thebase of the trunk. If they were numbers, Steffens thought, then it wasa remarkably complicated system. But he noticed the same pattern onthe nearer robots, all apparently identical. He was forced to concludethat the symbols were merely decoration and let it go tentatively atthat, although the answer seemed illogical.     It wasn't until he was on his way home that Steffens remembered thesymbols again. And only then did he realized what they were.  After a while, convinced that there was no danger, Steffens had theship brought down. When the crew came out of the airlock, they were metby the robots, and each man found himself with a robot at his side,humbly requesting to be of service. There were literally thousands ofthe robots now, come from all over the barren horizon. The mass of themstood apart, immobile on a plain near the ship, glinting in the sunlike a vast, metallic field of black wheat.     The robots had obviously been built to serve. Steffens began to      feel     their pleasure, to sense it in spite of the blank, expressionlessfaces. They were almost like children in their eagerness, yet they werestill reserved. Whoever had built them, Steffens thought in wonder, hadbuilt them well.     Ball came to join Steffens, staring at the robots through the clearplastic of his helmet with baffledly widened eyes. A robot moved outfrom the mass in the field, allied itself to him. The first to speakhad remained with Steffens.     Realizing that the robot could hear every word he was saying, Ballwas for a while apprehensive. But the sheer unreality of standing andtalking with a multi-limbed, intelligent hunk of dead metal upon thebare rock of a dead, ancient world, the unreality of it slowly died.It was impossible not to like the things. There was something in theirvery lines which was pleasant and relaxing.     Their builders, Steffens thought, had probably thought of that, too.     There's no harm in them, said Ball at last, openly, not minding ifthe robots heard. They seem actually glad we're here. My God, whoeverheard of a robot being glad?     Steffens, embarrassed, spoke quickly to the nearest mechanical: I hopeyou will forgive us our curiosity, but—yours is a remarkable race. Wehave never before made contact with a race like yours. It was saidhaltingly, but it was the best he could do.     The robot made a singularly human nodding motion of its head.     I perceive that the nature of our construction is unfamiliar to you.Your question is whether or not we are entirely 'mechanical.' I amnot exactly certain as to what the word 'mechanical' is intended toconvey—I would have to examine your thought more fully—but I believethat there is fundamental similarity between our structures.     The robot paused. Steffens had a distinct impression that it wasdisconcerted.     I must tell you, the thing went on, that we ourselves are—curious.It stopped suddenly, struggling with a word it could not comprehend.Steffens waited, listening with absolute interest. It said at length:     We know of only two types of living structure. Ours, which is largelymetallic, and that of the      Makers     , which would appear to be somewhatmore like yours. I am not a—doctor—and therefore cannot acquaint youwith the specific details of the Makers' composition, but if you areinterested I will have a doctor brought forward. It will be glad to beof assistance.     It was Steffens' turn to struggle, and the robot waited patiently whileBall and the second robot looked on in silence. The Makers, obviously,were whoever or whatever had built the robots, and the doctors,Steffens decided, were probably just that—doctor-robots, designedspecifically to care for the apparently flesh-bodies of the Makers.     The efficiency of the things continued to amaze him, but the questionhe had been waiting to ask came out now with a rush:     Can you tell us where the Makers are?     Both robots stood motionless. It occurred to Steffens that he couldn'treally be sure which was speaking. The voice that came to him spokewith difficulty.     The Makers—are not here.     Steffens stared in puzzlement. The robot detected his confusion andwent on:     The Makers have gone away. They have been gone for a very long time.     Could that be      pain     in its voice, Steffens wondered, and then thespectre of the ruined cities rose harsh in his mind.     War. The Makers had all been killed in that war. And these had not beenkilled.     He tried to grasp it, but he couldn't. There were robots here in themidst of a radiation so lethal that      nothing     ,      nothing     could live;robots on a dead planet, living in an atmosphere of carbon dioxide.     The carbon dioxide brought him up sharp.     If there had been life here once, there would have been plant life aswell, and therefore oxygen. If the war had been so long ago that thefree oxygen had since gone out of the atmosphere—good God, how oldwere the robots? Steffens looked at Ball, then at the silent robots,then out across the field to where the rest of them stood. The blackwheat. Steffens felt a deep chill.     Were they immortal?  Would you like to see a doctor?     Steffens jumped at the familiar words, then realized to what the robotwas referring.     No, not yet, he said, thank you. He swallowed hard as the robotscontinued waiting patiently.     Could you tell me, he said at last, how old you are? Individually?     By your reckoning, said his robot, and paused to make thecalculation, I am forty-four years, seven months, and eighteen days ofage, with ten years and approximately nine months yet to be alive.     Steffens tried to understand that.     It would perhaps simplify our conversations, said the robot, ifyou were to refer to me by a name, as is your custom. Using thefirst—letters—of my designation, my name would translate as Elb.     Glad to meet you, Steffens mumbled.     You are called 'Stef,' said the robot obligingly. Then it added,pointing an arm at the robot near Ball: The age of—Peb—is seventeenyears, one month and four days. Peb has therefore remaining somethirty-eight years.     Steffens was trying to keep up. Then the life span was obviously aboutfifty-five years. But the cities, and the carbon dioxide? The robot,Elb, had said that the Makers were similar to him, and therefore oxygenand plant life would have been needed. Unless—     He remembered the buildings on Tyban IV.     Unless the Makers had not come from this planet at all.     His mind helplessly began to revolve. It was Ball who restored order.     Do you build yourselves? the exec asked.     Peb answered quickly, that faint note of happiness again apparent, asif the robot was glad for the opportunity of answering.     No, we do not build ourselves. We are made by the— another pause fora word—by the      Factory     .     The Factory?     Yes. It was built by the Makers. Would you care to see it?     Both of the Earthmen nodded dumbly.     Would you prefer to use your—skiff? It is quite a long way from here.     It was indeed a long way, even by skiff. Some of the Aliencon crew wentalong with them. And near the edge of the twilight zone, on the otherside of the world, they saw the Factory outlined in the dim light ofdusk. A huge, fantastic block, wrought of gray and cloudy metal, lay ina valley between two worn mountains. Steffens went down low, circlingin the skiff, stared in awe at the size of the building. Robots movedoutside the thing, little black bugs in the distance—moving aroundtheir birthplace.  The Earthmen remained for several weeks. During that time, Steffens wasusually with Elb, talking now as often as he listened, and the Alienconteam roamed the planet freely, investigating what was certainly thestrangest culture in history. There was still the mystery of thosebuildings on Tyban IV; that, as well as the robots' origin, would haveto be cleared up before they could leave.     Surprisingly, Steffens did not think about the future. Whenever he camenear a robot, he sensed such a general, comfortable air of good feelingthat it warmed him, and he was so preoccupied with watching the robotsthat he did little thinking.     Something he had not realized at the beginning was that he was asunusual to the robots as they were to him. It came to him with a greatshock that not one of the robots had ever seen a living thing. Not abug, a worm, a leaf. They did not know what flesh was. Only the doctorsknew that, and none of them could readily understand what was meant bythe words organic matter. It had taken them some time to recognizethat the Earthmen wore suits which were not parts of their bodies, andit was even more difficult for them to understand why the suits wereneeded.     But when they did understand, the robots did a surprising thing.     At first, because of the excessive radiation, none of the Earthmencould remain outside the ship for long, even in radiation suits. Andone morning, when Steffens came out of the ship, it was to discoverthat hundreds of the robots, working through the night, had effectivelydecontaminated the entire area.     It was at this point that Steffens asked how many robots there were.He learned to his amazement that there were more than nine million.The great mass of them had politely remained a great distance from theship, spread out over the planet, since they were highly radioactive.     Steffens, meanwhile, courteously allowed Elb to probe into his mind.The robot extracted all the knowledge of matter that Steffens held,pondered over the knowledge and tried to digest it, and passed it on tothe other robots. Steffens, in turn, had a difficult time picturing themind of a thing that had never known life.     He had a vague idea of the robot's history—more, perhaps, then theyknew themselves—but he refrained from forming an opinion untilAliencon made its report. What fascinated him was Elb's amazingphilosophy, the only outlook, really, that the robot could have had.  What do you      do     ? Steffens asked.     Elb replied quickly, with characteristic simplicity: We can do verylittle. A certain amount of physical knowledge was imparted to us atbirth by the Makers. We spend the main part of our time expanding thatknowledge wherever possible. We have made some progress in the naturalsciences, and some in mathematics. Our purpose in being, you see, isto serve the Makers. Any ability we can acquire will make us that muchmore fit to serve when the Makers return.     When they return? It had not occurred to Steffens until now that therobots expected the Makers to do so.     Elb regarded him out of the band of the circling eye. I see you hadsurmised that the Makers were not coming back.     If the robot could have laughed, Steffens thought it would have, then.But it just stood there, motionless, its tone politely emphatic.     It has always been our belief that the Makers would return. Why elsewould we have been built?     Steffens thought the robot would go on, but it didn't. The question, toElb, was no question at all.     Although Steffens knew already what the robot could not possibly haveknown—that the Makers were gone and would never come back—he was along time understanding. What he did was push this speculation into theback of his mind, to keep it from Elb. He had no desire to destroy afaith.     But it created a problem in him. He had begun to picture for Elb thestructure of human society, and the robot—a machine which did not eator sleep—listened gravely and tried to understand. One day Steffensmentioned God.     God? the robot repeated without comprehension. What is God?     Steffens explained briefly, and the robot answered:     It is a matter which has troubled us. We thought at first that youwere the Makers returning— Steffens remembered the brief lapse, theseeming disappointment he had sensed—but then we probed your mindsand found that you were not, that you were another kind of being,unlike either the Makers or ourselves. You were not even— Elb caughthimself—you did not happen to be telepaths. Therefore we troubledover who made you. We did detect the word 'Maker' in your theology,but it seemed to have a peculiar— Elb paused for a long while—anuntouchable, intangible meaning which varies among you.     Steffens understood. He nodded.     The Makers were the robots' God, were all the God they needed. TheMakers had built them, the planet, the universe. If he were to ask themwho made the Makers, it would be like their asking him who made God.     It was an ironic parallel, and he smiled to himself.     But on that planet, it was the last time he smiled.  ","The “Makers” are to the robots as gods of creation are to humans. The robots believe that the Makers wouldn’t have created them if they wouldn’t return for them one day, and so steadfastly believe that the Makers will visit. They tell Steffens that the Makers were similar to his human form. This is evidenced by the disappointment the robots display when the humans land and the robots realize they do not communicate telepathically, thus cannot be the Makers they were expecting.Steffens states the “ironic parallel” of the Makers at the end of the story because the humans wish to understand who created the robots, but they can’t possibly answer that question because it would be like asking a human who created their god."
"Describe what the robots are. </s>     Orphans of the Void     By MICHAEL SHAARA     Illustrated by EMSH     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction June 1952.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        Finding a cause worth dying for is no       great trick—the Universe is full of them. Finding       one worth living for is the genuine problem!        In the region of the Coal Sack Nebula, on the dead fourth planet ofa star called Tyban, Captain Steffens of the Mapping Command stoodcounting buildings. Eleven. No, twelve. He wondered if there was anysignificance in the number. He had no idea.     What do you make of it? he asked.     Lieutenant Ball, the executive officer of the ship, almost tried toscratch his head before he remembered that he was wearing a spacesuit.     Looks like a temporary camp, Ball said. Very few buildings, and allbuilt out of native materials, the only stuff available. Castaways,maybe?     Steffens was silent as he walked up onto the rise. The flat weatheredstone jutted out of the sand before him.     No inscriptions, he pointed out.     They would have been worn away. See the wind grooves? Anyway, there'snot another building on the whole damn planet. You wouldn't call itmuch of a civilization.     You don't think these are native?     Ball said he didn't. Steffens nodded.     Standing there and gazing at the stone, Steffens felt the awe of greatage. He had a hunch, deep and intuitive, that this was old—      too     old.He reached out a gloved hand, ran it gently over the smooth stoneridges of the wall. Although the atmosphere was very thin, he noticedthat the buildings had no airlocks.     Ball's voice sounded in his helmet: Want to set up shop, Skipper?     Steffens paused. All right, if you think it will do any good.     You never can tell. Excavation probably won't be much use. Thesethings are on a raised rock foundation, swept clean by the wind. Andyou can see that the rock itself is native— he indicated the ledgebeneath their feet—and was cut out a long while back.     How long?     Ball toed the sand uncomfortably. I wouldn't like to say off-hand.     Make a rough estimate.     Ball looked at the captain, knowing what was in his mind. He smiledwryly and said: Five thousand years? Ten thousand? I don't know.     Steffens whistled.     Ball pointed again at the wall. Look at the striations. You can tellfrom that alone. It would take even a brisk Earth wind      at least     several thousand years to cut that deep, and the wind here has only afraction of that force.     The two men stood for a long moment in silence. Man had been ininterstellar space for three hundred years and this was the firstuncovered evidence of an advanced, space-crossing, alien race. It wasan historic moment, but neither of them was thinking about history.     Man had been in space for only three hundred years. Whatever had builtthese had been in space for thousands of years.     Which ought to give      them     , thought Steffens uncomfortably, one hell ofa good head-start.  While the excav crew worked steadily, turning up nothing, Steffensremained alone among the buildings. Ball came out to him, looked drylyat the walls.     Well, he said, whoever they were, we haven't heard from them since.     No? How can you be sure? Steffens grunted. A space-borne race wasroaming this part of the Galaxy while men were still pitching spearsat each other,      that     long ago. And this planet is only a parsec fromVarius II, a civilization as old as Earth's. Did whoever built theseget to Varius? Or did they get to Earth? How can you know?     He kicked at the sand distractedly. And most important, where are theynow? A race with several thousand years....     Fifteen thousand, Ball said. When Steffens looked up, he added:That's what the geology boys say. Fifteen thousand, at the least.     Steffens turned to stare unhappily at the buildings. When he realizednow how really old they were, a sudden thought struck him.     But why buildings? Why did they have to build in stone, to last?There's something wrong with that. They shouldn't have had a needto build, unless they were castaways. And castaways would have left      something     behind. The only reason they would need a camp would be—     If the ship left and some of them stayed.     Steffens nodded. But then the ship must have come back. Where did itgo? He ceased kicking at the sand and looked up into the blue-blackmidday sky. We'll never know.     How about the other planets? Ball asked.     The report was negative. Inner too hot, outer too heavy and cold. Thethird planet is the only one with a decent temperature range, but      it     has a CO  2  atmosphere.     How about moons?     Steffens shrugged. We could try them and find out.  The third planet was a blank, gleaming ball until they were in close,and then the blankness resolved into folds and piling clouds and dimly,in places, the surface showed through. The ship went down through theclouds, falling the last few miles on her brakers. They came into themisty gas below, leveled off and moved along the edge of the twilightzone.     The moons of this solar system had yielded nothing. The third planet, ahot, heavy world which had no free oxygen and from which the monitorshad detected nothing, was all that was left. Steffens expected nothing,but he had to try.     At a height of several miles, the ship moved up the zone, scanning,moving in the familiar slow spiral of the Mapping Command. Faint darkoutlines of bare rocks and hills moved by below.     Steffens turned the screen to full magnification and watched silently.     After a while he saw a city.     The main screen being on, the whole crew saw it. Someone shouted andthey stopped to stare, and Steffens was about to call for altitude whenhe saw that the city was dead.     He looked down on splintered walls that were like cloudy glass piecesrising above a plain, rising in a shattered circle. Near the centerof the city, there was a huge, charred hole at least three miles indiameter and very deep. In all the piled rubble, nothing moved.     Steffens went down low to make sure, then brought the ship around andheaded out across the main continent into the bright area of the sun.The rocks rolled by below, there was no vegetation at all, and thenthere were more cities—all with the black depression, the circularstamp that blotted away and fused the buildings into nothing.     No one on the ship had anything to say. None had ever seen a war, forthere had not been war on Earth or near it for more than three hundredyears.     The ship circled around to the dark side of the planet. When they weredown below a mile, the radiation counters began to react. It becameapparent, from the dials, that there could be nothing alive.     After a while Ball said: Well, which do you figure? Did our friendsfrom the fourth planet do this, or were they the same people as these?     Steffens did not take his eyes from the screen. They were coming aroundto the daylight side.     We'll go down and look for the answer, he said. Break out theradiation suits.     He paused, thinking. If the ones on the fourth planet were alien tothis world, they were from outer space, could not have come from oneof the other planets here. They had starships and were warlike. Then,thousands of years ago. He began to realize how important it really wasthat Ball's question be answered.     When the ship had gone very low, looking for a landing site, Steffenswas still by the screen. It was Steffens, then, who saw the thing move.     Down far below, it had been a still black shadow, and then it moved.Steffens froze. And he knew, even at that distance, that it was a robot.       Tiny and black, a mass of hanging arms and legs, the thing went glidingdown the slope of a hill. Steffens saw it clearly for a full second,saw the dull ball of its head tilt upward as the ship came over, andthen the hill was past.  Quickly Steffens called for height. The ship bucked beneath him andblasted straight up; some of the crew went crashing to the deck.Steffens remained by the screen, increasing the magnification as theship drew away. And he saw another, then two, then a black glidinggroup, all matched with bunches of hanging arms.     Nothing alive but robots, he thought,      robots     . He adjusted to fullclose up as quickly as he could and the picture focused on the screen.Behind him he heard a crewman grunt in amazement.     A band of clear, plasticlike stuff ran round the head—it would be theeye, a band of eye that saw all ways. On the top of the head was asingle round spot of the plastic, and the rest was black metal, joined,he realized, with fantastic perfection. The angle of sight was nowalmost perpendicular. He could see very little of the branching arms ofthe trunk, but what had been on the screen was enough. They were themost perfect robots he had ever seen.     The ship leveled off. Steffens had no idea what to do; the sudden sightof the moving things had unnerved him. He had already sounded thealert, flicked out the defense screens. Now he had nothing to do. Hetried to concentrate on what the League Law would have him do.     The Law was no help. Contact with planet-bound races was forbiddenunder any circumstances. But could a bunch of robots be called a race?The Law said nothing about robots because Earthmen had none. Thebuilding of imaginative robots was expressly forbidden. But at anyrate, Steffens thought, he had made contact already.     While Steffens stood by the screen, completely bewildered for the firsttime in his space career, Lieutenant Ball came up, hobbling slightly.From the bright new bruise on his cheek, Steffens guessed that thesudden climb had caught him unaware. The exec was pale with surprise.     What were they? he said blankly. Lord, they looked like robots!     They were.     Ball stared confoundedly at the screen. The things were now a confusionof dots in the mist.     Almost humanoid, Steffens said, but not quite.     Ball was slowly absorbing the situation. He turned to gaze inquiringlyat Steffens.     Well, what do we do now?     Steffens shrugged. They saw us. We could leave now and let them quitepossibly make a ... a legend out of our visit, or we could go down andsee if they tie in with the buildings on Tyban IV.           Can     we go down?     Legally? I don't know. If they are robots, yes, since robots cannotconstitute a race. But there's another possibility. He tapped hisfingers on the screen confusedly. They don't have to be robots at all.They could be the natives.     Ball gulped. I don't follow you.     They could be the original inhabitants of this planet—the brains ofthem, at least, protected in radiation-proof metal. Anyway, he added,they're the most perfect mechanicals I've ever seen.     Ball shook his head, sat down abruptly. Steffens turned from thescreen, strode nervously across the Main Deck, thinking.     The Mapping Command, they called it. Theoretically, all he was supposedto do was make a closeup examination of unexplored systems, checkingfor the presence of life-forms as well as for the possibilities ofhuman colonization. Make a check and nothing else. But he knew veryclearly that if he returned to Sirius base without investigating thisrobot situation, he could very well be court-martialed one way or theother, either for breaking the Law of Contact or for dereliction ofduty.     And there was also the possibility, which abruptly occurred to him,that the robots might well be prepared to blow his ship to hell andgone.     He stopped in the center of the deck. A whole new line of thoughtopened up. If the robots were armed and ready ... could this be anoutpost?       An outpost!       He turned and raced for the bridge. If he went in and landed and waslost, then the League might never know in time. If he went in andstirred up trouble....     The thought in his mind was scattered suddenly, like a mist blown away.A voice was speaking in his mind, a deep calm voice that seemed to say:           Greetings. Do not be alarmed. We do not wish you to be alarmed. Ourdesire is only to serve....       Greetings, it said! Greetings! Ball was mumbling incredulouslythrough shocked lips.     Everyone on the ship had heard the voice. When it spoke again, Steffenswas not sure whether it was just one voice or many voices.     We await your coming, it said gravely, and repeated: Our desire isonly to serve.     And then the robots sent a      picture     .     As perfect and as clear as a tridim movie, a rectangular plate tookshape in Steffens' mind. On the face of the plate, standing aloneagainst a background of red-brown, bare rocks, was one of the robots.With slow, perfect movement, the robot carefully lifted one of thehanging arms of its side, of its      right     side, and extended it towardSteffens, a graciously offered hand.     Steffens felt a peculiar, compelling urge to take the hand, realizedright away that the urge to take the hand was not entirely his. Therobot mind had helped.     When the picture vanished, he knew that the others had seen it. Hewaited for a while; there was no further contact, but the feeling ofthe robot's urging was still strong within him. He had an idea that, ifthey wanted to, the robots could control his mind. So when nothing morehappened, he began to lose his fear.     While the crew watched in fascination, Steffens tried to talk back.He concentrated hard on what he was saying, said it aloud for goodmeasure, then held his own hand extended in the robot manner of shakinghands.     Greetings, he said, because it was what      they     had said, andexplained: We have come from the stars.     It was overly dramatic, but so was the whole situation. He wonderedbaffledly if he should have let the Alien Contact crew handle it. Ordersomeone to stand there, feeling like a fool, and      think     a message?     No, it was his responsibility; he had to go on:     We request—we respectfully request permission to land upon yourplanet.  Steffens had not realized that there were so many.     They had been gathering since his ship was first seen, and now therewere hundreds of them clustered upon the hill. Others were arrivingeven as the skiff landed; they glided in over the rocky hills withfantastic ease and power, so that Steffens felt a momentary anxiety.Most of the robots were standing with the silent immobility of metal.Others threaded their way to the fore and came near the skiff, but nonetouched it, and a circle was cleared for Steffens when he came out.       One of the near robots came forward alone, moving, as Steffens nowsaw, on a number of short, incredibly strong and agile legs. The blackthing paused before him, extended a hand as it had done in the picture.Steffens took it, he hoped, warmly; felt the power of the metal throughthe glove of his suit.     Welcome, the robot said, speaking again to his mind, and nowSteffens detected a peculiar alteration in the robot's tone. It wasless friendly now, less—Steffens could not understand—somehow less      interested     , as if the robot had been—expecting someone else.     Thank you, Steffens said. We are deeply grateful for your permissionto land.     Our desire, the robot repeated mechanically, is only to serve.     Suddenly, Steffens began to feel alone, surrounded by machines. Hetried to push the thought out of his mind, because he knew that they      should     seem inhuman. But....     Will the others come down? asked the robot, still mechanically.     Steffens felt his embarrassment. The ship lay high in the mist above,jets throbbing gently.     They must remain with the ship, Steffens said aloud, trusting to therobot's formality not to ask him why. Although, if they could read hismind, there was no need to ask.     For a long while, neither spoke, long enough for Steffens to grow tenseand uncomfortable. He could not think of a thing to say, the robot wasobviously waiting, and so, in desperation, he signaled the Aliencon mento come on out of the skiff.     They came, wonderingly, and the ring of robots widened. Steffens heardthe one robot speak again. The voice was now much more friendly.     We hope you will forgive us for intruding upon your thought. It isour—custom—not to communicate unless we are called upon. But when weobserved that you were in ignorance of our real—nature—and were aboutto leave our planet, we decided to put aside our custom, so that youmight base your decision upon sufficient data.     Steffens replied haltingly that he appreciated their action.     We perceive, the robot went on, that you are unaware of our completeaccess to your mind, and would perhaps be—dismayed—to learn thatwe have been gathering information from you. We must—apologize.Our only purpose was so that we could communicate with you. Onlythat information was taken which is necessary for communicationand—understanding. We will enter your minds henceforth only at yourrequest.     Steffens did not react to the news that his mind was being probedas violently as he might have. Nevertheless it was a shock, and heretreated into observant silence as the Aliencon men went to work.     The robot which seemed to have been doing the speaking was in no waydifferent from any of the others in the group. Since each of the robotswas immediately aware of all that was being said or thought, Steffensguessed that they had sent one forward just for appearance's sake,because they perceived that the Earthmen would feel more at home. Thepicture of the extended hand, the characteristic handshake of Earthmen,had probably been borrowed, too, for the same purpose of making him andthe others feel at ease. The one jarring note was the robot's momentarylapse, those unexplainable few seconds when the things had seemedalmost disappointed. Steffens gave up wondering about that and began toexamine the first robot in detail.     It was not very tall, being at least a foot shorter than the Earthmen.The most peculiar thing about it, except for the circling eye-band ofthe head, was a mass of symbols which were apparently engraved upon themetal chest. Symbols in row upon row—numbers, perhaps—were upon thechest, and repeated again below the level of the arms, and continuedin orderly rows across the front of the robot, all the way down to thebase of the trunk. If they were numbers, Steffens thought, then it wasa remarkably complicated system. But he noticed the same pattern onthe nearer robots, all apparently identical. He was forced to concludethat the symbols were merely decoration and let it go tentatively atthat, although the answer seemed illogical.     It wasn't until he was on his way home that Steffens remembered thesymbols again. And only then did he realized what they were.  After a while, convinced that there was no danger, Steffens had theship brought down. When the crew came out of the airlock, they were metby the robots, and each man found himself with a robot at his side,humbly requesting to be of service. There were literally thousands ofthe robots now, come from all over the barren horizon. The mass of themstood apart, immobile on a plain near the ship, glinting in the sunlike a vast, metallic field of black wheat.     The robots had obviously been built to serve. Steffens began to      feel     their pleasure, to sense it in spite of the blank, expressionlessfaces. They were almost like children in their eagerness, yet they werestill reserved. Whoever had built them, Steffens thought in wonder, hadbuilt them well.     Ball came to join Steffens, staring at the robots through the clearplastic of his helmet with baffledly widened eyes. A robot moved outfrom the mass in the field, allied itself to him. The first to speakhad remained with Steffens.     Realizing that the robot could hear every word he was saying, Ballwas for a while apprehensive. But the sheer unreality of standing andtalking with a multi-limbed, intelligent hunk of dead metal upon thebare rock of a dead, ancient world, the unreality of it slowly died.It was impossible not to like the things. There was something in theirvery lines which was pleasant and relaxing.     Their builders, Steffens thought, had probably thought of that, too.     There's no harm in them, said Ball at last, openly, not minding ifthe robots heard. They seem actually glad we're here. My God, whoeverheard of a robot being glad?     Steffens, embarrassed, spoke quickly to the nearest mechanical: I hopeyou will forgive us our curiosity, but—yours is a remarkable race. Wehave never before made contact with a race like yours. It was saidhaltingly, but it was the best he could do.     The robot made a singularly human nodding motion of its head.     I perceive that the nature of our construction is unfamiliar to you.Your question is whether or not we are entirely 'mechanical.' I amnot exactly certain as to what the word 'mechanical' is intended toconvey—I would have to examine your thought more fully—but I believethat there is fundamental similarity between our structures.     The robot paused. Steffens had a distinct impression that it wasdisconcerted.     I must tell you, the thing went on, that we ourselves are—curious.It stopped suddenly, struggling with a word it could not comprehend.Steffens waited, listening with absolute interest. It said at length:     We know of only two types of living structure. Ours, which is largelymetallic, and that of the      Makers     , which would appear to be somewhatmore like yours. I am not a—doctor—and therefore cannot acquaint youwith the specific details of the Makers' composition, but if you areinterested I will have a doctor brought forward. It will be glad to beof assistance.     It was Steffens' turn to struggle, and the robot waited patiently whileBall and the second robot looked on in silence. The Makers, obviously,were whoever or whatever had built the robots, and the doctors,Steffens decided, were probably just that—doctor-robots, designedspecifically to care for the apparently flesh-bodies of the Makers.     The efficiency of the things continued to amaze him, but the questionhe had been waiting to ask came out now with a rush:     Can you tell us where the Makers are?     Both robots stood motionless. It occurred to Steffens that he couldn'treally be sure which was speaking. The voice that came to him spokewith difficulty.     The Makers—are not here.     Steffens stared in puzzlement. The robot detected his confusion andwent on:     The Makers have gone away. They have been gone for a very long time.     Could that be      pain     in its voice, Steffens wondered, and then thespectre of the ruined cities rose harsh in his mind.     War. The Makers had all been killed in that war. And these had not beenkilled.     He tried to grasp it, but he couldn't. There were robots here in themidst of a radiation so lethal that      nothing     ,      nothing     could live;robots on a dead planet, living in an atmosphere of carbon dioxide.     The carbon dioxide brought him up sharp.     If there had been life here once, there would have been plant life aswell, and therefore oxygen. If the war had been so long ago that thefree oxygen had since gone out of the atmosphere—good God, how oldwere the robots? Steffens looked at Ball, then at the silent robots,then out across the field to where the rest of them stood. The blackwheat. Steffens felt a deep chill.     Were they immortal?  Would you like to see a doctor?     Steffens jumped at the familiar words, then realized to what the robotwas referring.     No, not yet, he said, thank you. He swallowed hard as the robotscontinued waiting patiently.     Could you tell me, he said at last, how old you are? Individually?     By your reckoning, said his robot, and paused to make thecalculation, I am forty-four years, seven months, and eighteen days ofage, with ten years and approximately nine months yet to be alive.     Steffens tried to understand that.     It would perhaps simplify our conversations, said the robot, ifyou were to refer to me by a name, as is your custom. Using thefirst—letters—of my designation, my name would translate as Elb.     Glad to meet you, Steffens mumbled.     You are called 'Stef,' said the robot obligingly. Then it added,pointing an arm at the robot near Ball: The age of—Peb—is seventeenyears, one month and four days. Peb has therefore remaining somethirty-eight years.     Steffens was trying to keep up. Then the life span was obviously aboutfifty-five years. But the cities, and the carbon dioxide? The robot,Elb, had said that the Makers were similar to him, and therefore oxygenand plant life would have been needed. Unless—     He remembered the buildings on Tyban IV.     Unless the Makers had not come from this planet at all.     His mind helplessly began to revolve. It was Ball who restored order.     Do you build yourselves? the exec asked.     Peb answered quickly, that faint note of happiness again apparent, asif the robot was glad for the opportunity of answering.     No, we do not build ourselves. We are made by the— another pause fora word—by the      Factory     .     The Factory?     Yes. It was built by the Makers. Would you care to see it?     Both of the Earthmen nodded dumbly.     Would you prefer to use your—skiff? It is quite a long way from here.     It was indeed a long way, even by skiff. Some of the Aliencon crew wentalong with them. And near the edge of the twilight zone, on the otherside of the world, they saw the Factory outlined in the dim light ofdusk. A huge, fantastic block, wrought of gray and cloudy metal, lay ina valley between two worn mountains. Steffens went down low, circlingin the skiff, stared in awe at the size of the building. Robots movedoutside the thing, little black bugs in the distance—moving aroundtheir birthplace.  The Earthmen remained for several weeks. During that time, Steffens wasusually with Elb, talking now as often as he listened, and the Alienconteam roamed the planet freely, investigating what was certainly thestrangest culture in history. There was still the mystery of thosebuildings on Tyban IV; that, as well as the robots' origin, would haveto be cleared up before they could leave.     Surprisingly, Steffens did not think about the future. Whenever he camenear a robot, he sensed such a general, comfortable air of good feelingthat it warmed him, and he was so preoccupied with watching the robotsthat he did little thinking.     Something he had not realized at the beginning was that he was asunusual to the robots as they were to him. It came to him with a greatshock that not one of the robots had ever seen a living thing. Not abug, a worm, a leaf. They did not know what flesh was. Only the doctorsknew that, and none of them could readily understand what was meant bythe words organic matter. It had taken them some time to recognizethat the Earthmen wore suits which were not parts of their bodies, andit was even more difficult for them to understand why the suits wereneeded.     But when they did understand, the robots did a surprising thing.     At first, because of the excessive radiation, none of the Earthmencould remain outside the ship for long, even in radiation suits. Andone morning, when Steffens came out of the ship, it was to discoverthat hundreds of the robots, working through the night, had effectivelydecontaminated the entire area.     It was at this point that Steffens asked how many robots there were.He learned to his amazement that there were more than nine million.The great mass of them had politely remained a great distance from theship, spread out over the planet, since they were highly radioactive.     Steffens, meanwhile, courteously allowed Elb to probe into his mind.The robot extracted all the knowledge of matter that Steffens held,pondered over the knowledge and tried to digest it, and passed it on tothe other robots. Steffens, in turn, had a difficult time picturing themind of a thing that had never known life.     He had a vague idea of the robot's history—more, perhaps, then theyknew themselves—but he refrained from forming an opinion untilAliencon made its report. What fascinated him was Elb's amazingphilosophy, the only outlook, really, that the robot could have had.  What do you      do     ? Steffens asked.     Elb replied quickly, with characteristic simplicity: We can do verylittle. A certain amount of physical knowledge was imparted to us atbirth by the Makers. We spend the main part of our time expanding thatknowledge wherever possible. We have made some progress in the naturalsciences, and some in mathematics. Our purpose in being, you see, isto serve the Makers. Any ability we can acquire will make us that muchmore fit to serve when the Makers return.     When they return? It had not occurred to Steffens until now that therobots expected the Makers to do so.     Elb regarded him out of the band of the circling eye. I see you hadsurmised that the Makers were not coming back.     If the robot could have laughed, Steffens thought it would have, then.But it just stood there, motionless, its tone politely emphatic.     It has always been our belief that the Makers would return. Why elsewould we have been built?     Steffens thought the robot would go on, but it didn't. The question, toElb, was no question at all.     Although Steffens knew already what the robot could not possibly haveknown—that the Makers were gone and would never come back—he was along time understanding. What he did was push this speculation into theback of his mind, to keep it from Elb. He had no desire to destroy afaith.     But it created a problem in him. He had begun to picture for Elb thestructure of human society, and the robot—a machine which did not eator sleep—listened gravely and tried to understand. One day Steffensmentioned God.     God? the robot repeated without comprehension. What is God?     Steffens explained briefly, and the robot answered:     It is a matter which has troubled us. We thought at first that youwere the Makers returning— Steffens remembered the brief lapse, theseeming disappointment he had sensed—but then we probed your mindsand found that you were not, that you were another kind of being,unlike either the Makers or ourselves. You were not even— Elb caughthimself—you did not happen to be telepaths. Therefore we troubledover who made you. We did detect the word 'Maker' in your theology,but it seemed to have a peculiar— Elb paused for a long while—anuntouchable, intangible meaning which varies among you.     Steffens understood. He nodded.     The Makers were the robots' God, were all the God they needed. TheMakers had built them, the planet, the universe. If he were to ask themwho made the Makers, it would be like their asking him who made God.     It was an ironic parallel, and he smiled to himself.     But on that planet, it was the last time he smiled.  ","The robots are the first evidence of an advanced alien race that man has discovered in 300 years of interstellar travel. They are at least a foot shorter than the humans, with an eye-band circling their entire head, bunches of hanging arms, and a gliding type of locomotion. Steffens remarks that they are some of the most well-built machinery he has ever seen. The robots are made of black plastic, and have rows of dense symbols engraved all over their torsos. Their communication comes to the humans telepathically, and they are fully sentient - aware of their life spans of ~55 years, and their time until death. They also have the ability to probe the minds of the humans and even urge them to make certain decisions, but they reveal they only use this to get the humans to land and will not use it further except when given permission.They claim to have been made by the Makers, and exhibit the Factory where they are built to Steffens and his crew while they are on the Third planet. There are more than nine million of them in total on the planet, which astonishes the humans, and they spend their time trying to expand their knowledge to better serve their Makers when they eventually return to the planet. "
"Why does Steffens decide to engage with the robots? </s>     Orphans of the Void     By MICHAEL SHAARA     Illustrated by EMSH     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction June 1952.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        Finding a cause worth dying for is no       great trick—the Universe is full of them. Finding       one worth living for is the genuine problem!        In the region of the Coal Sack Nebula, on the dead fourth planet ofa star called Tyban, Captain Steffens of the Mapping Command stoodcounting buildings. Eleven. No, twelve. He wondered if there was anysignificance in the number. He had no idea.     What do you make of it? he asked.     Lieutenant Ball, the executive officer of the ship, almost tried toscratch his head before he remembered that he was wearing a spacesuit.     Looks like a temporary camp, Ball said. Very few buildings, and allbuilt out of native materials, the only stuff available. Castaways,maybe?     Steffens was silent as he walked up onto the rise. The flat weatheredstone jutted out of the sand before him.     No inscriptions, he pointed out.     They would have been worn away. See the wind grooves? Anyway, there'snot another building on the whole damn planet. You wouldn't call itmuch of a civilization.     You don't think these are native?     Ball said he didn't. Steffens nodded.     Standing there and gazing at the stone, Steffens felt the awe of greatage. He had a hunch, deep and intuitive, that this was old—      too     old.He reached out a gloved hand, ran it gently over the smooth stoneridges of the wall. Although the atmosphere was very thin, he noticedthat the buildings had no airlocks.     Ball's voice sounded in his helmet: Want to set up shop, Skipper?     Steffens paused. All right, if you think it will do any good.     You never can tell. Excavation probably won't be much use. Thesethings are on a raised rock foundation, swept clean by the wind. Andyou can see that the rock itself is native— he indicated the ledgebeneath their feet—and was cut out a long while back.     How long?     Ball toed the sand uncomfortably. I wouldn't like to say off-hand.     Make a rough estimate.     Ball looked at the captain, knowing what was in his mind. He smiledwryly and said: Five thousand years? Ten thousand? I don't know.     Steffens whistled.     Ball pointed again at the wall. Look at the striations. You can tellfrom that alone. It would take even a brisk Earth wind      at least     several thousand years to cut that deep, and the wind here has only afraction of that force.     The two men stood for a long moment in silence. Man had been ininterstellar space for three hundred years and this was the firstuncovered evidence of an advanced, space-crossing, alien race. It wasan historic moment, but neither of them was thinking about history.     Man had been in space for only three hundred years. Whatever had builtthese had been in space for thousands of years.     Which ought to give      them     , thought Steffens uncomfortably, one hell ofa good head-start.  While the excav crew worked steadily, turning up nothing, Steffensremained alone among the buildings. Ball came out to him, looked drylyat the walls.     Well, he said, whoever they were, we haven't heard from them since.     No? How can you be sure? Steffens grunted. A space-borne race wasroaming this part of the Galaxy while men were still pitching spearsat each other,      that     long ago. And this planet is only a parsec fromVarius II, a civilization as old as Earth's. Did whoever built theseget to Varius? Or did they get to Earth? How can you know?     He kicked at the sand distractedly. And most important, where are theynow? A race with several thousand years....     Fifteen thousand, Ball said. When Steffens looked up, he added:That's what the geology boys say. Fifteen thousand, at the least.     Steffens turned to stare unhappily at the buildings. When he realizednow how really old they were, a sudden thought struck him.     But why buildings? Why did they have to build in stone, to last?There's something wrong with that. They shouldn't have had a needto build, unless they were castaways. And castaways would have left      something     behind. The only reason they would need a camp would be—     If the ship left and some of them stayed.     Steffens nodded. But then the ship must have come back. Where did itgo? He ceased kicking at the sand and looked up into the blue-blackmidday sky. We'll never know.     How about the other planets? Ball asked.     The report was negative. Inner too hot, outer too heavy and cold. Thethird planet is the only one with a decent temperature range, but      it     has a CO  2  atmosphere.     How about moons?     Steffens shrugged. We could try them and find out.  The third planet was a blank, gleaming ball until they were in close,and then the blankness resolved into folds and piling clouds and dimly,in places, the surface showed through. The ship went down through theclouds, falling the last few miles on her brakers. They came into themisty gas below, leveled off and moved along the edge of the twilightzone.     The moons of this solar system had yielded nothing. The third planet, ahot, heavy world which had no free oxygen and from which the monitorshad detected nothing, was all that was left. Steffens expected nothing,but he had to try.     At a height of several miles, the ship moved up the zone, scanning,moving in the familiar slow spiral of the Mapping Command. Faint darkoutlines of bare rocks and hills moved by below.     Steffens turned the screen to full magnification and watched silently.     After a while he saw a city.     The main screen being on, the whole crew saw it. Someone shouted andthey stopped to stare, and Steffens was about to call for altitude whenhe saw that the city was dead.     He looked down on splintered walls that were like cloudy glass piecesrising above a plain, rising in a shattered circle. Near the centerof the city, there was a huge, charred hole at least three miles indiameter and very deep. In all the piled rubble, nothing moved.     Steffens went down low to make sure, then brought the ship around andheaded out across the main continent into the bright area of the sun.The rocks rolled by below, there was no vegetation at all, and thenthere were more cities—all with the black depression, the circularstamp that blotted away and fused the buildings into nothing.     No one on the ship had anything to say. None had ever seen a war, forthere had not been war on Earth or near it for more than three hundredyears.     The ship circled around to the dark side of the planet. When they weredown below a mile, the radiation counters began to react. It becameapparent, from the dials, that there could be nothing alive.     After a while Ball said: Well, which do you figure? Did our friendsfrom the fourth planet do this, or were they the same people as these?     Steffens did not take his eyes from the screen. They were coming aroundto the daylight side.     We'll go down and look for the answer, he said. Break out theradiation suits.     He paused, thinking. If the ones on the fourth planet were alien tothis world, they were from outer space, could not have come from oneof the other planets here. They had starships and were warlike. Then,thousands of years ago. He began to realize how important it really wasthat Ball's question be answered.     When the ship had gone very low, looking for a landing site, Steffenswas still by the screen. It was Steffens, then, who saw the thing move.     Down far below, it had been a still black shadow, and then it moved.Steffens froze. And he knew, even at that distance, that it was a robot.       Tiny and black, a mass of hanging arms and legs, the thing went glidingdown the slope of a hill. Steffens saw it clearly for a full second,saw the dull ball of its head tilt upward as the ship came over, andthen the hill was past.  Quickly Steffens called for height. The ship bucked beneath him andblasted straight up; some of the crew went crashing to the deck.Steffens remained by the screen, increasing the magnification as theship drew away. And he saw another, then two, then a black glidinggroup, all matched with bunches of hanging arms.     Nothing alive but robots, he thought,      robots     . He adjusted to fullclose up as quickly as he could and the picture focused on the screen.Behind him he heard a crewman grunt in amazement.     A band of clear, plasticlike stuff ran round the head—it would be theeye, a band of eye that saw all ways. On the top of the head was asingle round spot of the plastic, and the rest was black metal, joined,he realized, with fantastic perfection. The angle of sight was nowalmost perpendicular. He could see very little of the branching arms ofthe trunk, but what had been on the screen was enough. They were themost perfect robots he had ever seen.     The ship leveled off. Steffens had no idea what to do; the sudden sightof the moving things had unnerved him. He had already sounded thealert, flicked out the defense screens. Now he had nothing to do. Hetried to concentrate on what the League Law would have him do.     The Law was no help. Contact with planet-bound races was forbiddenunder any circumstances. But could a bunch of robots be called a race?The Law said nothing about robots because Earthmen had none. Thebuilding of imaginative robots was expressly forbidden. But at anyrate, Steffens thought, he had made contact already.     While Steffens stood by the screen, completely bewildered for the firsttime in his space career, Lieutenant Ball came up, hobbling slightly.From the bright new bruise on his cheek, Steffens guessed that thesudden climb had caught him unaware. The exec was pale with surprise.     What were they? he said blankly. Lord, they looked like robots!     They were.     Ball stared confoundedly at the screen. The things were now a confusionof dots in the mist.     Almost humanoid, Steffens said, but not quite.     Ball was slowly absorbing the situation. He turned to gaze inquiringlyat Steffens.     Well, what do we do now?     Steffens shrugged. They saw us. We could leave now and let them quitepossibly make a ... a legend out of our visit, or we could go down andsee if they tie in with the buildings on Tyban IV.           Can     we go down?     Legally? I don't know. If they are robots, yes, since robots cannotconstitute a race. But there's another possibility. He tapped hisfingers on the screen confusedly. They don't have to be robots at all.They could be the natives.     Ball gulped. I don't follow you.     They could be the original inhabitants of this planet—the brains ofthem, at least, protected in radiation-proof metal. Anyway, he added,they're the most perfect mechanicals I've ever seen.     Ball shook his head, sat down abruptly. Steffens turned from thescreen, strode nervously across the Main Deck, thinking.     The Mapping Command, they called it. Theoretically, all he was supposedto do was make a closeup examination of unexplored systems, checkingfor the presence of life-forms as well as for the possibilities ofhuman colonization. Make a check and nothing else. But he knew veryclearly that if he returned to Sirius base without investigating thisrobot situation, he could very well be court-martialed one way or theother, either for breaking the Law of Contact or for dereliction ofduty.     And there was also the possibility, which abruptly occurred to him,that the robots might well be prepared to blow his ship to hell andgone.     He stopped in the center of the deck. A whole new line of thoughtopened up. If the robots were armed and ready ... could this be anoutpost?       An outpost!       He turned and raced for the bridge. If he went in and landed and waslost, then the League might never know in time. If he went in andstirred up trouble....     The thought in his mind was scattered suddenly, like a mist blown away.A voice was speaking in his mind, a deep calm voice that seemed to say:           Greetings. Do not be alarmed. We do not wish you to be alarmed. Ourdesire is only to serve....       Greetings, it said! Greetings! Ball was mumbling incredulouslythrough shocked lips.     Everyone on the ship had heard the voice. When it spoke again, Steffenswas not sure whether it was just one voice or many voices.     We await your coming, it said gravely, and repeated: Our desire isonly to serve.     And then the robots sent a      picture     .     As perfect and as clear as a tridim movie, a rectangular plate tookshape in Steffens' mind. On the face of the plate, standing aloneagainst a background of red-brown, bare rocks, was one of the robots.With slow, perfect movement, the robot carefully lifted one of thehanging arms of its side, of its      right     side, and extended it towardSteffens, a graciously offered hand.     Steffens felt a peculiar, compelling urge to take the hand, realizedright away that the urge to take the hand was not entirely his. Therobot mind had helped.     When the picture vanished, he knew that the others had seen it. Hewaited for a while; there was no further contact, but the feeling ofthe robot's urging was still strong within him. He had an idea that, ifthey wanted to, the robots could control his mind. So when nothing morehappened, he began to lose his fear.     While the crew watched in fascination, Steffens tried to talk back.He concentrated hard on what he was saying, said it aloud for goodmeasure, then held his own hand extended in the robot manner of shakinghands.     Greetings, he said, because it was what      they     had said, andexplained: We have come from the stars.     It was overly dramatic, but so was the whole situation. He wonderedbaffledly if he should have let the Alien Contact crew handle it. Ordersomeone to stand there, feeling like a fool, and      think     a message?     No, it was his responsibility; he had to go on:     We request—we respectfully request permission to land upon yourplanet.  Steffens had not realized that there were so many.     They had been gathering since his ship was first seen, and now therewere hundreds of them clustered upon the hill. Others were arrivingeven as the skiff landed; they glided in over the rocky hills withfantastic ease and power, so that Steffens felt a momentary anxiety.Most of the robots were standing with the silent immobility of metal.Others threaded their way to the fore and came near the skiff, but nonetouched it, and a circle was cleared for Steffens when he came out.       One of the near robots came forward alone, moving, as Steffens nowsaw, on a number of short, incredibly strong and agile legs. The blackthing paused before him, extended a hand as it had done in the picture.Steffens took it, he hoped, warmly; felt the power of the metal throughthe glove of his suit.     Welcome, the robot said, speaking again to his mind, and nowSteffens detected a peculiar alteration in the robot's tone. It wasless friendly now, less—Steffens could not understand—somehow less      interested     , as if the robot had been—expecting someone else.     Thank you, Steffens said. We are deeply grateful for your permissionto land.     Our desire, the robot repeated mechanically, is only to serve.     Suddenly, Steffens began to feel alone, surrounded by machines. Hetried to push the thought out of his mind, because he knew that they      should     seem inhuman. But....     Will the others come down? asked the robot, still mechanically.     Steffens felt his embarrassment. The ship lay high in the mist above,jets throbbing gently.     They must remain with the ship, Steffens said aloud, trusting to therobot's formality not to ask him why. Although, if they could read hismind, there was no need to ask.     For a long while, neither spoke, long enough for Steffens to grow tenseand uncomfortable. He could not think of a thing to say, the robot wasobviously waiting, and so, in desperation, he signaled the Aliencon mento come on out of the skiff.     They came, wonderingly, and the ring of robots widened. Steffens heardthe one robot speak again. The voice was now much more friendly.     We hope you will forgive us for intruding upon your thought. It isour—custom—not to communicate unless we are called upon. But when weobserved that you were in ignorance of our real—nature—and were aboutto leave our planet, we decided to put aside our custom, so that youmight base your decision upon sufficient data.     Steffens replied haltingly that he appreciated their action.     We perceive, the robot went on, that you are unaware of our completeaccess to your mind, and would perhaps be—dismayed—to learn thatwe have been gathering information from you. We must—apologize.Our only purpose was so that we could communicate with you. Onlythat information was taken which is necessary for communicationand—understanding. We will enter your minds henceforth only at yourrequest.     Steffens did not react to the news that his mind was being probedas violently as he might have. Nevertheless it was a shock, and heretreated into observant silence as the Aliencon men went to work.     The robot which seemed to have been doing the speaking was in no waydifferent from any of the others in the group. Since each of the robotswas immediately aware of all that was being said or thought, Steffensguessed that they had sent one forward just for appearance's sake,because they perceived that the Earthmen would feel more at home. Thepicture of the extended hand, the characteristic handshake of Earthmen,had probably been borrowed, too, for the same purpose of making him andthe others feel at ease. The one jarring note was the robot's momentarylapse, those unexplainable few seconds when the things had seemedalmost disappointed. Steffens gave up wondering about that and began toexamine the first robot in detail.     It was not very tall, being at least a foot shorter than the Earthmen.The most peculiar thing about it, except for the circling eye-band ofthe head, was a mass of symbols which were apparently engraved upon themetal chest. Symbols in row upon row—numbers, perhaps—were upon thechest, and repeated again below the level of the arms, and continuedin orderly rows across the front of the robot, all the way down to thebase of the trunk. If they were numbers, Steffens thought, then it wasa remarkably complicated system. But he noticed the same pattern onthe nearer robots, all apparently identical. He was forced to concludethat the symbols were merely decoration and let it go tentatively atthat, although the answer seemed illogical.     It wasn't until he was on his way home that Steffens remembered thesymbols again. And only then did he realized what they were.  After a while, convinced that there was no danger, Steffens had theship brought down. When the crew came out of the airlock, they were metby the robots, and each man found himself with a robot at his side,humbly requesting to be of service. There were literally thousands ofthe robots now, come from all over the barren horizon. The mass of themstood apart, immobile on a plain near the ship, glinting in the sunlike a vast, metallic field of black wheat.     The robots had obviously been built to serve. Steffens began to      feel     their pleasure, to sense it in spite of the blank, expressionlessfaces. They were almost like children in their eagerness, yet they werestill reserved. Whoever had built them, Steffens thought in wonder, hadbuilt them well.     Ball came to join Steffens, staring at the robots through the clearplastic of his helmet with baffledly widened eyes. A robot moved outfrom the mass in the field, allied itself to him. The first to speakhad remained with Steffens.     Realizing that the robot could hear every word he was saying, Ballwas for a while apprehensive. But the sheer unreality of standing andtalking with a multi-limbed, intelligent hunk of dead metal upon thebare rock of a dead, ancient world, the unreality of it slowly died.It was impossible not to like the things. There was something in theirvery lines which was pleasant and relaxing.     Their builders, Steffens thought, had probably thought of that, too.     There's no harm in them, said Ball at last, openly, not minding ifthe robots heard. They seem actually glad we're here. My God, whoeverheard of a robot being glad?     Steffens, embarrassed, spoke quickly to the nearest mechanical: I hopeyou will forgive us our curiosity, but—yours is a remarkable race. Wehave never before made contact with a race like yours. It was saidhaltingly, but it was the best he could do.     The robot made a singularly human nodding motion of its head.     I perceive that the nature of our construction is unfamiliar to you.Your question is whether or not we are entirely 'mechanical.' I amnot exactly certain as to what the word 'mechanical' is intended toconvey—I would have to examine your thought more fully—but I believethat there is fundamental similarity between our structures.     The robot paused. Steffens had a distinct impression that it wasdisconcerted.     I must tell you, the thing went on, that we ourselves are—curious.It stopped suddenly, struggling with a word it could not comprehend.Steffens waited, listening with absolute interest. It said at length:     We know of only two types of living structure. Ours, which is largelymetallic, and that of the      Makers     , which would appear to be somewhatmore like yours. I am not a—doctor—and therefore cannot acquaint youwith the specific details of the Makers' composition, but if you areinterested I will have a doctor brought forward. It will be glad to beof assistance.     It was Steffens' turn to struggle, and the robot waited patiently whileBall and the second robot looked on in silence. The Makers, obviously,were whoever or whatever had built the robots, and the doctors,Steffens decided, were probably just that—doctor-robots, designedspecifically to care for the apparently flesh-bodies of the Makers.     The efficiency of the things continued to amaze him, but the questionhe had been waiting to ask came out now with a rush:     Can you tell us where the Makers are?     Both robots stood motionless. It occurred to Steffens that he couldn'treally be sure which was speaking. The voice that came to him spokewith difficulty.     The Makers—are not here.     Steffens stared in puzzlement. The robot detected his confusion andwent on:     The Makers have gone away. They have been gone for a very long time.     Could that be      pain     in its voice, Steffens wondered, and then thespectre of the ruined cities rose harsh in his mind.     War. The Makers had all been killed in that war. And these had not beenkilled.     He tried to grasp it, but he couldn't. There were robots here in themidst of a radiation so lethal that      nothing     ,      nothing     could live;robots on a dead planet, living in an atmosphere of carbon dioxide.     The carbon dioxide brought him up sharp.     If there had been life here once, there would have been plant life aswell, and therefore oxygen. If the war had been so long ago that thefree oxygen had since gone out of the atmosphere—good God, how oldwere the robots? Steffens looked at Ball, then at the silent robots,then out across the field to where the rest of them stood. The blackwheat. Steffens felt a deep chill.     Were they immortal?  Would you like to see a doctor?     Steffens jumped at the familiar words, then realized to what the robotwas referring.     No, not yet, he said, thank you. He swallowed hard as the robotscontinued waiting patiently.     Could you tell me, he said at last, how old you are? Individually?     By your reckoning, said his robot, and paused to make thecalculation, I am forty-four years, seven months, and eighteen days ofage, with ten years and approximately nine months yet to be alive.     Steffens tried to understand that.     It would perhaps simplify our conversations, said the robot, ifyou were to refer to me by a name, as is your custom. Using thefirst—letters—of my designation, my name would translate as Elb.     Glad to meet you, Steffens mumbled.     You are called 'Stef,' said the robot obligingly. Then it added,pointing an arm at the robot near Ball: The age of—Peb—is seventeenyears, one month and four days. Peb has therefore remaining somethirty-eight years.     Steffens was trying to keep up. Then the life span was obviously aboutfifty-five years. But the cities, and the carbon dioxide? The robot,Elb, had said that the Makers were similar to him, and therefore oxygenand plant life would have been needed. Unless—     He remembered the buildings on Tyban IV.     Unless the Makers had not come from this planet at all.     His mind helplessly began to revolve. It was Ball who restored order.     Do you build yourselves? the exec asked.     Peb answered quickly, that faint note of happiness again apparent, asif the robot was glad for the opportunity of answering.     No, we do not build ourselves. We are made by the— another pause fora word—by the      Factory     .     The Factory?     Yes. It was built by the Makers. Would you care to see it?     Both of the Earthmen nodded dumbly.     Would you prefer to use your—skiff? It is quite a long way from here.     It was indeed a long way, even by skiff. Some of the Aliencon crew wentalong with them. And near the edge of the twilight zone, on the otherside of the world, they saw the Factory outlined in the dim light ofdusk. A huge, fantastic block, wrought of gray and cloudy metal, lay ina valley between two worn mountains. Steffens went down low, circlingin the skiff, stared in awe at the size of the building. Robots movedoutside the thing, little black bugs in the distance—moving aroundtheir birthplace.  The Earthmen remained for several weeks. During that time, Steffens wasusually with Elb, talking now as often as he listened, and the Alienconteam roamed the planet freely, investigating what was certainly thestrangest culture in history. There was still the mystery of thosebuildings on Tyban IV; that, as well as the robots' origin, would haveto be cleared up before they could leave.     Surprisingly, Steffens did not think about the future. Whenever he camenear a robot, he sensed such a general, comfortable air of good feelingthat it warmed him, and he was so preoccupied with watching the robotsthat he did little thinking.     Something he had not realized at the beginning was that he was asunusual to the robots as they were to him. It came to him with a greatshock that not one of the robots had ever seen a living thing. Not abug, a worm, a leaf. They did not know what flesh was. Only the doctorsknew that, and none of them could readily understand what was meant bythe words organic matter. It had taken them some time to recognizethat the Earthmen wore suits which were not parts of their bodies, andit was even more difficult for them to understand why the suits wereneeded.     But when they did understand, the robots did a surprising thing.     At first, because of the excessive radiation, none of the Earthmencould remain outside the ship for long, even in radiation suits. Andone morning, when Steffens came out of the ship, it was to discoverthat hundreds of the robots, working through the night, had effectivelydecontaminated the entire area.     It was at this point that Steffens asked how many robots there were.He learned to his amazement that there were more than nine million.The great mass of them had politely remained a great distance from theship, spread out over the planet, since they were highly radioactive.     Steffens, meanwhile, courteously allowed Elb to probe into his mind.The robot extracted all the knowledge of matter that Steffens held,pondered over the knowledge and tried to digest it, and passed it on tothe other robots. Steffens, in turn, had a difficult time picturing themind of a thing that had never known life.     He had a vague idea of the robot's history—more, perhaps, then theyknew themselves—but he refrained from forming an opinion untilAliencon made its report. What fascinated him was Elb's amazingphilosophy, the only outlook, really, that the robot could have had.  What do you      do     ? Steffens asked.     Elb replied quickly, with characteristic simplicity: We can do verylittle. A certain amount of physical knowledge was imparted to us atbirth by the Makers. We spend the main part of our time expanding thatknowledge wherever possible. We have made some progress in the naturalsciences, and some in mathematics. Our purpose in being, you see, isto serve the Makers. Any ability we can acquire will make us that muchmore fit to serve when the Makers return.     When they return? It had not occurred to Steffens until now that therobots expected the Makers to do so.     Elb regarded him out of the band of the circling eye. I see you hadsurmised that the Makers were not coming back.     If the robot could have laughed, Steffens thought it would have, then.But it just stood there, motionless, its tone politely emphatic.     It has always been our belief that the Makers would return. Why elsewould we have been built?     Steffens thought the robot would go on, but it didn't. The question, toElb, was no question at all.     Although Steffens knew already what the robot could not possibly haveknown—that the Makers were gone and would never come back—he was along time understanding. What he did was push this speculation into theback of his mind, to keep it from Elb. He had no desire to destroy afaith.     But it created a problem in him. He had begun to picture for Elb thestructure of human society, and the robot—a machine which did not eator sleep—listened gravely and tried to understand. One day Steffensmentioned God.     God? the robot repeated without comprehension. What is God?     Steffens explained briefly, and the robot answered:     It is a matter which has troubled us. We thought at first that youwere the Makers returning— Steffens remembered the brief lapse, theseeming disappointment he had sensed—but then we probed your mindsand found that you were not, that you were another kind of being,unlike either the Makers or ourselves. You were not even— Elb caughthimself—you did not happen to be telepaths. Therefore we troubledover who made you. We did detect the word 'Maker' in your theology,but it seemed to have a peculiar— Elb paused for a long while—anuntouchable, intangible meaning which varies among you.     Steffens understood. He nodded.     The Makers were the robots' God, were all the God they needed. TheMakers had built them, the planet, the universe. If he were to ask themwho made the Makers, it would be like their asking him who made God.     It was an ironic parallel, and he smiled to himself.     But on that planet, it was the last time he smiled.  ","Steffens was stumped as to what to do when they visually discovered robots on the Third planet. He proactively sounded an alert and put defense screens on the ship, but wondered about what his governing League Law would have him do.Contact with races on foreign planets was forbidden, but he was unsure if robots could be called a race. Earth didn’t have robots because imaginative robots were expressly forbidden to build. Steffens thought it was possible the robots were the brains of natives encased in metal.Since Steffens is under “The Mapping Command”, he is supposed to go no further than examining unexplored systems, checking for life-forms and the possibilities of human colonization. His conundrum was that,  “if he returned to Sirius base without investigating this robot situation, he could very well be court-martialed one way or the other, either for breaking the Law of Contact or for dereliction of duty.”The robots reach out telepathically, saying in words that they are only here to serve, and communicating a photo to the minds of the crew of a robot extending a hand for a handshake. Although Steffens wonders about letting the Alien Contact crew handle the situation, he ultimately decides it is his responsibility - and he goes on to initiate contact by requesting to land. He is encouraged to stay and explore by the kind nature of the robots."
"What is the plot of the story? </s>     A CITY NEAR CENTAURUS     By BILL DOEDE     Illustrated by WEST     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Magazine October 1962.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        The city was sacred, but not to its gods.       Michaelson was a god—but far from sacred!        Crouched in the ancient doorway like an animal peering out from hisburrow, Mr. Michaelson saw the native.     At first he was startled, thinking it might be someone else from theEarth settlement who had discovered the old city before him. Then hesaw the glint of sun against the metallic skirt, and relaxed.     He chuckled to himself, wondering with amusement what a webfooted manwas doing in an old dead city so far from his people. Some facts wereknown about the people of Alpha Centaurus II. They were not actuallynatives, he recalled. They were a colony from the fifth planet ofthe system. They were a curious people. Some were highly intelligent,though uneducated.     He decided to ignore the man for the moment. He was far down theancient street, a mere speck against the sand. There would be plenty oftime to wonder about him.     He gazed out from his position at the complex variety of buildingsbefore him. Some were small, obviously homes. Others were hugewith tall, frail spires standing against the pale blue sky. Squarebuildings, ellipsoid, spheroid. Beautiful, dream-stuff bridgesconnected tall, conical towers, bridges that still swung in the windafter half a million years. Late afternoon sunlight shone against ebonysurfaces. The sands of many centuries had blown down the wide streetsand filled the doorways. Desert plants grew from roofs of smallerbuildings.     Ignoring the native, Mr. Michaelson poked about among the ruinshappily, exclaiming to himself about some particular artifact,marveling at its state of preservation, holding it this way and that tocatch the late afternoon sun, smiling, clucking gleefully. He crawledover the rubble through old doorways half filled with the accumulationof ages. He dug experimentally in the sand with his hands, like a dog,under a roof that had weathered half a million years of rain and sun.Then he crawled out again, covered with dust and cobwebs.  The native stood in the street less than a hundred feet away, wavinghis arms madly. Mr. Earthgod, he cried. It is sacred ground whereyou are trespassing!     The archeologist smiled, watching the man hurry closer. He was short,even for a native. Long gray hair hung to his shoulders, bobbing upand down as he walked. He wore no shoes. The toes of his webbed feetdragged in the sand, making a deep trail behind him. He was an old man.     You never told us about this old dead city, Michaelson said,chidingly. Shame on you. But never mind. I've found it now. Isn't itbeautiful?     Yes, beautiful. You will leave now.     Leave? Michaelson asked, acting surprised as if the man were achild. I just got here a few hours ago.     You must go.     Why? Who are you?     I am keeper of the city.     You? Michaelson laughed. Then, seeing how serious the native was,said, What makes you think a dead city needs a keeper?     The spirits may return.     Michaelson crawled out of the doorway and stood up. He brushed histrousers. He pointed. See that wall? Built of some metal, I'd say,some alloy impervious to rust and wear.     The spirits are angry.     Notice the inscriptions? Wind has blown sand against them for eons,and rain and sleet. But their story is there, once we decipher it.     Leave!     The native's lined, weathered old face was working around the mouth inanger. Michaelson was almost sorry he had mocked him. He was deadlyserious.     Look, he said. No spirits are ever coming back here. Don't you knowthat? And even if they did, spirits care nothing for old cities halfcovered with sand and dirt.     He walked away from the old man, heading for another building. Thesun had already gone below the horizon, coloring the high clouds. Heglanced backward. The webfoot was following.     Mr. Earthgod! the webfoot cried, so sharply that Michaelson stopped.You must not touch, not walk upon, not handle. Your step may destroythe home of some ancient spirit. Your breath may cause one iota ofchange and a spirit may lose his way in the darkness. Go quickly now,or be killed.  He turned and walked off, not looking back.     Michaelson stood in the ancient street, tall, gaunt, feet planted wide,hands in pockets, watching the webfoot until he was out of sight beyonda huge circular building. There was a man to watch. There was one ofthe intelligent ones. One look into the alert old eyes had told himthat.     Michaelson shook his head, and went about satisfying his curiosity.He entered buildings without thought of roofs falling in, or decayedfloors dropping from under his weight. He began to collect small items,making a pile of them in the street. An ancient bowl, metal untouchedby the ages. A statue of a man, one foot high, correct to the minutestdetail, showing how identical they had been to Earthmen. He found booksstill standing on ancient shelves but was afraid to touch them withouttools.     Darkness came swiftly and he was forced out into the street.     He stood there alone feeling the age of the place. Even the smellof age was in the air. Silver moonlight from the two moons filteredthrough clear air down upon the ruins. The city lay now in darkness,dead and still, waiting for morning so it could lie dead and still inthe sun.     There was no hurry to be going home, although he was alone, althoughthis was Alpha Centaurus II with many unknowns, many dangers ...although home was a very great distance away. There was no one backthere to worry about him.     His wife had died many years ago back on Earth. No children. Hisfriends in the settlement would not look for him for another day atleast. Anyway, the tiny cylinder, buried in flesh behind his ear, athing of mystery and immense power, could take him home instantly,without effort save a flicker of thought.     You did not leave, as I asked you.     Michaelson whirled around at the sound of the native's voice. Then herelaxed. He said, You shouldn't sneak up on a man like that.     You must leave, or I will be forced to kill you. I do not want to killyou, but if I must.... He made a clucking sound deep in the throat.The spirits are angry.     Nonsense. Superstition! But never mind. You have been here longerthan I. Tell me, what are those instruments in the rooms? It looks likea clock but I'm certain it had some other function.     What rooms?     Oh, come now. The small rooms back there. Look like they werebedrooms.     I do not know. The webfoot drew closer. Michaelson decided he wassixty or seventy years old, at least.     You've been here a long time. You are intelligent, and you must beeducated, the way you talk. That gadget looks like a time-piece of somesort. What is it? What does it measure?     I insist that you go. The webfoot held something in his hand.     No. Michaelson looked off down the street, trying to ignore thenative, trying to feel the life of the city as it might have been.  You are sensitive, the native said in his ear. It takes a sensitivegod to feel the spirits moving in the houses and walking in these oldstreets.     Say it any way you want to. This is the most fascinating thingI've ever seen. The Inca's treasure, the ruins of Pompeii, Egyptiantombs—none can hold a candle to this.     Mr. Earthgod....     Don't call me that. I'm not a god, and you know it.     The old man shrugged. It is not an item worthy of dispute. Those namesyou mention, are they the names of gods?     He chuckled. In a way, yes. What is your name?     Maota.     You must help me, Maota. These things must be preserved. We'll builda museum, right here in the street. No, over there on the hill justoutside the city. We'll collect all the old writings and perhaps we maydecipher them. Think of it, Maota! To read pages written so long agoand think their thoughts. We'll put everything under glass. Build andevacuate chambers to stop the decay. Catalogue, itemize....     Michaelson was warming up to his subject, but Maota shook his head likea waving palm frond and stamped his feet.     You will leave now.     Can't you see? Look at the decay. These things are priceless. Theymust be preserved. Future generations will thank us.     Do you mean, the old man asked, aghast, that you want others to comehere? You know the city abhors the sound of alien voices. Those wholived here may return one day! They must not find their city packagedand preserved and laid out on shelves for the curious to breathe theirfoul breaths upon. You will leave. Now!     No. Michaelson was adamant. The rock of Gibraltar.     Maota hit him, quickly, passionately, and dropped the weapon beside hisbody. He turned swiftly, making a swirling mark in the sand with hisheel, and walked off toward the hills outside the city.     The weapon he had used was an ancient book. Its paper-thin pagesrustled in the wind as if an unseen hand turned them, reading, whileMichaelson's blood trickled out from the head wound upon the ancientstreet.  When he regained consciousness the two moons, bright sentinel orbs inthe night sky, had moved to a new position down their sliding path. OldMaota's absence took some of the weirdness and fantasy away. It seemeda more practical place now.     The gash in his head was painful, throbbing with quick, shorthammer-blows synchronized with his heart beats. But there was a newdetermination in him. If it was a fight that the old webfooted foolwanted, a fight he would get. The cylinder flicked him, at his command,across five hundred miles of desert and rocks to a small creek heremembered. Here he bathed his head in cool water until all the cakedblood was dissolved from his hair. Feeling better, he went back.     The wind had turned cool. Michaelson shivered, wishing he had broughta coat. The city was absolutely still except for small gusts of windsighing through the frail spires. The ancient book still lay in thesand beside the dark spot of blood. He stooped over and picked it up.     It was light, much lighter than most Earth books. He ran a hand overthe binding. Smooth it was, untouched by time or climate. He squintedat the pages, tilting the book to catch the bright moonlight, but thewriting was alien. He touched the page, ran his forefinger over thewriting.     Suddenly he sprang back. The book fell from his hands.     God in heaven! he exclaimed.     He had heard a voice. He looked around at the old buildings, down thelength of the ancient street. Something strange about the voice. NotMaota. Not his tones. Not his words. Satisfied that no one was near, hestooped and picked up the book again.     Good God! he said aloud. It was the book talking. His fingers hadtouched the writing again. It was not a voice, exactly, but a stirringin his mind, like a strange language heard for the first time.     A talking book. What other surprises were in the city? Tall,fragile buildings laughing at time and weather. A clock measuringGod-knows-what. If such wonders remained, what about those alreadydestroyed? One could only guess at the machines, the gadgets, theartistry already decayed and blown away to mix forever with the sand.     I must preserve it, he thought, whether Maota likes it or not. Theysay these people lived half a million years ago. A long time. Let'ssee, now. A man lives one hundred years on the average. Five thousandlifetimes.     And all you do is touch a book, and a voice jumps across all thoseyears!     He started off toward the tall building he had examined upon discoveryof the city. His left eyelid began to twitch and he laid his forefingeragainst the eye, pressing until it stopped. Then he stooped and enteredthe building. He laid the book down and tried to take the clockoff the wall. It was dark in the building and his fingers felt alongthe wall, looking for it. Then he touched it. His fingers moved overits smooth surface. Then suddenly he jerked his hand back with anexclamation of amazement. Fear ran up his spine.       The clock was warm.       He felt like running, like flicking back to the settlement where therewere people and familiar voices, for here was a thing that should notbe. Half a million years—and here was warmth!     He touched it again, curiosity overwhelming his fear. It was warm. Nomistake. And there was a faint vibration, a suggestion of power. Hestood there in the darkness staring off into the darkness, trembling.Fear built up in him until it was a monstrous thing, drowning reason.He forgot the power of the cylinder behind his ear. He scrambledthrough the doorway. He got up and ran down the ancient sandy streetuntil he came to the edge of the city. Here he stopped, gasping forair, feeling the pain throb in his head.     Common sense said that he should go home, that nothing worthwhile couldbe accomplished at night, that he was tired, that he was weak from lossof blood and fright and running. But when Michaelson was on the trailof important discoveries he had no common sense.     He sat down in the darkness, meaning to rest a moment.  When he awoke dawn was red against thin clouds in the east.     Old Maota stood in the street with webbed feet planted far apart inthe sand, a weapon in the crook of his arm. It was a long tube affair,familiar to Michaelson.     Michaelson asked, Did you sleep well?     No.     I'm sorry to hear that.     How do you feel?     Fine, but my head aches a little.     Sorry, Maota said.     For what?     For hitting you. Pain is not for gods like you.     Michaelson relaxed somewhat. What kind of man are you? First you tryto break my skull, then you apologize.     I abhor pain. I should have killed you outright.     He thought about that for a moment, eyeing the weapon.     It looked in good working order. Slim and shiny and innocent, it lookedlike a glorified African blowgun. But he was not deceived by itsappearance. It was a deadly weapon.       Well, he said, before you kill me, tell me about the book. He heldit up for Maota to see.     What about the book?     What kind of book is it?     What does Mr. Earthgod mean, what      kind     of book? You have seen it. Itis like any other book, except for the material and the fact that ittalks.     No, no. I mean, what's in it?     Poetry.     Poetry? For God's sake, why poetry? Why not mathematics or history?Why not tell how to make the metal of the book itself? Now there is asubject worthy of a book.     Maota shook his head. One does not study a dead culture to learn howthey made things, but how they thought. But we are wasting time. I mustkill you now, so I can get some rest.     The old man raised the gun.  Wait! You forget that I also have a weapon. He pointed to the spotbehind his ear where the cylinder was buried. I can move faster thanyou can fire the gun.     Maota nodded. I have heard how you travel. It does not matter. I willkill you anyway.     I suggest we negotiate.     No.     Why not?     Maota looked off toward the hills, old eyes filmed from years of sandand wind, leather skin lined and pitted. The hills stood immobile,brown-gray, already shimmering with heat, impotent.     Why not? Michaelson repeated.     Why not what? Maota dragged his eyes back.     Negotiate.     No. Maota's eyes grew hard as steel. They stood there in the sun, nottwenty feet apart, hating each other. The two moons, very pale and faraway on the western horizon, stared like two bottomless eyes.     All right, then. At least it's a quick death. I hear that thing justdisintegrates a man. Pfft! And that's that.     Michaelson prepared himself to move if the old man's finger slid closertoward the firing stud. The old man raised the gun.     Wait!     Now what?     At least read some of the book to me before I die, then.     The gun wavered. I am not an unreasonable man, the webfoot said.     Michaelson stepped forward, extending his arm with the book.     No, stay where you are. Throw it.     This book is priceless. You just don't go throwing such valuable itemsaround.     It won't break. Throw it.     Michaelson threw the book. It landed at Maota's feet, spouting sandagainst his leg. He shifted the weapon, picked up the book and leafedthrough it, raising his head in a listening attitude, searching fora suitable passage. Michaelson heard the thin, metallic pages rustlesoftly. He could have jumped and seized the weapon at that moment, buthis desire to hear the book was strong.  Old Maota read, Michaelson listened. The cadence was different, thesyntax confusing. But the thoughts were there. It might have beena professor back on Earth reading to his students. Keats, Shelley,Browning. These people were human, with human thoughts and aspirations.     The old man stopped reading. He squatted slowly, keeping Michaelson insight, and laid the book face up in the sand. Wind moved the pages.     See? he said. The spirits read. They must have been great readers,these people. They drink the book, as if it were an elixir. See howgentle! They lap at the pages like a new kitten tasting milk.     Michaelson laughed. You certainly have an imagination.     What difference does it make? Maota cried, suddenly angry. You wantto close up all these things in boxes for a posterity who may have noslightest feeling or appreciation. I want to leave the city as it is,for spirits whose existence I cannot prove.     The old man's eyes were furious now, deadly. The gun came down directlyin line with the Earthman's chest. The gnarled finger moved.     Michaelson, using the power of the cylinder behind his ear, jumpedbehind the old webfoot. To Maota it seemed that he had flicked out ofexistence like a match blown out. The next instant Michaelson spunhim around and hit him. It was an inexpert fist, belonging to anarcheologist, not a fighter. But Maota was an old man.     He dropped in the sand, momentarily stunned. Michaelson bent over topick up the gun and the old man, feeling it slip from his fingers,hung on and was pulled to his feet.     They struggled for possession of the gun, silently, gasping, kickingsand. Faces grew red. Lips drew back over Michaelson's white teeth,over Maota's pink, toothless gums. The dead city's fragile spires threwimpersonal shadows down where they fought.     Then quite suddenly a finger or hand—neither knew whose finger orhand—touched the firing stud.     There was a hollow, whooshing sound. Both stopped still, realizing thetotal destruction they might have caused.     It only hit the ground, Michaelson said.     A black, charred hole, two feet in diameter and—they could not see howdeep—stared at them.     Maota let go and sprawled in the sand. The book! he cried. The bookis gone!     No! We probably covered it with sand while we fought.  Both men began scooping sand in their cupped hands, digging franticallyfor the book. Saliva dripped from Maota's mouth, but he didn't know orcare.     Finally they stopped, exhausted. They had covered a substantial areaaround the hole. They had covered the complete area where they had been.     We killed it, the old man moaned.     It was just a book. Not alive, you know.     How do you know? The old man's pale eyes were filled with tears. Ittalked and it sang. In a way, it had a soul. Sometimes on long nights Iused to imagine it loved me, for taking care of it.     There are other books. We'll get another.     Maota shook his head. There are no more.     But I've seen them. Down there in the square building.     Not poetry. Books, yes, but not poetry. That was the only book withsongs.     I'm sorry.           You     killed it! Maota suddenly sprang for the weapon, lyingforgotten in the sand. Michaelson put his foot on it and Maota was tooweak to tear it loose. He could only weep out his rage.     When he could talk again, Maota said, I am sorry, Mr. Earthgod. I'vedisgraced myself.     Don't be sorry. Michaelson helped him to his feet. We fight for somereasons, cry for others. A priceless book is a good reason for either.     Not for that. For not winning. I should have killed you last nightwhen I had the chance. The gods give us chances and if we don't takethem we lose forever.     I told you before! We are on the same side. Negotiate. Have you neverheard of negotiation?     You are a god, Maota said. One does not negotiate with gods. Oneeither loves them, or kills them.     That's another thing. I am not a god. Can't you understand?     Of course you are. Maota looked up, very sure. Mortals cannot stepfrom star to star like crossing a shallow brook.     No, no. I don't step from one star to another. An invention does that.Just an invention. I carry it with me. It's a tiny thing. No one wouldever guess it has such power. So you see, I'm human, just like you. Hitme and I hurt. Cut me and I bleed. I love. I hate. I was born. Some dayI'll die. See? I'm human. Just a human with a machine. No more thanthat.  Maota laughed, then sobered quickly. You lie.     No.     If I had this machine, could I travel as you?     Yes.     Then I'll kill you and take yours.     It would not work for you.     Why?     Each machine is tailored for each person.     The old man hung his head. He looked down into the black, charredhole. He walked all around the hole. He kicked at the sand, lookinghalf-heartedly again for the book.     Look, Michaelson said. I'm sure I've convinced you that I'm human.Why not have a try at negotiating our differences?     He looked up. His expressive eyes, deep, resigned, studied Michaelson'sface. Finally he shook his head sadly. When we first met I hoped wecould think the ancient thoughts together. But our paths diverge. Wehave finished, you and I.     He turned and started off, shoulders slumped dejectedly.     Michaelson caught up to him. Are you leaving the city?     No.     Where are you going?     Away. Far away. Maota looked off toward the hills, eyes distant.     Don't be stupid, old man. How can you go far away and not leave thecity?     There are many directions. You would not understand.     East. West. North. South. Up. Down.     No, no. There is another direction. Come, if you must see.     Michaelson followed him far down the street. They came to a section ofthe city he had not seen before. Buildings were smaller, spires dwarfedagainst larger structures. Here a path was packed in the sand, leadingto a particular building.     Michaelson said, This is where you live?     Yes.     Maota went inside. Michaelson stood in the entrance and looked around.The room was clean, furnished with hand made chairs and a bed. Who isthis old man, he thought, far from his people, living alone, choosinga life of solitude among ancient ruins but not touching them? Abovethe bed a clock was fastened to the wall, Michaelson remembered hisfright—thinking of the warmth where warmth should not be.     Maota pointed to it.     You asked about this machine, he said. Now I will tell you. He laidhis hand against it. Here is power to follow another direction.  Michaelson tested one of the chairs to see if it would hold his weight,then sat down. His curiosity about the instrument was colossal, but heforced a short laugh. Maota, you      are     complex. Why not stop all thismystery nonsense and tell me about it? You know more about it than I.     Of course. Maota smiled a toothless, superior smile. What do yousuppose happened to this race?     You tell me.     They took the unknown direction. The books speak of it. I don't knowhow the instrument works, but one thing is certain. The race did notdie out, as a species becomes extinct.     Michaelson was amused, but interested. Something like a fourthdimension?     I don't know. I only know that with this instrument there is no death.I have read the books that speak of this race, this wonderful peoplewho conquered all disease, who explored all the mysteries of science,who devised this machine to cheat death. See this button here on theface of the instrument? Press the button, and....     And what?     I don't know, exactly. But I have lived many years. I have walked thestreets of this city and wondered, and wanted to press the button. NowI will do so.     Quickly the old man, still smiling, pressed the button. A high-pitchedwhine filled the air, just within audio range. Steady for a moment, itthen rose in pitch passing beyond hearing quickly.     The old man's knees buckled. He sank down, fell over the bed, laystill. Michaelson touched him cautiously, then examined him morecarefully. No question about it.     The old man was dead.  Feeling depressed and alone, Michaelson found a desert knoll outsidethe city overlooking the tall spires that shone in the sunlight andgleamed in the moonlight. He made a stretcher, rolled the old man'sbody on to it and dragged it down the long ancient street and up theknoll.     Here he buried him.     But it seemed a waste of time. Somehow he knew beyond any doubt thatthe old native and his body were completely disassociated in some sensemore complete than death.     In the days that followed he gave much thought to the clock. He cameto the city every day. He spent long hours in the huge square buildingwith the books. He learned the language by sheer bulldog determination.Then he searched the books for information about the instrument.     Finally after many weeks, long after the winds had obliterated allevidence of Maota's grave on the knoll, Michaelson made a decision. Hehad to know if the machine would work for him.     And so one afternoon when the ancient spires threw long shadowsover the sand he walked down the long street and entered the oldman's house. He stood before the instrument, trembling, afraid, butdetermined. He pinched his eyes shut tight like a child and pressed thebutton.     The high-pitched whine started.     Complete, utter silence. Void. Darkness. Awareness and memory, yes;nothing else. Then Maota's chuckle came. No sound, an impression onlylike the voice from the ancient book. Where was he? There was no leftor right, up or down. Maota was everywhere, nowhere.     Look! Maota's thought was directed at him in this place of nodirection. Think of the city and you will see it.     Michaelson did, and he saw the city beyond, as if he were lookingthrough a window. And yet he was in the city looking at his own body.     Maota's chuckle again. The city will remain as it is. You did not winafter all.     Neither did you.     But this existence has compensations, Maota said. You can beanywhere, see anywhere on this planet. Even on your Earth.     Michaelson felt a great sadness, seeing his body lying across theold, home made bed. He looked closer. He sensed a vibration or lifeforce—he didn't stop to define it—in his body. Why was his dead bodydifferent from Old Maota's? Could it be that there was some threadstretching from the reality of his body to his present state?     I don't like your thoughts, Maota said. No one can go back. I tried.I have discussed it with many who are not presently in communicationwith you. No one can go back.     Michaelson decided he try.  No! Maota's thought was prickled with fear and anger.     Michaelson did not know how to try, but he remembered the cylinder andgathered all the force of his mind in spite of Maota's protests, andgave his most violent command.     At first he thought it didn't work. He got up and looked around, thenit struck him.      He was standing up!       The cylinder. He knew it was the cylinder. That was the differencebetween himself and Maota. When he used the cylinder, that was wherehe went, the place where Maota was now. It was a door of some kind,leading to a path of some kind where distance was non-existent. But theclock was a mechanism to transport only the mind to that place.     To be certain of it, he pressed the button again, with the same resultas before. He saw his own body fall down. He felt Maota's presence.     You devil! Maota's thought-scream was a sword of hate and anger,irrational suddenly, like a person who knows his loss is irrevocable.I said you were a god. I said you were a god.      I said you were agod...!        ","Stationed on the Earth base of Alpha Centaurus II, Mr. Michaelson, a tall, gaunt archeologist, explores the planet for historical artifacts. He is human, but has a special cylinder embedded in the flesh behind his ear that teleports him to a different location when touched.He comes across an empty city in the desert, with the old buildings filling with blown sand, though he is not alone. He is approached by a short, gray-haired native with webbed bare feet (aka webfoot or Maota) that he spotted in a doorway, who introduces himself as the keeper of the city and implores him to leave because he angers the gods. Michaelson brushes aside that spirits exist, but notes that he must keep an eye on this intelligent native.As Michaelson continues to explore the city and disobey what he was told, the native again demands he leave, calling him “Mr. Earthgod.” Michaelson learns his name is Maota, and tries to negotiate to preserve the artifacts and build a museum. Maota does not succumb to Michaelson’s tactics, and whacks him unconscious with a metal book.Michaelson awakes and teleports to a creek 500 miles away to clean his wound, then returns and opens the book to find voices talking to him. He is mystified that the civilization here said to have disappeared half a million years ago was communicating with him. In his wonder, he picks up another clock-like artifact he has been curious about, and is shocked to feel it is radiating heat.The next day, Michaelson awakes in the dead city to find Maota pointing a gun-like weapon at him - apologizing for causing him pain instead of killing him. Maota reads from the talking poetry book, at Michaelson’s request. It moves them both, Michaelson feeling the humanity of the civilization, and Maota feeling the gentle spirits. Maota becomes furious that Michaelson wants to move things into a museum and begins to fire the weapon. Michaelson teleports behind him and in their struggle to take possession they discharge it - destroying the book. Maota has disgraced himself and the gods and becomes inconsolable. He has been wanting to try the “clock” device for some time - now with renewed determination because he doesn’t care if it kills him. He explains that he thinks the race of the dead city entered a fourth dimension. Pushing the button, Maota’s body collapses in death. Michaelson tries to bury him, but has the sense that his soul is elsewhere. Michaelson desperately studies the artifacts to understand the clock, then radically decides to just press the button too. Afterwards, he sees his dead body below him and communicates with Maota’s consciousness in a spiritual dimension. He discovers that he can will his cylinder with his mind to return to his physical body, traversing between the physical and spiritual realms. This infuriates Maota who can never return to his body and feels pushed and tricked by Michaelson. "
"Describe the setting of the story. </s>     A CITY NEAR CENTAURUS     By BILL DOEDE     Illustrated by WEST     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Magazine October 1962.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        The city was sacred, but not to its gods.       Michaelson was a god—but far from sacred!        Crouched in the ancient doorway like an animal peering out from hisburrow, Mr. Michaelson saw the native.     At first he was startled, thinking it might be someone else from theEarth settlement who had discovered the old city before him. Then hesaw the glint of sun against the metallic skirt, and relaxed.     He chuckled to himself, wondering with amusement what a webfooted manwas doing in an old dead city so far from his people. Some facts wereknown about the people of Alpha Centaurus II. They were not actuallynatives, he recalled. They were a colony from the fifth planet ofthe system. They were a curious people. Some were highly intelligent,though uneducated.     He decided to ignore the man for the moment. He was far down theancient street, a mere speck against the sand. There would be plenty oftime to wonder about him.     He gazed out from his position at the complex variety of buildingsbefore him. Some were small, obviously homes. Others were hugewith tall, frail spires standing against the pale blue sky. Squarebuildings, ellipsoid, spheroid. Beautiful, dream-stuff bridgesconnected tall, conical towers, bridges that still swung in the windafter half a million years. Late afternoon sunlight shone against ebonysurfaces. The sands of many centuries had blown down the wide streetsand filled the doorways. Desert plants grew from roofs of smallerbuildings.     Ignoring the native, Mr. Michaelson poked about among the ruinshappily, exclaiming to himself about some particular artifact,marveling at its state of preservation, holding it this way and that tocatch the late afternoon sun, smiling, clucking gleefully. He crawledover the rubble through old doorways half filled with the accumulationof ages. He dug experimentally in the sand with his hands, like a dog,under a roof that had weathered half a million years of rain and sun.Then he crawled out again, covered with dust and cobwebs.  The native stood in the street less than a hundred feet away, wavinghis arms madly. Mr. Earthgod, he cried. It is sacred ground whereyou are trespassing!     The archeologist smiled, watching the man hurry closer. He was short,even for a native. Long gray hair hung to his shoulders, bobbing upand down as he walked. He wore no shoes. The toes of his webbed feetdragged in the sand, making a deep trail behind him. He was an old man.     You never told us about this old dead city, Michaelson said,chidingly. Shame on you. But never mind. I've found it now. Isn't itbeautiful?     Yes, beautiful. You will leave now.     Leave? Michaelson asked, acting surprised as if the man were achild. I just got here a few hours ago.     You must go.     Why? Who are you?     I am keeper of the city.     You? Michaelson laughed. Then, seeing how serious the native was,said, What makes you think a dead city needs a keeper?     The spirits may return.     Michaelson crawled out of the doorway and stood up. He brushed histrousers. He pointed. See that wall? Built of some metal, I'd say,some alloy impervious to rust and wear.     The spirits are angry.     Notice the inscriptions? Wind has blown sand against them for eons,and rain and sleet. But their story is there, once we decipher it.     Leave!     The native's lined, weathered old face was working around the mouth inanger. Michaelson was almost sorry he had mocked him. He was deadlyserious.     Look, he said. No spirits are ever coming back here. Don't you knowthat? And even if they did, spirits care nothing for old cities halfcovered with sand and dirt.     He walked away from the old man, heading for another building. Thesun had already gone below the horizon, coloring the high clouds. Heglanced backward. The webfoot was following.     Mr. Earthgod! the webfoot cried, so sharply that Michaelson stopped.You must not touch, not walk upon, not handle. Your step may destroythe home of some ancient spirit. Your breath may cause one iota ofchange and a spirit may lose his way in the darkness. Go quickly now,or be killed.  He turned and walked off, not looking back.     Michaelson stood in the ancient street, tall, gaunt, feet planted wide,hands in pockets, watching the webfoot until he was out of sight beyonda huge circular building. There was a man to watch. There was one ofthe intelligent ones. One look into the alert old eyes had told himthat.     Michaelson shook his head, and went about satisfying his curiosity.He entered buildings without thought of roofs falling in, or decayedfloors dropping from under his weight. He began to collect small items,making a pile of them in the street. An ancient bowl, metal untouchedby the ages. A statue of a man, one foot high, correct to the minutestdetail, showing how identical they had been to Earthmen. He found booksstill standing on ancient shelves but was afraid to touch them withouttools.     Darkness came swiftly and he was forced out into the street.     He stood there alone feeling the age of the place. Even the smellof age was in the air. Silver moonlight from the two moons filteredthrough clear air down upon the ruins. The city lay now in darkness,dead and still, waiting for morning so it could lie dead and still inthe sun.     There was no hurry to be going home, although he was alone, althoughthis was Alpha Centaurus II with many unknowns, many dangers ...although home was a very great distance away. There was no one backthere to worry about him.     His wife had died many years ago back on Earth. No children. Hisfriends in the settlement would not look for him for another day atleast. Anyway, the tiny cylinder, buried in flesh behind his ear, athing of mystery and immense power, could take him home instantly,without effort save a flicker of thought.     You did not leave, as I asked you.     Michaelson whirled around at the sound of the native's voice. Then herelaxed. He said, You shouldn't sneak up on a man like that.     You must leave, or I will be forced to kill you. I do not want to killyou, but if I must.... He made a clucking sound deep in the throat.The spirits are angry.     Nonsense. Superstition! But never mind. You have been here longerthan I. Tell me, what are those instruments in the rooms? It looks likea clock but I'm certain it had some other function.     What rooms?     Oh, come now. The small rooms back there. Look like they werebedrooms.     I do not know. The webfoot drew closer. Michaelson decided he wassixty or seventy years old, at least.     You've been here a long time. You are intelligent, and you must beeducated, the way you talk. That gadget looks like a time-piece of somesort. What is it? What does it measure?     I insist that you go. The webfoot held something in his hand.     No. Michaelson looked off down the street, trying to ignore thenative, trying to feel the life of the city as it might have been.  You are sensitive, the native said in his ear. It takes a sensitivegod to feel the spirits moving in the houses and walking in these oldstreets.     Say it any way you want to. This is the most fascinating thingI've ever seen. The Inca's treasure, the ruins of Pompeii, Egyptiantombs—none can hold a candle to this.     Mr. Earthgod....     Don't call me that. I'm not a god, and you know it.     The old man shrugged. It is not an item worthy of dispute. Those namesyou mention, are they the names of gods?     He chuckled. In a way, yes. What is your name?     Maota.     You must help me, Maota. These things must be preserved. We'll builda museum, right here in the street. No, over there on the hill justoutside the city. We'll collect all the old writings and perhaps we maydecipher them. Think of it, Maota! To read pages written so long agoand think their thoughts. We'll put everything under glass. Build andevacuate chambers to stop the decay. Catalogue, itemize....     Michaelson was warming up to his subject, but Maota shook his head likea waving palm frond and stamped his feet.     You will leave now.     Can't you see? Look at the decay. These things are priceless. Theymust be preserved. Future generations will thank us.     Do you mean, the old man asked, aghast, that you want others to comehere? You know the city abhors the sound of alien voices. Those wholived here may return one day! They must not find their city packagedand preserved and laid out on shelves for the curious to breathe theirfoul breaths upon. You will leave. Now!     No. Michaelson was adamant. The rock of Gibraltar.     Maota hit him, quickly, passionately, and dropped the weapon beside hisbody. He turned swiftly, making a swirling mark in the sand with hisheel, and walked off toward the hills outside the city.     The weapon he had used was an ancient book. Its paper-thin pagesrustled in the wind as if an unseen hand turned them, reading, whileMichaelson's blood trickled out from the head wound upon the ancientstreet.  When he regained consciousness the two moons, bright sentinel orbs inthe night sky, had moved to a new position down their sliding path. OldMaota's absence took some of the weirdness and fantasy away. It seemeda more practical place now.     The gash in his head was painful, throbbing with quick, shorthammer-blows synchronized with his heart beats. But there was a newdetermination in him. If it was a fight that the old webfooted foolwanted, a fight he would get. The cylinder flicked him, at his command,across five hundred miles of desert and rocks to a small creek heremembered. Here he bathed his head in cool water until all the cakedblood was dissolved from his hair. Feeling better, he went back.     The wind had turned cool. Michaelson shivered, wishing he had broughta coat. The city was absolutely still except for small gusts of windsighing through the frail spires. The ancient book still lay in thesand beside the dark spot of blood. He stooped over and picked it up.     It was light, much lighter than most Earth books. He ran a hand overthe binding. Smooth it was, untouched by time or climate. He squintedat the pages, tilting the book to catch the bright moonlight, but thewriting was alien. He touched the page, ran his forefinger over thewriting.     Suddenly he sprang back. The book fell from his hands.     God in heaven! he exclaimed.     He had heard a voice. He looked around at the old buildings, down thelength of the ancient street. Something strange about the voice. NotMaota. Not his tones. Not his words. Satisfied that no one was near, hestooped and picked up the book again.     Good God! he said aloud. It was the book talking. His fingers hadtouched the writing again. It was not a voice, exactly, but a stirringin his mind, like a strange language heard for the first time.     A talking book. What other surprises were in the city? Tall,fragile buildings laughing at time and weather. A clock measuringGod-knows-what. If such wonders remained, what about those alreadydestroyed? One could only guess at the machines, the gadgets, theartistry already decayed and blown away to mix forever with the sand.     I must preserve it, he thought, whether Maota likes it or not. Theysay these people lived half a million years ago. A long time. Let'ssee, now. A man lives one hundred years on the average. Five thousandlifetimes.     And all you do is touch a book, and a voice jumps across all thoseyears!     He started off toward the tall building he had examined upon discoveryof the city. His left eyelid began to twitch and he laid his forefingeragainst the eye, pressing until it stopped. Then he stooped and enteredthe building. He laid the book down and tried to take the clockoff the wall. It was dark in the building and his fingers felt alongthe wall, looking for it. Then he touched it. His fingers moved overits smooth surface. Then suddenly he jerked his hand back with anexclamation of amazement. Fear ran up his spine.       The clock was warm.       He felt like running, like flicking back to the settlement where therewere people and familiar voices, for here was a thing that should notbe. Half a million years—and here was warmth!     He touched it again, curiosity overwhelming his fear. It was warm. Nomistake. And there was a faint vibration, a suggestion of power. Hestood there in the darkness staring off into the darkness, trembling.Fear built up in him until it was a monstrous thing, drowning reason.He forgot the power of the cylinder behind his ear. He scrambledthrough the doorway. He got up and ran down the ancient sandy streetuntil he came to the edge of the city. Here he stopped, gasping forair, feeling the pain throb in his head.     Common sense said that he should go home, that nothing worthwhile couldbe accomplished at night, that he was tired, that he was weak from lossof blood and fright and running. But when Michaelson was on the trailof important discoveries he had no common sense.     He sat down in the darkness, meaning to rest a moment.  When he awoke dawn was red against thin clouds in the east.     Old Maota stood in the street with webbed feet planted far apart inthe sand, a weapon in the crook of his arm. It was a long tube affair,familiar to Michaelson.     Michaelson asked, Did you sleep well?     No.     I'm sorry to hear that.     How do you feel?     Fine, but my head aches a little.     Sorry, Maota said.     For what?     For hitting you. Pain is not for gods like you.     Michaelson relaxed somewhat. What kind of man are you? First you tryto break my skull, then you apologize.     I abhor pain. I should have killed you outright.     He thought about that for a moment, eyeing the weapon.     It looked in good working order. Slim and shiny and innocent, it lookedlike a glorified African blowgun. But he was not deceived by itsappearance. It was a deadly weapon.       Well, he said, before you kill me, tell me about the book. He heldit up for Maota to see.     What about the book?     What kind of book is it?     What does Mr. Earthgod mean, what      kind     of book? You have seen it. Itis like any other book, except for the material and the fact that ittalks.     No, no. I mean, what's in it?     Poetry.     Poetry? For God's sake, why poetry? Why not mathematics or history?Why not tell how to make the metal of the book itself? Now there is asubject worthy of a book.     Maota shook his head. One does not study a dead culture to learn howthey made things, but how they thought. But we are wasting time. I mustkill you now, so I can get some rest.     The old man raised the gun.  Wait! You forget that I also have a weapon. He pointed to the spotbehind his ear where the cylinder was buried. I can move faster thanyou can fire the gun.     Maota nodded. I have heard how you travel. It does not matter. I willkill you anyway.     I suggest we negotiate.     No.     Why not?     Maota looked off toward the hills, old eyes filmed from years of sandand wind, leather skin lined and pitted. The hills stood immobile,brown-gray, already shimmering with heat, impotent.     Why not? Michaelson repeated.     Why not what? Maota dragged his eyes back.     Negotiate.     No. Maota's eyes grew hard as steel. They stood there in the sun, nottwenty feet apart, hating each other. The two moons, very pale and faraway on the western horizon, stared like two bottomless eyes.     All right, then. At least it's a quick death. I hear that thing justdisintegrates a man. Pfft! And that's that.     Michaelson prepared himself to move if the old man's finger slid closertoward the firing stud. The old man raised the gun.     Wait!     Now what?     At least read some of the book to me before I die, then.     The gun wavered. I am not an unreasonable man, the webfoot said.     Michaelson stepped forward, extending his arm with the book.     No, stay where you are. Throw it.     This book is priceless. You just don't go throwing such valuable itemsaround.     It won't break. Throw it.     Michaelson threw the book. It landed at Maota's feet, spouting sandagainst his leg. He shifted the weapon, picked up the book and leafedthrough it, raising his head in a listening attitude, searching fora suitable passage. Michaelson heard the thin, metallic pages rustlesoftly. He could have jumped and seized the weapon at that moment, buthis desire to hear the book was strong.  Old Maota read, Michaelson listened. The cadence was different, thesyntax confusing. But the thoughts were there. It might have beena professor back on Earth reading to his students. Keats, Shelley,Browning. These people were human, with human thoughts and aspirations.     The old man stopped reading. He squatted slowly, keeping Michaelson insight, and laid the book face up in the sand. Wind moved the pages.     See? he said. The spirits read. They must have been great readers,these people. They drink the book, as if it were an elixir. See howgentle! They lap at the pages like a new kitten tasting milk.     Michaelson laughed. You certainly have an imagination.     What difference does it make? Maota cried, suddenly angry. You wantto close up all these things in boxes for a posterity who may have noslightest feeling or appreciation. I want to leave the city as it is,for spirits whose existence I cannot prove.     The old man's eyes were furious now, deadly. The gun came down directlyin line with the Earthman's chest. The gnarled finger moved.     Michaelson, using the power of the cylinder behind his ear, jumpedbehind the old webfoot. To Maota it seemed that he had flicked out ofexistence like a match blown out. The next instant Michaelson spunhim around and hit him. It was an inexpert fist, belonging to anarcheologist, not a fighter. But Maota was an old man.     He dropped in the sand, momentarily stunned. Michaelson bent over topick up the gun and the old man, feeling it slip from his fingers,hung on and was pulled to his feet.     They struggled for possession of the gun, silently, gasping, kickingsand. Faces grew red. Lips drew back over Michaelson's white teeth,over Maota's pink, toothless gums. The dead city's fragile spires threwimpersonal shadows down where they fought.     Then quite suddenly a finger or hand—neither knew whose finger orhand—touched the firing stud.     There was a hollow, whooshing sound. Both stopped still, realizing thetotal destruction they might have caused.     It only hit the ground, Michaelson said.     A black, charred hole, two feet in diameter and—they could not see howdeep—stared at them.     Maota let go and sprawled in the sand. The book! he cried. The bookis gone!     No! We probably covered it with sand while we fought.  Both men began scooping sand in their cupped hands, digging franticallyfor the book. Saliva dripped from Maota's mouth, but he didn't know orcare.     Finally they stopped, exhausted. They had covered a substantial areaaround the hole. They had covered the complete area where they had been.     We killed it, the old man moaned.     It was just a book. Not alive, you know.     How do you know? The old man's pale eyes were filled with tears. Ittalked and it sang. In a way, it had a soul. Sometimes on long nights Iused to imagine it loved me, for taking care of it.     There are other books. We'll get another.     Maota shook his head. There are no more.     But I've seen them. Down there in the square building.     Not poetry. Books, yes, but not poetry. That was the only book withsongs.     I'm sorry.           You     killed it! Maota suddenly sprang for the weapon, lyingforgotten in the sand. Michaelson put his foot on it and Maota was tooweak to tear it loose. He could only weep out his rage.     When he could talk again, Maota said, I am sorry, Mr. Earthgod. I'vedisgraced myself.     Don't be sorry. Michaelson helped him to his feet. We fight for somereasons, cry for others. A priceless book is a good reason for either.     Not for that. For not winning. I should have killed you last nightwhen I had the chance. The gods give us chances and if we don't takethem we lose forever.     I told you before! We are on the same side. Negotiate. Have you neverheard of negotiation?     You are a god, Maota said. One does not negotiate with gods. Oneeither loves them, or kills them.     That's another thing. I am not a god. Can't you understand?     Of course you are. Maota looked up, very sure. Mortals cannot stepfrom star to star like crossing a shallow brook.     No, no. I don't step from one star to another. An invention does that.Just an invention. I carry it with me. It's a tiny thing. No one wouldever guess it has such power. So you see, I'm human, just like you. Hitme and I hurt. Cut me and I bleed. I love. I hate. I was born. Some dayI'll die. See? I'm human. Just a human with a machine. No more thanthat.  Maota laughed, then sobered quickly. You lie.     No.     If I had this machine, could I travel as you?     Yes.     Then I'll kill you and take yours.     It would not work for you.     Why?     Each machine is tailored for each person.     The old man hung his head. He looked down into the black, charredhole. He walked all around the hole. He kicked at the sand, lookinghalf-heartedly again for the book.     Look, Michaelson said. I'm sure I've convinced you that I'm human.Why not have a try at negotiating our differences?     He looked up. His expressive eyes, deep, resigned, studied Michaelson'sface. Finally he shook his head sadly. When we first met I hoped wecould think the ancient thoughts together. But our paths diverge. Wehave finished, you and I.     He turned and started off, shoulders slumped dejectedly.     Michaelson caught up to him. Are you leaving the city?     No.     Where are you going?     Away. Far away. Maota looked off toward the hills, eyes distant.     Don't be stupid, old man. How can you go far away and not leave thecity?     There are many directions. You would not understand.     East. West. North. South. Up. Down.     No, no. There is another direction. Come, if you must see.     Michaelson followed him far down the street. They came to a section ofthe city he had not seen before. Buildings were smaller, spires dwarfedagainst larger structures. Here a path was packed in the sand, leadingto a particular building.     Michaelson said, This is where you live?     Yes.     Maota went inside. Michaelson stood in the entrance and looked around.The room was clean, furnished with hand made chairs and a bed. Who isthis old man, he thought, far from his people, living alone, choosinga life of solitude among ancient ruins but not touching them? Abovethe bed a clock was fastened to the wall, Michaelson remembered hisfright—thinking of the warmth where warmth should not be.     Maota pointed to it.     You asked about this machine, he said. Now I will tell you. He laidhis hand against it. Here is power to follow another direction.  Michaelson tested one of the chairs to see if it would hold his weight,then sat down. His curiosity about the instrument was colossal, but heforced a short laugh. Maota, you      are     complex. Why not stop all thismystery nonsense and tell me about it? You know more about it than I.     Of course. Maota smiled a toothless, superior smile. What do yousuppose happened to this race?     You tell me.     They took the unknown direction. The books speak of it. I don't knowhow the instrument works, but one thing is certain. The race did notdie out, as a species becomes extinct.     Michaelson was amused, but interested. Something like a fourthdimension?     I don't know. I only know that with this instrument there is no death.I have read the books that speak of this race, this wonderful peoplewho conquered all disease, who explored all the mysteries of science,who devised this machine to cheat death. See this button here on theface of the instrument? Press the button, and....     And what?     I don't know, exactly. But I have lived many years. I have walked thestreets of this city and wondered, and wanted to press the button. NowI will do so.     Quickly the old man, still smiling, pressed the button. A high-pitchedwhine filled the air, just within audio range. Steady for a moment, itthen rose in pitch passing beyond hearing quickly.     The old man's knees buckled. He sank down, fell over the bed, laystill. Michaelson touched him cautiously, then examined him morecarefully. No question about it.     The old man was dead.  Feeling depressed and alone, Michaelson found a desert knoll outsidethe city overlooking the tall spires that shone in the sunlight andgleamed in the moonlight. He made a stretcher, rolled the old man'sbody on to it and dragged it down the long ancient street and up theknoll.     Here he buried him.     But it seemed a waste of time. Somehow he knew beyond any doubt thatthe old native and his body were completely disassociated in some sensemore complete than death.     In the days that followed he gave much thought to the clock. He cameto the city every day. He spent long hours in the huge square buildingwith the books. He learned the language by sheer bulldog determination.Then he searched the books for information about the instrument.     Finally after many weeks, long after the winds had obliterated allevidence of Maota's grave on the knoll, Michaelson made a decision. Hehad to know if the machine would work for him.     And so one afternoon when the ancient spires threw long shadowsover the sand he walked down the long street and entered the oldman's house. He stood before the instrument, trembling, afraid, butdetermined. He pinched his eyes shut tight like a child and pressed thebutton.     The high-pitched whine started.     Complete, utter silence. Void. Darkness. Awareness and memory, yes;nothing else. Then Maota's chuckle came. No sound, an impression onlylike the voice from the ancient book. Where was he? There was no leftor right, up or down. Maota was everywhere, nowhere.     Look! Maota's thought was directed at him in this place of nodirection. Think of the city and you will see it.     Michaelson did, and he saw the city beyond, as if he were lookingthrough a window. And yet he was in the city looking at his own body.     Maota's chuckle again. The city will remain as it is. You did not winafter all.     Neither did you.     But this existence has compensations, Maota said. You can beanywhere, see anywhere on this planet. Even on your Earth.     Michaelson felt a great sadness, seeing his body lying across theold, home made bed. He looked closer. He sensed a vibration or lifeforce—he didn't stop to define it—in his body. Why was his dead bodydifferent from Old Maota's? Could it be that there was some threadstretching from the reality of his body to his present state?     I don't like your thoughts, Maota said. No one can go back. I tried.I have discussed it with many who are not presently in communicationwith you. No one can go back.     Michaelson decided he try.  No! Maota's thought was prickled with fear and anger.     Michaelson did not know how to try, but he remembered the cylinder andgathered all the force of his mind in spite of Maota's protests, andgave his most violent command.     At first he thought it didn't work. He got up and looked around, thenit struck him.      He was standing up!       The cylinder. He knew it was the cylinder. That was the differencebetween himself and Maota. When he used the cylinder, that was wherehe went, the place where Maota was now. It was a door of some kind,leading to a path of some kind where distance was non-existent. But theclock was a mechanism to transport only the mind to that place.     To be certain of it, he pressed the button again, with the same resultas before. He saw his own body fall down. He felt Maota's presence.     You devil! Maota's thought-scream was a sword of hate and anger,irrational suddenly, like a person who knows his loss is irrevocable.I said you were a god. I said you were a god.      I said you were agod...!        ","The story is set on Alpha Centaurus II, a planet with two moons and many unknowns and dangers. There is an Earth settlement on the planet, and the archeologist, Mr. Michaelson traverses around a sandy, desert-like area under a pale blue sky come to be referred to as the dead city which was last populated half a million years ago.The dead city is a complex variety of buildings, including small homes, huge ones with spires, and all varieties of square and spherical shapes. Suspension bridges connected conical towers. Desert plants grew from rooftops and sand had blown down the streets and filled the doorways. Despite not believing in the spiritual, Mr. Michaelson experiences waves of energy communicating with him from the artifacts he finds in the dead city, giving it the feel of not being deserted at all.Through the discovery of an important artifact (the “clock) that is radiating heat. The two characters Maota and Mr. Michaelson also discover that they can travel into a spiritual dimension setting where they look down on the planet, or anywhere in the universe, and communicate with their thoughts."
"Who is Mr. Michaelson and what is his personality like? </s>     A CITY NEAR CENTAURUS     By BILL DOEDE     Illustrated by WEST     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Magazine October 1962.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        The city was sacred, but not to its gods.       Michaelson was a god—but far from sacred!        Crouched in the ancient doorway like an animal peering out from hisburrow, Mr. Michaelson saw the native.     At first he was startled, thinking it might be someone else from theEarth settlement who had discovered the old city before him. Then hesaw the glint of sun against the metallic skirt, and relaxed.     He chuckled to himself, wondering with amusement what a webfooted manwas doing in an old dead city so far from his people. Some facts wereknown about the people of Alpha Centaurus II. They were not actuallynatives, he recalled. They were a colony from the fifth planet ofthe system. They were a curious people. Some were highly intelligent,though uneducated.     He decided to ignore the man for the moment. He was far down theancient street, a mere speck against the sand. There would be plenty oftime to wonder about him.     He gazed out from his position at the complex variety of buildingsbefore him. Some were small, obviously homes. Others were hugewith tall, frail spires standing against the pale blue sky. Squarebuildings, ellipsoid, spheroid. Beautiful, dream-stuff bridgesconnected tall, conical towers, bridges that still swung in the windafter half a million years. Late afternoon sunlight shone against ebonysurfaces. The sands of many centuries had blown down the wide streetsand filled the doorways. Desert plants grew from roofs of smallerbuildings.     Ignoring the native, Mr. Michaelson poked about among the ruinshappily, exclaiming to himself about some particular artifact,marveling at its state of preservation, holding it this way and that tocatch the late afternoon sun, smiling, clucking gleefully. He crawledover the rubble through old doorways half filled with the accumulationof ages. He dug experimentally in the sand with his hands, like a dog,under a roof that had weathered half a million years of rain and sun.Then he crawled out again, covered with dust and cobwebs.  The native stood in the street less than a hundred feet away, wavinghis arms madly. Mr. Earthgod, he cried. It is sacred ground whereyou are trespassing!     The archeologist smiled, watching the man hurry closer. He was short,even for a native. Long gray hair hung to his shoulders, bobbing upand down as he walked. He wore no shoes. The toes of his webbed feetdragged in the sand, making a deep trail behind him. He was an old man.     You never told us about this old dead city, Michaelson said,chidingly. Shame on you. But never mind. I've found it now. Isn't itbeautiful?     Yes, beautiful. You will leave now.     Leave? Michaelson asked, acting surprised as if the man were achild. I just got here a few hours ago.     You must go.     Why? Who are you?     I am keeper of the city.     You? Michaelson laughed. Then, seeing how serious the native was,said, What makes you think a dead city needs a keeper?     The spirits may return.     Michaelson crawled out of the doorway and stood up. He brushed histrousers. He pointed. See that wall? Built of some metal, I'd say,some alloy impervious to rust and wear.     The spirits are angry.     Notice the inscriptions? Wind has blown sand against them for eons,and rain and sleet. But their story is there, once we decipher it.     Leave!     The native's lined, weathered old face was working around the mouth inanger. Michaelson was almost sorry he had mocked him. He was deadlyserious.     Look, he said. No spirits are ever coming back here. Don't you knowthat? And even if they did, spirits care nothing for old cities halfcovered with sand and dirt.     He walked away from the old man, heading for another building. Thesun had already gone below the horizon, coloring the high clouds. Heglanced backward. The webfoot was following.     Mr. Earthgod! the webfoot cried, so sharply that Michaelson stopped.You must not touch, not walk upon, not handle. Your step may destroythe home of some ancient spirit. Your breath may cause one iota ofchange and a spirit may lose his way in the darkness. Go quickly now,or be killed.  He turned and walked off, not looking back.     Michaelson stood in the ancient street, tall, gaunt, feet planted wide,hands in pockets, watching the webfoot until he was out of sight beyonda huge circular building. There was a man to watch. There was one ofthe intelligent ones. One look into the alert old eyes had told himthat.     Michaelson shook his head, and went about satisfying his curiosity.He entered buildings without thought of roofs falling in, or decayedfloors dropping from under his weight. He began to collect small items,making a pile of them in the street. An ancient bowl, metal untouchedby the ages. A statue of a man, one foot high, correct to the minutestdetail, showing how identical they had been to Earthmen. He found booksstill standing on ancient shelves but was afraid to touch them withouttools.     Darkness came swiftly and he was forced out into the street.     He stood there alone feeling the age of the place. Even the smellof age was in the air. Silver moonlight from the two moons filteredthrough clear air down upon the ruins. The city lay now in darkness,dead and still, waiting for morning so it could lie dead and still inthe sun.     There was no hurry to be going home, although he was alone, althoughthis was Alpha Centaurus II with many unknowns, many dangers ...although home was a very great distance away. There was no one backthere to worry about him.     His wife had died many years ago back on Earth. No children. Hisfriends in the settlement would not look for him for another day atleast. Anyway, the tiny cylinder, buried in flesh behind his ear, athing of mystery and immense power, could take him home instantly,without effort save a flicker of thought.     You did not leave, as I asked you.     Michaelson whirled around at the sound of the native's voice. Then herelaxed. He said, You shouldn't sneak up on a man like that.     You must leave, or I will be forced to kill you. I do not want to killyou, but if I must.... He made a clucking sound deep in the throat.The spirits are angry.     Nonsense. Superstition! But never mind. You have been here longerthan I. Tell me, what are those instruments in the rooms? It looks likea clock but I'm certain it had some other function.     What rooms?     Oh, come now. The small rooms back there. Look like they werebedrooms.     I do not know. The webfoot drew closer. Michaelson decided he wassixty or seventy years old, at least.     You've been here a long time. You are intelligent, and you must beeducated, the way you talk. That gadget looks like a time-piece of somesort. What is it? What does it measure?     I insist that you go. The webfoot held something in his hand.     No. Michaelson looked off down the street, trying to ignore thenative, trying to feel the life of the city as it might have been.  You are sensitive, the native said in his ear. It takes a sensitivegod to feel the spirits moving in the houses and walking in these oldstreets.     Say it any way you want to. This is the most fascinating thingI've ever seen. The Inca's treasure, the ruins of Pompeii, Egyptiantombs—none can hold a candle to this.     Mr. Earthgod....     Don't call me that. I'm not a god, and you know it.     The old man shrugged. It is not an item worthy of dispute. Those namesyou mention, are they the names of gods?     He chuckled. In a way, yes. What is your name?     Maota.     You must help me, Maota. These things must be preserved. We'll builda museum, right here in the street. No, over there on the hill justoutside the city. We'll collect all the old writings and perhaps we maydecipher them. Think of it, Maota! To read pages written so long agoand think their thoughts. We'll put everything under glass. Build andevacuate chambers to stop the decay. Catalogue, itemize....     Michaelson was warming up to his subject, but Maota shook his head likea waving palm frond and stamped his feet.     You will leave now.     Can't you see? Look at the decay. These things are priceless. Theymust be preserved. Future generations will thank us.     Do you mean, the old man asked, aghast, that you want others to comehere? You know the city abhors the sound of alien voices. Those wholived here may return one day! They must not find their city packagedand preserved and laid out on shelves for the curious to breathe theirfoul breaths upon. You will leave. Now!     No. Michaelson was adamant. The rock of Gibraltar.     Maota hit him, quickly, passionately, and dropped the weapon beside hisbody. He turned swiftly, making a swirling mark in the sand with hisheel, and walked off toward the hills outside the city.     The weapon he had used was an ancient book. Its paper-thin pagesrustled in the wind as if an unseen hand turned them, reading, whileMichaelson's blood trickled out from the head wound upon the ancientstreet.  When he regained consciousness the two moons, bright sentinel orbs inthe night sky, had moved to a new position down their sliding path. OldMaota's absence took some of the weirdness and fantasy away. It seemeda more practical place now.     The gash in his head was painful, throbbing with quick, shorthammer-blows synchronized with his heart beats. But there was a newdetermination in him. If it was a fight that the old webfooted foolwanted, a fight he would get. The cylinder flicked him, at his command,across five hundred miles of desert and rocks to a small creek heremembered. Here he bathed his head in cool water until all the cakedblood was dissolved from his hair. Feeling better, he went back.     The wind had turned cool. Michaelson shivered, wishing he had broughta coat. The city was absolutely still except for small gusts of windsighing through the frail spires. The ancient book still lay in thesand beside the dark spot of blood. He stooped over and picked it up.     It was light, much lighter than most Earth books. He ran a hand overthe binding. Smooth it was, untouched by time or climate. He squintedat the pages, tilting the book to catch the bright moonlight, but thewriting was alien. He touched the page, ran his forefinger over thewriting.     Suddenly he sprang back. The book fell from his hands.     God in heaven! he exclaimed.     He had heard a voice. He looked around at the old buildings, down thelength of the ancient street. Something strange about the voice. NotMaota. Not his tones. Not his words. Satisfied that no one was near, hestooped and picked up the book again.     Good God! he said aloud. It was the book talking. His fingers hadtouched the writing again. It was not a voice, exactly, but a stirringin his mind, like a strange language heard for the first time.     A talking book. What other surprises were in the city? Tall,fragile buildings laughing at time and weather. A clock measuringGod-knows-what. If such wonders remained, what about those alreadydestroyed? One could only guess at the machines, the gadgets, theartistry already decayed and blown away to mix forever with the sand.     I must preserve it, he thought, whether Maota likes it or not. Theysay these people lived half a million years ago. A long time. Let'ssee, now. A man lives one hundred years on the average. Five thousandlifetimes.     And all you do is touch a book, and a voice jumps across all thoseyears!     He started off toward the tall building he had examined upon discoveryof the city. His left eyelid began to twitch and he laid his forefingeragainst the eye, pressing until it stopped. Then he stooped and enteredthe building. He laid the book down and tried to take the clockoff the wall. It was dark in the building and his fingers felt alongthe wall, looking for it. Then he touched it. His fingers moved overits smooth surface. Then suddenly he jerked his hand back with anexclamation of amazement. Fear ran up his spine.       The clock was warm.       He felt like running, like flicking back to the settlement where therewere people and familiar voices, for here was a thing that should notbe. Half a million years—and here was warmth!     He touched it again, curiosity overwhelming his fear. It was warm. Nomistake. And there was a faint vibration, a suggestion of power. Hestood there in the darkness staring off into the darkness, trembling.Fear built up in him until it was a monstrous thing, drowning reason.He forgot the power of the cylinder behind his ear. He scrambledthrough the doorway. He got up and ran down the ancient sandy streetuntil he came to the edge of the city. Here he stopped, gasping forair, feeling the pain throb in his head.     Common sense said that he should go home, that nothing worthwhile couldbe accomplished at night, that he was tired, that he was weak from lossof blood and fright and running. But when Michaelson was on the trailof important discoveries he had no common sense.     He sat down in the darkness, meaning to rest a moment.  When he awoke dawn was red against thin clouds in the east.     Old Maota stood in the street with webbed feet planted far apart inthe sand, a weapon in the crook of his arm. It was a long tube affair,familiar to Michaelson.     Michaelson asked, Did you sleep well?     No.     I'm sorry to hear that.     How do you feel?     Fine, but my head aches a little.     Sorry, Maota said.     For what?     For hitting you. Pain is not for gods like you.     Michaelson relaxed somewhat. What kind of man are you? First you tryto break my skull, then you apologize.     I abhor pain. I should have killed you outright.     He thought about that for a moment, eyeing the weapon.     It looked in good working order. Slim and shiny and innocent, it lookedlike a glorified African blowgun. But he was not deceived by itsappearance. It was a deadly weapon.       Well, he said, before you kill me, tell me about the book. He heldit up for Maota to see.     What about the book?     What kind of book is it?     What does Mr. Earthgod mean, what      kind     of book? You have seen it. Itis like any other book, except for the material and the fact that ittalks.     No, no. I mean, what's in it?     Poetry.     Poetry? For God's sake, why poetry? Why not mathematics or history?Why not tell how to make the metal of the book itself? Now there is asubject worthy of a book.     Maota shook his head. One does not study a dead culture to learn howthey made things, but how they thought. But we are wasting time. I mustkill you now, so I can get some rest.     The old man raised the gun.  Wait! You forget that I also have a weapon. He pointed to the spotbehind his ear where the cylinder was buried. I can move faster thanyou can fire the gun.     Maota nodded. I have heard how you travel. It does not matter. I willkill you anyway.     I suggest we negotiate.     No.     Why not?     Maota looked off toward the hills, old eyes filmed from years of sandand wind, leather skin lined and pitted. The hills stood immobile,brown-gray, already shimmering with heat, impotent.     Why not? Michaelson repeated.     Why not what? Maota dragged his eyes back.     Negotiate.     No. Maota's eyes grew hard as steel. They stood there in the sun, nottwenty feet apart, hating each other. The two moons, very pale and faraway on the western horizon, stared like two bottomless eyes.     All right, then. At least it's a quick death. I hear that thing justdisintegrates a man. Pfft! And that's that.     Michaelson prepared himself to move if the old man's finger slid closertoward the firing stud. The old man raised the gun.     Wait!     Now what?     At least read some of the book to me before I die, then.     The gun wavered. I am not an unreasonable man, the webfoot said.     Michaelson stepped forward, extending his arm with the book.     No, stay where you are. Throw it.     This book is priceless. You just don't go throwing such valuable itemsaround.     It won't break. Throw it.     Michaelson threw the book. It landed at Maota's feet, spouting sandagainst his leg. He shifted the weapon, picked up the book and leafedthrough it, raising his head in a listening attitude, searching fora suitable passage. Michaelson heard the thin, metallic pages rustlesoftly. He could have jumped and seized the weapon at that moment, buthis desire to hear the book was strong.  Old Maota read, Michaelson listened. The cadence was different, thesyntax confusing. But the thoughts were there. It might have beena professor back on Earth reading to his students. Keats, Shelley,Browning. These people were human, with human thoughts and aspirations.     The old man stopped reading. He squatted slowly, keeping Michaelson insight, and laid the book face up in the sand. Wind moved the pages.     See? he said. The spirits read. They must have been great readers,these people. They drink the book, as if it were an elixir. See howgentle! They lap at the pages like a new kitten tasting milk.     Michaelson laughed. You certainly have an imagination.     What difference does it make? Maota cried, suddenly angry. You wantto close up all these things in boxes for a posterity who may have noslightest feeling or appreciation. I want to leave the city as it is,for spirits whose existence I cannot prove.     The old man's eyes were furious now, deadly. The gun came down directlyin line with the Earthman's chest. The gnarled finger moved.     Michaelson, using the power of the cylinder behind his ear, jumpedbehind the old webfoot. To Maota it seemed that he had flicked out ofexistence like a match blown out. The next instant Michaelson spunhim around and hit him. It was an inexpert fist, belonging to anarcheologist, not a fighter. But Maota was an old man.     He dropped in the sand, momentarily stunned. Michaelson bent over topick up the gun and the old man, feeling it slip from his fingers,hung on and was pulled to his feet.     They struggled for possession of the gun, silently, gasping, kickingsand. Faces grew red. Lips drew back over Michaelson's white teeth,over Maota's pink, toothless gums. The dead city's fragile spires threwimpersonal shadows down where they fought.     Then quite suddenly a finger or hand—neither knew whose finger orhand—touched the firing stud.     There was a hollow, whooshing sound. Both stopped still, realizing thetotal destruction they might have caused.     It only hit the ground, Michaelson said.     A black, charred hole, two feet in diameter and—they could not see howdeep—stared at them.     Maota let go and sprawled in the sand. The book! he cried. The bookis gone!     No! We probably covered it with sand while we fought.  Both men began scooping sand in their cupped hands, digging franticallyfor the book. Saliva dripped from Maota's mouth, but he didn't know orcare.     Finally they stopped, exhausted. They had covered a substantial areaaround the hole. They had covered the complete area where they had been.     We killed it, the old man moaned.     It was just a book. Not alive, you know.     How do you know? The old man's pale eyes were filled with tears. Ittalked and it sang. In a way, it had a soul. Sometimes on long nights Iused to imagine it loved me, for taking care of it.     There are other books. We'll get another.     Maota shook his head. There are no more.     But I've seen them. Down there in the square building.     Not poetry. Books, yes, but not poetry. That was the only book withsongs.     I'm sorry.           You     killed it! Maota suddenly sprang for the weapon, lyingforgotten in the sand. Michaelson put his foot on it and Maota was tooweak to tear it loose. He could only weep out his rage.     When he could talk again, Maota said, I am sorry, Mr. Earthgod. I'vedisgraced myself.     Don't be sorry. Michaelson helped him to his feet. We fight for somereasons, cry for others. A priceless book is a good reason for either.     Not for that. For not winning. I should have killed you last nightwhen I had the chance. The gods give us chances and if we don't takethem we lose forever.     I told you before! We are on the same side. Negotiate. Have you neverheard of negotiation?     You are a god, Maota said. One does not negotiate with gods. Oneeither loves them, or kills them.     That's another thing. I am not a god. Can't you understand?     Of course you are. Maota looked up, very sure. Mortals cannot stepfrom star to star like crossing a shallow brook.     No, no. I don't step from one star to another. An invention does that.Just an invention. I carry it with me. It's a tiny thing. No one wouldever guess it has such power. So you see, I'm human, just like you. Hitme and I hurt. Cut me and I bleed. I love. I hate. I was born. Some dayI'll die. See? I'm human. Just a human with a machine. No more thanthat.  Maota laughed, then sobered quickly. You lie.     No.     If I had this machine, could I travel as you?     Yes.     Then I'll kill you and take yours.     It would not work for you.     Why?     Each machine is tailored for each person.     The old man hung his head. He looked down into the black, charredhole. He walked all around the hole. He kicked at the sand, lookinghalf-heartedly again for the book.     Look, Michaelson said. I'm sure I've convinced you that I'm human.Why not have a try at negotiating our differences?     He looked up. His expressive eyes, deep, resigned, studied Michaelson'sface. Finally he shook his head sadly. When we first met I hoped wecould think the ancient thoughts together. But our paths diverge. Wehave finished, you and I.     He turned and started off, shoulders slumped dejectedly.     Michaelson caught up to him. Are you leaving the city?     No.     Where are you going?     Away. Far away. Maota looked off toward the hills, eyes distant.     Don't be stupid, old man. How can you go far away and not leave thecity?     There are many directions. You would not understand.     East. West. North. South. Up. Down.     No, no. There is another direction. Come, if you must see.     Michaelson followed him far down the street. They came to a section ofthe city he had not seen before. Buildings were smaller, spires dwarfedagainst larger structures. Here a path was packed in the sand, leadingto a particular building.     Michaelson said, This is where you live?     Yes.     Maota went inside. Michaelson stood in the entrance and looked around.The room was clean, furnished with hand made chairs and a bed. Who isthis old man, he thought, far from his people, living alone, choosinga life of solitude among ancient ruins but not touching them? Abovethe bed a clock was fastened to the wall, Michaelson remembered hisfright—thinking of the warmth where warmth should not be.     Maota pointed to it.     You asked about this machine, he said. Now I will tell you. He laidhis hand against it. Here is power to follow another direction.  Michaelson tested one of the chairs to see if it would hold his weight,then sat down. His curiosity about the instrument was colossal, but heforced a short laugh. Maota, you      are     complex. Why not stop all thismystery nonsense and tell me about it? You know more about it than I.     Of course. Maota smiled a toothless, superior smile. What do yousuppose happened to this race?     You tell me.     They took the unknown direction. The books speak of it. I don't knowhow the instrument works, but one thing is certain. The race did notdie out, as a species becomes extinct.     Michaelson was amused, but interested. Something like a fourthdimension?     I don't know. I only know that with this instrument there is no death.I have read the books that speak of this race, this wonderful peoplewho conquered all disease, who explored all the mysteries of science,who devised this machine to cheat death. See this button here on theface of the instrument? Press the button, and....     And what?     I don't know, exactly. But I have lived many years. I have walked thestreets of this city and wondered, and wanted to press the button. NowI will do so.     Quickly the old man, still smiling, pressed the button. A high-pitchedwhine filled the air, just within audio range. Steady for a moment, itthen rose in pitch passing beyond hearing quickly.     The old man's knees buckled. He sank down, fell over the bed, laystill. Michaelson touched him cautiously, then examined him morecarefully. No question about it.     The old man was dead.  Feeling depressed and alone, Michaelson found a desert knoll outsidethe city overlooking the tall spires that shone in the sunlight andgleamed in the moonlight. He made a stretcher, rolled the old man'sbody on to it and dragged it down the long ancient street and up theknoll.     Here he buried him.     But it seemed a waste of time. Somehow he knew beyond any doubt thatthe old native and his body were completely disassociated in some sensemore complete than death.     In the days that followed he gave much thought to the clock. He cameto the city every day. He spent long hours in the huge square buildingwith the books. He learned the language by sheer bulldog determination.Then he searched the books for information about the instrument.     Finally after many weeks, long after the winds had obliterated allevidence of Maota's grave on the knoll, Michaelson made a decision. Hehad to know if the machine would work for him.     And so one afternoon when the ancient spires threw long shadowsover the sand he walked down the long street and entered the oldman's house. He stood before the instrument, trembling, afraid, butdetermined. He pinched his eyes shut tight like a child and pressed thebutton.     The high-pitched whine started.     Complete, utter silence. Void. Darkness. Awareness and memory, yes;nothing else. Then Maota's chuckle came. No sound, an impression onlylike the voice from the ancient book. Where was he? There was no leftor right, up or down. Maota was everywhere, nowhere.     Look! Maota's thought was directed at him in this place of nodirection. Think of the city and you will see it.     Michaelson did, and he saw the city beyond, as if he were lookingthrough a window. And yet he was in the city looking at his own body.     Maota's chuckle again. The city will remain as it is. You did not winafter all.     Neither did you.     But this existence has compensations, Maota said. You can beanywhere, see anywhere on this planet. Even on your Earth.     Michaelson felt a great sadness, seeing his body lying across theold, home made bed. He looked closer. He sensed a vibration or lifeforce—he didn't stop to define it—in his body. Why was his dead bodydifferent from Old Maota's? Could it be that there was some threadstretching from the reality of his body to his present state?     I don't like your thoughts, Maota said. No one can go back. I tried.I have discussed it with many who are not presently in communicationwith you. No one can go back.     Michaelson decided he try.  No! Maota's thought was prickled with fear and anger.     Michaelson did not know how to try, but he remembered the cylinder andgathered all the force of his mind in spite of Maota's protests, andgave his most violent command.     At first he thought it didn't work. He got up and looked around, thenit struck him.      He was standing up!       The cylinder. He knew it was the cylinder. That was the differencebetween himself and Maota. When he used the cylinder, that was wherehe went, the place where Maota was now. It was a door of some kind,leading to a path of some kind where distance was non-existent. But theclock was a mechanism to transport only the mind to that place.     To be certain of it, he pressed the button again, with the same resultas before. He saw his own body fall down. He felt Maota's presence.     You devil! Maota's thought-scream was a sword of hate and anger,irrational suddenly, like a person who knows his loss is irrevocable.I said you were a god. I said you were a god.      I said you were agod...!        ","Mr. Michaelson is a determined, tall, gaunt archeologist who enjoys finding artifacts and methodically undergoes the process of discovering and unearthing things, like this dead city on Alpha Centaurus II. His wife died many years ago back on Earth, and he has no children and no friends in the Earth settlement. He has a tiny cylinder in the flesh behind his ear that allows him to teleport instantly to a different location when touched.He does not believe in the spiritual, and rejects that the dead city he stumbles across even needs a keeper, offending Maota greatly who refers to him as “Mr. Earthgod.”Mr. Michaelson is ignorant and pushy towards Maota, not heeding his warnings or respecting his appeals to leave because it is angering the gods. Instead, Mr. Michaelson can’t understand why Maota won’t negotiate with him, almost as if he is entitled to take possession of the secrets and artifacts of the dead city"
"Who is the webfoot and what is his personality like? </s>     A CITY NEAR CENTAURUS     By BILL DOEDE     Illustrated by WEST     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Magazine October 1962.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        The city was sacred, but not to its gods.       Michaelson was a god—but far from sacred!        Crouched in the ancient doorway like an animal peering out from hisburrow, Mr. Michaelson saw the native.     At first he was startled, thinking it might be someone else from theEarth settlement who had discovered the old city before him. Then hesaw the glint of sun against the metallic skirt, and relaxed.     He chuckled to himself, wondering with amusement what a webfooted manwas doing in an old dead city so far from his people. Some facts wereknown about the people of Alpha Centaurus II. They were not actuallynatives, he recalled. They were a colony from the fifth planet ofthe system. They were a curious people. Some were highly intelligent,though uneducated.     He decided to ignore the man for the moment. He was far down theancient street, a mere speck against the sand. There would be plenty oftime to wonder about him.     He gazed out from his position at the complex variety of buildingsbefore him. Some were small, obviously homes. Others were hugewith tall, frail spires standing against the pale blue sky. Squarebuildings, ellipsoid, spheroid. Beautiful, dream-stuff bridgesconnected tall, conical towers, bridges that still swung in the windafter half a million years. Late afternoon sunlight shone against ebonysurfaces. The sands of many centuries had blown down the wide streetsand filled the doorways. Desert plants grew from roofs of smallerbuildings.     Ignoring the native, Mr. Michaelson poked about among the ruinshappily, exclaiming to himself about some particular artifact,marveling at its state of preservation, holding it this way and that tocatch the late afternoon sun, smiling, clucking gleefully. He crawledover the rubble through old doorways half filled with the accumulationof ages. He dug experimentally in the sand with his hands, like a dog,under a roof that had weathered half a million years of rain and sun.Then he crawled out again, covered with dust and cobwebs.  The native stood in the street less than a hundred feet away, wavinghis arms madly. Mr. Earthgod, he cried. It is sacred ground whereyou are trespassing!     The archeologist smiled, watching the man hurry closer. He was short,even for a native. Long gray hair hung to his shoulders, bobbing upand down as he walked. He wore no shoes. The toes of his webbed feetdragged in the sand, making a deep trail behind him. He was an old man.     You never told us about this old dead city, Michaelson said,chidingly. Shame on you. But never mind. I've found it now. Isn't itbeautiful?     Yes, beautiful. You will leave now.     Leave? Michaelson asked, acting surprised as if the man were achild. I just got here a few hours ago.     You must go.     Why? Who are you?     I am keeper of the city.     You? Michaelson laughed. Then, seeing how serious the native was,said, What makes you think a dead city needs a keeper?     The spirits may return.     Michaelson crawled out of the doorway and stood up. He brushed histrousers. He pointed. See that wall? Built of some metal, I'd say,some alloy impervious to rust and wear.     The spirits are angry.     Notice the inscriptions? Wind has blown sand against them for eons,and rain and sleet. But their story is there, once we decipher it.     Leave!     The native's lined, weathered old face was working around the mouth inanger. Michaelson was almost sorry he had mocked him. He was deadlyserious.     Look, he said. No spirits are ever coming back here. Don't you knowthat? And even if they did, spirits care nothing for old cities halfcovered with sand and dirt.     He walked away from the old man, heading for another building. Thesun had already gone below the horizon, coloring the high clouds. Heglanced backward. The webfoot was following.     Mr. Earthgod! the webfoot cried, so sharply that Michaelson stopped.You must not touch, not walk upon, not handle. Your step may destroythe home of some ancient spirit. Your breath may cause one iota ofchange and a spirit may lose his way in the darkness. Go quickly now,or be killed.  He turned and walked off, not looking back.     Michaelson stood in the ancient street, tall, gaunt, feet planted wide,hands in pockets, watching the webfoot until he was out of sight beyonda huge circular building. There was a man to watch. There was one ofthe intelligent ones. One look into the alert old eyes had told himthat.     Michaelson shook his head, and went about satisfying his curiosity.He entered buildings without thought of roofs falling in, or decayedfloors dropping from under his weight. He began to collect small items,making a pile of them in the street. An ancient bowl, metal untouchedby the ages. A statue of a man, one foot high, correct to the minutestdetail, showing how identical they had been to Earthmen. He found booksstill standing on ancient shelves but was afraid to touch them withouttools.     Darkness came swiftly and he was forced out into the street.     He stood there alone feeling the age of the place. Even the smellof age was in the air. Silver moonlight from the two moons filteredthrough clear air down upon the ruins. The city lay now in darkness,dead and still, waiting for morning so it could lie dead and still inthe sun.     There was no hurry to be going home, although he was alone, althoughthis was Alpha Centaurus II with many unknowns, many dangers ...although home was a very great distance away. There was no one backthere to worry about him.     His wife had died many years ago back on Earth. No children. Hisfriends in the settlement would not look for him for another day atleast. Anyway, the tiny cylinder, buried in flesh behind his ear, athing of mystery and immense power, could take him home instantly,without effort save a flicker of thought.     You did not leave, as I asked you.     Michaelson whirled around at the sound of the native's voice. Then herelaxed. He said, You shouldn't sneak up on a man like that.     You must leave, or I will be forced to kill you. I do not want to killyou, but if I must.... He made a clucking sound deep in the throat.The spirits are angry.     Nonsense. Superstition! But never mind. You have been here longerthan I. Tell me, what are those instruments in the rooms? It looks likea clock but I'm certain it had some other function.     What rooms?     Oh, come now. The small rooms back there. Look like they werebedrooms.     I do not know. The webfoot drew closer. Michaelson decided he wassixty or seventy years old, at least.     You've been here a long time. You are intelligent, and you must beeducated, the way you talk. That gadget looks like a time-piece of somesort. What is it? What does it measure?     I insist that you go. The webfoot held something in his hand.     No. Michaelson looked off down the street, trying to ignore thenative, trying to feel the life of the city as it might have been.  You are sensitive, the native said in his ear. It takes a sensitivegod to feel the spirits moving in the houses and walking in these oldstreets.     Say it any way you want to. This is the most fascinating thingI've ever seen. The Inca's treasure, the ruins of Pompeii, Egyptiantombs—none can hold a candle to this.     Mr. Earthgod....     Don't call me that. I'm not a god, and you know it.     The old man shrugged. It is not an item worthy of dispute. Those namesyou mention, are they the names of gods?     He chuckled. In a way, yes. What is your name?     Maota.     You must help me, Maota. These things must be preserved. We'll builda museum, right here in the street. No, over there on the hill justoutside the city. We'll collect all the old writings and perhaps we maydecipher them. Think of it, Maota! To read pages written so long agoand think their thoughts. We'll put everything under glass. Build andevacuate chambers to stop the decay. Catalogue, itemize....     Michaelson was warming up to his subject, but Maota shook his head likea waving palm frond and stamped his feet.     You will leave now.     Can't you see? Look at the decay. These things are priceless. Theymust be preserved. Future generations will thank us.     Do you mean, the old man asked, aghast, that you want others to comehere? You know the city abhors the sound of alien voices. Those wholived here may return one day! They must not find their city packagedand preserved and laid out on shelves for the curious to breathe theirfoul breaths upon. You will leave. Now!     No. Michaelson was adamant. The rock of Gibraltar.     Maota hit him, quickly, passionately, and dropped the weapon beside hisbody. He turned swiftly, making a swirling mark in the sand with hisheel, and walked off toward the hills outside the city.     The weapon he had used was an ancient book. Its paper-thin pagesrustled in the wind as if an unseen hand turned them, reading, whileMichaelson's blood trickled out from the head wound upon the ancientstreet.  When he regained consciousness the two moons, bright sentinel orbs inthe night sky, had moved to a new position down their sliding path. OldMaota's absence took some of the weirdness and fantasy away. It seemeda more practical place now.     The gash in his head was painful, throbbing with quick, shorthammer-blows synchronized with his heart beats. But there was a newdetermination in him. If it was a fight that the old webfooted foolwanted, a fight he would get. The cylinder flicked him, at his command,across five hundred miles of desert and rocks to a small creek heremembered. Here he bathed his head in cool water until all the cakedblood was dissolved from his hair. Feeling better, he went back.     The wind had turned cool. Michaelson shivered, wishing he had broughta coat. The city was absolutely still except for small gusts of windsighing through the frail spires. The ancient book still lay in thesand beside the dark spot of blood. He stooped over and picked it up.     It was light, much lighter than most Earth books. He ran a hand overthe binding. Smooth it was, untouched by time or climate. He squintedat the pages, tilting the book to catch the bright moonlight, but thewriting was alien. He touched the page, ran his forefinger over thewriting.     Suddenly he sprang back. The book fell from his hands.     God in heaven! he exclaimed.     He had heard a voice. He looked around at the old buildings, down thelength of the ancient street. Something strange about the voice. NotMaota. Not his tones. Not his words. Satisfied that no one was near, hestooped and picked up the book again.     Good God! he said aloud. It was the book talking. His fingers hadtouched the writing again. It was not a voice, exactly, but a stirringin his mind, like a strange language heard for the first time.     A talking book. What other surprises were in the city? Tall,fragile buildings laughing at time and weather. A clock measuringGod-knows-what. If such wonders remained, what about those alreadydestroyed? One could only guess at the machines, the gadgets, theartistry already decayed and blown away to mix forever with the sand.     I must preserve it, he thought, whether Maota likes it or not. Theysay these people lived half a million years ago. A long time. Let'ssee, now. A man lives one hundred years on the average. Five thousandlifetimes.     And all you do is touch a book, and a voice jumps across all thoseyears!     He started off toward the tall building he had examined upon discoveryof the city. His left eyelid began to twitch and he laid his forefingeragainst the eye, pressing until it stopped. Then he stooped and enteredthe building. He laid the book down and tried to take the clockoff the wall. It was dark in the building and his fingers felt alongthe wall, looking for it. Then he touched it. His fingers moved overits smooth surface. Then suddenly he jerked his hand back with anexclamation of amazement. Fear ran up his spine.       The clock was warm.       He felt like running, like flicking back to the settlement where therewere people and familiar voices, for here was a thing that should notbe. Half a million years—and here was warmth!     He touched it again, curiosity overwhelming his fear. It was warm. Nomistake. And there was a faint vibration, a suggestion of power. Hestood there in the darkness staring off into the darkness, trembling.Fear built up in him until it was a monstrous thing, drowning reason.He forgot the power of the cylinder behind his ear. He scrambledthrough the doorway. He got up and ran down the ancient sandy streetuntil he came to the edge of the city. Here he stopped, gasping forair, feeling the pain throb in his head.     Common sense said that he should go home, that nothing worthwhile couldbe accomplished at night, that he was tired, that he was weak from lossof blood and fright and running. But when Michaelson was on the trailof important discoveries he had no common sense.     He sat down in the darkness, meaning to rest a moment.  When he awoke dawn was red against thin clouds in the east.     Old Maota stood in the street with webbed feet planted far apart inthe sand, a weapon in the crook of his arm. It was a long tube affair,familiar to Michaelson.     Michaelson asked, Did you sleep well?     No.     I'm sorry to hear that.     How do you feel?     Fine, but my head aches a little.     Sorry, Maota said.     For what?     For hitting you. Pain is not for gods like you.     Michaelson relaxed somewhat. What kind of man are you? First you tryto break my skull, then you apologize.     I abhor pain. I should have killed you outright.     He thought about that for a moment, eyeing the weapon.     It looked in good working order. Slim and shiny and innocent, it lookedlike a glorified African blowgun. But he was not deceived by itsappearance. It was a deadly weapon.       Well, he said, before you kill me, tell me about the book. He heldit up for Maota to see.     What about the book?     What kind of book is it?     What does Mr. Earthgod mean, what      kind     of book? You have seen it. Itis like any other book, except for the material and the fact that ittalks.     No, no. I mean, what's in it?     Poetry.     Poetry? For God's sake, why poetry? Why not mathematics or history?Why not tell how to make the metal of the book itself? Now there is asubject worthy of a book.     Maota shook his head. One does not study a dead culture to learn howthey made things, but how they thought. But we are wasting time. I mustkill you now, so I can get some rest.     The old man raised the gun.  Wait! You forget that I also have a weapon. He pointed to the spotbehind his ear where the cylinder was buried. I can move faster thanyou can fire the gun.     Maota nodded. I have heard how you travel. It does not matter. I willkill you anyway.     I suggest we negotiate.     No.     Why not?     Maota looked off toward the hills, old eyes filmed from years of sandand wind, leather skin lined and pitted. The hills stood immobile,brown-gray, already shimmering with heat, impotent.     Why not? Michaelson repeated.     Why not what? Maota dragged his eyes back.     Negotiate.     No. Maota's eyes grew hard as steel. They stood there in the sun, nottwenty feet apart, hating each other. The two moons, very pale and faraway on the western horizon, stared like two bottomless eyes.     All right, then. At least it's a quick death. I hear that thing justdisintegrates a man. Pfft! And that's that.     Michaelson prepared himself to move if the old man's finger slid closertoward the firing stud. The old man raised the gun.     Wait!     Now what?     At least read some of the book to me before I die, then.     The gun wavered. I am not an unreasonable man, the webfoot said.     Michaelson stepped forward, extending his arm with the book.     No, stay where you are. Throw it.     This book is priceless. You just don't go throwing such valuable itemsaround.     It won't break. Throw it.     Michaelson threw the book. It landed at Maota's feet, spouting sandagainst his leg. He shifted the weapon, picked up the book and leafedthrough it, raising his head in a listening attitude, searching fora suitable passage. Michaelson heard the thin, metallic pages rustlesoftly. He could have jumped and seized the weapon at that moment, buthis desire to hear the book was strong.  Old Maota read, Michaelson listened. The cadence was different, thesyntax confusing. But the thoughts were there. It might have beena professor back on Earth reading to his students. Keats, Shelley,Browning. These people were human, with human thoughts and aspirations.     The old man stopped reading. He squatted slowly, keeping Michaelson insight, and laid the book face up in the sand. Wind moved the pages.     See? he said. The spirits read. They must have been great readers,these people. They drink the book, as if it were an elixir. See howgentle! They lap at the pages like a new kitten tasting milk.     Michaelson laughed. You certainly have an imagination.     What difference does it make? Maota cried, suddenly angry. You wantto close up all these things in boxes for a posterity who may have noslightest feeling or appreciation. I want to leave the city as it is,for spirits whose existence I cannot prove.     The old man's eyes were furious now, deadly. The gun came down directlyin line with the Earthman's chest. The gnarled finger moved.     Michaelson, using the power of the cylinder behind his ear, jumpedbehind the old webfoot. To Maota it seemed that he had flicked out ofexistence like a match blown out. The next instant Michaelson spunhim around and hit him. It was an inexpert fist, belonging to anarcheologist, not a fighter. But Maota was an old man.     He dropped in the sand, momentarily stunned. Michaelson bent over topick up the gun and the old man, feeling it slip from his fingers,hung on and was pulled to his feet.     They struggled for possession of the gun, silently, gasping, kickingsand. Faces grew red. Lips drew back over Michaelson's white teeth,over Maota's pink, toothless gums. The dead city's fragile spires threwimpersonal shadows down where they fought.     Then quite suddenly a finger or hand—neither knew whose finger orhand—touched the firing stud.     There was a hollow, whooshing sound. Both stopped still, realizing thetotal destruction they might have caused.     It only hit the ground, Michaelson said.     A black, charred hole, two feet in diameter and—they could not see howdeep—stared at them.     Maota let go and sprawled in the sand. The book! he cried. The bookis gone!     No! We probably covered it with sand while we fought.  Both men began scooping sand in their cupped hands, digging franticallyfor the book. Saliva dripped from Maota's mouth, but he didn't know orcare.     Finally they stopped, exhausted. They had covered a substantial areaaround the hole. They had covered the complete area where they had been.     We killed it, the old man moaned.     It was just a book. Not alive, you know.     How do you know? The old man's pale eyes were filled with tears. Ittalked and it sang. In a way, it had a soul. Sometimes on long nights Iused to imagine it loved me, for taking care of it.     There are other books. We'll get another.     Maota shook his head. There are no more.     But I've seen them. Down there in the square building.     Not poetry. Books, yes, but not poetry. That was the only book withsongs.     I'm sorry.           You     killed it! Maota suddenly sprang for the weapon, lyingforgotten in the sand. Michaelson put his foot on it and Maota was tooweak to tear it loose. He could only weep out his rage.     When he could talk again, Maota said, I am sorry, Mr. Earthgod. I'vedisgraced myself.     Don't be sorry. Michaelson helped him to his feet. We fight for somereasons, cry for others. A priceless book is a good reason for either.     Not for that. For not winning. I should have killed you last nightwhen I had the chance. The gods give us chances and if we don't takethem we lose forever.     I told you before! We are on the same side. Negotiate. Have you neverheard of negotiation?     You are a god, Maota said. One does not negotiate with gods. Oneeither loves them, or kills them.     That's another thing. I am not a god. Can't you understand?     Of course you are. Maota looked up, very sure. Mortals cannot stepfrom star to star like crossing a shallow brook.     No, no. I don't step from one star to another. An invention does that.Just an invention. I carry it with me. It's a tiny thing. No one wouldever guess it has such power. So you see, I'm human, just like you. Hitme and I hurt. Cut me and I bleed. I love. I hate. I was born. Some dayI'll die. See? I'm human. Just a human with a machine. No more thanthat.  Maota laughed, then sobered quickly. You lie.     No.     If I had this machine, could I travel as you?     Yes.     Then I'll kill you and take yours.     It would not work for you.     Why?     Each machine is tailored for each person.     The old man hung his head. He looked down into the black, charredhole. He walked all around the hole. He kicked at the sand, lookinghalf-heartedly again for the book.     Look, Michaelson said. I'm sure I've convinced you that I'm human.Why not have a try at negotiating our differences?     He looked up. His expressive eyes, deep, resigned, studied Michaelson'sface. Finally he shook his head sadly. When we first met I hoped wecould think the ancient thoughts together. But our paths diverge. Wehave finished, you and I.     He turned and started off, shoulders slumped dejectedly.     Michaelson caught up to him. Are you leaving the city?     No.     Where are you going?     Away. Far away. Maota looked off toward the hills, eyes distant.     Don't be stupid, old man. How can you go far away and not leave thecity?     There are many directions. You would not understand.     East. West. North. South. Up. Down.     No, no. There is another direction. Come, if you must see.     Michaelson followed him far down the street. They came to a section ofthe city he had not seen before. Buildings were smaller, spires dwarfedagainst larger structures. Here a path was packed in the sand, leadingto a particular building.     Michaelson said, This is where you live?     Yes.     Maota went inside. Michaelson stood in the entrance and looked around.The room was clean, furnished with hand made chairs and a bed. Who isthis old man, he thought, far from his people, living alone, choosinga life of solitude among ancient ruins but not touching them? Abovethe bed a clock was fastened to the wall, Michaelson remembered hisfright—thinking of the warmth where warmth should not be.     Maota pointed to it.     You asked about this machine, he said. Now I will tell you. He laidhis hand against it. Here is power to follow another direction.  Michaelson tested one of the chairs to see if it would hold his weight,then sat down. His curiosity about the instrument was colossal, but heforced a short laugh. Maota, you      are     complex. Why not stop all thismystery nonsense and tell me about it? You know more about it than I.     Of course. Maota smiled a toothless, superior smile. What do yousuppose happened to this race?     You tell me.     They took the unknown direction. The books speak of it. I don't knowhow the instrument works, but one thing is certain. The race did notdie out, as a species becomes extinct.     Michaelson was amused, but interested. Something like a fourthdimension?     I don't know. I only know that with this instrument there is no death.I have read the books that speak of this race, this wonderful peoplewho conquered all disease, who explored all the mysteries of science,who devised this machine to cheat death. See this button here on theface of the instrument? Press the button, and....     And what?     I don't know, exactly. But I have lived many years. I have walked thestreets of this city and wondered, and wanted to press the button. NowI will do so.     Quickly the old man, still smiling, pressed the button. A high-pitchedwhine filled the air, just within audio range. Steady for a moment, itthen rose in pitch passing beyond hearing quickly.     The old man's knees buckled. He sank down, fell over the bed, laystill. Michaelson touched him cautiously, then examined him morecarefully. No question about it.     The old man was dead.  Feeling depressed and alone, Michaelson found a desert knoll outsidethe city overlooking the tall spires that shone in the sunlight andgleamed in the moonlight. He made a stretcher, rolled the old man'sbody on to it and dragged it down the long ancient street and up theknoll.     Here he buried him.     But it seemed a waste of time. Somehow he knew beyond any doubt thatthe old native and his body were completely disassociated in some sensemore complete than death.     In the days that followed he gave much thought to the clock. He cameto the city every day. He spent long hours in the huge square buildingwith the books. He learned the language by sheer bulldog determination.Then he searched the books for information about the instrument.     Finally after many weeks, long after the winds had obliterated allevidence of Maota's grave on the knoll, Michaelson made a decision. Hehad to know if the machine would work for him.     And so one afternoon when the ancient spires threw long shadowsover the sand he walked down the long street and entered the oldman's house. He stood before the instrument, trembling, afraid, butdetermined. He pinched his eyes shut tight like a child and pressed thebutton.     The high-pitched whine started.     Complete, utter silence. Void. Darkness. Awareness and memory, yes;nothing else. Then Maota's chuckle came. No sound, an impression onlylike the voice from the ancient book. Where was he? There was no leftor right, up or down. Maota was everywhere, nowhere.     Look! Maota's thought was directed at him in this place of nodirection. Think of the city and you will see it.     Michaelson did, and he saw the city beyond, as if he were lookingthrough a window. And yet he was in the city looking at his own body.     Maota's chuckle again. The city will remain as it is. You did not winafter all.     Neither did you.     But this existence has compensations, Maota said. You can beanywhere, see anywhere on this planet. Even on your Earth.     Michaelson felt a great sadness, seeing his body lying across theold, home made bed. He looked closer. He sensed a vibration or lifeforce—he didn't stop to define it—in his body. Why was his dead bodydifferent from Old Maota's? Could it be that there was some threadstretching from the reality of his body to his present state?     I don't like your thoughts, Maota said. No one can go back. I tried.I have discussed it with many who are not presently in communicationwith you. No one can go back.     Michaelson decided he try.  No! Maota's thought was prickled with fear and anger.     Michaelson did not know how to try, but he remembered the cylinder andgathered all the force of his mind in spite of Maota's protests, andgave his most violent command.     At first he thought it didn't work. He got up and looked around, thenit struck him.      He was standing up!       The cylinder. He knew it was the cylinder. That was the differencebetween himself and Maota. When he used the cylinder, that was wherehe went, the place where Maota was now. It was a door of some kind,leading to a path of some kind where distance was non-existent. But theclock was a mechanism to transport only the mind to that place.     To be certain of it, he pressed the button again, with the same resultas before. He saw his own body fall down. He felt Maota's presence.     You devil! Maota's thought-scream was a sword of hate and anger,irrational suddenly, like a person who knows his loss is irrevocable.I said you were a god. I said you were a god.      I said you were agod...!        ","The webfoot, real name Maota (also referred to as “the native” by Mr. Michaelson), is the self-proclaimed keeper of the dead city on Alpha Centaurus II. He is an older man of at least sixty or seventy years, short in stature with long gray hair to his shoulders. The toes of his webbed, bare feet drag in the sand as he walks making a trail behind him.  Maota is sturdy in his beliefs that the dead city needs to be protected, and that the gods are being disrupted by Mr. Michaelson. He feels strongly enough about it that he resorts to physical violence on two occasions - hitting Mr. Michaelson with a book over the head, and firing a gun-like weapon at him. Although he is angry and violent with Mr. Michaelson, he also shows remarkable tolerance for him. Maota’s ultimate duty, he believes, is to the gods. This brings him turmoil when he thinks he missed the chance the gods gave him to kill Mr. Michaelson, and even apologized to him directly for instead letting him suffer with a head wound instead of killing him. There is a reference to them perhaps having met before when Michaelson says tauntingly to Maota, “You never told us about this old dead city… Shame on you. But never mind. I've found it now. Isn't it beautiful?” Thus, Maota is also motivated to protect the dead city at all costs, perhaps even concealing its location. "
"What is the cylinder and why is it significant? </s>     A CITY NEAR CENTAURUS     By BILL DOEDE     Illustrated by WEST     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Magazine October 1962.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        The city was sacred, but not to its gods.       Michaelson was a god—but far from sacred!        Crouched in the ancient doorway like an animal peering out from hisburrow, Mr. Michaelson saw the native.     At first he was startled, thinking it might be someone else from theEarth settlement who had discovered the old city before him. Then hesaw the glint of sun against the metallic skirt, and relaxed.     He chuckled to himself, wondering with amusement what a webfooted manwas doing in an old dead city so far from his people. Some facts wereknown about the people of Alpha Centaurus II. They were not actuallynatives, he recalled. They were a colony from the fifth planet ofthe system. They were a curious people. Some were highly intelligent,though uneducated.     He decided to ignore the man for the moment. He was far down theancient street, a mere speck against the sand. There would be plenty oftime to wonder about him.     He gazed out from his position at the complex variety of buildingsbefore him. Some were small, obviously homes. Others were hugewith tall, frail spires standing against the pale blue sky. Squarebuildings, ellipsoid, spheroid. Beautiful, dream-stuff bridgesconnected tall, conical towers, bridges that still swung in the windafter half a million years. Late afternoon sunlight shone against ebonysurfaces. The sands of many centuries had blown down the wide streetsand filled the doorways. Desert plants grew from roofs of smallerbuildings.     Ignoring the native, Mr. Michaelson poked about among the ruinshappily, exclaiming to himself about some particular artifact,marveling at its state of preservation, holding it this way and that tocatch the late afternoon sun, smiling, clucking gleefully. He crawledover the rubble through old doorways half filled with the accumulationof ages. He dug experimentally in the sand with his hands, like a dog,under a roof that had weathered half a million years of rain and sun.Then he crawled out again, covered with dust and cobwebs.  The native stood in the street less than a hundred feet away, wavinghis arms madly. Mr. Earthgod, he cried. It is sacred ground whereyou are trespassing!     The archeologist smiled, watching the man hurry closer. He was short,even for a native. Long gray hair hung to his shoulders, bobbing upand down as he walked. He wore no shoes. The toes of his webbed feetdragged in the sand, making a deep trail behind him. He was an old man.     You never told us about this old dead city, Michaelson said,chidingly. Shame on you. But never mind. I've found it now. Isn't itbeautiful?     Yes, beautiful. You will leave now.     Leave? Michaelson asked, acting surprised as if the man were achild. I just got here a few hours ago.     You must go.     Why? Who are you?     I am keeper of the city.     You? Michaelson laughed. Then, seeing how serious the native was,said, What makes you think a dead city needs a keeper?     The spirits may return.     Michaelson crawled out of the doorway and stood up. He brushed histrousers. He pointed. See that wall? Built of some metal, I'd say,some alloy impervious to rust and wear.     The spirits are angry.     Notice the inscriptions? Wind has blown sand against them for eons,and rain and sleet. But their story is there, once we decipher it.     Leave!     The native's lined, weathered old face was working around the mouth inanger. Michaelson was almost sorry he had mocked him. He was deadlyserious.     Look, he said. No spirits are ever coming back here. Don't you knowthat? And even if they did, spirits care nothing for old cities halfcovered with sand and dirt.     He walked away from the old man, heading for another building. Thesun had already gone below the horizon, coloring the high clouds. Heglanced backward. The webfoot was following.     Mr. Earthgod! the webfoot cried, so sharply that Michaelson stopped.You must not touch, not walk upon, not handle. Your step may destroythe home of some ancient spirit. Your breath may cause one iota ofchange and a spirit may lose his way in the darkness. Go quickly now,or be killed.  He turned and walked off, not looking back.     Michaelson stood in the ancient street, tall, gaunt, feet planted wide,hands in pockets, watching the webfoot until he was out of sight beyonda huge circular building. There was a man to watch. There was one ofthe intelligent ones. One look into the alert old eyes had told himthat.     Michaelson shook his head, and went about satisfying his curiosity.He entered buildings without thought of roofs falling in, or decayedfloors dropping from under his weight. He began to collect small items,making a pile of them in the street. An ancient bowl, metal untouchedby the ages. A statue of a man, one foot high, correct to the minutestdetail, showing how identical they had been to Earthmen. He found booksstill standing on ancient shelves but was afraid to touch them withouttools.     Darkness came swiftly and he was forced out into the street.     He stood there alone feeling the age of the place. Even the smellof age was in the air. Silver moonlight from the two moons filteredthrough clear air down upon the ruins. The city lay now in darkness,dead and still, waiting for morning so it could lie dead and still inthe sun.     There was no hurry to be going home, although he was alone, althoughthis was Alpha Centaurus II with many unknowns, many dangers ...although home was a very great distance away. There was no one backthere to worry about him.     His wife had died many years ago back on Earth. No children. Hisfriends in the settlement would not look for him for another day atleast. Anyway, the tiny cylinder, buried in flesh behind his ear, athing of mystery and immense power, could take him home instantly,without effort save a flicker of thought.     You did not leave, as I asked you.     Michaelson whirled around at the sound of the native's voice. Then herelaxed. He said, You shouldn't sneak up on a man like that.     You must leave, or I will be forced to kill you. I do not want to killyou, but if I must.... He made a clucking sound deep in the throat.The spirits are angry.     Nonsense. Superstition! But never mind. You have been here longerthan I. Tell me, what are those instruments in the rooms? It looks likea clock but I'm certain it had some other function.     What rooms?     Oh, come now. The small rooms back there. Look like they werebedrooms.     I do not know. The webfoot drew closer. Michaelson decided he wassixty or seventy years old, at least.     You've been here a long time. You are intelligent, and you must beeducated, the way you talk. That gadget looks like a time-piece of somesort. What is it? What does it measure?     I insist that you go. The webfoot held something in his hand.     No. Michaelson looked off down the street, trying to ignore thenative, trying to feel the life of the city as it might have been.  You are sensitive, the native said in his ear. It takes a sensitivegod to feel the spirits moving in the houses and walking in these oldstreets.     Say it any way you want to. This is the most fascinating thingI've ever seen. The Inca's treasure, the ruins of Pompeii, Egyptiantombs—none can hold a candle to this.     Mr. Earthgod....     Don't call me that. I'm not a god, and you know it.     The old man shrugged. It is not an item worthy of dispute. Those namesyou mention, are they the names of gods?     He chuckled. In a way, yes. What is your name?     Maota.     You must help me, Maota. These things must be preserved. We'll builda museum, right here in the street. No, over there on the hill justoutside the city. We'll collect all the old writings and perhaps we maydecipher them. Think of it, Maota! To read pages written so long agoand think their thoughts. We'll put everything under glass. Build andevacuate chambers to stop the decay. Catalogue, itemize....     Michaelson was warming up to his subject, but Maota shook his head likea waving palm frond and stamped his feet.     You will leave now.     Can't you see? Look at the decay. These things are priceless. Theymust be preserved. Future generations will thank us.     Do you mean, the old man asked, aghast, that you want others to comehere? You know the city abhors the sound of alien voices. Those wholived here may return one day! They must not find their city packagedand preserved and laid out on shelves for the curious to breathe theirfoul breaths upon. You will leave. Now!     No. Michaelson was adamant. The rock of Gibraltar.     Maota hit him, quickly, passionately, and dropped the weapon beside hisbody. He turned swiftly, making a swirling mark in the sand with hisheel, and walked off toward the hills outside the city.     The weapon he had used was an ancient book. Its paper-thin pagesrustled in the wind as if an unseen hand turned them, reading, whileMichaelson's blood trickled out from the head wound upon the ancientstreet.  When he regained consciousness the two moons, bright sentinel orbs inthe night sky, had moved to a new position down their sliding path. OldMaota's absence took some of the weirdness and fantasy away. It seemeda more practical place now.     The gash in his head was painful, throbbing with quick, shorthammer-blows synchronized with his heart beats. But there was a newdetermination in him. If it was a fight that the old webfooted foolwanted, a fight he would get. The cylinder flicked him, at his command,across five hundred miles of desert and rocks to a small creek heremembered. Here he bathed his head in cool water until all the cakedblood was dissolved from his hair. Feeling better, he went back.     The wind had turned cool. Michaelson shivered, wishing he had broughta coat. The city was absolutely still except for small gusts of windsighing through the frail spires. The ancient book still lay in thesand beside the dark spot of blood. He stooped over and picked it up.     It was light, much lighter than most Earth books. He ran a hand overthe binding. Smooth it was, untouched by time or climate. He squintedat the pages, tilting the book to catch the bright moonlight, but thewriting was alien. He touched the page, ran his forefinger over thewriting.     Suddenly he sprang back. The book fell from his hands.     God in heaven! he exclaimed.     He had heard a voice. He looked around at the old buildings, down thelength of the ancient street. Something strange about the voice. NotMaota. Not his tones. Not his words. Satisfied that no one was near, hestooped and picked up the book again.     Good God! he said aloud. It was the book talking. His fingers hadtouched the writing again. It was not a voice, exactly, but a stirringin his mind, like a strange language heard for the first time.     A talking book. What other surprises were in the city? Tall,fragile buildings laughing at time and weather. A clock measuringGod-knows-what. If such wonders remained, what about those alreadydestroyed? One could only guess at the machines, the gadgets, theartistry already decayed and blown away to mix forever with the sand.     I must preserve it, he thought, whether Maota likes it or not. Theysay these people lived half a million years ago. A long time. Let'ssee, now. A man lives one hundred years on the average. Five thousandlifetimes.     And all you do is touch a book, and a voice jumps across all thoseyears!     He started off toward the tall building he had examined upon discoveryof the city. His left eyelid began to twitch and he laid his forefingeragainst the eye, pressing until it stopped. Then he stooped and enteredthe building. He laid the book down and tried to take the clockoff the wall. It was dark in the building and his fingers felt alongthe wall, looking for it. Then he touched it. His fingers moved overits smooth surface. Then suddenly he jerked his hand back with anexclamation of amazement. Fear ran up his spine.       The clock was warm.       He felt like running, like flicking back to the settlement where therewere people and familiar voices, for here was a thing that should notbe. Half a million years—and here was warmth!     He touched it again, curiosity overwhelming his fear. It was warm. Nomistake. And there was a faint vibration, a suggestion of power. Hestood there in the darkness staring off into the darkness, trembling.Fear built up in him until it was a monstrous thing, drowning reason.He forgot the power of the cylinder behind his ear. He scrambledthrough the doorway. He got up and ran down the ancient sandy streetuntil he came to the edge of the city. Here he stopped, gasping forair, feeling the pain throb in his head.     Common sense said that he should go home, that nothing worthwhile couldbe accomplished at night, that he was tired, that he was weak from lossof blood and fright and running. But when Michaelson was on the trailof important discoveries he had no common sense.     He sat down in the darkness, meaning to rest a moment.  When he awoke dawn was red against thin clouds in the east.     Old Maota stood in the street with webbed feet planted far apart inthe sand, a weapon in the crook of his arm. It was a long tube affair,familiar to Michaelson.     Michaelson asked, Did you sleep well?     No.     I'm sorry to hear that.     How do you feel?     Fine, but my head aches a little.     Sorry, Maota said.     For what?     For hitting you. Pain is not for gods like you.     Michaelson relaxed somewhat. What kind of man are you? First you tryto break my skull, then you apologize.     I abhor pain. I should have killed you outright.     He thought about that for a moment, eyeing the weapon.     It looked in good working order. Slim and shiny and innocent, it lookedlike a glorified African blowgun. But he was not deceived by itsappearance. It was a deadly weapon.       Well, he said, before you kill me, tell me about the book. He heldit up for Maota to see.     What about the book?     What kind of book is it?     What does Mr. Earthgod mean, what      kind     of book? You have seen it. Itis like any other book, except for the material and the fact that ittalks.     No, no. I mean, what's in it?     Poetry.     Poetry? For God's sake, why poetry? Why not mathematics or history?Why not tell how to make the metal of the book itself? Now there is asubject worthy of a book.     Maota shook his head. One does not study a dead culture to learn howthey made things, but how they thought. But we are wasting time. I mustkill you now, so I can get some rest.     The old man raised the gun.  Wait! You forget that I also have a weapon. He pointed to the spotbehind his ear where the cylinder was buried. I can move faster thanyou can fire the gun.     Maota nodded. I have heard how you travel. It does not matter. I willkill you anyway.     I suggest we negotiate.     No.     Why not?     Maota looked off toward the hills, old eyes filmed from years of sandand wind, leather skin lined and pitted. The hills stood immobile,brown-gray, already shimmering with heat, impotent.     Why not? Michaelson repeated.     Why not what? Maota dragged his eyes back.     Negotiate.     No. Maota's eyes grew hard as steel. They stood there in the sun, nottwenty feet apart, hating each other. The two moons, very pale and faraway on the western horizon, stared like two bottomless eyes.     All right, then. At least it's a quick death. I hear that thing justdisintegrates a man. Pfft! And that's that.     Michaelson prepared himself to move if the old man's finger slid closertoward the firing stud. The old man raised the gun.     Wait!     Now what?     At least read some of the book to me before I die, then.     The gun wavered. I am not an unreasonable man, the webfoot said.     Michaelson stepped forward, extending his arm with the book.     No, stay where you are. Throw it.     This book is priceless. You just don't go throwing such valuable itemsaround.     It won't break. Throw it.     Michaelson threw the book. It landed at Maota's feet, spouting sandagainst his leg. He shifted the weapon, picked up the book and leafedthrough it, raising his head in a listening attitude, searching fora suitable passage. Michaelson heard the thin, metallic pages rustlesoftly. He could have jumped and seized the weapon at that moment, buthis desire to hear the book was strong.  Old Maota read, Michaelson listened. The cadence was different, thesyntax confusing. But the thoughts were there. It might have beena professor back on Earth reading to his students. Keats, Shelley,Browning. These people were human, with human thoughts and aspirations.     The old man stopped reading. He squatted slowly, keeping Michaelson insight, and laid the book face up in the sand. Wind moved the pages.     See? he said. The spirits read. They must have been great readers,these people. They drink the book, as if it were an elixir. See howgentle! They lap at the pages like a new kitten tasting milk.     Michaelson laughed. You certainly have an imagination.     What difference does it make? Maota cried, suddenly angry. You wantto close up all these things in boxes for a posterity who may have noslightest feeling or appreciation. I want to leave the city as it is,for spirits whose existence I cannot prove.     The old man's eyes were furious now, deadly. The gun came down directlyin line with the Earthman's chest. The gnarled finger moved.     Michaelson, using the power of the cylinder behind his ear, jumpedbehind the old webfoot. To Maota it seemed that he had flicked out ofexistence like a match blown out. The next instant Michaelson spunhim around and hit him. It was an inexpert fist, belonging to anarcheologist, not a fighter. But Maota was an old man.     He dropped in the sand, momentarily stunned. Michaelson bent over topick up the gun and the old man, feeling it slip from his fingers,hung on and was pulled to his feet.     They struggled for possession of the gun, silently, gasping, kickingsand. Faces grew red. Lips drew back over Michaelson's white teeth,over Maota's pink, toothless gums. The dead city's fragile spires threwimpersonal shadows down where they fought.     Then quite suddenly a finger or hand—neither knew whose finger orhand—touched the firing stud.     There was a hollow, whooshing sound. Both stopped still, realizing thetotal destruction they might have caused.     It only hit the ground, Michaelson said.     A black, charred hole, two feet in diameter and—they could not see howdeep—stared at them.     Maota let go and sprawled in the sand. The book! he cried. The bookis gone!     No! We probably covered it with sand while we fought.  Both men began scooping sand in their cupped hands, digging franticallyfor the book. Saliva dripped from Maota's mouth, but he didn't know orcare.     Finally they stopped, exhausted. They had covered a substantial areaaround the hole. They had covered the complete area where they had been.     We killed it, the old man moaned.     It was just a book. Not alive, you know.     How do you know? The old man's pale eyes were filled with tears. Ittalked and it sang. In a way, it had a soul. Sometimes on long nights Iused to imagine it loved me, for taking care of it.     There are other books. We'll get another.     Maota shook his head. There are no more.     But I've seen them. Down there in the square building.     Not poetry. Books, yes, but not poetry. That was the only book withsongs.     I'm sorry.           You     killed it! Maota suddenly sprang for the weapon, lyingforgotten in the sand. Michaelson put his foot on it and Maota was tooweak to tear it loose. He could only weep out his rage.     When he could talk again, Maota said, I am sorry, Mr. Earthgod. I'vedisgraced myself.     Don't be sorry. Michaelson helped him to his feet. We fight for somereasons, cry for others. A priceless book is a good reason for either.     Not for that. For not winning. I should have killed you last nightwhen I had the chance. The gods give us chances and if we don't takethem we lose forever.     I told you before! We are on the same side. Negotiate. Have you neverheard of negotiation?     You are a god, Maota said. One does not negotiate with gods. Oneeither loves them, or kills them.     That's another thing. I am not a god. Can't you understand?     Of course you are. Maota looked up, very sure. Mortals cannot stepfrom star to star like crossing a shallow brook.     No, no. I don't step from one star to another. An invention does that.Just an invention. I carry it with me. It's a tiny thing. No one wouldever guess it has such power. So you see, I'm human, just like you. Hitme and I hurt. Cut me and I bleed. I love. I hate. I was born. Some dayI'll die. See? I'm human. Just a human with a machine. No more thanthat.  Maota laughed, then sobered quickly. You lie.     No.     If I had this machine, could I travel as you?     Yes.     Then I'll kill you and take yours.     It would not work for you.     Why?     Each machine is tailored for each person.     The old man hung his head. He looked down into the black, charredhole. He walked all around the hole. He kicked at the sand, lookinghalf-heartedly again for the book.     Look, Michaelson said. I'm sure I've convinced you that I'm human.Why not have a try at negotiating our differences?     He looked up. His expressive eyes, deep, resigned, studied Michaelson'sface. Finally he shook his head sadly. When we first met I hoped wecould think the ancient thoughts together. But our paths diverge. Wehave finished, you and I.     He turned and started off, shoulders slumped dejectedly.     Michaelson caught up to him. Are you leaving the city?     No.     Where are you going?     Away. Far away. Maota looked off toward the hills, eyes distant.     Don't be stupid, old man. How can you go far away and not leave thecity?     There are many directions. You would not understand.     East. West. North. South. Up. Down.     No, no. There is another direction. Come, if you must see.     Michaelson followed him far down the street. They came to a section ofthe city he had not seen before. Buildings were smaller, spires dwarfedagainst larger structures. Here a path was packed in the sand, leadingto a particular building.     Michaelson said, This is where you live?     Yes.     Maota went inside. Michaelson stood in the entrance and looked around.The room was clean, furnished with hand made chairs and a bed. Who isthis old man, he thought, far from his people, living alone, choosinga life of solitude among ancient ruins but not touching them? Abovethe bed a clock was fastened to the wall, Michaelson remembered hisfright—thinking of the warmth where warmth should not be.     Maota pointed to it.     You asked about this machine, he said. Now I will tell you. He laidhis hand against it. Here is power to follow another direction.  Michaelson tested one of the chairs to see if it would hold his weight,then sat down. His curiosity about the instrument was colossal, but heforced a short laugh. Maota, you      are     complex. Why not stop all thismystery nonsense and tell me about it? You know more about it than I.     Of course. Maota smiled a toothless, superior smile. What do yousuppose happened to this race?     You tell me.     They took the unknown direction. The books speak of it. I don't knowhow the instrument works, but one thing is certain. The race did notdie out, as a species becomes extinct.     Michaelson was amused, but interested. Something like a fourthdimension?     I don't know. I only know that with this instrument there is no death.I have read the books that speak of this race, this wonderful peoplewho conquered all disease, who explored all the mysteries of science,who devised this machine to cheat death. See this button here on theface of the instrument? Press the button, and....     And what?     I don't know, exactly. But I have lived many years. I have walked thestreets of this city and wondered, and wanted to press the button. NowI will do so.     Quickly the old man, still smiling, pressed the button. A high-pitchedwhine filled the air, just within audio range. Steady for a moment, itthen rose in pitch passing beyond hearing quickly.     The old man's knees buckled. He sank down, fell over the bed, laystill. Michaelson touched him cautiously, then examined him morecarefully. No question about it.     The old man was dead.  Feeling depressed and alone, Michaelson found a desert knoll outsidethe city overlooking the tall spires that shone in the sunlight andgleamed in the moonlight. He made a stretcher, rolled the old man'sbody on to it and dragged it down the long ancient street and up theknoll.     Here he buried him.     But it seemed a waste of time. Somehow he knew beyond any doubt thatthe old native and his body were completely disassociated in some sensemore complete than death.     In the days that followed he gave much thought to the clock. He cameto the city every day. He spent long hours in the huge square buildingwith the books. He learned the language by sheer bulldog determination.Then he searched the books for information about the instrument.     Finally after many weeks, long after the winds had obliterated allevidence of Maota's grave on the knoll, Michaelson made a decision. Hehad to know if the machine would work for him.     And so one afternoon when the ancient spires threw long shadowsover the sand he walked down the long street and entered the oldman's house. He stood before the instrument, trembling, afraid, butdetermined. He pinched his eyes shut tight like a child and pressed thebutton.     The high-pitched whine started.     Complete, utter silence. Void. Darkness. Awareness and memory, yes;nothing else. Then Maota's chuckle came. No sound, an impression onlylike the voice from the ancient book. Where was he? There was no leftor right, up or down. Maota was everywhere, nowhere.     Look! Maota's thought was directed at him in this place of nodirection. Think of the city and you will see it.     Michaelson did, and he saw the city beyond, as if he were lookingthrough a window. And yet he was in the city looking at his own body.     Maota's chuckle again. The city will remain as it is. You did not winafter all.     Neither did you.     But this existence has compensations, Maota said. You can beanywhere, see anywhere on this planet. Even on your Earth.     Michaelson felt a great sadness, seeing his body lying across theold, home made bed. He looked closer. He sensed a vibration or lifeforce—he didn't stop to define it—in his body. Why was his dead bodydifferent from Old Maota's? Could it be that there was some threadstretching from the reality of his body to his present state?     I don't like your thoughts, Maota said. No one can go back. I tried.I have discussed it with many who are not presently in communicationwith you. No one can go back.     Michaelson decided he try.  No! Maota's thought was prickled with fear and anger.     Michaelson did not know how to try, but he remembered the cylinder andgathered all the force of his mind in spite of Maota's protests, andgave his most violent command.     At first he thought it didn't work. He got up and looked around, thenit struck him.      He was standing up!       The cylinder. He knew it was the cylinder. That was the differencebetween himself and Maota. When he used the cylinder, that was wherehe went, the place where Maota was now. It was a door of some kind,leading to a path of some kind where distance was non-existent. But theclock was a mechanism to transport only the mind to that place.     To be certain of it, he pressed the button again, with the same resultas before. He saw his own body fall down. He felt Maota's presence.     You devil! Maota's thought-scream was a sword of hate and anger,irrational suddenly, like a person who knows his loss is irrevocable.I said you were a god. I said you were a god.      I said you were agod...!        ","The cylinder is an implement tailored to Mr. Michaelson that is tucked behind his ear and will allow him to go anywhere that he desires when it is pressed. He uses it several times in the story to travel to physical places, disappearing immediately and reappearing in a new location. Once, to travel to a cold stream to wash his bleeding wounds after being hit on the head with a book by Maota, and a second time to avoid being killed by Maota firing a weapon to kill him.After Maota presses the button of the “clock” in the dead city and appears to drop dead. Mr. Michaelson desperately attempts to gain the knowledge to understand what the clock device does. Rather radically, he decides that he must press the button to fully understand, not completely knowing that he won’t die when he does. When Mr. Michaelson sees his dead body below him in the city and communicates wordlessly with Maota in this spiritual dimension he begins to panic and search for ways to get back into his body. This is how he discovers that he can will the cylinder with his mind, and return into his physical body by doing so. Through this act he can traverse between the physical and spiritual realms, which ultimately makes him considered a god by Maota (greatly angering him)."
"What is the plot of the story? </s>    THE LOST TRIBES OF VENUS     By ERIK FENNEL       On mist-shrouded Venus, where hostile       swamp meets hostile sea ... there did       Barry Barr—Earthman transmuted—swap       his Terran heritage for the deep dark       waters of Tana; for the strangely       beautiful Xintel of the blue-brown skin.       [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories May 1954.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Evil luck brought the meteorite to those particular space-timecoordinates as Number Four rode the downhill spiral toward Venus. Thefootball-sized chunk of nickel-iron and rock overtook the ship at arelative speed of only a few hundred miles per hour and passed closeenough to come within the tremendous pseudo-gravatic fields of theidling drivers.     It swerved into a paraboloid course, following the flux lines, and wasdragged directly against one of the three projecting nozzles. Energyof motion was converted to heat and a few meteoric fragments fusedthemselves to the nonmetallic tube casing.     In the jet room the positronic line accelerator for that particulardriver fouled under the intolerable overload, and the backsurge sentsearing heat and deadly radiation blasting through the compartmentbefore the main circuit breakers could clack open.     The bellow of the alarm horn brought Barry Barr fully awake, shatteringa delightfully intimate dream of the dark haired girl he hoped to seeagain soon in Venus Colony. As he unbuckled his bunk straps and startedaft at a floating, bounding run his weightlessness told him instantlythat Number Four was in free fall with dead drivers.     Red warning lights gleamed wickedly above the safety-locked jetroom door, and Nick Podtiaguine, the air machines specialist, wasmanipulating the emergency controls with Captain Reno at his elbow. Oneby one the crew crowded into the corridor and watched in tense silence.     The automatic lock clicked off as the jet room returned to habitableconditions, and at Captain Reno's gesture two men swung the door open.Quickly the commander entered the blasted jet room. Barry Barr wasclose behind him.     Robson Hind, jet chief of Four and electronics expert for Venus Colony,hung back until others had gone in first. His handsome, heavy face hadlost its usual ruddiness.     Captain Reno surveyed the havoc. Young Ryan's body floated eerily inthe zero gravity, charred into instant death by the back-blast. Theline accelerator was a shapeless ruin, but except for broken meterglasses and scorched control handles other mechanical damage appearedminor. They had been lucky.     Turnover starts in six hours twelve minutes, the captain saidmeaningfully.     Robson Hind cleared his throat. We can change accelerators in twohours, he declared. With a quick reassumption of authority he began toorder his crew into action.     It took nearer three hours than two to change accelerators despiteHind's shouted orders.     At last the job was completed. Hind made a final check, floated over tothe control panel and started the fuel feed. With a confident smile hethrew in the accelerator switch.     The meter needles climbed, soared past the red lines without pausing,and just in time to prevent a second blowback, Hind cut the power.           There's metal in the field!      His voice was high and unsteady.  Everyone knew what that meant. The slightest trace of magnetic materialwould distort the delicately balanced cylinder of force that containedand directed the Hoskins blast, making it suicidal to operate.     Calmly Captain Reno voiced the thought in every mind.     It must be cleared. From the outside.     Several of the men swore under their breaths. Interplanetary spacewas constantly bombarded, with an intensity inverse to the prevailinggravitation, by something called Sigma radiation. Man had neverencountered it until leaving Earth, and little was known of itexcept that short exposure killed test animals and left their bodiesunpredictably altered.     Inside the ship it was safe enough, for the sleek hull was charged witha Kendall power-shield, impervious to nearly any Sigma concentration.But the shielding devices in the emergency spacesuits were smalland had never been space-tested in a region of nearly equalizedgravitations.     The man who emerged from the airlock would be flipping a coin with aparticularly unpleasant form of death.     Many pairs of eyes turned toward Robson Hind. He was jet chief.     I'm assigned, not expendable, he protested hastily. If there weremore trouble later.... His face was pasty.     Assigned. That was the key word. Barry Barr felt a lump tighteningin his stomach as the eyes shifted to him. He had some training inHoskins drivers. He knew alloys and power tools. And he was riding Fourunassigned after that broken ankle had made him miss Three. He was thelogical man.     For the safety of the ship. That phrase, taken from the ancientEarthbound code of the sea, had occurred repeatedly in theindoctrination manual at Training Base. He remembered it, andremembered further the contingent plans regarding assigned andunassigned personnel.     For a moment he stood indecisively, the nervous, unhumorous smilequirking across his angular face making him look more like an untriedboy than a structural engineer who had fought his way up through someof the toughest tropical construction camps of Earth. His lean body,built more for quick, neatly coordinated action than brute power,balanced handily in the zero gravity as he ran one hand through hissandy hair in a gesture of uncertainty.     He knew that not even the captain would order him through the airlock.     But the members of the Five Ship Plan had been selected in part for asense of responsibility.     Nick, will you help me button up? he asked with forced calmness.     For an instant he thought he detected a sly gleam in Hind's eyes. Butthen the jet chief was pressing forward with the others to shake hishand.     Rebellious reluctance flared briefly in Barry's mind. Dorothy Voorheeshad refused to make a definite promise before blasting off in Three—infact he hadn't even seen her during her last few days on Earth. Butstill he felt he had the inside track despite Hind's money and thebrash assurance that went with it. But if Hind only were to reach Venusalive—  The blazing disc of Sol, the minor globes of the planets, the unwinkingpinpoints of the stars, all stared with cosmic disinterest at the tinyfigure crawling along the hull. His spacesuit trapped and amplifiedbreathing and heartbeats into a roaring chaos that was an invitationto blind panic, and all the while there was consciousness of theinsidiously deadly Sigma radiations.     Barry found the debris of the meteorite, an ugly shining splotchagainst the dull superceramic tube, readied his power chisel, startedcutting. Soon it became a tedious, torturingly strenuous manual taskrequiring little conscious thought, and Barry's mind touched briefly onthe events that had brought him here.     First Luna, and that had been murderous. Man had encountered Sigmafor the first time, and many had died before the Kendall-shield wasperfected. And the chemical-fueled rockets of those days had beeninherently poor.     Hoskins semi-atomics had made possible the next step—to Mars. But menhad found Mars barren, swept clear of all life in the cataclysm thathad shattered the trans-Martian planet to form the Asteroid Belt.     Venus, its true surface forever hidden by enshrouding mists, had beenwell within one-way range. But Hoskins fuel requirements for a roundtrip added up to something beyond critical mass. Impossible.     But the Five Ship Plan had evolved, a joint enterprise of governmentand various private groups. Five vessels were to go out, each fueledto within a whiskered neutron of spontaneous detonation, manned byspecialists who, it was hoped, could maintain themselves under alienconditions.     On Venus the leftover fuel from all five would be transferred towhichever ship had survived the outbound voyage in best condition.That one would return to Earth. Permanent base or homeward voyage withcolonists crowded aboard like defeated sardines? Only time would tell.     Barry Barr had volunteered, and because the enlightened guesses of theexperts called for men and women familiar with tropical conditions,he had survived the rigorous weeding-out process. His duties in VenusColony would be to refabricate the discarded ships into whatever formwas most needed—most particularly a launching ramp—and to studynative Venusian materials.     Dorothy Voorhees had signed on as toxicologist and dietician. When thelimited supply of Earth food ran out the Colony would be forced torely upon Venusian plants and animals. She would guard against subtledelayed-action poisons, meanwhile devising ways of preparing Venusianmaterials to suit Earth tastes and digestions.     Barry had met her at Training Base and known at once that his years ofloneliness had come to an end.     She seemed utterly independent, self-contained, completely intellectualdespite her beauty, but Barry had not been deceived. From the momentof first meeting he had sensed within her deep springs of suppressedemotion, and he had understood. He too had come up the hard way, alone,and been forced to develop a shell of hardness and cold, single-mindeddevotion to his work. Gradually, often unwillingly under hisinsistence, her aloofness had begun to melt.     But Robson Hind too had been attracted. He was the only son of thebusiness manager of the great Hoskins Corporation which carrieda considerable share in the Five Ship Plan. Dorothy's failure tovirtually fall into his arms had only piqued his desires.     The man's smooth charm had fascinated the girl and his money had openedto her an entirely new world of lavish nightclubs and extravagantlyexpensive entertainments, but her inborn shrewdness had sensed somefactor in his personality that had made her hesitate.     Barry had felt a distrust of Hind apart from the normal dislike ofrivalry. He had looked forward to being with Dorothy aboard Three, andhad made no secret of his satisfaction when Hind's efforts to havehimself transferred to Three also or the girl to Four had failed.     But then a scaffold had slipped while Three was being readied, and witha fractured ankle he had been forced to miss the ship.     He unclipped the magnetic detector from his belt and ran it inch byinch over the nozzle. He found one spot of metal, pinhead-sized, butenough to cause trouble, and once more swung his power chisel intostuttering action.     Then it was done.     As quickly as possible he inched back to the airlock. Turnover had tostart according to calculations.  Barry opened his eyes. The ship was in normal deceleration and NickPodtiaguine was watching him from a nearby bunk.     I could eat a cow with the smallpox, Barry declared.     Nick grinned. No doubt. You slept around the clock and more. Nice jobof work out there.     Barry unhitched his straps and sat up.     Say, he asked anxiously. What's haywire with the air?     Nick looked startled. Nothing. Everything checked out when I came offwatch a few minutes ago.     Barry shrugged. Probably just me. Guess I'll go see if I can mooch ahandout.     He found himself a hero. The cook was ready to turn the galley insideout while a radio engineer and an entomologist hovered near to wait onhim. But he couldn't enjoy the meal. The sensations of heat and drynesshe had noticed on awakening grew steadily worse. It became difficult tobreathe.     He started to rise, and abruptly the room swirled and darkened aroundhim. Even as he sank into unconsciousness he knew the answer.     The suit's Kendall-shield had leaked!     Four plunged toward Venus tail first, the Hoskins jets flaring ahead.The single doctor for the Colony had gone out in Two and the crewmentrained in first aid could do little to relieve Barry's distress.Fainting spells alternated with fever and delirium and an unquenchablethirst. His breathing became increasingly difficult.     A few thousand miles out Four picked up a microbeam. A feeling ofexultation surged through the ship as Captain Reno passed the word, forthe beam meant that some Earthmen were alive upon Venus. They were notnecessarily diving straight toward oblivion. Barry, sick as he was,felt the thrill of the unknown world that lay ahead.     Into a miles-thick layer of opacity Four roared, with Captain Renohimself jockeying throttles to keep it balanced on its self-createdsupport of flame.     You're almost in, a voice chanted into his headphones throughcrackling, sizzling static. Easy toward spherical one-thirty. Hold it!Lower. Lower. CUT YOUR POWER!     The heavy hull dropped sickeningly, struck with a mushy thud, settled,steadied.     Barry was weak, but with Nick Podtiaguine steadying him he was waitingwith the others when Captain Reno gave the last order.     Airlock open. Both doors.     Venusian air poured in.     For this I left Panama? one of the men yelped.     Enough to gag a maggot, another agreed with hand to nose.     It was like mid-summer noon in a tropical mangrove swamp, hot andunbearably humid and overpowering with the stench of decayingvegetation.     But Barry took one deep breath, then another. The stabbing needles inhis chest blunted, and the choking band around his throat loosened.     The outer door swung wide. He blinked, and a shift in the encompassingvapors gave him his first sight of a world bathed in subdued light.     Four had landed in a marsh with the midships lock only a few feet abovea quagmire surface still steaming from the final rocket blast. Nearbythe identical hulls of Two and Three stood upright in the mud. Themist shifted again and beyond the swamp he could see the low, roundedoutlines of the collapsible buildings Two and Three had carried intheir cargo pits. They were set on a rock ledge rising a few feet outof the marsh. The Colony!     Men were tossing sections of lattice duckboard out upon the swamp,extending a narrow walkway toward Four's airlock, and within a fewminutes the new arrivals were scrambling down.     Barry paid little attention to the noisy greetings and excited talk.Impatiently he trotted toward the rock ledge, searching for oneparticular figure among the men and women who waited.     Dorothy! he said fervently.     Then his arms were around her and she was responding to his kiss.     Then unexpected pain tore at his chest. Her lovely face took on anexpression of fright even as it wavered and grew dim. The last thing hesaw was Robson Hind looming beside her.     By the glow of an overhead tubelight he recognized the kindly, deeplylined features of the man bending over him. Dr. Carl Jensen, specialistin tropical diseases. He tried to sit up but the doctor laid arestraining hand on his shoulder.     Water! Barry croaked.     The doctor held out a glass. Then his eyes widened incredulously as hispatient deliberately drew in a breath while drinking, sucking waterdirectly into his lungs.     Doctor, he asked, keeping his voice low to spare his throat. Whatare my chances? On the level.     Dr. Jensen shook his head thoughtfully. There's not a thing—not adamned solitary thing—I can do. It's something new to medical science.     Barry lay still.     Your body is undergoing certain radical changes, the doctorcontinued, and you know as much—more about your condition than I do.If a normal person who took water into his lungs that way didn't die ofa coughing spasm, congestive pneumonia would get him sure. But it seemsto give you relief.     Barry scratched his neck, where a thickened, darkening patch on eachside itched infuriatingly.     What are these changes? he asked. What's this?     Those things seem to be— the doctor began hesitantly. Damn it, Iknow it sounds crazy but they're rudimentary gills.     Barry accepted the outrageous statement unemotionally. He was beyondshock.     But there must be—     Pain struck again, so intense his body twisted and archedinvoluntarily. Then the prick of a needle brought merciful oblivion.      II     Barry's mind was working furiously. The changes the Sigma radiationshad inflicted upon his body might reverse themselves spontaneously, Dr.Jensen had mentioned during a second visit—but for that to happen hemust remain alive. That meant easing all possible strains.     When the doctor came in again Barry asked him to find Nick Podtiaguine.Within a few minutes the mechanic appeared.     Cheez, it's good to see you, Barry, he began.     Stuff it, the sick man interrupted. I want favors. Can do?     Nick nodded vigorously.     First cut that air conditioner and get the window open.     Nick stared as though he were demented, but obeyed, unbolting the heavyplastic window panel and lifting it aside. He made a face at the damp,malodorous Venusian air but to Barry it brought relief.     It was not enough, but it indicated he was on the right track. And hewas not an engineer for nothing.     Got a pencil? he asked.     He drew only a rough sketch, for Nick was far too competent to needdetailed drawings.     Think you can get materials?     Nick glanced at the sketch. Hell, man, for you I can get anything theColony has. You saved Four and everybody knows it.     Two days?     Nick looked insulted.     He was back in eight hours, and with him came a dozen helpers. Apower line and water tube were run through the metal partition to thecorridor, connections were made, and the machine Barry had sketched wasready.     Nick flipped the switch. The thing whined shrilly. From a fanshapednozzle came innumerable droplets of water, droplets of colloidal sizethat hung in the air and only slowly coalesced into larger drops thatfell toward the metal floor.     Barry nodded, a smile beginning to spread across his drawn features.     Perfect. Now put the window back.     Outside lay the unknown world of Venus, and an open, unguarded windowmight invite disaster.     A few hours later Dr. Jensen found his patient in a normal sleep. Theroom was warm and the air was so filled with water-mist it was almostliquid. Coalescing drops dripped from the walls and curving ceilingand furniture, from the half clad body of the sleeping man, and thescavenger pump made greedy gulping sounds as it removed excess waterfrom the floor.     The doctor shook his head as he backed out, his clothes clinging wetfrom the short exposure.     It was abnormal.     But so was Barry Barr.     With breathing no longer a continuous agony Barry began to recover someof his strength. But for several days much of his time was spent insleep and Dorothy Voorhees haunted his dreams.     Whenever he closed his eyes he could see her as clearly as thoughshe were with him—her face with the exotic high cheek-bones—hereyes a deep gray in fascinating contrast to her raven hair—lips thatseemed to promise more of giving than she had ever allowed herself tofulfil—her incongruously pert, humorous little nose that was a legacyfrom some venturesome Irishman—her slender yet firmly lithe body.     After a few days Dr. Jensen permitted him to have visitors. They camein a steady stream, the people from Four and men he had not seen sinceTraining Base days, and although none could endure his semi-liquidatmosphere more than a few minutes at a time Barry enjoyed their visits.     But the person for whom he waited most anxiously did not arrive. Ateach knock Barry's heart would leap, and each time he settled back witha sigh of disappointment. Days passed and still Dorothy did not cometo him. He could not go to her, and stubborn pride kept him from eveninquiring. All the while he was aware of Robson Hind's presence in theColony, and only weakness kept him from pacing his room like a cagedanimal.     Through his window he could see nothing but the gradual brighteningand darkening of the enveloping fog as the slow 82-hour Venusian dayprogressed, but from his visitors' words he learned something ofVenusian conditions and the story of the Colony.     Number One had bumbled in on visual, the pilot depending on the smearyimages of infra-sight goggles. An inviting grassy plain had proved tobe a layer of algae floating on quicksand. Frantically the crew hadblasted down huge balsa-like marsh trees, cutting up the trunks withflame guns to make crude rafts. They had performed fantastic feats ofstrength and endurance but managed to salvage only half their equipmentbefore the shining nose of One had vanished in the gurgling ooze.     Lost in a steaming, stinking marsh teeming with alien creatures thatslithered and crawled and swam and flew, blinded by the eternal fog,the crew had proved the rightness of their choice as pioneers. Forweeks they had floundered across the deadly terrain until at last,beside a stagnant-looking slough that drained sluggishly into a warm,almost tideless sea a mile away, they had discovered an outcropping ofrock. It was the only solid ground they had encountered.     One man had died, his swamp suit pierced by a poisonous thorn, but theothers had hand-hauled the radio beacon piece by piece and set it upin time to guide Two to a safe landing. Houses had been assembled, thesecondary power units of the spaceship put to work, and the colony hadestablished a tenuous foothold.     Three had landed beside Two a few months later, bringingreinforcements, but the day-by-day demands of the little colony'sstruggle for survival had so far been too pressing to permit extendedor detailed explorations. Venus remained a planet of unsolved mysteries.     The helicopter brought out in Three had made several flights whichby radar and sound reflection had placed vague outlines on the blankmaps. The surface appeared to be half water, with land masses mainlyjungle-covered swamp broken by a few rocky ledges, but landings awayfrom base had been judged too hazardous.     Test borings from the ledge had located traces of oil and radioactiveminerals, while enough Venusian plants had proven edible to provide anadequate though monotonous food source.     Venus was the diametric opposite of lifeless Mars. Through the foggigantic insects hummed and buzzed like lost airplanes, but fortunatelythey were harmless and timid.     In the swamps wildly improbable life forms grew and reproduced andfought and died, and many of those most harmless in appearancepossessed surprisingly venomous characteristics.     The jungle had been flamed away in a huge circle around the colony tominimize the chances of surprise by anything that might attack, but theblasting was an almost continuous process. The plants of Venus grewwith a vigor approaching fury.     Most spectacular of the Venusian creatures were the amphibious armoredmonsters, saurian or semi-saurians with a slight resemblance to thebrontosauri that had once lived on Earth, massive swamp-dwellers thatused the slough beside the colony's ledge as a highway. They wereapparently vegetarians, but thorough stupidity in tremendous bulk madethem dangerous. One had damaged a building by blundering against it,and since then the colony had remained alert, using weapons to repelthe beasts.     The most important question—that of the presence or absence ofintelligent, civilized Venusians—remained unanswered. Some of the menreported a disquieting feeling of being watched, particularly when nearopen water, but others argued that any intelligent creatures would haveestablished contact.  Barry developed definite external signs of what the Sigma radiation haddone to him. The skin between his fingers and toes spread, grew intomembranous webs. The swellings in his neck became more pronounced anddark parallel lines appeared.     But despite the doctor's pessimistic reports that the changes had notstopped, Barry continued to tell himself he was recovering. He hadto believe and keep on believing to retain sanity in the face of theweird, unclassifiable feelings that surged through his body. Stillhe was subject to fits of almost suicidal depression, and Dorothy'sfailure to visit him did not help his mental condition.     Then one day he woke from a nap and thought he was still dreaming.Dorothy was leaning over him.     Barry! Barry! she whispered. I can't help it. I love you even if youdo have a wife and child in Philadelphia. I know it's wrong but allthat seems so far away it doesn't matter any more. Tears glistened inher eyes.     Huh? he grunted. Who? Me?     Please, Barry, don't lie. She wrote to me before Three blastedoff—oh, the most piteous letter!     Barry was fully awake now. I'm not married. I have no child.I've never been in Philadelphia, he shouted. His lips thinned.I—think—I—know—who—wrote—that—letter! he declared grimly.     Robson wouldn't! she objected, shocked, but there was a note of doubtin her voice.     Then she was in his arms, sobbing openly.     I believe you, Barry.     She stayed with him for hours, and she had changed since the daysat Training Base. Long months away from the patterned restraints ofcivilization, living each day on the edge of unknown perils, hadawakened in her the realization that she was a human being and awoman, as well as a toxicologist.     When the water-mist finally forced her departure she left Barry joyousand confident of his eventual recovery. For a few minutes angersimmered in his brain as he contemplated the pleasure of rearrangingRobson Hind's features.     The accident with the scaffold had been remarkably convenient, butthis time the ruthless, restless, probably psychopathic drive that hadmade Robson Hind more than just another rich man's spoiled son hadcarried him too far. Barry wondered whether it had been inefficiency orjudiciously distributed money that had made the psychometrists overlooksome undesirable traits in Hind's personality in accepting him for theFive Ship Plan.     But even with his trickery Hind had lost.     He slept, and woke with a feeling of doom.     The slow Venusian twilight had ended in blackness and the overheadtubelight was off.     He sat up, and apprehension gave way to burning torture in his chest.     Silence! He fumbled for the light switch, then knelt beside the mistmachine that no longer hummed. Power and water supplies were both dead,cut off outside his room.     Floating droplets were merging and falling to the floor. Soon the airwould be dry, and he would be choking and strangling. He turned to callfor help.     The door was locked!     He tugged and the knob came away in his hand. The retaining screw hadbeen removed.     He beat upon the panel, first with his fists and then with the metaldoorknob, but the insulation between the double alloy sheets wasefficient soundproofing. Furiously he hurled himself upon it, only tobounce back with a bruised shoulder. He was trapped.     Working against time and eventual death he snatched a metal chairand swung with all his force at the window, again, again, yet again.A small crack appeared in the transparent plastic, branched undercontinued hammering, became a rough star. He gathered his waningstrength, then swung once more. The tough plastic shattered.     He tugged at the jagged pieces still clinging to the frame. Fog-ladenVenusian air poured in—but it was not enough!     He dragged himself head first through the narrow opening, landedsprawling on hands and knees in the darkness. In his ears a confusedrustling drone from the alien swamp mingled with the roar ofapproaching unconsciousness.     There was a smell in his nostrils. The smell of water. He lurchedforward at a shambling run, stumbling over the uneven ground.     Then he plunged from the rocky ledge into the slough. Flashes ofcolored light flickered before his eyes as he went under. But Earthhabits were still strong; instinctively he held his breath.     Then he fainted. Voluntary control of his body vanished. His mouth hungslack and the breathing reflex that had been an integral part of hislife since the moment of birth forced him to inhale.     Bubbles floated upward and burst. Then Barry Barr was lying in the oozeof the bottom. And he was breathing, extracting vital oxygen from thebrackish, silt-clouded water.      III     Slowly his racing heartbeat returned to normal. Gradually he becameaware of the stench of decaying plants and of musky taints he knewinstinctively were the scents of underwater animals. Then with a shockthe meaning became clear. He had become a water-breather, cut off fromall other Earthmen, no longer entirely human. His fellows in the colonywere separated from him now by a gulf more absolute than the airlessvoid between Earth and Venus.     Something slippery and alive touched him near one armpit. He openedhis eyes in the black water and his groping hand clutched somethingburrowing into his skin. With a shudder of revulsion he crushed a fatworm between his fingers.     Then dozens of them—hundreds—were upon him from all sides. He waswearing only a pair of khaki pants but the worms ignored his chest tocongregate around his face, intent on attacking the tender skin of hiseyelids.     For a minute his flailing hands fought them off, but they came inincreasing numbers and clung like leeches. Pain spread as they bit andburrowed, and blindly he began to swim.     Faster and faster. He could sense the winding banks of the slough andkept to midchannel, swimming with his eyes tightly closed. One by onethe worms dropped off.     He stopped, opened his eyes, not on complete darkness this time but ona faint blue-green luminescence from far below. The water was saltierhere, and clearer.     He had swum down the slough and out into the ocean. He tried to turnback, obsessed by a desire to be near the colony even though hecould not go ashore without strangling, but he had lost all sense ofdirection.     He was still weak and his lungs were not completely adjusted tounderwater life. Again he grew dizzy and faint. The slow movements ofhands and feet that held him just below the surface grew feeble andceased. He sank.     Down into dimly luminous water he dropped, and with his respiratorysystem completely water-filled there was no sensation of pressure. Atlast he floated gently to the bottom and lay motionless.     Shouting voices awakened him, an exultant battle cry cutting through agasping scream of anguish. Streaks of bright orange light were movingtoward him in a twisting pattern. At the head of each trail was afigure. A human figure that weaved and swam in deadly moving combat.One figure drifted limply bottomward.     Hallucination, Barry told himself. Then one of the figures broke fromthe group. Almost overhead it turned sharply downward and the feetmoved in a powerful flutter-kick. A slender spear aimed directly at theEarthman.     Barry threw himself aside. The spear point plunged deep into thesticky, yielding bottom and Barry grappled with its wielder.     Pointed fingernails raked his cheek. Barry's balled fist swungin a roundhouse blow but water resistance slowed the punch toineffectiveness. The creature only shook its head and came in kickingand clawing.     Barry braced his feet against the bottom and leaped. His head buttedthe attacker's chest and at the same instant he lashed a short jab tothe creature's belly. It slumped momentarily, its face working.     Human—or nearly so—the thing was, with a stocky, powerful body andwebbed hands and feet. A few scraps of clothing, seemingly worn morefor ornament than covering, clung to the fishbelly-white skin. The facewas coarse and savage.     It shook off the effects of Barry's punch and one webbed hand snatcheda short tube from its belt.     Barry remembered the spring-opening knife in his pocket, and even ashe flicked the blade out the tube-weapon fired. Sound thrummed in thewater and the water grew milky with a myriad of bubbles. Somethingzipped past his head, uncomfortably close.     Then Barry struck, felt his knife slice flesh and grate against bone.He struck again even as the undersea being screamed and went limp.     Barry stared through the reddening water.     Another figure plunged toward him. Barry jerked the dead Venusian'sspear from the mud and raised it defensively.     But the figure paid no attention. This one was a female who fleddesperately from two men closing in from opposite sides. One threw hisspear, using an odd pushing motion, and as she checked and dodged, theother was upon her from behind.     One arm went around her neck in a strangler's hold, bending her slenderbody backward. Together captor and struggling captive sank toward thebottom. The other recovered his thrown spear and moved in to helpsecure her arms and legs with lengths of cord.     One scooped up the crossbow the girl had dropped. The other ripped ather brief skirt and from her belt took a pair of tubes like the one thedead Venusian had fired at Barry, handling them as though they wereloot of the greatest value. He jerked cruelly at the slender metallicnecklace the girl wore but it did not break.     He punched the helpless girl in the abdomen with the butt of his spear.The girl writhed but she did not attempt to cry out.     Barry bounded toward them in a series of soaring leaps, knife and spearready. One Venusian turned to meet him, grinning maliciously.     Barry dug one foot into the bottom and sidestepped a spear thrust. Hisown lunge missed completely. Then he and the Venusian were inside eachother's spear points, chest to chest. A pointed hook strapped to theinside of the creature's wrist just missed Barry's throat. The Earthmanarched his body backward and his knife flashed upward. The creaturegasped and pulled away, clutching with both hands at a gaping wound inits belly.     The other one turned too late as Barry leaped.     Barry's hilt cracked against its jawbone.  ","Engineer Barry Barr is one of the chosen few to ride on Number Three to Venus. His beloved Dorothy Voorhees would have been riding with him, but Barry had a piece of scaffolding drop on his ankle. Unable to make the first flight, Barry hops onto Number Four instead. On the journey to Venus, a small meteor crashes into their hull at several hundreds of miles an hour. The effect is immediate: Ryan is killed in the jet room and traces of the meteor are stuck in the field. Barry wakes up when the alarm bells are sounded, and rushes to join the rest of the crew to figure out what’s going on. Nick Podtaguine is steering the ship with emergency controls while Captain Reno looks on. Once the jet room stabilized, Captain Reno opens the doors to find Ryan’s body and ruin. After fixing all that they could, Reno hit the accelerator, only to watch in dismay at it soared out of proportions. Captain Reno cut off the power, realizing that the meteor had left metal particles in the cylinder of force. He asks for volunteers to work outside of the ship and remove all traces of the meteor. No one volunteers at first because of how dangerous a task it is; Sigma radiation affects man in ways still unknown and incurable. After Robson Hind turns the task down, Barry volunteers. He steps outside in his spacesuit equipped to block radiation and removes them with the chisel. Once he returns inside, he falls asleep and wakes a day later already feeling the effects of the radiation. His symptoms only increase: dryness, heat, and breathing difficulties. He faints upon standing and realizes that the Sigma radiation had seeped into his spacesuit. Four heads toward Venus while Barry suffers from an insatiable thirst. Finally, upon landing, they throw open the doors to let in the muggy Venusian air, and Barry feels like he can breathe again. Two and Three welcome them, and Barry throws his arms around Dorothy before fainting. Dr. Carl Jensen gives him water which Barry inhales. He’s growing gills on the sides of his neck, and dry air is becoming more intolerable. Barry asks Nick to build him a machine to let in moisture, allowing him to breathe better. He grows webbed fingers and toes. Dorothy doesn’t visit him while in hospital until she can’t bear it anymore. She bursts open the door and reveals she still loves him even though he has a wife and family back in Philadelphia. Barry reveals the falsehood and believes that Hind sent her a letter detailing this lie. One night, he wakes up to realize his moisture machine was broken and the door locked. He escapes by breaking the window and runs to the water. He dives in and inhales the water. Worms attack him, but he swims away to the ocean. He battles humanoid Venusians and kills one of them. He rescues a girl from being robbed. "
"What changes does Barry Barr undergo throughout the story? </s>    THE LOST TRIBES OF VENUS     By ERIK FENNEL       On mist-shrouded Venus, where hostile       swamp meets hostile sea ... there did       Barry Barr—Earthman transmuted—swap       his Terran heritage for the deep dark       waters of Tana; for the strangely       beautiful Xintel of the blue-brown skin.       [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories May 1954.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Evil luck brought the meteorite to those particular space-timecoordinates as Number Four rode the downhill spiral toward Venus. Thefootball-sized chunk of nickel-iron and rock overtook the ship at arelative speed of only a few hundred miles per hour and passed closeenough to come within the tremendous pseudo-gravatic fields of theidling drivers.     It swerved into a paraboloid course, following the flux lines, and wasdragged directly against one of the three projecting nozzles. Energyof motion was converted to heat and a few meteoric fragments fusedthemselves to the nonmetallic tube casing.     In the jet room the positronic line accelerator for that particulardriver fouled under the intolerable overload, and the backsurge sentsearing heat and deadly radiation blasting through the compartmentbefore the main circuit breakers could clack open.     The bellow of the alarm horn brought Barry Barr fully awake, shatteringa delightfully intimate dream of the dark haired girl he hoped to seeagain soon in Venus Colony. As he unbuckled his bunk straps and startedaft at a floating, bounding run his weightlessness told him instantlythat Number Four was in free fall with dead drivers.     Red warning lights gleamed wickedly above the safety-locked jetroom door, and Nick Podtiaguine, the air machines specialist, wasmanipulating the emergency controls with Captain Reno at his elbow. Oneby one the crew crowded into the corridor and watched in tense silence.     The automatic lock clicked off as the jet room returned to habitableconditions, and at Captain Reno's gesture two men swung the door open.Quickly the commander entered the blasted jet room. Barry Barr wasclose behind him.     Robson Hind, jet chief of Four and electronics expert for Venus Colony,hung back until others had gone in first. His handsome, heavy face hadlost its usual ruddiness.     Captain Reno surveyed the havoc. Young Ryan's body floated eerily inthe zero gravity, charred into instant death by the back-blast. Theline accelerator was a shapeless ruin, but except for broken meterglasses and scorched control handles other mechanical damage appearedminor. They had been lucky.     Turnover starts in six hours twelve minutes, the captain saidmeaningfully.     Robson Hind cleared his throat. We can change accelerators in twohours, he declared. With a quick reassumption of authority he began toorder his crew into action.     It took nearer three hours than two to change accelerators despiteHind's shouted orders.     At last the job was completed. Hind made a final check, floated over tothe control panel and started the fuel feed. With a confident smile hethrew in the accelerator switch.     The meter needles climbed, soared past the red lines without pausing,and just in time to prevent a second blowback, Hind cut the power.           There's metal in the field!      His voice was high and unsteady.  Everyone knew what that meant. The slightest trace of magnetic materialwould distort the delicately balanced cylinder of force that containedand directed the Hoskins blast, making it suicidal to operate.     Calmly Captain Reno voiced the thought in every mind.     It must be cleared. From the outside.     Several of the men swore under their breaths. Interplanetary spacewas constantly bombarded, with an intensity inverse to the prevailinggravitation, by something called Sigma radiation. Man had neverencountered it until leaving Earth, and little was known of itexcept that short exposure killed test animals and left their bodiesunpredictably altered.     Inside the ship it was safe enough, for the sleek hull was charged witha Kendall power-shield, impervious to nearly any Sigma concentration.But the shielding devices in the emergency spacesuits were smalland had never been space-tested in a region of nearly equalizedgravitations.     The man who emerged from the airlock would be flipping a coin with aparticularly unpleasant form of death.     Many pairs of eyes turned toward Robson Hind. He was jet chief.     I'm assigned, not expendable, he protested hastily. If there weremore trouble later.... His face was pasty.     Assigned. That was the key word. Barry Barr felt a lump tighteningin his stomach as the eyes shifted to him. He had some training inHoskins drivers. He knew alloys and power tools. And he was riding Fourunassigned after that broken ankle had made him miss Three. He was thelogical man.     For the safety of the ship. That phrase, taken from the ancientEarthbound code of the sea, had occurred repeatedly in theindoctrination manual at Training Base. He remembered it, andremembered further the contingent plans regarding assigned andunassigned personnel.     For a moment he stood indecisively, the nervous, unhumorous smilequirking across his angular face making him look more like an untriedboy than a structural engineer who had fought his way up through someof the toughest tropical construction camps of Earth. His lean body,built more for quick, neatly coordinated action than brute power,balanced handily in the zero gravity as he ran one hand through hissandy hair in a gesture of uncertainty.     He knew that not even the captain would order him through the airlock.     But the members of the Five Ship Plan had been selected in part for asense of responsibility.     Nick, will you help me button up? he asked with forced calmness.     For an instant he thought he detected a sly gleam in Hind's eyes. Butthen the jet chief was pressing forward with the others to shake hishand.     Rebellious reluctance flared briefly in Barry's mind. Dorothy Voorheeshad refused to make a definite promise before blasting off in Three—infact he hadn't even seen her during her last few days on Earth. Butstill he felt he had the inside track despite Hind's money and thebrash assurance that went with it. But if Hind only were to reach Venusalive—  The blazing disc of Sol, the minor globes of the planets, the unwinkingpinpoints of the stars, all stared with cosmic disinterest at the tinyfigure crawling along the hull. His spacesuit trapped and amplifiedbreathing and heartbeats into a roaring chaos that was an invitationto blind panic, and all the while there was consciousness of theinsidiously deadly Sigma radiations.     Barry found the debris of the meteorite, an ugly shining splotchagainst the dull superceramic tube, readied his power chisel, startedcutting. Soon it became a tedious, torturingly strenuous manual taskrequiring little conscious thought, and Barry's mind touched briefly onthe events that had brought him here.     First Luna, and that had been murderous. Man had encountered Sigmafor the first time, and many had died before the Kendall-shield wasperfected. And the chemical-fueled rockets of those days had beeninherently poor.     Hoskins semi-atomics had made possible the next step—to Mars. But menhad found Mars barren, swept clear of all life in the cataclysm thathad shattered the trans-Martian planet to form the Asteroid Belt.     Venus, its true surface forever hidden by enshrouding mists, had beenwell within one-way range. But Hoskins fuel requirements for a roundtrip added up to something beyond critical mass. Impossible.     But the Five Ship Plan had evolved, a joint enterprise of governmentand various private groups. Five vessels were to go out, each fueledto within a whiskered neutron of spontaneous detonation, manned byspecialists who, it was hoped, could maintain themselves under alienconditions.     On Venus the leftover fuel from all five would be transferred towhichever ship had survived the outbound voyage in best condition.That one would return to Earth. Permanent base or homeward voyage withcolonists crowded aboard like defeated sardines? Only time would tell.     Barry Barr had volunteered, and because the enlightened guesses of theexperts called for men and women familiar with tropical conditions,he had survived the rigorous weeding-out process. His duties in VenusColony would be to refabricate the discarded ships into whatever formwas most needed—most particularly a launching ramp—and to studynative Venusian materials.     Dorothy Voorhees had signed on as toxicologist and dietician. When thelimited supply of Earth food ran out the Colony would be forced torely upon Venusian plants and animals. She would guard against subtledelayed-action poisons, meanwhile devising ways of preparing Venusianmaterials to suit Earth tastes and digestions.     Barry had met her at Training Base and known at once that his years ofloneliness had come to an end.     She seemed utterly independent, self-contained, completely intellectualdespite her beauty, but Barry had not been deceived. From the momentof first meeting he had sensed within her deep springs of suppressedemotion, and he had understood. He too had come up the hard way, alone,and been forced to develop a shell of hardness and cold, single-mindeddevotion to his work. Gradually, often unwillingly under hisinsistence, her aloofness had begun to melt.     But Robson Hind too had been attracted. He was the only son of thebusiness manager of the great Hoskins Corporation which carrieda considerable share in the Five Ship Plan. Dorothy's failure tovirtually fall into his arms had only piqued his desires.     The man's smooth charm had fascinated the girl and his money had openedto her an entirely new world of lavish nightclubs and extravagantlyexpensive entertainments, but her inborn shrewdness had sensed somefactor in his personality that had made her hesitate.     Barry had felt a distrust of Hind apart from the normal dislike ofrivalry. He had looked forward to being with Dorothy aboard Three, andhad made no secret of his satisfaction when Hind's efforts to havehimself transferred to Three also or the girl to Four had failed.     But then a scaffold had slipped while Three was being readied, and witha fractured ankle he had been forced to miss the ship.     He unclipped the magnetic detector from his belt and ran it inch byinch over the nozzle. He found one spot of metal, pinhead-sized, butenough to cause trouble, and once more swung his power chisel intostuttering action.     Then it was done.     As quickly as possible he inched back to the airlock. Turnover had tostart according to calculations.  Barry opened his eyes. The ship was in normal deceleration and NickPodtiaguine was watching him from a nearby bunk.     I could eat a cow with the smallpox, Barry declared.     Nick grinned. No doubt. You slept around the clock and more. Nice jobof work out there.     Barry unhitched his straps and sat up.     Say, he asked anxiously. What's haywire with the air?     Nick looked startled. Nothing. Everything checked out when I came offwatch a few minutes ago.     Barry shrugged. Probably just me. Guess I'll go see if I can mooch ahandout.     He found himself a hero. The cook was ready to turn the galley insideout while a radio engineer and an entomologist hovered near to wait onhim. But he couldn't enjoy the meal. The sensations of heat and drynesshe had noticed on awakening grew steadily worse. It became difficult tobreathe.     He started to rise, and abruptly the room swirled and darkened aroundhim. Even as he sank into unconsciousness he knew the answer.     The suit's Kendall-shield had leaked!     Four plunged toward Venus tail first, the Hoskins jets flaring ahead.The single doctor for the Colony had gone out in Two and the crewmentrained in first aid could do little to relieve Barry's distress.Fainting spells alternated with fever and delirium and an unquenchablethirst. His breathing became increasingly difficult.     A few thousand miles out Four picked up a microbeam. A feeling ofexultation surged through the ship as Captain Reno passed the word, forthe beam meant that some Earthmen were alive upon Venus. They were notnecessarily diving straight toward oblivion. Barry, sick as he was,felt the thrill of the unknown world that lay ahead.     Into a miles-thick layer of opacity Four roared, with Captain Renohimself jockeying throttles to keep it balanced on its self-createdsupport of flame.     You're almost in, a voice chanted into his headphones throughcrackling, sizzling static. Easy toward spherical one-thirty. Hold it!Lower. Lower. CUT YOUR POWER!     The heavy hull dropped sickeningly, struck with a mushy thud, settled,steadied.     Barry was weak, but with Nick Podtiaguine steadying him he was waitingwith the others when Captain Reno gave the last order.     Airlock open. Both doors.     Venusian air poured in.     For this I left Panama? one of the men yelped.     Enough to gag a maggot, another agreed with hand to nose.     It was like mid-summer noon in a tropical mangrove swamp, hot andunbearably humid and overpowering with the stench of decayingvegetation.     But Barry took one deep breath, then another. The stabbing needles inhis chest blunted, and the choking band around his throat loosened.     The outer door swung wide. He blinked, and a shift in the encompassingvapors gave him his first sight of a world bathed in subdued light.     Four had landed in a marsh with the midships lock only a few feet abovea quagmire surface still steaming from the final rocket blast. Nearbythe identical hulls of Two and Three stood upright in the mud. Themist shifted again and beyond the swamp he could see the low, roundedoutlines of the collapsible buildings Two and Three had carried intheir cargo pits. They were set on a rock ledge rising a few feet outof the marsh. The Colony!     Men were tossing sections of lattice duckboard out upon the swamp,extending a narrow walkway toward Four's airlock, and within a fewminutes the new arrivals were scrambling down.     Barry paid little attention to the noisy greetings and excited talk.Impatiently he trotted toward the rock ledge, searching for oneparticular figure among the men and women who waited.     Dorothy! he said fervently.     Then his arms were around her and she was responding to his kiss.     Then unexpected pain tore at his chest. Her lovely face took on anexpression of fright even as it wavered and grew dim. The last thing hesaw was Robson Hind looming beside her.     By the glow of an overhead tubelight he recognized the kindly, deeplylined features of the man bending over him. Dr. Carl Jensen, specialistin tropical diseases. He tried to sit up but the doctor laid arestraining hand on his shoulder.     Water! Barry croaked.     The doctor held out a glass. Then his eyes widened incredulously as hispatient deliberately drew in a breath while drinking, sucking waterdirectly into his lungs.     Doctor, he asked, keeping his voice low to spare his throat. Whatare my chances? On the level.     Dr. Jensen shook his head thoughtfully. There's not a thing—not adamned solitary thing—I can do. It's something new to medical science.     Barry lay still.     Your body is undergoing certain radical changes, the doctorcontinued, and you know as much—more about your condition than I do.If a normal person who took water into his lungs that way didn't die ofa coughing spasm, congestive pneumonia would get him sure. But it seemsto give you relief.     Barry scratched his neck, where a thickened, darkening patch on eachside itched infuriatingly.     What are these changes? he asked. What's this?     Those things seem to be— the doctor began hesitantly. Damn it, Iknow it sounds crazy but they're rudimentary gills.     Barry accepted the outrageous statement unemotionally. He was beyondshock.     But there must be—     Pain struck again, so intense his body twisted and archedinvoluntarily. Then the prick of a needle brought merciful oblivion.      II     Barry's mind was working furiously. The changes the Sigma radiationshad inflicted upon his body might reverse themselves spontaneously, Dr.Jensen had mentioned during a second visit—but for that to happen hemust remain alive. That meant easing all possible strains.     When the doctor came in again Barry asked him to find Nick Podtiaguine.Within a few minutes the mechanic appeared.     Cheez, it's good to see you, Barry, he began.     Stuff it, the sick man interrupted. I want favors. Can do?     Nick nodded vigorously.     First cut that air conditioner and get the window open.     Nick stared as though he were demented, but obeyed, unbolting the heavyplastic window panel and lifting it aside. He made a face at the damp,malodorous Venusian air but to Barry it brought relief.     It was not enough, but it indicated he was on the right track. And hewas not an engineer for nothing.     Got a pencil? he asked.     He drew only a rough sketch, for Nick was far too competent to needdetailed drawings.     Think you can get materials?     Nick glanced at the sketch. Hell, man, for you I can get anything theColony has. You saved Four and everybody knows it.     Two days?     Nick looked insulted.     He was back in eight hours, and with him came a dozen helpers. Apower line and water tube were run through the metal partition to thecorridor, connections were made, and the machine Barry had sketched wasready.     Nick flipped the switch. The thing whined shrilly. From a fanshapednozzle came innumerable droplets of water, droplets of colloidal sizethat hung in the air and only slowly coalesced into larger drops thatfell toward the metal floor.     Barry nodded, a smile beginning to spread across his drawn features.     Perfect. Now put the window back.     Outside lay the unknown world of Venus, and an open, unguarded windowmight invite disaster.     A few hours later Dr. Jensen found his patient in a normal sleep. Theroom was warm and the air was so filled with water-mist it was almostliquid. Coalescing drops dripped from the walls and curving ceilingand furniture, from the half clad body of the sleeping man, and thescavenger pump made greedy gulping sounds as it removed excess waterfrom the floor.     The doctor shook his head as he backed out, his clothes clinging wetfrom the short exposure.     It was abnormal.     But so was Barry Barr.     With breathing no longer a continuous agony Barry began to recover someof his strength. But for several days much of his time was spent insleep and Dorothy Voorhees haunted his dreams.     Whenever he closed his eyes he could see her as clearly as thoughshe were with him—her face with the exotic high cheek-bones—hereyes a deep gray in fascinating contrast to her raven hair—lips thatseemed to promise more of giving than she had ever allowed herself tofulfil—her incongruously pert, humorous little nose that was a legacyfrom some venturesome Irishman—her slender yet firmly lithe body.     After a few days Dr. Jensen permitted him to have visitors. They camein a steady stream, the people from Four and men he had not seen sinceTraining Base days, and although none could endure his semi-liquidatmosphere more than a few minutes at a time Barry enjoyed their visits.     But the person for whom he waited most anxiously did not arrive. Ateach knock Barry's heart would leap, and each time he settled back witha sigh of disappointment. Days passed and still Dorothy did not cometo him. He could not go to her, and stubborn pride kept him from eveninquiring. All the while he was aware of Robson Hind's presence in theColony, and only weakness kept him from pacing his room like a cagedanimal.     Through his window he could see nothing but the gradual brighteningand darkening of the enveloping fog as the slow 82-hour Venusian dayprogressed, but from his visitors' words he learned something ofVenusian conditions and the story of the Colony.     Number One had bumbled in on visual, the pilot depending on the smearyimages of infra-sight goggles. An inviting grassy plain had proved tobe a layer of algae floating on quicksand. Frantically the crew hadblasted down huge balsa-like marsh trees, cutting up the trunks withflame guns to make crude rafts. They had performed fantastic feats ofstrength and endurance but managed to salvage only half their equipmentbefore the shining nose of One had vanished in the gurgling ooze.     Lost in a steaming, stinking marsh teeming with alien creatures thatslithered and crawled and swam and flew, blinded by the eternal fog,the crew had proved the rightness of their choice as pioneers. Forweeks they had floundered across the deadly terrain until at last,beside a stagnant-looking slough that drained sluggishly into a warm,almost tideless sea a mile away, they had discovered an outcropping ofrock. It was the only solid ground they had encountered.     One man had died, his swamp suit pierced by a poisonous thorn, but theothers had hand-hauled the radio beacon piece by piece and set it upin time to guide Two to a safe landing. Houses had been assembled, thesecondary power units of the spaceship put to work, and the colony hadestablished a tenuous foothold.     Three had landed beside Two a few months later, bringingreinforcements, but the day-by-day demands of the little colony'sstruggle for survival had so far been too pressing to permit extendedor detailed explorations. Venus remained a planet of unsolved mysteries.     The helicopter brought out in Three had made several flights whichby radar and sound reflection had placed vague outlines on the blankmaps. The surface appeared to be half water, with land masses mainlyjungle-covered swamp broken by a few rocky ledges, but landings awayfrom base had been judged too hazardous.     Test borings from the ledge had located traces of oil and radioactiveminerals, while enough Venusian plants had proven edible to provide anadequate though monotonous food source.     Venus was the diametric opposite of lifeless Mars. Through the foggigantic insects hummed and buzzed like lost airplanes, but fortunatelythey were harmless and timid.     In the swamps wildly improbable life forms grew and reproduced andfought and died, and many of those most harmless in appearancepossessed surprisingly venomous characteristics.     The jungle had been flamed away in a huge circle around the colony tominimize the chances of surprise by anything that might attack, but theblasting was an almost continuous process. The plants of Venus grewwith a vigor approaching fury.     Most spectacular of the Venusian creatures were the amphibious armoredmonsters, saurian or semi-saurians with a slight resemblance to thebrontosauri that had once lived on Earth, massive swamp-dwellers thatused the slough beside the colony's ledge as a highway. They wereapparently vegetarians, but thorough stupidity in tremendous bulk madethem dangerous. One had damaged a building by blundering against it,and since then the colony had remained alert, using weapons to repelthe beasts.     The most important question—that of the presence or absence ofintelligent, civilized Venusians—remained unanswered. Some of the menreported a disquieting feeling of being watched, particularly when nearopen water, but others argued that any intelligent creatures would haveestablished contact.  Barry developed definite external signs of what the Sigma radiation haddone to him. The skin between his fingers and toes spread, grew intomembranous webs. The swellings in his neck became more pronounced anddark parallel lines appeared.     But despite the doctor's pessimistic reports that the changes had notstopped, Barry continued to tell himself he was recovering. He hadto believe and keep on believing to retain sanity in the face of theweird, unclassifiable feelings that surged through his body. Stillhe was subject to fits of almost suicidal depression, and Dorothy'sfailure to visit him did not help his mental condition.     Then one day he woke from a nap and thought he was still dreaming.Dorothy was leaning over him.     Barry! Barry! she whispered. I can't help it. I love you even if youdo have a wife and child in Philadelphia. I know it's wrong but allthat seems so far away it doesn't matter any more. Tears glistened inher eyes.     Huh? he grunted. Who? Me?     Please, Barry, don't lie. She wrote to me before Three blastedoff—oh, the most piteous letter!     Barry was fully awake now. I'm not married. I have no child.I've never been in Philadelphia, he shouted. His lips thinned.I—think—I—know—who—wrote—that—letter! he declared grimly.     Robson wouldn't! she objected, shocked, but there was a note of doubtin her voice.     Then she was in his arms, sobbing openly.     I believe you, Barry.     She stayed with him for hours, and she had changed since the daysat Training Base. Long months away from the patterned restraints ofcivilization, living each day on the edge of unknown perils, hadawakened in her the realization that she was a human being and awoman, as well as a toxicologist.     When the water-mist finally forced her departure she left Barry joyousand confident of his eventual recovery. For a few minutes angersimmered in his brain as he contemplated the pleasure of rearrangingRobson Hind's features.     The accident with the scaffold had been remarkably convenient, butthis time the ruthless, restless, probably psychopathic drive that hadmade Robson Hind more than just another rich man's spoiled son hadcarried him too far. Barry wondered whether it had been inefficiency orjudiciously distributed money that had made the psychometrists overlooksome undesirable traits in Hind's personality in accepting him for theFive Ship Plan.     But even with his trickery Hind had lost.     He slept, and woke with a feeling of doom.     The slow Venusian twilight had ended in blackness and the overheadtubelight was off.     He sat up, and apprehension gave way to burning torture in his chest.     Silence! He fumbled for the light switch, then knelt beside the mistmachine that no longer hummed. Power and water supplies were both dead,cut off outside his room.     Floating droplets were merging and falling to the floor. Soon the airwould be dry, and he would be choking and strangling. He turned to callfor help.     The door was locked!     He tugged and the knob came away in his hand. The retaining screw hadbeen removed.     He beat upon the panel, first with his fists and then with the metaldoorknob, but the insulation between the double alloy sheets wasefficient soundproofing. Furiously he hurled himself upon it, only tobounce back with a bruised shoulder. He was trapped.     Working against time and eventual death he snatched a metal chairand swung with all his force at the window, again, again, yet again.A small crack appeared in the transparent plastic, branched undercontinued hammering, became a rough star. He gathered his waningstrength, then swung once more. The tough plastic shattered.     He tugged at the jagged pieces still clinging to the frame. Fog-ladenVenusian air poured in—but it was not enough!     He dragged himself head first through the narrow opening, landedsprawling on hands and knees in the darkness. In his ears a confusedrustling drone from the alien swamp mingled with the roar ofapproaching unconsciousness.     There was a smell in his nostrils. The smell of water. He lurchedforward at a shambling run, stumbling over the uneven ground.     Then he plunged from the rocky ledge into the slough. Flashes ofcolored light flickered before his eyes as he went under. But Earthhabits were still strong; instinctively he held his breath.     Then he fainted. Voluntary control of his body vanished. His mouth hungslack and the breathing reflex that had been an integral part of hislife since the moment of birth forced him to inhale.     Bubbles floated upward and burst. Then Barry Barr was lying in the oozeof the bottom. And he was breathing, extracting vital oxygen from thebrackish, silt-clouded water.      III     Slowly his racing heartbeat returned to normal. Gradually he becameaware of the stench of decaying plants and of musky taints he knewinstinctively were the scents of underwater animals. Then with a shockthe meaning became clear. He had become a water-breather, cut off fromall other Earthmen, no longer entirely human. His fellows in the colonywere separated from him now by a gulf more absolute than the airlessvoid between Earth and Venus.     Something slippery and alive touched him near one armpit. He openedhis eyes in the black water and his groping hand clutched somethingburrowing into his skin. With a shudder of revulsion he crushed a fatworm between his fingers.     Then dozens of them—hundreds—were upon him from all sides. He waswearing only a pair of khaki pants but the worms ignored his chest tocongregate around his face, intent on attacking the tender skin of hiseyelids.     For a minute his flailing hands fought them off, but they came inincreasing numbers and clung like leeches. Pain spread as they bit andburrowed, and blindly he began to swim.     Faster and faster. He could sense the winding banks of the slough andkept to midchannel, swimming with his eyes tightly closed. One by onethe worms dropped off.     He stopped, opened his eyes, not on complete darkness this time but ona faint blue-green luminescence from far below. The water was saltierhere, and clearer.     He had swum down the slough and out into the ocean. He tried to turnback, obsessed by a desire to be near the colony even though hecould not go ashore without strangling, but he had lost all sense ofdirection.     He was still weak and his lungs were not completely adjusted tounderwater life. Again he grew dizzy and faint. The slow movements ofhands and feet that held him just below the surface grew feeble andceased. He sank.     Down into dimly luminous water he dropped, and with his respiratorysystem completely water-filled there was no sensation of pressure. Atlast he floated gently to the bottom and lay motionless.     Shouting voices awakened him, an exultant battle cry cutting through agasping scream of anguish. Streaks of bright orange light were movingtoward him in a twisting pattern. At the head of each trail was afigure. A human figure that weaved and swam in deadly moving combat.One figure drifted limply bottomward.     Hallucination, Barry told himself. Then one of the figures broke fromthe group. Almost overhead it turned sharply downward and the feetmoved in a powerful flutter-kick. A slender spear aimed directly at theEarthman.     Barry threw himself aside. The spear point plunged deep into thesticky, yielding bottom and Barry grappled with its wielder.     Pointed fingernails raked his cheek. Barry's balled fist swungin a roundhouse blow but water resistance slowed the punch toineffectiveness. The creature only shook its head and came in kickingand clawing.     Barry braced his feet against the bottom and leaped. His head buttedthe attacker's chest and at the same instant he lashed a short jab tothe creature's belly. It slumped momentarily, its face working.     Human—or nearly so—the thing was, with a stocky, powerful body andwebbed hands and feet. A few scraps of clothing, seemingly worn morefor ornament than covering, clung to the fishbelly-white skin. The facewas coarse and savage.     It shook off the effects of Barry's punch and one webbed hand snatcheda short tube from its belt.     Barry remembered the spring-opening knife in his pocket, and even ashe flicked the blade out the tube-weapon fired. Sound thrummed in thewater and the water grew milky with a myriad of bubbles. Somethingzipped past his head, uncomfortably close.     Then Barry struck, felt his knife slice flesh and grate against bone.He struck again even as the undersea being screamed and went limp.     Barry stared through the reddening water.     Another figure plunged toward him. Barry jerked the dead Venusian'sspear from the mud and raised it defensively.     But the figure paid no attention. This one was a female who fleddesperately from two men closing in from opposite sides. One threw hisspear, using an odd pushing motion, and as she checked and dodged, theother was upon her from behind.     One arm went around her neck in a strangler's hold, bending her slenderbody backward. Together captor and struggling captive sank toward thebottom. The other recovered his thrown spear and moved in to helpsecure her arms and legs with lengths of cord.     One scooped up the crossbow the girl had dropped. The other ripped ather brief skirt and from her belt took a pair of tubes like the one thedead Venusian had fired at Barry, handling them as though they wereloot of the greatest value. He jerked cruelly at the slender metallicnecklace the girl wore but it did not break.     He punched the helpless girl in the abdomen with the butt of his spear.The girl writhed but she did not attempt to cry out.     Barry bounded toward them in a series of soaring leaps, knife and spearready. One Venusian turned to meet him, grinning maliciously.     Barry dug one foot into the bottom and sidestepped a spear thrust. Hisown lunge missed completely. Then he and the Venusian were inside eachother's spear points, chest to chest. A pointed hook strapped to theinside of the creature's wrist just missed Barry's throat. The Earthmanarched his body backward and his knife flashed upward. The creaturegasped and pulled away, clutching with both hands at a gaping wound inits belly.     The other one turned too late as Barry leaped.     Barry's hilt cracked against its jawbone.  ","Barry Barr transforms from a regular human male to a creature that breathes underwater and requires moisture to survive. After being exposed to Sigma radiation while removing particles from the outer hull of Four, Barry began to feel changes in his body. Air felt dry and hot in his lungs and he quickly developed shortness of breath. Fainting spells ensued and breathing difficulties. Once they arrived on Venus, Dr. Carl Jensen gave a grave diagnosis of the unknown. Barry developed dark marks on both sides of his neck, which soon transformed into gills. Webbing grew between his fingers and toes, and his revulsion to dry air only grew. He built a moisture machine to keep in his room so he could breathe comfortably. But it still wasn’t enough. On the night he was trapped inside of the dry room, he broke out and escaped to the water. Although his lungs weren’t fully adjusted to breathing water, he took off like a rocket and battled several Venusian creatures with ease. Barry goes from completely human to a humanoid merman of sorts. "
"Describe Venus and the creatures on its surface. </s>    THE LOST TRIBES OF VENUS     By ERIK FENNEL       On mist-shrouded Venus, where hostile       swamp meets hostile sea ... there did       Barry Barr—Earthman transmuted—swap       his Terran heritage for the deep dark       waters of Tana; for the strangely       beautiful Xintel of the blue-brown skin.       [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories May 1954.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Evil luck brought the meteorite to those particular space-timecoordinates as Number Four rode the downhill spiral toward Venus. Thefootball-sized chunk of nickel-iron and rock overtook the ship at arelative speed of only a few hundred miles per hour and passed closeenough to come within the tremendous pseudo-gravatic fields of theidling drivers.     It swerved into a paraboloid course, following the flux lines, and wasdragged directly against one of the three projecting nozzles. Energyof motion was converted to heat and a few meteoric fragments fusedthemselves to the nonmetallic tube casing.     In the jet room the positronic line accelerator for that particulardriver fouled under the intolerable overload, and the backsurge sentsearing heat and deadly radiation blasting through the compartmentbefore the main circuit breakers could clack open.     The bellow of the alarm horn brought Barry Barr fully awake, shatteringa delightfully intimate dream of the dark haired girl he hoped to seeagain soon in Venus Colony. As he unbuckled his bunk straps and startedaft at a floating, bounding run his weightlessness told him instantlythat Number Four was in free fall with dead drivers.     Red warning lights gleamed wickedly above the safety-locked jetroom door, and Nick Podtiaguine, the air machines specialist, wasmanipulating the emergency controls with Captain Reno at his elbow. Oneby one the crew crowded into the corridor and watched in tense silence.     The automatic lock clicked off as the jet room returned to habitableconditions, and at Captain Reno's gesture two men swung the door open.Quickly the commander entered the blasted jet room. Barry Barr wasclose behind him.     Robson Hind, jet chief of Four and electronics expert for Venus Colony,hung back until others had gone in first. His handsome, heavy face hadlost its usual ruddiness.     Captain Reno surveyed the havoc. Young Ryan's body floated eerily inthe zero gravity, charred into instant death by the back-blast. Theline accelerator was a shapeless ruin, but except for broken meterglasses and scorched control handles other mechanical damage appearedminor. They had been lucky.     Turnover starts in six hours twelve minutes, the captain saidmeaningfully.     Robson Hind cleared his throat. We can change accelerators in twohours, he declared. With a quick reassumption of authority he began toorder his crew into action.     It took nearer three hours than two to change accelerators despiteHind's shouted orders.     At last the job was completed. Hind made a final check, floated over tothe control panel and started the fuel feed. With a confident smile hethrew in the accelerator switch.     The meter needles climbed, soared past the red lines without pausing,and just in time to prevent a second blowback, Hind cut the power.           There's metal in the field!      His voice was high and unsteady.  Everyone knew what that meant. The slightest trace of magnetic materialwould distort the delicately balanced cylinder of force that containedand directed the Hoskins blast, making it suicidal to operate.     Calmly Captain Reno voiced the thought in every mind.     It must be cleared. From the outside.     Several of the men swore under their breaths. Interplanetary spacewas constantly bombarded, with an intensity inverse to the prevailinggravitation, by something called Sigma radiation. Man had neverencountered it until leaving Earth, and little was known of itexcept that short exposure killed test animals and left their bodiesunpredictably altered.     Inside the ship it was safe enough, for the sleek hull was charged witha Kendall power-shield, impervious to nearly any Sigma concentration.But the shielding devices in the emergency spacesuits were smalland had never been space-tested in a region of nearly equalizedgravitations.     The man who emerged from the airlock would be flipping a coin with aparticularly unpleasant form of death.     Many pairs of eyes turned toward Robson Hind. He was jet chief.     I'm assigned, not expendable, he protested hastily. If there weremore trouble later.... His face was pasty.     Assigned. That was the key word. Barry Barr felt a lump tighteningin his stomach as the eyes shifted to him. He had some training inHoskins drivers. He knew alloys and power tools. And he was riding Fourunassigned after that broken ankle had made him miss Three. He was thelogical man.     For the safety of the ship. That phrase, taken from the ancientEarthbound code of the sea, had occurred repeatedly in theindoctrination manual at Training Base. He remembered it, andremembered further the contingent plans regarding assigned andunassigned personnel.     For a moment he stood indecisively, the nervous, unhumorous smilequirking across his angular face making him look more like an untriedboy than a structural engineer who had fought his way up through someof the toughest tropical construction camps of Earth. His lean body,built more for quick, neatly coordinated action than brute power,balanced handily in the zero gravity as he ran one hand through hissandy hair in a gesture of uncertainty.     He knew that not even the captain would order him through the airlock.     But the members of the Five Ship Plan had been selected in part for asense of responsibility.     Nick, will you help me button up? he asked with forced calmness.     For an instant he thought he detected a sly gleam in Hind's eyes. Butthen the jet chief was pressing forward with the others to shake hishand.     Rebellious reluctance flared briefly in Barry's mind. Dorothy Voorheeshad refused to make a definite promise before blasting off in Three—infact he hadn't even seen her during her last few days on Earth. Butstill he felt he had the inside track despite Hind's money and thebrash assurance that went with it. But if Hind only were to reach Venusalive—  The blazing disc of Sol, the minor globes of the planets, the unwinkingpinpoints of the stars, all stared with cosmic disinterest at the tinyfigure crawling along the hull. His spacesuit trapped and amplifiedbreathing and heartbeats into a roaring chaos that was an invitationto blind panic, and all the while there was consciousness of theinsidiously deadly Sigma radiations.     Barry found the debris of the meteorite, an ugly shining splotchagainst the dull superceramic tube, readied his power chisel, startedcutting. Soon it became a tedious, torturingly strenuous manual taskrequiring little conscious thought, and Barry's mind touched briefly onthe events that had brought him here.     First Luna, and that had been murderous. Man had encountered Sigmafor the first time, and many had died before the Kendall-shield wasperfected. And the chemical-fueled rockets of those days had beeninherently poor.     Hoskins semi-atomics had made possible the next step—to Mars. But menhad found Mars barren, swept clear of all life in the cataclysm thathad shattered the trans-Martian planet to form the Asteroid Belt.     Venus, its true surface forever hidden by enshrouding mists, had beenwell within one-way range. But Hoskins fuel requirements for a roundtrip added up to something beyond critical mass. Impossible.     But the Five Ship Plan had evolved, a joint enterprise of governmentand various private groups. Five vessels were to go out, each fueledto within a whiskered neutron of spontaneous detonation, manned byspecialists who, it was hoped, could maintain themselves under alienconditions.     On Venus the leftover fuel from all five would be transferred towhichever ship had survived the outbound voyage in best condition.That one would return to Earth. Permanent base or homeward voyage withcolonists crowded aboard like defeated sardines? Only time would tell.     Barry Barr had volunteered, and because the enlightened guesses of theexperts called for men and women familiar with tropical conditions,he had survived the rigorous weeding-out process. His duties in VenusColony would be to refabricate the discarded ships into whatever formwas most needed—most particularly a launching ramp—and to studynative Venusian materials.     Dorothy Voorhees had signed on as toxicologist and dietician. When thelimited supply of Earth food ran out the Colony would be forced torely upon Venusian plants and animals. She would guard against subtledelayed-action poisons, meanwhile devising ways of preparing Venusianmaterials to suit Earth tastes and digestions.     Barry had met her at Training Base and known at once that his years ofloneliness had come to an end.     She seemed utterly independent, self-contained, completely intellectualdespite her beauty, but Barry had not been deceived. From the momentof first meeting he had sensed within her deep springs of suppressedemotion, and he had understood. He too had come up the hard way, alone,and been forced to develop a shell of hardness and cold, single-mindeddevotion to his work. Gradually, often unwillingly under hisinsistence, her aloofness had begun to melt.     But Robson Hind too had been attracted. He was the only son of thebusiness manager of the great Hoskins Corporation which carrieda considerable share in the Five Ship Plan. Dorothy's failure tovirtually fall into his arms had only piqued his desires.     The man's smooth charm had fascinated the girl and his money had openedto her an entirely new world of lavish nightclubs and extravagantlyexpensive entertainments, but her inborn shrewdness had sensed somefactor in his personality that had made her hesitate.     Barry had felt a distrust of Hind apart from the normal dislike ofrivalry. He had looked forward to being with Dorothy aboard Three, andhad made no secret of his satisfaction when Hind's efforts to havehimself transferred to Three also or the girl to Four had failed.     But then a scaffold had slipped while Three was being readied, and witha fractured ankle he had been forced to miss the ship.     He unclipped the magnetic detector from his belt and ran it inch byinch over the nozzle. He found one spot of metal, pinhead-sized, butenough to cause trouble, and once more swung his power chisel intostuttering action.     Then it was done.     As quickly as possible he inched back to the airlock. Turnover had tostart according to calculations.  Barry opened his eyes. The ship was in normal deceleration and NickPodtiaguine was watching him from a nearby bunk.     I could eat a cow with the smallpox, Barry declared.     Nick grinned. No doubt. You slept around the clock and more. Nice jobof work out there.     Barry unhitched his straps and sat up.     Say, he asked anxiously. What's haywire with the air?     Nick looked startled. Nothing. Everything checked out when I came offwatch a few minutes ago.     Barry shrugged. Probably just me. Guess I'll go see if I can mooch ahandout.     He found himself a hero. The cook was ready to turn the galley insideout while a radio engineer and an entomologist hovered near to wait onhim. But he couldn't enjoy the meal. The sensations of heat and drynesshe had noticed on awakening grew steadily worse. It became difficult tobreathe.     He started to rise, and abruptly the room swirled and darkened aroundhim. Even as he sank into unconsciousness he knew the answer.     The suit's Kendall-shield had leaked!     Four plunged toward Venus tail first, the Hoskins jets flaring ahead.The single doctor for the Colony had gone out in Two and the crewmentrained in first aid could do little to relieve Barry's distress.Fainting spells alternated with fever and delirium and an unquenchablethirst. His breathing became increasingly difficult.     A few thousand miles out Four picked up a microbeam. A feeling ofexultation surged through the ship as Captain Reno passed the word, forthe beam meant that some Earthmen were alive upon Venus. They were notnecessarily diving straight toward oblivion. Barry, sick as he was,felt the thrill of the unknown world that lay ahead.     Into a miles-thick layer of opacity Four roared, with Captain Renohimself jockeying throttles to keep it balanced on its self-createdsupport of flame.     You're almost in, a voice chanted into his headphones throughcrackling, sizzling static. Easy toward spherical one-thirty. Hold it!Lower. Lower. CUT YOUR POWER!     The heavy hull dropped sickeningly, struck with a mushy thud, settled,steadied.     Barry was weak, but with Nick Podtiaguine steadying him he was waitingwith the others when Captain Reno gave the last order.     Airlock open. Both doors.     Venusian air poured in.     For this I left Panama? one of the men yelped.     Enough to gag a maggot, another agreed with hand to nose.     It was like mid-summer noon in a tropical mangrove swamp, hot andunbearably humid and overpowering with the stench of decayingvegetation.     But Barry took one deep breath, then another. The stabbing needles inhis chest blunted, and the choking band around his throat loosened.     The outer door swung wide. He blinked, and a shift in the encompassingvapors gave him his first sight of a world bathed in subdued light.     Four had landed in a marsh with the midships lock only a few feet abovea quagmire surface still steaming from the final rocket blast. Nearbythe identical hulls of Two and Three stood upright in the mud. Themist shifted again and beyond the swamp he could see the low, roundedoutlines of the collapsible buildings Two and Three had carried intheir cargo pits. They were set on a rock ledge rising a few feet outof the marsh. The Colony!     Men were tossing sections of lattice duckboard out upon the swamp,extending a narrow walkway toward Four's airlock, and within a fewminutes the new arrivals were scrambling down.     Barry paid little attention to the noisy greetings and excited talk.Impatiently he trotted toward the rock ledge, searching for oneparticular figure among the men and women who waited.     Dorothy! he said fervently.     Then his arms were around her and she was responding to his kiss.     Then unexpected pain tore at his chest. Her lovely face took on anexpression of fright even as it wavered and grew dim. The last thing hesaw was Robson Hind looming beside her.     By the glow of an overhead tubelight he recognized the kindly, deeplylined features of the man bending over him. Dr. Carl Jensen, specialistin tropical diseases. He tried to sit up but the doctor laid arestraining hand on his shoulder.     Water! Barry croaked.     The doctor held out a glass. Then his eyes widened incredulously as hispatient deliberately drew in a breath while drinking, sucking waterdirectly into his lungs.     Doctor, he asked, keeping his voice low to spare his throat. Whatare my chances? On the level.     Dr. Jensen shook his head thoughtfully. There's not a thing—not adamned solitary thing—I can do. It's something new to medical science.     Barry lay still.     Your body is undergoing certain radical changes, the doctorcontinued, and you know as much—more about your condition than I do.If a normal person who took water into his lungs that way didn't die ofa coughing spasm, congestive pneumonia would get him sure. But it seemsto give you relief.     Barry scratched his neck, where a thickened, darkening patch on eachside itched infuriatingly.     What are these changes? he asked. What's this?     Those things seem to be— the doctor began hesitantly. Damn it, Iknow it sounds crazy but they're rudimentary gills.     Barry accepted the outrageous statement unemotionally. He was beyondshock.     But there must be—     Pain struck again, so intense his body twisted and archedinvoluntarily. Then the prick of a needle brought merciful oblivion.      II     Barry's mind was working furiously. The changes the Sigma radiationshad inflicted upon his body might reverse themselves spontaneously, Dr.Jensen had mentioned during a second visit—but for that to happen hemust remain alive. That meant easing all possible strains.     When the doctor came in again Barry asked him to find Nick Podtiaguine.Within a few minutes the mechanic appeared.     Cheez, it's good to see you, Barry, he began.     Stuff it, the sick man interrupted. I want favors. Can do?     Nick nodded vigorously.     First cut that air conditioner and get the window open.     Nick stared as though he were demented, but obeyed, unbolting the heavyplastic window panel and lifting it aside. He made a face at the damp,malodorous Venusian air but to Barry it brought relief.     It was not enough, but it indicated he was on the right track. And hewas not an engineer for nothing.     Got a pencil? he asked.     He drew only a rough sketch, for Nick was far too competent to needdetailed drawings.     Think you can get materials?     Nick glanced at the sketch. Hell, man, for you I can get anything theColony has. You saved Four and everybody knows it.     Two days?     Nick looked insulted.     He was back in eight hours, and with him came a dozen helpers. Apower line and water tube were run through the metal partition to thecorridor, connections were made, and the machine Barry had sketched wasready.     Nick flipped the switch. The thing whined shrilly. From a fanshapednozzle came innumerable droplets of water, droplets of colloidal sizethat hung in the air and only slowly coalesced into larger drops thatfell toward the metal floor.     Barry nodded, a smile beginning to spread across his drawn features.     Perfect. Now put the window back.     Outside lay the unknown world of Venus, and an open, unguarded windowmight invite disaster.     A few hours later Dr. Jensen found his patient in a normal sleep. Theroom was warm and the air was so filled with water-mist it was almostliquid. Coalescing drops dripped from the walls and curving ceilingand furniture, from the half clad body of the sleeping man, and thescavenger pump made greedy gulping sounds as it removed excess waterfrom the floor.     The doctor shook his head as he backed out, his clothes clinging wetfrom the short exposure.     It was abnormal.     But so was Barry Barr.     With breathing no longer a continuous agony Barry began to recover someof his strength. But for several days much of his time was spent insleep and Dorothy Voorhees haunted his dreams.     Whenever he closed his eyes he could see her as clearly as thoughshe were with him—her face with the exotic high cheek-bones—hereyes a deep gray in fascinating contrast to her raven hair—lips thatseemed to promise more of giving than she had ever allowed herself tofulfil—her incongruously pert, humorous little nose that was a legacyfrom some venturesome Irishman—her slender yet firmly lithe body.     After a few days Dr. Jensen permitted him to have visitors. They camein a steady stream, the people from Four and men he had not seen sinceTraining Base days, and although none could endure his semi-liquidatmosphere more than a few minutes at a time Barry enjoyed their visits.     But the person for whom he waited most anxiously did not arrive. Ateach knock Barry's heart would leap, and each time he settled back witha sigh of disappointment. Days passed and still Dorothy did not cometo him. He could not go to her, and stubborn pride kept him from eveninquiring. All the while he was aware of Robson Hind's presence in theColony, and only weakness kept him from pacing his room like a cagedanimal.     Through his window he could see nothing but the gradual brighteningand darkening of the enveloping fog as the slow 82-hour Venusian dayprogressed, but from his visitors' words he learned something ofVenusian conditions and the story of the Colony.     Number One had bumbled in on visual, the pilot depending on the smearyimages of infra-sight goggles. An inviting grassy plain had proved tobe a layer of algae floating on quicksand. Frantically the crew hadblasted down huge balsa-like marsh trees, cutting up the trunks withflame guns to make crude rafts. They had performed fantastic feats ofstrength and endurance but managed to salvage only half their equipmentbefore the shining nose of One had vanished in the gurgling ooze.     Lost in a steaming, stinking marsh teeming with alien creatures thatslithered and crawled and swam and flew, blinded by the eternal fog,the crew had proved the rightness of their choice as pioneers. Forweeks they had floundered across the deadly terrain until at last,beside a stagnant-looking slough that drained sluggishly into a warm,almost tideless sea a mile away, they had discovered an outcropping ofrock. It was the only solid ground they had encountered.     One man had died, his swamp suit pierced by a poisonous thorn, but theothers had hand-hauled the radio beacon piece by piece and set it upin time to guide Two to a safe landing. Houses had been assembled, thesecondary power units of the spaceship put to work, and the colony hadestablished a tenuous foothold.     Three had landed beside Two a few months later, bringingreinforcements, but the day-by-day demands of the little colony'sstruggle for survival had so far been too pressing to permit extendedor detailed explorations. Venus remained a planet of unsolved mysteries.     The helicopter brought out in Three had made several flights whichby radar and sound reflection had placed vague outlines on the blankmaps. The surface appeared to be half water, with land masses mainlyjungle-covered swamp broken by a few rocky ledges, but landings awayfrom base had been judged too hazardous.     Test borings from the ledge had located traces of oil and radioactiveminerals, while enough Venusian plants had proven edible to provide anadequate though monotonous food source.     Venus was the diametric opposite of lifeless Mars. Through the foggigantic insects hummed and buzzed like lost airplanes, but fortunatelythey were harmless and timid.     In the swamps wildly improbable life forms grew and reproduced andfought and died, and many of those most harmless in appearancepossessed surprisingly venomous characteristics.     The jungle had been flamed away in a huge circle around the colony tominimize the chances of surprise by anything that might attack, but theblasting was an almost continuous process. The plants of Venus grewwith a vigor approaching fury.     Most spectacular of the Venusian creatures were the amphibious armoredmonsters, saurian or semi-saurians with a slight resemblance to thebrontosauri that had once lived on Earth, massive swamp-dwellers thatused the slough beside the colony's ledge as a highway. They wereapparently vegetarians, but thorough stupidity in tremendous bulk madethem dangerous. One had damaged a building by blundering against it,and since then the colony had remained alert, using weapons to repelthe beasts.     The most important question—that of the presence or absence ofintelligent, civilized Venusians—remained unanswered. Some of the menreported a disquieting feeling of being watched, particularly when nearopen water, but others argued that any intelligent creatures would haveestablished contact.  Barry developed definite external signs of what the Sigma radiation haddone to him. The skin between his fingers and toes spread, grew intomembranous webs. The swellings in his neck became more pronounced anddark parallel lines appeared.     But despite the doctor's pessimistic reports that the changes had notstopped, Barry continued to tell himself he was recovering. He hadto believe and keep on believing to retain sanity in the face of theweird, unclassifiable feelings that surged through his body. Stillhe was subject to fits of almost suicidal depression, and Dorothy'sfailure to visit him did not help his mental condition.     Then one day he woke from a nap and thought he was still dreaming.Dorothy was leaning over him.     Barry! Barry! she whispered. I can't help it. I love you even if youdo have a wife and child in Philadelphia. I know it's wrong but allthat seems so far away it doesn't matter any more. Tears glistened inher eyes.     Huh? he grunted. Who? Me?     Please, Barry, don't lie. She wrote to me before Three blastedoff—oh, the most piteous letter!     Barry was fully awake now. I'm not married. I have no child.I've never been in Philadelphia, he shouted. His lips thinned.I—think—I—know—who—wrote—that—letter! he declared grimly.     Robson wouldn't! she objected, shocked, but there was a note of doubtin her voice.     Then she was in his arms, sobbing openly.     I believe you, Barry.     She stayed with him for hours, and she had changed since the daysat Training Base. Long months away from the patterned restraints ofcivilization, living each day on the edge of unknown perils, hadawakened in her the realization that she was a human being and awoman, as well as a toxicologist.     When the water-mist finally forced her departure she left Barry joyousand confident of his eventual recovery. For a few minutes angersimmered in his brain as he contemplated the pleasure of rearrangingRobson Hind's features.     The accident with the scaffold had been remarkably convenient, butthis time the ruthless, restless, probably psychopathic drive that hadmade Robson Hind more than just another rich man's spoiled son hadcarried him too far. Barry wondered whether it had been inefficiency orjudiciously distributed money that had made the psychometrists overlooksome undesirable traits in Hind's personality in accepting him for theFive Ship Plan.     But even with his trickery Hind had lost.     He slept, and woke with a feeling of doom.     The slow Venusian twilight had ended in blackness and the overheadtubelight was off.     He sat up, and apprehension gave way to burning torture in his chest.     Silence! He fumbled for the light switch, then knelt beside the mistmachine that no longer hummed. Power and water supplies were both dead,cut off outside his room.     Floating droplets were merging and falling to the floor. Soon the airwould be dry, and he would be choking and strangling. He turned to callfor help.     The door was locked!     He tugged and the knob came away in his hand. The retaining screw hadbeen removed.     He beat upon the panel, first with his fists and then with the metaldoorknob, but the insulation between the double alloy sheets wasefficient soundproofing. Furiously he hurled himself upon it, only tobounce back with a bruised shoulder. He was trapped.     Working against time and eventual death he snatched a metal chairand swung with all his force at the window, again, again, yet again.A small crack appeared in the transparent plastic, branched undercontinued hammering, became a rough star. He gathered his waningstrength, then swung once more. The tough plastic shattered.     He tugged at the jagged pieces still clinging to the frame. Fog-ladenVenusian air poured in—but it was not enough!     He dragged himself head first through the narrow opening, landedsprawling on hands and knees in the darkness. In his ears a confusedrustling drone from the alien swamp mingled with the roar ofapproaching unconsciousness.     There was a smell in his nostrils. The smell of water. He lurchedforward at a shambling run, stumbling over the uneven ground.     Then he plunged from the rocky ledge into the slough. Flashes ofcolored light flickered before his eyes as he went under. But Earthhabits were still strong; instinctively he held his breath.     Then he fainted. Voluntary control of his body vanished. His mouth hungslack and the breathing reflex that had been an integral part of hislife since the moment of birth forced him to inhale.     Bubbles floated upward and burst. Then Barry Barr was lying in the oozeof the bottom. And he was breathing, extracting vital oxygen from thebrackish, silt-clouded water.      III     Slowly his racing heartbeat returned to normal. Gradually he becameaware of the stench of decaying plants and of musky taints he knewinstinctively were the scents of underwater animals. Then with a shockthe meaning became clear. He had become a water-breather, cut off fromall other Earthmen, no longer entirely human. His fellows in the colonywere separated from him now by a gulf more absolute than the airlessvoid between Earth and Venus.     Something slippery and alive touched him near one armpit. He openedhis eyes in the black water and his groping hand clutched somethingburrowing into his skin. With a shudder of revulsion he crushed a fatworm between his fingers.     Then dozens of them—hundreds—were upon him from all sides. He waswearing only a pair of khaki pants but the worms ignored his chest tocongregate around his face, intent on attacking the tender skin of hiseyelids.     For a minute his flailing hands fought them off, but they came inincreasing numbers and clung like leeches. Pain spread as they bit andburrowed, and blindly he began to swim.     Faster and faster. He could sense the winding banks of the slough andkept to midchannel, swimming with his eyes tightly closed. One by onethe worms dropped off.     He stopped, opened his eyes, not on complete darkness this time but ona faint blue-green luminescence from far below. The water was saltierhere, and clearer.     He had swum down the slough and out into the ocean. He tried to turnback, obsessed by a desire to be near the colony even though hecould not go ashore without strangling, but he had lost all sense ofdirection.     He was still weak and his lungs were not completely adjusted tounderwater life. Again he grew dizzy and faint. The slow movements ofhands and feet that held him just below the surface grew feeble andceased. He sank.     Down into dimly luminous water he dropped, and with his respiratorysystem completely water-filled there was no sensation of pressure. Atlast he floated gently to the bottom and lay motionless.     Shouting voices awakened him, an exultant battle cry cutting through agasping scream of anguish. Streaks of bright orange light were movingtoward him in a twisting pattern. At the head of each trail was afigure. A human figure that weaved and swam in deadly moving combat.One figure drifted limply bottomward.     Hallucination, Barry told himself. Then one of the figures broke fromthe group. Almost overhead it turned sharply downward and the feetmoved in a powerful flutter-kick. A slender spear aimed directly at theEarthman.     Barry threw himself aside. The spear point plunged deep into thesticky, yielding bottom and Barry grappled with its wielder.     Pointed fingernails raked his cheek. Barry's balled fist swungin a roundhouse blow but water resistance slowed the punch toineffectiveness. The creature only shook its head and came in kickingand clawing.     Barry braced his feet against the bottom and leaped. His head buttedthe attacker's chest and at the same instant he lashed a short jab tothe creature's belly. It slumped momentarily, its face working.     Human—or nearly so—the thing was, with a stocky, powerful body andwebbed hands and feet. A few scraps of clothing, seemingly worn morefor ornament than covering, clung to the fishbelly-white skin. The facewas coarse and savage.     It shook off the effects of Barry's punch and one webbed hand snatcheda short tube from its belt.     Barry remembered the spring-opening knife in his pocket, and even ashe flicked the blade out the tube-weapon fired. Sound thrummed in thewater and the water grew milky with a myriad of bubbles. Somethingzipped past his head, uncomfortably close.     Then Barry struck, felt his knife slice flesh and grate against bone.He struck again even as the undersea being screamed and went limp.     Barry stared through the reddening water.     Another figure plunged toward him. Barry jerked the dead Venusian'sspear from the mud and raised it defensively.     But the figure paid no attention. This one was a female who fleddesperately from two men closing in from opposite sides. One threw hisspear, using an odd pushing motion, and as she checked and dodged, theother was upon her from behind.     One arm went around her neck in a strangler's hold, bending her slenderbody backward. Together captor and struggling captive sank toward thebottom. The other recovered his thrown spear and moved in to helpsecure her arms and legs with lengths of cord.     One scooped up the crossbow the girl had dropped. The other ripped ather brief skirt and from her belt took a pair of tubes like the one thedead Venusian had fired at Barry, handling them as though they wereloot of the greatest value. He jerked cruelly at the slender metallicnecklace the girl wore but it did not break.     He punched the helpless girl in the abdomen with the butt of his spear.The girl writhed but she did not attempt to cry out.     Barry bounded toward them in a series of soaring leaps, knife and spearready. One Venusian turned to meet him, grinning maliciously.     Barry dug one foot into the bottom and sidestepped a spear thrust. Hisown lunge missed completely. Then he and the Venusian were inside eachother's spear points, chest to chest. A pointed hook strapped to theinside of the creature's wrist just missed Barry's throat. The Earthmanarched his body backward and his knife flashed upward. The creaturegasped and pulled away, clutching with both hands at a gaping wound inits belly.     The other one turned too late as Barry leaped.     Barry's hilt cracked against its jawbone.  ","Venus is a hot and muggy planet, most comparable to certain areas of South America. The air is so moist and hot that many of the colonists when arrived felt as though they were melting or wading through a swamp. Much of the planet is covered in swamps and marshes, while only a small portion is made up of solid rock or land. The air teems with buzzing insects and creatures roam the surface of the planet. Large vegetarian Venusian creatures roam solid ground, and, though they aren’t going to eat the humans, their humongous size can make them a danger to have around. Different creatures reside in the swamps and oceans as well. Flesh-eating worms lie deep in the swamps, while humanoid Venusians live out in the open ocean. "
"Who is Robson Hind and what happens to him throughout the story? </s>    THE LOST TRIBES OF VENUS     By ERIK FENNEL       On mist-shrouded Venus, where hostile       swamp meets hostile sea ... there did       Barry Barr—Earthman transmuted—swap       his Terran heritage for the deep dark       waters of Tana; for the strangely       beautiful Xintel of the blue-brown skin.       [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories May 1954.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Evil luck brought the meteorite to those particular space-timecoordinates as Number Four rode the downhill spiral toward Venus. Thefootball-sized chunk of nickel-iron and rock overtook the ship at arelative speed of only a few hundred miles per hour and passed closeenough to come within the tremendous pseudo-gravatic fields of theidling drivers.     It swerved into a paraboloid course, following the flux lines, and wasdragged directly against one of the three projecting nozzles. Energyof motion was converted to heat and a few meteoric fragments fusedthemselves to the nonmetallic tube casing.     In the jet room the positronic line accelerator for that particulardriver fouled under the intolerable overload, and the backsurge sentsearing heat and deadly radiation blasting through the compartmentbefore the main circuit breakers could clack open.     The bellow of the alarm horn brought Barry Barr fully awake, shatteringa delightfully intimate dream of the dark haired girl he hoped to seeagain soon in Venus Colony. As he unbuckled his bunk straps and startedaft at a floating, bounding run his weightlessness told him instantlythat Number Four was in free fall with dead drivers.     Red warning lights gleamed wickedly above the safety-locked jetroom door, and Nick Podtiaguine, the air machines specialist, wasmanipulating the emergency controls with Captain Reno at his elbow. Oneby one the crew crowded into the corridor and watched in tense silence.     The automatic lock clicked off as the jet room returned to habitableconditions, and at Captain Reno's gesture two men swung the door open.Quickly the commander entered the blasted jet room. Barry Barr wasclose behind him.     Robson Hind, jet chief of Four and electronics expert for Venus Colony,hung back until others had gone in first. His handsome, heavy face hadlost its usual ruddiness.     Captain Reno surveyed the havoc. Young Ryan's body floated eerily inthe zero gravity, charred into instant death by the back-blast. Theline accelerator was a shapeless ruin, but except for broken meterglasses and scorched control handles other mechanical damage appearedminor. They had been lucky.     Turnover starts in six hours twelve minutes, the captain saidmeaningfully.     Robson Hind cleared his throat. We can change accelerators in twohours, he declared. With a quick reassumption of authority he began toorder his crew into action.     It took nearer three hours than two to change accelerators despiteHind's shouted orders.     At last the job was completed. Hind made a final check, floated over tothe control panel and started the fuel feed. With a confident smile hethrew in the accelerator switch.     The meter needles climbed, soared past the red lines without pausing,and just in time to prevent a second blowback, Hind cut the power.           There's metal in the field!      His voice was high and unsteady.  Everyone knew what that meant. The slightest trace of magnetic materialwould distort the delicately balanced cylinder of force that containedand directed the Hoskins blast, making it suicidal to operate.     Calmly Captain Reno voiced the thought in every mind.     It must be cleared. From the outside.     Several of the men swore under their breaths. Interplanetary spacewas constantly bombarded, with an intensity inverse to the prevailinggravitation, by something called Sigma radiation. Man had neverencountered it until leaving Earth, and little was known of itexcept that short exposure killed test animals and left their bodiesunpredictably altered.     Inside the ship it was safe enough, for the sleek hull was charged witha Kendall power-shield, impervious to nearly any Sigma concentration.But the shielding devices in the emergency spacesuits were smalland had never been space-tested in a region of nearly equalizedgravitations.     The man who emerged from the airlock would be flipping a coin with aparticularly unpleasant form of death.     Many pairs of eyes turned toward Robson Hind. He was jet chief.     I'm assigned, not expendable, he protested hastily. If there weremore trouble later.... His face was pasty.     Assigned. That was the key word. Barry Barr felt a lump tighteningin his stomach as the eyes shifted to him. He had some training inHoskins drivers. He knew alloys and power tools. And he was riding Fourunassigned after that broken ankle had made him miss Three. He was thelogical man.     For the safety of the ship. That phrase, taken from the ancientEarthbound code of the sea, had occurred repeatedly in theindoctrination manual at Training Base. He remembered it, andremembered further the contingent plans regarding assigned andunassigned personnel.     For a moment he stood indecisively, the nervous, unhumorous smilequirking across his angular face making him look more like an untriedboy than a structural engineer who had fought his way up through someof the toughest tropical construction camps of Earth. His lean body,built more for quick, neatly coordinated action than brute power,balanced handily in the zero gravity as he ran one hand through hissandy hair in a gesture of uncertainty.     He knew that not even the captain would order him through the airlock.     But the members of the Five Ship Plan had been selected in part for asense of responsibility.     Nick, will you help me button up? he asked with forced calmness.     For an instant he thought he detected a sly gleam in Hind's eyes. Butthen the jet chief was pressing forward with the others to shake hishand.     Rebellious reluctance flared briefly in Barry's mind. Dorothy Voorheeshad refused to make a definite promise before blasting off in Three—infact he hadn't even seen her during her last few days on Earth. Butstill he felt he had the inside track despite Hind's money and thebrash assurance that went with it. But if Hind only were to reach Venusalive—  The blazing disc of Sol, the minor globes of the planets, the unwinkingpinpoints of the stars, all stared with cosmic disinterest at the tinyfigure crawling along the hull. His spacesuit trapped and amplifiedbreathing and heartbeats into a roaring chaos that was an invitationto blind panic, and all the while there was consciousness of theinsidiously deadly Sigma radiations.     Barry found the debris of the meteorite, an ugly shining splotchagainst the dull superceramic tube, readied his power chisel, startedcutting. Soon it became a tedious, torturingly strenuous manual taskrequiring little conscious thought, and Barry's mind touched briefly onthe events that had brought him here.     First Luna, and that had been murderous. Man had encountered Sigmafor the first time, and many had died before the Kendall-shield wasperfected. And the chemical-fueled rockets of those days had beeninherently poor.     Hoskins semi-atomics had made possible the next step—to Mars. But menhad found Mars barren, swept clear of all life in the cataclysm thathad shattered the trans-Martian planet to form the Asteroid Belt.     Venus, its true surface forever hidden by enshrouding mists, had beenwell within one-way range. But Hoskins fuel requirements for a roundtrip added up to something beyond critical mass. Impossible.     But the Five Ship Plan had evolved, a joint enterprise of governmentand various private groups. Five vessels were to go out, each fueledto within a whiskered neutron of spontaneous detonation, manned byspecialists who, it was hoped, could maintain themselves under alienconditions.     On Venus the leftover fuel from all five would be transferred towhichever ship had survived the outbound voyage in best condition.That one would return to Earth. Permanent base or homeward voyage withcolonists crowded aboard like defeated sardines? Only time would tell.     Barry Barr had volunteered, and because the enlightened guesses of theexperts called for men and women familiar with tropical conditions,he had survived the rigorous weeding-out process. His duties in VenusColony would be to refabricate the discarded ships into whatever formwas most needed—most particularly a launching ramp—and to studynative Venusian materials.     Dorothy Voorhees had signed on as toxicologist and dietician. When thelimited supply of Earth food ran out the Colony would be forced torely upon Venusian plants and animals. She would guard against subtledelayed-action poisons, meanwhile devising ways of preparing Venusianmaterials to suit Earth tastes and digestions.     Barry had met her at Training Base and known at once that his years ofloneliness had come to an end.     She seemed utterly independent, self-contained, completely intellectualdespite her beauty, but Barry had not been deceived. From the momentof first meeting he had sensed within her deep springs of suppressedemotion, and he had understood. He too had come up the hard way, alone,and been forced to develop a shell of hardness and cold, single-mindeddevotion to his work. Gradually, often unwillingly under hisinsistence, her aloofness had begun to melt.     But Robson Hind too had been attracted. He was the only son of thebusiness manager of the great Hoskins Corporation which carrieda considerable share in the Five Ship Plan. Dorothy's failure tovirtually fall into his arms had only piqued his desires.     The man's smooth charm had fascinated the girl and his money had openedto her an entirely new world of lavish nightclubs and extravagantlyexpensive entertainments, but her inborn shrewdness had sensed somefactor in his personality that had made her hesitate.     Barry had felt a distrust of Hind apart from the normal dislike ofrivalry. He had looked forward to being with Dorothy aboard Three, andhad made no secret of his satisfaction when Hind's efforts to havehimself transferred to Three also or the girl to Four had failed.     But then a scaffold had slipped while Three was being readied, and witha fractured ankle he had been forced to miss the ship.     He unclipped the magnetic detector from his belt and ran it inch byinch over the nozzle. He found one spot of metal, pinhead-sized, butenough to cause trouble, and once more swung his power chisel intostuttering action.     Then it was done.     As quickly as possible he inched back to the airlock. Turnover had tostart according to calculations.  Barry opened his eyes. The ship was in normal deceleration and NickPodtiaguine was watching him from a nearby bunk.     I could eat a cow with the smallpox, Barry declared.     Nick grinned. No doubt. You slept around the clock and more. Nice jobof work out there.     Barry unhitched his straps and sat up.     Say, he asked anxiously. What's haywire with the air?     Nick looked startled. Nothing. Everything checked out when I came offwatch a few minutes ago.     Barry shrugged. Probably just me. Guess I'll go see if I can mooch ahandout.     He found himself a hero. The cook was ready to turn the galley insideout while a radio engineer and an entomologist hovered near to wait onhim. But he couldn't enjoy the meal. The sensations of heat and drynesshe had noticed on awakening grew steadily worse. It became difficult tobreathe.     He started to rise, and abruptly the room swirled and darkened aroundhim. Even as he sank into unconsciousness he knew the answer.     The suit's Kendall-shield had leaked!     Four plunged toward Venus tail first, the Hoskins jets flaring ahead.The single doctor for the Colony had gone out in Two and the crewmentrained in first aid could do little to relieve Barry's distress.Fainting spells alternated with fever and delirium and an unquenchablethirst. His breathing became increasingly difficult.     A few thousand miles out Four picked up a microbeam. A feeling ofexultation surged through the ship as Captain Reno passed the word, forthe beam meant that some Earthmen were alive upon Venus. They were notnecessarily diving straight toward oblivion. Barry, sick as he was,felt the thrill of the unknown world that lay ahead.     Into a miles-thick layer of opacity Four roared, with Captain Renohimself jockeying throttles to keep it balanced on its self-createdsupport of flame.     You're almost in, a voice chanted into his headphones throughcrackling, sizzling static. Easy toward spherical one-thirty. Hold it!Lower. Lower. CUT YOUR POWER!     The heavy hull dropped sickeningly, struck with a mushy thud, settled,steadied.     Barry was weak, but with Nick Podtiaguine steadying him he was waitingwith the others when Captain Reno gave the last order.     Airlock open. Both doors.     Venusian air poured in.     For this I left Panama? one of the men yelped.     Enough to gag a maggot, another agreed with hand to nose.     It was like mid-summer noon in a tropical mangrove swamp, hot andunbearably humid and overpowering with the stench of decayingvegetation.     But Barry took one deep breath, then another. The stabbing needles inhis chest blunted, and the choking band around his throat loosened.     The outer door swung wide. He blinked, and a shift in the encompassingvapors gave him his first sight of a world bathed in subdued light.     Four had landed in a marsh with the midships lock only a few feet abovea quagmire surface still steaming from the final rocket blast. Nearbythe identical hulls of Two and Three stood upright in the mud. Themist shifted again and beyond the swamp he could see the low, roundedoutlines of the collapsible buildings Two and Three had carried intheir cargo pits. They were set on a rock ledge rising a few feet outof the marsh. The Colony!     Men were tossing sections of lattice duckboard out upon the swamp,extending a narrow walkway toward Four's airlock, and within a fewminutes the new arrivals were scrambling down.     Barry paid little attention to the noisy greetings and excited talk.Impatiently he trotted toward the rock ledge, searching for oneparticular figure among the men and women who waited.     Dorothy! he said fervently.     Then his arms were around her and she was responding to his kiss.     Then unexpected pain tore at his chest. Her lovely face took on anexpression of fright even as it wavered and grew dim. The last thing hesaw was Robson Hind looming beside her.     By the glow of an overhead tubelight he recognized the kindly, deeplylined features of the man bending over him. Dr. Carl Jensen, specialistin tropical diseases. He tried to sit up but the doctor laid arestraining hand on his shoulder.     Water! Barry croaked.     The doctor held out a glass. Then his eyes widened incredulously as hispatient deliberately drew in a breath while drinking, sucking waterdirectly into his lungs.     Doctor, he asked, keeping his voice low to spare his throat. Whatare my chances? On the level.     Dr. Jensen shook his head thoughtfully. There's not a thing—not adamned solitary thing—I can do. It's something new to medical science.     Barry lay still.     Your body is undergoing certain radical changes, the doctorcontinued, and you know as much—more about your condition than I do.If a normal person who took water into his lungs that way didn't die ofa coughing spasm, congestive pneumonia would get him sure. But it seemsto give you relief.     Barry scratched his neck, where a thickened, darkening patch on eachside itched infuriatingly.     What are these changes? he asked. What's this?     Those things seem to be— the doctor began hesitantly. Damn it, Iknow it sounds crazy but they're rudimentary gills.     Barry accepted the outrageous statement unemotionally. He was beyondshock.     But there must be—     Pain struck again, so intense his body twisted and archedinvoluntarily. Then the prick of a needle brought merciful oblivion.      II     Barry's mind was working furiously. The changes the Sigma radiationshad inflicted upon his body might reverse themselves spontaneously, Dr.Jensen had mentioned during a second visit—but for that to happen hemust remain alive. That meant easing all possible strains.     When the doctor came in again Barry asked him to find Nick Podtiaguine.Within a few minutes the mechanic appeared.     Cheez, it's good to see you, Barry, he began.     Stuff it, the sick man interrupted. I want favors. Can do?     Nick nodded vigorously.     First cut that air conditioner and get the window open.     Nick stared as though he were demented, but obeyed, unbolting the heavyplastic window panel and lifting it aside. He made a face at the damp,malodorous Venusian air but to Barry it brought relief.     It was not enough, but it indicated he was on the right track. And hewas not an engineer for nothing.     Got a pencil? he asked.     He drew only a rough sketch, for Nick was far too competent to needdetailed drawings.     Think you can get materials?     Nick glanced at the sketch. Hell, man, for you I can get anything theColony has. You saved Four and everybody knows it.     Two days?     Nick looked insulted.     He was back in eight hours, and with him came a dozen helpers. Apower line and water tube were run through the metal partition to thecorridor, connections were made, and the machine Barry had sketched wasready.     Nick flipped the switch. The thing whined shrilly. From a fanshapednozzle came innumerable droplets of water, droplets of colloidal sizethat hung in the air and only slowly coalesced into larger drops thatfell toward the metal floor.     Barry nodded, a smile beginning to spread across his drawn features.     Perfect. Now put the window back.     Outside lay the unknown world of Venus, and an open, unguarded windowmight invite disaster.     A few hours later Dr. Jensen found his patient in a normal sleep. Theroom was warm and the air was so filled with water-mist it was almostliquid. Coalescing drops dripped from the walls and curving ceilingand furniture, from the half clad body of the sleeping man, and thescavenger pump made greedy gulping sounds as it removed excess waterfrom the floor.     The doctor shook his head as he backed out, his clothes clinging wetfrom the short exposure.     It was abnormal.     But so was Barry Barr.     With breathing no longer a continuous agony Barry began to recover someof his strength. But for several days much of his time was spent insleep and Dorothy Voorhees haunted his dreams.     Whenever he closed his eyes he could see her as clearly as thoughshe were with him—her face with the exotic high cheek-bones—hereyes a deep gray in fascinating contrast to her raven hair—lips thatseemed to promise more of giving than she had ever allowed herself tofulfil—her incongruously pert, humorous little nose that was a legacyfrom some venturesome Irishman—her slender yet firmly lithe body.     After a few days Dr. Jensen permitted him to have visitors. They camein a steady stream, the people from Four and men he had not seen sinceTraining Base days, and although none could endure his semi-liquidatmosphere more than a few minutes at a time Barry enjoyed their visits.     But the person for whom he waited most anxiously did not arrive. Ateach knock Barry's heart would leap, and each time he settled back witha sigh of disappointment. Days passed and still Dorothy did not cometo him. He could not go to her, and stubborn pride kept him from eveninquiring. All the while he was aware of Robson Hind's presence in theColony, and only weakness kept him from pacing his room like a cagedanimal.     Through his window he could see nothing but the gradual brighteningand darkening of the enveloping fog as the slow 82-hour Venusian dayprogressed, but from his visitors' words he learned something ofVenusian conditions and the story of the Colony.     Number One had bumbled in on visual, the pilot depending on the smearyimages of infra-sight goggles. An inviting grassy plain had proved tobe a layer of algae floating on quicksand. Frantically the crew hadblasted down huge balsa-like marsh trees, cutting up the trunks withflame guns to make crude rafts. They had performed fantastic feats ofstrength and endurance but managed to salvage only half their equipmentbefore the shining nose of One had vanished in the gurgling ooze.     Lost in a steaming, stinking marsh teeming with alien creatures thatslithered and crawled and swam and flew, blinded by the eternal fog,the crew had proved the rightness of their choice as pioneers. Forweeks they had floundered across the deadly terrain until at last,beside a stagnant-looking slough that drained sluggishly into a warm,almost tideless sea a mile away, they had discovered an outcropping ofrock. It was the only solid ground they had encountered.     One man had died, his swamp suit pierced by a poisonous thorn, but theothers had hand-hauled the radio beacon piece by piece and set it upin time to guide Two to a safe landing. Houses had been assembled, thesecondary power units of the spaceship put to work, and the colony hadestablished a tenuous foothold.     Three had landed beside Two a few months later, bringingreinforcements, but the day-by-day demands of the little colony'sstruggle for survival had so far been too pressing to permit extendedor detailed explorations. Venus remained a planet of unsolved mysteries.     The helicopter brought out in Three had made several flights whichby radar and sound reflection had placed vague outlines on the blankmaps. The surface appeared to be half water, with land masses mainlyjungle-covered swamp broken by a few rocky ledges, but landings awayfrom base had been judged too hazardous.     Test borings from the ledge had located traces of oil and radioactiveminerals, while enough Venusian plants had proven edible to provide anadequate though monotonous food source.     Venus was the diametric opposite of lifeless Mars. Through the foggigantic insects hummed and buzzed like lost airplanes, but fortunatelythey were harmless and timid.     In the swamps wildly improbable life forms grew and reproduced andfought and died, and many of those most harmless in appearancepossessed surprisingly venomous characteristics.     The jungle had been flamed away in a huge circle around the colony tominimize the chances of surprise by anything that might attack, but theblasting was an almost continuous process. The plants of Venus grewwith a vigor approaching fury.     Most spectacular of the Venusian creatures were the amphibious armoredmonsters, saurian or semi-saurians with a slight resemblance to thebrontosauri that had once lived on Earth, massive swamp-dwellers thatused the slough beside the colony's ledge as a highway. They wereapparently vegetarians, but thorough stupidity in tremendous bulk madethem dangerous. One had damaged a building by blundering against it,and since then the colony had remained alert, using weapons to repelthe beasts.     The most important question—that of the presence or absence ofintelligent, civilized Venusians—remained unanswered. Some of the menreported a disquieting feeling of being watched, particularly when nearopen water, but others argued that any intelligent creatures would haveestablished contact.  Barry developed definite external signs of what the Sigma radiation haddone to him. The skin between his fingers and toes spread, grew intomembranous webs. The swellings in his neck became more pronounced anddark parallel lines appeared.     But despite the doctor's pessimistic reports that the changes had notstopped, Barry continued to tell himself he was recovering. He hadto believe and keep on believing to retain sanity in the face of theweird, unclassifiable feelings that surged through his body. Stillhe was subject to fits of almost suicidal depression, and Dorothy'sfailure to visit him did not help his mental condition.     Then one day he woke from a nap and thought he was still dreaming.Dorothy was leaning over him.     Barry! Barry! she whispered. I can't help it. I love you even if youdo have a wife and child in Philadelphia. I know it's wrong but allthat seems so far away it doesn't matter any more. Tears glistened inher eyes.     Huh? he grunted. Who? Me?     Please, Barry, don't lie. She wrote to me before Three blastedoff—oh, the most piteous letter!     Barry was fully awake now. I'm not married. I have no child.I've never been in Philadelphia, he shouted. His lips thinned.I—think—I—know—who—wrote—that—letter! he declared grimly.     Robson wouldn't! she objected, shocked, but there was a note of doubtin her voice.     Then she was in his arms, sobbing openly.     I believe you, Barry.     She stayed with him for hours, and she had changed since the daysat Training Base. Long months away from the patterned restraints ofcivilization, living each day on the edge of unknown perils, hadawakened in her the realization that she was a human being and awoman, as well as a toxicologist.     When the water-mist finally forced her departure she left Barry joyousand confident of his eventual recovery. For a few minutes angersimmered in his brain as he contemplated the pleasure of rearrangingRobson Hind's features.     The accident with the scaffold had been remarkably convenient, butthis time the ruthless, restless, probably psychopathic drive that hadmade Robson Hind more than just another rich man's spoiled son hadcarried him too far. Barry wondered whether it had been inefficiency orjudiciously distributed money that had made the psychometrists overlooksome undesirable traits in Hind's personality in accepting him for theFive Ship Plan.     But even with his trickery Hind had lost.     He slept, and woke with a feeling of doom.     The slow Venusian twilight had ended in blackness and the overheadtubelight was off.     He sat up, and apprehension gave way to burning torture in his chest.     Silence! He fumbled for the light switch, then knelt beside the mistmachine that no longer hummed. Power and water supplies were both dead,cut off outside his room.     Floating droplets were merging and falling to the floor. Soon the airwould be dry, and he would be choking and strangling. He turned to callfor help.     The door was locked!     He tugged and the knob came away in his hand. The retaining screw hadbeen removed.     He beat upon the panel, first with his fists and then with the metaldoorknob, but the insulation between the double alloy sheets wasefficient soundproofing. Furiously he hurled himself upon it, only tobounce back with a bruised shoulder. He was trapped.     Working against time and eventual death he snatched a metal chairand swung with all his force at the window, again, again, yet again.A small crack appeared in the transparent plastic, branched undercontinued hammering, became a rough star. He gathered his waningstrength, then swung once more. The tough plastic shattered.     He tugged at the jagged pieces still clinging to the frame. Fog-ladenVenusian air poured in—but it was not enough!     He dragged himself head first through the narrow opening, landedsprawling on hands and knees in the darkness. In his ears a confusedrustling drone from the alien swamp mingled with the roar ofapproaching unconsciousness.     There was a smell in his nostrils. The smell of water. He lurchedforward at a shambling run, stumbling over the uneven ground.     Then he plunged from the rocky ledge into the slough. Flashes ofcolored light flickered before his eyes as he went under. But Earthhabits were still strong; instinctively he held his breath.     Then he fainted. Voluntary control of his body vanished. His mouth hungslack and the breathing reflex that had been an integral part of hislife since the moment of birth forced him to inhale.     Bubbles floated upward and burst. Then Barry Barr was lying in the oozeof the bottom. And he was breathing, extracting vital oxygen from thebrackish, silt-clouded water.      III     Slowly his racing heartbeat returned to normal. Gradually he becameaware of the stench of decaying plants and of musky taints he knewinstinctively were the scents of underwater animals. Then with a shockthe meaning became clear. He had become a water-breather, cut off fromall other Earthmen, no longer entirely human. His fellows in the colonywere separated from him now by a gulf more absolute than the airlessvoid between Earth and Venus.     Something slippery and alive touched him near one armpit. He openedhis eyes in the black water and his groping hand clutched somethingburrowing into his skin. With a shudder of revulsion he crushed a fatworm between his fingers.     Then dozens of them—hundreds—were upon him from all sides. He waswearing only a pair of khaki pants but the worms ignored his chest tocongregate around his face, intent on attacking the tender skin of hiseyelids.     For a minute his flailing hands fought them off, but they came inincreasing numbers and clung like leeches. Pain spread as they bit andburrowed, and blindly he began to swim.     Faster and faster. He could sense the winding banks of the slough andkept to midchannel, swimming with his eyes tightly closed. One by onethe worms dropped off.     He stopped, opened his eyes, not on complete darkness this time but ona faint blue-green luminescence from far below. The water was saltierhere, and clearer.     He had swum down the slough and out into the ocean. He tried to turnback, obsessed by a desire to be near the colony even though hecould not go ashore without strangling, but he had lost all sense ofdirection.     He was still weak and his lungs were not completely adjusted tounderwater life. Again he grew dizzy and faint. The slow movements ofhands and feet that held him just below the surface grew feeble andceased. He sank.     Down into dimly luminous water he dropped, and with his respiratorysystem completely water-filled there was no sensation of pressure. Atlast he floated gently to the bottom and lay motionless.     Shouting voices awakened him, an exultant battle cry cutting through agasping scream of anguish. Streaks of bright orange light were movingtoward him in a twisting pattern. At the head of each trail was afigure. A human figure that weaved and swam in deadly moving combat.One figure drifted limply bottomward.     Hallucination, Barry told himself. Then one of the figures broke fromthe group. Almost overhead it turned sharply downward and the feetmoved in a powerful flutter-kick. A slender spear aimed directly at theEarthman.     Barry threw himself aside. The spear point plunged deep into thesticky, yielding bottom and Barry grappled with its wielder.     Pointed fingernails raked his cheek. Barry's balled fist swungin a roundhouse blow but water resistance slowed the punch toineffectiveness. The creature only shook its head and came in kickingand clawing.     Barry braced his feet against the bottom and leaped. His head buttedthe attacker's chest and at the same instant he lashed a short jab tothe creature's belly. It slumped momentarily, its face working.     Human—or nearly so—the thing was, with a stocky, powerful body andwebbed hands and feet. A few scraps of clothing, seemingly worn morefor ornament than covering, clung to the fishbelly-white skin. The facewas coarse and savage.     It shook off the effects of Barry's punch and one webbed hand snatcheda short tube from its belt.     Barry remembered the spring-opening knife in his pocket, and even ashe flicked the blade out the tube-weapon fired. Sound thrummed in thewater and the water grew milky with a myriad of bubbles. Somethingzipped past his head, uncomfortably close.     Then Barry struck, felt his knife slice flesh and grate against bone.He struck again even as the undersea being screamed and went limp.     Barry stared through the reddening water.     Another figure plunged toward him. Barry jerked the dead Venusian'sspear from the mud and raised it defensively.     But the figure paid no attention. This one was a female who fleddesperately from two men closing in from opposite sides. One threw hisspear, using an odd pushing motion, and as she checked and dodged, theother was upon her from behind.     One arm went around her neck in a strangler's hold, bending her slenderbody backward. Together captor and struggling captive sank toward thebottom. The other recovered his thrown spear and moved in to helpsecure her arms and legs with lengths of cord.     One scooped up the crossbow the girl had dropped. The other ripped ather brief skirt and from her belt took a pair of tubes like the one thedead Venusian had fired at Barry, handling them as though they wereloot of the greatest value. He jerked cruelly at the slender metallicnecklace the girl wore but it did not break.     He punched the helpless girl in the abdomen with the butt of his spear.The girl writhed but she did not attempt to cry out.     Barry bounded toward them in a series of soaring leaps, knife and spearready. One Venusian turned to meet him, grinning maliciously.     Barry dug one foot into the bottom and sidestepped a spear thrust. Hisown lunge missed completely. Then he and the Venusian were inside eachother's spear points, chest to chest. A pointed hook strapped to theinside of the creature's wrist just missed Barry's throat. The Earthmanarched his body backward and his knife flashed upward. The creaturegasped and pulled away, clutching with both hands at a gaping wound inits belly.     The other one turned too late as Barry leaped.     Barry's hilt cracked against its jawbone.  ","Robson Hind is a very wealthy man and jet chief of Number Four. The son of the manager of Hoskins Corporation, Hind was basically guaranteed a spot in the Five Ship Plan. Just like Barry Barr, he was instantly attracted to Dorothy Voorhees and her jet-black hair, high cheekbones, and intelligence. Before their ships take off, Hind conspires to join her on Number Three or transfer her to Number Four. However, his scheme eventually fails. Before Three lifts off, he sends Dorothy a letter pretending to be Barry’s imaginary wife from Philadelphia, asking her to stay away from him so his wife and children can still have him. This works for a time in keeping Dorothy away from Barry. Once again, however, Hind’s scheme ultimately fails once they arrive on Venus and Dorothy is near Barry again. While on Number Four, Hind refuses to exit the spaceship to work on the meteor shards, citing his assigned status. When Barry volunteers, Hind is secretly happy, almost as if he wants him out of the picture for good. After their arrival on Venus, Dorothy stays away from Barry for a time, but eventually runs into his hospital room and embraces him. She discovers that Hind’s letter was a lie and rushes into Barry’s arms for good. Presumably, once Hind discovered this, he dismantled Barry’s life-saving moisture machine and locked him in the room to die. "
"Describe the Five Ship Plan. </s>    THE LOST TRIBES OF VENUS     By ERIK FENNEL       On mist-shrouded Venus, where hostile       swamp meets hostile sea ... there did       Barry Barr—Earthman transmuted—swap       his Terran heritage for the deep dark       waters of Tana; for the strangely       beautiful Xintel of the blue-brown skin.       [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories May 1954.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Evil luck brought the meteorite to those particular space-timecoordinates as Number Four rode the downhill spiral toward Venus. Thefootball-sized chunk of nickel-iron and rock overtook the ship at arelative speed of only a few hundred miles per hour and passed closeenough to come within the tremendous pseudo-gravatic fields of theidling drivers.     It swerved into a paraboloid course, following the flux lines, and wasdragged directly against one of the three projecting nozzles. Energyof motion was converted to heat and a few meteoric fragments fusedthemselves to the nonmetallic tube casing.     In the jet room the positronic line accelerator for that particulardriver fouled under the intolerable overload, and the backsurge sentsearing heat and deadly radiation blasting through the compartmentbefore the main circuit breakers could clack open.     The bellow of the alarm horn brought Barry Barr fully awake, shatteringa delightfully intimate dream of the dark haired girl he hoped to seeagain soon in Venus Colony. As he unbuckled his bunk straps and startedaft at a floating, bounding run his weightlessness told him instantlythat Number Four was in free fall with dead drivers.     Red warning lights gleamed wickedly above the safety-locked jetroom door, and Nick Podtiaguine, the air machines specialist, wasmanipulating the emergency controls with Captain Reno at his elbow. Oneby one the crew crowded into the corridor and watched in tense silence.     The automatic lock clicked off as the jet room returned to habitableconditions, and at Captain Reno's gesture two men swung the door open.Quickly the commander entered the blasted jet room. Barry Barr wasclose behind him.     Robson Hind, jet chief of Four and electronics expert for Venus Colony,hung back until others had gone in first. His handsome, heavy face hadlost its usual ruddiness.     Captain Reno surveyed the havoc. Young Ryan's body floated eerily inthe zero gravity, charred into instant death by the back-blast. Theline accelerator was a shapeless ruin, but except for broken meterglasses and scorched control handles other mechanical damage appearedminor. They had been lucky.     Turnover starts in six hours twelve minutes, the captain saidmeaningfully.     Robson Hind cleared his throat. We can change accelerators in twohours, he declared. With a quick reassumption of authority he began toorder his crew into action.     It took nearer three hours than two to change accelerators despiteHind's shouted orders.     At last the job was completed. Hind made a final check, floated over tothe control panel and started the fuel feed. With a confident smile hethrew in the accelerator switch.     The meter needles climbed, soared past the red lines without pausing,and just in time to prevent a second blowback, Hind cut the power.           There's metal in the field!      His voice was high and unsteady.  Everyone knew what that meant. The slightest trace of magnetic materialwould distort the delicately balanced cylinder of force that containedand directed the Hoskins blast, making it suicidal to operate.     Calmly Captain Reno voiced the thought in every mind.     It must be cleared. From the outside.     Several of the men swore under their breaths. Interplanetary spacewas constantly bombarded, with an intensity inverse to the prevailinggravitation, by something called Sigma radiation. Man had neverencountered it until leaving Earth, and little was known of itexcept that short exposure killed test animals and left their bodiesunpredictably altered.     Inside the ship it was safe enough, for the sleek hull was charged witha Kendall power-shield, impervious to nearly any Sigma concentration.But the shielding devices in the emergency spacesuits were smalland had never been space-tested in a region of nearly equalizedgravitations.     The man who emerged from the airlock would be flipping a coin with aparticularly unpleasant form of death.     Many pairs of eyes turned toward Robson Hind. He was jet chief.     I'm assigned, not expendable, he protested hastily. If there weremore trouble later.... His face was pasty.     Assigned. That was the key word. Barry Barr felt a lump tighteningin his stomach as the eyes shifted to him. He had some training inHoskins drivers. He knew alloys and power tools. And he was riding Fourunassigned after that broken ankle had made him miss Three. He was thelogical man.     For the safety of the ship. That phrase, taken from the ancientEarthbound code of the sea, had occurred repeatedly in theindoctrination manual at Training Base. He remembered it, andremembered further the contingent plans regarding assigned andunassigned personnel.     For a moment he stood indecisively, the nervous, unhumorous smilequirking across his angular face making him look more like an untriedboy than a structural engineer who had fought his way up through someof the toughest tropical construction camps of Earth. His lean body,built more for quick, neatly coordinated action than brute power,balanced handily in the zero gravity as he ran one hand through hissandy hair in a gesture of uncertainty.     He knew that not even the captain would order him through the airlock.     But the members of the Five Ship Plan had been selected in part for asense of responsibility.     Nick, will you help me button up? he asked with forced calmness.     For an instant he thought he detected a sly gleam in Hind's eyes. Butthen the jet chief was pressing forward with the others to shake hishand.     Rebellious reluctance flared briefly in Barry's mind. Dorothy Voorheeshad refused to make a definite promise before blasting off in Three—infact he hadn't even seen her during her last few days on Earth. Butstill he felt he had the inside track despite Hind's money and thebrash assurance that went with it. But if Hind only were to reach Venusalive—  The blazing disc of Sol, the minor globes of the planets, the unwinkingpinpoints of the stars, all stared with cosmic disinterest at the tinyfigure crawling along the hull. His spacesuit trapped and amplifiedbreathing and heartbeats into a roaring chaos that was an invitationto blind panic, and all the while there was consciousness of theinsidiously deadly Sigma radiations.     Barry found the debris of the meteorite, an ugly shining splotchagainst the dull superceramic tube, readied his power chisel, startedcutting. Soon it became a tedious, torturingly strenuous manual taskrequiring little conscious thought, and Barry's mind touched briefly onthe events that had brought him here.     First Luna, and that had been murderous. Man had encountered Sigmafor the first time, and many had died before the Kendall-shield wasperfected. And the chemical-fueled rockets of those days had beeninherently poor.     Hoskins semi-atomics had made possible the next step—to Mars. But menhad found Mars barren, swept clear of all life in the cataclysm thathad shattered the trans-Martian planet to form the Asteroid Belt.     Venus, its true surface forever hidden by enshrouding mists, had beenwell within one-way range. But Hoskins fuel requirements for a roundtrip added up to something beyond critical mass. Impossible.     But the Five Ship Plan had evolved, a joint enterprise of governmentand various private groups. Five vessels were to go out, each fueledto within a whiskered neutron of spontaneous detonation, manned byspecialists who, it was hoped, could maintain themselves under alienconditions.     On Venus the leftover fuel from all five would be transferred towhichever ship had survived the outbound voyage in best condition.That one would return to Earth. Permanent base or homeward voyage withcolonists crowded aboard like defeated sardines? Only time would tell.     Barry Barr had volunteered, and because the enlightened guesses of theexperts called for men and women familiar with tropical conditions,he had survived the rigorous weeding-out process. His duties in VenusColony would be to refabricate the discarded ships into whatever formwas most needed—most particularly a launching ramp—and to studynative Venusian materials.     Dorothy Voorhees had signed on as toxicologist and dietician. When thelimited supply of Earth food ran out the Colony would be forced torely upon Venusian plants and animals. She would guard against subtledelayed-action poisons, meanwhile devising ways of preparing Venusianmaterials to suit Earth tastes and digestions.     Barry had met her at Training Base and known at once that his years ofloneliness had come to an end.     She seemed utterly independent, self-contained, completely intellectualdespite her beauty, but Barry had not been deceived. From the momentof first meeting he had sensed within her deep springs of suppressedemotion, and he had understood. He too had come up the hard way, alone,and been forced to develop a shell of hardness and cold, single-mindeddevotion to his work. Gradually, often unwillingly under hisinsistence, her aloofness had begun to melt.     But Robson Hind too had been attracted. He was the only son of thebusiness manager of the great Hoskins Corporation which carrieda considerable share in the Five Ship Plan. Dorothy's failure tovirtually fall into his arms had only piqued his desires.     The man's smooth charm had fascinated the girl and his money had openedto her an entirely new world of lavish nightclubs and extravagantlyexpensive entertainments, but her inborn shrewdness had sensed somefactor in his personality that had made her hesitate.     Barry had felt a distrust of Hind apart from the normal dislike ofrivalry. He had looked forward to being with Dorothy aboard Three, andhad made no secret of his satisfaction when Hind's efforts to havehimself transferred to Three also or the girl to Four had failed.     But then a scaffold had slipped while Three was being readied, and witha fractured ankle he had been forced to miss the ship.     He unclipped the magnetic detector from his belt and ran it inch byinch over the nozzle. He found one spot of metal, pinhead-sized, butenough to cause trouble, and once more swung his power chisel intostuttering action.     Then it was done.     As quickly as possible he inched back to the airlock. Turnover had tostart according to calculations.  Barry opened his eyes. The ship was in normal deceleration and NickPodtiaguine was watching him from a nearby bunk.     I could eat a cow with the smallpox, Barry declared.     Nick grinned. No doubt. You slept around the clock and more. Nice jobof work out there.     Barry unhitched his straps and sat up.     Say, he asked anxiously. What's haywire with the air?     Nick looked startled. Nothing. Everything checked out when I came offwatch a few minutes ago.     Barry shrugged. Probably just me. Guess I'll go see if I can mooch ahandout.     He found himself a hero. The cook was ready to turn the galley insideout while a radio engineer and an entomologist hovered near to wait onhim. But he couldn't enjoy the meal. The sensations of heat and drynesshe had noticed on awakening grew steadily worse. It became difficult tobreathe.     He started to rise, and abruptly the room swirled and darkened aroundhim. Even as he sank into unconsciousness he knew the answer.     The suit's Kendall-shield had leaked!     Four plunged toward Venus tail first, the Hoskins jets flaring ahead.The single doctor for the Colony had gone out in Two and the crewmentrained in first aid could do little to relieve Barry's distress.Fainting spells alternated with fever and delirium and an unquenchablethirst. His breathing became increasingly difficult.     A few thousand miles out Four picked up a microbeam. A feeling ofexultation surged through the ship as Captain Reno passed the word, forthe beam meant that some Earthmen were alive upon Venus. They were notnecessarily diving straight toward oblivion. Barry, sick as he was,felt the thrill of the unknown world that lay ahead.     Into a miles-thick layer of opacity Four roared, with Captain Renohimself jockeying throttles to keep it balanced on its self-createdsupport of flame.     You're almost in, a voice chanted into his headphones throughcrackling, sizzling static. Easy toward spherical one-thirty. Hold it!Lower. Lower. CUT YOUR POWER!     The heavy hull dropped sickeningly, struck with a mushy thud, settled,steadied.     Barry was weak, but with Nick Podtiaguine steadying him he was waitingwith the others when Captain Reno gave the last order.     Airlock open. Both doors.     Venusian air poured in.     For this I left Panama? one of the men yelped.     Enough to gag a maggot, another agreed with hand to nose.     It was like mid-summer noon in a tropical mangrove swamp, hot andunbearably humid and overpowering with the stench of decayingvegetation.     But Barry took one deep breath, then another. The stabbing needles inhis chest blunted, and the choking band around his throat loosened.     The outer door swung wide. He blinked, and a shift in the encompassingvapors gave him his first sight of a world bathed in subdued light.     Four had landed in a marsh with the midships lock only a few feet abovea quagmire surface still steaming from the final rocket blast. Nearbythe identical hulls of Two and Three stood upright in the mud. Themist shifted again and beyond the swamp he could see the low, roundedoutlines of the collapsible buildings Two and Three had carried intheir cargo pits. They were set on a rock ledge rising a few feet outof the marsh. The Colony!     Men were tossing sections of lattice duckboard out upon the swamp,extending a narrow walkway toward Four's airlock, and within a fewminutes the new arrivals were scrambling down.     Barry paid little attention to the noisy greetings and excited talk.Impatiently he trotted toward the rock ledge, searching for oneparticular figure among the men and women who waited.     Dorothy! he said fervently.     Then his arms were around her and she was responding to his kiss.     Then unexpected pain tore at his chest. Her lovely face took on anexpression of fright even as it wavered and grew dim. The last thing hesaw was Robson Hind looming beside her.     By the glow of an overhead tubelight he recognized the kindly, deeplylined features of the man bending over him. Dr. Carl Jensen, specialistin tropical diseases. He tried to sit up but the doctor laid arestraining hand on his shoulder.     Water! Barry croaked.     The doctor held out a glass. Then his eyes widened incredulously as hispatient deliberately drew in a breath while drinking, sucking waterdirectly into his lungs.     Doctor, he asked, keeping his voice low to spare his throat. Whatare my chances? On the level.     Dr. Jensen shook his head thoughtfully. There's not a thing—not adamned solitary thing—I can do. It's something new to medical science.     Barry lay still.     Your body is undergoing certain radical changes, the doctorcontinued, and you know as much—more about your condition than I do.If a normal person who took water into his lungs that way didn't die ofa coughing spasm, congestive pneumonia would get him sure. But it seemsto give you relief.     Barry scratched his neck, where a thickened, darkening patch on eachside itched infuriatingly.     What are these changes? he asked. What's this?     Those things seem to be— the doctor began hesitantly. Damn it, Iknow it sounds crazy but they're rudimentary gills.     Barry accepted the outrageous statement unemotionally. He was beyondshock.     But there must be—     Pain struck again, so intense his body twisted and archedinvoluntarily. Then the prick of a needle brought merciful oblivion.      II     Barry's mind was working furiously. The changes the Sigma radiationshad inflicted upon his body might reverse themselves spontaneously, Dr.Jensen had mentioned during a second visit—but for that to happen hemust remain alive. That meant easing all possible strains.     When the doctor came in again Barry asked him to find Nick Podtiaguine.Within a few minutes the mechanic appeared.     Cheez, it's good to see you, Barry, he began.     Stuff it, the sick man interrupted. I want favors. Can do?     Nick nodded vigorously.     First cut that air conditioner and get the window open.     Nick stared as though he were demented, but obeyed, unbolting the heavyplastic window panel and lifting it aside. He made a face at the damp,malodorous Venusian air but to Barry it brought relief.     It was not enough, but it indicated he was on the right track. And hewas not an engineer for nothing.     Got a pencil? he asked.     He drew only a rough sketch, for Nick was far too competent to needdetailed drawings.     Think you can get materials?     Nick glanced at the sketch. Hell, man, for you I can get anything theColony has. You saved Four and everybody knows it.     Two days?     Nick looked insulted.     He was back in eight hours, and with him came a dozen helpers. Apower line and water tube were run through the metal partition to thecorridor, connections were made, and the machine Barry had sketched wasready.     Nick flipped the switch. The thing whined shrilly. From a fanshapednozzle came innumerable droplets of water, droplets of colloidal sizethat hung in the air and only slowly coalesced into larger drops thatfell toward the metal floor.     Barry nodded, a smile beginning to spread across his drawn features.     Perfect. Now put the window back.     Outside lay the unknown world of Venus, and an open, unguarded windowmight invite disaster.     A few hours later Dr. Jensen found his patient in a normal sleep. Theroom was warm and the air was so filled with water-mist it was almostliquid. Coalescing drops dripped from the walls and curving ceilingand furniture, from the half clad body of the sleeping man, and thescavenger pump made greedy gulping sounds as it removed excess waterfrom the floor.     The doctor shook his head as he backed out, his clothes clinging wetfrom the short exposure.     It was abnormal.     But so was Barry Barr.     With breathing no longer a continuous agony Barry began to recover someof his strength. But for several days much of his time was spent insleep and Dorothy Voorhees haunted his dreams.     Whenever he closed his eyes he could see her as clearly as thoughshe were with him—her face with the exotic high cheek-bones—hereyes a deep gray in fascinating contrast to her raven hair—lips thatseemed to promise more of giving than she had ever allowed herself tofulfil—her incongruously pert, humorous little nose that was a legacyfrom some venturesome Irishman—her slender yet firmly lithe body.     After a few days Dr. Jensen permitted him to have visitors. They camein a steady stream, the people from Four and men he had not seen sinceTraining Base days, and although none could endure his semi-liquidatmosphere more than a few minutes at a time Barry enjoyed their visits.     But the person for whom he waited most anxiously did not arrive. Ateach knock Barry's heart would leap, and each time he settled back witha sigh of disappointment. Days passed and still Dorothy did not cometo him. He could not go to her, and stubborn pride kept him from eveninquiring. All the while he was aware of Robson Hind's presence in theColony, and only weakness kept him from pacing his room like a cagedanimal.     Through his window he could see nothing but the gradual brighteningand darkening of the enveloping fog as the slow 82-hour Venusian dayprogressed, but from his visitors' words he learned something ofVenusian conditions and the story of the Colony.     Number One had bumbled in on visual, the pilot depending on the smearyimages of infra-sight goggles. An inviting grassy plain had proved tobe a layer of algae floating on quicksand. Frantically the crew hadblasted down huge balsa-like marsh trees, cutting up the trunks withflame guns to make crude rafts. They had performed fantastic feats ofstrength and endurance but managed to salvage only half their equipmentbefore the shining nose of One had vanished in the gurgling ooze.     Lost in a steaming, stinking marsh teeming with alien creatures thatslithered and crawled and swam and flew, blinded by the eternal fog,the crew had proved the rightness of their choice as pioneers. Forweeks they had floundered across the deadly terrain until at last,beside a stagnant-looking slough that drained sluggishly into a warm,almost tideless sea a mile away, they had discovered an outcropping ofrock. It was the only solid ground they had encountered.     One man had died, his swamp suit pierced by a poisonous thorn, but theothers had hand-hauled the radio beacon piece by piece and set it upin time to guide Two to a safe landing. Houses had been assembled, thesecondary power units of the spaceship put to work, and the colony hadestablished a tenuous foothold.     Three had landed beside Two a few months later, bringingreinforcements, but the day-by-day demands of the little colony'sstruggle for survival had so far been too pressing to permit extendedor detailed explorations. Venus remained a planet of unsolved mysteries.     The helicopter brought out in Three had made several flights whichby radar and sound reflection had placed vague outlines on the blankmaps. The surface appeared to be half water, with land masses mainlyjungle-covered swamp broken by a few rocky ledges, but landings awayfrom base had been judged too hazardous.     Test borings from the ledge had located traces of oil and radioactiveminerals, while enough Venusian plants had proven edible to provide anadequate though monotonous food source.     Venus was the diametric opposite of lifeless Mars. Through the foggigantic insects hummed and buzzed like lost airplanes, but fortunatelythey were harmless and timid.     In the swamps wildly improbable life forms grew and reproduced andfought and died, and many of those most harmless in appearancepossessed surprisingly venomous characteristics.     The jungle had been flamed away in a huge circle around the colony tominimize the chances of surprise by anything that might attack, but theblasting was an almost continuous process. The plants of Venus grewwith a vigor approaching fury.     Most spectacular of the Venusian creatures were the amphibious armoredmonsters, saurian or semi-saurians with a slight resemblance to thebrontosauri that had once lived on Earth, massive swamp-dwellers thatused the slough beside the colony's ledge as a highway. They wereapparently vegetarians, but thorough stupidity in tremendous bulk madethem dangerous. One had damaged a building by blundering against it,and since then the colony had remained alert, using weapons to repelthe beasts.     The most important question—that of the presence or absence ofintelligent, civilized Venusians—remained unanswered. Some of the menreported a disquieting feeling of being watched, particularly when nearopen water, but others argued that any intelligent creatures would haveestablished contact.  Barry developed definite external signs of what the Sigma radiation haddone to him. The skin between his fingers and toes spread, grew intomembranous webs. The swellings in his neck became more pronounced anddark parallel lines appeared.     But despite the doctor's pessimistic reports that the changes had notstopped, Barry continued to tell himself he was recovering. He hadto believe and keep on believing to retain sanity in the face of theweird, unclassifiable feelings that surged through his body. Stillhe was subject to fits of almost suicidal depression, and Dorothy'sfailure to visit him did not help his mental condition.     Then one day he woke from a nap and thought he was still dreaming.Dorothy was leaning over him.     Barry! Barry! she whispered. I can't help it. I love you even if youdo have a wife and child in Philadelphia. I know it's wrong but allthat seems so far away it doesn't matter any more. Tears glistened inher eyes.     Huh? he grunted. Who? Me?     Please, Barry, don't lie. She wrote to me before Three blastedoff—oh, the most piteous letter!     Barry was fully awake now. I'm not married. I have no child.I've never been in Philadelphia, he shouted. His lips thinned.I—think—I—know—who—wrote—that—letter! he declared grimly.     Robson wouldn't! she objected, shocked, but there was a note of doubtin her voice.     Then she was in his arms, sobbing openly.     I believe you, Barry.     She stayed with him for hours, and she had changed since the daysat Training Base. Long months away from the patterned restraints ofcivilization, living each day on the edge of unknown perils, hadawakened in her the realization that she was a human being and awoman, as well as a toxicologist.     When the water-mist finally forced her departure she left Barry joyousand confident of his eventual recovery. For a few minutes angersimmered in his brain as he contemplated the pleasure of rearrangingRobson Hind's features.     The accident with the scaffold had been remarkably convenient, butthis time the ruthless, restless, probably psychopathic drive that hadmade Robson Hind more than just another rich man's spoiled son hadcarried him too far. Barry wondered whether it had been inefficiency orjudiciously distributed money that had made the psychometrists overlooksome undesirable traits in Hind's personality in accepting him for theFive Ship Plan.     But even with his trickery Hind had lost.     He slept, and woke with a feeling of doom.     The slow Venusian twilight had ended in blackness and the overheadtubelight was off.     He sat up, and apprehension gave way to burning torture in his chest.     Silence! He fumbled for the light switch, then knelt beside the mistmachine that no longer hummed. Power and water supplies were both dead,cut off outside his room.     Floating droplets were merging and falling to the floor. Soon the airwould be dry, and he would be choking and strangling. He turned to callfor help.     The door was locked!     He tugged and the knob came away in his hand. The retaining screw hadbeen removed.     He beat upon the panel, first with his fists and then with the metaldoorknob, but the insulation between the double alloy sheets wasefficient soundproofing. Furiously he hurled himself upon it, only tobounce back with a bruised shoulder. He was trapped.     Working against time and eventual death he snatched a metal chairand swung with all his force at the window, again, again, yet again.A small crack appeared in the transparent plastic, branched undercontinued hammering, became a rough star. He gathered his waningstrength, then swung once more. The tough plastic shattered.     He tugged at the jagged pieces still clinging to the frame. Fog-ladenVenusian air poured in—but it was not enough!     He dragged himself head first through the narrow opening, landedsprawling on hands and knees in the darkness. In his ears a confusedrustling drone from the alien swamp mingled with the roar ofapproaching unconsciousness.     There was a smell in his nostrils. The smell of water. He lurchedforward at a shambling run, stumbling over the uneven ground.     Then he plunged from the rocky ledge into the slough. Flashes ofcolored light flickered before his eyes as he went under. But Earthhabits were still strong; instinctively he held his breath.     Then he fainted. Voluntary control of his body vanished. His mouth hungslack and the breathing reflex that had been an integral part of hislife since the moment of birth forced him to inhale.     Bubbles floated upward and burst. Then Barry Barr was lying in the oozeof the bottom. And he was breathing, extracting vital oxygen from thebrackish, silt-clouded water.      III     Slowly his racing heartbeat returned to normal. Gradually he becameaware of the stench of decaying plants and of musky taints he knewinstinctively were the scents of underwater animals. Then with a shockthe meaning became clear. He had become a water-breather, cut off fromall other Earthmen, no longer entirely human. His fellows in the colonywere separated from him now by a gulf more absolute than the airlessvoid between Earth and Venus.     Something slippery and alive touched him near one armpit. He openedhis eyes in the black water and his groping hand clutched somethingburrowing into his skin. With a shudder of revulsion he crushed a fatworm between his fingers.     Then dozens of them—hundreds—were upon him from all sides. He waswearing only a pair of khaki pants but the worms ignored his chest tocongregate around his face, intent on attacking the tender skin of hiseyelids.     For a minute his flailing hands fought them off, but they came inincreasing numbers and clung like leeches. Pain spread as they bit andburrowed, and blindly he began to swim.     Faster and faster. He could sense the winding banks of the slough andkept to midchannel, swimming with his eyes tightly closed. One by onethe worms dropped off.     He stopped, opened his eyes, not on complete darkness this time but ona faint blue-green luminescence from far below. The water was saltierhere, and clearer.     He had swum down the slough and out into the ocean. He tried to turnback, obsessed by a desire to be near the colony even though hecould not go ashore without strangling, but he had lost all sense ofdirection.     He was still weak and his lungs were not completely adjusted tounderwater life. Again he grew dizzy and faint. The slow movements ofhands and feet that held him just below the surface grew feeble andceased. He sank.     Down into dimly luminous water he dropped, and with his respiratorysystem completely water-filled there was no sensation of pressure. Atlast he floated gently to the bottom and lay motionless.     Shouting voices awakened him, an exultant battle cry cutting through agasping scream of anguish. Streaks of bright orange light were movingtoward him in a twisting pattern. At the head of each trail was afigure. A human figure that weaved and swam in deadly moving combat.One figure drifted limply bottomward.     Hallucination, Barry told himself. Then one of the figures broke fromthe group. Almost overhead it turned sharply downward and the feetmoved in a powerful flutter-kick. A slender spear aimed directly at theEarthman.     Barry threw himself aside. The spear point plunged deep into thesticky, yielding bottom and Barry grappled with its wielder.     Pointed fingernails raked his cheek. Barry's balled fist swungin a roundhouse blow but water resistance slowed the punch toineffectiveness. The creature only shook its head and came in kickingand clawing.     Barry braced his feet against the bottom and leaped. His head buttedthe attacker's chest and at the same instant he lashed a short jab tothe creature's belly. It slumped momentarily, its face working.     Human—or nearly so—the thing was, with a stocky, powerful body andwebbed hands and feet. A few scraps of clothing, seemingly worn morefor ornament than covering, clung to the fishbelly-white skin. The facewas coarse and savage.     It shook off the effects of Barry's punch and one webbed hand snatcheda short tube from its belt.     Barry remembered the spring-opening knife in his pocket, and even ashe flicked the blade out the tube-weapon fired. Sound thrummed in thewater and the water grew milky with a myriad of bubbles. Somethingzipped past his head, uncomfortably close.     Then Barry struck, felt his knife slice flesh and grate against bone.He struck again even as the undersea being screamed and went limp.     Barry stared through the reddening water.     Another figure plunged toward him. Barry jerked the dead Venusian'sspear from the mud and raised it defensively.     But the figure paid no attention. This one was a female who fleddesperately from two men closing in from opposite sides. One threw hisspear, using an odd pushing motion, and as she checked and dodged, theother was upon her from behind.     One arm went around her neck in a strangler's hold, bending her slenderbody backward. Together captor and struggling captive sank toward thebottom. The other recovered his thrown spear and moved in to helpsecure her arms and legs with lengths of cord.     One scooped up the crossbow the girl had dropped. The other ripped ather brief skirt and from her belt took a pair of tubes like the one thedead Venusian had fired at Barry, handling them as though they wereloot of the greatest value. He jerked cruelly at the slender metallicnecklace the girl wore but it did not break.     He punched the helpless girl in the abdomen with the butt of his spear.The girl writhed but she did not attempt to cry out.     Barry bounded toward them in a series of soaring leaps, knife and spearready. One Venusian turned to meet him, grinning maliciously.     Barry dug one foot into the bottom and sidestepped a spear thrust. Hisown lunge missed completely. Then he and the Venusian were inside eachother's spear points, chest to chest. A pointed hook strapped to theinside of the creature's wrist just missed Barry's throat. The Earthmanarched his body backward and his knife flashed upward. The creaturegasped and pulled away, clutching with both hands at a gaping wound inits belly.     The other one turned too late as Barry leaped.     Barry's hilt cracked against its jawbone.  ","After discovering Mars and the moon, humanity decided to conquer yet another planet: Venus. However, Venus was too far away to safely carry the amount of fuel needed for a round trip mission. So, the Five Ship Plan evolved. Five rockets were to fly to Venus at separate intervals. Those who landed first would build a colony to live in and welcome the others to the surface of the planet. Once all five had arrived, they would figure out which ship was in the best shape and transfer all remaining fuel to that one. The colonists would head back home if Venus was completely uninhabitable, or remain on the planet for the time being, living out their lives on the colony. "
"What is the plot of the story? </s>       MASTER       of Life and Death       by     ROBERT SILVERBERG     ACE BOOKS     A Division of A. A. Wyn, Inc.     23 West 47th Street, New York 36, N. Y.     MASTER OF LIFE AND DEATH     Copyright 1957, by A. A. Wyn, Inc.     All Rights Reserved     For Antigone—     Who Thinks We're Property     Printed in U.S.A.     [Transcriber's Note: Extensive research did not uncover any     evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      THE MAN WHO RATIONED BABIES     By the 23rd century Earth's population had reached seven billion.Mankind was in danger of perishing for lack of elbow room—unlessprompt measures were taken. Roy Walton had the power to enforce thosemeasures. But though his job was in the service of humanity, he soonfound himself the most hated man in the world.     For it was      his     job to tell parents their children were unfit to live;      he     had to uproot people from their homes and send them to remoteareas of the world. Now, threatened by mobs of outraged citizens,denounced and blackened by the press, Roy Walton had to make adecision: resign his post, or use his power to destroy his enemies,become a dictator in the hopes of saving humanity from its own folly.In other words, should he become the MASTER OF LIFE AND DEATH?      CAST OF CHARACTERS     ROY WALTON     He had to adopt the motto—      the ends justify the means     .     FITZMAUGHAM     His reward for devoted service was—an assassin's bullet.     FRED WALTON     His ambition was to fill his brother's shoes—but he underestimatedtheir size.     LEE PERCY     His specialty was sugarcoating bitter pills.     PRIOR     With the pen as his only weapon, could he save his son?     DR. LAMARRE     He died for discovering the secret of immortality.      Contents      I     The offices of the Bureau of Population Equalization, vulgarly knownas Popeek, were located on the twentieth through twenty-ninth floorsof the Cullen Building, a hundred-story monstrosity typical oftwenty-second-century neo-Victorian at its overdecorated worst. RoyWalton, Popeek's assistant administrator, had to apologize to himselfeach morning as he entered the hideous place.     Since taking the job, he had managed to redecorate his own office—onthe twenty-eighth floor, immediately below Director FitzMaugham's—butthat had created only one minor oasis in the esthetically repugnantbuilding. It couldn't be helped, though; Popeek was unpopular, thoughnecessary; and, like the public hangman of some centuries earlier, theBureau did not rate attractive quarters.     So Walton had removed some of the iridescent chrome scalloping thattrimmed the walls, replaced the sash windows with opaquers, and changedthe massive ceiling fixture to more subtle electroluminescents. But themark of the last century was stamped irrevocably on both building andoffice.     Which was as it should be, Walton had finally realized. It was the lastcentury's foolishness that had made Popeek necessary, after all.     His desk was piled high with reports, and more kept arriving viapneumochute every minute. The job of assistant administrator wasa thankless one, he thought; as much responsibility as DirectorFitzMaugham, and half the pay.     He lifted a report from one eyebrow-high stack, smoothed the crinklypaper carefully, and read it.     It was a despatch from Horrocks, the Popeek agent currently on duty inPatagonia. It was dated      4 June 2232     , six days before, and after along and rambling prologue in the usual Horrocks manner it went on tosay,      Population density remains low here: 17.3 per square mile, farbelow optimum. Looks like a prime candidate for equalization.       Walton agreed. He reached for his voicewrite and said sharply, Memofrom Assistant Administrator Walton, re equalization of ... He paused,picking a trouble-spot at random, ... central Belgium. Will thesection chief in charge of this area please consider the advisabilityof transferring population excess to fertile areas in Patagonia?Recommendation: establishment of industries in latter region, to easetransition.     He shut his eyes, dug his thumbs into them until bright flares of lightshot across his eyeballs, and refused to let himself be bothered bythe multiple problems involved in dumping several hundred thousandBelgians into Patagonia. He forced himself to cling to one of DirectorFitzMaugham's oft-repeated maxims,      If you want to stay sane, think ofthese people as pawns in a chess game—not as human beings.       Walton sighed. This was the biggest chess problem in the history ofhumanity, and the way it looked now, all the solutions led to checkmatein a century or less. They could keep equalizing population only solong, shifting like loggers riding logs in a rushing river, beforetrouble came.     There was another matter to be attended to now. He picked up thevoicewrite again. Memo from the assistant administrator, reestablishment of new policy on reports from local agents: hire a staffof three clever girls to make a précis of each report, eliminatingirrelevant data.     It was a basic step, one that should have been taken long ago. Now,with three feet of reports stacked on his desk, it was mandatory. Oneof the troubles with Popeek was its newness; it had been established sosuddenly that most of its procedures were still in the formative stage.     He took another report from the heap. This one was the data sheet ofthe Zurich Euthanasia Center, and he gave it a cursory scanning. Duringthe past week, eleven substandard children and twenty-three substandardadults had been sent on to Happysleep.     That was the grimmest form of population equalization. Walton initialedthe report, earmarked it for files, and dumped it in the pneumochute.     The annunciator chimed.     I'm busy, Walton said immediately.     There's a Mr. Prior to see you, the annunciator's calm voice said.He insists it's an emergency.     Tell Mr. Prior I can't see anyone for at least three hours. Waltonstared gloomily at the growing pile of paper on his desk. Tell him hecan have ten minutes with me at—oh, say, 1300.     Walton heard an angry male voice muttering something in the outeroffice, and then the annunciator said, He insists he must see youimmediately in reference to a Happysleep commitment.     Commitments are irrevocable, Walton said heavily. The last thing inthe world he wanted was to see a man whose child or parent had justbeen committed. Tell Mr. Prior I can't see him at all.     Walton found his fingers trembling; he clamped them tight to the edgeof his desk to steady himself. It was all right sitting up here in thisugly building and initialing commitment papers, but actually to      see     one of those people and try to convince him of the need—     The door burst open.     A tall, dark-haired man in an open jacket came rushing through andpaused dramatically just over the threshold. Immediately behind himcame three unsmiling men in the gray silk-sheen uniforms of security.They carried drawn needlers.     Are you Administrator Walton? the big man asked, in an astonishinglydeep, rich voice. I have to see you. I'm Lyle Prior.     The three security men caught up and swarmed all over Prior. One ofthem turned apologetically to Walton. We're terribly sorry about this,sir. He just broke away and ran. We can't understand how he got inhere, but he did.     Ah—yes. So I noticed, Walton remarked drily. See if he's planningto assassinate anybody, will you?     Administrator Walton! Prior protested. I'm a man of peace! How canyou accuse me of—     One of the security men hit him. Walton stiffened and resisted the urgeto reprimand the man. He was only doing his job, after all.     Search him, Walton said.     They gave Prior an efficient going-over. He's clean, Mr. Walton.Should we take him to security, or downstairs to health?     Neither. Leave him here with me.     Are you sure you—     Get out of here, Walton snapped. As the three security men slinkedaway, he added, And figure out some more efficient system forprotecting me. Some day an assassin is going to sneak through hereand get me. Not that I give a damn about myself, you understand; it'ssimply that I'm indispensable. There isn't another lunatic in the worldwho'd take this job. Now      get out     !     They wasted no time in leaving. Walton waited until the door closedand jammed down hard on the lockstud. His tirade, he knew, was whollyunjustified; if he had remembered to lock his door as regulationsprescribed, Prior would never have broken in. But he couldn't admitthat to the guards.     Take a seat, Mr. Prior.     I have to thank you for granting me this audience, Prior said,without a hint of sarcasm in his booming voice. I realize you're aterribly busy man.     I am. Another three inches of paper had deposited itself on Walton'sdesk since Prior had entered. You're very lucky to have hit thepsychological moment for your entrance. At any other time I'd havehad you brigged for a month, but just now I'm in need of a littlediversion. Besides, I very much admire your work, Mr. Prior.     Thank you. Again that humility, startling in so big and commanding aman. I hadn't expected to find—I mean that you—     That a bureaucrat should admire poetry? Is that what you're gropingfor?     Prior reddened. Yes, he admitted.     Grinning, Walton said, I have to do      something     when I go home atnight. I don't really read Popeek reports twenty-four hours a day. Nomore than twenty; that's my rule. I thought your last book was quiteremarkable.     The critics didn't, Prior said diffidently.     Critics! What do they know? Walton demanded. They swing in cycles.Ten years ago it was form and technique, and you got the Melling Prize.Now it's message, political content that counts. That's not poetry, Mr.Prior—and there are still a few of us who recognize what poetry is.Take Yeats, for instance—     Walton was ready to launch into a discussion of every poet from Priorback to Surrey and Wyatt; anything to keep from the job at hand,anything to keep his mind from Popeek. But Prior interrupted him.     Mr. Walton....     Yes?     My son Philip ... he's two weeks old now....     Walton understood. No, Prior. Please don't ask. Walton's skin feltcold; his hands, tightly clenched, were clammy.     He was committed to Happysleep this morning—potentially tubercular.The boy's perfectly sound, Mr. Walton. Couldn't you—     Walton rose.       No     , he said, half-commanding, half-pleading. Don'task me to do it. I can't make any exceptions, not even for you. You'rean intelligent man; you understand our program.     I voted for Popeek. I know all about Weeding the Garden and theEuthanasia Plan. But I hadn't expected—     You thought euthanasia was a fine thing for      other     people. So dideveryone else, Walton said. That's how the act was passed. Tenderlyhe said, I can't do it. I can't spare your son. Our doctors give ababy every chance to live.           I     was tubercular. They cured me. What if they had practicedeuthanasia a generation ago? Where would my poems be now?     It was an unanswerable question; Walton tried to ignore it.Tuberculosis is an extremely rare disease, Mr. Prior. We can wipeit out completely if we strike at those with TB-susceptible genetictraits.     Meaning you'll kill any children I have? Prior asked.     Those who inherit your condition, Walton said gently. Go home, Mr.Prior. Burn me in effigy. Write a poem about me. But don't ask me to dothe impossible. I can't catch any falling stars for you.     Prior rose. He was immense, a hulking tragic figure staring broodinglyat Walton. For the first time since the poet's abrupt entry, Waltonfeared violence. His fingers groped for the needle gun he kept in hisupper left desk drawer.     But Prior had no violence in him. I'll leave you, he said somberly.I'm sorry, sir. Deeply sorry. For both of us.     Walton pressed the doorlock to let him out, then locked it again andslipped heavily into his chair. Three more reports slid out of thechute and landed on his desk. He stared at them as if they were threebasilisks.     In the six weeks of Popeek's existence, three thousand babies had beenticketed for Happysleep, and three thousand sets of degenerate geneshad been wiped from the race. Ten thousand subnormal males had beensterilized. Eight thousand dying oldsters had reached their gravesahead of time.     It was a tough-minded program. But why transmit palsy to unborngenerations? Why let an adult idiot litter the world with subnormalprogeny? Why force a man hopelessly cancerous to linger on in pain,consuming precious food?     Unpleasant? Sure. But the world had voted for it. Until Lang and histeam succeeded in terraforming Venus, or until the faster-than-lightoutfit opened the stars to mankind, something had to be done aboutEarth's overpopulation. There were seven billion now and the figure wasstill growing.     Prior's words haunted him.      I was tubercular ... where would my poemsbe now?       The big humble man was one of the great poets. Keats had beentubercular too.       What good are poets?     he asked himself savagely.     The reply came swiftly:      What good is anything, then?     Keats,Shakespeare, Eliot, Yeats, Donne, Pound, Matthews ... and Prior. Howmuch duller life would be without them, Walton thought, picturinghis bookshelf—his one bookshelf, in his crowded little cubicle of aone-room home.     Sweat poured down his back as he groped toward his decision.     The step he was considering would disqualify him from his job if headmitted it, though he wouldn't do that. Under the Equalization Law, itwould be a criminal act.     But just one baby wouldn't matter. Just one.     Prior's baby.     With nervous fingers he switched on the annunciator and said, If thereare any calls for me, take the message. I'll be out of my office forthe next half-hour.      II     He stepped out of the office, glancing around furtively. The outeroffice was busy: half a dozen girls were answering calls, openingletters, coordinating activities. Walton slipped quickly past them intothe hallway.     There was a knot of fear in his stomach as he turned toward thelift tube. Six weeks of pressure, six weeks of tension since Popeekwas organized and old man FitzMaugham had tapped him for thesecond-in-command post ... and now, a rebellion. The sparing of asingle child was a small rebellion, true, but he knew he was strikingas effectively at the base of Popeek this way as if he had broughtabout repeal of the entire Equalization Law.     Well, just one lapse, he promised himself. I'll spare Prior's child,and after that I'll keep within the law.     He jabbed the lift tube indicator and the tube rose in its shaft. Theclinic was on the twentieth floor.     Roy.     At the sound of the quiet voice behind him, Walton jumped in surprise.He steadied himself, forcing himself to turn slowly. The director stoodthere.     Good morning, Mr. FitzMaugham.     The old man was smiling serenely, his unlined face warm and friendly,his mop of white hair bright and full. You look preoccupied, boy.Something the matter?     Walton shook his head quickly. Just a little tired, sir. There's beena lot of work lately.     As he said it, he knew how foolish it sounded. If anyone in Popeekworked harder than he did, it was the elderly director. FitzMaughamhad striven for equalization legislature for fifty years, and now, atthe age of eighty, he put in a sixteen-hour day at the task of savingmankind from itself.     The director smiled. You never did learn how to budget your strength,Roy. You'll be a worn-out wreck before you're half my age. I'm gladyou're adopting my habit of taking a coffee break in the morning,though. Mind if I join you?     I'm—not taking a break, sir. I have some work to do downstairs.     Oh? Can't you take care of it by phone?     No, Mr. FitzMaugham. Walton felt as though he'd already been tried,drawn, and quartered. It requires personal attention.     I see. The deep, warm eyes bored into his. You ought to slow down alittle, I think.     Yes, sir. As soon as the work eases up a little.     FitzMaugham chuckled. In another century or two, you mean. I'm afraidyou'll never learn how to relax, my boy.     The lift tube arrived. Walton stepped to one side, allowed the Directorto enter, and got in himself. FitzMaugham pushed      Fourteen     ; there wasa coffee shop down there. Hesitantly, Walton pushed      twenty     , coveringthe panel with his arm so the old man would be unable to see hisdestination.     As the tube began to descend, FitzMaugham said, Did Mr. Prior come tosee you this morning?     Yes, Walton said.     He's the poet, isn't he? The one you say is so good?     That's right, sir, Walton said tightly.     He came to see me first, but I had him referred down to you. What wason his mind?     Walton hesitated. He—he wanted his son spared from Happysleep.Naturally, I had to turn him down.     Naturally, FitzMaugham agreed solemnly. Once we make even oneexception, the whole framework crumbles.     Of course, sir.     The lift tube halted and rocked on its suspension. The door slid back,revealing a neat, gleaming sign:       FLOOR 20        Euthanasia Clinic and Files       Walton had forgotten the accursed sign. He began to wish he had avoidedtraveling down with the director. He felt that his purpose must seemnakedly obvious now.     The old man's eyes were twinkling amusedly. I guess you get off here,he said. I hope you catch up with your work soon, Roy. You reallyshould take some time off for relaxation each day.     I'll try, sir.     Walton stepped out of the tube and returned FitzMaugham's smile as thedoor closed again. Bitter thoughts assailed him as soon as he was alone.       Some fine criminal you are. You've given the show away already! Anddamn that smooth paternal smile. FitzMaugham knows! He must know!       Walton wavered, then abruptly made his decision. He sucked in a deepbreath and walked briskly toward the big room where the euthanasiafiles were kept.  The room was large, as rooms went nowadays—thirty by twenty, with deckupon deck of Donnerson micro-memory-tubes racked along one wall and abank of microfilm records along the other. In six weeks of life Popeekhad piled up an impressive collection of data.     While he stood there, the computer chattered, lights flashed. New factspoured into the memory banks. It probably went on day and night.     Can I help—oh, it's you, Mr. Walton, a white-smocked techniciansaid. Popeek employed a small army of technicians, each one facelessand without personality, but always ready to serve. Is there anythingI can do?     I'm simply running a routine checkup. Mind if I use the machine?     Not at all, sir. Go right ahead.     Walton grinned lightly and stepped forward. The technician practicallybacked out of his presence.       No doubt I must radiate charisma     , he thought. Within the building hewore a sort of luminous halo, by virtue of being Director FitzMaugham'sprotégé and second-in-command. Outside, in the colder reality of thecrowded metropolis, he kept his identity and Popeek rank quietly tohimself.     Frowning, he tried to remember the Prior boy's name. Ah ... Philip,wasn't it? He punched out a request for the card on Philip Prior.     A moment's pause followed, while the millions of tiny cryotroniccircuits raced with information pulses, searching the Donnersontubes for Philip Prior's record. Then, a brief squeaking sound and ayellow-brown card dropped out of the slot:       3216847AB1         PRIOR, Philip Hugh. Born 31 May 2232, New York General Hospital, NewYork. First son of Prior, Lyle Martin and Prior, Ava Leonard. Wgt. atbirth 5lb. 3oz.       An elaborate description of the boy in great detail followed, endingwith blood type, agglutinating characteristic, and gene-pattern,codified. Walton skipped impatiently through that and came to thenotification typed in curt, impersonal green capital letters at thebottom of the card:       EXAMINED AT N Y EUTH CLINIC 10 JUNE 2332        EUTHANASIA RECOMMENDED       He glanced at his watch: the time was 1026. The boy was probably stillsomewhere in the clinic lab, waiting for the figurative axe to descend.     Walton had set up the schedule himself: the gas chamber deliveredHappysleep each day at 1100 and 1500. He had about half an hour to savePhilip Prior.     He peered covertly over his shoulder; no one was in sight. He slippedthe baby's card into his breast pocket.     That done, he typed out a requisition for explanation of thegene-sorting code the clinic used. Symbols began pouring forth,and Walton puzzledly correlated them with the line of gibberish onPhillip Prior's record card. Finally he found the one he wanted:      3f2,tubercular-prone     .     He scrapped the guide sheet he had and typed out a message to themachine.      Revision of card number 3216847AB1 follows. Please alter inall circuits.       He proceeded to retype the child's card, omitting both the fatal symbol      3f2     and the notation recommending euthanasia from the new version.The machine beeped an acknowledgement. Walton smiled. So far, so good.     Then, he requested the boy's file all over again. After the customarypause, a card numbered 3216847AB1 dropped out of the slot. He read it.     The deletions had been made. As far as the machine was concerned,Philip Prior was a normal, healthy baby.     He glanced at his watch. 1037. Still twenty-three minutes before thismorning's haul of unfortunates was put away.     Now came the real test: could he pry the baby away from the doctorswithout attracting too much attention to himself in the process?  Five doctors were bustling back and forth as Walton entered the mainsection of the clinic. There must have been a hundred babies there,each in a little pen of its own, and the doctors were humming from oneto the next, while anxious parents watched from screens above.     The Equalization Law provided that every child be presented at itslocal clinic within two weeks of birth, for an examination and acertificate. Perhaps one in ten thousand would be denied acertificate ... and life.     Hello, Mr. Walton. What brings you down here?     Walton smiled affably. Just a routine investigation, Doctor. I try tokeep in touch with every department we have, you know.     Mr. FitzMaugham was down here to look around a little while ago. We'rereally getting a going-over today, Mr. Walton!     Umm. Yes. Walton didn't like that, but there was nothing he coulddo about it. He'd have to rely on the old man's abiding faith in hisprotégé to pull him out of any possible stickiness that arose.     Seen my brother around? he asked.     Fred? He's working in room seven, running analyses. Want me to get himfor you, Mr. Walton?     No—no, don't bother him, thanks. I'll find him later. Inwardly,Walton felt relieved. Fred Walton, his younger brother, was a doctor inthe employ of Popeek. Little love was lost between the brothers, andRoy did not care to have Fred know he was down there.     Strolling casually through the clinic, he peered at a few plump,squalling babies, and said, Find many sour ones today?     Seven so far. They're scheduled for the 1100 chamber. Three tuberc,two blind, one congenital syph.     That only makes six, Walton said.     Oh, and a spastic, the doctor said. Biggest haul we've had yet.Seven in one morning.     Have any trouble with the parents?     What do you think? the doctor asked. But some of them seemed tounderstand. One of the tuberculars nearly raised the roof, though.     Walton shuddered. You remember his name? he asked, with feigned calm.     Silence for a moment. No. Darned if I can think of it. I can look itup for you if you like.     Don't bother, Walton said hurriedly.     He moved on, down the winding corridor that led to the executionchamber. Falbrough, the executioner, was studying a list of names athis desk when Walton appeared.     Falbrough didn't look like the sort of man who would enjoy his work. Hewas short and plump, with a high-domed bald head and glittering contactlenses in his weak blue eyes. Morning, Mr. Walton.     Good morning, Doctor Falbrough. You'll be operating soon, won't you?     Eleven hundred, as usual.     Good. There's a new regulation in effect from now on, Walton said.To keep public opinion on our side.     Sir?     Henceforth, until further notice, you're to check each baby thatcomes to you against the main file, just to make sure there's been nomistake. Got that?           Mistake?     But how—     Never mind that, Falbrough. There was quite a tragic slip-up at oneof the European centers yesterday. We may all hang for it if news getsout.      How glibly I reel this stuff off     , Walton thought in amazement.     Falbrough looked grave. I see, sir. Of course. We'll double-checkeverything from now on.     Good. Begin with the 1100 batch.     Walton couldn't bear to remain down in the clinic any longer. He leftvia a side exit, and signaled for a lift tube.     Minutes later he was back in his office, behind the security of atowering stack of work. His pulse was racing; his throat was dry. Heremembered what FitzMaugham had said:      Once we make even one exception,the whole framework crumbles.       Well, the framework had begun crumbling, then. And there was littledoubt in Walton's mind that FitzMaugham knew or would soon know what hehad done. He would have to cover his traces, somehow.     The annunciator chimed and said, Dr. Falbrough of Happysleep callingyou, sir.     Put him on.     The screen lit and Falbrough's face appeared; its normal blandness hadgiven way to wild-eyed tenseness.     What is it, Doctor?     It's a good thing you issued that order when you did, sir! You'llnever guess what just happened—     No guessing games, Falbrough. Speak up.     I—well, sir, I ran checks on the seven babies they sent me thismorning. And guess—I mean—well, one of them shouldn't have been sentto me!     No!     It's the truth, sir. A cute little baby indeed. I've got his cardright here. The boy's name is Philip Prior, and his gene-pattern isfine.     Any recommendation for euthanasia on the card? Walton asked.     No, sir.     Walton chewed at a ragged cuticle for a moment, counterfeiting greatanxiety. Falbrough, we're going to have to keep this very quiet.Someone slipped up in the examining room, and if word gets out thatthere's been as much as one mistake, we'll have a mob swarming over usin half an hour.     Yes, sir. Falbrough looked terribly grave. What should I do, sir?     Don't say a word about this to      anyone     , not even the men in theexamining room. Fill out a certificate for the boy, find his parents,apologize and return him to them. And make sure you keep checking forany future cases of this sort.     Certainly, sir. Is that all?     It is, Walton said crisply, and broke the contact. He took a deepbreath and stared bleakly at the far wall.     The Prior boy was safe. And in the eyes of the law—the EqualizationLaw—Roy Walton was now a criminal. He was every bit as much a criminalas the man who tried to hide his dying father from the investigators,or the anxious parents who attempted to bribe an examining doctor.     He felt curiously dirty. And, now that he had betrayed FitzMaugham andthe Cause, now that it was done, he had little idea why he had doneit, why he had jeopardized the Popeek program, his position—his life,even—for the sake of one potentially tubercular baby.     Well, the thing was done.     No. Not quite. Later, when things had quieted down, he would have tofinish the job by transferring all the men in the clinic to distantplaces and by obliterating the computer's memories of this morning'sactivities.     The annunciator chimed again. Your brother is on the wire, sir.     Walton trembled imperceptibly as he said, Put him on. Somehow, Frednever called unless he could say or do something unpleasant. AndWalton was very much afraid that his brother meant no good by thiscall. No good at all.      III     Roy Walton watched his brother's head and shoulders take form out ofthe swirl of colors on the screen. Fred Walton was more compact, builtcloser to the ground than his rangy brother; he was a squat five-seven,next to Roy's lean six-two. Fred had always threatened to get evenwith his older brother as soon as they were the same size, but toFred's great dismay he had never managed to catch up with Roy in height.     Even on the screen, Fred's neck and shoulders gave an impression oftremendous solidity and force. Walton waited for his brother's image totake shape, and when the time lag was over he said, Well, Fred? Whatgoes?     His brother's eyes flickered sleepily. They tell me you were down herea little while ago, Roy. How come I didn't rate a visit?     I wasn't in your section. It was official business, anyway. I didn'thave time.     Walton fixed his eyes sharply on the caduceus emblem gleaming on Fred'slapel, and refused to look anywhere else.     Fred said slowly, You had time to tinker with our computer, though.     Official business!     Really, Roy? His brother's tone was venomous. I happened tobe using the computer shortly after you this morning. I wascurious—unpardonably so, dear brother. I requested a transcript ofyour conversation with the machine.     Sparks seemed to flow from the screen. Walton sat back, feeling numb.He managed to pull his sagging mouth back into a stiff hard line andsay, That's a criminal offense, Fred. Any use I make of a Popeekcomputer outlet is confidential.     Criminal offence? Maybe so ... but that makes two of us, then. Eh,Roy?     How much do you know?     You wouldn't want me to recite it over a public communications system,would you? Your friend FitzMaugham might be listening to every word ofthis, and I have too much fraternal feeling for that. Ole Doc Waltondoesn't want to get his bigwig big brother in trouble—oh, no!     Thanks for small blessings, Roy said acidly.     You got me this job. You can take it away. Let's call it even for now,shall we?     Anything you like, Walton said. He was drenched in sweat, thoughthe ingenious executive filter in the sending apparatus of the screencloaked that fact and presented him as neat and fresh. I have somework to do now. His voice was barely audible.     I won't keep you any longer, then, Fred said.     The screen went dead.     Walton killed the contact at his end, got up, walked to the window. Henudged the opaquer control and the frosty white haze over the glasscleared away, revealing the fantastic beehive of the city outside.       Idiot!     he thought.      Fool!       He had risked everything to save one baby, one child probably doomedto an early death anyway. And FitzMaugham knew—the old man could seethrough Walton with ease—and Fred knew, too. His brother, and hisfather-substitute.     FitzMaugham might well choose to conceal Roy's defection this time,but would surely place less trust in him in the future. And as forFred....     There was no telling what Fred might do. They had never beenparticularly close as brothers; they had lived with their parents (nowalmost totally forgotten) until Roy was nine and Fred seven. Theirparents had gone down off Maracaibo in a jet crash; Roy and Fred hadbeen sent to the public crèche.     After that it had been separate paths for the brothers. For Roy, aneducation in the law, a short spell as Senator FitzMaugham's privatesecretary, followed last month by his sudden elevation to assistantadministrator of the newly-created Popeek Bureau. For Fred, medicine,unsuccessful private practice, finally a job in the Happysleep sectionof Popeek, thanks to Roy.   ","Roy Walton is the Assistant Administrator of the Bureau of Population Equalization, otherwise known as Popeek. In the six weeks that they have been working, thousands of people have been euthanized, sterilized, and relocated in order to curb population growth and overcrowding. Roy Walton arrives at his desk, filled with papers, and settles into his miserable job. He asks for a relocation of the people of central Belgium to Patagonia before his receptionist alerts him Mr. Prior is here to see him. He refuses, but Mr. Prior sneaks through security and the unlocked door–Walton’s fault–and demands his attention. He is a famous poet, one Walton admires. He asks Walton to save his son who is to be euthanized for being tubercular. Walton turns him down, but after Prior leaves, his words swim in his head. He realizes he wants to save his baby, and so he sets off to do just that. He runs into his boss, Director FitzMaugham in the elevator and tries to lie his way through the encounter. He narrowly succeeds but is left with the feeling that Director FitzMaughan knew more than he was letting on. Walton gets off at the 20th floor and breezes past the receptionist to input Philp Porter into the computer. A series of cards come out, detailing all the baby’s specifics as well as the tubercular diagnosis. He deletes the cause for euthanization and inputs the new data into the system. He comes back clear. Hoping no one saw him, he walks down past the hall of babies and chats with the doctor, asking where his brother, another doctor, is. Evidently, his brother is running analytics, so Walton is safe for now. He speaks with the executioner, Falbrough, and tells him to double-check every baby before euthanization, due to an unfortunate incident in Europe. Falbrough agrees, and Walton quickly slips back upstairs to his office. Worrying about his actions that day, Walton gets a call from Falbrough informing him that there was a mistake, and they saved a baby’s life that day. Walton tells him to keep it under wraps, and he quickly hangs up. Walton has now committed a felony, and he’s wondering what the long-term effects will be. His brother, Fred, calls him and tells him that he knows what he did. By accessing confidential information (a crime in and of itself), Fred knows that Roy saved that baby’s life illegally. He holds it over his head and asks for a favor in return, as well as silence on Roy’s end. The story ends with Roy’s fate up in the air as well as the fate of the new world order. "
"Describe the new world order and the Equalization Laws. </s>       MASTER       of Life and Death       by     ROBERT SILVERBERG     ACE BOOKS     A Division of A. A. Wyn, Inc.     23 West 47th Street, New York 36, N. Y.     MASTER OF LIFE AND DEATH     Copyright 1957, by A. A. Wyn, Inc.     All Rights Reserved     For Antigone—     Who Thinks We're Property     Printed in U.S.A.     [Transcriber's Note: Extensive research did not uncover any     evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      THE MAN WHO RATIONED BABIES     By the 23rd century Earth's population had reached seven billion.Mankind was in danger of perishing for lack of elbow room—unlessprompt measures were taken. Roy Walton had the power to enforce thosemeasures. But though his job was in the service of humanity, he soonfound himself the most hated man in the world.     For it was      his     job to tell parents their children were unfit to live;      he     had to uproot people from their homes and send them to remoteareas of the world. Now, threatened by mobs of outraged citizens,denounced and blackened by the press, Roy Walton had to make adecision: resign his post, or use his power to destroy his enemies,become a dictator in the hopes of saving humanity from its own folly.In other words, should he become the MASTER OF LIFE AND DEATH?      CAST OF CHARACTERS     ROY WALTON     He had to adopt the motto—      the ends justify the means     .     FITZMAUGHAM     His reward for devoted service was—an assassin's bullet.     FRED WALTON     His ambition was to fill his brother's shoes—but he underestimatedtheir size.     LEE PERCY     His specialty was sugarcoating bitter pills.     PRIOR     With the pen as his only weapon, could he save his son?     DR. LAMARRE     He died for discovering the secret of immortality.      Contents      I     The offices of the Bureau of Population Equalization, vulgarly knownas Popeek, were located on the twentieth through twenty-ninth floorsof the Cullen Building, a hundred-story monstrosity typical oftwenty-second-century neo-Victorian at its overdecorated worst. RoyWalton, Popeek's assistant administrator, had to apologize to himselfeach morning as he entered the hideous place.     Since taking the job, he had managed to redecorate his own office—onthe twenty-eighth floor, immediately below Director FitzMaugham's—butthat had created only one minor oasis in the esthetically repugnantbuilding. It couldn't be helped, though; Popeek was unpopular, thoughnecessary; and, like the public hangman of some centuries earlier, theBureau did not rate attractive quarters.     So Walton had removed some of the iridescent chrome scalloping thattrimmed the walls, replaced the sash windows with opaquers, and changedthe massive ceiling fixture to more subtle electroluminescents. But themark of the last century was stamped irrevocably on both building andoffice.     Which was as it should be, Walton had finally realized. It was the lastcentury's foolishness that had made Popeek necessary, after all.     His desk was piled high with reports, and more kept arriving viapneumochute every minute. The job of assistant administrator wasa thankless one, he thought; as much responsibility as DirectorFitzMaugham, and half the pay.     He lifted a report from one eyebrow-high stack, smoothed the crinklypaper carefully, and read it.     It was a despatch from Horrocks, the Popeek agent currently on duty inPatagonia. It was dated      4 June 2232     , six days before, and after along and rambling prologue in the usual Horrocks manner it went on tosay,      Population density remains low here: 17.3 per square mile, farbelow optimum. Looks like a prime candidate for equalization.       Walton agreed. He reached for his voicewrite and said sharply, Memofrom Assistant Administrator Walton, re equalization of ... He paused,picking a trouble-spot at random, ... central Belgium. Will thesection chief in charge of this area please consider the advisabilityof transferring population excess to fertile areas in Patagonia?Recommendation: establishment of industries in latter region, to easetransition.     He shut his eyes, dug his thumbs into them until bright flares of lightshot across his eyeballs, and refused to let himself be bothered bythe multiple problems involved in dumping several hundred thousandBelgians into Patagonia. He forced himself to cling to one of DirectorFitzMaugham's oft-repeated maxims,      If you want to stay sane, think ofthese people as pawns in a chess game—not as human beings.       Walton sighed. This was the biggest chess problem in the history ofhumanity, and the way it looked now, all the solutions led to checkmatein a century or less. They could keep equalizing population only solong, shifting like loggers riding logs in a rushing river, beforetrouble came.     There was another matter to be attended to now. He picked up thevoicewrite again. Memo from the assistant administrator, reestablishment of new policy on reports from local agents: hire a staffof three clever girls to make a précis of each report, eliminatingirrelevant data.     It was a basic step, one that should have been taken long ago. Now,with three feet of reports stacked on his desk, it was mandatory. Oneof the troubles with Popeek was its newness; it had been established sosuddenly that most of its procedures were still in the formative stage.     He took another report from the heap. This one was the data sheet ofthe Zurich Euthanasia Center, and he gave it a cursory scanning. Duringthe past week, eleven substandard children and twenty-three substandardadults had been sent on to Happysleep.     That was the grimmest form of population equalization. Walton initialedthe report, earmarked it for files, and dumped it in the pneumochute.     The annunciator chimed.     I'm busy, Walton said immediately.     There's a Mr. Prior to see you, the annunciator's calm voice said.He insists it's an emergency.     Tell Mr. Prior I can't see anyone for at least three hours. Waltonstared gloomily at the growing pile of paper on his desk. Tell him hecan have ten minutes with me at—oh, say, 1300.     Walton heard an angry male voice muttering something in the outeroffice, and then the annunciator said, He insists he must see youimmediately in reference to a Happysleep commitment.     Commitments are irrevocable, Walton said heavily. The last thing inthe world he wanted was to see a man whose child or parent had justbeen committed. Tell Mr. Prior I can't see him at all.     Walton found his fingers trembling; he clamped them tight to the edgeof his desk to steady himself. It was all right sitting up here in thisugly building and initialing commitment papers, but actually to      see     one of those people and try to convince him of the need—     The door burst open.     A tall, dark-haired man in an open jacket came rushing through andpaused dramatically just over the threshold. Immediately behind himcame three unsmiling men in the gray silk-sheen uniforms of security.They carried drawn needlers.     Are you Administrator Walton? the big man asked, in an astonishinglydeep, rich voice. I have to see you. I'm Lyle Prior.     The three security men caught up and swarmed all over Prior. One ofthem turned apologetically to Walton. We're terribly sorry about this,sir. He just broke away and ran. We can't understand how he got inhere, but he did.     Ah—yes. So I noticed, Walton remarked drily. See if he's planningto assassinate anybody, will you?     Administrator Walton! Prior protested. I'm a man of peace! How canyou accuse me of—     One of the security men hit him. Walton stiffened and resisted the urgeto reprimand the man. He was only doing his job, after all.     Search him, Walton said.     They gave Prior an efficient going-over. He's clean, Mr. Walton.Should we take him to security, or downstairs to health?     Neither. Leave him here with me.     Are you sure you—     Get out of here, Walton snapped. As the three security men slinkedaway, he added, And figure out some more efficient system forprotecting me. Some day an assassin is going to sneak through hereand get me. Not that I give a damn about myself, you understand; it'ssimply that I'm indispensable. There isn't another lunatic in the worldwho'd take this job. Now      get out     !     They wasted no time in leaving. Walton waited until the door closedand jammed down hard on the lockstud. His tirade, he knew, was whollyunjustified; if he had remembered to lock his door as regulationsprescribed, Prior would never have broken in. But he couldn't admitthat to the guards.     Take a seat, Mr. Prior.     I have to thank you for granting me this audience, Prior said,without a hint of sarcasm in his booming voice. I realize you're aterribly busy man.     I am. Another three inches of paper had deposited itself on Walton'sdesk since Prior had entered. You're very lucky to have hit thepsychological moment for your entrance. At any other time I'd havehad you brigged for a month, but just now I'm in need of a littlediversion. Besides, I very much admire your work, Mr. Prior.     Thank you. Again that humility, startling in so big and commanding aman. I hadn't expected to find—I mean that you—     That a bureaucrat should admire poetry? Is that what you're gropingfor?     Prior reddened. Yes, he admitted.     Grinning, Walton said, I have to do      something     when I go home atnight. I don't really read Popeek reports twenty-four hours a day. Nomore than twenty; that's my rule. I thought your last book was quiteremarkable.     The critics didn't, Prior said diffidently.     Critics! What do they know? Walton demanded. They swing in cycles.Ten years ago it was form and technique, and you got the Melling Prize.Now it's message, political content that counts. That's not poetry, Mr.Prior—and there are still a few of us who recognize what poetry is.Take Yeats, for instance—     Walton was ready to launch into a discussion of every poet from Priorback to Surrey and Wyatt; anything to keep from the job at hand,anything to keep his mind from Popeek. But Prior interrupted him.     Mr. Walton....     Yes?     My son Philip ... he's two weeks old now....     Walton understood. No, Prior. Please don't ask. Walton's skin feltcold; his hands, tightly clenched, were clammy.     He was committed to Happysleep this morning—potentially tubercular.The boy's perfectly sound, Mr. Walton. Couldn't you—     Walton rose.       No     , he said, half-commanding, half-pleading. Don'task me to do it. I can't make any exceptions, not even for you. You'rean intelligent man; you understand our program.     I voted for Popeek. I know all about Weeding the Garden and theEuthanasia Plan. But I hadn't expected—     You thought euthanasia was a fine thing for      other     people. So dideveryone else, Walton said. That's how the act was passed. Tenderlyhe said, I can't do it. I can't spare your son. Our doctors give ababy every chance to live.           I     was tubercular. They cured me. What if they had practicedeuthanasia a generation ago? Where would my poems be now?     It was an unanswerable question; Walton tried to ignore it.Tuberculosis is an extremely rare disease, Mr. Prior. We can wipeit out completely if we strike at those with TB-susceptible genetictraits.     Meaning you'll kill any children I have? Prior asked.     Those who inherit your condition, Walton said gently. Go home, Mr.Prior. Burn me in effigy. Write a poem about me. But don't ask me to dothe impossible. I can't catch any falling stars for you.     Prior rose. He was immense, a hulking tragic figure staring broodinglyat Walton. For the first time since the poet's abrupt entry, Waltonfeared violence. His fingers groped for the needle gun he kept in hisupper left desk drawer.     But Prior had no violence in him. I'll leave you, he said somberly.I'm sorry, sir. Deeply sorry. For both of us.     Walton pressed the doorlock to let him out, then locked it again andslipped heavily into his chair. Three more reports slid out of thechute and landed on his desk. He stared at them as if they were threebasilisks.     In the six weeks of Popeek's existence, three thousand babies had beenticketed for Happysleep, and three thousand sets of degenerate geneshad been wiped from the race. Ten thousand subnormal males had beensterilized. Eight thousand dying oldsters had reached their gravesahead of time.     It was a tough-minded program. But why transmit palsy to unborngenerations? Why let an adult idiot litter the world with subnormalprogeny? Why force a man hopelessly cancerous to linger on in pain,consuming precious food?     Unpleasant? Sure. But the world had voted for it. Until Lang and histeam succeeded in terraforming Venus, or until the faster-than-lightoutfit opened the stars to mankind, something had to be done aboutEarth's overpopulation. There were seven billion now and the figure wasstill growing.     Prior's words haunted him.      I was tubercular ... where would my poemsbe now?       The big humble man was one of the great poets. Keats had beentubercular too.       What good are poets?     he asked himself savagely.     The reply came swiftly:      What good is anything, then?     Keats,Shakespeare, Eliot, Yeats, Donne, Pound, Matthews ... and Prior. Howmuch duller life would be without them, Walton thought, picturinghis bookshelf—his one bookshelf, in his crowded little cubicle of aone-room home.     Sweat poured down his back as he groped toward his decision.     The step he was considering would disqualify him from his job if headmitted it, though he wouldn't do that. Under the Equalization Law, itwould be a criminal act.     But just one baby wouldn't matter. Just one.     Prior's baby.     With nervous fingers he switched on the annunciator and said, If thereare any calls for me, take the message. I'll be out of my office forthe next half-hour.      II     He stepped out of the office, glancing around furtively. The outeroffice was busy: half a dozen girls were answering calls, openingletters, coordinating activities. Walton slipped quickly past them intothe hallway.     There was a knot of fear in his stomach as he turned toward thelift tube. Six weeks of pressure, six weeks of tension since Popeekwas organized and old man FitzMaugham had tapped him for thesecond-in-command post ... and now, a rebellion. The sparing of asingle child was a small rebellion, true, but he knew he was strikingas effectively at the base of Popeek this way as if he had broughtabout repeal of the entire Equalization Law.     Well, just one lapse, he promised himself. I'll spare Prior's child,and after that I'll keep within the law.     He jabbed the lift tube indicator and the tube rose in its shaft. Theclinic was on the twentieth floor.     Roy.     At the sound of the quiet voice behind him, Walton jumped in surprise.He steadied himself, forcing himself to turn slowly. The director stoodthere.     Good morning, Mr. FitzMaugham.     The old man was smiling serenely, his unlined face warm and friendly,his mop of white hair bright and full. You look preoccupied, boy.Something the matter?     Walton shook his head quickly. Just a little tired, sir. There's beena lot of work lately.     As he said it, he knew how foolish it sounded. If anyone in Popeekworked harder than he did, it was the elderly director. FitzMaughamhad striven for equalization legislature for fifty years, and now, atthe age of eighty, he put in a sixteen-hour day at the task of savingmankind from itself.     The director smiled. You never did learn how to budget your strength,Roy. You'll be a worn-out wreck before you're half my age. I'm gladyou're adopting my habit of taking a coffee break in the morning,though. Mind if I join you?     I'm—not taking a break, sir. I have some work to do downstairs.     Oh? Can't you take care of it by phone?     No, Mr. FitzMaugham. Walton felt as though he'd already been tried,drawn, and quartered. It requires personal attention.     I see. The deep, warm eyes bored into his. You ought to slow down alittle, I think.     Yes, sir. As soon as the work eases up a little.     FitzMaugham chuckled. In another century or two, you mean. I'm afraidyou'll never learn how to relax, my boy.     The lift tube arrived. Walton stepped to one side, allowed the Directorto enter, and got in himself. FitzMaugham pushed      Fourteen     ; there wasa coffee shop down there. Hesitantly, Walton pushed      twenty     , coveringthe panel with his arm so the old man would be unable to see hisdestination.     As the tube began to descend, FitzMaugham said, Did Mr. Prior come tosee you this morning?     Yes, Walton said.     He's the poet, isn't he? The one you say is so good?     That's right, sir, Walton said tightly.     He came to see me first, but I had him referred down to you. What wason his mind?     Walton hesitated. He—he wanted his son spared from Happysleep.Naturally, I had to turn him down.     Naturally, FitzMaugham agreed solemnly. Once we make even oneexception, the whole framework crumbles.     Of course, sir.     The lift tube halted and rocked on its suspension. The door slid back,revealing a neat, gleaming sign:       FLOOR 20        Euthanasia Clinic and Files       Walton had forgotten the accursed sign. He began to wish he had avoidedtraveling down with the director. He felt that his purpose must seemnakedly obvious now.     The old man's eyes were twinkling amusedly. I guess you get off here,he said. I hope you catch up with your work soon, Roy. You reallyshould take some time off for relaxation each day.     I'll try, sir.     Walton stepped out of the tube and returned FitzMaugham's smile as thedoor closed again. Bitter thoughts assailed him as soon as he was alone.       Some fine criminal you are. You've given the show away already! Anddamn that smooth paternal smile. FitzMaugham knows! He must know!       Walton wavered, then abruptly made his decision. He sucked in a deepbreath and walked briskly toward the big room where the euthanasiafiles were kept.  The room was large, as rooms went nowadays—thirty by twenty, with deckupon deck of Donnerson micro-memory-tubes racked along one wall and abank of microfilm records along the other. In six weeks of life Popeekhad piled up an impressive collection of data.     While he stood there, the computer chattered, lights flashed. New factspoured into the memory banks. It probably went on day and night.     Can I help—oh, it's you, Mr. Walton, a white-smocked techniciansaid. Popeek employed a small army of technicians, each one facelessand without personality, but always ready to serve. Is there anythingI can do?     I'm simply running a routine checkup. Mind if I use the machine?     Not at all, sir. Go right ahead.     Walton grinned lightly and stepped forward. The technician practicallybacked out of his presence.       No doubt I must radiate charisma     , he thought. Within the building hewore a sort of luminous halo, by virtue of being Director FitzMaugham'sprotégé and second-in-command. Outside, in the colder reality of thecrowded metropolis, he kept his identity and Popeek rank quietly tohimself.     Frowning, he tried to remember the Prior boy's name. Ah ... Philip,wasn't it? He punched out a request for the card on Philip Prior.     A moment's pause followed, while the millions of tiny cryotroniccircuits raced with information pulses, searching the Donnersontubes for Philip Prior's record. Then, a brief squeaking sound and ayellow-brown card dropped out of the slot:       3216847AB1         PRIOR, Philip Hugh. Born 31 May 2232, New York General Hospital, NewYork. First son of Prior, Lyle Martin and Prior, Ava Leonard. Wgt. atbirth 5lb. 3oz.       An elaborate description of the boy in great detail followed, endingwith blood type, agglutinating characteristic, and gene-pattern,codified. Walton skipped impatiently through that and came to thenotification typed in curt, impersonal green capital letters at thebottom of the card:       EXAMINED AT N Y EUTH CLINIC 10 JUNE 2332        EUTHANASIA RECOMMENDED       He glanced at his watch: the time was 1026. The boy was probably stillsomewhere in the clinic lab, waiting for the figurative axe to descend.     Walton had set up the schedule himself: the gas chamber deliveredHappysleep each day at 1100 and 1500. He had about half an hour to savePhilip Prior.     He peered covertly over his shoulder; no one was in sight. He slippedthe baby's card into his breast pocket.     That done, he typed out a requisition for explanation of thegene-sorting code the clinic used. Symbols began pouring forth,and Walton puzzledly correlated them with the line of gibberish onPhillip Prior's record card. Finally he found the one he wanted:      3f2,tubercular-prone     .     He scrapped the guide sheet he had and typed out a message to themachine.      Revision of card number 3216847AB1 follows. Please alter inall circuits.       He proceeded to retype the child's card, omitting both the fatal symbol      3f2     and the notation recommending euthanasia from the new version.The machine beeped an acknowledgement. Walton smiled. So far, so good.     Then, he requested the boy's file all over again. After the customarypause, a card numbered 3216847AB1 dropped out of the slot. He read it.     The deletions had been made. As far as the machine was concerned,Philip Prior was a normal, healthy baby.     He glanced at his watch. 1037. Still twenty-three minutes before thismorning's haul of unfortunates was put away.     Now came the real test: could he pry the baby away from the doctorswithout attracting too much attention to himself in the process?  Five doctors were bustling back and forth as Walton entered the mainsection of the clinic. There must have been a hundred babies there,each in a little pen of its own, and the doctors were humming from oneto the next, while anxious parents watched from screens above.     The Equalization Law provided that every child be presented at itslocal clinic within two weeks of birth, for an examination and acertificate. Perhaps one in ten thousand would be denied acertificate ... and life.     Hello, Mr. Walton. What brings you down here?     Walton smiled affably. Just a routine investigation, Doctor. I try tokeep in touch with every department we have, you know.     Mr. FitzMaugham was down here to look around a little while ago. We'rereally getting a going-over today, Mr. Walton!     Umm. Yes. Walton didn't like that, but there was nothing he coulddo about it. He'd have to rely on the old man's abiding faith in hisprotégé to pull him out of any possible stickiness that arose.     Seen my brother around? he asked.     Fred? He's working in room seven, running analyses. Want me to get himfor you, Mr. Walton?     No—no, don't bother him, thanks. I'll find him later. Inwardly,Walton felt relieved. Fred Walton, his younger brother, was a doctor inthe employ of Popeek. Little love was lost between the brothers, andRoy did not care to have Fred know he was down there.     Strolling casually through the clinic, he peered at a few plump,squalling babies, and said, Find many sour ones today?     Seven so far. They're scheduled for the 1100 chamber. Three tuberc,two blind, one congenital syph.     That only makes six, Walton said.     Oh, and a spastic, the doctor said. Biggest haul we've had yet.Seven in one morning.     Have any trouble with the parents?     What do you think? the doctor asked. But some of them seemed tounderstand. One of the tuberculars nearly raised the roof, though.     Walton shuddered. You remember his name? he asked, with feigned calm.     Silence for a moment. No. Darned if I can think of it. I can look itup for you if you like.     Don't bother, Walton said hurriedly.     He moved on, down the winding corridor that led to the executionchamber. Falbrough, the executioner, was studying a list of names athis desk when Walton appeared.     Falbrough didn't look like the sort of man who would enjoy his work. Hewas short and plump, with a high-domed bald head and glittering contactlenses in his weak blue eyes. Morning, Mr. Walton.     Good morning, Doctor Falbrough. You'll be operating soon, won't you?     Eleven hundred, as usual.     Good. There's a new regulation in effect from now on, Walton said.To keep public opinion on our side.     Sir?     Henceforth, until further notice, you're to check each baby thatcomes to you against the main file, just to make sure there's been nomistake. Got that?           Mistake?     But how—     Never mind that, Falbrough. There was quite a tragic slip-up at oneof the European centers yesterday. We may all hang for it if news getsout.      How glibly I reel this stuff off     , Walton thought in amazement.     Falbrough looked grave. I see, sir. Of course. We'll double-checkeverything from now on.     Good. Begin with the 1100 batch.     Walton couldn't bear to remain down in the clinic any longer. He leftvia a side exit, and signaled for a lift tube.     Minutes later he was back in his office, behind the security of atowering stack of work. His pulse was racing; his throat was dry. Heremembered what FitzMaugham had said:      Once we make even one exception,the whole framework crumbles.       Well, the framework had begun crumbling, then. And there was littledoubt in Walton's mind that FitzMaugham knew or would soon know what hehad done. He would have to cover his traces, somehow.     The annunciator chimed and said, Dr. Falbrough of Happysleep callingyou, sir.     Put him on.     The screen lit and Falbrough's face appeared; its normal blandness hadgiven way to wild-eyed tenseness.     What is it, Doctor?     It's a good thing you issued that order when you did, sir! You'llnever guess what just happened—     No guessing games, Falbrough. Speak up.     I—well, sir, I ran checks on the seven babies they sent me thismorning. And guess—I mean—well, one of them shouldn't have been sentto me!     No!     It's the truth, sir. A cute little baby indeed. I've got his cardright here. The boy's name is Philip Prior, and his gene-pattern isfine.     Any recommendation for euthanasia on the card? Walton asked.     No, sir.     Walton chewed at a ragged cuticle for a moment, counterfeiting greatanxiety. Falbrough, we're going to have to keep this very quiet.Someone slipped up in the examining room, and if word gets out thatthere's been as much as one mistake, we'll have a mob swarming over usin half an hour.     Yes, sir. Falbrough looked terribly grave. What should I do, sir?     Don't say a word about this to      anyone     , not even the men in theexamining room. Fill out a certificate for the boy, find his parents,apologize and return him to them. And make sure you keep checking forany future cases of this sort.     Certainly, sir. Is that all?     It is, Walton said crisply, and broke the contact. He took a deepbreath and stared bleakly at the far wall.     The Prior boy was safe. And in the eyes of the law—the EqualizationLaw—Roy Walton was now a criminal. He was every bit as much a criminalas the man who tried to hide his dying father from the investigators,or the anxious parents who attempted to bribe an examining doctor.     He felt curiously dirty. And, now that he had betrayed FitzMaugham andthe Cause, now that it was done, he had little idea why he had doneit, why he had jeopardized the Popeek program, his position—his life,even—for the sake of one potentially tubercular baby.     Well, the thing was done.     No. Not quite. Later, when things had quieted down, he would have tofinish the job by transferring all the men in the clinic to distantplaces and by obliterating the computer's memories of this morning'sactivities.     The annunciator chimed again. Your brother is on the wire, sir.     Walton trembled imperceptibly as he said, Put him on. Somehow, Frednever called unless he could say or do something unpleasant. AndWalton was very much afraid that his brother meant no good by thiscall. No good at all.      III     Roy Walton watched his brother's head and shoulders take form out ofthe swirl of colors on the screen. Fred Walton was more compact, builtcloser to the ground than his rangy brother; he was a squat five-seven,next to Roy's lean six-two. Fred had always threatened to get evenwith his older brother as soon as they were the same size, but toFred's great dismay he had never managed to catch up with Roy in height.     Even on the screen, Fred's neck and shoulders gave an impression oftremendous solidity and force. Walton waited for his brother's image totake shape, and when the time lag was over he said, Well, Fred? Whatgoes?     His brother's eyes flickered sleepily. They tell me you were down herea little while ago, Roy. How come I didn't rate a visit?     I wasn't in your section. It was official business, anyway. I didn'thave time.     Walton fixed his eyes sharply on the caduceus emblem gleaming on Fred'slapel, and refused to look anywhere else.     Fred said slowly, You had time to tinker with our computer, though.     Official business!     Really, Roy? His brother's tone was venomous. I happened tobe using the computer shortly after you this morning. I wascurious—unpardonably so, dear brother. I requested a transcript ofyour conversation with the machine.     Sparks seemed to flow from the screen. Walton sat back, feeling numb.He managed to pull his sagging mouth back into a stiff hard line andsay, That's a criminal offense, Fred. Any use I make of a Popeekcomputer outlet is confidential.     Criminal offence? Maybe so ... but that makes two of us, then. Eh,Roy?     How much do you know?     You wouldn't want me to recite it over a public communications system,would you? Your friend FitzMaugham might be listening to every word ofthis, and I have too much fraternal feeling for that. Ole Doc Waltondoesn't want to get his bigwig big brother in trouble—oh, no!     Thanks for small blessings, Roy said acidly.     You got me this job. You can take it away. Let's call it even for now,shall we?     Anything you like, Walton said. He was drenched in sweat, thoughthe ingenious executive filter in the sending apparatus of the screencloaked that fact and presented him as neat and fresh. I have somework to do now. His voice was barely audible.     I won't keep you any longer, then, Fred said.     The screen went dead.     Walton killed the contact at his end, got up, walked to the window. Henudged the opaquer control and the frosty white haze over the glasscleared away, revealing the fantastic beehive of the city outside.       Idiot!     he thought.      Fool!       He had risked everything to save one baby, one child probably doomedto an early death anyway. And FitzMaugham knew—the old man could seethrough Walton with ease—and Fred knew, too. His brother, and hisfather-substitute.     FitzMaugham might well choose to conceal Roy's defection this time,but would surely place less trust in him in the future. And as forFred....     There was no telling what Fred might do. They had never beenparticularly close as brothers; they had lived with their parents (nowalmost totally forgotten) until Roy was nine and Fred seven. Theirparents had gone down off Maracaibo in a jet crash; Roy and Fred hadbeen sent to the public crèche.     After that it had been separate paths for the brothers. For Roy, aneducation in the law, a short spell as Senator FitzMaugham's privatesecretary, followed last month by his sudden elevation to assistantadministrator of the newly-created Popeek Bureau. For Fred, medicine,unsuccessful private practice, finally a job in the Happysleep sectionof Popeek, thanks to Roy.   ","In the year 2232, the Earth’s population of humans had maxed out at seven billion. This huge influx of people and steady population growth caused major poverty, starvation, and trade/supply issues. For these reasons and more, the Equalization Law was implemented in order to contain humanity and limit population growth. One such rule under this new world order was the Equalization Law where all newborn babies must be presented before they are two weeks old to be examined. If they do not have any congenital defects or carry any unwanted genes, they will be allowed to live. If not, they will be committed to euthanization, otherwise known as Happysleep. As well, several thousand members of the elderly population were euthanized, as they were already on death’s doorstep. Thousands of men were sterilized in order to prevent any insufficient offspring, and those that were ill or handicapped in some way were also euthanized. As for overcrowding, the Bureau of Population Equalization (Popeek) also relocates certain groups of people to more empty settings. For example, Roy Walton set up a relocation for several thousand people in Belgium to the empty areas of Patagonia. "
"Describe the setting of the story. </s>       MASTER       of Life and Death       by     ROBERT SILVERBERG     ACE BOOKS     A Division of A. A. Wyn, Inc.     23 West 47th Street, New York 36, N. Y.     MASTER OF LIFE AND DEATH     Copyright 1957, by A. A. Wyn, Inc.     All Rights Reserved     For Antigone—     Who Thinks We're Property     Printed in U.S.A.     [Transcriber's Note: Extensive research did not uncover any     evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      THE MAN WHO RATIONED BABIES     By the 23rd century Earth's population had reached seven billion.Mankind was in danger of perishing for lack of elbow room—unlessprompt measures were taken. Roy Walton had the power to enforce thosemeasures. But though his job was in the service of humanity, he soonfound himself the most hated man in the world.     For it was      his     job to tell parents their children were unfit to live;      he     had to uproot people from their homes and send them to remoteareas of the world. Now, threatened by mobs of outraged citizens,denounced and blackened by the press, Roy Walton had to make adecision: resign his post, or use his power to destroy his enemies,become a dictator in the hopes of saving humanity from its own folly.In other words, should he become the MASTER OF LIFE AND DEATH?      CAST OF CHARACTERS     ROY WALTON     He had to adopt the motto—      the ends justify the means     .     FITZMAUGHAM     His reward for devoted service was—an assassin's bullet.     FRED WALTON     His ambition was to fill his brother's shoes—but he underestimatedtheir size.     LEE PERCY     His specialty was sugarcoating bitter pills.     PRIOR     With the pen as his only weapon, could he save his son?     DR. LAMARRE     He died for discovering the secret of immortality.      Contents      I     The offices of the Bureau of Population Equalization, vulgarly knownas Popeek, were located on the twentieth through twenty-ninth floorsof the Cullen Building, a hundred-story monstrosity typical oftwenty-second-century neo-Victorian at its overdecorated worst. RoyWalton, Popeek's assistant administrator, had to apologize to himselfeach morning as he entered the hideous place.     Since taking the job, he had managed to redecorate his own office—onthe twenty-eighth floor, immediately below Director FitzMaugham's—butthat had created only one minor oasis in the esthetically repugnantbuilding. It couldn't be helped, though; Popeek was unpopular, thoughnecessary; and, like the public hangman of some centuries earlier, theBureau did not rate attractive quarters.     So Walton had removed some of the iridescent chrome scalloping thattrimmed the walls, replaced the sash windows with opaquers, and changedthe massive ceiling fixture to more subtle electroluminescents. But themark of the last century was stamped irrevocably on both building andoffice.     Which was as it should be, Walton had finally realized. It was the lastcentury's foolishness that had made Popeek necessary, after all.     His desk was piled high with reports, and more kept arriving viapneumochute every minute. The job of assistant administrator wasa thankless one, he thought; as much responsibility as DirectorFitzMaugham, and half the pay.     He lifted a report from one eyebrow-high stack, smoothed the crinklypaper carefully, and read it.     It was a despatch from Horrocks, the Popeek agent currently on duty inPatagonia. It was dated      4 June 2232     , six days before, and after along and rambling prologue in the usual Horrocks manner it went on tosay,      Population density remains low here: 17.3 per square mile, farbelow optimum. Looks like a prime candidate for equalization.       Walton agreed. He reached for his voicewrite and said sharply, Memofrom Assistant Administrator Walton, re equalization of ... He paused,picking a trouble-spot at random, ... central Belgium. Will thesection chief in charge of this area please consider the advisabilityof transferring population excess to fertile areas in Patagonia?Recommendation: establishment of industries in latter region, to easetransition.     He shut his eyes, dug his thumbs into them until bright flares of lightshot across his eyeballs, and refused to let himself be bothered bythe multiple problems involved in dumping several hundred thousandBelgians into Patagonia. He forced himself to cling to one of DirectorFitzMaugham's oft-repeated maxims,      If you want to stay sane, think ofthese people as pawns in a chess game—not as human beings.       Walton sighed. This was the biggest chess problem in the history ofhumanity, and the way it looked now, all the solutions led to checkmatein a century or less. They could keep equalizing population only solong, shifting like loggers riding logs in a rushing river, beforetrouble came.     There was another matter to be attended to now. He picked up thevoicewrite again. Memo from the assistant administrator, reestablishment of new policy on reports from local agents: hire a staffof three clever girls to make a précis of each report, eliminatingirrelevant data.     It was a basic step, one that should have been taken long ago. Now,with three feet of reports stacked on his desk, it was mandatory. Oneof the troubles with Popeek was its newness; it had been established sosuddenly that most of its procedures were still in the formative stage.     He took another report from the heap. This one was the data sheet ofthe Zurich Euthanasia Center, and he gave it a cursory scanning. Duringthe past week, eleven substandard children and twenty-three substandardadults had been sent on to Happysleep.     That was the grimmest form of population equalization. Walton initialedthe report, earmarked it for files, and dumped it in the pneumochute.     The annunciator chimed.     I'm busy, Walton said immediately.     There's a Mr. Prior to see you, the annunciator's calm voice said.He insists it's an emergency.     Tell Mr. Prior I can't see anyone for at least three hours. Waltonstared gloomily at the growing pile of paper on his desk. Tell him hecan have ten minutes with me at—oh, say, 1300.     Walton heard an angry male voice muttering something in the outeroffice, and then the annunciator said, He insists he must see youimmediately in reference to a Happysleep commitment.     Commitments are irrevocable, Walton said heavily. The last thing inthe world he wanted was to see a man whose child or parent had justbeen committed. Tell Mr. Prior I can't see him at all.     Walton found his fingers trembling; he clamped them tight to the edgeof his desk to steady himself. It was all right sitting up here in thisugly building and initialing commitment papers, but actually to      see     one of those people and try to convince him of the need—     The door burst open.     A tall, dark-haired man in an open jacket came rushing through andpaused dramatically just over the threshold. Immediately behind himcame three unsmiling men in the gray silk-sheen uniforms of security.They carried drawn needlers.     Are you Administrator Walton? the big man asked, in an astonishinglydeep, rich voice. I have to see you. I'm Lyle Prior.     The three security men caught up and swarmed all over Prior. One ofthem turned apologetically to Walton. We're terribly sorry about this,sir. He just broke away and ran. We can't understand how he got inhere, but he did.     Ah—yes. So I noticed, Walton remarked drily. See if he's planningto assassinate anybody, will you?     Administrator Walton! Prior protested. I'm a man of peace! How canyou accuse me of—     One of the security men hit him. Walton stiffened and resisted the urgeto reprimand the man. He was only doing his job, after all.     Search him, Walton said.     They gave Prior an efficient going-over. He's clean, Mr. Walton.Should we take him to security, or downstairs to health?     Neither. Leave him here with me.     Are you sure you—     Get out of here, Walton snapped. As the three security men slinkedaway, he added, And figure out some more efficient system forprotecting me. Some day an assassin is going to sneak through hereand get me. Not that I give a damn about myself, you understand; it'ssimply that I'm indispensable. There isn't another lunatic in the worldwho'd take this job. Now      get out     !     They wasted no time in leaving. Walton waited until the door closedand jammed down hard on the lockstud. His tirade, he knew, was whollyunjustified; if he had remembered to lock his door as regulationsprescribed, Prior would never have broken in. But he couldn't admitthat to the guards.     Take a seat, Mr. Prior.     I have to thank you for granting me this audience, Prior said,without a hint of sarcasm in his booming voice. I realize you're aterribly busy man.     I am. Another three inches of paper had deposited itself on Walton'sdesk since Prior had entered. You're very lucky to have hit thepsychological moment for your entrance. At any other time I'd havehad you brigged for a month, but just now I'm in need of a littlediversion. Besides, I very much admire your work, Mr. Prior.     Thank you. Again that humility, startling in so big and commanding aman. I hadn't expected to find—I mean that you—     That a bureaucrat should admire poetry? Is that what you're gropingfor?     Prior reddened. Yes, he admitted.     Grinning, Walton said, I have to do      something     when I go home atnight. I don't really read Popeek reports twenty-four hours a day. Nomore than twenty; that's my rule. I thought your last book was quiteremarkable.     The critics didn't, Prior said diffidently.     Critics! What do they know? Walton demanded. They swing in cycles.Ten years ago it was form and technique, and you got the Melling Prize.Now it's message, political content that counts. That's not poetry, Mr.Prior—and there are still a few of us who recognize what poetry is.Take Yeats, for instance—     Walton was ready to launch into a discussion of every poet from Priorback to Surrey and Wyatt; anything to keep from the job at hand,anything to keep his mind from Popeek. But Prior interrupted him.     Mr. Walton....     Yes?     My son Philip ... he's two weeks old now....     Walton understood. No, Prior. Please don't ask. Walton's skin feltcold; his hands, tightly clenched, were clammy.     He was committed to Happysleep this morning—potentially tubercular.The boy's perfectly sound, Mr. Walton. Couldn't you—     Walton rose.       No     , he said, half-commanding, half-pleading. Don'task me to do it. I can't make any exceptions, not even for you. You'rean intelligent man; you understand our program.     I voted for Popeek. I know all about Weeding the Garden and theEuthanasia Plan. But I hadn't expected—     You thought euthanasia was a fine thing for      other     people. So dideveryone else, Walton said. That's how the act was passed. Tenderlyhe said, I can't do it. I can't spare your son. Our doctors give ababy every chance to live.           I     was tubercular. They cured me. What if they had practicedeuthanasia a generation ago? Where would my poems be now?     It was an unanswerable question; Walton tried to ignore it.Tuberculosis is an extremely rare disease, Mr. Prior. We can wipeit out completely if we strike at those with TB-susceptible genetictraits.     Meaning you'll kill any children I have? Prior asked.     Those who inherit your condition, Walton said gently. Go home, Mr.Prior. Burn me in effigy. Write a poem about me. But don't ask me to dothe impossible. I can't catch any falling stars for you.     Prior rose. He was immense, a hulking tragic figure staring broodinglyat Walton. For the first time since the poet's abrupt entry, Waltonfeared violence. His fingers groped for the needle gun he kept in hisupper left desk drawer.     But Prior had no violence in him. I'll leave you, he said somberly.I'm sorry, sir. Deeply sorry. For both of us.     Walton pressed the doorlock to let him out, then locked it again andslipped heavily into his chair. Three more reports slid out of thechute and landed on his desk. He stared at them as if they were threebasilisks.     In the six weeks of Popeek's existence, three thousand babies had beenticketed for Happysleep, and three thousand sets of degenerate geneshad been wiped from the race. Ten thousand subnormal males had beensterilized. Eight thousand dying oldsters had reached their gravesahead of time.     It was a tough-minded program. But why transmit palsy to unborngenerations? Why let an adult idiot litter the world with subnormalprogeny? Why force a man hopelessly cancerous to linger on in pain,consuming precious food?     Unpleasant? Sure. But the world had voted for it. Until Lang and histeam succeeded in terraforming Venus, or until the faster-than-lightoutfit opened the stars to mankind, something had to be done aboutEarth's overpopulation. There were seven billion now and the figure wasstill growing.     Prior's words haunted him.      I was tubercular ... where would my poemsbe now?       The big humble man was one of the great poets. Keats had beentubercular too.       What good are poets?     he asked himself savagely.     The reply came swiftly:      What good is anything, then?     Keats,Shakespeare, Eliot, Yeats, Donne, Pound, Matthews ... and Prior. Howmuch duller life would be without them, Walton thought, picturinghis bookshelf—his one bookshelf, in his crowded little cubicle of aone-room home.     Sweat poured down his back as he groped toward his decision.     The step he was considering would disqualify him from his job if headmitted it, though he wouldn't do that. Under the Equalization Law, itwould be a criminal act.     But just one baby wouldn't matter. Just one.     Prior's baby.     With nervous fingers he switched on the annunciator and said, If thereare any calls for me, take the message. I'll be out of my office forthe next half-hour.      II     He stepped out of the office, glancing around furtively. The outeroffice was busy: half a dozen girls were answering calls, openingletters, coordinating activities. Walton slipped quickly past them intothe hallway.     There was a knot of fear in his stomach as he turned toward thelift tube. Six weeks of pressure, six weeks of tension since Popeekwas organized and old man FitzMaugham had tapped him for thesecond-in-command post ... and now, a rebellion. The sparing of asingle child was a small rebellion, true, but he knew he was strikingas effectively at the base of Popeek this way as if he had broughtabout repeal of the entire Equalization Law.     Well, just one lapse, he promised himself. I'll spare Prior's child,and after that I'll keep within the law.     He jabbed the lift tube indicator and the tube rose in its shaft. Theclinic was on the twentieth floor.     Roy.     At the sound of the quiet voice behind him, Walton jumped in surprise.He steadied himself, forcing himself to turn slowly. The director stoodthere.     Good morning, Mr. FitzMaugham.     The old man was smiling serenely, his unlined face warm and friendly,his mop of white hair bright and full. You look preoccupied, boy.Something the matter?     Walton shook his head quickly. Just a little tired, sir. There's beena lot of work lately.     As he said it, he knew how foolish it sounded. If anyone in Popeekworked harder than he did, it was the elderly director. FitzMaughamhad striven for equalization legislature for fifty years, and now, atthe age of eighty, he put in a sixteen-hour day at the task of savingmankind from itself.     The director smiled. You never did learn how to budget your strength,Roy. You'll be a worn-out wreck before you're half my age. I'm gladyou're adopting my habit of taking a coffee break in the morning,though. Mind if I join you?     I'm—not taking a break, sir. I have some work to do downstairs.     Oh? Can't you take care of it by phone?     No, Mr. FitzMaugham. Walton felt as though he'd already been tried,drawn, and quartered. It requires personal attention.     I see. The deep, warm eyes bored into his. You ought to slow down alittle, I think.     Yes, sir. As soon as the work eases up a little.     FitzMaugham chuckled. In another century or two, you mean. I'm afraidyou'll never learn how to relax, my boy.     The lift tube arrived. Walton stepped to one side, allowed the Directorto enter, and got in himself. FitzMaugham pushed      Fourteen     ; there wasa coffee shop down there. Hesitantly, Walton pushed      twenty     , coveringthe panel with his arm so the old man would be unable to see hisdestination.     As the tube began to descend, FitzMaugham said, Did Mr. Prior come tosee you this morning?     Yes, Walton said.     He's the poet, isn't he? The one you say is so good?     That's right, sir, Walton said tightly.     He came to see me first, but I had him referred down to you. What wason his mind?     Walton hesitated. He—he wanted his son spared from Happysleep.Naturally, I had to turn him down.     Naturally, FitzMaugham agreed solemnly. Once we make even oneexception, the whole framework crumbles.     Of course, sir.     The lift tube halted and rocked on its suspension. The door slid back,revealing a neat, gleaming sign:       FLOOR 20        Euthanasia Clinic and Files       Walton had forgotten the accursed sign. He began to wish he had avoidedtraveling down with the director. He felt that his purpose must seemnakedly obvious now.     The old man's eyes were twinkling amusedly. I guess you get off here,he said. I hope you catch up with your work soon, Roy. You reallyshould take some time off for relaxation each day.     I'll try, sir.     Walton stepped out of the tube and returned FitzMaugham's smile as thedoor closed again. Bitter thoughts assailed him as soon as he was alone.       Some fine criminal you are. You've given the show away already! Anddamn that smooth paternal smile. FitzMaugham knows! He must know!       Walton wavered, then abruptly made his decision. He sucked in a deepbreath and walked briskly toward the big room where the euthanasiafiles were kept.  The room was large, as rooms went nowadays—thirty by twenty, with deckupon deck of Donnerson micro-memory-tubes racked along one wall and abank of microfilm records along the other. In six weeks of life Popeekhad piled up an impressive collection of data.     While he stood there, the computer chattered, lights flashed. New factspoured into the memory banks. It probably went on day and night.     Can I help—oh, it's you, Mr. Walton, a white-smocked techniciansaid. Popeek employed a small army of technicians, each one facelessand without personality, but always ready to serve. Is there anythingI can do?     I'm simply running a routine checkup. Mind if I use the machine?     Not at all, sir. Go right ahead.     Walton grinned lightly and stepped forward. The technician practicallybacked out of his presence.       No doubt I must radiate charisma     , he thought. Within the building hewore a sort of luminous halo, by virtue of being Director FitzMaugham'sprotégé and second-in-command. Outside, in the colder reality of thecrowded metropolis, he kept his identity and Popeek rank quietly tohimself.     Frowning, he tried to remember the Prior boy's name. Ah ... Philip,wasn't it? He punched out a request for the card on Philip Prior.     A moment's pause followed, while the millions of tiny cryotroniccircuits raced with information pulses, searching the Donnersontubes for Philip Prior's record. Then, a brief squeaking sound and ayellow-brown card dropped out of the slot:       3216847AB1         PRIOR, Philip Hugh. Born 31 May 2232, New York General Hospital, NewYork. First son of Prior, Lyle Martin and Prior, Ava Leonard. Wgt. atbirth 5lb. 3oz.       An elaborate description of the boy in great detail followed, endingwith blood type, agglutinating characteristic, and gene-pattern,codified. Walton skipped impatiently through that and came to thenotification typed in curt, impersonal green capital letters at thebottom of the card:       EXAMINED AT N Y EUTH CLINIC 10 JUNE 2332        EUTHANASIA RECOMMENDED       He glanced at his watch: the time was 1026. The boy was probably stillsomewhere in the clinic lab, waiting for the figurative axe to descend.     Walton had set up the schedule himself: the gas chamber deliveredHappysleep each day at 1100 and 1500. He had about half an hour to savePhilip Prior.     He peered covertly over his shoulder; no one was in sight. He slippedthe baby's card into his breast pocket.     That done, he typed out a requisition for explanation of thegene-sorting code the clinic used. Symbols began pouring forth,and Walton puzzledly correlated them with the line of gibberish onPhillip Prior's record card. Finally he found the one he wanted:      3f2,tubercular-prone     .     He scrapped the guide sheet he had and typed out a message to themachine.      Revision of card number 3216847AB1 follows. Please alter inall circuits.       He proceeded to retype the child's card, omitting both the fatal symbol      3f2     and the notation recommending euthanasia from the new version.The machine beeped an acknowledgement. Walton smiled. So far, so good.     Then, he requested the boy's file all over again. After the customarypause, a card numbered 3216847AB1 dropped out of the slot. He read it.     The deletions had been made. As far as the machine was concerned,Philip Prior was a normal, healthy baby.     He glanced at his watch. 1037. Still twenty-three minutes before thismorning's haul of unfortunates was put away.     Now came the real test: could he pry the baby away from the doctorswithout attracting too much attention to himself in the process?  Five doctors were bustling back and forth as Walton entered the mainsection of the clinic. There must have been a hundred babies there,each in a little pen of its own, and the doctors were humming from oneto the next, while anxious parents watched from screens above.     The Equalization Law provided that every child be presented at itslocal clinic within two weeks of birth, for an examination and acertificate. Perhaps one in ten thousand would be denied acertificate ... and life.     Hello, Mr. Walton. What brings you down here?     Walton smiled affably. Just a routine investigation, Doctor. I try tokeep in touch with every department we have, you know.     Mr. FitzMaugham was down here to look around a little while ago. We'rereally getting a going-over today, Mr. Walton!     Umm. Yes. Walton didn't like that, but there was nothing he coulddo about it. He'd have to rely on the old man's abiding faith in hisprotégé to pull him out of any possible stickiness that arose.     Seen my brother around? he asked.     Fred? He's working in room seven, running analyses. Want me to get himfor you, Mr. Walton?     No—no, don't bother him, thanks. I'll find him later. Inwardly,Walton felt relieved. Fred Walton, his younger brother, was a doctor inthe employ of Popeek. Little love was lost between the brothers, andRoy did not care to have Fred know he was down there.     Strolling casually through the clinic, he peered at a few plump,squalling babies, and said, Find many sour ones today?     Seven so far. They're scheduled for the 1100 chamber. Three tuberc,two blind, one congenital syph.     That only makes six, Walton said.     Oh, and a spastic, the doctor said. Biggest haul we've had yet.Seven in one morning.     Have any trouble with the parents?     What do you think? the doctor asked. But some of them seemed tounderstand. One of the tuberculars nearly raised the roof, though.     Walton shuddered. You remember his name? he asked, with feigned calm.     Silence for a moment. No. Darned if I can think of it. I can look itup for you if you like.     Don't bother, Walton said hurriedly.     He moved on, down the winding corridor that led to the executionchamber. Falbrough, the executioner, was studying a list of names athis desk when Walton appeared.     Falbrough didn't look like the sort of man who would enjoy his work. Hewas short and plump, with a high-domed bald head and glittering contactlenses in his weak blue eyes. Morning, Mr. Walton.     Good morning, Doctor Falbrough. You'll be operating soon, won't you?     Eleven hundred, as usual.     Good. There's a new regulation in effect from now on, Walton said.To keep public opinion on our side.     Sir?     Henceforth, until further notice, you're to check each baby thatcomes to you against the main file, just to make sure there's been nomistake. Got that?           Mistake?     But how—     Never mind that, Falbrough. There was quite a tragic slip-up at oneof the European centers yesterday. We may all hang for it if news getsout.      How glibly I reel this stuff off     , Walton thought in amazement.     Falbrough looked grave. I see, sir. Of course. We'll double-checkeverything from now on.     Good. Begin with the 1100 batch.     Walton couldn't bear to remain down in the clinic any longer. He leftvia a side exit, and signaled for a lift tube.     Minutes later he was back in his office, behind the security of atowering stack of work. His pulse was racing; his throat was dry. Heremembered what FitzMaugham had said:      Once we make even one exception,the whole framework crumbles.       Well, the framework had begun crumbling, then. And there was littledoubt in Walton's mind that FitzMaugham knew or would soon know what hehad done. He would have to cover his traces, somehow.     The annunciator chimed and said, Dr. Falbrough of Happysleep callingyou, sir.     Put him on.     The screen lit and Falbrough's face appeared; its normal blandness hadgiven way to wild-eyed tenseness.     What is it, Doctor?     It's a good thing you issued that order when you did, sir! You'llnever guess what just happened—     No guessing games, Falbrough. Speak up.     I—well, sir, I ran checks on the seven babies they sent me thismorning. And guess—I mean—well, one of them shouldn't have been sentto me!     No!     It's the truth, sir. A cute little baby indeed. I've got his cardright here. The boy's name is Philip Prior, and his gene-pattern isfine.     Any recommendation for euthanasia on the card? Walton asked.     No, sir.     Walton chewed at a ragged cuticle for a moment, counterfeiting greatanxiety. Falbrough, we're going to have to keep this very quiet.Someone slipped up in the examining room, and if word gets out thatthere's been as much as one mistake, we'll have a mob swarming over usin half an hour.     Yes, sir. Falbrough looked terribly grave. What should I do, sir?     Don't say a word about this to      anyone     , not even the men in theexamining room. Fill out a certificate for the boy, find his parents,apologize and return him to them. And make sure you keep checking forany future cases of this sort.     Certainly, sir. Is that all?     It is, Walton said crisply, and broke the contact. He took a deepbreath and stared bleakly at the far wall.     The Prior boy was safe. And in the eyes of the law—the EqualizationLaw—Roy Walton was now a criminal. He was every bit as much a criminalas the man who tried to hide his dying father from the investigators,or the anxious parents who attempted to bribe an examining doctor.     He felt curiously dirty. And, now that he had betrayed FitzMaugham andthe Cause, now that it was done, he had little idea why he had doneit, why he had jeopardized the Popeek program, his position—his life,even—for the sake of one potentially tubercular baby.     Well, the thing was done.     No. Not quite. Later, when things had quieted down, he would have tofinish the job by transferring all the men in the clinic to distantplaces and by obliterating the computer's memories of this morning'sactivities.     The annunciator chimed again. Your brother is on the wire, sir.     Walton trembled imperceptibly as he said, Put him on. Somehow, Frednever called unless he could say or do something unpleasant. AndWalton was very much afraid that his brother meant no good by thiscall. No good at all.      III     Roy Walton watched his brother's head and shoulders take form out ofthe swirl of colors on the screen. Fred Walton was more compact, builtcloser to the ground than his rangy brother; he was a squat five-seven,next to Roy's lean six-two. Fred had always threatened to get evenwith his older brother as soon as they were the same size, but toFred's great dismay he had never managed to catch up with Roy in height.     Even on the screen, Fred's neck and shoulders gave an impression oftremendous solidity and force. Walton waited for his brother's image totake shape, and when the time lag was over he said, Well, Fred? Whatgoes?     His brother's eyes flickered sleepily. They tell me you were down herea little while ago, Roy. How come I didn't rate a visit?     I wasn't in your section. It was official business, anyway. I didn'thave time.     Walton fixed his eyes sharply on the caduceus emblem gleaming on Fred'slapel, and refused to look anywhere else.     Fred said slowly, You had time to tinker with our computer, though.     Official business!     Really, Roy? His brother's tone was venomous. I happened tobe using the computer shortly after you this morning. I wascurious—unpardonably so, dear brother. I requested a transcript ofyour conversation with the machine.     Sparks seemed to flow from the screen. Walton sat back, feeling numb.He managed to pull his sagging mouth back into a stiff hard line andsay, That's a criminal offense, Fred. Any use I make of a Popeekcomputer outlet is confidential.     Criminal offence? Maybe so ... but that makes two of us, then. Eh,Roy?     How much do you know?     You wouldn't want me to recite it over a public communications system,would you? Your friend FitzMaugham might be listening to every word ofthis, and I have too much fraternal feeling for that. Ole Doc Waltondoesn't want to get his bigwig big brother in trouble—oh, no!     Thanks for small blessings, Roy said acidly.     You got me this job. You can take it away. Let's call it even for now,shall we?     Anything you like, Walton said. He was drenched in sweat, thoughthe ingenious executive filter in the sending apparatus of the screencloaked that fact and presented him as neat and fresh. I have somework to do now. His voice was barely audible.     I won't keep you any longer, then, Fred said.     The screen went dead.     Walton killed the contact at his end, got up, walked to the window. Henudged the opaquer control and the frosty white haze over the glasscleared away, revealing the fantastic beehive of the city outside.       Idiot!     he thought.      Fool!       He had risked everything to save one baby, one child probably doomedto an early death anyway. And FitzMaugham knew—the old man could seethrough Walton with ease—and Fred knew, too. His brother, and hisfather-substitute.     FitzMaugham might well choose to conceal Roy's defection this time,but would surely place less trust in him in the future. And as forFred....     There was no telling what Fred might do. They had never beenparticularly close as brothers; they had lived with their parents (nowalmost totally forgotten) until Roy was nine and Fred seven. Theirparents had gone down off Maracaibo in a jet crash; Roy and Fred hadbeen sent to the public crèche.     After that it had been separate paths for the brothers. For Roy, aneducation in the law, a short spell as Senator FitzMaugham's privatesecretary, followed last month by his sudden elevation to assistantadministrator of the newly-created Popeek Bureau. For Fred, medicine,unsuccessful private practice, finally a job in the Happysleep sectionof Popeek, thanks to Roy.   ","Master of Life and Death by Robert Silverberg takes place on Earth many years in the future, specifically June 10, 2232, or six weeks after the equalization laws were implemented. The story takes place within the confines of the Cullen building, specifically through the twentieth and twenty-ninth floors. It starts in Roy Walton’s office on the twenty-eighth floor, designed à la 22nd Century neo-Victorian style. Roy redesigned his office, changing the lights, windows, and removing the trim, but the room still felt ugly to him. His office has a desk with a firearm strapped to the bottom, and the door features a lock so as to prevent an assassination. He communicates with people through a holographic video call, and papers and assignments are sent to his desk immediately. Throughout the story, Roy travels down the elevator to the 20th floor, otherwise known as the Euthanization Clinic. There is a receptionist there as well as several computers. Different offices house different doctors, but he makes his to the center for babies where the executioner works. The rooms are very sterile and hospital-like. Each baby had its own pen, and several doctors examined them all while parents watched from screens. "
"Who is Fred Walton, and what is his significance in the story? </s>       MASTER       of Life and Death       by     ROBERT SILVERBERG     ACE BOOKS     A Division of A. A. Wyn, Inc.     23 West 47th Street, New York 36, N. Y.     MASTER OF LIFE AND DEATH     Copyright 1957, by A. A. Wyn, Inc.     All Rights Reserved     For Antigone—     Who Thinks We're Property     Printed in U.S.A.     [Transcriber's Note: Extensive research did not uncover any     evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      THE MAN WHO RATIONED BABIES     By the 23rd century Earth's population had reached seven billion.Mankind was in danger of perishing for lack of elbow room—unlessprompt measures were taken. Roy Walton had the power to enforce thosemeasures. But though his job was in the service of humanity, he soonfound himself the most hated man in the world.     For it was      his     job to tell parents their children were unfit to live;      he     had to uproot people from their homes and send them to remoteareas of the world. Now, threatened by mobs of outraged citizens,denounced and blackened by the press, Roy Walton had to make adecision: resign his post, or use his power to destroy his enemies,become a dictator in the hopes of saving humanity from its own folly.In other words, should he become the MASTER OF LIFE AND DEATH?      CAST OF CHARACTERS     ROY WALTON     He had to adopt the motto—      the ends justify the means     .     FITZMAUGHAM     His reward for devoted service was—an assassin's bullet.     FRED WALTON     His ambition was to fill his brother's shoes—but he underestimatedtheir size.     LEE PERCY     His specialty was sugarcoating bitter pills.     PRIOR     With the pen as his only weapon, could he save his son?     DR. LAMARRE     He died for discovering the secret of immortality.      Contents      I     The offices of the Bureau of Population Equalization, vulgarly knownas Popeek, were located on the twentieth through twenty-ninth floorsof the Cullen Building, a hundred-story monstrosity typical oftwenty-second-century neo-Victorian at its overdecorated worst. RoyWalton, Popeek's assistant administrator, had to apologize to himselfeach morning as he entered the hideous place.     Since taking the job, he had managed to redecorate his own office—onthe twenty-eighth floor, immediately below Director FitzMaugham's—butthat had created only one minor oasis in the esthetically repugnantbuilding. It couldn't be helped, though; Popeek was unpopular, thoughnecessary; and, like the public hangman of some centuries earlier, theBureau did not rate attractive quarters.     So Walton had removed some of the iridescent chrome scalloping thattrimmed the walls, replaced the sash windows with opaquers, and changedthe massive ceiling fixture to more subtle electroluminescents. But themark of the last century was stamped irrevocably on both building andoffice.     Which was as it should be, Walton had finally realized. It was the lastcentury's foolishness that had made Popeek necessary, after all.     His desk was piled high with reports, and more kept arriving viapneumochute every minute. The job of assistant administrator wasa thankless one, he thought; as much responsibility as DirectorFitzMaugham, and half the pay.     He lifted a report from one eyebrow-high stack, smoothed the crinklypaper carefully, and read it.     It was a despatch from Horrocks, the Popeek agent currently on duty inPatagonia. It was dated      4 June 2232     , six days before, and after along and rambling prologue in the usual Horrocks manner it went on tosay,      Population density remains low here: 17.3 per square mile, farbelow optimum. Looks like a prime candidate for equalization.       Walton agreed. He reached for his voicewrite and said sharply, Memofrom Assistant Administrator Walton, re equalization of ... He paused,picking a trouble-spot at random, ... central Belgium. Will thesection chief in charge of this area please consider the advisabilityof transferring population excess to fertile areas in Patagonia?Recommendation: establishment of industries in latter region, to easetransition.     He shut his eyes, dug his thumbs into them until bright flares of lightshot across his eyeballs, and refused to let himself be bothered bythe multiple problems involved in dumping several hundred thousandBelgians into Patagonia. He forced himself to cling to one of DirectorFitzMaugham's oft-repeated maxims,      If you want to stay sane, think ofthese people as pawns in a chess game—not as human beings.       Walton sighed. This was the biggest chess problem in the history ofhumanity, and the way it looked now, all the solutions led to checkmatein a century or less. They could keep equalizing population only solong, shifting like loggers riding logs in a rushing river, beforetrouble came.     There was another matter to be attended to now. He picked up thevoicewrite again. Memo from the assistant administrator, reestablishment of new policy on reports from local agents: hire a staffof three clever girls to make a précis of each report, eliminatingirrelevant data.     It was a basic step, one that should have been taken long ago. Now,with three feet of reports stacked on his desk, it was mandatory. Oneof the troubles with Popeek was its newness; it had been established sosuddenly that most of its procedures were still in the formative stage.     He took another report from the heap. This one was the data sheet ofthe Zurich Euthanasia Center, and he gave it a cursory scanning. Duringthe past week, eleven substandard children and twenty-three substandardadults had been sent on to Happysleep.     That was the grimmest form of population equalization. Walton initialedthe report, earmarked it for files, and dumped it in the pneumochute.     The annunciator chimed.     I'm busy, Walton said immediately.     There's a Mr. Prior to see you, the annunciator's calm voice said.He insists it's an emergency.     Tell Mr. Prior I can't see anyone for at least three hours. Waltonstared gloomily at the growing pile of paper on his desk. Tell him hecan have ten minutes with me at—oh, say, 1300.     Walton heard an angry male voice muttering something in the outeroffice, and then the annunciator said, He insists he must see youimmediately in reference to a Happysleep commitment.     Commitments are irrevocable, Walton said heavily. The last thing inthe world he wanted was to see a man whose child or parent had justbeen committed. Tell Mr. Prior I can't see him at all.     Walton found his fingers trembling; he clamped them tight to the edgeof his desk to steady himself. It was all right sitting up here in thisugly building and initialing commitment papers, but actually to      see     one of those people and try to convince him of the need—     The door burst open.     A tall, dark-haired man in an open jacket came rushing through andpaused dramatically just over the threshold. Immediately behind himcame three unsmiling men in the gray silk-sheen uniforms of security.They carried drawn needlers.     Are you Administrator Walton? the big man asked, in an astonishinglydeep, rich voice. I have to see you. I'm Lyle Prior.     The three security men caught up and swarmed all over Prior. One ofthem turned apologetically to Walton. We're terribly sorry about this,sir. He just broke away and ran. We can't understand how he got inhere, but he did.     Ah—yes. So I noticed, Walton remarked drily. See if he's planningto assassinate anybody, will you?     Administrator Walton! Prior protested. I'm a man of peace! How canyou accuse me of—     One of the security men hit him. Walton stiffened and resisted the urgeto reprimand the man. He was only doing his job, after all.     Search him, Walton said.     They gave Prior an efficient going-over. He's clean, Mr. Walton.Should we take him to security, or downstairs to health?     Neither. Leave him here with me.     Are you sure you—     Get out of here, Walton snapped. As the three security men slinkedaway, he added, And figure out some more efficient system forprotecting me. Some day an assassin is going to sneak through hereand get me. Not that I give a damn about myself, you understand; it'ssimply that I'm indispensable. There isn't another lunatic in the worldwho'd take this job. Now      get out     !     They wasted no time in leaving. Walton waited until the door closedand jammed down hard on the lockstud. His tirade, he knew, was whollyunjustified; if he had remembered to lock his door as regulationsprescribed, Prior would never have broken in. But he couldn't admitthat to the guards.     Take a seat, Mr. Prior.     I have to thank you for granting me this audience, Prior said,without a hint of sarcasm in his booming voice. I realize you're aterribly busy man.     I am. Another three inches of paper had deposited itself on Walton'sdesk since Prior had entered. You're very lucky to have hit thepsychological moment for your entrance. At any other time I'd havehad you brigged for a month, but just now I'm in need of a littlediversion. Besides, I very much admire your work, Mr. Prior.     Thank you. Again that humility, startling in so big and commanding aman. I hadn't expected to find—I mean that you—     That a bureaucrat should admire poetry? Is that what you're gropingfor?     Prior reddened. Yes, he admitted.     Grinning, Walton said, I have to do      something     when I go home atnight. I don't really read Popeek reports twenty-four hours a day. Nomore than twenty; that's my rule. I thought your last book was quiteremarkable.     The critics didn't, Prior said diffidently.     Critics! What do they know? Walton demanded. They swing in cycles.Ten years ago it was form and technique, and you got the Melling Prize.Now it's message, political content that counts. That's not poetry, Mr.Prior—and there are still a few of us who recognize what poetry is.Take Yeats, for instance—     Walton was ready to launch into a discussion of every poet from Priorback to Surrey and Wyatt; anything to keep from the job at hand,anything to keep his mind from Popeek. But Prior interrupted him.     Mr. Walton....     Yes?     My son Philip ... he's two weeks old now....     Walton understood. No, Prior. Please don't ask. Walton's skin feltcold; his hands, tightly clenched, were clammy.     He was committed to Happysleep this morning—potentially tubercular.The boy's perfectly sound, Mr. Walton. Couldn't you—     Walton rose.       No     , he said, half-commanding, half-pleading. Don'task me to do it. I can't make any exceptions, not even for you. You'rean intelligent man; you understand our program.     I voted for Popeek. I know all about Weeding the Garden and theEuthanasia Plan. But I hadn't expected—     You thought euthanasia was a fine thing for      other     people. So dideveryone else, Walton said. That's how the act was passed. Tenderlyhe said, I can't do it. I can't spare your son. Our doctors give ababy every chance to live.           I     was tubercular. They cured me. What if they had practicedeuthanasia a generation ago? Where would my poems be now?     It was an unanswerable question; Walton tried to ignore it.Tuberculosis is an extremely rare disease, Mr. Prior. We can wipeit out completely if we strike at those with TB-susceptible genetictraits.     Meaning you'll kill any children I have? Prior asked.     Those who inherit your condition, Walton said gently. Go home, Mr.Prior. Burn me in effigy. Write a poem about me. But don't ask me to dothe impossible. I can't catch any falling stars for you.     Prior rose. He was immense, a hulking tragic figure staring broodinglyat Walton. For the first time since the poet's abrupt entry, Waltonfeared violence. His fingers groped for the needle gun he kept in hisupper left desk drawer.     But Prior had no violence in him. I'll leave you, he said somberly.I'm sorry, sir. Deeply sorry. For both of us.     Walton pressed the doorlock to let him out, then locked it again andslipped heavily into his chair. Three more reports slid out of thechute and landed on his desk. He stared at them as if they were threebasilisks.     In the six weeks of Popeek's existence, three thousand babies had beenticketed for Happysleep, and three thousand sets of degenerate geneshad been wiped from the race. Ten thousand subnormal males had beensterilized. Eight thousand dying oldsters had reached their gravesahead of time.     It was a tough-minded program. But why transmit palsy to unborngenerations? Why let an adult idiot litter the world with subnormalprogeny? Why force a man hopelessly cancerous to linger on in pain,consuming precious food?     Unpleasant? Sure. But the world had voted for it. Until Lang and histeam succeeded in terraforming Venus, or until the faster-than-lightoutfit opened the stars to mankind, something had to be done aboutEarth's overpopulation. There were seven billion now and the figure wasstill growing.     Prior's words haunted him.      I was tubercular ... where would my poemsbe now?       The big humble man was one of the great poets. Keats had beentubercular too.       What good are poets?     he asked himself savagely.     The reply came swiftly:      What good is anything, then?     Keats,Shakespeare, Eliot, Yeats, Donne, Pound, Matthews ... and Prior. Howmuch duller life would be without them, Walton thought, picturinghis bookshelf—his one bookshelf, in his crowded little cubicle of aone-room home.     Sweat poured down his back as he groped toward his decision.     The step he was considering would disqualify him from his job if headmitted it, though he wouldn't do that. Under the Equalization Law, itwould be a criminal act.     But just one baby wouldn't matter. Just one.     Prior's baby.     With nervous fingers he switched on the annunciator and said, If thereare any calls for me, take the message. I'll be out of my office forthe next half-hour.      II     He stepped out of the office, glancing around furtively. The outeroffice was busy: half a dozen girls were answering calls, openingletters, coordinating activities. Walton slipped quickly past them intothe hallway.     There was a knot of fear in his stomach as he turned toward thelift tube. Six weeks of pressure, six weeks of tension since Popeekwas organized and old man FitzMaugham had tapped him for thesecond-in-command post ... and now, a rebellion. The sparing of asingle child was a small rebellion, true, but he knew he was strikingas effectively at the base of Popeek this way as if he had broughtabout repeal of the entire Equalization Law.     Well, just one lapse, he promised himself. I'll spare Prior's child,and after that I'll keep within the law.     He jabbed the lift tube indicator and the tube rose in its shaft. Theclinic was on the twentieth floor.     Roy.     At the sound of the quiet voice behind him, Walton jumped in surprise.He steadied himself, forcing himself to turn slowly. The director stoodthere.     Good morning, Mr. FitzMaugham.     The old man was smiling serenely, his unlined face warm and friendly,his mop of white hair bright and full. You look preoccupied, boy.Something the matter?     Walton shook his head quickly. Just a little tired, sir. There's beena lot of work lately.     As he said it, he knew how foolish it sounded. If anyone in Popeekworked harder than he did, it was the elderly director. FitzMaughamhad striven for equalization legislature for fifty years, and now, atthe age of eighty, he put in a sixteen-hour day at the task of savingmankind from itself.     The director smiled. You never did learn how to budget your strength,Roy. You'll be a worn-out wreck before you're half my age. I'm gladyou're adopting my habit of taking a coffee break in the morning,though. Mind if I join you?     I'm—not taking a break, sir. I have some work to do downstairs.     Oh? Can't you take care of it by phone?     No, Mr. FitzMaugham. Walton felt as though he'd already been tried,drawn, and quartered. It requires personal attention.     I see. The deep, warm eyes bored into his. You ought to slow down alittle, I think.     Yes, sir. As soon as the work eases up a little.     FitzMaugham chuckled. In another century or two, you mean. I'm afraidyou'll never learn how to relax, my boy.     The lift tube arrived. Walton stepped to one side, allowed the Directorto enter, and got in himself. FitzMaugham pushed      Fourteen     ; there wasa coffee shop down there. Hesitantly, Walton pushed      twenty     , coveringthe panel with his arm so the old man would be unable to see hisdestination.     As the tube began to descend, FitzMaugham said, Did Mr. Prior come tosee you this morning?     Yes, Walton said.     He's the poet, isn't he? The one you say is so good?     That's right, sir, Walton said tightly.     He came to see me first, but I had him referred down to you. What wason his mind?     Walton hesitated. He—he wanted his son spared from Happysleep.Naturally, I had to turn him down.     Naturally, FitzMaugham agreed solemnly. Once we make even oneexception, the whole framework crumbles.     Of course, sir.     The lift tube halted and rocked on its suspension. The door slid back,revealing a neat, gleaming sign:       FLOOR 20        Euthanasia Clinic and Files       Walton had forgotten the accursed sign. He began to wish he had avoidedtraveling down with the director. He felt that his purpose must seemnakedly obvious now.     The old man's eyes were twinkling amusedly. I guess you get off here,he said. I hope you catch up with your work soon, Roy. You reallyshould take some time off for relaxation each day.     I'll try, sir.     Walton stepped out of the tube and returned FitzMaugham's smile as thedoor closed again. Bitter thoughts assailed him as soon as he was alone.       Some fine criminal you are. You've given the show away already! Anddamn that smooth paternal smile. FitzMaugham knows! He must know!       Walton wavered, then abruptly made his decision. He sucked in a deepbreath and walked briskly toward the big room where the euthanasiafiles were kept.  The room was large, as rooms went nowadays—thirty by twenty, with deckupon deck of Donnerson micro-memory-tubes racked along one wall and abank of microfilm records along the other. In six weeks of life Popeekhad piled up an impressive collection of data.     While he stood there, the computer chattered, lights flashed. New factspoured into the memory banks. It probably went on day and night.     Can I help—oh, it's you, Mr. Walton, a white-smocked techniciansaid. Popeek employed a small army of technicians, each one facelessand without personality, but always ready to serve. Is there anythingI can do?     I'm simply running a routine checkup. Mind if I use the machine?     Not at all, sir. Go right ahead.     Walton grinned lightly and stepped forward. The technician practicallybacked out of his presence.       No doubt I must radiate charisma     , he thought. Within the building hewore a sort of luminous halo, by virtue of being Director FitzMaugham'sprotégé and second-in-command. Outside, in the colder reality of thecrowded metropolis, he kept his identity and Popeek rank quietly tohimself.     Frowning, he tried to remember the Prior boy's name. Ah ... Philip,wasn't it? He punched out a request for the card on Philip Prior.     A moment's pause followed, while the millions of tiny cryotroniccircuits raced with information pulses, searching the Donnersontubes for Philip Prior's record. Then, a brief squeaking sound and ayellow-brown card dropped out of the slot:       3216847AB1         PRIOR, Philip Hugh. Born 31 May 2232, New York General Hospital, NewYork. First son of Prior, Lyle Martin and Prior, Ava Leonard. Wgt. atbirth 5lb. 3oz.       An elaborate description of the boy in great detail followed, endingwith blood type, agglutinating characteristic, and gene-pattern,codified. Walton skipped impatiently through that and came to thenotification typed in curt, impersonal green capital letters at thebottom of the card:       EXAMINED AT N Y EUTH CLINIC 10 JUNE 2332        EUTHANASIA RECOMMENDED       He glanced at his watch: the time was 1026. The boy was probably stillsomewhere in the clinic lab, waiting for the figurative axe to descend.     Walton had set up the schedule himself: the gas chamber deliveredHappysleep each day at 1100 and 1500. He had about half an hour to savePhilip Prior.     He peered covertly over his shoulder; no one was in sight. He slippedthe baby's card into his breast pocket.     That done, he typed out a requisition for explanation of thegene-sorting code the clinic used. Symbols began pouring forth,and Walton puzzledly correlated them with the line of gibberish onPhillip Prior's record card. Finally he found the one he wanted:      3f2,tubercular-prone     .     He scrapped the guide sheet he had and typed out a message to themachine.      Revision of card number 3216847AB1 follows. Please alter inall circuits.       He proceeded to retype the child's card, omitting both the fatal symbol      3f2     and the notation recommending euthanasia from the new version.The machine beeped an acknowledgement. Walton smiled. So far, so good.     Then, he requested the boy's file all over again. After the customarypause, a card numbered 3216847AB1 dropped out of the slot. He read it.     The deletions had been made. As far as the machine was concerned,Philip Prior was a normal, healthy baby.     He glanced at his watch. 1037. Still twenty-three minutes before thismorning's haul of unfortunates was put away.     Now came the real test: could he pry the baby away from the doctorswithout attracting too much attention to himself in the process?  Five doctors were bustling back and forth as Walton entered the mainsection of the clinic. There must have been a hundred babies there,each in a little pen of its own, and the doctors were humming from oneto the next, while anxious parents watched from screens above.     The Equalization Law provided that every child be presented at itslocal clinic within two weeks of birth, for an examination and acertificate. Perhaps one in ten thousand would be denied acertificate ... and life.     Hello, Mr. Walton. What brings you down here?     Walton smiled affably. Just a routine investigation, Doctor. I try tokeep in touch with every department we have, you know.     Mr. FitzMaugham was down here to look around a little while ago. We'rereally getting a going-over today, Mr. Walton!     Umm. Yes. Walton didn't like that, but there was nothing he coulddo about it. He'd have to rely on the old man's abiding faith in hisprotégé to pull him out of any possible stickiness that arose.     Seen my brother around? he asked.     Fred? He's working in room seven, running analyses. Want me to get himfor you, Mr. Walton?     No—no, don't bother him, thanks. I'll find him later. Inwardly,Walton felt relieved. Fred Walton, his younger brother, was a doctor inthe employ of Popeek. Little love was lost between the brothers, andRoy did not care to have Fred know he was down there.     Strolling casually through the clinic, he peered at a few plump,squalling babies, and said, Find many sour ones today?     Seven so far. They're scheduled for the 1100 chamber. Three tuberc,two blind, one congenital syph.     That only makes six, Walton said.     Oh, and a spastic, the doctor said. Biggest haul we've had yet.Seven in one morning.     Have any trouble with the parents?     What do you think? the doctor asked. But some of them seemed tounderstand. One of the tuberculars nearly raised the roof, though.     Walton shuddered. You remember his name? he asked, with feigned calm.     Silence for a moment. No. Darned if I can think of it. I can look itup for you if you like.     Don't bother, Walton said hurriedly.     He moved on, down the winding corridor that led to the executionchamber. Falbrough, the executioner, was studying a list of names athis desk when Walton appeared.     Falbrough didn't look like the sort of man who would enjoy his work. Hewas short and plump, with a high-domed bald head and glittering contactlenses in his weak blue eyes. Morning, Mr. Walton.     Good morning, Doctor Falbrough. You'll be operating soon, won't you?     Eleven hundred, as usual.     Good. There's a new regulation in effect from now on, Walton said.To keep public opinion on our side.     Sir?     Henceforth, until further notice, you're to check each baby thatcomes to you against the main file, just to make sure there's been nomistake. Got that?           Mistake?     But how—     Never mind that, Falbrough. There was quite a tragic slip-up at oneof the European centers yesterday. We may all hang for it if news getsout.      How glibly I reel this stuff off     , Walton thought in amazement.     Falbrough looked grave. I see, sir. Of course. We'll double-checkeverything from now on.     Good. Begin with the 1100 batch.     Walton couldn't bear to remain down in the clinic any longer. He leftvia a side exit, and signaled for a lift tube.     Minutes later he was back in his office, behind the security of atowering stack of work. His pulse was racing; his throat was dry. Heremembered what FitzMaugham had said:      Once we make even one exception,the whole framework crumbles.       Well, the framework had begun crumbling, then. And there was littledoubt in Walton's mind that FitzMaugham knew or would soon know what hehad done. He would have to cover his traces, somehow.     The annunciator chimed and said, Dr. Falbrough of Happysleep callingyou, sir.     Put him on.     The screen lit and Falbrough's face appeared; its normal blandness hadgiven way to wild-eyed tenseness.     What is it, Doctor?     It's a good thing you issued that order when you did, sir! You'llnever guess what just happened—     No guessing games, Falbrough. Speak up.     I—well, sir, I ran checks on the seven babies they sent me thismorning. And guess—I mean—well, one of them shouldn't have been sentto me!     No!     It's the truth, sir. A cute little baby indeed. I've got his cardright here. The boy's name is Philip Prior, and his gene-pattern isfine.     Any recommendation for euthanasia on the card? Walton asked.     No, sir.     Walton chewed at a ragged cuticle for a moment, counterfeiting greatanxiety. Falbrough, we're going to have to keep this very quiet.Someone slipped up in the examining room, and if word gets out thatthere's been as much as one mistake, we'll have a mob swarming over usin half an hour.     Yes, sir. Falbrough looked terribly grave. What should I do, sir?     Don't say a word about this to      anyone     , not even the men in theexamining room. Fill out a certificate for the boy, find his parents,apologize and return him to them. And make sure you keep checking forany future cases of this sort.     Certainly, sir. Is that all?     It is, Walton said crisply, and broke the contact. He took a deepbreath and stared bleakly at the far wall.     The Prior boy was safe. And in the eyes of the law—the EqualizationLaw—Roy Walton was now a criminal. He was every bit as much a criminalas the man who tried to hide his dying father from the investigators,or the anxious parents who attempted to bribe an examining doctor.     He felt curiously dirty. And, now that he had betrayed FitzMaugham andthe Cause, now that it was done, he had little idea why he had doneit, why he had jeopardized the Popeek program, his position—his life,even—for the sake of one potentially tubercular baby.     Well, the thing was done.     No. Not quite. Later, when things had quieted down, he would have tofinish the job by transferring all the men in the clinic to distantplaces and by obliterating the computer's memories of this morning'sactivities.     The annunciator chimed again. Your brother is on the wire, sir.     Walton trembled imperceptibly as he said, Put him on. Somehow, Frednever called unless he could say or do something unpleasant. AndWalton was very much afraid that his brother meant no good by thiscall. No good at all.      III     Roy Walton watched his brother's head and shoulders take form out ofthe swirl of colors on the screen. Fred Walton was more compact, builtcloser to the ground than his rangy brother; he was a squat five-seven,next to Roy's lean six-two. Fred had always threatened to get evenwith his older brother as soon as they were the same size, but toFred's great dismay he had never managed to catch up with Roy in height.     Even on the screen, Fred's neck and shoulders gave an impression oftremendous solidity and force. Walton waited for his brother's image totake shape, and when the time lag was over he said, Well, Fred? Whatgoes?     His brother's eyes flickered sleepily. They tell me you were down herea little while ago, Roy. How come I didn't rate a visit?     I wasn't in your section. It was official business, anyway. I didn'thave time.     Walton fixed his eyes sharply on the caduceus emblem gleaming on Fred'slapel, and refused to look anywhere else.     Fred said slowly, You had time to tinker with our computer, though.     Official business!     Really, Roy? His brother's tone was venomous. I happened tobe using the computer shortly after you this morning. I wascurious—unpardonably so, dear brother. I requested a transcript ofyour conversation with the machine.     Sparks seemed to flow from the screen. Walton sat back, feeling numb.He managed to pull his sagging mouth back into a stiff hard line andsay, That's a criminal offense, Fred. Any use I make of a Popeekcomputer outlet is confidential.     Criminal offence? Maybe so ... but that makes two of us, then. Eh,Roy?     How much do you know?     You wouldn't want me to recite it over a public communications system,would you? Your friend FitzMaugham might be listening to every word ofthis, and I have too much fraternal feeling for that. Ole Doc Waltondoesn't want to get his bigwig big brother in trouble—oh, no!     Thanks for small blessings, Roy said acidly.     You got me this job. You can take it away. Let's call it even for now,shall we?     Anything you like, Walton said. He was drenched in sweat, thoughthe ingenious executive filter in the sending apparatus of the screencloaked that fact and presented him as neat and fresh. I have somework to do now. His voice was barely audible.     I won't keep you any longer, then, Fred said.     The screen went dead.     Walton killed the contact at his end, got up, walked to the window. Henudged the opaquer control and the frosty white haze over the glasscleared away, revealing the fantastic beehive of the city outside.       Idiot!     he thought.      Fool!       He had risked everything to save one baby, one child probably doomedto an early death anyway. And FitzMaugham knew—the old man could seethrough Walton with ease—and Fred knew, too. His brother, and hisfather-substitute.     FitzMaugham might well choose to conceal Roy's defection this time,but would surely place less trust in him in the future. And as forFred....     There was no telling what Fred might do. They had never beenparticularly close as brothers; they had lived with their parents (nowalmost totally forgotten) until Roy was nine and Fred seven. Theirparents had gone down off Maracaibo in a jet crash; Roy and Fred hadbeen sent to the public crèche.     After that it had been separate paths for the brothers. For Roy, aneducation in the law, a short spell as Senator FitzMaugham's privatesecretary, followed last month by his sudden elevation to assistantadministrator of the newly-created Popeek Bureau. For Fred, medicine,unsuccessful private practice, finally a job in the Happysleep sectionof Popeek, thanks to Roy.   ","Fred Walton is the brother of Roy Walton, Assistant Administrator of the Bureau of Population Equalization. Fred Walton is a physician with a vaguely unsuccessful career history: medical school, a failed private practice, and finally becoming a doctor in the euthanizing section of Bureau of Population Equalization (or Popeek) thanks to his brother. Their childhood was tense and difficult. They were orphaned at 7 and 9 respectively when their parents died in a jet crash. Fred Walton and Roy have a very contentious relationship now, shown through Roy’s hindrance to visiting his brother when in his section of the building. Fred Walton is significant because he discovered what Roy Walton had done after breaking into the office computers and looking up confidential information. He uses his knowledge of Roy’s felony and leverages it over his head. Essentially, he offers an ultimatum: Fred will keep quiet, so long as Roy does too. Plus, Roy now owes Fred. "
"Who is Philip Prior, and what happens to him throughout the story? </s>       MASTER       of Life and Death       by     ROBERT SILVERBERG     ACE BOOKS     A Division of A. A. Wyn, Inc.     23 West 47th Street, New York 36, N. Y.     MASTER OF LIFE AND DEATH     Copyright 1957, by A. A. Wyn, Inc.     All Rights Reserved     For Antigone—     Who Thinks We're Property     Printed in U.S.A.     [Transcriber's Note: Extensive research did not uncover any     evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      THE MAN WHO RATIONED BABIES     By the 23rd century Earth's population had reached seven billion.Mankind was in danger of perishing for lack of elbow room—unlessprompt measures were taken. Roy Walton had the power to enforce thosemeasures. But though his job was in the service of humanity, he soonfound himself the most hated man in the world.     For it was      his     job to tell parents their children were unfit to live;      he     had to uproot people from their homes and send them to remoteareas of the world. Now, threatened by mobs of outraged citizens,denounced and blackened by the press, Roy Walton had to make adecision: resign his post, or use his power to destroy his enemies,become a dictator in the hopes of saving humanity from its own folly.In other words, should he become the MASTER OF LIFE AND DEATH?      CAST OF CHARACTERS     ROY WALTON     He had to adopt the motto—      the ends justify the means     .     FITZMAUGHAM     His reward for devoted service was—an assassin's bullet.     FRED WALTON     His ambition was to fill his brother's shoes—but he underestimatedtheir size.     LEE PERCY     His specialty was sugarcoating bitter pills.     PRIOR     With the pen as his only weapon, could he save his son?     DR. LAMARRE     He died for discovering the secret of immortality.      Contents      I     The offices of the Bureau of Population Equalization, vulgarly knownas Popeek, were located on the twentieth through twenty-ninth floorsof the Cullen Building, a hundred-story monstrosity typical oftwenty-second-century neo-Victorian at its overdecorated worst. RoyWalton, Popeek's assistant administrator, had to apologize to himselfeach morning as he entered the hideous place.     Since taking the job, he had managed to redecorate his own office—onthe twenty-eighth floor, immediately below Director FitzMaugham's—butthat had created only one minor oasis in the esthetically repugnantbuilding. It couldn't be helped, though; Popeek was unpopular, thoughnecessary; and, like the public hangman of some centuries earlier, theBureau did not rate attractive quarters.     So Walton had removed some of the iridescent chrome scalloping thattrimmed the walls, replaced the sash windows with opaquers, and changedthe massive ceiling fixture to more subtle electroluminescents. But themark of the last century was stamped irrevocably on both building andoffice.     Which was as it should be, Walton had finally realized. It was the lastcentury's foolishness that had made Popeek necessary, after all.     His desk was piled high with reports, and more kept arriving viapneumochute every minute. The job of assistant administrator wasa thankless one, he thought; as much responsibility as DirectorFitzMaugham, and half the pay.     He lifted a report from one eyebrow-high stack, smoothed the crinklypaper carefully, and read it.     It was a despatch from Horrocks, the Popeek agent currently on duty inPatagonia. It was dated      4 June 2232     , six days before, and after along and rambling prologue in the usual Horrocks manner it went on tosay,      Population density remains low here: 17.3 per square mile, farbelow optimum. Looks like a prime candidate for equalization.       Walton agreed. He reached for his voicewrite and said sharply, Memofrom Assistant Administrator Walton, re equalization of ... He paused,picking a trouble-spot at random, ... central Belgium. Will thesection chief in charge of this area please consider the advisabilityof transferring population excess to fertile areas in Patagonia?Recommendation: establishment of industries in latter region, to easetransition.     He shut his eyes, dug his thumbs into them until bright flares of lightshot across his eyeballs, and refused to let himself be bothered bythe multiple problems involved in dumping several hundred thousandBelgians into Patagonia. He forced himself to cling to one of DirectorFitzMaugham's oft-repeated maxims,      If you want to stay sane, think ofthese people as pawns in a chess game—not as human beings.       Walton sighed. This was the biggest chess problem in the history ofhumanity, and the way it looked now, all the solutions led to checkmatein a century or less. They could keep equalizing population only solong, shifting like loggers riding logs in a rushing river, beforetrouble came.     There was another matter to be attended to now. He picked up thevoicewrite again. Memo from the assistant administrator, reestablishment of new policy on reports from local agents: hire a staffof three clever girls to make a précis of each report, eliminatingirrelevant data.     It was a basic step, one that should have been taken long ago. Now,with three feet of reports stacked on his desk, it was mandatory. Oneof the troubles with Popeek was its newness; it had been established sosuddenly that most of its procedures were still in the formative stage.     He took another report from the heap. This one was the data sheet ofthe Zurich Euthanasia Center, and he gave it a cursory scanning. Duringthe past week, eleven substandard children and twenty-three substandardadults had been sent on to Happysleep.     That was the grimmest form of population equalization. Walton initialedthe report, earmarked it for files, and dumped it in the pneumochute.     The annunciator chimed.     I'm busy, Walton said immediately.     There's a Mr. Prior to see you, the annunciator's calm voice said.He insists it's an emergency.     Tell Mr. Prior I can't see anyone for at least three hours. Waltonstared gloomily at the growing pile of paper on his desk. Tell him hecan have ten minutes with me at—oh, say, 1300.     Walton heard an angry male voice muttering something in the outeroffice, and then the annunciator said, He insists he must see youimmediately in reference to a Happysleep commitment.     Commitments are irrevocable, Walton said heavily. The last thing inthe world he wanted was to see a man whose child or parent had justbeen committed. Tell Mr. Prior I can't see him at all.     Walton found his fingers trembling; he clamped them tight to the edgeof his desk to steady himself. It was all right sitting up here in thisugly building and initialing commitment papers, but actually to      see     one of those people and try to convince him of the need—     The door burst open.     A tall, dark-haired man in an open jacket came rushing through andpaused dramatically just over the threshold. Immediately behind himcame three unsmiling men in the gray silk-sheen uniforms of security.They carried drawn needlers.     Are you Administrator Walton? the big man asked, in an astonishinglydeep, rich voice. I have to see you. I'm Lyle Prior.     The three security men caught up and swarmed all over Prior. One ofthem turned apologetically to Walton. We're terribly sorry about this,sir. He just broke away and ran. We can't understand how he got inhere, but he did.     Ah—yes. So I noticed, Walton remarked drily. See if he's planningto assassinate anybody, will you?     Administrator Walton! Prior protested. I'm a man of peace! How canyou accuse me of—     One of the security men hit him. Walton stiffened and resisted the urgeto reprimand the man. He was only doing his job, after all.     Search him, Walton said.     They gave Prior an efficient going-over. He's clean, Mr. Walton.Should we take him to security, or downstairs to health?     Neither. Leave him here with me.     Are you sure you—     Get out of here, Walton snapped. As the three security men slinkedaway, he added, And figure out some more efficient system forprotecting me. Some day an assassin is going to sneak through hereand get me. Not that I give a damn about myself, you understand; it'ssimply that I'm indispensable. There isn't another lunatic in the worldwho'd take this job. Now      get out     !     They wasted no time in leaving. Walton waited until the door closedand jammed down hard on the lockstud. His tirade, he knew, was whollyunjustified; if he had remembered to lock his door as regulationsprescribed, Prior would never have broken in. But he couldn't admitthat to the guards.     Take a seat, Mr. Prior.     I have to thank you for granting me this audience, Prior said,without a hint of sarcasm in his booming voice. I realize you're aterribly busy man.     I am. Another three inches of paper had deposited itself on Walton'sdesk since Prior had entered. You're very lucky to have hit thepsychological moment for your entrance. At any other time I'd havehad you brigged for a month, but just now I'm in need of a littlediversion. Besides, I very much admire your work, Mr. Prior.     Thank you. Again that humility, startling in so big and commanding aman. I hadn't expected to find—I mean that you—     That a bureaucrat should admire poetry? Is that what you're gropingfor?     Prior reddened. Yes, he admitted.     Grinning, Walton said, I have to do      something     when I go home atnight. I don't really read Popeek reports twenty-four hours a day. Nomore than twenty; that's my rule. I thought your last book was quiteremarkable.     The critics didn't, Prior said diffidently.     Critics! What do they know? Walton demanded. They swing in cycles.Ten years ago it was form and technique, and you got the Melling Prize.Now it's message, political content that counts. That's not poetry, Mr.Prior—and there are still a few of us who recognize what poetry is.Take Yeats, for instance—     Walton was ready to launch into a discussion of every poet from Priorback to Surrey and Wyatt; anything to keep from the job at hand,anything to keep his mind from Popeek. But Prior interrupted him.     Mr. Walton....     Yes?     My son Philip ... he's two weeks old now....     Walton understood. No, Prior. Please don't ask. Walton's skin feltcold; his hands, tightly clenched, were clammy.     He was committed to Happysleep this morning—potentially tubercular.The boy's perfectly sound, Mr. Walton. Couldn't you—     Walton rose.       No     , he said, half-commanding, half-pleading. Don'task me to do it. I can't make any exceptions, not even for you. You'rean intelligent man; you understand our program.     I voted for Popeek. I know all about Weeding the Garden and theEuthanasia Plan. But I hadn't expected—     You thought euthanasia was a fine thing for      other     people. So dideveryone else, Walton said. That's how the act was passed. Tenderlyhe said, I can't do it. I can't spare your son. Our doctors give ababy every chance to live.           I     was tubercular. They cured me. What if they had practicedeuthanasia a generation ago? Where would my poems be now?     It was an unanswerable question; Walton tried to ignore it.Tuberculosis is an extremely rare disease, Mr. Prior. We can wipeit out completely if we strike at those with TB-susceptible genetictraits.     Meaning you'll kill any children I have? Prior asked.     Those who inherit your condition, Walton said gently. Go home, Mr.Prior. Burn me in effigy. Write a poem about me. But don't ask me to dothe impossible. I can't catch any falling stars for you.     Prior rose. He was immense, a hulking tragic figure staring broodinglyat Walton. For the first time since the poet's abrupt entry, Waltonfeared violence. His fingers groped for the needle gun he kept in hisupper left desk drawer.     But Prior had no violence in him. I'll leave you, he said somberly.I'm sorry, sir. Deeply sorry. For both of us.     Walton pressed the doorlock to let him out, then locked it again andslipped heavily into his chair. Three more reports slid out of thechute and landed on his desk. He stared at them as if they were threebasilisks.     In the six weeks of Popeek's existence, three thousand babies had beenticketed for Happysleep, and three thousand sets of degenerate geneshad been wiped from the race. Ten thousand subnormal males had beensterilized. Eight thousand dying oldsters had reached their gravesahead of time.     It was a tough-minded program. But why transmit palsy to unborngenerations? Why let an adult idiot litter the world with subnormalprogeny? Why force a man hopelessly cancerous to linger on in pain,consuming precious food?     Unpleasant? Sure. But the world had voted for it. Until Lang and histeam succeeded in terraforming Venus, or until the faster-than-lightoutfit opened the stars to mankind, something had to be done aboutEarth's overpopulation. There were seven billion now and the figure wasstill growing.     Prior's words haunted him.      I was tubercular ... where would my poemsbe now?       The big humble man was one of the great poets. Keats had beentubercular too.       What good are poets?     he asked himself savagely.     The reply came swiftly:      What good is anything, then?     Keats,Shakespeare, Eliot, Yeats, Donne, Pound, Matthews ... and Prior. Howmuch duller life would be without them, Walton thought, picturinghis bookshelf—his one bookshelf, in his crowded little cubicle of aone-room home.     Sweat poured down his back as he groped toward his decision.     The step he was considering would disqualify him from his job if headmitted it, though he wouldn't do that. Under the Equalization Law, itwould be a criminal act.     But just one baby wouldn't matter. Just one.     Prior's baby.     With nervous fingers he switched on the annunciator and said, If thereare any calls for me, take the message. I'll be out of my office forthe next half-hour.      II     He stepped out of the office, glancing around furtively. The outeroffice was busy: half a dozen girls were answering calls, openingletters, coordinating activities. Walton slipped quickly past them intothe hallway.     There was a knot of fear in his stomach as he turned toward thelift tube. Six weeks of pressure, six weeks of tension since Popeekwas organized and old man FitzMaugham had tapped him for thesecond-in-command post ... and now, a rebellion. The sparing of asingle child was a small rebellion, true, but he knew he was strikingas effectively at the base of Popeek this way as if he had broughtabout repeal of the entire Equalization Law.     Well, just one lapse, he promised himself. I'll spare Prior's child,and after that I'll keep within the law.     He jabbed the lift tube indicator and the tube rose in its shaft. Theclinic was on the twentieth floor.     Roy.     At the sound of the quiet voice behind him, Walton jumped in surprise.He steadied himself, forcing himself to turn slowly. The director stoodthere.     Good morning, Mr. FitzMaugham.     The old man was smiling serenely, his unlined face warm and friendly,his mop of white hair bright and full. You look preoccupied, boy.Something the matter?     Walton shook his head quickly. Just a little tired, sir. There's beena lot of work lately.     As he said it, he knew how foolish it sounded. If anyone in Popeekworked harder than he did, it was the elderly director. FitzMaughamhad striven for equalization legislature for fifty years, and now, atthe age of eighty, he put in a sixteen-hour day at the task of savingmankind from itself.     The director smiled. You never did learn how to budget your strength,Roy. You'll be a worn-out wreck before you're half my age. I'm gladyou're adopting my habit of taking a coffee break in the morning,though. Mind if I join you?     I'm—not taking a break, sir. I have some work to do downstairs.     Oh? Can't you take care of it by phone?     No, Mr. FitzMaugham. Walton felt as though he'd already been tried,drawn, and quartered. It requires personal attention.     I see. The deep, warm eyes bored into his. You ought to slow down alittle, I think.     Yes, sir. As soon as the work eases up a little.     FitzMaugham chuckled. In another century or two, you mean. I'm afraidyou'll never learn how to relax, my boy.     The lift tube arrived. Walton stepped to one side, allowed the Directorto enter, and got in himself. FitzMaugham pushed      Fourteen     ; there wasa coffee shop down there. Hesitantly, Walton pushed      twenty     , coveringthe panel with his arm so the old man would be unable to see hisdestination.     As the tube began to descend, FitzMaugham said, Did Mr. Prior come tosee you this morning?     Yes, Walton said.     He's the poet, isn't he? The one you say is so good?     That's right, sir, Walton said tightly.     He came to see me first, but I had him referred down to you. What wason his mind?     Walton hesitated. He—he wanted his son spared from Happysleep.Naturally, I had to turn him down.     Naturally, FitzMaugham agreed solemnly. Once we make even oneexception, the whole framework crumbles.     Of course, sir.     The lift tube halted and rocked on its suspension. The door slid back,revealing a neat, gleaming sign:       FLOOR 20        Euthanasia Clinic and Files       Walton had forgotten the accursed sign. He began to wish he had avoidedtraveling down with the director. He felt that his purpose must seemnakedly obvious now.     The old man's eyes were twinkling amusedly. I guess you get off here,he said. I hope you catch up with your work soon, Roy. You reallyshould take some time off for relaxation each day.     I'll try, sir.     Walton stepped out of the tube and returned FitzMaugham's smile as thedoor closed again. Bitter thoughts assailed him as soon as he was alone.       Some fine criminal you are. You've given the show away already! Anddamn that smooth paternal smile. FitzMaugham knows! He must know!       Walton wavered, then abruptly made his decision. He sucked in a deepbreath and walked briskly toward the big room where the euthanasiafiles were kept.  The room was large, as rooms went nowadays—thirty by twenty, with deckupon deck of Donnerson micro-memory-tubes racked along one wall and abank of microfilm records along the other. In six weeks of life Popeekhad piled up an impressive collection of data.     While he stood there, the computer chattered, lights flashed. New factspoured into the memory banks. It probably went on day and night.     Can I help—oh, it's you, Mr. Walton, a white-smocked techniciansaid. Popeek employed a small army of technicians, each one facelessand without personality, but always ready to serve. Is there anythingI can do?     I'm simply running a routine checkup. Mind if I use the machine?     Not at all, sir. Go right ahead.     Walton grinned lightly and stepped forward. The technician practicallybacked out of his presence.       No doubt I must radiate charisma     , he thought. Within the building hewore a sort of luminous halo, by virtue of being Director FitzMaugham'sprotégé and second-in-command. Outside, in the colder reality of thecrowded metropolis, he kept his identity and Popeek rank quietly tohimself.     Frowning, he tried to remember the Prior boy's name. Ah ... Philip,wasn't it? He punched out a request for the card on Philip Prior.     A moment's pause followed, while the millions of tiny cryotroniccircuits raced with information pulses, searching the Donnersontubes for Philip Prior's record. Then, a brief squeaking sound and ayellow-brown card dropped out of the slot:       3216847AB1         PRIOR, Philip Hugh. Born 31 May 2232, New York General Hospital, NewYork. First son of Prior, Lyle Martin and Prior, Ava Leonard. Wgt. atbirth 5lb. 3oz.       An elaborate description of the boy in great detail followed, endingwith blood type, agglutinating characteristic, and gene-pattern,codified. Walton skipped impatiently through that and came to thenotification typed in curt, impersonal green capital letters at thebottom of the card:       EXAMINED AT N Y EUTH CLINIC 10 JUNE 2332        EUTHANASIA RECOMMENDED       He glanced at his watch: the time was 1026. The boy was probably stillsomewhere in the clinic lab, waiting for the figurative axe to descend.     Walton had set up the schedule himself: the gas chamber deliveredHappysleep each day at 1100 and 1500. He had about half an hour to savePhilip Prior.     He peered covertly over his shoulder; no one was in sight. He slippedthe baby's card into his breast pocket.     That done, he typed out a requisition for explanation of thegene-sorting code the clinic used. Symbols began pouring forth,and Walton puzzledly correlated them with the line of gibberish onPhillip Prior's record card. Finally he found the one he wanted:      3f2,tubercular-prone     .     He scrapped the guide sheet he had and typed out a message to themachine.      Revision of card number 3216847AB1 follows. Please alter inall circuits.       He proceeded to retype the child's card, omitting both the fatal symbol      3f2     and the notation recommending euthanasia from the new version.The machine beeped an acknowledgement. Walton smiled. So far, so good.     Then, he requested the boy's file all over again. After the customarypause, a card numbered 3216847AB1 dropped out of the slot. He read it.     The deletions had been made. As far as the machine was concerned,Philip Prior was a normal, healthy baby.     He glanced at his watch. 1037. Still twenty-three minutes before thismorning's haul of unfortunates was put away.     Now came the real test: could he pry the baby away from the doctorswithout attracting too much attention to himself in the process?  Five doctors were bustling back and forth as Walton entered the mainsection of the clinic. There must have been a hundred babies there,each in a little pen of its own, and the doctors were humming from oneto the next, while anxious parents watched from screens above.     The Equalization Law provided that every child be presented at itslocal clinic within two weeks of birth, for an examination and acertificate. Perhaps one in ten thousand would be denied acertificate ... and life.     Hello, Mr. Walton. What brings you down here?     Walton smiled affably. Just a routine investigation, Doctor. I try tokeep in touch with every department we have, you know.     Mr. FitzMaugham was down here to look around a little while ago. We'rereally getting a going-over today, Mr. Walton!     Umm. Yes. Walton didn't like that, but there was nothing he coulddo about it. He'd have to rely on the old man's abiding faith in hisprotégé to pull him out of any possible stickiness that arose.     Seen my brother around? he asked.     Fred? He's working in room seven, running analyses. Want me to get himfor you, Mr. Walton?     No—no, don't bother him, thanks. I'll find him later. Inwardly,Walton felt relieved. Fred Walton, his younger brother, was a doctor inthe employ of Popeek. Little love was lost between the brothers, andRoy did not care to have Fred know he was down there.     Strolling casually through the clinic, he peered at a few plump,squalling babies, and said, Find many sour ones today?     Seven so far. They're scheduled for the 1100 chamber. Three tuberc,two blind, one congenital syph.     That only makes six, Walton said.     Oh, and a spastic, the doctor said. Biggest haul we've had yet.Seven in one morning.     Have any trouble with the parents?     What do you think? the doctor asked. But some of them seemed tounderstand. One of the tuberculars nearly raised the roof, though.     Walton shuddered. You remember his name? he asked, with feigned calm.     Silence for a moment. No. Darned if I can think of it. I can look itup for you if you like.     Don't bother, Walton said hurriedly.     He moved on, down the winding corridor that led to the executionchamber. Falbrough, the executioner, was studying a list of names athis desk when Walton appeared.     Falbrough didn't look like the sort of man who would enjoy his work. Hewas short and plump, with a high-domed bald head and glittering contactlenses in his weak blue eyes. Morning, Mr. Walton.     Good morning, Doctor Falbrough. You'll be operating soon, won't you?     Eleven hundred, as usual.     Good. There's a new regulation in effect from now on, Walton said.To keep public opinion on our side.     Sir?     Henceforth, until further notice, you're to check each baby thatcomes to you against the main file, just to make sure there's been nomistake. Got that?           Mistake?     But how—     Never mind that, Falbrough. There was quite a tragic slip-up at oneof the European centers yesterday. We may all hang for it if news getsout.      How glibly I reel this stuff off     , Walton thought in amazement.     Falbrough looked grave. I see, sir. Of course. We'll double-checkeverything from now on.     Good. Begin with the 1100 batch.     Walton couldn't bear to remain down in the clinic any longer. He leftvia a side exit, and signaled for a lift tube.     Minutes later he was back in his office, behind the security of atowering stack of work. His pulse was racing; his throat was dry. Heremembered what FitzMaugham had said:      Once we make even one exception,the whole framework crumbles.       Well, the framework had begun crumbling, then. And there was littledoubt in Walton's mind that FitzMaugham knew or would soon know what hehad done. He would have to cover his traces, somehow.     The annunciator chimed and said, Dr. Falbrough of Happysleep callingyou, sir.     Put him on.     The screen lit and Falbrough's face appeared; its normal blandness hadgiven way to wild-eyed tenseness.     What is it, Doctor?     It's a good thing you issued that order when you did, sir! You'llnever guess what just happened—     No guessing games, Falbrough. Speak up.     I—well, sir, I ran checks on the seven babies they sent me thismorning. And guess—I mean—well, one of them shouldn't have been sentto me!     No!     It's the truth, sir. A cute little baby indeed. I've got his cardright here. The boy's name is Philip Prior, and his gene-pattern isfine.     Any recommendation for euthanasia on the card? Walton asked.     No, sir.     Walton chewed at a ragged cuticle for a moment, counterfeiting greatanxiety. Falbrough, we're going to have to keep this very quiet.Someone slipped up in the examining room, and if word gets out thatthere's been as much as one mistake, we'll have a mob swarming over usin half an hour.     Yes, sir. Falbrough looked terribly grave. What should I do, sir?     Don't say a word about this to      anyone     , not even the men in theexamining room. Fill out a certificate for the boy, find his parents,apologize and return him to them. And make sure you keep checking forany future cases of this sort.     Certainly, sir. Is that all?     It is, Walton said crisply, and broke the contact. He took a deepbreath and stared bleakly at the far wall.     The Prior boy was safe. And in the eyes of the law—the EqualizationLaw—Roy Walton was now a criminal. He was every bit as much a criminalas the man who tried to hide his dying father from the investigators,or the anxious parents who attempted to bribe an examining doctor.     He felt curiously dirty. And, now that he had betrayed FitzMaugham andthe Cause, now that it was done, he had little idea why he had doneit, why he had jeopardized the Popeek program, his position—his life,even—for the sake of one potentially tubercular baby.     Well, the thing was done.     No. Not quite. Later, when things had quieted down, he would have tofinish the job by transferring all the men in the clinic to distantplaces and by obliterating the computer's memories of this morning'sactivities.     The annunciator chimed again. Your brother is on the wire, sir.     Walton trembled imperceptibly as he said, Put him on. Somehow, Frednever called unless he could say or do something unpleasant. AndWalton was very much afraid that his brother meant no good by thiscall. No good at all.      III     Roy Walton watched his brother's head and shoulders take form out ofthe swirl of colors on the screen. Fred Walton was more compact, builtcloser to the ground than his rangy brother; he was a squat five-seven,next to Roy's lean six-two. Fred had always threatened to get evenwith his older brother as soon as they were the same size, but toFred's great dismay he had never managed to catch up with Roy in height.     Even on the screen, Fred's neck and shoulders gave an impression oftremendous solidity and force. Walton waited for his brother's image totake shape, and when the time lag was over he said, Well, Fred? Whatgoes?     His brother's eyes flickered sleepily. They tell me you were down herea little while ago, Roy. How come I didn't rate a visit?     I wasn't in your section. It was official business, anyway. I didn'thave time.     Walton fixed his eyes sharply on the caduceus emblem gleaming on Fred'slapel, and refused to look anywhere else.     Fred said slowly, You had time to tinker with our computer, though.     Official business!     Really, Roy? His brother's tone was venomous. I happened tobe using the computer shortly after you this morning. I wascurious—unpardonably so, dear brother. I requested a transcript ofyour conversation with the machine.     Sparks seemed to flow from the screen. Walton sat back, feeling numb.He managed to pull his sagging mouth back into a stiff hard line andsay, That's a criminal offense, Fred. Any use I make of a Popeekcomputer outlet is confidential.     Criminal offence? Maybe so ... but that makes two of us, then. Eh,Roy?     How much do you know?     You wouldn't want me to recite it over a public communications system,would you? Your friend FitzMaugham might be listening to every word ofthis, and I have too much fraternal feeling for that. Ole Doc Waltondoesn't want to get his bigwig big brother in trouble—oh, no!     Thanks for small blessings, Roy said acidly.     You got me this job. You can take it away. Let's call it even for now,shall we?     Anything you like, Walton said. He was drenched in sweat, thoughthe ingenious executive filter in the sending apparatus of the screencloaked that fact and presented him as neat and fresh. I have somework to do now. His voice was barely audible.     I won't keep you any longer, then, Fred said.     The screen went dead.     Walton killed the contact at his end, got up, walked to the window. Henudged the opaquer control and the frosty white haze over the glasscleared away, revealing the fantastic beehive of the city outside.       Idiot!     he thought.      Fool!       He had risked everything to save one baby, one child probably doomedto an early death anyway. And FitzMaugham knew—the old man could seethrough Walton with ease—and Fred knew, too. His brother, and hisfather-substitute.     FitzMaugham might well choose to conceal Roy's defection this time,but would surely place less trust in him in the future. And as forFred....     There was no telling what Fred might do. They had never beenparticularly close as brothers; they had lived with their parents (nowalmost totally forgotten) until Roy was nine and Fred seven. Theirparents had gone down off Maracaibo in a jet crash; Roy and Fred hadbeen sent to the public crèche.     After that it had been separate paths for the brothers. For Roy, aneducation in the law, a short spell as Senator FitzMaugham's privatesecretary, followed last month by his sudden elevation to assistantadministrator of the newly-created Popeek Bureau. For Fred, medicine,unsuccessful private practice, finally a job in the Happysleep sectionof Popeek, thanks to Roy.   ","Philip Prior is the son of Lyle Prior and Ava Leonard Prior. He was born small, a little over 5 pounds, and carries the gene for tuberculosis. Within this new society, this genetic mutation means that Philip Prior has to be euthanized and sent to Happysleep. At only two weeks old, he has been sentenced to death. His father, Lyle Prior the poet, comes to the office of Roy Walton to try and save his son’s life. Although he is unsuccessful at first, his words about what his son could become stuck with Roy and caused him to save Philip’s life. Philip Prior is incredibly significant because his life and sentencing caused Roy Walton to make the first crack in the framework, commit a felony by saving his life, and potentially sentence himself to a failed career and life. "
"What is the plot of the story? </s>     THE LORELEI DEATH     by NELSON S. BOND     Far out in limitless Space she plied     her deadly trade ... a Lorelei of the     void, beckoning spacemen to death and     destruction with her beautiful siren lure.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Winter 1941.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Chip Warren stood before an oblong of glass set into one wall ofthe spaceship      Chickadee II     , stared at what he saw reflectedtherefrom—and frowned. He didn't like it. Not a bit! It was too—too—     He turned away angrily, ripped the offending article from about hisneck, and chose another necktie from the rack. This one was brighter,gaudier, much more in keeping with the gaiety of his mood. He emitted agrunt of satisfaction, spun from the mirror to face his two companionstriumphantly.     There! How do you like      that     ?     Syd Palmer, short and chubby, tow-headed and liquid-blue of eye, alwayslanguid save when engaged in the solution of some engineering problemconcerned with the space vessel he mothered like a brooding hen, moanedinsultingly and forced a shudder.     Sunspots! Novae! Flying comets! And he wears 'em around his neck!     You, Chip told him serenely, have no appreciation of beauty. What do      you     think of it, Padre?     Salvation Smith, a tall, gangling scarecrow garbed in rusty black,a lean-jawed, hawkeyed man with tumbled locks of silver framing hisweathered cheeks like a halo, concealed his grin poorly. Well,my boy, he admitted, there is      some     Biblical precedent foryour—ahem!—clamorous raiment. 'So Joseph made for himself a coatwhich was of many colors—'     Both of you, declared Chip, give me a pain in the pants!Stick-in-the-muds! Here we are in port for the first time in months,cargo-bins loaded to the gunwales with enough ekalastron to make usrich for life—and you sit here like a pair of stuffed owls!     Well, not me! I'm going to take a night off, throw myself a party thelikes of which was never seen around these parts. Put a candle in thewindow, chilluns, 'cause li'l' Chip won't be home till the wee, sma'hours!     Syd chuckled.     O.Q., big shot. But don't get too cozy with any of those joy-jointentertainers. Remember what happened to poor old Dougal MacNeer!     Salvation said soberly, Syd's just fooling, my boy. But I      would     becareful if I were you. We're in the Belt, you know. The forces of lawand order do not always govern these wild outposts of civilization aswell as might be hoped. The planetoids are dens of iniquity, violentand unheeding the words of Him who rules all—     The old man's lips etched a straight line, reminding Chip thatSalvation Smith was not one of those milk-and-water missionaries whoespoused the principle of turning the other cheek to evildoers.Salvation was not the ordained emissary of any church. A devoutlyreligious man with the heart of an adventurer, he had taken uponhimself the mission of carrying to outland tribes the story of the Godhe worshipped.     That his God was the fierce Yahveh of the Old Testament, a God ofanger and retribution, was made evident by the methods Salvationsometimes employed in winning his converts. For not only was Salvationacknowledged the most pious man in space; he was also conceded to bethe best hand with a gun!     Now Chip gave quiet answer. I know, Padre: I'll be careful. Well,Syd—sure you won't change your mind and come along?     No can do, chum. The spaceport repair crew's still smearing thisjalopy with ek. Got to stay and watch 'em.     O.Q. I'm off alone, then. See you later!     And, whistling, Chip Warren stepped through the lock of the      Chickadee     onto the soil of the asteroid Danae.  Danae was, thought Chip as he strolled along briskly toward the townbeyond the spaceport, a most presentable hunk of rock. Nice      lucentite     Dome ... good atmo ... a fine artificial grav system based on Terranormal. It seemed to be a popular little fueling-stop, too, for itscradle-bins were laden with vessels from every planet in the System,and as he gained the main drag he found himself rubbing shoulderswith citizens of every known world. Lumbering, albino Venusians,petal-headed Martians, Jovian runts, greenies from far Uranus,Earthman—all were here.     Quite a likely place, he thought happily, to chuck a brawl. Abrilliantly gleaming xenon sign before him welcomed visitors to:     XU'UL'S SOLAREST     Barroom—Casino—Dancing     100—Lovely Hostesses—100     He entered, and was immediately deluged by a bevy of charm-gals vyingfor the privilege of: (1) helping him beat the roulette wheel; (2)helping him drink the house dry, and/or (3) separating him as swiftlyas possible from the credits in his money belt.     Chip shook them off, gently but firmly. He wanted a good time, true;but he wanted it solo. The main cabaret was too crowded; he passedthrough it and another equally blatant room wherein twoscore Venusianswere straining the structure with a native sing-stomp, and ended upfinally, with a sigh of relief, in a small, dimly-lighted private barunfrequented by anyone save a bored and listless Martian bartender.     The chrysanthemum-pated son of the desertland roused himself as Chipentered, rustled his petals and piped a ready greeting.     Welcoom, ssirr! Trrink, pleasse?     This was more like it! Chip grinned.     Scotch, he said.       Old Spaceman.     And let's have a new bottle, Curly.None of that doctored swill.     Of courrsse, ssirr! piped the bar-keep aggrievedly. He pushed abottle across the mahogany; Chip flipped a golden credit-token back athim.     Tell me when I've guzzled this, and I'll start work on another. Hetook a deep, appreciative sniff. And don't let any of those dizzydolls in here, he ordered. I've got a lot of back drinking to catchup on, and I don't want to be disturbed—      Hey!          In his alarm, he almost dropped the bottle. For the door suddenly burstopen, and in its frame loomed a figure in Space Patrol blues. A fingerpointed in Chip's direction and a bull-o'-Bashan voice roared:           Stop!     Bartender—grab that man! He's a desperate criminal, wanted onfour planets for murder!  Shock momentarily immobilized Chip. Not so the bartender. He was, itseemed, an ardent pacifist. With a bleat of panic fear he scamperedfrom his post, his metallic stilts clattering off in the distance.Chip's accuser moved forward from the shadows; dim light illumined hisfeatures. And—           Johnny!      Chip's voice lifted in a note of jubilant surprise.Johnny Haldane—you old scoundrel! Where in the void did      you     dropfrom?     The S.S.P. man chuckled and returned Chip's greeting with abone-grinding handclasp.     I might ask the same of you, chum! Lord, it's been ages since we'vecrossed 'jectory! When I saw you meandering across the Casino, youcould have knocked me down with a jetblast! What's new? Is old Sydstill with you?     We're still shipmates. But he's back at the spaceport. The jerry-crewis plating our crate with ek, and—     Ek! Plating a private cruiser! Haldane stared at him in astonishment,then whistled. Sweet Sacred Stars, you must be filthy with credits tobe able to coat an entire ship with ekalastron!     You, boasted Chip, ain't heard nothing yet! And he told him howthey had discovered an entire mountain of the previous new element, No.97 in the periodic table, on frigid Titania, satellite of far Uranus.It was touch-and-go for a while, he admitted, whether we'd be theluckiest three guys in space—or the deadest! But we passed through theflaming caverns like old Shadrach in the Bible—remember?—and here weare!  [1]     Haldane was exuberant. A mountain of ekalastron! he gloated.That's the greatest contribution to spaceflight since Biggs'velocity-intensifier! It was no overstatement. Element No. 97 was ametal so light that a man could carry in one hand enough to coat theentire hull of a battleship—yet so adamant that a gossamer film ofit would deflect a meteor! A metal strong enough to crush diamonds toash—but so resilient that, when properly treated, it would reboundlike rubber! What are you going to do with it, Chip? Put it on theopen market?     Warren shook his head.     Not exactly. We talked it over carefully—Syd and Salvation and I—andwe decided there are some space-rats to whom it shouldn't be madeavailable. Privateers and outlaws, you know. So we turned control ofthe mines over to the Space Patrol at Uranus, and visiphoned the Earthauthorities we were bringing in one cargo—     Visiphoned! interrupted Haldane sharply. Did you say visiphoned?     Why—why, yes.     From where?     Oh, just before we reached the Belt. We don't have a very strongtransmitter, you know. Sa-a-ay, what's all the excitement, pal? Did wedo something that was wrong?     Haldane frowned worriedly. I don't know, Chip. It wasn't anything      wrong     , but what you did was damned dangerous. For if your message wasintercepted, you may have played into the very hands of—the Lorelei!  Chip stared at his friend bewilderedly for a moment. Then he grinned.Hey—I must be getting slightly whacky in my old age. I stand herewith an unopened bottle in my hands and hear things! For a minute Ithought you said 'Lorelei.' The Lorelei, my space-cop friend, is amyth. An old Teutonic myth about a beautiful damsel who sits out inthe middle of a sea on a treacherous rock, combing her golden locks,warbling and luring her fascinated admirers to destruction.     He grunted. A dirty trick, if you ask me. Catch a snort of thisalleged Scotch, pal, and I'll torture your eardrums with the whole, sadstory. He started to sing. '      Ich weiss nicht was soll es bedeuten     —'     The Patrolman laid a hand on his arm, silenced him.     It's not funny, Chip. You've described the Lorelei exactly. That'show she got her name. An incredibly beautiful woman who wantonly luresspace-mariners to their death.     The only difference is that her 'rock' is an asteroid somewhere inthe Belt—and she does not sing, she calls! She began exercisingher vicious appeal about two months ago, Earth reckoning. Sincethen, no less than a dozen spacecraft—freighters, liners, even onePatrolship—have fallen prey to her wiles. Their crews have beenbrutally murdered, their cargos stolen.     Wait a minute! interrupted Chip shrewdly. How do you know about herif the crews have been murdered?     She has a habit of locking the controls, explained Haldane, andsetting ravaged ships adrift. Apparently there is no room on herhideout—wherever it is—for empty hulks. One of these ships wassalvaged by a courageous cabin-boy who hid from the Lorelei and herpirate band beneath a closetful of soiled linens in the laundry. Hedescribed her. His description goes perfectly with less accurateglimpses seen over the visiphones of several score spacecraft!     Chip said soberly, So it's no joke, eh, pal? Sorry I popped off. Ithought you were pulling my leg. Where do      I     come into this mess,though?     Ekalastron! grunted Johnny succinctly. A jackpot prize for anycorsair! And you      advertised     a cargo of it over the etherwaves! TheLorelei will be waiting for you with her tongue hanging out. The onlything for you to do, kid, is go back to Jupiter or Io as fast as youcan get there. Make the Patrol give you a convoy—     A sudden light danced in Chip Warren's eyes. It was a light Syd Palmerwould have groaned to see—for it usually presaged trouble. It was abright, hard, reckless light.     Hold your jets, Johnny! drawled Chip. Aren't you forgetting onething? In a couple more hours, I can face the Lorelei and her wholemob—and be damned to them! She can't touch the      Chickadee     , becauseit's being plated right now!     Haldane snapped his fingers in quick remembrance.     By thunder, you're right! Her shells will ricochet off the      Chickadee's     hull like hail off a tin roof. Chip, are you in any hurryto reach Earth? I thought not. What do you say we go after the Lorelei      together     ! I'll swear you in as a Deputy Patrolman; we'll take the      Chickadee     and—     It's a deal! declared Chip promptly. You got any idea where thisLorelei's hangout is?     That's why I'm here on Danae. I got a tip that one of the Lorelei'smen put in here for supplies. I hoped maybe I could single himout somehow, follow him when he jetted for his base, and in thatway—      Chip! Look out!       Haldane shouted and moved at the same time. His arm lashed out wildly,thrusting, smashing Chip to the floor in a sprawling heap. The as-yetunopened bottle was now violently opened; it splintered into a thousandshards against a wall.     Bruised and shaken, Chip lifted his head to see what had causedJohnny's alarm. Even as he did so, the dull gloom of the bar wasblazoned with searing effulgence. A lancet of flame leaped from thedark, rearward doorway, burst in Johnny Haldane's face!     The Patrolman cried once, a choking cry that died in a mewling whimper.His unused pistol slipped from slackening fingers, and he sagged tothe floor. Again crimson lightning laced the shadows; Haldane's bodyjerked, and the air was raw with the hot, sickening stench of charredflesh.     With an instinct born of bitter years, Chip had come to his kneesbehind the shelter of the mahogany bar. But now his own flame-pistolwas in his hand, and a dreadful rage was mingled with the agony in hisheart. Reckless of results, he sprang to his feet, gun spewing lividdeath into the shadows.     His blast found a mark. For an instant flame haloed a human face drawnin inhuman pain. A heavy, sultry, bestial face, already puckered withone long, ugly scar that ran from right temple to jawbone, now newlyscarred with the red brand of Chip's marksmanship.     Then, before Chip could fire again, came the rasp of poundingfootsteps. The man turned and fled. Chip bent over his fallen friend,seeking, with hands that did not even feel the heat, fluttering lifebeneath still smoldering cloth.     He felt—nothing. Johnny was dead.     A snarl of sheer animal rage burst from Chip's lips. Someone would payfor this; pay dearly! Help was coming now. He himself would lead thehue-and-cry that would track a foul murderer to his lair. He spun asthe footsteps drew nearer.     Hurry! he cried. This way! Follow me—     In a bound, he hurdled the bar, lingered at the door only long enoughto let the others mark his course. For they had burst into the room,now, a full score of them. Excited, hard-bitten dogs of space,quick-triggered and willing. Once more he cried for help.     After him! Come on! He—     And then—disaster struck! For a reedy voice broke from the van of themob. The voice of the Martian bartender.     That's him! he piped sibilantly. That's the man! He's a desperatecriminal, wanted on four planets for murder! The Patrolman came toarrest him—      and now he's murdered the Spacie     !  II     The stunning injustice of that accusation came close to costing ChipWarren his life. For a split second he stood motionless in the doorway,gaping lips forming denial. Words which were never to be uttered, forsuddenly a raw-boned miner wrenched a Moeller from its holster, leveledand fired.     The hot tongue of death licked hungrily at the young spaceman's cheek,scorched air crackled in his eardrums. Now was no time to squanderin vain argument. Chip ducked, spun, and hurled himself through thedoorway. There still remained one hope. That he might catch the realmurderer, and in that way clear himself....     But the door led to a small, deserted vestibule, and it to an alleywaybehind Xu'ul's Solarest. Viewing that maze of byways and passages, Chipknew his hope was futile. There remained but one thing to do. Get outof here. But quick!     It was no hard task. The labyrinth swallowed him as it had engulfed thescarred killer; in a few minutes even the footsteps of his pursuerscould no longer be heard. And Chip worked his cautious way back to thespaceport, and to the bin wherein was cradled the      Chickadee     .     Syd Palmer looked up in surprise as Chip let himself in theelectro-lock. The chubby engineer gasped, Salvation, look what the catdrug in! His high-flying Nibs! What's the matter, Chip? Night-life toomuch for you?     Never mind that now! panted Chip. Is this tin can ready to roll?Warm the hypos. We're lifting gravs—     Palmer said anxiously, Now, wait a minute! The men haven't quitefinished plating the hull, Chip!     Can't help that! We've got important business. In a very fewminutes—      Ahh!     There he goes now! Chip had gone to the      perilens     themoment he entered the ship; now he saw in its reflector that which hehad expected. The gushing orange spume of a spaceship roaring from itscradle. Hurry, Syd!     There were a lot of things Syd Palmer wanted to ask. He wanted to know      who     went      where     ; he was bursting with curiosity about the importantbusiness which had brought his pal back from town in such a rush; hiskeen eye also had detected a needle-gun burn on Chip's coat-sleeve. Buthe was too good a companion to waste time now on such trivia.     O.Q., he snapped. It's your pigeon!     And he disappeared. They heard his voice calling to the workmen, thescuff of equipment being disengaged from the      Chickadee's     hull, thethin, high whine of warming hypatomics. Salvation looked at Warrenquizzically.     It smells, he ventured gently, like trouble.     It is trouble, Chip told him. Plenty trouble!     In that case— said the old man mildly—I guess I'd better get therotor stripped for action. He stepped to the gunnery turret, droppedthe fore-irons and stripped their weapon for action. 'Be ye men ofpeace,' he intoned, 'but gird firmly thy loins for righteous battle!'Thus saith the Lord God which is Jehovah. Selah!     Then came Syd's cry from the depths of the hyporoom.     All set, Chip! Lift gravs!     Warren's finger found a stud. And with a gusty roar the      Chickadee     rocketed into space on a pillar of flame.  Two hours later, Chip was still following the bright pinpoint ofscarlet which marked the course of his quarry.     In the time that had elapsed since their take-off, he had told hisfriends the whole story. When he told about the Lorelei, SalvationSmith's seamy old features screwed up in a perplexed grimace. Awoman pirate in the Belt, son? I find it hard to believe. Yet— Andwhen he described the death of Johnny Haldane, anger smoldered in themissionary's eyes, and Syd Palmer's hands knotted into tight, whitefists. Said Syd, A man with a scar, eh? Well, we'll catch him sooneror later. And when we do— His tone boded no good to the man who hadslain an old and loved friend.     As a matter of fact, offered Salvation, we've got him now. Any timeyou say the word, Chip. We're faster than he is. We can close in on himin five minutes.     I know, nodded Warren grimly. But we won't do it—yet. I'm borrowinga bit of Johnny's strategy. I've been plotting his course. As soon asI'm sure of his destination, we'll take care of      him     . But our firstand most vital problem is to locate the Lorelei's hideaway.     Syd said, That's all right with me, chum. I like a good scrap as muchas the next guy. Better, maybe. But this isn't our concern, strictlyspeaking. What we ought to do is report this matter to the SpacePatrol, let them take care of it.     Salvation shook his head.     That's where you're mistaken, Sydney. This is very much our concern.So much so, in fact, that we dare not make port again until it'scleared up. I think you have forgotten that it is not the scar-facedman who is wanted for the killing of Haldane—but Chip!     B-but— gasped Palmer—b-but that's ridiculous! Chip and Johnny wereold buddies. Lifelong friends!     Nevertheless, the circumstantial evidence indicates Chip's guilt.Twenty men saw him standing over Johnny's dead body, with aflame-pistol in his hand. And the barkeep heard Johnny 'arrest' Chipand accuse him of murder!     Chip said ruefully, That's right, Syd. It was only a joke, but itbackfired. The bartender thought Johnny meant it. He scooted out ofthere like a bat out of Hades. I'm in it up to my neck unless we canbring back evidence that Scarface actually did the killing. And thatmay not be so easy.     He stirred restlessly. But we'll cross that bridge when we come toit. Right now our job is to keep this rat in sight. We've gone fartheralready than I expected we would. He turned to the old preacher.Where do you think we're going, Padre? Out of the Belt entirely?     I've been wondering that myself, son. I don't know for sure, ofcourse, but it looks to me as if we're going for the Bog. If so, you'dbetter keep a weather-eye peeled.     The Bog! Chip had never penetrated the planetoids so deeply before,but he knew of the Bog by hearsay. All men did. A treacherous region oftightly packed asteroids, a mad and whirling scramble of the giganticrocks which, aeons ago, had been a planet. Few spacemen dared penetratethe Bog. Of those who did dare, few returned to tell the tale. TheBog! Say! I'd      better     keep a sharp lookout!     He turned to the      perilens     once more, fastened an eye to its lens. Andthen—     Syd! he cried. Salvation! Look! She—she—!     He pressed the plunger that transferred the      perilens     image to thecentral viewscreen. And as he did so, a phantom filled the area whichshould have revealed yawning space, gay with the spangles of a myriadglowing orbs. The vision of an unbelievably beautiful girl, thegolden-crowned embodiment of a man's fondest dreaming, eyes wide withan indistinguishable emotion, arms stretched wide in mute appeal.     And from the throats of all came simultaneous recognition.           The Lorelei!       At the same moment came a plea from the enchantress of space througha second medium. For no reason anyone could explain, the ship's      telaudio     wakened to life; over it came to their ears the actual wordsof the girl:           Help! Oh, help! Can anyone hear me? Help     —     Even though he knew this to be only a ruse, a deliberate, dastardlytrap set for the unwary, Chip Warren's pulse leaped in hot response tothat desperate plea. Even with the warning of Johnny Haldane fresh inhis memory, some gallantry deep within him spurred him to the aid ofthis lovely vision. Here was a woman a man could live for, fight for,      die     for! A woman like no other in the universe.     Then common sense came to his rescue. He wrenched his gaze from thetempting shadow, cried: Kill that wavelength! Tune the lens onanother beam, Syd!     Palmer, bedazzled but obedient, spun the dial of the      perilens     .Despite his vastly improved science Man had never yet succeeded indevising a transparent medium through which to view the void whereinhe soared; the      perilens     was a device which translated impinginglight-waves into a picture of that which lay outside the ship's hull.When or where electrical disturbances existed in space, its frequencycould be changed for greater clarity. This was what Syd now attempted.     But to no avail! For it mattered not which cycle he tuned to—theimage persisted. Still on the viewscreen that pleading figurebeckoned piteously. And still the cabin rang to the prayers of thatheart-tugging voice:           Help! Oh, help! Can anyone hear me? Help     —     Gone, now, was any fascination that thrilling vision might previouslyhave held for Chip Warren. Understanding of their plight dawned coldlyupon him, and his brow became dark with anger.           We're blanketed!     Flying blind! Salvation, radio a general alarm!Syd, jazz the hypos to max. Shift trajectory to fourteen-oh-three Northand loft ... fire No. 3 jet....     He had hurled himself into the bucket-shaped pilot's seat; nowhis fingers played the controls like those of a mad organist. The      Chickadee     groaned from prow to stern, trembled like a tortured thingas he thrust it into a rising spiral.     It was a desperate chance he was taking. Increasing his speed thus, itwas certain he would be spotted by the man he had been following; theflaming jets of the      Chickadee     must form a crimson arch against blackspace visible for hundreds—thousands!—of miles. Nor was there any wayof knowing what lay in the path Chip thus blindly chose. Titanic deathmight loom on every side. But they had to fight clear of this spot ofblindness, clear their instruments....     And then it came! A jarring concussion that smashed against the prowof the      Chickadee     like a battering ram. Chip flew headlong out of hisbucket to spreadeagle on the heaving iron floor. He heard, above thegrinding plaint of shattered steel the bellowing prayer of SalvationSmith:     We've crashed! 'Into Thy hands, O Lord of old—'     Then Syd's angry cry, Crashed, hell! He's smashed us with atractor-blast!     Chip stared at his companion numbly.     But—but that's impossible! We're plated with ek! A tractor-cannoncouldn't hurt us—           Half-plated!      howled Syd savagely. And those damn fools startedworking from the stern of the      Chickadee     ! We're vulnerable up front,and that's where he got us! In a minute this can will be leaking like asieve. I'll get out bulgers. Hold 'er to her course, Chip!     He dove for the lockers wherein were hung the space-suits, tore themhastily from their hangers. Chip again spun the      perilens     vernier. Nogood! No space ... no stars ... just a beautiful phantom crying them tocertain doom. By now he was aware that from a dozen sprung plates airwas seeping, but he fought down despair. While there remained hope, aman had to keep on fighting.     He scrambled back into the bucket-seat, experimented with controls thatanswered sluggishly. Salvation had sprung to the rotor-gun, was nowangrily jerking its lanyard, lacing the void with death-dealing burststhat had no mark. The old man's eyes were brands of fire, his whitehair clung wetly to his forehead. His rage was terrible to behold.     'Yes, truly shall I destroy them!' he cried, 'who loose theirstealth upon me like a thief from the night—'     Then suddenly there came a second and more frightful blow. Thestraining      Chickadee     stopped as though pole-axed by a gigantic fist.Stopped and shuddered and screamed in metal agony. This time inertiaflung Chip headlong, helpless, into the control racks. Brazen studstook the impact of his body; crushing pain banded about his temples,and a red wetness ran into his eyes, blurring and blinding him, burning.     For an instant there flamed before him a universe of incandescentstars, weaving, shimmering, merging. The vision of a woman whose hairwas a golden glory....     After that—nothing!  III     From a billion miles away, from a bourne unguessable thousands oflight-years distant, came the faint, far whisper of a voice. Nearer andnearer it came, and ever faster, till it throbbed upon Chip's eardrumswith booming savagery.     —coming to, now. Good! We'll soon find out—     Chip opened his eyes, too dazed, at first, to understand the situationin which he found himself. Gone was the familiar control-turret of the      Chickadee     , gone the bulger into which he had so hastily clambered. Helay on the parched, rocky soil of a—a something. A planetoid, perhaps.And he was surrounded by a motley crew of strangers: scum of all theplanets that circle the Sun....     Then recollection flooded back upon him, sudden and complete. Thechase ... the call of the fateful Lorelei ... the crash! New strength,born of anger, surged through him. He lifted his head.     My—my companions? he demanded weakly.     The leader of those who encircled him, a mighty hulk of a man, massiveof shoulder and thigh, black-haired, with an unshaven blue jaw,raven-bright eyes and a jutting, aquiline nose like the beak of a hawk,loosed a satisfied grunt.     Ah! Back to normal, eh, sailor? Damn near time!     Climbing to his feet sent a swift wave of giddiness through Chip—buthe managed it. He fought down the vertigo which threatened to overwhelmhim, and confronted the big man boldly.     What, he stormed, is the meaning of this?     The giant stared at him for a moment, his jaw slack. Then hisraven-bright eyes glittered; he slapped a trunklike thigh and guffawedin boisterous mirth.     Hear that? he roared to his companions. Quite a guy, ain't he?'What's the meanin' o' this?' he asks! Game little fightin' cock, hey?Then he sobered abruptly, and a grim light replaced the amusement inhis eyes. Here was not a man to be trifled with, Chip realized. Histone assumed a biting edge. The meanin' is, my bucko, he answeredmirthlessly, that you've run afoul o' your last reef. Unless you havea sane head on your shoulders, and you're willing to talk fast andstraight!     Talk?     Don't stall. We've already unloaded your bins. We found it. And a nicehaul, too. Thanks for lettin' us know it was on the way. The burly onechuckled coarsely. We'd have took it, anyway, but you helped mattersout by comin' to us.     Johnny Haldane had been right, then. Chip remembered his friend'sominous warning. —if your message was intercepted, you may haveplayed into the hands of— He said slowly, Then you      are     theLorelei's men?     The who? Never mind that, bucko, just talk. That ekalastron—where didit come from?     And it occurred to Warren suddenly that although the big man      did     holdthe whip hand, he was still not in possession of the most importantsecret of all! While the location of the ekalastron mine remained asecret, a deadlock existed.     And if I won't tell—? he countered shrewdly.     Why, then, sailor— The pirate leader's hamlike fists tightened, anda cold light glinted in his eyes—why, then I guess maybe I'll have tobeat it out o' you!  ","Chip Warren and his crew of Salvation Smith, a righteous missionary, and Syd Palmer, mechanic, have landed in the Belt on their spaceship Chickadee II after discovering a mountain of ekalastron, a highly sought-after material. Their new fortune is cause for celebration, so Chip picks out a flashy tie, which Syd and Salvation both make fun of him for, and sets off to get a drink. Syd and Salvation do not join him, as the repairmen were still encasing their ship with ekalastron. The asteroid Danae has a gravity that’s modeled after Earth, a good atmosphere, and features a wide variety of interplanetary species. Chip walks into Xu’ul’s Solarest and strolls past all the charm-gals, busy cabarets, and the native sing-stomp, before arriving in an empty, private bar. The Martian bartender serves him a new bottle of Scotch but is quickly frightened when a member of the Space Patrol steps in and accuses Chip of murder. The Martian runs off before the cop reveals himself to be Johnny Haldane, Chip’s old friend. After catching up briefly, Chip tells Johnny about their find on Titania and explains that they turned it all over to the Space Patrol, before visiphoning Earth. At this, Johnny becomes upset and explains that their message could have been intercepted by the mythic Lorelei. Chip laughs him off, but Johnny explains that for the past two months a beautiful blonde woman has been luring spacemen to their doom and stealing all their cargo. They decide to take on the Lorelei together, especially now that the Chickadee will be plated with ekalastron, an impenetrable material. Johnny claims he knows one of Lorelei’s men is on Danae right now getting more supplies, so they could follow him back to their base. As he says that, Johnny saves Chip by throwing him to the floor and sacrificing himself. He is killed by an assailant with a scar on his face. Chip tries to save his friend, but the bartender rushes back in with a horde of people, claiming Chip is the murder. Chip runs away, chasing after the true killer, but loses him. He runs back to the Chickadee, and they quickly take off, even though the plating was only halfway finished. Syd and Salvation question him, and he explains the situation, as they follow the scarred man to the Bog, an extremely dangerous asteroid-ridden area. As Chip attempts to look through the perilens, a beautiful woman pops up, crying for help: the Lorelei. Chaos ensues, and they try to get her off their transmission, while a blast rocks the hull. The Chickadee crashed, and Chip wakes up to see a large man standing above him. He and his men question Chip about the ekalastron, but Chip won’t reveal its location. The story ends with the pirate threatening to torture Chip. "
"Who or what is the Lorelei? </s>     THE LORELEI DEATH     by NELSON S. BOND     Far out in limitless Space she plied     her deadly trade ... a Lorelei of the     void, beckoning spacemen to death and     destruction with her beautiful siren lure.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Winter 1941.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Chip Warren stood before an oblong of glass set into one wall ofthe spaceship      Chickadee II     , stared at what he saw reflectedtherefrom—and frowned. He didn't like it. Not a bit! It was too—too—     He turned away angrily, ripped the offending article from about hisneck, and chose another necktie from the rack. This one was brighter,gaudier, much more in keeping with the gaiety of his mood. He emitted agrunt of satisfaction, spun from the mirror to face his two companionstriumphantly.     There! How do you like      that     ?     Syd Palmer, short and chubby, tow-headed and liquid-blue of eye, alwayslanguid save when engaged in the solution of some engineering problemconcerned with the space vessel he mothered like a brooding hen, moanedinsultingly and forced a shudder.     Sunspots! Novae! Flying comets! And he wears 'em around his neck!     You, Chip told him serenely, have no appreciation of beauty. What do      you     think of it, Padre?     Salvation Smith, a tall, gangling scarecrow garbed in rusty black,a lean-jawed, hawkeyed man with tumbled locks of silver framing hisweathered cheeks like a halo, concealed his grin poorly. Well,my boy, he admitted, there is      some     Biblical precedent foryour—ahem!—clamorous raiment. 'So Joseph made for himself a coatwhich was of many colors—'     Both of you, declared Chip, give me a pain in the pants!Stick-in-the-muds! Here we are in port for the first time in months,cargo-bins loaded to the gunwales with enough ekalastron to make usrich for life—and you sit here like a pair of stuffed owls!     Well, not me! I'm going to take a night off, throw myself a party thelikes of which was never seen around these parts. Put a candle in thewindow, chilluns, 'cause li'l' Chip won't be home till the wee, sma'hours!     Syd chuckled.     O.Q., big shot. But don't get too cozy with any of those joy-jointentertainers. Remember what happened to poor old Dougal MacNeer!     Salvation said soberly, Syd's just fooling, my boy. But I      would     becareful if I were you. We're in the Belt, you know. The forces of lawand order do not always govern these wild outposts of civilization aswell as might be hoped. The planetoids are dens of iniquity, violentand unheeding the words of Him who rules all—     The old man's lips etched a straight line, reminding Chip thatSalvation Smith was not one of those milk-and-water missionaries whoespoused the principle of turning the other cheek to evildoers.Salvation was not the ordained emissary of any church. A devoutlyreligious man with the heart of an adventurer, he had taken uponhimself the mission of carrying to outland tribes the story of the Godhe worshipped.     That his God was the fierce Yahveh of the Old Testament, a God ofanger and retribution, was made evident by the methods Salvationsometimes employed in winning his converts. For not only was Salvationacknowledged the most pious man in space; he was also conceded to bethe best hand with a gun!     Now Chip gave quiet answer. I know, Padre: I'll be careful. Well,Syd—sure you won't change your mind and come along?     No can do, chum. The spaceport repair crew's still smearing thisjalopy with ek. Got to stay and watch 'em.     O.Q. I'm off alone, then. See you later!     And, whistling, Chip Warren stepped through the lock of the      Chickadee     onto the soil of the asteroid Danae.  Danae was, thought Chip as he strolled along briskly toward the townbeyond the spaceport, a most presentable hunk of rock. Nice      lucentite     Dome ... good atmo ... a fine artificial grav system based on Terranormal. It seemed to be a popular little fueling-stop, too, for itscradle-bins were laden with vessels from every planet in the System,and as he gained the main drag he found himself rubbing shoulderswith citizens of every known world. Lumbering, albino Venusians,petal-headed Martians, Jovian runts, greenies from far Uranus,Earthman—all were here.     Quite a likely place, he thought happily, to chuck a brawl. Abrilliantly gleaming xenon sign before him welcomed visitors to:     XU'UL'S SOLAREST     Barroom—Casino—Dancing     100—Lovely Hostesses—100     He entered, and was immediately deluged by a bevy of charm-gals vyingfor the privilege of: (1) helping him beat the roulette wheel; (2)helping him drink the house dry, and/or (3) separating him as swiftlyas possible from the credits in his money belt.     Chip shook them off, gently but firmly. He wanted a good time, true;but he wanted it solo. The main cabaret was too crowded; he passedthrough it and another equally blatant room wherein twoscore Venusianswere straining the structure with a native sing-stomp, and ended upfinally, with a sigh of relief, in a small, dimly-lighted private barunfrequented by anyone save a bored and listless Martian bartender.     The chrysanthemum-pated son of the desertland roused himself as Chipentered, rustled his petals and piped a ready greeting.     Welcoom, ssirr! Trrink, pleasse?     This was more like it! Chip grinned.     Scotch, he said.       Old Spaceman.     And let's have a new bottle, Curly.None of that doctored swill.     Of courrsse, ssirr! piped the bar-keep aggrievedly. He pushed abottle across the mahogany; Chip flipped a golden credit-token back athim.     Tell me when I've guzzled this, and I'll start work on another. Hetook a deep, appreciative sniff. And don't let any of those dizzydolls in here, he ordered. I've got a lot of back drinking to catchup on, and I don't want to be disturbed—      Hey!          In his alarm, he almost dropped the bottle. For the door suddenly burstopen, and in its frame loomed a figure in Space Patrol blues. A fingerpointed in Chip's direction and a bull-o'-Bashan voice roared:           Stop!     Bartender—grab that man! He's a desperate criminal, wanted onfour planets for murder!  Shock momentarily immobilized Chip. Not so the bartender. He was, itseemed, an ardent pacifist. With a bleat of panic fear he scamperedfrom his post, his metallic stilts clattering off in the distance.Chip's accuser moved forward from the shadows; dim light illumined hisfeatures. And—           Johnny!      Chip's voice lifted in a note of jubilant surprise.Johnny Haldane—you old scoundrel! Where in the void did      you     dropfrom?     The S.S.P. man chuckled and returned Chip's greeting with abone-grinding handclasp.     I might ask the same of you, chum! Lord, it's been ages since we'vecrossed 'jectory! When I saw you meandering across the Casino, youcould have knocked me down with a jetblast! What's new? Is old Sydstill with you?     We're still shipmates. But he's back at the spaceport. The jerry-crewis plating our crate with ek, and—     Ek! Plating a private cruiser! Haldane stared at him in astonishment,then whistled. Sweet Sacred Stars, you must be filthy with credits tobe able to coat an entire ship with ekalastron!     You, boasted Chip, ain't heard nothing yet! And he told him howthey had discovered an entire mountain of the previous new element, No.97 in the periodic table, on frigid Titania, satellite of far Uranus.It was touch-and-go for a while, he admitted, whether we'd be theluckiest three guys in space—or the deadest! But we passed through theflaming caverns like old Shadrach in the Bible—remember?—and here weare!  [1]     Haldane was exuberant. A mountain of ekalastron! he gloated.That's the greatest contribution to spaceflight since Biggs'velocity-intensifier! It was no overstatement. Element No. 97 was ametal so light that a man could carry in one hand enough to coat theentire hull of a battleship—yet so adamant that a gossamer film ofit would deflect a meteor! A metal strong enough to crush diamonds toash—but so resilient that, when properly treated, it would reboundlike rubber! What are you going to do with it, Chip? Put it on theopen market?     Warren shook his head.     Not exactly. We talked it over carefully—Syd and Salvation and I—andwe decided there are some space-rats to whom it shouldn't be madeavailable. Privateers and outlaws, you know. So we turned control ofthe mines over to the Space Patrol at Uranus, and visiphoned the Earthauthorities we were bringing in one cargo—     Visiphoned! interrupted Haldane sharply. Did you say visiphoned?     Why—why, yes.     From where?     Oh, just before we reached the Belt. We don't have a very strongtransmitter, you know. Sa-a-ay, what's all the excitement, pal? Did wedo something that was wrong?     Haldane frowned worriedly. I don't know, Chip. It wasn't anything      wrong     , but what you did was damned dangerous. For if your message wasintercepted, you may have played into the very hands of—the Lorelei!  Chip stared at his friend bewilderedly for a moment. Then he grinned.Hey—I must be getting slightly whacky in my old age. I stand herewith an unopened bottle in my hands and hear things! For a minute Ithought you said 'Lorelei.' The Lorelei, my space-cop friend, is amyth. An old Teutonic myth about a beautiful damsel who sits out inthe middle of a sea on a treacherous rock, combing her golden locks,warbling and luring her fascinated admirers to destruction.     He grunted. A dirty trick, if you ask me. Catch a snort of thisalleged Scotch, pal, and I'll torture your eardrums with the whole, sadstory. He started to sing. '      Ich weiss nicht was soll es bedeuten     —'     The Patrolman laid a hand on his arm, silenced him.     It's not funny, Chip. You've described the Lorelei exactly. That'show she got her name. An incredibly beautiful woman who wantonly luresspace-mariners to their death.     The only difference is that her 'rock' is an asteroid somewhere inthe Belt—and she does not sing, she calls! She began exercisingher vicious appeal about two months ago, Earth reckoning. Sincethen, no less than a dozen spacecraft—freighters, liners, even onePatrolship—have fallen prey to her wiles. Their crews have beenbrutally murdered, their cargos stolen.     Wait a minute! interrupted Chip shrewdly. How do you know about herif the crews have been murdered?     She has a habit of locking the controls, explained Haldane, andsetting ravaged ships adrift. Apparently there is no room on herhideout—wherever it is—for empty hulks. One of these ships wassalvaged by a courageous cabin-boy who hid from the Lorelei and herpirate band beneath a closetful of soiled linens in the laundry. Hedescribed her. His description goes perfectly with less accurateglimpses seen over the visiphones of several score spacecraft!     Chip said soberly, So it's no joke, eh, pal? Sorry I popped off. Ithought you were pulling my leg. Where do      I     come into this mess,though?     Ekalastron! grunted Johnny succinctly. A jackpot prize for anycorsair! And you      advertised     a cargo of it over the etherwaves! TheLorelei will be waiting for you with her tongue hanging out. The onlything for you to do, kid, is go back to Jupiter or Io as fast as youcan get there. Make the Patrol give you a convoy—     A sudden light danced in Chip Warren's eyes. It was a light Syd Palmerwould have groaned to see—for it usually presaged trouble. It was abright, hard, reckless light.     Hold your jets, Johnny! drawled Chip. Aren't you forgetting onething? In a couple more hours, I can face the Lorelei and her wholemob—and be damned to them! She can't touch the      Chickadee     , becauseit's being plated right now!     Haldane snapped his fingers in quick remembrance.     By thunder, you're right! Her shells will ricochet off the      Chickadee's     hull like hail off a tin roof. Chip, are you in any hurryto reach Earth? I thought not. What do you say we go after the Lorelei      together     ! I'll swear you in as a Deputy Patrolman; we'll take the      Chickadee     and—     It's a deal! declared Chip promptly. You got any idea where thisLorelei's hangout is?     That's why I'm here on Danae. I got a tip that one of the Lorelei'smen put in here for supplies. I hoped maybe I could single himout somehow, follow him when he jetted for his base, and in thatway—      Chip! Look out!       Haldane shouted and moved at the same time. His arm lashed out wildly,thrusting, smashing Chip to the floor in a sprawling heap. The as-yetunopened bottle was now violently opened; it splintered into a thousandshards against a wall.     Bruised and shaken, Chip lifted his head to see what had causedJohnny's alarm. Even as he did so, the dull gloom of the bar wasblazoned with searing effulgence. A lancet of flame leaped from thedark, rearward doorway, burst in Johnny Haldane's face!     The Patrolman cried once, a choking cry that died in a mewling whimper.His unused pistol slipped from slackening fingers, and he sagged tothe floor. Again crimson lightning laced the shadows; Haldane's bodyjerked, and the air was raw with the hot, sickening stench of charredflesh.     With an instinct born of bitter years, Chip had come to his kneesbehind the shelter of the mahogany bar. But now his own flame-pistolwas in his hand, and a dreadful rage was mingled with the agony in hisheart. Reckless of results, he sprang to his feet, gun spewing lividdeath into the shadows.     His blast found a mark. For an instant flame haloed a human face drawnin inhuman pain. A heavy, sultry, bestial face, already puckered withone long, ugly scar that ran from right temple to jawbone, now newlyscarred with the red brand of Chip's marksmanship.     Then, before Chip could fire again, came the rasp of poundingfootsteps. The man turned and fled. Chip bent over his fallen friend,seeking, with hands that did not even feel the heat, fluttering lifebeneath still smoldering cloth.     He felt—nothing. Johnny was dead.     A snarl of sheer animal rage burst from Chip's lips. Someone would payfor this; pay dearly! Help was coming now. He himself would lead thehue-and-cry that would track a foul murderer to his lair. He spun asthe footsteps drew nearer.     Hurry! he cried. This way! Follow me—     In a bound, he hurdled the bar, lingered at the door only long enoughto let the others mark his course. For they had burst into the room,now, a full score of them. Excited, hard-bitten dogs of space,quick-triggered and willing. Once more he cried for help.     After him! Come on! He—     And then—disaster struck! For a reedy voice broke from the van of themob. The voice of the Martian bartender.     That's him! he piped sibilantly. That's the man! He's a desperatecriminal, wanted on four planets for murder! The Patrolman came toarrest him—      and now he's murdered the Spacie     !  II     The stunning injustice of that accusation came close to costing ChipWarren his life. For a split second he stood motionless in the doorway,gaping lips forming denial. Words which were never to be uttered, forsuddenly a raw-boned miner wrenched a Moeller from its holster, leveledand fired.     The hot tongue of death licked hungrily at the young spaceman's cheek,scorched air crackled in his eardrums. Now was no time to squanderin vain argument. Chip ducked, spun, and hurled himself through thedoorway. There still remained one hope. That he might catch the realmurderer, and in that way clear himself....     But the door led to a small, deserted vestibule, and it to an alleywaybehind Xu'ul's Solarest. Viewing that maze of byways and passages, Chipknew his hope was futile. There remained but one thing to do. Get outof here. But quick!     It was no hard task. The labyrinth swallowed him as it had engulfed thescarred killer; in a few minutes even the footsteps of his pursuerscould no longer be heard. And Chip worked his cautious way back to thespaceport, and to the bin wherein was cradled the      Chickadee     .     Syd Palmer looked up in surprise as Chip let himself in theelectro-lock. The chubby engineer gasped, Salvation, look what the catdrug in! His high-flying Nibs! What's the matter, Chip? Night-life toomuch for you?     Never mind that now! panted Chip. Is this tin can ready to roll?Warm the hypos. We're lifting gravs—     Palmer said anxiously, Now, wait a minute! The men haven't quitefinished plating the hull, Chip!     Can't help that! We've got important business. In a very fewminutes—      Ahh!     There he goes now! Chip had gone to the      perilens     themoment he entered the ship; now he saw in its reflector that which hehad expected. The gushing orange spume of a spaceship roaring from itscradle. Hurry, Syd!     There were a lot of things Syd Palmer wanted to ask. He wanted to know      who     went      where     ; he was bursting with curiosity about the importantbusiness which had brought his pal back from town in such a rush; hiskeen eye also had detected a needle-gun burn on Chip's coat-sleeve. Buthe was too good a companion to waste time now on such trivia.     O.Q., he snapped. It's your pigeon!     And he disappeared. They heard his voice calling to the workmen, thescuff of equipment being disengaged from the      Chickadee's     hull, thethin, high whine of warming hypatomics. Salvation looked at Warrenquizzically.     It smells, he ventured gently, like trouble.     It is trouble, Chip told him. Plenty trouble!     In that case— said the old man mildly—I guess I'd better get therotor stripped for action. He stepped to the gunnery turret, droppedthe fore-irons and stripped their weapon for action. 'Be ye men ofpeace,' he intoned, 'but gird firmly thy loins for righteous battle!'Thus saith the Lord God which is Jehovah. Selah!     Then came Syd's cry from the depths of the hyporoom.     All set, Chip! Lift gravs!     Warren's finger found a stud. And with a gusty roar the      Chickadee     rocketed into space on a pillar of flame.  Two hours later, Chip was still following the bright pinpoint ofscarlet which marked the course of his quarry.     In the time that had elapsed since their take-off, he had told hisfriends the whole story. When he told about the Lorelei, SalvationSmith's seamy old features screwed up in a perplexed grimace. Awoman pirate in the Belt, son? I find it hard to believe. Yet— Andwhen he described the death of Johnny Haldane, anger smoldered in themissionary's eyes, and Syd Palmer's hands knotted into tight, whitefists. Said Syd, A man with a scar, eh? Well, we'll catch him sooneror later. And when we do— His tone boded no good to the man who hadslain an old and loved friend.     As a matter of fact, offered Salvation, we've got him now. Any timeyou say the word, Chip. We're faster than he is. We can close in on himin five minutes.     I know, nodded Warren grimly. But we won't do it—yet. I'm borrowinga bit of Johnny's strategy. I've been plotting his course. As soon asI'm sure of his destination, we'll take care of      him     . But our firstand most vital problem is to locate the Lorelei's hideaway.     Syd said, That's all right with me, chum. I like a good scrap as muchas the next guy. Better, maybe. But this isn't our concern, strictlyspeaking. What we ought to do is report this matter to the SpacePatrol, let them take care of it.     Salvation shook his head.     That's where you're mistaken, Sydney. This is very much our concern.So much so, in fact, that we dare not make port again until it'scleared up. I think you have forgotten that it is not the scar-facedman who is wanted for the killing of Haldane—but Chip!     B-but— gasped Palmer—b-but that's ridiculous! Chip and Johnny wereold buddies. Lifelong friends!     Nevertheless, the circumstantial evidence indicates Chip's guilt.Twenty men saw him standing over Johnny's dead body, with aflame-pistol in his hand. And the barkeep heard Johnny 'arrest' Chipand accuse him of murder!     Chip said ruefully, That's right, Syd. It was only a joke, but itbackfired. The bartender thought Johnny meant it. He scooted out ofthere like a bat out of Hades. I'm in it up to my neck unless we canbring back evidence that Scarface actually did the killing. And thatmay not be so easy.     He stirred restlessly. But we'll cross that bridge when we come toit. Right now our job is to keep this rat in sight. We've gone fartheralready than I expected we would. He turned to the old preacher.Where do you think we're going, Padre? Out of the Belt entirely?     I've been wondering that myself, son. I don't know for sure, ofcourse, but it looks to me as if we're going for the Bog. If so, you'dbetter keep a weather-eye peeled.     The Bog! Chip had never penetrated the planetoids so deeply before,but he knew of the Bog by hearsay. All men did. A treacherous region oftightly packed asteroids, a mad and whirling scramble of the giganticrocks which, aeons ago, had been a planet. Few spacemen dared penetratethe Bog. Of those who did dare, few returned to tell the tale. TheBog! Say! I'd      better     keep a sharp lookout!     He turned to the      perilens     once more, fastened an eye to its lens. Andthen—     Syd! he cried. Salvation! Look! She—she—!     He pressed the plunger that transferred the      perilens     image to thecentral viewscreen. And as he did so, a phantom filled the area whichshould have revealed yawning space, gay with the spangles of a myriadglowing orbs. The vision of an unbelievably beautiful girl, thegolden-crowned embodiment of a man's fondest dreaming, eyes wide withan indistinguishable emotion, arms stretched wide in mute appeal.     And from the throats of all came simultaneous recognition.           The Lorelei!       At the same moment came a plea from the enchantress of space througha second medium. For no reason anyone could explain, the ship's      telaudio     wakened to life; over it came to their ears the actual wordsof the girl:           Help! Oh, help! Can anyone hear me? Help     —     Even though he knew this to be only a ruse, a deliberate, dastardlytrap set for the unwary, Chip Warren's pulse leaped in hot response tothat desperate plea. Even with the warning of Johnny Haldane fresh inhis memory, some gallantry deep within him spurred him to the aid ofthis lovely vision. Here was a woman a man could live for, fight for,      die     for! A woman like no other in the universe.     Then common sense came to his rescue. He wrenched his gaze from thetempting shadow, cried: Kill that wavelength! Tune the lens onanother beam, Syd!     Palmer, bedazzled but obedient, spun the dial of the      perilens     .Despite his vastly improved science Man had never yet succeeded indevising a transparent medium through which to view the void whereinhe soared; the      perilens     was a device which translated impinginglight-waves into a picture of that which lay outside the ship's hull.When or where electrical disturbances existed in space, its frequencycould be changed for greater clarity. This was what Syd now attempted.     But to no avail! For it mattered not which cycle he tuned to—theimage persisted. Still on the viewscreen that pleading figurebeckoned piteously. And still the cabin rang to the prayers of thatheart-tugging voice:           Help! Oh, help! Can anyone hear me? Help     —     Gone, now, was any fascination that thrilling vision might previouslyhave held for Chip Warren. Understanding of their plight dawned coldlyupon him, and his brow became dark with anger.           We're blanketed!     Flying blind! Salvation, radio a general alarm!Syd, jazz the hypos to max. Shift trajectory to fourteen-oh-three Northand loft ... fire No. 3 jet....     He had hurled himself into the bucket-shaped pilot's seat; nowhis fingers played the controls like those of a mad organist. The      Chickadee     groaned from prow to stern, trembled like a tortured thingas he thrust it into a rising spiral.     It was a desperate chance he was taking. Increasing his speed thus, itwas certain he would be spotted by the man he had been following; theflaming jets of the      Chickadee     must form a crimson arch against blackspace visible for hundreds—thousands!—of miles. Nor was there any wayof knowing what lay in the path Chip thus blindly chose. Titanic deathmight loom on every side. But they had to fight clear of this spot ofblindness, clear their instruments....     And then it came! A jarring concussion that smashed against the prowof the      Chickadee     like a battering ram. Chip flew headlong out of hisbucket to spreadeagle on the heaving iron floor. He heard, above thegrinding plaint of shattered steel the bellowing prayer of SalvationSmith:     We've crashed! 'Into Thy hands, O Lord of old—'     Then Syd's angry cry, Crashed, hell! He's smashed us with atractor-blast!     Chip stared at his companion numbly.     But—but that's impossible! We're plated with ek! A tractor-cannoncouldn't hurt us—           Half-plated!      howled Syd savagely. And those damn fools startedworking from the stern of the      Chickadee     ! We're vulnerable up front,and that's where he got us! In a minute this can will be leaking like asieve. I'll get out bulgers. Hold 'er to her course, Chip!     He dove for the lockers wherein were hung the space-suits, tore themhastily from their hangers. Chip again spun the      perilens     vernier. Nogood! No space ... no stars ... just a beautiful phantom crying them tocertain doom. By now he was aware that from a dozen sprung plates airwas seeping, but he fought down despair. While there remained hope, aman had to keep on fighting.     He scrambled back into the bucket-seat, experimented with controls thatanswered sluggishly. Salvation had sprung to the rotor-gun, was nowangrily jerking its lanyard, lacing the void with death-dealing burststhat had no mark. The old man's eyes were brands of fire, his whitehair clung wetly to his forehead. His rage was terrible to behold.     'Yes, truly shall I destroy them!' he cried, 'who loose theirstealth upon me like a thief from the night—'     Then suddenly there came a second and more frightful blow. Thestraining      Chickadee     stopped as though pole-axed by a gigantic fist.Stopped and shuddered and screamed in metal agony. This time inertiaflung Chip headlong, helpless, into the control racks. Brazen studstook the impact of his body; crushing pain banded about his temples,and a red wetness ran into his eyes, blurring and blinding him, burning.     For an instant there flamed before him a universe of incandescentstars, weaving, shimmering, merging. The vision of a woman whose hairwas a golden glory....     After that—nothing!  III     From a billion miles away, from a bourne unguessable thousands oflight-years distant, came the faint, far whisper of a voice. Nearer andnearer it came, and ever faster, till it throbbed upon Chip's eardrumswith booming savagery.     —coming to, now. Good! We'll soon find out—     Chip opened his eyes, too dazed, at first, to understand the situationin which he found himself. Gone was the familiar control-turret of the      Chickadee     , gone the bulger into which he had so hastily clambered. Helay on the parched, rocky soil of a—a something. A planetoid, perhaps.And he was surrounded by a motley crew of strangers: scum of all theplanets that circle the Sun....     Then recollection flooded back upon him, sudden and complete. Thechase ... the call of the fateful Lorelei ... the crash! New strength,born of anger, surged through him. He lifted his head.     My—my companions? he demanded weakly.     The leader of those who encircled him, a mighty hulk of a man, massiveof shoulder and thigh, black-haired, with an unshaven blue jaw,raven-bright eyes and a jutting, aquiline nose like the beak of a hawk,loosed a satisfied grunt.     Ah! Back to normal, eh, sailor? Damn near time!     Climbing to his feet sent a swift wave of giddiness through Chip—buthe managed it. He fought down the vertigo which threatened to overwhelmhim, and confronted the big man boldly.     What, he stormed, is the meaning of this?     The giant stared at him for a moment, his jaw slack. Then hisraven-bright eyes glittered; he slapped a trunklike thigh and guffawedin boisterous mirth.     Hear that? he roared to his companions. Quite a guy, ain't he?'What's the meanin' o' this?' he asks! Game little fightin' cock, hey?Then he sobered abruptly, and a grim light replaced the amusement inhis eyes. Here was not a man to be trifled with, Chip realized. Histone assumed a biting edge. The meanin' is, my bucko, he answeredmirthlessly, that you've run afoul o' your last reef. Unless you havea sane head on your shoulders, and you're willing to talk fast andstraight!     Talk?     Don't stall. We've already unloaded your bins. We found it. And a nicehaul, too. Thanks for lettin' us know it was on the way. The burly onechuckled coarsely. We'd have took it, anyway, but you helped mattersout by comin' to us.     Johnny Haldane had been right, then. Chip remembered his friend'sominous warning. —if your message was intercepted, you may haveplayed into the hands of— He said slowly, Then you      are     theLorelei's men?     The who? Never mind that, bucko, just talk. That ekalastron—where didit come from?     And it occurred to Warren suddenly that although the big man      did     holdthe whip hand, he was still not in possession of the most importantsecret of all! While the location of the ekalastron mine remained asecret, a deadlock existed.     And if I won't tell—? he countered shrewdly.     Why, then, sailor— The pirate leader's hamlike fists tightened, anda cold light glinted in his eyes—why, then I guess maybe I'll have tobeat it out o' you!  ","The Lorelei was first an ancient myth that plagued all spacemen. It was a Teutonic myth, similar to the sirens of ancient Greece, about a gorgeous blonde woman who combed her hair and sang to those around her. Her position on the rock lured all the men to their doom, as they would crash around her. That is where the Lorelei originated. In this turn of events, the story has evolved into a present-day pirating crew using the original myth to draw spacemen in. For the past two months, according to Space Patrolman Johnny Haldane, a pirate crew has a beautiful blonde woman calling for help to lure at least a dozen spaceships in before they kill the crew and capture all of their cargo. The pirates then turn on all of the control locks and send the empty ships back out, as they have no space for them in their current base. The Lorelei and her crew intercepted Chip’s message about the ekalastron and set their sights on his ship as their next target. "
"Who is Johnny Haldane and what happens to him throughout the story? </s>     THE LORELEI DEATH     by NELSON S. BOND     Far out in limitless Space she plied     her deadly trade ... a Lorelei of the     void, beckoning spacemen to death and     destruction with her beautiful siren lure.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Winter 1941.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Chip Warren stood before an oblong of glass set into one wall ofthe spaceship      Chickadee II     , stared at what he saw reflectedtherefrom—and frowned. He didn't like it. Not a bit! It was too—too—     He turned away angrily, ripped the offending article from about hisneck, and chose another necktie from the rack. This one was brighter,gaudier, much more in keeping with the gaiety of his mood. He emitted agrunt of satisfaction, spun from the mirror to face his two companionstriumphantly.     There! How do you like      that     ?     Syd Palmer, short and chubby, tow-headed and liquid-blue of eye, alwayslanguid save when engaged in the solution of some engineering problemconcerned with the space vessel he mothered like a brooding hen, moanedinsultingly and forced a shudder.     Sunspots! Novae! Flying comets! And he wears 'em around his neck!     You, Chip told him serenely, have no appreciation of beauty. What do      you     think of it, Padre?     Salvation Smith, a tall, gangling scarecrow garbed in rusty black,a lean-jawed, hawkeyed man with tumbled locks of silver framing hisweathered cheeks like a halo, concealed his grin poorly. Well,my boy, he admitted, there is      some     Biblical precedent foryour—ahem!—clamorous raiment. 'So Joseph made for himself a coatwhich was of many colors—'     Both of you, declared Chip, give me a pain in the pants!Stick-in-the-muds! Here we are in port for the first time in months,cargo-bins loaded to the gunwales with enough ekalastron to make usrich for life—and you sit here like a pair of stuffed owls!     Well, not me! I'm going to take a night off, throw myself a party thelikes of which was never seen around these parts. Put a candle in thewindow, chilluns, 'cause li'l' Chip won't be home till the wee, sma'hours!     Syd chuckled.     O.Q., big shot. But don't get too cozy with any of those joy-jointentertainers. Remember what happened to poor old Dougal MacNeer!     Salvation said soberly, Syd's just fooling, my boy. But I      would     becareful if I were you. We're in the Belt, you know. The forces of lawand order do not always govern these wild outposts of civilization aswell as might be hoped. The planetoids are dens of iniquity, violentand unheeding the words of Him who rules all—     The old man's lips etched a straight line, reminding Chip thatSalvation Smith was not one of those milk-and-water missionaries whoespoused the principle of turning the other cheek to evildoers.Salvation was not the ordained emissary of any church. A devoutlyreligious man with the heart of an adventurer, he had taken uponhimself the mission of carrying to outland tribes the story of the Godhe worshipped.     That his God was the fierce Yahveh of the Old Testament, a God ofanger and retribution, was made evident by the methods Salvationsometimes employed in winning his converts. For not only was Salvationacknowledged the most pious man in space; he was also conceded to bethe best hand with a gun!     Now Chip gave quiet answer. I know, Padre: I'll be careful. Well,Syd—sure you won't change your mind and come along?     No can do, chum. The spaceport repair crew's still smearing thisjalopy with ek. Got to stay and watch 'em.     O.Q. I'm off alone, then. See you later!     And, whistling, Chip Warren stepped through the lock of the      Chickadee     onto the soil of the asteroid Danae.  Danae was, thought Chip as he strolled along briskly toward the townbeyond the spaceport, a most presentable hunk of rock. Nice      lucentite     Dome ... good atmo ... a fine artificial grav system based on Terranormal. It seemed to be a popular little fueling-stop, too, for itscradle-bins were laden with vessels from every planet in the System,and as he gained the main drag he found himself rubbing shoulderswith citizens of every known world. Lumbering, albino Venusians,petal-headed Martians, Jovian runts, greenies from far Uranus,Earthman—all were here.     Quite a likely place, he thought happily, to chuck a brawl. Abrilliantly gleaming xenon sign before him welcomed visitors to:     XU'UL'S SOLAREST     Barroom—Casino—Dancing     100—Lovely Hostesses—100     He entered, and was immediately deluged by a bevy of charm-gals vyingfor the privilege of: (1) helping him beat the roulette wheel; (2)helping him drink the house dry, and/or (3) separating him as swiftlyas possible from the credits in his money belt.     Chip shook them off, gently but firmly. He wanted a good time, true;but he wanted it solo. The main cabaret was too crowded; he passedthrough it and another equally blatant room wherein twoscore Venusianswere straining the structure with a native sing-stomp, and ended upfinally, with a sigh of relief, in a small, dimly-lighted private barunfrequented by anyone save a bored and listless Martian bartender.     The chrysanthemum-pated son of the desertland roused himself as Chipentered, rustled his petals and piped a ready greeting.     Welcoom, ssirr! Trrink, pleasse?     This was more like it! Chip grinned.     Scotch, he said.       Old Spaceman.     And let's have a new bottle, Curly.None of that doctored swill.     Of courrsse, ssirr! piped the bar-keep aggrievedly. He pushed abottle across the mahogany; Chip flipped a golden credit-token back athim.     Tell me when I've guzzled this, and I'll start work on another. Hetook a deep, appreciative sniff. And don't let any of those dizzydolls in here, he ordered. I've got a lot of back drinking to catchup on, and I don't want to be disturbed—      Hey!          In his alarm, he almost dropped the bottle. For the door suddenly burstopen, and in its frame loomed a figure in Space Patrol blues. A fingerpointed in Chip's direction and a bull-o'-Bashan voice roared:           Stop!     Bartender—grab that man! He's a desperate criminal, wanted onfour planets for murder!  Shock momentarily immobilized Chip. Not so the bartender. He was, itseemed, an ardent pacifist. With a bleat of panic fear he scamperedfrom his post, his metallic stilts clattering off in the distance.Chip's accuser moved forward from the shadows; dim light illumined hisfeatures. And—           Johnny!      Chip's voice lifted in a note of jubilant surprise.Johnny Haldane—you old scoundrel! Where in the void did      you     dropfrom?     The S.S.P. man chuckled and returned Chip's greeting with abone-grinding handclasp.     I might ask the same of you, chum! Lord, it's been ages since we'vecrossed 'jectory! When I saw you meandering across the Casino, youcould have knocked me down with a jetblast! What's new? Is old Sydstill with you?     We're still shipmates. But he's back at the spaceport. The jerry-crewis plating our crate with ek, and—     Ek! Plating a private cruiser! Haldane stared at him in astonishment,then whistled. Sweet Sacred Stars, you must be filthy with credits tobe able to coat an entire ship with ekalastron!     You, boasted Chip, ain't heard nothing yet! And he told him howthey had discovered an entire mountain of the previous new element, No.97 in the periodic table, on frigid Titania, satellite of far Uranus.It was touch-and-go for a while, he admitted, whether we'd be theluckiest three guys in space—or the deadest! But we passed through theflaming caverns like old Shadrach in the Bible—remember?—and here weare!  [1]     Haldane was exuberant. A mountain of ekalastron! he gloated.That's the greatest contribution to spaceflight since Biggs'velocity-intensifier! It was no overstatement. Element No. 97 was ametal so light that a man could carry in one hand enough to coat theentire hull of a battleship—yet so adamant that a gossamer film ofit would deflect a meteor! A metal strong enough to crush diamonds toash—but so resilient that, when properly treated, it would reboundlike rubber! What are you going to do with it, Chip? Put it on theopen market?     Warren shook his head.     Not exactly. We talked it over carefully—Syd and Salvation and I—andwe decided there are some space-rats to whom it shouldn't be madeavailable. Privateers and outlaws, you know. So we turned control ofthe mines over to the Space Patrol at Uranus, and visiphoned the Earthauthorities we were bringing in one cargo—     Visiphoned! interrupted Haldane sharply. Did you say visiphoned?     Why—why, yes.     From where?     Oh, just before we reached the Belt. We don't have a very strongtransmitter, you know. Sa-a-ay, what's all the excitement, pal? Did wedo something that was wrong?     Haldane frowned worriedly. I don't know, Chip. It wasn't anything      wrong     , but what you did was damned dangerous. For if your message wasintercepted, you may have played into the very hands of—the Lorelei!  Chip stared at his friend bewilderedly for a moment. Then he grinned.Hey—I must be getting slightly whacky in my old age. I stand herewith an unopened bottle in my hands and hear things! For a minute Ithought you said 'Lorelei.' The Lorelei, my space-cop friend, is amyth. An old Teutonic myth about a beautiful damsel who sits out inthe middle of a sea on a treacherous rock, combing her golden locks,warbling and luring her fascinated admirers to destruction.     He grunted. A dirty trick, if you ask me. Catch a snort of thisalleged Scotch, pal, and I'll torture your eardrums with the whole, sadstory. He started to sing. '      Ich weiss nicht was soll es bedeuten     —'     The Patrolman laid a hand on his arm, silenced him.     It's not funny, Chip. You've described the Lorelei exactly. That'show she got her name. An incredibly beautiful woman who wantonly luresspace-mariners to their death.     The only difference is that her 'rock' is an asteroid somewhere inthe Belt—and she does not sing, she calls! She began exercisingher vicious appeal about two months ago, Earth reckoning. Sincethen, no less than a dozen spacecraft—freighters, liners, even onePatrolship—have fallen prey to her wiles. Their crews have beenbrutally murdered, their cargos stolen.     Wait a minute! interrupted Chip shrewdly. How do you know about herif the crews have been murdered?     She has a habit of locking the controls, explained Haldane, andsetting ravaged ships adrift. Apparently there is no room on herhideout—wherever it is—for empty hulks. One of these ships wassalvaged by a courageous cabin-boy who hid from the Lorelei and herpirate band beneath a closetful of soiled linens in the laundry. Hedescribed her. His description goes perfectly with less accurateglimpses seen over the visiphones of several score spacecraft!     Chip said soberly, So it's no joke, eh, pal? Sorry I popped off. Ithought you were pulling my leg. Where do      I     come into this mess,though?     Ekalastron! grunted Johnny succinctly. A jackpot prize for anycorsair! And you      advertised     a cargo of it over the etherwaves! TheLorelei will be waiting for you with her tongue hanging out. The onlything for you to do, kid, is go back to Jupiter or Io as fast as youcan get there. Make the Patrol give you a convoy—     A sudden light danced in Chip Warren's eyes. It was a light Syd Palmerwould have groaned to see—for it usually presaged trouble. It was abright, hard, reckless light.     Hold your jets, Johnny! drawled Chip. Aren't you forgetting onething? In a couple more hours, I can face the Lorelei and her wholemob—and be damned to them! She can't touch the      Chickadee     , becauseit's being plated right now!     Haldane snapped his fingers in quick remembrance.     By thunder, you're right! Her shells will ricochet off the      Chickadee's     hull like hail off a tin roof. Chip, are you in any hurryto reach Earth? I thought not. What do you say we go after the Lorelei      together     ! I'll swear you in as a Deputy Patrolman; we'll take the      Chickadee     and—     It's a deal! declared Chip promptly. You got any idea where thisLorelei's hangout is?     That's why I'm here on Danae. I got a tip that one of the Lorelei'smen put in here for supplies. I hoped maybe I could single himout somehow, follow him when he jetted for his base, and in thatway—      Chip! Look out!       Haldane shouted and moved at the same time. His arm lashed out wildly,thrusting, smashing Chip to the floor in a sprawling heap. The as-yetunopened bottle was now violently opened; it splintered into a thousandshards against a wall.     Bruised and shaken, Chip lifted his head to see what had causedJohnny's alarm. Even as he did so, the dull gloom of the bar wasblazoned with searing effulgence. A lancet of flame leaped from thedark, rearward doorway, burst in Johnny Haldane's face!     The Patrolman cried once, a choking cry that died in a mewling whimper.His unused pistol slipped from slackening fingers, and he sagged tothe floor. Again crimson lightning laced the shadows; Haldane's bodyjerked, and the air was raw with the hot, sickening stench of charredflesh.     With an instinct born of bitter years, Chip had come to his kneesbehind the shelter of the mahogany bar. But now his own flame-pistolwas in his hand, and a dreadful rage was mingled with the agony in hisheart. Reckless of results, he sprang to his feet, gun spewing lividdeath into the shadows.     His blast found a mark. For an instant flame haloed a human face drawnin inhuman pain. A heavy, sultry, bestial face, already puckered withone long, ugly scar that ran from right temple to jawbone, now newlyscarred with the red brand of Chip's marksmanship.     Then, before Chip could fire again, came the rasp of poundingfootsteps. The man turned and fled. Chip bent over his fallen friend,seeking, with hands that did not even feel the heat, fluttering lifebeneath still smoldering cloth.     He felt—nothing. Johnny was dead.     A snarl of sheer animal rage burst from Chip's lips. Someone would payfor this; pay dearly! Help was coming now. He himself would lead thehue-and-cry that would track a foul murderer to his lair. He spun asthe footsteps drew nearer.     Hurry! he cried. This way! Follow me—     In a bound, he hurdled the bar, lingered at the door only long enoughto let the others mark his course. For they had burst into the room,now, a full score of them. Excited, hard-bitten dogs of space,quick-triggered and willing. Once more he cried for help.     After him! Come on! He—     And then—disaster struck! For a reedy voice broke from the van of themob. The voice of the Martian bartender.     That's him! he piped sibilantly. That's the man! He's a desperatecriminal, wanted on four planets for murder! The Patrolman came toarrest him—      and now he's murdered the Spacie     !  II     The stunning injustice of that accusation came close to costing ChipWarren his life. For a split second he stood motionless in the doorway,gaping lips forming denial. Words which were never to be uttered, forsuddenly a raw-boned miner wrenched a Moeller from its holster, leveledand fired.     The hot tongue of death licked hungrily at the young spaceman's cheek,scorched air crackled in his eardrums. Now was no time to squanderin vain argument. Chip ducked, spun, and hurled himself through thedoorway. There still remained one hope. That he might catch the realmurderer, and in that way clear himself....     But the door led to a small, deserted vestibule, and it to an alleywaybehind Xu'ul's Solarest. Viewing that maze of byways and passages, Chipknew his hope was futile. There remained but one thing to do. Get outof here. But quick!     It was no hard task. The labyrinth swallowed him as it had engulfed thescarred killer; in a few minutes even the footsteps of his pursuerscould no longer be heard. And Chip worked his cautious way back to thespaceport, and to the bin wherein was cradled the      Chickadee     .     Syd Palmer looked up in surprise as Chip let himself in theelectro-lock. The chubby engineer gasped, Salvation, look what the catdrug in! His high-flying Nibs! What's the matter, Chip? Night-life toomuch for you?     Never mind that now! panted Chip. Is this tin can ready to roll?Warm the hypos. We're lifting gravs—     Palmer said anxiously, Now, wait a minute! The men haven't quitefinished plating the hull, Chip!     Can't help that! We've got important business. In a very fewminutes—      Ahh!     There he goes now! Chip had gone to the      perilens     themoment he entered the ship; now he saw in its reflector that which hehad expected. The gushing orange spume of a spaceship roaring from itscradle. Hurry, Syd!     There were a lot of things Syd Palmer wanted to ask. He wanted to know      who     went      where     ; he was bursting with curiosity about the importantbusiness which had brought his pal back from town in such a rush; hiskeen eye also had detected a needle-gun burn on Chip's coat-sleeve. Buthe was too good a companion to waste time now on such trivia.     O.Q., he snapped. It's your pigeon!     And he disappeared. They heard his voice calling to the workmen, thescuff of equipment being disengaged from the      Chickadee's     hull, thethin, high whine of warming hypatomics. Salvation looked at Warrenquizzically.     It smells, he ventured gently, like trouble.     It is trouble, Chip told him. Plenty trouble!     In that case— said the old man mildly—I guess I'd better get therotor stripped for action. He stepped to the gunnery turret, droppedthe fore-irons and stripped their weapon for action. 'Be ye men ofpeace,' he intoned, 'but gird firmly thy loins for righteous battle!'Thus saith the Lord God which is Jehovah. Selah!     Then came Syd's cry from the depths of the hyporoom.     All set, Chip! Lift gravs!     Warren's finger found a stud. And with a gusty roar the      Chickadee     rocketed into space on a pillar of flame.  Two hours later, Chip was still following the bright pinpoint ofscarlet which marked the course of his quarry.     In the time that had elapsed since their take-off, he had told hisfriends the whole story. When he told about the Lorelei, SalvationSmith's seamy old features screwed up in a perplexed grimace. Awoman pirate in the Belt, son? I find it hard to believe. Yet— Andwhen he described the death of Johnny Haldane, anger smoldered in themissionary's eyes, and Syd Palmer's hands knotted into tight, whitefists. Said Syd, A man with a scar, eh? Well, we'll catch him sooneror later. And when we do— His tone boded no good to the man who hadslain an old and loved friend.     As a matter of fact, offered Salvation, we've got him now. Any timeyou say the word, Chip. We're faster than he is. We can close in on himin five minutes.     I know, nodded Warren grimly. But we won't do it—yet. I'm borrowinga bit of Johnny's strategy. I've been plotting his course. As soon asI'm sure of his destination, we'll take care of      him     . But our firstand most vital problem is to locate the Lorelei's hideaway.     Syd said, That's all right with me, chum. I like a good scrap as muchas the next guy. Better, maybe. But this isn't our concern, strictlyspeaking. What we ought to do is report this matter to the SpacePatrol, let them take care of it.     Salvation shook his head.     That's where you're mistaken, Sydney. This is very much our concern.So much so, in fact, that we dare not make port again until it'scleared up. I think you have forgotten that it is not the scar-facedman who is wanted for the killing of Haldane—but Chip!     B-but— gasped Palmer—b-but that's ridiculous! Chip and Johnny wereold buddies. Lifelong friends!     Nevertheless, the circumstantial evidence indicates Chip's guilt.Twenty men saw him standing over Johnny's dead body, with aflame-pistol in his hand. And the barkeep heard Johnny 'arrest' Chipand accuse him of murder!     Chip said ruefully, That's right, Syd. It was only a joke, but itbackfired. The bartender thought Johnny meant it. He scooted out ofthere like a bat out of Hades. I'm in it up to my neck unless we canbring back evidence that Scarface actually did the killing. And thatmay not be so easy.     He stirred restlessly. But we'll cross that bridge when we come toit. Right now our job is to keep this rat in sight. We've gone fartheralready than I expected we would. He turned to the old preacher.Where do you think we're going, Padre? Out of the Belt entirely?     I've been wondering that myself, son. I don't know for sure, ofcourse, but it looks to me as if we're going for the Bog. If so, you'dbetter keep a weather-eye peeled.     The Bog! Chip had never penetrated the planetoids so deeply before,but he knew of the Bog by hearsay. All men did. A treacherous region oftightly packed asteroids, a mad and whirling scramble of the giganticrocks which, aeons ago, had been a planet. Few spacemen dared penetratethe Bog. Of those who did dare, few returned to tell the tale. TheBog! Say! I'd      better     keep a sharp lookout!     He turned to the      perilens     once more, fastened an eye to its lens. Andthen—     Syd! he cried. Salvation! Look! She—she—!     He pressed the plunger that transferred the      perilens     image to thecentral viewscreen. And as he did so, a phantom filled the area whichshould have revealed yawning space, gay with the spangles of a myriadglowing orbs. The vision of an unbelievably beautiful girl, thegolden-crowned embodiment of a man's fondest dreaming, eyes wide withan indistinguishable emotion, arms stretched wide in mute appeal.     And from the throats of all came simultaneous recognition.           The Lorelei!       At the same moment came a plea from the enchantress of space througha second medium. For no reason anyone could explain, the ship's      telaudio     wakened to life; over it came to their ears the actual wordsof the girl:           Help! Oh, help! Can anyone hear me? Help     —     Even though he knew this to be only a ruse, a deliberate, dastardlytrap set for the unwary, Chip Warren's pulse leaped in hot response tothat desperate plea. Even with the warning of Johnny Haldane fresh inhis memory, some gallantry deep within him spurred him to the aid ofthis lovely vision. Here was a woman a man could live for, fight for,      die     for! A woman like no other in the universe.     Then common sense came to his rescue. He wrenched his gaze from thetempting shadow, cried: Kill that wavelength! Tune the lens onanother beam, Syd!     Palmer, bedazzled but obedient, spun the dial of the      perilens     .Despite his vastly improved science Man had never yet succeeded indevising a transparent medium through which to view the void whereinhe soared; the      perilens     was a device which translated impinginglight-waves into a picture of that which lay outside the ship's hull.When or where electrical disturbances existed in space, its frequencycould be changed for greater clarity. This was what Syd now attempted.     But to no avail! For it mattered not which cycle he tuned to—theimage persisted. Still on the viewscreen that pleading figurebeckoned piteously. And still the cabin rang to the prayers of thatheart-tugging voice:           Help! Oh, help! Can anyone hear me? Help     —     Gone, now, was any fascination that thrilling vision might previouslyhave held for Chip Warren. Understanding of their plight dawned coldlyupon him, and his brow became dark with anger.           We're blanketed!     Flying blind! Salvation, radio a general alarm!Syd, jazz the hypos to max. Shift trajectory to fourteen-oh-three Northand loft ... fire No. 3 jet....     He had hurled himself into the bucket-shaped pilot's seat; nowhis fingers played the controls like those of a mad organist. The      Chickadee     groaned from prow to stern, trembled like a tortured thingas he thrust it into a rising spiral.     It was a desperate chance he was taking. Increasing his speed thus, itwas certain he would be spotted by the man he had been following; theflaming jets of the      Chickadee     must form a crimson arch against blackspace visible for hundreds—thousands!—of miles. Nor was there any wayof knowing what lay in the path Chip thus blindly chose. Titanic deathmight loom on every side. But they had to fight clear of this spot ofblindness, clear their instruments....     And then it came! A jarring concussion that smashed against the prowof the      Chickadee     like a battering ram. Chip flew headlong out of hisbucket to spreadeagle on the heaving iron floor. He heard, above thegrinding plaint of shattered steel the bellowing prayer of SalvationSmith:     We've crashed! 'Into Thy hands, O Lord of old—'     Then Syd's angry cry, Crashed, hell! He's smashed us with atractor-blast!     Chip stared at his companion numbly.     But—but that's impossible! We're plated with ek! A tractor-cannoncouldn't hurt us—           Half-plated!      howled Syd savagely. And those damn fools startedworking from the stern of the      Chickadee     ! We're vulnerable up front,and that's where he got us! In a minute this can will be leaking like asieve. I'll get out bulgers. Hold 'er to her course, Chip!     He dove for the lockers wherein were hung the space-suits, tore themhastily from their hangers. Chip again spun the      perilens     vernier. Nogood! No space ... no stars ... just a beautiful phantom crying them tocertain doom. By now he was aware that from a dozen sprung plates airwas seeping, but he fought down despair. While there remained hope, aman had to keep on fighting.     He scrambled back into the bucket-seat, experimented with controls thatanswered sluggishly. Salvation had sprung to the rotor-gun, was nowangrily jerking its lanyard, lacing the void with death-dealing burststhat had no mark. The old man's eyes were brands of fire, his whitehair clung wetly to his forehead. His rage was terrible to behold.     'Yes, truly shall I destroy them!' he cried, 'who loose theirstealth upon me like a thief from the night—'     Then suddenly there came a second and more frightful blow. Thestraining      Chickadee     stopped as though pole-axed by a gigantic fist.Stopped and shuddered and screamed in metal agony. This time inertiaflung Chip headlong, helpless, into the control racks. Brazen studstook the impact of his body; crushing pain banded about his temples,and a red wetness ran into his eyes, blurring and blinding him, burning.     For an instant there flamed before him a universe of incandescentstars, weaving, shimmering, merging. The vision of a woman whose hairwas a golden glory....     After that—nothing!  III     From a billion miles away, from a bourne unguessable thousands oflight-years distant, came the faint, far whisper of a voice. Nearer andnearer it came, and ever faster, till it throbbed upon Chip's eardrumswith booming savagery.     —coming to, now. Good! We'll soon find out—     Chip opened his eyes, too dazed, at first, to understand the situationin which he found himself. Gone was the familiar control-turret of the      Chickadee     , gone the bulger into which he had so hastily clambered. Helay on the parched, rocky soil of a—a something. A planetoid, perhaps.And he was surrounded by a motley crew of strangers: scum of all theplanets that circle the Sun....     Then recollection flooded back upon him, sudden and complete. Thechase ... the call of the fateful Lorelei ... the crash! New strength,born of anger, surged through him. He lifted his head.     My—my companions? he demanded weakly.     The leader of those who encircled him, a mighty hulk of a man, massiveof shoulder and thigh, black-haired, with an unshaven blue jaw,raven-bright eyes and a jutting, aquiline nose like the beak of a hawk,loosed a satisfied grunt.     Ah! Back to normal, eh, sailor? Damn near time!     Climbing to his feet sent a swift wave of giddiness through Chip—buthe managed it. He fought down the vertigo which threatened to overwhelmhim, and confronted the big man boldly.     What, he stormed, is the meaning of this?     The giant stared at him for a moment, his jaw slack. Then hisraven-bright eyes glittered; he slapped a trunklike thigh and guffawedin boisterous mirth.     Hear that? he roared to his companions. Quite a guy, ain't he?'What's the meanin' o' this?' he asks! Game little fightin' cock, hey?Then he sobered abruptly, and a grim light replaced the amusement inhis eyes. Here was not a man to be trifled with, Chip realized. Histone assumed a biting edge. The meanin' is, my bucko, he answeredmirthlessly, that you've run afoul o' your last reef. Unless you havea sane head on your shoulders, and you're willing to talk fast andstraight!     Talk?     Don't stall. We've already unloaded your bins. We found it. And a nicehaul, too. Thanks for lettin' us know it was on the way. The burly onechuckled coarsely. We'd have took it, anyway, but you helped mattersout by comin' to us.     Johnny Haldane had been right, then. Chip remembered his friend'sominous warning. —if your message was intercepted, you may haveplayed into the hands of— He said slowly, Then you      are     theLorelei's men?     The who? Never mind that, bucko, just talk. That ekalastron—where didit come from?     And it occurred to Warren suddenly that although the big man      did     holdthe whip hand, he was still not in possession of the most importantsecret of all! While the location of the ekalastron mine remained asecret, a deadlock existed.     And if I won't tell—? he countered shrewdly.     Why, then, sailor— The pirate leader's hamlike fists tightened, anda cold light glinted in his eyes—why, then I guess maybe I'll have tobeat it out o' you!  ","Johnny Haldane is a member of the Space Patrol and one of Chip’s old friends. They talk briefly about their previous adventures and running into each other all across space, which speaks highly of their close bond. He arrives on Dandae to track one of the Lorelei’s crew, hoping to follow him all the way back to their hideout. However, while there, he runs into Chip and makes a grand entrance, accusing him of murder. This causes the bartender to scurry away, so they sit and talk in private while nursing a bottle of scotch. After chatting for a bit, Chip reveals to Johnny that his crew found a mountain of ekalastron and they gave it back to the Space Patrol, as private users might have abused the material. All is well and good until Johnny hears that Chip used his visiphone to get in touch with Earth authorities, which Johnny immediately protests. Evidently, the Lorelei tracks people through visiphone messages and could have intercepted his. They decide to take on the Lorelei together, tracking the crew member back to their base and using Chip’s newly-plated ship for protection. However, before they can move, a man comes in with a scar on his face and shoots at the two of them. Johnny saves Chip’s life by pushing him out of the way but is killed by the blast. "
"What is ekalastron or No. 97? </s>     THE LORELEI DEATH     by NELSON S. BOND     Far out in limitless Space she plied     her deadly trade ... a Lorelei of the     void, beckoning spacemen to death and     destruction with her beautiful siren lure.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Winter 1941.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Chip Warren stood before an oblong of glass set into one wall ofthe spaceship      Chickadee II     , stared at what he saw reflectedtherefrom—and frowned. He didn't like it. Not a bit! It was too—too—     He turned away angrily, ripped the offending article from about hisneck, and chose another necktie from the rack. This one was brighter,gaudier, much more in keeping with the gaiety of his mood. He emitted agrunt of satisfaction, spun from the mirror to face his two companionstriumphantly.     There! How do you like      that     ?     Syd Palmer, short and chubby, tow-headed and liquid-blue of eye, alwayslanguid save when engaged in the solution of some engineering problemconcerned with the space vessel he mothered like a brooding hen, moanedinsultingly and forced a shudder.     Sunspots! Novae! Flying comets! And he wears 'em around his neck!     You, Chip told him serenely, have no appreciation of beauty. What do      you     think of it, Padre?     Salvation Smith, a tall, gangling scarecrow garbed in rusty black,a lean-jawed, hawkeyed man with tumbled locks of silver framing hisweathered cheeks like a halo, concealed his grin poorly. Well,my boy, he admitted, there is      some     Biblical precedent foryour—ahem!—clamorous raiment. 'So Joseph made for himself a coatwhich was of many colors—'     Both of you, declared Chip, give me a pain in the pants!Stick-in-the-muds! Here we are in port for the first time in months,cargo-bins loaded to the gunwales with enough ekalastron to make usrich for life—and you sit here like a pair of stuffed owls!     Well, not me! I'm going to take a night off, throw myself a party thelikes of which was never seen around these parts. Put a candle in thewindow, chilluns, 'cause li'l' Chip won't be home till the wee, sma'hours!     Syd chuckled.     O.Q., big shot. But don't get too cozy with any of those joy-jointentertainers. Remember what happened to poor old Dougal MacNeer!     Salvation said soberly, Syd's just fooling, my boy. But I      would     becareful if I were you. We're in the Belt, you know. The forces of lawand order do not always govern these wild outposts of civilization aswell as might be hoped. The planetoids are dens of iniquity, violentand unheeding the words of Him who rules all—     The old man's lips etched a straight line, reminding Chip thatSalvation Smith was not one of those milk-and-water missionaries whoespoused the principle of turning the other cheek to evildoers.Salvation was not the ordained emissary of any church. A devoutlyreligious man with the heart of an adventurer, he had taken uponhimself the mission of carrying to outland tribes the story of the Godhe worshipped.     That his God was the fierce Yahveh of the Old Testament, a God ofanger and retribution, was made evident by the methods Salvationsometimes employed in winning his converts. For not only was Salvationacknowledged the most pious man in space; he was also conceded to bethe best hand with a gun!     Now Chip gave quiet answer. I know, Padre: I'll be careful. Well,Syd—sure you won't change your mind and come along?     No can do, chum. The spaceport repair crew's still smearing thisjalopy with ek. Got to stay and watch 'em.     O.Q. I'm off alone, then. See you later!     And, whistling, Chip Warren stepped through the lock of the      Chickadee     onto the soil of the asteroid Danae.  Danae was, thought Chip as he strolled along briskly toward the townbeyond the spaceport, a most presentable hunk of rock. Nice      lucentite     Dome ... good atmo ... a fine artificial grav system based on Terranormal. It seemed to be a popular little fueling-stop, too, for itscradle-bins were laden with vessels from every planet in the System,and as he gained the main drag he found himself rubbing shoulderswith citizens of every known world. Lumbering, albino Venusians,petal-headed Martians, Jovian runts, greenies from far Uranus,Earthman—all were here.     Quite a likely place, he thought happily, to chuck a brawl. Abrilliantly gleaming xenon sign before him welcomed visitors to:     XU'UL'S SOLAREST     Barroom—Casino—Dancing     100—Lovely Hostesses—100     He entered, and was immediately deluged by a bevy of charm-gals vyingfor the privilege of: (1) helping him beat the roulette wheel; (2)helping him drink the house dry, and/or (3) separating him as swiftlyas possible from the credits in his money belt.     Chip shook them off, gently but firmly. He wanted a good time, true;but he wanted it solo. The main cabaret was too crowded; he passedthrough it and another equally blatant room wherein twoscore Venusianswere straining the structure with a native sing-stomp, and ended upfinally, with a sigh of relief, in a small, dimly-lighted private barunfrequented by anyone save a bored and listless Martian bartender.     The chrysanthemum-pated son of the desertland roused himself as Chipentered, rustled his petals and piped a ready greeting.     Welcoom, ssirr! Trrink, pleasse?     This was more like it! Chip grinned.     Scotch, he said.       Old Spaceman.     And let's have a new bottle, Curly.None of that doctored swill.     Of courrsse, ssirr! piped the bar-keep aggrievedly. He pushed abottle across the mahogany; Chip flipped a golden credit-token back athim.     Tell me when I've guzzled this, and I'll start work on another. Hetook a deep, appreciative sniff. And don't let any of those dizzydolls in here, he ordered. I've got a lot of back drinking to catchup on, and I don't want to be disturbed—      Hey!          In his alarm, he almost dropped the bottle. For the door suddenly burstopen, and in its frame loomed a figure in Space Patrol blues. A fingerpointed in Chip's direction and a bull-o'-Bashan voice roared:           Stop!     Bartender—grab that man! He's a desperate criminal, wanted onfour planets for murder!  Shock momentarily immobilized Chip. Not so the bartender. He was, itseemed, an ardent pacifist. With a bleat of panic fear he scamperedfrom his post, his metallic stilts clattering off in the distance.Chip's accuser moved forward from the shadows; dim light illumined hisfeatures. And—           Johnny!      Chip's voice lifted in a note of jubilant surprise.Johnny Haldane—you old scoundrel! Where in the void did      you     dropfrom?     The S.S.P. man chuckled and returned Chip's greeting with abone-grinding handclasp.     I might ask the same of you, chum! Lord, it's been ages since we'vecrossed 'jectory! When I saw you meandering across the Casino, youcould have knocked me down with a jetblast! What's new? Is old Sydstill with you?     We're still shipmates. But he's back at the spaceport. The jerry-crewis plating our crate with ek, and—     Ek! Plating a private cruiser! Haldane stared at him in astonishment,then whistled. Sweet Sacred Stars, you must be filthy with credits tobe able to coat an entire ship with ekalastron!     You, boasted Chip, ain't heard nothing yet! And he told him howthey had discovered an entire mountain of the previous new element, No.97 in the periodic table, on frigid Titania, satellite of far Uranus.It was touch-and-go for a while, he admitted, whether we'd be theluckiest three guys in space—or the deadest! But we passed through theflaming caverns like old Shadrach in the Bible—remember?—and here weare!  [1]     Haldane was exuberant. A mountain of ekalastron! he gloated.That's the greatest contribution to spaceflight since Biggs'velocity-intensifier! It was no overstatement. Element No. 97 was ametal so light that a man could carry in one hand enough to coat theentire hull of a battleship—yet so adamant that a gossamer film ofit would deflect a meteor! A metal strong enough to crush diamonds toash—but so resilient that, when properly treated, it would reboundlike rubber! What are you going to do with it, Chip? Put it on theopen market?     Warren shook his head.     Not exactly. We talked it over carefully—Syd and Salvation and I—andwe decided there are some space-rats to whom it shouldn't be madeavailable. Privateers and outlaws, you know. So we turned control ofthe mines over to the Space Patrol at Uranus, and visiphoned the Earthauthorities we were bringing in one cargo—     Visiphoned! interrupted Haldane sharply. Did you say visiphoned?     Why—why, yes.     From where?     Oh, just before we reached the Belt. We don't have a very strongtransmitter, you know. Sa-a-ay, what's all the excitement, pal? Did wedo something that was wrong?     Haldane frowned worriedly. I don't know, Chip. It wasn't anything      wrong     , but what you did was damned dangerous. For if your message wasintercepted, you may have played into the very hands of—the Lorelei!  Chip stared at his friend bewilderedly for a moment. Then he grinned.Hey—I must be getting slightly whacky in my old age. I stand herewith an unopened bottle in my hands and hear things! For a minute Ithought you said 'Lorelei.' The Lorelei, my space-cop friend, is amyth. An old Teutonic myth about a beautiful damsel who sits out inthe middle of a sea on a treacherous rock, combing her golden locks,warbling and luring her fascinated admirers to destruction.     He grunted. A dirty trick, if you ask me. Catch a snort of thisalleged Scotch, pal, and I'll torture your eardrums with the whole, sadstory. He started to sing. '      Ich weiss nicht was soll es bedeuten     —'     The Patrolman laid a hand on his arm, silenced him.     It's not funny, Chip. You've described the Lorelei exactly. That'show she got her name. An incredibly beautiful woman who wantonly luresspace-mariners to their death.     The only difference is that her 'rock' is an asteroid somewhere inthe Belt—and she does not sing, she calls! She began exercisingher vicious appeal about two months ago, Earth reckoning. Sincethen, no less than a dozen spacecraft—freighters, liners, even onePatrolship—have fallen prey to her wiles. Their crews have beenbrutally murdered, their cargos stolen.     Wait a minute! interrupted Chip shrewdly. How do you know about herif the crews have been murdered?     She has a habit of locking the controls, explained Haldane, andsetting ravaged ships adrift. Apparently there is no room on herhideout—wherever it is—for empty hulks. One of these ships wassalvaged by a courageous cabin-boy who hid from the Lorelei and herpirate band beneath a closetful of soiled linens in the laundry. Hedescribed her. His description goes perfectly with less accurateglimpses seen over the visiphones of several score spacecraft!     Chip said soberly, So it's no joke, eh, pal? Sorry I popped off. Ithought you were pulling my leg. Where do      I     come into this mess,though?     Ekalastron! grunted Johnny succinctly. A jackpot prize for anycorsair! And you      advertised     a cargo of it over the etherwaves! TheLorelei will be waiting for you with her tongue hanging out. The onlything for you to do, kid, is go back to Jupiter or Io as fast as youcan get there. Make the Patrol give you a convoy—     A sudden light danced in Chip Warren's eyes. It was a light Syd Palmerwould have groaned to see—for it usually presaged trouble. It was abright, hard, reckless light.     Hold your jets, Johnny! drawled Chip. Aren't you forgetting onething? In a couple more hours, I can face the Lorelei and her wholemob—and be damned to them! She can't touch the      Chickadee     , becauseit's being plated right now!     Haldane snapped his fingers in quick remembrance.     By thunder, you're right! Her shells will ricochet off the      Chickadee's     hull like hail off a tin roof. Chip, are you in any hurryto reach Earth? I thought not. What do you say we go after the Lorelei      together     ! I'll swear you in as a Deputy Patrolman; we'll take the      Chickadee     and—     It's a deal! declared Chip promptly. You got any idea where thisLorelei's hangout is?     That's why I'm here on Danae. I got a tip that one of the Lorelei'smen put in here for supplies. I hoped maybe I could single himout somehow, follow him when he jetted for his base, and in thatway—      Chip! Look out!       Haldane shouted and moved at the same time. His arm lashed out wildly,thrusting, smashing Chip to the floor in a sprawling heap. The as-yetunopened bottle was now violently opened; it splintered into a thousandshards against a wall.     Bruised and shaken, Chip lifted his head to see what had causedJohnny's alarm. Even as he did so, the dull gloom of the bar wasblazoned with searing effulgence. A lancet of flame leaped from thedark, rearward doorway, burst in Johnny Haldane's face!     The Patrolman cried once, a choking cry that died in a mewling whimper.His unused pistol slipped from slackening fingers, and he sagged tothe floor. Again crimson lightning laced the shadows; Haldane's bodyjerked, and the air was raw with the hot, sickening stench of charredflesh.     With an instinct born of bitter years, Chip had come to his kneesbehind the shelter of the mahogany bar. But now his own flame-pistolwas in his hand, and a dreadful rage was mingled with the agony in hisheart. Reckless of results, he sprang to his feet, gun spewing lividdeath into the shadows.     His blast found a mark. For an instant flame haloed a human face drawnin inhuman pain. A heavy, sultry, bestial face, already puckered withone long, ugly scar that ran from right temple to jawbone, now newlyscarred with the red brand of Chip's marksmanship.     Then, before Chip could fire again, came the rasp of poundingfootsteps. The man turned and fled. Chip bent over his fallen friend,seeking, with hands that did not even feel the heat, fluttering lifebeneath still smoldering cloth.     He felt—nothing. Johnny was dead.     A snarl of sheer animal rage burst from Chip's lips. Someone would payfor this; pay dearly! Help was coming now. He himself would lead thehue-and-cry that would track a foul murderer to his lair. He spun asthe footsteps drew nearer.     Hurry! he cried. This way! Follow me—     In a bound, he hurdled the bar, lingered at the door only long enoughto let the others mark his course. For they had burst into the room,now, a full score of them. Excited, hard-bitten dogs of space,quick-triggered and willing. Once more he cried for help.     After him! Come on! He—     And then—disaster struck! For a reedy voice broke from the van of themob. The voice of the Martian bartender.     That's him! he piped sibilantly. That's the man! He's a desperatecriminal, wanted on four planets for murder! The Patrolman came toarrest him—      and now he's murdered the Spacie     !  II     The stunning injustice of that accusation came close to costing ChipWarren his life. For a split second he stood motionless in the doorway,gaping lips forming denial. Words which were never to be uttered, forsuddenly a raw-boned miner wrenched a Moeller from its holster, leveledand fired.     The hot tongue of death licked hungrily at the young spaceman's cheek,scorched air crackled in his eardrums. Now was no time to squanderin vain argument. Chip ducked, spun, and hurled himself through thedoorway. There still remained one hope. That he might catch the realmurderer, and in that way clear himself....     But the door led to a small, deserted vestibule, and it to an alleywaybehind Xu'ul's Solarest. Viewing that maze of byways and passages, Chipknew his hope was futile. There remained but one thing to do. Get outof here. But quick!     It was no hard task. The labyrinth swallowed him as it had engulfed thescarred killer; in a few minutes even the footsteps of his pursuerscould no longer be heard. And Chip worked his cautious way back to thespaceport, and to the bin wherein was cradled the      Chickadee     .     Syd Palmer looked up in surprise as Chip let himself in theelectro-lock. The chubby engineer gasped, Salvation, look what the catdrug in! His high-flying Nibs! What's the matter, Chip? Night-life toomuch for you?     Never mind that now! panted Chip. Is this tin can ready to roll?Warm the hypos. We're lifting gravs—     Palmer said anxiously, Now, wait a minute! The men haven't quitefinished plating the hull, Chip!     Can't help that! We've got important business. In a very fewminutes—      Ahh!     There he goes now! Chip had gone to the      perilens     themoment he entered the ship; now he saw in its reflector that which hehad expected. The gushing orange spume of a spaceship roaring from itscradle. Hurry, Syd!     There were a lot of things Syd Palmer wanted to ask. He wanted to know      who     went      where     ; he was bursting with curiosity about the importantbusiness which had brought his pal back from town in such a rush; hiskeen eye also had detected a needle-gun burn on Chip's coat-sleeve. Buthe was too good a companion to waste time now on such trivia.     O.Q., he snapped. It's your pigeon!     And he disappeared. They heard his voice calling to the workmen, thescuff of equipment being disengaged from the      Chickadee's     hull, thethin, high whine of warming hypatomics. Salvation looked at Warrenquizzically.     It smells, he ventured gently, like trouble.     It is trouble, Chip told him. Plenty trouble!     In that case— said the old man mildly—I guess I'd better get therotor stripped for action. He stepped to the gunnery turret, droppedthe fore-irons and stripped their weapon for action. 'Be ye men ofpeace,' he intoned, 'but gird firmly thy loins for righteous battle!'Thus saith the Lord God which is Jehovah. Selah!     Then came Syd's cry from the depths of the hyporoom.     All set, Chip! Lift gravs!     Warren's finger found a stud. And with a gusty roar the      Chickadee     rocketed into space on a pillar of flame.  Two hours later, Chip was still following the bright pinpoint ofscarlet which marked the course of his quarry.     In the time that had elapsed since their take-off, he had told hisfriends the whole story. When he told about the Lorelei, SalvationSmith's seamy old features screwed up in a perplexed grimace. Awoman pirate in the Belt, son? I find it hard to believe. Yet— Andwhen he described the death of Johnny Haldane, anger smoldered in themissionary's eyes, and Syd Palmer's hands knotted into tight, whitefists. Said Syd, A man with a scar, eh? Well, we'll catch him sooneror later. And when we do— His tone boded no good to the man who hadslain an old and loved friend.     As a matter of fact, offered Salvation, we've got him now. Any timeyou say the word, Chip. We're faster than he is. We can close in on himin five minutes.     I know, nodded Warren grimly. But we won't do it—yet. I'm borrowinga bit of Johnny's strategy. I've been plotting his course. As soon asI'm sure of his destination, we'll take care of      him     . But our firstand most vital problem is to locate the Lorelei's hideaway.     Syd said, That's all right with me, chum. I like a good scrap as muchas the next guy. Better, maybe. But this isn't our concern, strictlyspeaking. What we ought to do is report this matter to the SpacePatrol, let them take care of it.     Salvation shook his head.     That's where you're mistaken, Sydney. This is very much our concern.So much so, in fact, that we dare not make port again until it'scleared up. I think you have forgotten that it is not the scar-facedman who is wanted for the killing of Haldane—but Chip!     B-but— gasped Palmer—b-but that's ridiculous! Chip and Johnny wereold buddies. Lifelong friends!     Nevertheless, the circumstantial evidence indicates Chip's guilt.Twenty men saw him standing over Johnny's dead body, with aflame-pistol in his hand. And the barkeep heard Johnny 'arrest' Chipand accuse him of murder!     Chip said ruefully, That's right, Syd. It was only a joke, but itbackfired. The bartender thought Johnny meant it. He scooted out ofthere like a bat out of Hades. I'm in it up to my neck unless we canbring back evidence that Scarface actually did the killing. And thatmay not be so easy.     He stirred restlessly. But we'll cross that bridge when we come toit. Right now our job is to keep this rat in sight. We've gone fartheralready than I expected we would. He turned to the old preacher.Where do you think we're going, Padre? Out of the Belt entirely?     I've been wondering that myself, son. I don't know for sure, ofcourse, but it looks to me as if we're going for the Bog. If so, you'dbetter keep a weather-eye peeled.     The Bog! Chip had never penetrated the planetoids so deeply before,but he knew of the Bog by hearsay. All men did. A treacherous region oftightly packed asteroids, a mad and whirling scramble of the giganticrocks which, aeons ago, had been a planet. Few spacemen dared penetratethe Bog. Of those who did dare, few returned to tell the tale. TheBog! Say! I'd      better     keep a sharp lookout!     He turned to the      perilens     once more, fastened an eye to its lens. Andthen—     Syd! he cried. Salvation! Look! She—she—!     He pressed the plunger that transferred the      perilens     image to thecentral viewscreen. And as he did so, a phantom filled the area whichshould have revealed yawning space, gay with the spangles of a myriadglowing orbs. The vision of an unbelievably beautiful girl, thegolden-crowned embodiment of a man's fondest dreaming, eyes wide withan indistinguishable emotion, arms stretched wide in mute appeal.     And from the throats of all came simultaneous recognition.           The Lorelei!       At the same moment came a plea from the enchantress of space througha second medium. For no reason anyone could explain, the ship's      telaudio     wakened to life; over it came to their ears the actual wordsof the girl:           Help! Oh, help! Can anyone hear me? Help     —     Even though he knew this to be only a ruse, a deliberate, dastardlytrap set for the unwary, Chip Warren's pulse leaped in hot response tothat desperate plea. Even with the warning of Johnny Haldane fresh inhis memory, some gallantry deep within him spurred him to the aid ofthis lovely vision. Here was a woman a man could live for, fight for,      die     for! A woman like no other in the universe.     Then common sense came to his rescue. He wrenched his gaze from thetempting shadow, cried: Kill that wavelength! Tune the lens onanother beam, Syd!     Palmer, bedazzled but obedient, spun the dial of the      perilens     .Despite his vastly improved science Man had never yet succeeded indevising a transparent medium through which to view the void whereinhe soared; the      perilens     was a device which translated impinginglight-waves into a picture of that which lay outside the ship's hull.When or where electrical disturbances existed in space, its frequencycould be changed for greater clarity. This was what Syd now attempted.     But to no avail! For it mattered not which cycle he tuned to—theimage persisted. Still on the viewscreen that pleading figurebeckoned piteously. And still the cabin rang to the prayers of thatheart-tugging voice:           Help! Oh, help! Can anyone hear me? Help     —     Gone, now, was any fascination that thrilling vision might previouslyhave held for Chip Warren. Understanding of their plight dawned coldlyupon him, and his brow became dark with anger.           We're blanketed!     Flying blind! Salvation, radio a general alarm!Syd, jazz the hypos to max. Shift trajectory to fourteen-oh-three Northand loft ... fire No. 3 jet....     He had hurled himself into the bucket-shaped pilot's seat; nowhis fingers played the controls like those of a mad organist. The      Chickadee     groaned from prow to stern, trembled like a tortured thingas he thrust it into a rising spiral.     It was a desperate chance he was taking. Increasing his speed thus, itwas certain he would be spotted by the man he had been following; theflaming jets of the      Chickadee     must form a crimson arch against blackspace visible for hundreds—thousands!—of miles. Nor was there any wayof knowing what lay in the path Chip thus blindly chose. Titanic deathmight loom on every side. But they had to fight clear of this spot ofblindness, clear their instruments....     And then it came! A jarring concussion that smashed against the prowof the      Chickadee     like a battering ram. Chip flew headlong out of hisbucket to spreadeagle on the heaving iron floor. He heard, above thegrinding plaint of shattered steel the bellowing prayer of SalvationSmith:     We've crashed! 'Into Thy hands, O Lord of old—'     Then Syd's angry cry, Crashed, hell! He's smashed us with atractor-blast!     Chip stared at his companion numbly.     But—but that's impossible! We're plated with ek! A tractor-cannoncouldn't hurt us—           Half-plated!      howled Syd savagely. And those damn fools startedworking from the stern of the      Chickadee     ! We're vulnerable up front,and that's where he got us! In a minute this can will be leaking like asieve. I'll get out bulgers. Hold 'er to her course, Chip!     He dove for the lockers wherein were hung the space-suits, tore themhastily from their hangers. Chip again spun the      perilens     vernier. Nogood! No space ... no stars ... just a beautiful phantom crying them tocertain doom. By now he was aware that from a dozen sprung plates airwas seeping, but he fought down despair. While there remained hope, aman had to keep on fighting.     He scrambled back into the bucket-seat, experimented with controls thatanswered sluggishly. Salvation had sprung to the rotor-gun, was nowangrily jerking its lanyard, lacing the void with death-dealing burststhat had no mark. The old man's eyes were brands of fire, his whitehair clung wetly to his forehead. His rage was terrible to behold.     'Yes, truly shall I destroy them!' he cried, 'who loose theirstealth upon me like a thief from the night—'     Then suddenly there came a second and more frightful blow. Thestraining      Chickadee     stopped as though pole-axed by a gigantic fist.Stopped and shuddered and screamed in metal agony. This time inertiaflung Chip headlong, helpless, into the control racks. Brazen studstook the impact of his body; crushing pain banded about his temples,and a red wetness ran into his eyes, blurring and blinding him, burning.     For an instant there flamed before him a universe of incandescentstars, weaving, shimmering, merging. The vision of a woman whose hairwas a golden glory....     After that—nothing!  III     From a billion miles away, from a bourne unguessable thousands oflight-years distant, came the faint, far whisper of a voice. Nearer andnearer it came, and ever faster, till it throbbed upon Chip's eardrumswith booming savagery.     —coming to, now. Good! We'll soon find out—     Chip opened his eyes, too dazed, at first, to understand the situationin which he found himself. Gone was the familiar control-turret of the      Chickadee     , gone the bulger into which he had so hastily clambered. Helay on the parched, rocky soil of a—a something. A planetoid, perhaps.And he was surrounded by a motley crew of strangers: scum of all theplanets that circle the Sun....     Then recollection flooded back upon him, sudden and complete. Thechase ... the call of the fateful Lorelei ... the crash! New strength,born of anger, surged through him. He lifted his head.     My—my companions? he demanded weakly.     The leader of those who encircled him, a mighty hulk of a man, massiveof shoulder and thigh, black-haired, with an unshaven blue jaw,raven-bright eyes and a jutting, aquiline nose like the beak of a hawk,loosed a satisfied grunt.     Ah! Back to normal, eh, sailor? Damn near time!     Climbing to his feet sent a swift wave of giddiness through Chip—buthe managed it. He fought down the vertigo which threatened to overwhelmhim, and confronted the big man boldly.     What, he stormed, is the meaning of this?     The giant stared at him for a moment, his jaw slack. Then hisraven-bright eyes glittered; he slapped a trunklike thigh and guffawedin boisterous mirth.     Hear that? he roared to his companions. Quite a guy, ain't he?'What's the meanin' o' this?' he asks! Game little fightin' cock, hey?Then he sobered abruptly, and a grim light replaced the amusement inhis eyes. Here was not a man to be trifled with, Chip realized. Histone assumed a biting edge. The meanin' is, my bucko, he answeredmirthlessly, that you've run afoul o' your last reef. Unless you havea sane head on your shoulders, and you're willing to talk fast andstraight!     Talk?     Don't stall. We've already unloaded your bins. We found it. And a nicehaul, too. Thanks for lettin' us know it was on the way. The burly onechuckled coarsely. We'd have took it, anyway, but you helped mattersout by comin' to us.     Johnny Haldane had been right, then. Chip remembered his friend'sominous warning. —if your message was intercepted, you may haveplayed into the hands of— He said slowly, Then you      are     theLorelei's men?     The who? Never mind that, bucko, just talk. That ekalastron—where didit come from?     And it occurred to Warren suddenly that although the big man      did     holdthe whip hand, he was still not in possession of the most importantsecret of all! While the location of the ekalastron mine remained asecret, a deadlock existed.     And if I won't tell—? he countered shrewdly.     Why, then, sailor— The pirate leader's hamlike fists tightened, anda cold light glinted in his eyes—why, then I guess maybe I'll have tobeat it out o' you!  ","Ekalastron is the element No. 97 on the period table. It is an incredibly valuable material due to its properties. It’s an incredibly light metal, and yet it is also impenetrable. Johnny claims that it’s strong enough that a simple film of ekalastron would deflect an entire meteor. Of course, because of this, any amount of ekalastron could make a person very wealthy. Chip and his crew find an entire mountain of ekalastron on the chilly Titania, a satellite off of Uranus. They decided to turn over their find to the Uranus Space Patrol, and then let the Earth authorities know that they were bringing in some cargo. "
"Who is Salvation Smith, and what is his significance in the story? </s>     THE LORELEI DEATH     by NELSON S. BOND     Far out in limitless Space she plied     her deadly trade ... a Lorelei of the     void, beckoning spacemen to death and     destruction with her beautiful siren lure.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Winter 1941.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Chip Warren stood before an oblong of glass set into one wall ofthe spaceship      Chickadee II     , stared at what he saw reflectedtherefrom—and frowned. He didn't like it. Not a bit! It was too—too—     He turned away angrily, ripped the offending article from about hisneck, and chose another necktie from the rack. This one was brighter,gaudier, much more in keeping with the gaiety of his mood. He emitted agrunt of satisfaction, spun from the mirror to face his two companionstriumphantly.     There! How do you like      that     ?     Syd Palmer, short and chubby, tow-headed and liquid-blue of eye, alwayslanguid save when engaged in the solution of some engineering problemconcerned with the space vessel he mothered like a brooding hen, moanedinsultingly and forced a shudder.     Sunspots! Novae! Flying comets! And he wears 'em around his neck!     You, Chip told him serenely, have no appreciation of beauty. What do      you     think of it, Padre?     Salvation Smith, a tall, gangling scarecrow garbed in rusty black,a lean-jawed, hawkeyed man with tumbled locks of silver framing hisweathered cheeks like a halo, concealed his grin poorly. Well,my boy, he admitted, there is      some     Biblical precedent foryour—ahem!—clamorous raiment. 'So Joseph made for himself a coatwhich was of many colors—'     Both of you, declared Chip, give me a pain in the pants!Stick-in-the-muds! Here we are in port for the first time in months,cargo-bins loaded to the gunwales with enough ekalastron to make usrich for life—and you sit here like a pair of stuffed owls!     Well, not me! I'm going to take a night off, throw myself a party thelikes of which was never seen around these parts. Put a candle in thewindow, chilluns, 'cause li'l' Chip won't be home till the wee, sma'hours!     Syd chuckled.     O.Q., big shot. But don't get too cozy with any of those joy-jointentertainers. Remember what happened to poor old Dougal MacNeer!     Salvation said soberly, Syd's just fooling, my boy. But I      would     becareful if I were you. We're in the Belt, you know. The forces of lawand order do not always govern these wild outposts of civilization aswell as might be hoped. The planetoids are dens of iniquity, violentand unheeding the words of Him who rules all—     The old man's lips etched a straight line, reminding Chip thatSalvation Smith was not one of those milk-and-water missionaries whoespoused the principle of turning the other cheek to evildoers.Salvation was not the ordained emissary of any church. A devoutlyreligious man with the heart of an adventurer, he had taken uponhimself the mission of carrying to outland tribes the story of the Godhe worshipped.     That his God was the fierce Yahveh of the Old Testament, a God ofanger and retribution, was made evident by the methods Salvationsometimes employed in winning his converts. For not only was Salvationacknowledged the most pious man in space; he was also conceded to bethe best hand with a gun!     Now Chip gave quiet answer. I know, Padre: I'll be careful. Well,Syd—sure you won't change your mind and come along?     No can do, chum. The spaceport repair crew's still smearing thisjalopy with ek. Got to stay and watch 'em.     O.Q. I'm off alone, then. See you later!     And, whistling, Chip Warren stepped through the lock of the      Chickadee     onto the soil of the asteroid Danae.  Danae was, thought Chip as he strolled along briskly toward the townbeyond the spaceport, a most presentable hunk of rock. Nice      lucentite     Dome ... good atmo ... a fine artificial grav system based on Terranormal. It seemed to be a popular little fueling-stop, too, for itscradle-bins were laden with vessels from every planet in the System,and as he gained the main drag he found himself rubbing shoulderswith citizens of every known world. Lumbering, albino Venusians,petal-headed Martians, Jovian runts, greenies from far Uranus,Earthman—all were here.     Quite a likely place, he thought happily, to chuck a brawl. Abrilliantly gleaming xenon sign before him welcomed visitors to:     XU'UL'S SOLAREST     Barroom—Casino—Dancing     100—Lovely Hostesses—100     He entered, and was immediately deluged by a bevy of charm-gals vyingfor the privilege of: (1) helping him beat the roulette wheel; (2)helping him drink the house dry, and/or (3) separating him as swiftlyas possible from the credits in his money belt.     Chip shook them off, gently but firmly. He wanted a good time, true;but he wanted it solo. The main cabaret was too crowded; he passedthrough it and another equally blatant room wherein twoscore Venusianswere straining the structure with a native sing-stomp, and ended upfinally, with a sigh of relief, in a small, dimly-lighted private barunfrequented by anyone save a bored and listless Martian bartender.     The chrysanthemum-pated son of the desertland roused himself as Chipentered, rustled his petals and piped a ready greeting.     Welcoom, ssirr! Trrink, pleasse?     This was more like it! Chip grinned.     Scotch, he said.       Old Spaceman.     And let's have a new bottle, Curly.None of that doctored swill.     Of courrsse, ssirr! piped the bar-keep aggrievedly. He pushed abottle across the mahogany; Chip flipped a golden credit-token back athim.     Tell me when I've guzzled this, and I'll start work on another. Hetook a deep, appreciative sniff. And don't let any of those dizzydolls in here, he ordered. I've got a lot of back drinking to catchup on, and I don't want to be disturbed—      Hey!          In his alarm, he almost dropped the bottle. For the door suddenly burstopen, and in its frame loomed a figure in Space Patrol blues. A fingerpointed in Chip's direction and a bull-o'-Bashan voice roared:           Stop!     Bartender—grab that man! He's a desperate criminal, wanted onfour planets for murder!  Shock momentarily immobilized Chip. Not so the bartender. He was, itseemed, an ardent pacifist. With a bleat of panic fear he scamperedfrom his post, his metallic stilts clattering off in the distance.Chip's accuser moved forward from the shadows; dim light illumined hisfeatures. And—           Johnny!      Chip's voice lifted in a note of jubilant surprise.Johnny Haldane—you old scoundrel! Where in the void did      you     dropfrom?     The S.S.P. man chuckled and returned Chip's greeting with abone-grinding handclasp.     I might ask the same of you, chum! Lord, it's been ages since we'vecrossed 'jectory! When I saw you meandering across the Casino, youcould have knocked me down with a jetblast! What's new? Is old Sydstill with you?     We're still shipmates. But he's back at the spaceport. The jerry-crewis plating our crate with ek, and—     Ek! Plating a private cruiser! Haldane stared at him in astonishment,then whistled. Sweet Sacred Stars, you must be filthy with credits tobe able to coat an entire ship with ekalastron!     You, boasted Chip, ain't heard nothing yet! And he told him howthey had discovered an entire mountain of the previous new element, No.97 in the periodic table, on frigid Titania, satellite of far Uranus.It was touch-and-go for a while, he admitted, whether we'd be theluckiest three guys in space—or the deadest! But we passed through theflaming caverns like old Shadrach in the Bible—remember?—and here weare!  [1]     Haldane was exuberant. A mountain of ekalastron! he gloated.That's the greatest contribution to spaceflight since Biggs'velocity-intensifier! It was no overstatement. Element No. 97 was ametal so light that a man could carry in one hand enough to coat theentire hull of a battleship—yet so adamant that a gossamer film ofit would deflect a meteor! A metal strong enough to crush diamonds toash—but so resilient that, when properly treated, it would reboundlike rubber! What are you going to do with it, Chip? Put it on theopen market?     Warren shook his head.     Not exactly. We talked it over carefully—Syd and Salvation and I—andwe decided there are some space-rats to whom it shouldn't be madeavailable. Privateers and outlaws, you know. So we turned control ofthe mines over to the Space Patrol at Uranus, and visiphoned the Earthauthorities we were bringing in one cargo—     Visiphoned! interrupted Haldane sharply. Did you say visiphoned?     Why—why, yes.     From where?     Oh, just before we reached the Belt. We don't have a very strongtransmitter, you know. Sa-a-ay, what's all the excitement, pal? Did wedo something that was wrong?     Haldane frowned worriedly. I don't know, Chip. It wasn't anything      wrong     , but what you did was damned dangerous. For if your message wasintercepted, you may have played into the very hands of—the Lorelei!  Chip stared at his friend bewilderedly for a moment. Then he grinned.Hey—I must be getting slightly whacky in my old age. I stand herewith an unopened bottle in my hands and hear things! For a minute Ithought you said 'Lorelei.' The Lorelei, my space-cop friend, is amyth. An old Teutonic myth about a beautiful damsel who sits out inthe middle of a sea on a treacherous rock, combing her golden locks,warbling and luring her fascinated admirers to destruction.     He grunted. A dirty trick, if you ask me. Catch a snort of thisalleged Scotch, pal, and I'll torture your eardrums with the whole, sadstory. He started to sing. '      Ich weiss nicht was soll es bedeuten     —'     The Patrolman laid a hand on his arm, silenced him.     It's not funny, Chip. You've described the Lorelei exactly. That'show she got her name. An incredibly beautiful woman who wantonly luresspace-mariners to their death.     The only difference is that her 'rock' is an asteroid somewhere inthe Belt—and she does not sing, she calls! She began exercisingher vicious appeal about two months ago, Earth reckoning. Sincethen, no less than a dozen spacecraft—freighters, liners, even onePatrolship—have fallen prey to her wiles. Their crews have beenbrutally murdered, their cargos stolen.     Wait a minute! interrupted Chip shrewdly. How do you know about herif the crews have been murdered?     She has a habit of locking the controls, explained Haldane, andsetting ravaged ships adrift. Apparently there is no room on herhideout—wherever it is—for empty hulks. One of these ships wassalvaged by a courageous cabin-boy who hid from the Lorelei and herpirate band beneath a closetful of soiled linens in the laundry. Hedescribed her. His description goes perfectly with less accurateglimpses seen over the visiphones of several score spacecraft!     Chip said soberly, So it's no joke, eh, pal? Sorry I popped off. Ithought you were pulling my leg. Where do      I     come into this mess,though?     Ekalastron! grunted Johnny succinctly. A jackpot prize for anycorsair! And you      advertised     a cargo of it over the etherwaves! TheLorelei will be waiting for you with her tongue hanging out. The onlything for you to do, kid, is go back to Jupiter or Io as fast as youcan get there. Make the Patrol give you a convoy—     A sudden light danced in Chip Warren's eyes. It was a light Syd Palmerwould have groaned to see—for it usually presaged trouble. It was abright, hard, reckless light.     Hold your jets, Johnny! drawled Chip. Aren't you forgetting onething? In a couple more hours, I can face the Lorelei and her wholemob—and be damned to them! She can't touch the      Chickadee     , becauseit's being plated right now!     Haldane snapped his fingers in quick remembrance.     By thunder, you're right! Her shells will ricochet off the      Chickadee's     hull like hail off a tin roof. Chip, are you in any hurryto reach Earth? I thought not. What do you say we go after the Lorelei      together     ! I'll swear you in as a Deputy Patrolman; we'll take the      Chickadee     and—     It's a deal! declared Chip promptly. You got any idea where thisLorelei's hangout is?     That's why I'm here on Danae. I got a tip that one of the Lorelei'smen put in here for supplies. I hoped maybe I could single himout somehow, follow him when he jetted for his base, and in thatway—      Chip! Look out!       Haldane shouted and moved at the same time. His arm lashed out wildly,thrusting, smashing Chip to the floor in a sprawling heap. The as-yetunopened bottle was now violently opened; it splintered into a thousandshards against a wall.     Bruised and shaken, Chip lifted his head to see what had causedJohnny's alarm. Even as he did so, the dull gloom of the bar wasblazoned with searing effulgence. A lancet of flame leaped from thedark, rearward doorway, burst in Johnny Haldane's face!     The Patrolman cried once, a choking cry that died in a mewling whimper.His unused pistol slipped from slackening fingers, and he sagged tothe floor. Again crimson lightning laced the shadows; Haldane's bodyjerked, and the air was raw with the hot, sickening stench of charredflesh.     With an instinct born of bitter years, Chip had come to his kneesbehind the shelter of the mahogany bar. But now his own flame-pistolwas in his hand, and a dreadful rage was mingled with the agony in hisheart. Reckless of results, he sprang to his feet, gun spewing lividdeath into the shadows.     His blast found a mark. For an instant flame haloed a human face drawnin inhuman pain. A heavy, sultry, bestial face, already puckered withone long, ugly scar that ran from right temple to jawbone, now newlyscarred with the red brand of Chip's marksmanship.     Then, before Chip could fire again, came the rasp of poundingfootsteps. The man turned and fled. Chip bent over his fallen friend,seeking, with hands that did not even feel the heat, fluttering lifebeneath still smoldering cloth.     He felt—nothing. Johnny was dead.     A snarl of sheer animal rage burst from Chip's lips. Someone would payfor this; pay dearly! Help was coming now. He himself would lead thehue-and-cry that would track a foul murderer to his lair. He spun asthe footsteps drew nearer.     Hurry! he cried. This way! Follow me—     In a bound, he hurdled the bar, lingered at the door only long enoughto let the others mark his course. For they had burst into the room,now, a full score of them. Excited, hard-bitten dogs of space,quick-triggered and willing. Once more he cried for help.     After him! Come on! He—     And then—disaster struck! For a reedy voice broke from the van of themob. The voice of the Martian bartender.     That's him! he piped sibilantly. That's the man! He's a desperatecriminal, wanted on four planets for murder! The Patrolman came toarrest him—      and now he's murdered the Spacie     !  II     The stunning injustice of that accusation came close to costing ChipWarren his life. For a split second he stood motionless in the doorway,gaping lips forming denial. Words which were never to be uttered, forsuddenly a raw-boned miner wrenched a Moeller from its holster, leveledand fired.     The hot tongue of death licked hungrily at the young spaceman's cheek,scorched air crackled in his eardrums. Now was no time to squanderin vain argument. Chip ducked, spun, and hurled himself through thedoorway. There still remained one hope. That he might catch the realmurderer, and in that way clear himself....     But the door led to a small, deserted vestibule, and it to an alleywaybehind Xu'ul's Solarest. Viewing that maze of byways and passages, Chipknew his hope was futile. There remained but one thing to do. Get outof here. But quick!     It was no hard task. The labyrinth swallowed him as it had engulfed thescarred killer; in a few minutes even the footsteps of his pursuerscould no longer be heard. And Chip worked his cautious way back to thespaceport, and to the bin wherein was cradled the      Chickadee     .     Syd Palmer looked up in surprise as Chip let himself in theelectro-lock. The chubby engineer gasped, Salvation, look what the catdrug in! His high-flying Nibs! What's the matter, Chip? Night-life toomuch for you?     Never mind that now! panted Chip. Is this tin can ready to roll?Warm the hypos. We're lifting gravs—     Palmer said anxiously, Now, wait a minute! The men haven't quitefinished plating the hull, Chip!     Can't help that! We've got important business. In a very fewminutes—      Ahh!     There he goes now! Chip had gone to the      perilens     themoment he entered the ship; now he saw in its reflector that which hehad expected. The gushing orange spume of a spaceship roaring from itscradle. Hurry, Syd!     There were a lot of things Syd Palmer wanted to ask. He wanted to know      who     went      where     ; he was bursting with curiosity about the importantbusiness which had brought his pal back from town in such a rush; hiskeen eye also had detected a needle-gun burn on Chip's coat-sleeve. Buthe was too good a companion to waste time now on such trivia.     O.Q., he snapped. It's your pigeon!     And he disappeared. They heard his voice calling to the workmen, thescuff of equipment being disengaged from the      Chickadee's     hull, thethin, high whine of warming hypatomics. Salvation looked at Warrenquizzically.     It smells, he ventured gently, like trouble.     It is trouble, Chip told him. Plenty trouble!     In that case— said the old man mildly—I guess I'd better get therotor stripped for action. He stepped to the gunnery turret, droppedthe fore-irons and stripped their weapon for action. 'Be ye men ofpeace,' he intoned, 'but gird firmly thy loins for righteous battle!'Thus saith the Lord God which is Jehovah. Selah!     Then came Syd's cry from the depths of the hyporoom.     All set, Chip! Lift gravs!     Warren's finger found a stud. And with a gusty roar the      Chickadee     rocketed into space on a pillar of flame.  Two hours later, Chip was still following the bright pinpoint ofscarlet which marked the course of his quarry.     In the time that had elapsed since their take-off, he had told hisfriends the whole story. When he told about the Lorelei, SalvationSmith's seamy old features screwed up in a perplexed grimace. Awoman pirate in the Belt, son? I find it hard to believe. Yet— Andwhen he described the death of Johnny Haldane, anger smoldered in themissionary's eyes, and Syd Palmer's hands knotted into tight, whitefists. Said Syd, A man with a scar, eh? Well, we'll catch him sooneror later. And when we do— His tone boded no good to the man who hadslain an old and loved friend.     As a matter of fact, offered Salvation, we've got him now. Any timeyou say the word, Chip. We're faster than he is. We can close in on himin five minutes.     I know, nodded Warren grimly. But we won't do it—yet. I'm borrowinga bit of Johnny's strategy. I've been plotting his course. As soon asI'm sure of his destination, we'll take care of      him     . But our firstand most vital problem is to locate the Lorelei's hideaway.     Syd said, That's all right with me, chum. I like a good scrap as muchas the next guy. Better, maybe. But this isn't our concern, strictlyspeaking. What we ought to do is report this matter to the SpacePatrol, let them take care of it.     Salvation shook his head.     That's where you're mistaken, Sydney. This is very much our concern.So much so, in fact, that we dare not make port again until it'scleared up. I think you have forgotten that it is not the scar-facedman who is wanted for the killing of Haldane—but Chip!     B-but— gasped Palmer—b-but that's ridiculous! Chip and Johnny wereold buddies. Lifelong friends!     Nevertheless, the circumstantial evidence indicates Chip's guilt.Twenty men saw him standing over Johnny's dead body, with aflame-pistol in his hand. And the barkeep heard Johnny 'arrest' Chipand accuse him of murder!     Chip said ruefully, That's right, Syd. It was only a joke, but itbackfired. The bartender thought Johnny meant it. He scooted out ofthere like a bat out of Hades. I'm in it up to my neck unless we canbring back evidence that Scarface actually did the killing. And thatmay not be so easy.     He stirred restlessly. But we'll cross that bridge when we come toit. Right now our job is to keep this rat in sight. We've gone fartheralready than I expected we would. He turned to the old preacher.Where do you think we're going, Padre? Out of the Belt entirely?     I've been wondering that myself, son. I don't know for sure, ofcourse, but it looks to me as if we're going for the Bog. If so, you'dbetter keep a weather-eye peeled.     The Bog! Chip had never penetrated the planetoids so deeply before,but he knew of the Bog by hearsay. All men did. A treacherous region oftightly packed asteroids, a mad and whirling scramble of the giganticrocks which, aeons ago, had been a planet. Few spacemen dared penetratethe Bog. Of those who did dare, few returned to tell the tale. TheBog! Say! I'd      better     keep a sharp lookout!     He turned to the      perilens     once more, fastened an eye to its lens. Andthen—     Syd! he cried. Salvation! Look! She—she—!     He pressed the plunger that transferred the      perilens     image to thecentral viewscreen. And as he did so, a phantom filled the area whichshould have revealed yawning space, gay with the spangles of a myriadglowing orbs. The vision of an unbelievably beautiful girl, thegolden-crowned embodiment of a man's fondest dreaming, eyes wide withan indistinguishable emotion, arms stretched wide in mute appeal.     And from the throats of all came simultaneous recognition.           The Lorelei!       At the same moment came a plea from the enchantress of space througha second medium. For no reason anyone could explain, the ship's      telaudio     wakened to life; over it came to their ears the actual wordsof the girl:           Help! Oh, help! Can anyone hear me? Help     —     Even though he knew this to be only a ruse, a deliberate, dastardlytrap set for the unwary, Chip Warren's pulse leaped in hot response tothat desperate plea. Even with the warning of Johnny Haldane fresh inhis memory, some gallantry deep within him spurred him to the aid ofthis lovely vision. Here was a woman a man could live for, fight for,      die     for! A woman like no other in the universe.     Then common sense came to his rescue. He wrenched his gaze from thetempting shadow, cried: Kill that wavelength! Tune the lens onanother beam, Syd!     Palmer, bedazzled but obedient, spun the dial of the      perilens     .Despite his vastly improved science Man had never yet succeeded indevising a transparent medium through which to view the void whereinhe soared; the      perilens     was a device which translated impinginglight-waves into a picture of that which lay outside the ship's hull.When or where electrical disturbances existed in space, its frequencycould be changed for greater clarity. This was what Syd now attempted.     But to no avail! For it mattered not which cycle he tuned to—theimage persisted. Still on the viewscreen that pleading figurebeckoned piteously. And still the cabin rang to the prayers of thatheart-tugging voice:           Help! Oh, help! Can anyone hear me? Help     —     Gone, now, was any fascination that thrilling vision might previouslyhave held for Chip Warren. Understanding of their plight dawned coldlyupon him, and his brow became dark with anger.           We're blanketed!     Flying blind! Salvation, radio a general alarm!Syd, jazz the hypos to max. Shift trajectory to fourteen-oh-three Northand loft ... fire No. 3 jet....     He had hurled himself into the bucket-shaped pilot's seat; nowhis fingers played the controls like those of a mad organist. The      Chickadee     groaned from prow to stern, trembled like a tortured thingas he thrust it into a rising spiral.     It was a desperate chance he was taking. Increasing his speed thus, itwas certain he would be spotted by the man he had been following; theflaming jets of the      Chickadee     must form a crimson arch against blackspace visible for hundreds—thousands!—of miles. Nor was there any wayof knowing what lay in the path Chip thus blindly chose. Titanic deathmight loom on every side. But they had to fight clear of this spot ofblindness, clear their instruments....     And then it came! A jarring concussion that smashed against the prowof the      Chickadee     like a battering ram. Chip flew headlong out of hisbucket to spreadeagle on the heaving iron floor. He heard, above thegrinding plaint of shattered steel the bellowing prayer of SalvationSmith:     We've crashed! 'Into Thy hands, O Lord of old—'     Then Syd's angry cry, Crashed, hell! He's smashed us with atractor-blast!     Chip stared at his companion numbly.     But—but that's impossible! We're plated with ek! A tractor-cannoncouldn't hurt us—           Half-plated!      howled Syd savagely. And those damn fools startedworking from the stern of the      Chickadee     ! We're vulnerable up front,and that's where he got us! In a minute this can will be leaking like asieve. I'll get out bulgers. Hold 'er to her course, Chip!     He dove for the lockers wherein were hung the space-suits, tore themhastily from their hangers. Chip again spun the      perilens     vernier. Nogood! No space ... no stars ... just a beautiful phantom crying them tocertain doom. By now he was aware that from a dozen sprung plates airwas seeping, but he fought down despair. While there remained hope, aman had to keep on fighting.     He scrambled back into the bucket-seat, experimented with controls thatanswered sluggishly. Salvation had sprung to the rotor-gun, was nowangrily jerking its lanyard, lacing the void with death-dealing burststhat had no mark. The old man's eyes were brands of fire, his whitehair clung wetly to his forehead. His rage was terrible to behold.     'Yes, truly shall I destroy them!' he cried, 'who loose theirstealth upon me like a thief from the night—'     Then suddenly there came a second and more frightful blow. Thestraining      Chickadee     stopped as though pole-axed by a gigantic fist.Stopped and shuddered and screamed in metal agony. This time inertiaflung Chip headlong, helpless, into the control racks. Brazen studstook the impact of his body; crushing pain banded about his temples,and a red wetness ran into his eyes, blurring and blinding him, burning.     For an instant there flamed before him a universe of incandescentstars, weaving, shimmering, merging. The vision of a woman whose hairwas a golden glory....     After that—nothing!  III     From a billion miles away, from a bourne unguessable thousands oflight-years distant, came the faint, far whisper of a voice. Nearer andnearer it came, and ever faster, till it throbbed upon Chip's eardrumswith booming savagery.     —coming to, now. Good! We'll soon find out—     Chip opened his eyes, too dazed, at first, to understand the situationin which he found himself. Gone was the familiar control-turret of the      Chickadee     , gone the bulger into which he had so hastily clambered. Helay on the parched, rocky soil of a—a something. A planetoid, perhaps.And he was surrounded by a motley crew of strangers: scum of all theplanets that circle the Sun....     Then recollection flooded back upon him, sudden and complete. Thechase ... the call of the fateful Lorelei ... the crash! New strength,born of anger, surged through him. He lifted his head.     My—my companions? he demanded weakly.     The leader of those who encircled him, a mighty hulk of a man, massiveof shoulder and thigh, black-haired, with an unshaven blue jaw,raven-bright eyes and a jutting, aquiline nose like the beak of a hawk,loosed a satisfied grunt.     Ah! Back to normal, eh, sailor? Damn near time!     Climbing to his feet sent a swift wave of giddiness through Chip—buthe managed it. He fought down the vertigo which threatened to overwhelmhim, and confronted the big man boldly.     What, he stormed, is the meaning of this?     The giant stared at him for a moment, his jaw slack. Then hisraven-bright eyes glittered; he slapped a trunklike thigh and guffawedin boisterous mirth.     Hear that? he roared to his companions. Quite a guy, ain't he?'What's the meanin' o' this?' he asks! Game little fightin' cock, hey?Then he sobered abruptly, and a grim light replaced the amusement inhis eyes. Here was not a man to be trifled with, Chip realized. Histone assumed a biting edge. The meanin' is, my bucko, he answeredmirthlessly, that you've run afoul o' your last reef. Unless you havea sane head on your shoulders, and you're willing to talk fast andstraight!     Talk?     Don't stall. We've already unloaded your bins. We found it. And a nicehaul, too. Thanks for lettin' us know it was on the way. The burly onechuckled coarsely. We'd have took it, anyway, but you helped mattersout by comin' to us.     Johnny Haldane had been right, then. Chip remembered his friend'sominous warning. —if your message was intercepted, you may haveplayed into the hands of— He said slowly, Then you      are     theLorelei's men?     The who? Never mind that, bucko, just talk. That ekalastron—where didit come from?     And it occurred to Warren suddenly that although the big man      did     holdthe whip hand, he was still not in possession of the most importantsecret of all! While the location of the ekalastron mine remained asecret, a deadlock existed.     And if I won't tell—? he countered shrewdly.     Why, then, sailor— The pirate leader's hamlike fists tightened, anda cold light glinted in his eyes—why, then I guess maybe I'll have tobeat it out o' you!  ","Salvation Smith is a highly-religious man and a missionary. However, his god is not a gentle one. Salvation Smith is a scarecrow of a man, tall and lean, who dresses in all black with wavy gray hair. He believed in spreading the word of Yahveh of the Old Testament and took his words to heart. Salvation did not turn away from evil, in fact, he was one of the best shooters in space. Salvation Smith stays behind with Syd Palmer at the beginning of the story, after wisely warning Chip to be careful during his night on the town. Chip and Syd both respect Salvation for his knowledge, faith, and strength, so he is usually listened to. In the end, Salvation helps Chip escape from the authorities and men wrongfully pursuing him and tries to save them from destruction when they encounter the Lorelei. However, the story ends without a complete resolution for Salvation. The readers are unsure if he survived the crash, or if he’d been taken hostage by the pirates. Salvation Smith is often a voice of reason, as well as a great companion throughout the story. "
"What is the plot of the story? </s>     CONTAGION     By KATHERINE MacLEAN     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction October 1950.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]       Minos was such a lovely planet. Not a     thing seemed wrong with it. Excepting the food,     perhaps. And a disease that wasn't really.      It was like an Earth forest in the fall, but it was not fall. Theforest leaves were green and copper and purple and fiery red, and awind sent patches of bright greenish sunlight dancing among the leafshadows.     The hunt party of the      Explorer     filed along the narrow trail, gunsready, walking carefully, listening to the distant, half familiar criesof strange birds.     A faint crackle of static in their earphones indicated that a gun hadbeen fired.     Got anything? asked June Walton. The helmet intercom carried hervoice to the ears of the others without breaking the stillness of theforest.     Took a shot at something, explained George Barton's cheerful voicein her earphones. She rounded a bend of the trail and came upon Bartonstanding peering up into the trees, his gun still raised. It lookedlike a duck.     This isn't Central Park, said Hal Barton, his brother, coming intosight. His green spacesuit struck an incongruous note against thebronze and red forest. They won't all look like ducks, he saidsoberly.     Maybe some will look like dragons. Don't get eaten by a dragon,June, came Max's voice quietly into her earphones. Not while I stilllove you. He came out of the trees carrying the blood sample kit, andtouched her glove with his, the grin on his ugly beloved face barelyvisible in the mingled light and shade. A patch of sunlight struck agreenish glint from his fishbowl helmet.  They walked on. A quarter of a mile back, the space ship      Explorer     towered over the forest like a tapering skyscraper, and the people ofthe ship looked out of the viewplates at fresh winds and sunlight andclouds, and they longed to be outside.     But the likeness to Earth was danger, and the cool wind might be death,for if the animals were like Earth animals, their diseases might belike Earth diseases, alike enough to be contagious, different enough tobe impossible to treat. There was warning enough in the past. Colonieshad vanished, and traveled spaceways drifted with the corpses of shipswhich had touched on some plague planet.     The people of the ship waited while their doctors, in airtightspacesuits, hunted animals to test them for contagion.     The four medicos, for June Walton was also a doctor, filed through thealien homelike forest, walking softly, watching for motion among thecopper and purple shadows.     They saw it suddenly, a lighter moving copper patch among the darkerbrowns. Reflex action swung June's gun into line, and behind hersomeone's gun went off with a faint crackle of static, and made a holein the leaves beside the specimen. Then for a while no one moved.     This one looked like a man, a magnificently muscled, leanly graceful,humanlike animal. Even in its callused bare feet, it was a head tallerthan any of them. Red-haired, hawk-faced and darkly tanned, it stoodbreathing heavily, looking at them without expression. At its side hunga sheath knife, and a crossbow was slung across one wide shoulder.     They lowered their guns.     It needs a shave, Max said reasonably in their earphones, and hereached up to his helmet and flipped the switch that let his voice beheard. Something we could do for you, Mac?     The friendly drawl was the first voice that had broken the forestsounds. June smiled suddenly. He was right. The strict logic ofevolution did not demand beards; therefore a non-human would not bewearing a three day growth of red stubble.     Still panting, the tall figure licked dry lips and spoke. Welcome toMinos. The Mayor sends greetings from Alexandria.     English? gasped June.     We were afraid you would take off again before I could bring word toyou.... It's three hundred miles.... We saw your scout plane passtwice, but we couldn't attract its attention.  June looked in stunned silence at the stranger leaning against thetree. Thirty-six light years—thirty-six times six trillion milesof monotonous space travel—to be told that the planet was alreadysettled! We didn't know there was a colony here, she said. It is noton the map.     We were afraid of that, the tall bronze man answered soberly. Wehave been here three generations and yet no traders have come.     Max shifted the kit strap on his shoulder and offered a hand. My nameis Max Stark, M.D. This is June Walton, M.D., Hal Barton, M.D., andGeorge Barton, Hal's brother, also M.D.     Patrick Mead is the name, smiled the man, shaking hands casually.Just a hunter and bridge carpenter myself. Never met any medicosbefore.     The grip was effortless but even through her airproofed glove Junecould feel that the fingers that touched hers were as hard as paddedsteel.     What—what is the population of Minos? she asked.     He looked down at her curiously for a moment before answering. Onlyone hundred and fifty. He smiled. Don't worry, this isn't a cityplanet yet. There's room for a few more people. He shook hands withthe Bartons quickly. That is—you are people, aren't you? he askedstartlingly.     Why not? said Max with a poise that June admired.     Well, you are all so—so— Patrick Mead's eyes roamed across thefaces of the group. So varied.     They could find no meaning in that, and stood puzzled.     I mean, Patrick Mead said into the silence, all these—interestingdifferent hair colors and face shapes and so forth— He made a vaguewave with one hand as if he had run out of words or was anxious not toinsult them.     Joke? Max asked, bewildered.     June laid a hand on his arm. No harm meant, she said to him over theintercom. We're just as much of a shock to him as he is to us.     She addressed a question to the tall colonist on outside sound. Whatshould a person look like, Mr. Mead?     He indicated her with a smile. Like you.     June stepped closer and stood looking up at him, considering her owndescription. She was tall and tanned, like him; had a few freckles,like him; and wavy red hair, like his. She ignored the brightlyhumorous blue eyes.     In other words, she said, everyone on the planet looks like you andme?     Patrick Mead took another look at their four faces and began to grin.Like me, I guess. But I hadn't thought of it before. I did not thinkthat people could have different colored hair or that noses could fitso many ways onto faces. I was judging by my own appearance, but Isuppose any fool can walk on his hands and say the world is upsidedown! He laughed and sobered. But then why wear spacesuits? The airis breathable.     For safety, June told him. We can't take any chances on plague.     Pat Mead was wearing nothing but a loin cloth and his weapons, and thewind ruffled his hair. He looked comfortable, and they longed to takeoff the stuffy spacesuits and feel the wind against their own skins.Minos was like home, like Earth.... But they were strangers.     Plague, Pat Mead said thoughtfully. We had one here. It came twoyears after the colony arrived and killed everyone except the Meadfamilies. They were immune. I guess we look alike because we're allrelated, and that's why I grew up thinking that it is the only waypeople can look.       Plague.     What was the disease? Hal Barton asked.     Pretty gruesome, according to my father. They called it the meltingsickness. The doctors died too soon to find out what it was or what todo about it.     You should have trained for more doctors, or sent to civilization forsome. A trace of impatience was in George Barton's voice.     Pat Mead explained patiently, Our ship, with the power plant and allthe books we needed, went off into the sky to avoid the contagion,and never came back. The crew must have died. Long years of hardshipwere indicated by that statement, a colony with electric power goneand machinery stilled, with key technicians dead and no way to replacethem. June realized then the full meaning of the primitive sheath knifeand bow.     Any recurrence of melting sickness? asked Hal Barton.     No.     Any other diseases?     Not a one.     Max was eyeing the bronze red-headed figure with something approachingawe. Do you think all the Meads look like that? he said to June onthe intercom. I wouldn't mind being a Mead myself!  Their job had been made easy by the coming of Pat. They went back tothe ship laughing, exchanging anecdotes with him. There was nothingnow to keep Minos from being the home they wanted, except the meltingsickness, and, forewarned against it, they could take precautions.     The polished silver and black column of the      Explorer     seemed to risehigher and higher over the trees as they neared it. Then its symmetryblurred all sense of specific size as they stepped out from among thetrees and stood on the edge of the meadow, looking up.     Nice! said Pat. Beautiful! The admiration in his voice was warming.     It was a yacht, Max said, still looking up, second hand, an old-timebeauty without a sign of wear. Synthetic diamond-studded control boardand murals on the walls. It doesn't have the new speed drives, but itbrought us thirty-six light years in one and a half subjective years.Plenty good enough.     The tall tanned man looked faintly wistful, and June realized thathe had never had access to a full library, never seen a movie, neverexperienced luxury. He had been born and raised on Minos.  May I go aboard? Pat asked hopefully.     Max unslung the specimen kit from his shoulder, laid it on the carpetof plants that covered the ground and began to open it.     Tests first, Hal Barton said. We have to find out if you peoplestill carry this so-called melting sickness. We'll have to de-microbeyou and take specimens before we let you on board. Once on, you'll beno good as a check for what the other Meads might have.     Max was taking out a rack and a stand of preservative bottles andhypodermics.     Are you going to jab me with those? Pat asked with interest.     You're just a specimen animal to me, bud! Max grinned at Pat Mead,and Pat grinned back. June saw that they were friends already, thetall pantherish colonist, and the wry, black-haired doctor. She felt astab of guilt because she loved Max and yet could pity him for beingsmaller and frailer than Pat Mead.     Lie down, Max told him, and hold still. We need two spinal fluidsamples from the back, a body cavity one in front, and another from thearm.     Pat lay down obediently. Max knelt, and, as he spoke, expertly swabbedand inserted needles with the smooth speed that had made him a finenerve surgeon on Earth.     High above them the scout helioplane came out of an opening in the shipand angled off toward the west, its buzz diminishing. Then, suddenly,it veered and headed back, and Reno Unrich's voice came tinnily fromtheir earphones:     What's that you've got? Hey, what are you docs doing down there? Hebanked again and came to a stop, hovering fifty feet away. June couldsee his startled face looking through the glass at Pat.     Hal Barton switched to a narrow radio beam, explained rapidly andpointed in the direction of Alexandria. Reno's plane lifted and flewaway over the odd-colored forest.     The plane will drop a note on your town, telling them you gotthrough to us, Hal Barton told Pat, who was sitting up watching Maxdexterously put the blood and spinal fluids into the right bottleswithout exposing them to air.     We won't be free to contact your people until we know if they stillcarry melting sickness, Max added. You might be immune so it doesn'tshow on you, but still carry enough germs—if that's what caused it—towipe out a planet.     If you do carry melting sickness, said Hal Barton, we won't be ableto mingle with your people until we've cleared them of the disease.     Starting with me? Pat asked.     Starting with you, Max told him ruefully, as soon as you step onboard.     More needles?     Yes, and a few little extras thrown in.     Rough?     It isn't easy.     A few minutes later, standing in the stalls for spacesuitdecontamination, being buffeted by jets of hot disinfectant, bathed inglares of sterilizing ultraviolet radiation, June remembered that andcompared Pat Mead's treatment to theirs.     In the      Explorer     , stored carefully in sealed tanks and containers,was the ultimate, multi-purpose cureall. It was a solution of enzymesso like the key catalysts of the human cell nucleus that it causedchemical derangement and disintegration in any non-human cell. Nothingcould live in contact with it but human cells; any alien intruder tothe body would die. Nucleocat Cureall was its trade name.     But the cureall alone was not enough for complete safety. Plagues hadbeen known to slay too rapidly and universally to be checked by humantreatment. Doctors are not reliable; they die. Therefore spaceways andinterplanetary health law demanded that ship equipment for guardingagainst disease be totally mechanical in operation, rapid and efficient.     Somewhere near them, in a series of stalls which led around andaround like a rabbit maze, Pat was being herded from stall to stallby peremptory mechanical voices, directed to soap and shower, orderedto insert his arm into a slot which took a sample of his blood, givensolutions to drink, bathed in germicidal ultraviolet, shaken by sonicblasts, breathing air thick with sprays of germicidal mists, beingdirected to put his arms into other slots where they were anesthesizedand injected with various immunizing solutions.     Finally, he would be put in a room of high temperature and extremedryness, and instructed to sit for half an hour while more fluids weredripped into his veins through long thin tubes.     All legal spaceships were built for safety. No chance was taken ofallowing a suspected carrier to bring an infection on board with him.  June stepped from the last shower stall into the locker room, zippedoff her spacesuit with a sigh of relief, and contemplated herself in awall mirror. Red hair, dark blue eyes, tall....     I've got a good figure, she said thoughtfully.     Max turned at the door. Why this sudden interest in your looks? heasked suspiciously. Do we stand here and admire you, or do we finallyget something to eat?     Wait a minute. She went to a wall phone and dialed it carefully,using a combination from the ship's directory. How're you doing, Pat?     The phone picked up a hissing of water or spray. There was a startledchuckle. Voices, too! Hello, June. How do you tell a machine to gojump in the lake?     Are you hungry?     No food since yesterday.     We'll have a banquet ready for you when you get out, she told Pat andhung up, smiling. Pat Mead's voice had a vitality and enjoyment whichmade shipboard talk sound like sad artificial gaiety in contrast.     They looked into the nearby small laboratory where twelve squealinghamsters were protestingly submitting to a small injection each ofPat's blood. In most of them the injection was followed by one ofantihistaminics and adaptives. Otherwise the hamster defense systemwould treat all non-hamster cells as enemies, even the harmless humanblood cells, and fight back against them violently.     One hamster, the twelfth, was given an extra large dose of adaptive,so that if there were a disease, he would not fight it or the humancells, and thus succumb more rapidly.     How ya doing, George? Max asked.     Routine, George Barton grunted absently.     On the way up the long spiral ramps to the dining hall, they passed aviewplate. It showed a long scene of mountains in the distance on thehorizon, and between them, rising step by step as they grew fartheraway, the low rolling hills, bronze and red with patches of clear greenwhere there were fields.     Someone was looking out, standing very still, as if she had beenthere a long time—Bess St. Clair, a Canadian woman. It looks likeWinnipeg, she told them as they paused. When are you doctors going tolet us out of this blithering barberpole? Look, she pointed. See thatpatch of field on the south hillside, with the brook winding throughit? I've staked that hillside for our house. When do we get out?  Reno Ulrich's tiny scout plane buzzed slowly in from the distance andbegan circling lazily.     Sooner than you think, Max told her. We've discovered a castawaycolony on the planet. They've done our tests for us by just livinghere. If there's anything here to catch, they've caught it.     People on Minos? Bess's handsome ruddy face grew alive withexcitement.     One of them is down in the medical department, June said. He'll beout in twenty minutes.     May I go see him?     Sure, said Max. Show him the way to the dining hall when he getsout. Tell him we sent you.     Right! She turned and ran down the ramp like a small girl going to afire. Max grinned at June and she grinned back. After a year and a halfof isolation in space, everyone was hungry for the sight of new faces,the sound of unfamiliar voices.  They climbed the last two turns to the cafeteria, and entered to a richsubdued blend of soft music and quiet conversations. The cafeteriawas a section of the old dining room, left when the rest of the shiphad been converted to living and working quarters, and it still hadthe original finely grained wood of the ceiling and walls, the soundabsorbency, the soft music spools and the intimate small light at eachtable where people leisurely ate and talked.     They stood in line at the hot foods counter, and behind her Junecould hear a girl's voice talking excitedly through the murmur ofconversation.     —new man, honest! I saw him through the viewplate when they came in.He's down in the medical department. A real frontiersman.     The line drew abreast of the counters, and she and Max chose threeheaping trays, starting with hydroponic mushroom steak, raised inthe growing trays of water and chemicals; sharp salad bowl with rosetomatoes and aromatic peppers; tank-grown fish with special sauce; fourdifferent desserts, and assorted beverages.     Presently they had three tottering trays successfully maneuvered to atable. Brant St. Clair came over. I beg your pardon, Max, but they aresaying something about Reno carrying messages to a colony of savages,for the medical department. Will he be back soon, do you know?     Max smiled up at him, his square face affectionate. Everyone liked theshy Canadian. He's back already. We just saw him come in.     Oh, fine. St. Clair beamed. I had an appointment with him to go outand confirm what looks like a nice vein of iron to the northeast. Haveyou seen Bess? Oh—there she is. He turned swiftly and hurried away.     A very tall man with fiery red hair came in surrounded by an eagerlytalking crowd of ship people. It was Pat Mead. He stood in the doorway,alertly scanning the dining room. Sheer vitality made him seem evenlarger than he was. Sighting June, he smiled and began to thread towardtheir table.     Look! said someone. There's the colonist! Shelia, a pretty, jeweledwoman, followed and caught his arm. Did you      really     swim across ariver to come here?     Overflowing with good-will and curiosity, people approached from alldirections. Did you actually walk three hundred miles? Come, eat withus. Let me help choose your tray.     Everyone wanted him to eat at their table, everyone was a specialistand wanted data about Minos. They all wanted anecdotes about huntingwild animals with a bow and arrow.     He needs to be rescued, Max said. He won't have a chance to eat.     June and Max got up firmly, edged through the crowd, captured Pat andescorted him back to their table. June found herself pleased to beclaiming the hero of the hour.  Pat sat in the simple, subtly designed chair and leaned back almostvoluptuously, testing the way it gave and fitted itself to him. Heran his eyes over the bright tableware and heaped plates. He lookedaround at the rich grained walls and soft lights at each table. He saidnothing, just looking and feeling and experiencing.     When we build our town and leave the ship, June explained, wewill turn all the staterooms back into the lounges and ballrooms andcocktail bars that used to be inside.     Oh, I'm not complaining, Pat said negligently. He cocked his head tothe music, and tried to locate its source.     That's big of you, said Max with gentle irony.     They fell to, Pat beginning the first meal he had had in more than aday.     Most of the other diners finished when they were halfway through,and began walking over, diffidently at first, then in another waveof smiling faces, handshakes, and introductions. Pat was asked aboutcrops, about farming methods, about rainfall and floods, about farmanimals and plant breeding, about the compatibility of imported Earthseeds with local ground, about mines and strata.     There was no need to protect him. He leaned back in his chair anddrawled answers with the lazy ease of a panther; where he could thinkof no statistic, he would fill the gap with an anecdote. It developedthat he enjoyed spinning campfire yarns and especially being the centerof interest.     Between bouts of questions, he ate with undiminished and glowing relish.     June noticed that the female specialists were prolonging the questionsmore than they needed, clustering around the table laughing at hisjokes, until presently Pat was almost surrounded by pretty faces,eager questions, and chiming laughs. Shelia the beautiful laughed mostchimingly of all.     June nudged Max, and Max shrugged indifferently. It wasn't anything aman would pay attention to, perhaps. But June watched Pat for a momentmore, then glanced uneasily back to Max. He was eating and listeningto Pat's answers and did not feel her gaze. For some reason Max lookedalmost shrunken to her. He was shorter than she had realized; she hadforgotten that he was only the same height as herself. She was dimlyaware of the clear lilting chatter of female voices increasing at Pat'send of the table.     That guy's a menace, Max said, and laughed to himself, cuttinganother slice of hydroponic mushroom steak. What's eating you? headded, glancing aside at her when he noticed her sudden stillness.     Nothing, she said hastily, but she did not turn back to watching PatMead. She felt disloyal. Pat was only a superb animal. Max was the manshe loved. Or—was he? Of course he was, she told herself angrily.They had gone colonizing together because they wanted to spend theirlives together; she had never thought of marrying any other man. Yetthe sense of dissatisfaction persisted, and along with it a feeling ofguilt.     Len Marlow, the protein tank-culture technician responsible for themushroom steaks, had wormed his way into the group and asked Pat aquestion. Now he was saying, I don't dig you, Pat. It sounds likeyou're putting the people into the tanks instead of the vegetables! Heglanced at them, looking puzzled. See if you two can make anything ofthis. It sounds medical to me.     Pat leaned back and smiled, sipping a glass of hydroponic burgundy.Wonderful stuff. You'll have to show us how to make it.     Len turned back to him. You people live off the country, right? Youhunt and bring in steaks and eat them, right? Well, say I have one ofthose steaks right here and I want to eat it, what happens?  Go ahead and eat it. It just wouldn't digest. You'd stay hungry.     Why? Len was aggrieved.     Chemical differences in the basic protoplasm of Minos. Differentamino linkages, left-handed instead of right-handed molecules in thecarbohydrates, things like that. Nothing will be digestible here untilyou are adapted chemically by a little test-tube evolution. Till thenyou'd starve to death on a full stomach.     Pat's side of the table had been loaded with the dishes from two trays,but it was almost clear now and the dishes were stacked neatly to oneside. He started on three desserts, thoughtfully tasting each in turn.     Test-tube evolution? Max repeated. What's that? I thought you peoplehad no doctors.     It's a story. Pat leaned back again. Alexander P. Mead, the head ofthe Mead clan, was a plant geneticist, a very determined personalityand no man to argue with. He didn't want us to go through the struggleof killing off all Minos plants and putting in our own, spoiling theface of the planet and upsetting the balance of its ecology. He decidedthat he would adapt our genes to this planet or kill us trying. He didit all right.'     Did which? asked June, suddenly feeling a sourceless prickle of fear.     Adapted us to Minos. He took human cells—  She listened intently, trying to find a reason for fear in theexplanation. It would have taken many human generations to adapt toMinos by ordinary evolution, and that only at a heavy toll of death andhunger which evolution exacts. There was a shorter way: Human cellshave the ability to return to their primeval condition of independence,hunting, eating and reproducing alone.     Alexander P. Mead took human cells and made them into phagocytes.He put them through the hard savage school of evolution—a thousandgenerations of multiplication, hardship and hunger, with the alienindigestible food always present, offering its reward of plenty to thecell that reluctantly learned to absorb it.     Leucocytes can run through several thousand generations of evolutionin six months, Pat Mead finished. When they reached to a point wherethey would absorb Minos food, he planted them back in the people hehad taken them from.     What was supposed to happen then? Max asked, leaning forward.     I don't know exactly how it worked. He never told anybody much aboutit, and when I was a little boy he had gone loco and was wanderingha-ha-ing around waving a test tube. Fell down a ravine and broke hisneck at the age of eighty.     A character, Max said.     Why was she afraid? It worked then?     Yes. He tried it on all the Meads the first year. The other settlersdidn't want to be experimented on until they saw how it worked out. Itworked. The Meads could hunt, and plant while the other settlers werestill eating out of hydroponics tanks.     It worked, said Max to Len. You're a plant geneticist and a tankculture expert. There's a job for you.     Uh-      uh     ! Len backed away. It sounds like a medical problem to me.Human cell control—right up your alley.     It is a one-way street, Pat warned. Once it is done, you won't beable to digest ship food. I'll get no good from this protein. I ate itjust for the taste.     Hal Barton appeared quietly beside the table. Three of the twelve testhamsters have died, he reported, and turned to Pat. Your people carrythe germs of melting sickness, as you call it. The dead hamsters wereinjected with blood taken from you before you were de-infected. Wecan't settle here unless we de-infect everybody on Minos. Would theyobject?     We wouldn't want to give you folks germs, Pat smiled. Anything forsafety. But there'll have to be a vote on it first.     The doctors went to Reno Ulrich's table and walked with him to thehangar, explaining. He was to carry the proposal to Alexandria, minglewith the people, be persuasive and wait for them to vote beforereturning. He was to give himself shots of cureall every two hours onthe hour or run the risk of disease.  Reno was pleased. He had dabbled in sociology before retraining as amechanic for the expedition. This gives me a chance to study theirmores. He winked wickedly. I may not be back for several nights.They watched through the viewplate as he took off, and then went overto the laboratory for a look at the hamsters.     Three were alive and healthy, munching lettuce. One was the control;the other two had been given shots of Pat's blood from before heentered the ship, but with no additional treatment. Apparently ahamster could fight off melting sickness easily if left alone. Threewere still feverish and ruffled, with a low red blood count, butrecovering. The three dead ones had been given strong shots of adaptiveand counter histamine, so their bodies had not fought back against theattack.     June glanced at the dead animals hastily and looked away again.They lay twisted with a strange semi-fluid limpness, as if ready todissolve. The last hamster, which had been given the heaviest doseof adaptive, had apparently lost all its hair before death. It washairless and pink, like a still-born baby.     We can find no micro-organisms, George Barton said. None at all.Nothing in the body that should not be there. Leucosis and anemia.Fever only for the ones that fought it off. He handed Max sometemperature charts and graphs of blood counts.     June wandered out into the hall. Pediatrics and obstetrics were herfield; she left the cellular research to Max, and just helped him withlaboratory routine. The strange mood followed her out into the hall,then abruptly lightened.     Coming toward her, busily telling a tale of adventure to the gorgeousShelia Davenport, was a tall, red-headed, magnificently handsome man.It was his handsomeness which made Pat such a pleasure to look uponand talk with, she guiltily told herself, and it was his tremendousvitality.... It was like meeting a movie hero in the flesh, or a heroout of the pages of a book—Deer-slayer, John Clayton, Lord Greystoke.     She waited in the doorway to the laboratory and made no move to jointhem, merely acknowledged the two with a nod and a smile and a casuallift of the hand. They nodded and smiled back.     Hello, June, said Pat and continued telling his tale, but as theypassed he lightly touched her arm.     Oh, pioneer! she said mockingly and softly to his passing profile,and knew that he had heard.  ","The story begins with the Explorer ship landing on an unknown planet. The ships inhabitants are careful of any potential diseases and so do not readily disembark to explore their new surroundings. Instead, they send a crew of four medical doctors to go on a hunt party to understand the types of pathogens on the planet. The four doctors in the hunt party are June Walton, George Barton, Hal Barton, and Max. George and Hal are brothers. Max and June are in a relationship together. They walk through the forest, shooting different animals that they encounter to test for diseases. As they walk through the forest, they encounter a man who speaks English. His name is Patrick Mead and he introduces the party to the planet, known as Minos. The man explains how his group was 300 miles away from their ship.  Patrick and the group asks questions of each other. Patrick notes that he is shocked to see a variety of different looking people as those on Minos all look very similar to each other. The group and Pat all head back to the ship where they explain to Pat that he has to go through a process of decontamination. They begin by taking specimen from Pat and spinal fluid samples from him. Pat then continues on to the rest of the decontamination process that the others do not have to go through. While Pat is going through decontamination, so is the rest of the doctors – but in a different process. During June’s process, she is seen admiring her body. Once they are done, they go to the dining hall to eat. A woman asks the doctors when they will be able to let out of the ship to explore the new land, and Max answers that it might happen soon. Many people are excited about the possibility because they have all been isolated in space for the past year and a half. When they enter the cafeteria, they can hear passengers excitedly gossiping about Pat’s arrival. As soon as pat enters the room, people approach him eagerly awaiting to talk to him. During the meal, Pat explains how a geneticist on the planet adapted the citizens’ cells to their planet so that they would not destroy the planet foraging for food. During the conversation over food, Hall enters the room to inform them that the hamsters showed signs of infection. This means that Pat’s people still do carry the disease, the morning sickness. Pat assures them that his people would be willing to be de-infected. The crew then send Reno Ulrich to go to Pat’s town to make relations with the people.After eating, June goes back to the laboratory. She sees Pat and the beautiful Shelia Davenport walking in her direction. She mockingly acknowledges his presence when he walks past her.  "
"How does June feel and interact with Patrick Mead? </s>     CONTAGION     By KATHERINE MacLEAN     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction October 1950.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]       Minos was such a lovely planet. Not a     thing seemed wrong with it. Excepting the food,     perhaps. And a disease that wasn't really.      It was like an Earth forest in the fall, but it was not fall. Theforest leaves were green and copper and purple and fiery red, and awind sent patches of bright greenish sunlight dancing among the leafshadows.     The hunt party of the      Explorer     filed along the narrow trail, gunsready, walking carefully, listening to the distant, half familiar criesof strange birds.     A faint crackle of static in their earphones indicated that a gun hadbeen fired.     Got anything? asked June Walton. The helmet intercom carried hervoice to the ears of the others without breaking the stillness of theforest.     Took a shot at something, explained George Barton's cheerful voicein her earphones. She rounded a bend of the trail and came upon Bartonstanding peering up into the trees, his gun still raised. It lookedlike a duck.     This isn't Central Park, said Hal Barton, his brother, coming intosight. His green spacesuit struck an incongruous note against thebronze and red forest. They won't all look like ducks, he saidsoberly.     Maybe some will look like dragons. Don't get eaten by a dragon,June, came Max's voice quietly into her earphones. Not while I stilllove you. He came out of the trees carrying the blood sample kit, andtouched her glove with his, the grin on his ugly beloved face barelyvisible in the mingled light and shade. A patch of sunlight struck agreenish glint from his fishbowl helmet.  They walked on. A quarter of a mile back, the space ship      Explorer     towered over the forest like a tapering skyscraper, and the people ofthe ship looked out of the viewplates at fresh winds and sunlight andclouds, and they longed to be outside.     But the likeness to Earth was danger, and the cool wind might be death,for if the animals were like Earth animals, their diseases might belike Earth diseases, alike enough to be contagious, different enough tobe impossible to treat. There was warning enough in the past. Colonieshad vanished, and traveled spaceways drifted with the corpses of shipswhich had touched on some plague planet.     The people of the ship waited while their doctors, in airtightspacesuits, hunted animals to test them for contagion.     The four medicos, for June Walton was also a doctor, filed through thealien homelike forest, walking softly, watching for motion among thecopper and purple shadows.     They saw it suddenly, a lighter moving copper patch among the darkerbrowns. Reflex action swung June's gun into line, and behind hersomeone's gun went off with a faint crackle of static, and made a holein the leaves beside the specimen. Then for a while no one moved.     This one looked like a man, a magnificently muscled, leanly graceful,humanlike animal. Even in its callused bare feet, it was a head tallerthan any of them. Red-haired, hawk-faced and darkly tanned, it stoodbreathing heavily, looking at them without expression. At its side hunga sheath knife, and a crossbow was slung across one wide shoulder.     They lowered their guns.     It needs a shave, Max said reasonably in their earphones, and hereached up to his helmet and flipped the switch that let his voice beheard. Something we could do for you, Mac?     The friendly drawl was the first voice that had broken the forestsounds. June smiled suddenly. He was right. The strict logic ofevolution did not demand beards; therefore a non-human would not bewearing a three day growth of red stubble.     Still panting, the tall figure licked dry lips and spoke. Welcome toMinos. The Mayor sends greetings from Alexandria.     English? gasped June.     We were afraid you would take off again before I could bring word toyou.... It's three hundred miles.... We saw your scout plane passtwice, but we couldn't attract its attention.  June looked in stunned silence at the stranger leaning against thetree. Thirty-six light years—thirty-six times six trillion milesof monotonous space travel—to be told that the planet was alreadysettled! We didn't know there was a colony here, she said. It is noton the map.     We were afraid of that, the tall bronze man answered soberly. Wehave been here three generations and yet no traders have come.     Max shifted the kit strap on his shoulder and offered a hand. My nameis Max Stark, M.D. This is June Walton, M.D., Hal Barton, M.D., andGeorge Barton, Hal's brother, also M.D.     Patrick Mead is the name, smiled the man, shaking hands casually.Just a hunter and bridge carpenter myself. Never met any medicosbefore.     The grip was effortless but even through her airproofed glove Junecould feel that the fingers that touched hers were as hard as paddedsteel.     What—what is the population of Minos? she asked.     He looked down at her curiously for a moment before answering. Onlyone hundred and fifty. He smiled. Don't worry, this isn't a cityplanet yet. There's room for a few more people. He shook hands withthe Bartons quickly. That is—you are people, aren't you? he askedstartlingly.     Why not? said Max with a poise that June admired.     Well, you are all so—so— Patrick Mead's eyes roamed across thefaces of the group. So varied.     They could find no meaning in that, and stood puzzled.     I mean, Patrick Mead said into the silence, all these—interestingdifferent hair colors and face shapes and so forth— He made a vaguewave with one hand as if he had run out of words or was anxious not toinsult them.     Joke? Max asked, bewildered.     June laid a hand on his arm. No harm meant, she said to him over theintercom. We're just as much of a shock to him as he is to us.     She addressed a question to the tall colonist on outside sound. Whatshould a person look like, Mr. Mead?     He indicated her with a smile. Like you.     June stepped closer and stood looking up at him, considering her owndescription. She was tall and tanned, like him; had a few freckles,like him; and wavy red hair, like his. She ignored the brightlyhumorous blue eyes.     In other words, she said, everyone on the planet looks like you andme?     Patrick Mead took another look at their four faces and began to grin.Like me, I guess. But I hadn't thought of it before. I did not thinkthat people could have different colored hair or that noses could fitso many ways onto faces. I was judging by my own appearance, but Isuppose any fool can walk on his hands and say the world is upsidedown! He laughed and sobered. But then why wear spacesuits? The airis breathable.     For safety, June told him. We can't take any chances on plague.     Pat Mead was wearing nothing but a loin cloth and his weapons, and thewind ruffled his hair. He looked comfortable, and they longed to takeoff the stuffy spacesuits and feel the wind against their own skins.Minos was like home, like Earth.... But they were strangers.     Plague, Pat Mead said thoughtfully. We had one here. It came twoyears after the colony arrived and killed everyone except the Meadfamilies. They were immune. I guess we look alike because we're allrelated, and that's why I grew up thinking that it is the only waypeople can look.       Plague.     What was the disease? Hal Barton asked.     Pretty gruesome, according to my father. They called it the meltingsickness. The doctors died too soon to find out what it was or what todo about it.     You should have trained for more doctors, or sent to civilization forsome. A trace of impatience was in George Barton's voice.     Pat Mead explained patiently, Our ship, with the power plant and allthe books we needed, went off into the sky to avoid the contagion,and never came back. The crew must have died. Long years of hardshipwere indicated by that statement, a colony with electric power goneand machinery stilled, with key technicians dead and no way to replacethem. June realized then the full meaning of the primitive sheath knifeand bow.     Any recurrence of melting sickness? asked Hal Barton.     No.     Any other diseases?     Not a one.     Max was eyeing the bronze red-headed figure with something approachingawe. Do you think all the Meads look like that? he said to June onthe intercom. I wouldn't mind being a Mead myself!  Their job had been made easy by the coming of Pat. They went back tothe ship laughing, exchanging anecdotes with him. There was nothingnow to keep Minos from being the home they wanted, except the meltingsickness, and, forewarned against it, they could take precautions.     The polished silver and black column of the      Explorer     seemed to risehigher and higher over the trees as they neared it. Then its symmetryblurred all sense of specific size as they stepped out from among thetrees and stood on the edge of the meadow, looking up.     Nice! said Pat. Beautiful! The admiration in his voice was warming.     It was a yacht, Max said, still looking up, second hand, an old-timebeauty without a sign of wear. Synthetic diamond-studded control boardand murals on the walls. It doesn't have the new speed drives, but itbrought us thirty-six light years in one and a half subjective years.Plenty good enough.     The tall tanned man looked faintly wistful, and June realized thathe had never had access to a full library, never seen a movie, neverexperienced luxury. He had been born and raised on Minos.  May I go aboard? Pat asked hopefully.     Max unslung the specimen kit from his shoulder, laid it on the carpetof plants that covered the ground and began to open it.     Tests first, Hal Barton said. We have to find out if you peoplestill carry this so-called melting sickness. We'll have to de-microbeyou and take specimens before we let you on board. Once on, you'll beno good as a check for what the other Meads might have.     Max was taking out a rack and a stand of preservative bottles andhypodermics.     Are you going to jab me with those? Pat asked with interest.     You're just a specimen animal to me, bud! Max grinned at Pat Mead,and Pat grinned back. June saw that they were friends already, thetall pantherish colonist, and the wry, black-haired doctor. She felt astab of guilt because she loved Max and yet could pity him for beingsmaller and frailer than Pat Mead.     Lie down, Max told him, and hold still. We need two spinal fluidsamples from the back, a body cavity one in front, and another from thearm.     Pat lay down obediently. Max knelt, and, as he spoke, expertly swabbedand inserted needles with the smooth speed that had made him a finenerve surgeon on Earth.     High above them the scout helioplane came out of an opening in the shipand angled off toward the west, its buzz diminishing. Then, suddenly,it veered and headed back, and Reno Unrich's voice came tinnily fromtheir earphones:     What's that you've got? Hey, what are you docs doing down there? Hebanked again and came to a stop, hovering fifty feet away. June couldsee his startled face looking through the glass at Pat.     Hal Barton switched to a narrow radio beam, explained rapidly andpointed in the direction of Alexandria. Reno's plane lifted and flewaway over the odd-colored forest.     The plane will drop a note on your town, telling them you gotthrough to us, Hal Barton told Pat, who was sitting up watching Maxdexterously put the blood and spinal fluids into the right bottleswithout exposing them to air.     We won't be free to contact your people until we know if they stillcarry melting sickness, Max added. You might be immune so it doesn'tshow on you, but still carry enough germs—if that's what caused it—towipe out a planet.     If you do carry melting sickness, said Hal Barton, we won't be ableto mingle with your people until we've cleared them of the disease.     Starting with me? Pat asked.     Starting with you, Max told him ruefully, as soon as you step onboard.     More needles?     Yes, and a few little extras thrown in.     Rough?     It isn't easy.     A few minutes later, standing in the stalls for spacesuitdecontamination, being buffeted by jets of hot disinfectant, bathed inglares of sterilizing ultraviolet radiation, June remembered that andcompared Pat Mead's treatment to theirs.     In the      Explorer     , stored carefully in sealed tanks and containers,was the ultimate, multi-purpose cureall. It was a solution of enzymesso like the key catalysts of the human cell nucleus that it causedchemical derangement and disintegration in any non-human cell. Nothingcould live in contact with it but human cells; any alien intruder tothe body would die. Nucleocat Cureall was its trade name.     But the cureall alone was not enough for complete safety. Plagues hadbeen known to slay too rapidly and universally to be checked by humantreatment. Doctors are not reliable; they die. Therefore spaceways andinterplanetary health law demanded that ship equipment for guardingagainst disease be totally mechanical in operation, rapid and efficient.     Somewhere near them, in a series of stalls which led around andaround like a rabbit maze, Pat was being herded from stall to stallby peremptory mechanical voices, directed to soap and shower, orderedto insert his arm into a slot which took a sample of his blood, givensolutions to drink, bathed in germicidal ultraviolet, shaken by sonicblasts, breathing air thick with sprays of germicidal mists, beingdirected to put his arms into other slots where they were anesthesizedand injected with various immunizing solutions.     Finally, he would be put in a room of high temperature and extremedryness, and instructed to sit for half an hour while more fluids weredripped into his veins through long thin tubes.     All legal spaceships were built for safety. No chance was taken ofallowing a suspected carrier to bring an infection on board with him.  June stepped from the last shower stall into the locker room, zippedoff her spacesuit with a sigh of relief, and contemplated herself in awall mirror. Red hair, dark blue eyes, tall....     I've got a good figure, she said thoughtfully.     Max turned at the door. Why this sudden interest in your looks? heasked suspiciously. Do we stand here and admire you, or do we finallyget something to eat?     Wait a minute. She went to a wall phone and dialed it carefully,using a combination from the ship's directory. How're you doing, Pat?     The phone picked up a hissing of water or spray. There was a startledchuckle. Voices, too! Hello, June. How do you tell a machine to gojump in the lake?     Are you hungry?     No food since yesterday.     We'll have a banquet ready for you when you get out, she told Pat andhung up, smiling. Pat Mead's voice had a vitality and enjoyment whichmade shipboard talk sound like sad artificial gaiety in contrast.     They looked into the nearby small laboratory where twelve squealinghamsters were protestingly submitting to a small injection each ofPat's blood. In most of them the injection was followed by one ofantihistaminics and adaptives. Otherwise the hamster defense systemwould treat all non-hamster cells as enemies, even the harmless humanblood cells, and fight back against them violently.     One hamster, the twelfth, was given an extra large dose of adaptive,so that if there were a disease, he would not fight it or the humancells, and thus succumb more rapidly.     How ya doing, George? Max asked.     Routine, George Barton grunted absently.     On the way up the long spiral ramps to the dining hall, they passed aviewplate. It showed a long scene of mountains in the distance on thehorizon, and between them, rising step by step as they grew fartheraway, the low rolling hills, bronze and red with patches of clear greenwhere there were fields.     Someone was looking out, standing very still, as if she had beenthere a long time—Bess St. Clair, a Canadian woman. It looks likeWinnipeg, she told them as they paused. When are you doctors going tolet us out of this blithering barberpole? Look, she pointed. See thatpatch of field on the south hillside, with the brook winding throughit? I've staked that hillside for our house. When do we get out?  Reno Ulrich's tiny scout plane buzzed slowly in from the distance andbegan circling lazily.     Sooner than you think, Max told her. We've discovered a castawaycolony on the planet. They've done our tests for us by just livinghere. If there's anything here to catch, they've caught it.     People on Minos? Bess's handsome ruddy face grew alive withexcitement.     One of them is down in the medical department, June said. He'll beout in twenty minutes.     May I go see him?     Sure, said Max. Show him the way to the dining hall when he getsout. Tell him we sent you.     Right! She turned and ran down the ramp like a small girl going to afire. Max grinned at June and she grinned back. After a year and a halfof isolation in space, everyone was hungry for the sight of new faces,the sound of unfamiliar voices.  They climbed the last two turns to the cafeteria, and entered to a richsubdued blend of soft music and quiet conversations. The cafeteriawas a section of the old dining room, left when the rest of the shiphad been converted to living and working quarters, and it still hadthe original finely grained wood of the ceiling and walls, the soundabsorbency, the soft music spools and the intimate small light at eachtable where people leisurely ate and talked.     They stood in line at the hot foods counter, and behind her Junecould hear a girl's voice talking excitedly through the murmur ofconversation.     —new man, honest! I saw him through the viewplate when they came in.He's down in the medical department. A real frontiersman.     The line drew abreast of the counters, and she and Max chose threeheaping trays, starting with hydroponic mushroom steak, raised inthe growing trays of water and chemicals; sharp salad bowl with rosetomatoes and aromatic peppers; tank-grown fish with special sauce; fourdifferent desserts, and assorted beverages.     Presently they had three tottering trays successfully maneuvered to atable. Brant St. Clair came over. I beg your pardon, Max, but they aresaying something about Reno carrying messages to a colony of savages,for the medical department. Will he be back soon, do you know?     Max smiled up at him, his square face affectionate. Everyone liked theshy Canadian. He's back already. We just saw him come in.     Oh, fine. St. Clair beamed. I had an appointment with him to go outand confirm what looks like a nice vein of iron to the northeast. Haveyou seen Bess? Oh—there she is. He turned swiftly and hurried away.     A very tall man with fiery red hair came in surrounded by an eagerlytalking crowd of ship people. It was Pat Mead. He stood in the doorway,alertly scanning the dining room. Sheer vitality made him seem evenlarger than he was. Sighting June, he smiled and began to thread towardtheir table.     Look! said someone. There's the colonist! Shelia, a pretty, jeweledwoman, followed and caught his arm. Did you      really     swim across ariver to come here?     Overflowing with good-will and curiosity, people approached from alldirections. Did you actually walk three hundred miles? Come, eat withus. Let me help choose your tray.     Everyone wanted him to eat at their table, everyone was a specialistand wanted data about Minos. They all wanted anecdotes about huntingwild animals with a bow and arrow.     He needs to be rescued, Max said. He won't have a chance to eat.     June and Max got up firmly, edged through the crowd, captured Pat andescorted him back to their table. June found herself pleased to beclaiming the hero of the hour.  Pat sat in the simple, subtly designed chair and leaned back almostvoluptuously, testing the way it gave and fitted itself to him. Heran his eyes over the bright tableware and heaped plates. He lookedaround at the rich grained walls and soft lights at each table. He saidnothing, just looking and feeling and experiencing.     When we build our town and leave the ship, June explained, wewill turn all the staterooms back into the lounges and ballrooms andcocktail bars that used to be inside.     Oh, I'm not complaining, Pat said negligently. He cocked his head tothe music, and tried to locate its source.     That's big of you, said Max with gentle irony.     They fell to, Pat beginning the first meal he had had in more than aday.     Most of the other diners finished when they were halfway through,and began walking over, diffidently at first, then in another waveof smiling faces, handshakes, and introductions. Pat was asked aboutcrops, about farming methods, about rainfall and floods, about farmanimals and plant breeding, about the compatibility of imported Earthseeds with local ground, about mines and strata.     There was no need to protect him. He leaned back in his chair anddrawled answers with the lazy ease of a panther; where he could thinkof no statistic, he would fill the gap with an anecdote. It developedthat he enjoyed spinning campfire yarns and especially being the centerof interest.     Between bouts of questions, he ate with undiminished and glowing relish.     June noticed that the female specialists were prolonging the questionsmore than they needed, clustering around the table laughing at hisjokes, until presently Pat was almost surrounded by pretty faces,eager questions, and chiming laughs. Shelia the beautiful laughed mostchimingly of all.     June nudged Max, and Max shrugged indifferently. It wasn't anything aman would pay attention to, perhaps. But June watched Pat for a momentmore, then glanced uneasily back to Max. He was eating and listeningto Pat's answers and did not feel her gaze. For some reason Max lookedalmost shrunken to her. He was shorter than she had realized; she hadforgotten that he was only the same height as herself. She was dimlyaware of the clear lilting chatter of female voices increasing at Pat'send of the table.     That guy's a menace, Max said, and laughed to himself, cuttinganother slice of hydroponic mushroom steak. What's eating you? headded, glancing aside at her when he noticed her sudden stillness.     Nothing, she said hastily, but she did not turn back to watching PatMead. She felt disloyal. Pat was only a superb animal. Max was the manshe loved. Or—was he? Of course he was, she told herself angrily.They had gone colonizing together because they wanted to spend theirlives together; she had never thought of marrying any other man. Yetthe sense of dissatisfaction persisted, and along with it a feeling ofguilt.     Len Marlow, the protein tank-culture technician responsible for themushroom steaks, had wormed his way into the group and asked Pat aquestion. Now he was saying, I don't dig you, Pat. It sounds likeyou're putting the people into the tanks instead of the vegetables! Heglanced at them, looking puzzled. See if you two can make anything ofthis. It sounds medical to me.     Pat leaned back and smiled, sipping a glass of hydroponic burgundy.Wonderful stuff. You'll have to show us how to make it.     Len turned back to him. You people live off the country, right? Youhunt and bring in steaks and eat them, right? Well, say I have one ofthose steaks right here and I want to eat it, what happens?  Go ahead and eat it. It just wouldn't digest. You'd stay hungry.     Why? Len was aggrieved.     Chemical differences in the basic protoplasm of Minos. Differentamino linkages, left-handed instead of right-handed molecules in thecarbohydrates, things like that. Nothing will be digestible here untilyou are adapted chemically by a little test-tube evolution. Till thenyou'd starve to death on a full stomach.     Pat's side of the table had been loaded with the dishes from two trays,but it was almost clear now and the dishes were stacked neatly to oneside. He started on three desserts, thoughtfully tasting each in turn.     Test-tube evolution? Max repeated. What's that? I thought you peoplehad no doctors.     It's a story. Pat leaned back again. Alexander P. Mead, the head ofthe Mead clan, was a plant geneticist, a very determined personalityand no man to argue with. He didn't want us to go through the struggleof killing off all Minos plants and putting in our own, spoiling theface of the planet and upsetting the balance of its ecology. He decidedthat he would adapt our genes to this planet or kill us trying. He didit all right.'     Did which? asked June, suddenly feeling a sourceless prickle of fear.     Adapted us to Minos. He took human cells—  She listened intently, trying to find a reason for fear in theexplanation. It would have taken many human generations to adapt toMinos by ordinary evolution, and that only at a heavy toll of death andhunger which evolution exacts. There was a shorter way: Human cellshave the ability to return to their primeval condition of independence,hunting, eating and reproducing alone.     Alexander P. Mead took human cells and made them into phagocytes.He put them through the hard savage school of evolution—a thousandgenerations of multiplication, hardship and hunger, with the alienindigestible food always present, offering its reward of plenty to thecell that reluctantly learned to absorb it.     Leucocytes can run through several thousand generations of evolutionin six months, Pat Mead finished. When they reached to a point wherethey would absorb Minos food, he planted them back in the people hehad taken them from.     What was supposed to happen then? Max asked, leaning forward.     I don't know exactly how it worked. He never told anybody much aboutit, and when I was a little boy he had gone loco and was wanderingha-ha-ing around waving a test tube. Fell down a ravine and broke hisneck at the age of eighty.     A character, Max said.     Why was she afraid? It worked then?     Yes. He tried it on all the Meads the first year. The other settlersdidn't want to be experimented on until they saw how it worked out. Itworked. The Meads could hunt, and plant while the other settlers werestill eating out of hydroponics tanks.     It worked, said Max to Len. You're a plant geneticist and a tankculture expert. There's a job for you.     Uh-      uh     ! Len backed away. It sounds like a medical problem to me.Human cell control—right up your alley.     It is a one-way street, Pat warned. Once it is done, you won't beable to digest ship food. I'll get no good from this protein. I ate itjust for the taste.     Hal Barton appeared quietly beside the table. Three of the twelve testhamsters have died, he reported, and turned to Pat. Your people carrythe germs of melting sickness, as you call it. The dead hamsters wereinjected with blood taken from you before you were de-infected. Wecan't settle here unless we de-infect everybody on Minos. Would theyobject?     We wouldn't want to give you folks germs, Pat smiled. Anything forsafety. But there'll have to be a vote on it first.     The doctors went to Reno Ulrich's table and walked with him to thehangar, explaining. He was to carry the proposal to Alexandria, minglewith the people, be persuasive and wait for them to vote beforereturning. He was to give himself shots of cureall every two hours onthe hour or run the risk of disease.  Reno was pleased. He had dabbled in sociology before retraining as amechanic for the expedition. This gives me a chance to study theirmores. He winked wickedly. I may not be back for several nights.They watched through the viewplate as he took off, and then went overto the laboratory for a look at the hamsters.     Three were alive and healthy, munching lettuce. One was the control;the other two had been given shots of Pat's blood from before heentered the ship, but with no additional treatment. Apparently ahamster could fight off melting sickness easily if left alone. Threewere still feverish and ruffled, with a low red blood count, butrecovering. The three dead ones had been given strong shots of adaptiveand counter histamine, so their bodies had not fought back against theattack.     June glanced at the dead animals hastily and looked away again.They lay twisted with a strange semi-fluid limpness, as if ready todissolve. The last hamster, which had been given the heaviest doseof adaptive, had apparently lost all its hair before death. It washairless and pink, like a still-born baby.     We can find no micro-organisms, George Barton said. None at all.Nothing in the body that should not be there. Leucosis and anemia.Fever only for the ones that fought it off. He handed Max sometemperature charts and graphs of blood counts.     June wandered out into the hall. Pediatrics and obstetrics were herfield; she left the cellular research to Max, and just helped him withlaboratory routine. The strange mood followed her out into the hall,then abruptly lightened.     Coming toward her, busily telling a tale of adventure to the gorgeousShelia Davenport, was a tall, red-headed, magnificently handsome man.It was his handsomeness which made Pat such a pleasure to look uponand talk with, she guiltily told herself, and it was his tremendousvitality.... It was like meeting a movie hero in the flesh, or a heroout of the pages of a book—Deer-slayer, John Clayton, Lord Greystoke.     She waited in the doorway to the laboratory and made no move to jointhem, merely acknowledged the two with a nod and a smile and a casuallift of the hand. They nodded and smiled back.     Hello, June, said Pat and continued telling his tale, but as theypassed he lightly touched her arm.     Oh, pioneer! she said mockingly and softly to his passing profile,and knew that he had heard.  ","Upon meeting Patrick, June makes note of his tall frame and how his appearance resembles her own. She seems to admire his looks. She in turn feels guilty as Max, her partner, seems to not compare well to Patrick in her own eyes. She also notes that Max is frailer than Pat. Back on the ship, June admires herself during the spacesuit decontamination process. Evident from Max’s reaction, it is unusual for her to do so in such a manner. It is hinted that Pat’s appearance prompted her examination. Further, into the story, June begins to express more uneasiness with Max’s figure. She also does not appear to like that so many women are giving Pat a lot of attention. She continues to feel guilty as she sees her feelings toward Pat as being disloyal to Max, who she thinks she loves. She again shows her jealously when Pat is seen walking down a hallway with Shelia Davenport, who June herself describes as gorgeous. "
"What is the melting sickness? </s>     CONTAGION     By KATHERINE MacLEAN     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction October 1950.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]       Minos was such a lovely planet. Not a     thing seemed wrong with it. Excepting the food,     perhaps. And a disease that wasn't really.      It was like an Earth forest in the fall, but it was not fall. Theforest leaves were green and copper and purple and fiery red, and awind sent patches of bright greenish sunlight dancing among the leafshadows.     The hunt party of the      Explorer     filed along the narrow trail, gunsready, walking carefully, listening to the distant, half familiar criesof strange birds.     A faint crackle of static in their earphones indicated that a gun hadbeen fired.     Got anything? asked June Walton. The helmet intercom carried hervoice to the ears of the others without breaking the stillness of theforest.     Took a shot at something, explained George Barton's cheerful voicein her earphones. She rounded a bend of the trail and came upon Bartonstanding peering up into the trees, his gun still raised. It lookedlike a duck.     This isn't Central Park, said Hal Barton, his brother, coming intosight. His green spacesuit struck an incongruous note against thebronze and red forest. They won't all look like ducks, he saidsoberly.     Maybe some will look like dragons. Don't get eaten by a dragon,June, came Max's voice quietly into her earphones. Not while I stilllove you. He came out of the trees carrying the blood sample kit, andtouched her glove with his, the grin on his ugly beloved face barelyvisible in the mingled light and shade. A patch of sunlight struck agreenish glint from his fishbowl helmet.  They walked on. A quarter of a mile back, the space ship      Explorer     towered over the forest like a tapering skyscraper, and the people ofthe ship looked out of the viewplates at fresh winds and sunlight andclouds, and they longed to be outside.     But the likeness to Earth was danger, and the cool wind might be death,for if the animals were like Earth animals, their diseases might belike Earth diseases, alike enough to be contagious, different enough tobe impossible to treat. There was warning enough in the past. Colonieshad vanished, and traveled spaceways drifted with the corpses of shipswhich had touched on some plague planet.     The people of the ship waited while their doctors, in airtightspacesuits, hunted animals to test them for contagion.     The four medicos, for June Walton was also a doctor, filed through thealien homelike forest, walking softly, watching for motion among thecopper and purple shadows.     They saw it suddenly, a lighter moving copper patch among the darkerbrowns. Reflex action swung June's gun into line, and behind hersomeone's gun went off with a faint crackle of static, and made a holein the leaves beside the specimen. Then for a while no one moved.     This one looked like a man, a magnificently muscled, leanly graceful,humanlike animal. Even in its callused bare feet, it was a head tallerthan any of them. Red-haired, hawk-faced and darkly tanned, it stoodbreathing heavily, looking at them without expression. At its side hunga sheath knife, and a crossbow was slung across one wide shoulder.     They lowered their guns.     It needs a shave, Max said reasonably in their earphones, and hereached up to his helmet and flipped the switch that let his voice beheard. Something we could do for you, Mac?     The friendly drawl was the first voice that had broken the forestsounds. June smiled suddenly. He was right. The strict logic ofevolution did not demand beards; therefore a non-human would not bewearing a three day growth of red stubble.     Still panting, the tall figure licked dry lips and spoke. Welcome toMinos. The Mayor sends greetings from Alexandria.     English? gasped June.     We were afraid you would take off again before I could bring word toyou.... It's three hundred miles.... We saw your scout plane passtwice, but we couldn't attract its attention.  June looked in stunned silence at the stranger leaning against thetree. Thirty-six light years—thirty-six times six trillion milesof monotonous space travel—to be told that the planet was alreadysettled! We didn't know there was a colony here, she said. It is noton the map.     We were afraid of that, the tall bronze man answered soberly. Wehave been here three generations and yet no traders have come.     Max shifted the kit strap on his shoulder and offered a hand. My nameis Max Stark, M.D. This is June Walton, M.D., Hal Barton, M.D., andGeorge Barton, Hal's brother, also M.D.     Patrick Mead is the name, smiled the man, shaking hands casually.Just a hunter and bridge carpenter myself. Never met any medicosbefore.     The grip was effortless but even through her airproofed glove Junecould feel that the fingers that touched hers were as hard as paddedsteel.     What—what is the population of Minos? she asked.     He looked down at her curiously for a moment before answering. Onlyone hundred and fifty. He smiled. Don't worry, this isn't a cityplanet yet. There's room for a few more people. He shook hands withthe Bartons quickly. That is—you are people, aren't you? he askedstartlingly.     Why not? said Max with a poise that June admired.     Well, you are all so—so— Patrick Mead's eyes roamed across thefaces of the group. So varied.     They could find no meaning in that, and stood puzzled.     I mean, Patrick Mead said into the silence, all these—interestingdifferent hair colors and face shapes and so forth— He made a vaguewave with one hand as if he had run out of words or was anxious not toinsult them.     Joke? Max asked, bewildered.     June laid a hand on his arm. No harm meant, she said to him over theintercom. We're just as much of a shock to him as he is to us.     She addressed a question to the tall colonist on outside sound. Whatshould a person look like, Mr. Mead?     He indicated her with a smile. Like you.     June stepped closer and stood looking up at him, considering her owndescription. She was tall and tanned, like him; had a few freckles,like him; and wavy red hair, like his. She ignored the brightlyhumorous blue eyes.     In other words, she said, everyone on the planet looks like you andme?     Patrick Mead took another look at their four faces and began to grin.Like me, I guess. But I hadn't thought of it before. I did not thinkthat people could have different colored hair or that noses could fitso many ways onto faces. I was judging by my own appearance, but Isuppose any fool can walk on his hands and say the world is upsidedown! He laughed and sobered. But then why wear spacesuits? The airis breathable.     For safety, June told him. We can't take any chances on plague.     Pat Mead was wearing nothing but a loin cloth and his weapons, and thewind ruffled his hair. He looked comfortable, and they longed to takeoff the stuffy spacesuits and feel the wind against their own skins.Minos was like home, like Earth.... But they were strangers.     Plague, Pat Mead said thoughtfully. We had one here. It came twoyears after the colony arrived and killed everyone except the Meadfamilies. They were immune. I guess we look alike because we're allrelated, and that's why I grew up thinking that it is the only waypeople can look.       Plague.     What was the disease? Hal Barton asked.     Pretty gruesome, according to my father. They called it the meltingsickness. The doctors died too soon to find out what it was or what todo about it.     You should have trained for more doctors, or sent to civilization forsome. A trace of impatience was in George Barton's voice.     Pat Mead explained patiently, Our ship, with the power plant and allthe books we needed, went off into the sky to avoid the contagion,and never came back. The crew must have died. Long years of hardshipwere indicated by that statement, a colony with electric power goneand machinery stilled, with key technicians dead and no way to replacethem. June realized then the full meaning of the primitive sheath knifeand bow.     Any recurrence of melting sickness? asked Hal Barton.     No.     Any other diseases?     Not a one.     Max was eyeing the bronze red-headed figure with something approachingawe. Do you think all the Meads look like that? he said to June onthe intercom. I wouldn't mind being a Mead myself!  Their job had been made easy by the coming of Pat. They went back tothe ship laughing, exchanging anecdotes with him. There was nothingnow to keep Minos from being the home they wanted, except the meltingsickness, and, forewarned against it, they could take precautions.     The polished silver and black column of the      Explorer     seemed to risehigher and higher over the trees as they neared it. Then its symmetryblurred all sense of specific size as they stepped out from among thetrees and stood on the edge of the meadow, looking up.     Nice! said Pat. Beautiful! The admiration in his voice was warming.     It was a yacht, Max said, still looking up, second hand, an old-timebeauty without a sign of wear. Synthetic diamond-studded control boardand murals on the walls. It doesn't have the new speed drives, but itbrought us thirty-six light years in one and a half subjective years.Plenty good enough.     The tall tanned man looked faintly wistful, and June realized thathe had never had access to a full library, never seen a movie, neverexperienced luxury. He had been born and raised on Minos.  May I go aboard? Pat asked hopefully.     Max unslung the specimen kit from his shoulder, laid it on the carpetof plants that covered the ground and began to open it.     Tests first, Hal Barton said. We have to find out if you peoplestill carry this so-called melting sickness. We'll have to de-microbeyou and take specimens before we let you on board. Once on, you'll beno good as a check for what the other Meads might have.     Max was taking out a rack and a stand of preservative bottles andhypodermics.     Are you going to jab me with those? Pat asked with interest.     You're just a specimen animal to me, bud! Max grinned at Pat Mead,and Pat grinned back. June saw that they were friends already, thetall pantherish colonist, and the wry, black-haired doctor. She felt astab of guilt because she loved Max and yet could pity him for beingsmaller and frailer than Pat Mead.     Lie down, Max told him, and hold still. We need two spinal fluidsamples from the back, a body cavity one in front, and another from thearm.     Pat lay down obediently. Max knelt, and, as he spoke, expertly swabbedand inserted needles with the smooth speed that had made him a finenerve surgeon on Earth.     High above them the scout helioplane came out of an opening in the shipand angled off toward the west, its buzz diminishing. Then, suddenly,it veered and headed back, and Reno Unrich's voice came tinnily fromtheir earphones:     What's that you've got? Hey, what are you docs doing down there? Hebanked again and came to a stop, hovering fifty feet away. June couldsee his startled face looking through the glass at Pat.     Hal Barton switched to a narrow radio beam, explained rapidly andpointed in the direction of Alexandria. Reno's plane lifted and flewaway over the odd-colored forest.     The plane will drop a note on your town, telling them you gotthrough to us, Hal Barton told Pat, who was sitting up watching Maxdexterously put the blood and spinal fluids into the right bottleswithout exposing them to air.     We won't be free to contact your people until we know if they stillcarry melting sickness, Max added. You might be immune so it doesn'tshow on you, but still carry enough germs—if that's what caused it—towipe out a planet.     If you do carry melting sickness, said Hal Barton, we won't be ableto mingle with your people until we've cleared them of the disease.     Starting with me? Pat asked.     Starting with you, Max told him ruefully, as soon as you step onboard.     More needles?     Yes, and a few little extras thrown in.     Rough?     It isn't easy.     A few minutes later, standing in the stalls for spacesuitdecontamination, being buffeted by jets of hot disinfectant, bathed inglares of sterilizing ultraviolet radiation, June remembered that andcompared Pat Mead's treatment to theirs.     In the      Explorer     , stored carefully in sealed tanks and containers,was the ultimate, multi-purpose cureall. It was a solution of enzymesso like the key catalysts of the human cell nucleus that it causedchemical derangement and disintegration in any non-human cell. Nothingcould live in contact with it but human cells; any alien intruder tothe body would die. Nucleocat Cureall was its trade name.     But the cureall alone was not enough for complete safety. Plagues hadbeen known to slay too rapidly and universally to be checked by humantreatment. Doctors are not reliable; they die. Therefore spaceways andinterplanetary health law demanded that ship equipment for guardingagainst disease be totally mechanical in operation, rapid and efficient.     Somewhere near them, in a series of stalls which led around andaround like a rabbit maze, Pat was being herded from stall to stallby peremptory mechanical voices, directed to soap and shower, orderedto insert his arm into a slot which took a sample of his blood, givensolutions to drink, bathed in germicidal ultraviolet, shaken by sonicblasts, breathing air thick with sprays of germicidal mists, beingdirected to put his arms into other slots where they were anesthesizedand injected with various immunizing solutions.     Finally, he would be put in a room of high temperature and extremedryness, and instructed to sit for half an hour while more fluids weredripped into his veins through long thin tubes.     All legal spaceships were built for safety. No chance was taken ofallowing a suspected carrier to bring an infection on board with him.  June stepped from the last shower stall into the locker room, zippedoff her spacesuit with a sigh of relief, and contemplated herself in awall mirror. Red hair, dark blue eyes, tall....     I've got a good figure, she said thoughtfully.     Max turned at the door. Why this sudden interest in your looks? heasked suspiciously. Do we stand here and admire you, or do we finallyget something to eat?     Wait a minute. She went to a wall phone and dialed it carefully,using a combination from the ship's directory. How're you doing, Pat?     The phone picked up a hissing of water or spray. There was a startledchuckle. Voices, too! Hello, June. How do you tell a machine to gojump in the lake?     Are you hungry?     No food since yesterday.     We'll have a banquet ready for you when you get out, she told Pat andhung up, smiling. Pat Mead's voice had a vitality and enjoyment whichmade shipboard talk sound like sad artificial gaiety in contrast.     They looked into the nearby small laboratory where twelve squealinghamsters were protestingly submitting to a small injection each ofPat's blood. In most of them the injection was followed by one ofantihistaminics and adaptives. Otherwise the hamster defense systemwould treat all non-hamster cells as enemies, even the harmless humanblood cells, and fight back against them violently.     One hamster, the twelfth, was given an extra large dose of adaptive,so that if there were a disease, he would not fight it or the humancells, and thus succumb more rapidly.     How ya doing, George? Max asked.     Routine, George Barton grunted absently.     On the way up the long spiral ramps to the dining hall, they passed aviewplate. It showed a long scene of mountains in the distance on thehorizon, and between them, rising step by step as they grew fartheraway, the low rolling hills, bronze and red with patches of clear greenwhere there were fields.     Someone was looking out, standing very still, as if she had beenthere a long time—Bess St. Clair, a Canadian woman. It looks likeWinnipeg, she told them as they paused. When are you doctors going tolet us out of this blithering barberpole? Look, she pointed. See thatpatch of field on the south hillside, with the brook winding throughit? I've staked that hillside for our house. When do we get out?  Reno Ulrich's tiny scout plane buzzed slowly in from the distance andbegan circling lazily.     Sooner than you think, Max told her. We've discovered a castawaycolony on the planet. They've done our tests for us by just livinghere. If there's anything here to catch, they've caught it.     People on Minos? Bess's handsome ruddy face grew alive withexcitement.     One of them is down in the medical department, June said. He'll beout in twenty minutes.     May I go see him?     Sure, said Max. Show him the way to the dining hall when he getsout. Tell him we sent you.     Right! She turned and ran down the ramp like a small girl going to afire. Max grinned at June and she grinned back. After a year and a halfof isolation in space, everyone was hungry for the sight of new faces,the sound of unfamiliar voices.  They climbed the last two turns to the cafeteria, and entered to a richsubdued blend of soft music and quiet conversations. The cafeteriawas a section of the old dining room, left when the rest of the shiphad been converted to living and working quarters, and it still hadthe original finely grained wood of the ceiling and walls, the soundabsorbency, the soft music spools and the intimate small light at eachtable where people leisurely ate and talked.     They stood in line at the hot foods counter, and behind her Junecould hear a girl's voice talking excitedly through the murmur ofconversation.     —new man, honest! I saw him through the viewplate when they came in.He's down in the medical department. A real frontiersman.     The line drew abreast of the counters, and she and Max chose threeheaping trays, starting with hydroponic mushroom steak, raised inthe growing trays of water and chemicals; sharp salad bowl with rosetomatoes and aromatic peppers; tank-grown fish with special sauce; fourdifferent desserts, and assorted beverages.     Presently they had three tottering trays successfully maneuvered to atable. Brant St. Clair came over. I beg your pardon, Max, but they aresaying something about Reno carrying messages to a colony of savages,for the medical department. Will he be back soon, do you know?     Max smiled up at him, his square face affectionate. Everyone liked theshy Canadian. He's back already. We just saw him come in.     Oh, fine. St. Clair beamed. I had an appointment with him to go outand confirm what looks like a nice vein of iron to the northeast. Haveyou seen Bess? Oh—there she is. He turned swiftly and hurried away.     A very tall man with fiery red hair came in surrounded by an eagerlytalking crowd of ship people. It was Pat Mead. He stood in the doorway,alertly scanning the dining room. Sheer vitality made him seem evenlarger than he was. Sighting June, he smiled and began to thread towardtheir table.     Look! said someone. There's the colonist! Shelia, a pretty, jeweledwoman, followed and caught his arm. Did you      really     swim across ariver to come here?     Overflowing with good-will and curiosity, people approached from alldirections. Did you actually walk three hundred miles? Come, eat withus. Let me help choose your tray.     Everyone wanted him to eat at their table, everyone was a specialistand wanted data about Minos. They all wanted anecdotes about huntingwild animals with a bow and arrow.     He needs to be rescued, Max said. He won't have a chance to eat.     June and Max got up firmly, edged through the crowd, captured Pat andescorted him back to their table. June found herself pleased to beclaiming the hero of the hour.  Pat sat in the simple, subtly designed chair and leaned back almostvoluptuously, testing the way it gave and fitted itself to him. Heran his eyes over the bright tableware and heaped plates. He lookedaround at the rich grained walls and soft lights at each table. He saidnothing, just looking and feeling and experiencing.     When we build our town and leave the ship, June explained, wewill turn all the staterooms back into the lounges and ballrooms andcocktail bars that used to be inside.     Oh, I'm not complaining, Pat said negligently. He cocked his head tothe music, and tried to locate its source.     That's big of you, said Max with gentle irony.     They fell to, Pat beginning the first meal he had had in more than aday.     Most of the other diners finished when they were halfway through,and began walking over, diffidently at first, then in another waveof smiling faces, handshakes, and introductions. Pat was asked aboutcrops, about farming methods, about rainfall and floods, about farmanimals and plant breeding, about the compatibility of imported Earthseeds with local ground, about mines and strata.     There was no need to protect him. He leaned back in his chair anddrawled answers with the lazy ease of a panther; where he could thinkof no statistic, he would fill the gap with an anecdote. It developedthat he enjoyed spinning campfire yarns and especially being the centerof interest.     Between bouts of questions, he ate with undiminished and glowing relish.     June noticed that the female specialists were prolonging the questionsmore than they needed, clustering around the table laughing at hisjokes, until presently Pat was almost surrounded by pretty faces,eager questions, and chiming laughs. Shelia the beautiful laughed mostchimingly of all.     June nudged Max, and Max shrugged indifferently. It wasn't anything aman would pay attention to, perhaps. But June watched Pat for a momentmore, then glanced uneasily back to Max. He was eating and listeningto Pat's answers and did not feel her gaze. For some reason Max lookedalmost shrunken to her. He was shorter than she had realized; she hadforgotten that he was only the same height as herself. She was dimlyaware of the clear lilting chatter of female voices increasing at Pat'send of the table.     That guy's a menace, Max said, and laughed to himself, cuttinganother slice of hydroponic mushroom steak. What's eating you? headded, glancing aside at her when he noticed her sudden stillness.     Nothing, she said hastily, but she did not turn back to watching PatMead. She felt disloyal. Pat was only a superb animal. Max was the manshe loved. Or—was he? Of course he was, she told herself angrily.They had gone colonizing together because they wanted to spend theirlives together; she had never thought of marrying any other man. Yetthe sense of dissatisfaction persisted, and along with it a feeling ofguilt.     Len Marlow, the protein tank-culture technician responsible for themushroom steaks, had wormed his way into the group and asked Pat aquestion. Now he was saying, I don't dig you, Pat. It sounds likeyou're putting the people into the tanks instead of the vegetables! Heglanced at them, looking puzzled. See if you two can make anything ofthis. It sounds medical to me.     Pat leaned back and smiled, sipping a glass of hydroponic burgundy.Wonderful stuff. You'll have to show us how to make it.     Len turned back to him. You people live off the country, right? Youhunt and bring in steaks and eat them, right? Well, say I have one ofthose steaks right here and I want to eat it, what happens?  Go ahead and eat it. It just wouldn't digest. You'd stay hungry.     Why? Len was aggrieved.     Chemical differences in the basic protoplasm of Minos. Differentamino linkages, left-handed instead of right-handed molecules in thecarbohydrates, things like that. Nothing will be digestible here untilyou are adapted chemically by a little test-tube evolution. Till thenyou'd starve to death on a full stomach.     Pat's side of the table had been loaded with the dishes from two trays,but it was almost clear now and the dishes were stacked neatly to oneside. He started on three desserts, thoughtfully tasting each in turn.     Test-tube evolution? Max repeated. What's that? I thought you peoplehad no doctors.     It's a story. Pat leaned back again. Alexander P. Mead, the head ofthe Mead clan, was a plant geneticist, a very determined personalityand no man to argue with. He didn't want us to go through the struggleof killing off all Minos plants and putting in our own, spoiling theface of the planet and upsetting the balance of its ecology. He decidedthat he would adapt our genes to this planet or kill us trying. He didit all right.'     Did which? asked June, suddenly feeling a sourceless prickle of fear.     Adapted us to Minos. He took human cells—  She listened intently, trying to find a reason for fear in theexplanation. It would have taken many human generations to adapt toMinos by ordinary evolution, and that only at a heavy toll of death andhunger which evolution exacts. There was a shorter way: Human cellshave the ability to return to their primeval condition of independence,hunting, eating and reproducing alone.     Alexander P. Mead took human cells and made them into phagocytes.He put them through the hard savage school of evolution—a thousandgenerations of multiplication, hardship and hunger, with the alienindigestible food always present, offering its reward of plenty to thecell that reluctantly learned to absorb it.     Leucocytes can run through several thousand generations of evolutionin six months, Pat Mead finished. When they reached to a point wherethey would absorb Minos food, he planted them back in the people hehad taken them from.     What was supposed to happen then? Max asked, leaning forward.     I don't know exactly how it worked. He never told anybody much aboutit, and when I was a little boy he had gone loco and was wanderingha-ha-ing around waving a test tube. Fell down a ravine and broke hisneck at the age of eighty.     A character, Max said.     Why was she afraid? It worked then?     Yes. He tried it on all the Meads the first year. The other settlersdidn't want to be experimented on until they saw how it worked out. Itworked. The Meads could hunt, and plant while the other settlers werestill eating out of hydroponics tanks.     It worked, said Max to Len. You're a plant geneticist and a tankculture expert. There's a job for you.     Uh-      uh     ! Len backed away. It sounds like a medical problem to me.Human cell control—right up your alley.     It is a one-way street, Pat warned. Once it is done, you won't beable to digest ship food. I'll get no good from this protein. I ate itjust for the taste.     Hal Barton appeared quietly beside the table. Three of the twelve testhamsters have died, he reported, and turned to Pat. Your people carrythe germs of melting sickness, as you call it. The dead hamsters wereinjected with blood taken from you before you were de-infected. Wecan't settle here unless we de-infect everybody on Minos. Would theyobject?     We wouldn't want to give you folks germs, Pat smiled. Anything forsafety. But there'll have to be a vote on it first.     The doctors went to Reno Ulrich's table and walked with him to thehangar, explaining. He was to carry the proposal to Alexandria, minglewith the people, be persuasive and wait for them to vote beforereturning. He was to give himself shots of cureall every two hours onthe hour or run the risk of disease.  Reno was pleased. He had dabbled in sociology before retraining as amechanic for the expedition. This gives me a chance to study theirmores. He winked wickedly. I may not be back for several nights.They watched through the viewplate as he took off, and then went overto the laboratory for a look at the hamsters.     Three were alive and healthy, munching lettuce. One was the control;the other two had been given shots of Pat's blood from before heentered the ship, but with no additional treatment. Apparently ahamster could fight off melting sickness easily if left alone. Threewere still feverish and ruffled, with a low red blood count, butrecovering. The three dead ones had been given strong shots of adaptiveand counter histamine, so their bodies had not fought back against theattack.     June glanced at the dead animals hastily and looked away again.They lay twisted with a strange semi-fluid limpness, as if ready todissolve. The last hamster, which had been given the heaviest doseof adaptive, had apparently lost all its hair before death. It washairless and pink, like a still-born baby.     We can find no micro-organisms, George Barton said. None at all.Nothing in the body that should not be there. Leucosis and anemia.Fever only for the ones that fought it off. He handed Max sometemperature charts and graphs of blood counts.     June wandered out into the hall. Pediatrics and obstetrics were herfield; she left the cellular research to Max, and just helped him withlaboratory routine. The strange mood followed her out into the hall,then abruptly lightened.     Coming toward her, busily telling a tale of adventure to the gorgeousShelia Davenport, was a tall, red-headed, magnificently handsome man.It was his handsomeness which made Pat such a pleasure to look uponand talk with, she guiltily told herself, and it was his tremendousvitality.... It was like meeting a movie hero in the flesh, or a heroout of the pages of a book—Deer-slayer, John Clayton, Lord Greystoke.     She waited in the doorway to the laboratory and made no move to jointhem, merely acknowledged the two with a nod and a smile and a casuallift of the hand. They nodded and smiled back.     Hello, June, said Pat and continued telling his tale, but as theypassed he lightly touched her arm.     Oh, pioneer! she said mockingly and softly to his passing profile,and knew that he had heard.  ","The melting sickness is described as a type of plague by Pat. He informs the doctors that it arrived soon after the colony settled on the planet and killed all but one particular familiar which happened to be immune to the disease. The disease is described as being brutal and not even doctors were able to avoid it. According to Pat, there has not been any recurrence of the melting sickness and no other diseases to note. "
"What criteria for health safety do the members of the Explorer follow? </s>     CONTAGION     By KATHERINE MacLEAN     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction October 1950.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]       Minos was such a lovely planet. Not a     thing seemed wrong with it. Excepting the food,     perhaps. And a disease that wasn't really.      It was like an Earth forest in the fall, but it was not fall. Theforest leaves were green and copper and purple and fiery red, and awind sent patches of bright greenish sunlight dancing among the leafshadows.     The hunt party of the      Explorer     filed along the narrow trail, gunsready, walking carefully, listening to the distant, half familiar criesof strange birds.     A faint crackle of static in their earphones indicated that a gun hadbeen fired.     Got anything? asked June Walton. The helmet intercom carried hervoice to the ears of the others without breaking the stillness of theforest.     Took a shot at something, explained George Barton's cheerful voicein her earphones. She rounded a bend of the trail and came upon Bartonstanding peering up into the trees, his gun still raised. It lookedlike a duck.     This isn't Central Park, said Hal Barton, his brother, coming intosight. His green spacesuit struck an incongruous note against thebronze and red forest. They won't all look like ducks, he saidsoberly.     Maybe some will look like dragons. Don't get eaten by a dragon,June, came Max's voice quietly into her earphones. Not while I stilllove you. He came out of the trees carrying the blood sample kit, andtouched her glove with his, the grin on his ugly beloved face barelyvisible in the mingled light and shade. A patch of sunlight struck agreenish glint from his fishbowl helmet.  They walked on. A quarter of a mile back, the space ship      Explorer     towered over the forest like a tapering skyscraper, and the people ofthe ship looked out of the viewplates at fresh winds and sunlight andclouds, and they longed to be outside.     But the likeness to Earth was danger, and the cool wind might be death,for if the animals were like Earth animals, their diseases might belike Earth diseases, alike enough to be contagious, different enough tobe impossible to treat. There was warning enough in the past. Colonieshad vanished, and traveled spaceways drifted with the corpses of shipswhich had touched on some plague planet.     The people of the ship waited while their doctors, in airtightspacesuits, hunted animals to test them for contagion.     The four medicos, for June Walton was also a doctor, filed through thealien homelike forest, walking softly, watching for motion among thecopper and purple shadows.     They saw it suddenly, a lighter moving copper patch among the darkerbrowns. Reflex action swung June's gun into line, and behind hersomeone's gun went off with a faint crackle of static, and made a holein the leaves beside the specimen. Then for a while no one moved.     This one looked like a man, a magnificently muscled, leanly graceful,humanlike animal. Even in its callused bare feet, it was a head tallerthan any of them. Red-haired, hawk-faced and darkly tanned, it stoodbreathing heavily, looking at them without expression. At its side hunga sheath knife, and a crossbow was slung across one wide shoulder.     They lowered their guns.     It needs a shave, Max said reasonably in their earphones, and hereached up to his helmet and flipped the switch that let his voice beheard. Something we could do for you, Mac?     The friendly drawl was the first voice that had broken the forestsounds. June smiled suddenly. He was right. The strict logic ofevolution did not demand beards; therefore a non-human would not bewearing a three day growth of red stubble.     Still panting, the tall figure licked dry lips and spoke. Welcome toMinos. The Mayor sends greetings from Alexandria.     English? gasped June.     We were afraid you would take off again before I could bring word toyou.... It's three hundred miles.... We saw your scout plane passtwice, but we couldn't attract its attention.  June looked in stunned silence at the stranger leaning against thetree. Thirty-six light years—thirty-six times six trillion milesof monotonous space travel—to be told that the planet was alreadysettled! We didn't know there was a colony here, she said. It is noton the map.     We were afraid of that, the tall bronze man answered soberly. Wehave been here three generations and yet no traders have come.     Max shifted the kit strap on his shoulder and offered a hand. My nameis Max Stark, M.D. This is June Walton, M.D., Hal Barton, M.D., andGeorge Barton, Hal's brother, also M.D.     Patrick Mead is the name, smiled the man, shaking hands casually.Just a hunter and bridge carpenter myself. Never met any medicosbefore.     The grip was effortless but even through her airproofed glove Junecould feel that the fingers that touched hers were as hard as paddedsteel.     What—what is the population of Minos? she asked.     He looked down at her curiously for a moment before answering. Onlyone hundred and fifty. He smiled. Don't worry, this isn't a cityplanet yet. There's room for a few more people. He shook hands withthe Bartons quickly. That is—you are people, aren't you? he askedstartlingly.     Why not? said Max with a poise that June admired.     Well, you are all so—so— Patrick Mead's eyes roamed across thefaces of the group. So varied.     They could find no meaning in that, and stood puzzled.     I mean, Patrick Mead said into the silence, all these—interestingdifferent hair colors and face shapes and so forth— He made a vaguewave with one hand as if he had run out of words or was anxious not toinsult them.     Joke? Max asked, bewildered.     June laid a hand on his arm. No harm meant, she said to him over theintercom. We're just as much of a shock to him as he is to us.     She addressed a question to the tall colonist on outside sound. Whatshould a person look like, Mr. Mead?     He indicated her with a smile. Like you.     June stepped closer and stood looking up at him, considering her owndescription. She was tall and tanned, like him; had a few freckles,like him; and wavy red hair, like his. She ignored the brightlyhumorous blue eyes.     In other words, she said, everyone on the planet looks like you andme?     Patrick Mead took another look at their four faces and began to grin.Like me, I guess. But I hadn't thought of it before. I did not thinkthat people could have different colored hair or that noses could fitso many ways onto faces. I was judging by my own appearance, but Isuppose any fool can walk on his hands and say the world is upsidedown! He laughed and sobered. But then why wear spacesuits? The airis breathable.     For safety, June told him. We can't take any chances on plague.     Pat Mead was wearing nothing but a loin cloth and his weapons, and thewind ruffled his hair. He looked comfortable, and they longed to takeoff the stuffy spacesuits and feel the wind against their own skins.Minos was like home, like Earth.... But they were strangers.     Plague, Pat Mead said thoughtfully. We had one here. It came twoyears after the colony arrived and killed everyone except the Meadfamilies. They were immune. I guess we look alike because we're allrelated, and that's why I grew up thinking that it is the only waypeople can look.       Plague.     What was the disease? Hal Barton asked.     Pretty gruesome, according to my father. They called it the meltingsickness. The doctors died too soon to find out what it was or what todo about it.     You should have trained for more doctors, or sent to civilization forsome. A trace of impatience was in George Barton's voice.     Pat Mead explained patiently, Our ship, with the power plant and allthe books we needed, went off into the sky to avoid the contagion,and never came back. The crew must have died. Long years of hardshipwere indicated by that statement, a colony with electric power goneand machinery stilled, with key technicians dead and no way to replacethem. June realized then the full meaning of the primitive sheath knifeand bow.     Any recurrence of melting sickness? asked Hal Barton.     No.     Any other diseases?     Not a one.     Max was eyeing the bronze red-headed figure with something approachingawe. Do you think all the Meads look like that? he said to June onthe intercom. I wouldn't mind being a Mead myself!  Their job had been made easy by the coming of Pat. They went back tothe ship laughing, exchanging anecdotes with him. There was nothingnow to keep Minos from being the home they wanted, except the meltingsickness, and, forewarned against it, they could take precautions.     The polished silver and black column of the      Explorer     seemed to risehigher and higher over the trees as they neared it. Then its symmetryblurred all sense of specific size as they stepped out from among thetrees and stood on the edge of the meadow, looking up.     Nice! said Pat. Beautiful! The admiration in his voice was warming.     It was a yacht, Max said, still looking up, second hand, an old-timebeauty without a sign of wear. Synthetic diamond-studded control boardand murals on the walls. It doesn't have the new speed drives, but itbrought us thirty-six light years in one and a half subjective years.Plenty good enough.     The tall tanned man looked faintly wistful, and June realized thathe had never had access to a full library, never seen a movie, neverexperienced luxury. He had been born and raised on Minos.  May I go aboard? Pat asked hopefully.     Max unslung the specimen kit from his shoulder, laid it on the carpetof plants that covered the ground and began to open it.     Tests first, Hal Barton said. We have to find out if you peoplestill carry this so-called melting sickness. We'll have to de-microbeyou and take specimens before we let you on board. Once on, you'll beno good as a check for what the other Meads might have.     Max was taking out a rack and a stand of preservative bottles andhypodermics.     Are you going to jab me with those? Pat asked with interest.     You're just a specimen animal to me, bud! Max grinned at Pat Mead,and Pat grinned back. June saw that they were friends already, thetall pantherish colonist, and the wry, black-haired doctor. She felt astab of guilt because she loved Max and yet could pity him for beingsmaller and frailer than Pat Mead.     Lie down, Max told him, and hold still. We need two spinal fluidsamples from the back, a body cavity one in front, and another from thearm.     Pat lay down obediently. Max knelt, and, as he spoke, expertly swabbedand inserted needles with the smooth speed that had made him a finenerve surgeon on Earth.     High above them the scout helioplane came out of an opening in the shipand angled off toward the west, its buzz diminishing. Then, suddenly,it veered and headed back, and Reno Unrich's voice came tinnily fromtheir earphones:     What's that you've got? Hey, what are you docs doing down there? Hebanked again and came to a stop, hovering fifty feet away. June couldsee his startled face looking through the glass at Pat.     Hal Barton switched to a narrow radio beam, explained rapidly andpointed in the direction of Alexandria. Reno's plane lifted and flewaway over the odd-colored forest.     The plane will drop a note on your town, telling them you gotthrough to us, Hal Barton told Pat, who was sitting up watching Maxdexterously put the blood and spinal fluids into the right bottleswithout exposing them to air.     We won't be free to contact your people until we know if they stillcarry melting sickness, Max added. You might be immune so it doesn'tshow on you, but still carry enough germs—if that's what caused it—towipe out a planet.     If you do carry melting sickness, said Hal Barton, we won't be ableto mingle with your people until we've cleared them of the disease.     Starting with me? Pat asked.     Starting with you, Max told him ruefully, as soon as you step onboard.     More needles?     Yes, and a few little extras thrown in.     Rough?     It isn't easy.     A few minutes later, standing in the stalls for spacesuitdecontamination, being buffeted by jets of hot disinfectant, bathed inglares of sterilizing ultraviolet radiation, June remembered that andcompared Pat Mead's treatment to theirs.     In the      Explorer     , stored carefully in sealed tanks and containers,was the ultimate, multi-purpose cureall. It was a solution of enzymesso like the key catalysts of the human cell nucleus that it causedchemical derangement and disintegration in any non-human cell. Nothingcould live in contact with it but human cells; any alien intruder tothe body would die. Nucleocat Cureall was its trade name.     But the cureall alone was not enough for complete safety. Plagues hadbeen known to slay too rapidly and universally to be checked by humantreatment. Doctors are not reliable; they die. Therefore spaceways andinterplanetary health law demanded that ship equipment for guardingagainst disease be totally mechanical in operation, rapid and efficient.     Somewhere near them, in a series of stalls which led around andaround like a rabbit maze, Pat was being herded from stall to stallby peremptory mechanical voices, directed to soap and shower, orderedto insert his arm into a slot which took a sample of his blood, givensolutions to drink, bathed in germicidal ultraviolet, shaken by sonicblasts, breathing air thick with sprays of germicidal mists, beingdirected to put his arms into other slots where they were anesthesizedand injected with various immunizing solutions.     Finally, he would be put in a room of high temperature and extremedryness, and instructed to sit for half an hour while more fluids weredripped into his veins through long thin tubes.     All legal spaceships were built for safety. No chance was taken ofallowing a suspected carrier to bring an infection on board with him.  June stepped from the last shower stall into the locker room, zippedoff her spacesuit with a sigh of relief, and contemplated herself in awall mirror. Red hair, dark blue eyes, tall....     I've got a good figure, she said thoughtfully.     Max turned at the door. Why this sudden interest in your looks? heasked suspiciously. Do we stand here and admire you, or do we finallyget something to eat?     Wait a minute. She went to a wall phone and dialed it carefully,using a combination from the ship's directory. How're you doing, Pat?     The phone picked up a hissing of water or spray. There was a startledchuckle. Voices, too! Hello, June. How do you tell a machine to gojump in the lake?     Are you hungry?     No food since yesterday.     We'll have a banquet ready for you when you get out, she told Pat andhung up, smiling. Pat Mead's voice had a vitality and enjoyment whichmade shipboard talk sound like sad artificial gaiety in contrast.     They looked into the nearby small laboratory where twelve squealinghamsters were protestingly submitting to a small injection each ofPat's blood. In most of them the injection was followed by one ofantihistaminics and adaptives. Otherwise the hamster defense systemwould treat all non-hamster cells as enemies, even the harmless humanblood cells, and fight back against them violently.     One hamster, the twelfth, was given an extra large dose of adaptive,so that if there were a disease, he would not fight it or the humancells, and thus succumb more rapidly.     How ya doing, George? Max asked.     Routine, George Barton grunted absently.     On the way up the long spiral ramps to the dining hall, they passed aviewplate. It showed a long scene of mountains in the distance on thehorizon, and between them, rising step by step as they grew fartheraway, the low rolling hills, bronze and red with patches of clear greenwhere there were fields.     Someone was looking out, standing very still, as if she had beenthere a long time—Bess St. Clair, a Canadian woman. It looks likeWinnipeg, she told them as they paused. When are you doctors going tolet us out of this blithering barberpole? Look, she pointed. See thatpatch of field on the south hillside, with the brook winding throughit? I've staked that hillside for our house. When do we get out?  Reno Ulrich's tiny scout plane buzzed slowly in from the distance andbegan circling lazily.     Sooner than you think, Max told her. We've discovered a castawaycolony on the planet. They've done our tests for us by just livinghere. If there's anything here to catch, they've caught it.     People on Minos? Bess's handsome ruddy face grew alive withexcitement.     One of them is down in the medical department, June said. He'll beout in twenty minutes.     May I go see him?     Sure, said Max. Show him the way to the dining hall when he getsout. Tell him we sent you.     Right! She turned and ran down the ramp like a small girl going to afire. Max grinned at June and she grinned back. After a year and a halfof isolation in space, everyone was hungry for the sight of new faces,the sound of unfamiliar voices.  They climbed the last two turns to the cafeteria, and entered to a richsubdued blend of soft music and quiet conversations. The cafeteriawas a section of the old dining room, left when the rest of the shiphad been converted to living and working quarters, and it still hadthe original finely grained wood of the ceiling and walls, the soundabsorbency, the soft music spools and the intimate small light at eachtable where people leisurely ate and talked.     They stood in line at the hot foods counter, and behind her Junecould hear a girl's voice talking excitedly through the murmur ofconversation.     —new man, honest! I saw him through the viewplate when they came in.He's down in the medical department. A real frontiersman.     The line drew abreast of the counters, and she and Max chose threeheaping trays, starting with hydroponic mushroom steak, raised inthe growing trays of water and chemicals; sharp salad bowl with rosetomatoes and aromatic peppers; tank-grown fish with special sauce; fourdifferent desserts, and assorted beverages.     Presently they had three tottering trays successfully maneuvered to atable. Brant St. Clair came over. I beg your pardon, Max, but they aresaying something about Reno carrying messages to a colony of savages,for the medical department. Will he be back soon, do you know?     Max smiled up at him, his square face affectionate. Everyone liked theshy Canadian. He's back already. We just saw him come in.     Oh, fine. St. Clair beamed. I had an appointment with him to go outand confirm what looks like a nice vein of iron to the northeast. Haveyou seen Bess? Oh—there she is. He turned swiftly and hurried away.     A very tall man with fiery red hair came in surrounded by an eagerlytalking crowd of ship people. It was Pat Mead. He stood in the doorway,alertly scanning the dining room. Sheer vitality made him seem evenlarger than he was. Sighting June, he smiled and began to thread towardtheir table.     Look! said someone. There's the colonist! Shelia, a pretty, jeweledwoman, followed and caught his arm. Did you      really     swim across ariver to come here?     Overflowing with good-will and curiosity, people approached from alldirections. Did you actually walk three hundred miles? Come, eat withus. Let me help choose your tray.     Everyone wanted him to eat at their table, everyone was a specialistand wanted data about Minos. They all wanted anecdotes about huntingwild animals with a bow and arrow.     He needs to be rescued, Max said. He won't have a chance to eat.     June and Max got up firmly, edged through the crowd, captured Pat andescorted him back to their table. June found herself pleased to beclaiming the hero of the hour.  Pat sat in the simple, subtly designed chair and leaned back almostvoluptuously, testing the way it gave and fitted itself to him. Heran his eyes over the bright tableware and heaped plates. He lookedaround at the rich grained walls and soft lights at each table. He saidnothing, just looking and feeling and experiencing.     When we build our town and leave the ship, June explained, wewill turn all the staterooms back into the lounges and ballrooms andcocktail bars that used to be inside.     Oh, I'm not complaining, Pat said negligently. He cocked his head tothe music, and tried to locate its source.     That's big of you, said Max with gentle irony.     They fell to, Pat beginning the first meal he had had in more than aday.     Most of the other diners finished when they were halfway through,and began walking over, diffidently at first, then in another waveof smiling faces, handshakes, and introductions. Pat was asked aboutcrops, about farming methods, about rainfall and floods, about farmanimals and plant breeding, about the compatibility of imported Earthseeds with local ground, about mines and strata.     There was no need to protect him. He leaned back in his chair anddrawled answers with the lazy ease of a panther; where he could thinkof no statistic, he would fill the gap with an anecdote. It developedthat he enjoyed spinning campfire yarns and especially being the centerof interest.     Between bouts of questions, he ate with undiminished and glowing relish.     June noticed that the female specialists were prolonging the questionsmore than they needed, clustering around the table laughing at hisjokes, until presently Pat was almost surrounded by pretty faces,eager questions, and chiming laughs. Shelia the beautiful laughed mostchimingly of all.     June nudged Max, and Max shrugged indifferently. It wasn't anything aman would pay attention to, perhaps. But June watched Pat for a momentmore, then glanced uneasily back to Max. He was eating and listeningto Pat's answers and did not feel her gaze. For some reason Max lookedalmost shrunken to her. He was shorter than she had realized; she hadforgotten that he was only the same height as herself. She was dimlyaware of the clear lilting chatter of female voices increasing at Pat'send of the table.     That guy's a menace, Max said, and laughed to himself, cuttinganother slice of hydroponic mushroom steak. What's eating you? headded, glancing aside at her when he noticed her sudden stillness.     Nothing, she said hastily, but she did not turn back to watching PatMead. She felt disloyal. Pat was only a superb animal. Max was the manshe loved. Or—was he? Of course he was, she told herself angrily.They had gone colonizing together because they wanted to spend theirlives together; she had never thought of marrying any other man. Yetthe sense of dissatisfaction persisted, and along with it a feeling ofguilt.     Len Marlow, the protein tank-culture technician responsible for themushroom steaks, had wormed his way into the group and asked Pat aquestion. Now he was saying, I don't dig you, Pat. It sounds likeyou're putting the people into the tanks instead of the vegetables! Heglanced at them, looking puzzled. See if you two can make anything ofthis. It sounds medical to me.     Pat leaned back and smiled, sipping a glass of hydroponic burgundy.Wonderful stuff. You'll have to show us how to make it.     Len turned back to him. You people live off the country, right? Youhunt and bring in steaks and eat them, right? Well, say I have one ofthose steaks right here and I want to eat it, what happens?  Go ahead and eat it. It just wouldn't digest. You'd stay hungry.     Why? Len was aggrieved.     Chemical differences in the basic protoplasm of Minos. Differentamino linkages, left-handed instead of right-handed molecules in thecarbohydrates, things like that. Nothing will be digestible here untilyou are adapted chemically by a little test-tube evolution. Till thenyou'd starve to death on a full stomach.     Pat's side of the table had been loaded with the dishes from two trays,but it was almost clear now and the dishes were stacked neatly to oneside. He started on three desserts, thoughtfully tasting each in turn.     Test-tube evolution? Max repeated. What's that? I thought you peoplehad no doctors.     It's a story. Pat leaned back again. Alexander P. Mead, the head ofthe Mead clan, was a plant geneticist, a very determined personalityand no man to argue with. He didn't want us to go through the struggleof killing off all Minos plants and putting in our own, spoiling theface of the planet and upsetting the balance of its ecology. He decidedthat he would adapt our genes to this planet or kill us trying. He didit all right.'     Did which? asked June, suddenly feeling a sourceless prickle of fear.     Adapted us to Minos. He took human cells—  She listened intently, trying to find a reason for fear in theexplanation. It would have taken many human generations to adapt toMinos by ordinary evolution, and that only at a heavy toll of death andhunger which evolution exacts. There was a shorter way: Human cellshave the ability to return to their primeval condition of independence,hunting, eating and reproducing alone.     Alexander P. Mead took human cells and made them into phagocytes.He put them through the hard savage school of evolution—a thousandgenerations of multiplication, hardship and hunger, with the alienindigestible food always present, offering its reward of plenty to thecell that reluctantly learned to absorb it.     Leucocytes can run through several thousand generations of evolutionin six months, Pat Mead finished. When they reached to a point wherethey would absorb Minos food, he planted them back in the people hehad taken them from.     What was supposed to happen then? Max asked, leaning forward.     I don't know exactly how it worked. He never told anybody much aboutit, and when I was a little boy he had gone loco and was wanderingha-ha-ing around waving a test tube. Fell down a ravine and broke hisneck at the age of eighty.     A character, Max said.     Why was she afraid? It worked then?     Yes. He tried it on all the Meads the first year. The other settlersdidn't want to be experimented on until they saw how it worked out. Itworked. The Meads could hunt, and plant while the other settlers werestill eating out of hydroponics tanks.     It worked, said Max to Len. You're a plant geneticist and a tankculture expert. There's a job for you.     Uh-      uh     ! Len backed away. It sounds like a medical problem to me.Human cell control—right up your alley.     It is a one-way street, Pat warned. Once it is done, you won't beable to digest ship food. I'll get no good from this protein. I ate itjust for the taste.     Hal Barton appeared quietly beside the table. Three of the twelve testhamsters have died, he reported, and turned to Pat. Your people carrythe germs of melting sickness, as you call it. The dead hamsters wereinjected with blood taken from you before you were de-infected. Wecan't settle here unless we de-infect everybody on Minos. Would theyobject?     We wouldn't want to give you folks germs, Pat smiled. Anything forsafety. But there'll have to be a vote on it first.     The doctors went to Reno Ulrich's table and walked with him to thehangar, explaining. He was to carry the proposal to Alexandria, minglewith the people, be persuasive and wait for them to vote beforereturning. He was to give himself shots of cureall every two hours onthe hour or run the risk of disease.  Reno was pleased. He had dabbled in sociology before retraining as amechanic for the expedition. This gives me a chance to study theirmores. He winked wickedly. I may not be back for several nights.They watched through the viewplate as he took off, and then went overto the laboratory for a look at the hamsters.     Three were alive and healthy, munching lettuce. One was the control;the other two had been given shots of Pat's blood from before heentered the ship, but with no additional treatment. Apparently ahamster could fight off melting sickness easily if left alone. Threewere still feverish and ruffled, with a low red blood count, butrecovering. The three dead ones had been given strong shots of adaptiveand counter histamine, so their bodies had not fought back against theattack.     June glanced at the dead animals hastily and looked away again.They lay twisted with a strange semi-fluid limpness, as if ready todissolve. The last hamster, which had been given the heaviest doseof adaptive, had apparently lost all its hair before death. It washairless and pink, like a still-born baby.     We can find no micro-organisms, George Barton said. None at all.Nothing in the body that should not be there. Leucosis and anemia.Fever only for the ones that fought it off. He handed Max sometemperature charts and graphs of blood counts.     June wandered out into the hall. Pediatrics and obstetrics were herfield; she left the cellular research to Max, and just helped him withlaboratory routine. The strange mood followed her out into the hall,then abruptly lightened.     Coming toward her, busily telling a tale of adventure to the gorgeousShelia Davenport, was a tall, red-headed, magnificently handsome man.It was his handsomeness which made Pat such a pleasure to look uponand talk with, she guiltily told herself, and it was his tremendousvitality.... It was like meeting a movie hero in the flesh, or a heroout of the pages of a book—Deer-slayer, John Clayton, Lord Greystoke.     She waited in the doorway to the laboratory and made no move to jointhem, merely acknowledged the two with a nod and a smile and a casuallift of the hand. They nodded and smiled back.     Hello, June, said Pat and continued telling his tale, but as theypassed he lightly touched her arm.     Oh, pioneer! she said mockingly and softly to his passing profile,and knew that he had heard.  ","Potential pathogens are of grave concern to the members of the Explorer. To ensure their safety, they send out a hunting party of medical doctors to gather data on the diseases present on the planet Minos. The doctors wear protective gear during this trip. When they bring Pat back to their ship, they require him to go through tests before he is allowed onto the ship. They include needing to de-microbe him and taking specimens from him. Max takes spinal fluid samples from Pat during this process. Pat then went through a long process where he was guided by mechanical voices to go through many different stages of decontamination. While the group of doctors do not have to go through the same process as Pat to board the ship, they go through their own decontamination process. There is a stall for spacesuit decontamination that shoots out disinfectants and baths of ultraviolet radiation for sterilization. The ship was also governed by interplanetary health laws. These laws demanded that ship equipment protecting against diseases had to be completely mechanical in operation and efficient. "
"What is the setting of the story? </s>     CONTAGION     By KATHERINE MacLEAN     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction October 1950.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]       Minos was such a lovely planet. Not a     thing seemed wrong with it. Excepting the food,     perhaps. And a disease that wasn't really.      It was like an Earth forest in the fall, but it was not fall. Theforest leaves were green and copper and purple and fiery red, and awind sent patches of bright greenish sunlight dancing among the leafshadows.     The hunt party of the      Explorer     filed along the narrow trail, gunsready, walking carefully, listening to the distant, half familiar criesof strange birds.     A faint crackle of static in their earphones indicated that a gun hadbeen fired.     Got anything? asked June Walton. The helmet intercom carried hervoice to the ears of the others without breaking the stillness of theforest.     Took a shot at something, explained George Barton's cheerful voicein her earphones. She rounded a bend of the trail and came upon Bartonstanding peering up into the trees, his gun still raised. It lookedlike a duck.     This isn't Central Park, said Hal Barton, his brother, coming intosight. His green spacesuit struck an incongruous note against thebronze and red forest. They won't all look like ducks, he saidsoberly.     Maybe some will look like dragons. Don't get eaten by a dragon,June, came Max's voice quietly into her earphones. Not while I stilllove you. He came out of the trees carrying the blood sample kit, andtouched her glove with his, the grin on his ugly beloved face barelyvisible in the mingled light and shade. A patch of sunlight struck agreenish glint from his fishbowl helmet.  They walked on. A quarter of a mile back, the space ship      Explorer     towered over the forest like a tapering skyscraper, and the people ofthe ship looked out of the viewplates at fresh winds and sunlight andclouds, and they longed to be outside.     But the likeness to Earth was danger, and the cool wind might be death,for if the animals were like Earth animals, their diseases might belike Earth diseases, alike enough to be contagious, different enough tobe impossible to treat. There was warning enough in the past. Colonieshad vanished, and traveled spaceways drifted with the corpses of shipswhich had touched on some plague planet.     The people of the ship waited while their doctors, in airtightspacesuits, hunted animals to test them for contagion.     The four medicos, for June Walton was also a doctor, filed through thealien homelike forest, walking softly, watching for motion among thecopper and purple shadows.     They saw it suddenly, a lighter moving copper patch among the darkerbrowns. Reflex action swung June's gun into line, and behind hersomeone's gun went off with a faint crackle of static, and made a holein the leaves beside the specimen. Then for a while no one moved.     This one looked like a man, a magnificently muscled, leanly graceful,humanlike animal. Even in its callused bare feet, it was a head tallerthan any of them. Red-haired, hawk-faced and darkly tanned, it stoodbreathing heavily, looking at them without expression. At its side hunga sheath knife, and a crossbow was slung across one wide shoulder.     They lowered their guns.     It needs a shave, Max said reasonably in their earphones, and hereached up to his helmet and flipped the switch that let his voice beheard. Something we could do for you, Mac?     The friendly drawl was the first voice that had broken the forestsounds. June smiled suddenly. He was right. The strict logic ofevolution did not demand beards; therefore a non-human would not bewearing a three day growth of red stubble.     Still panting, the tall figure licked dry lips and spoke. Welcome toMinos. The Mayor sends greetings from Alexandria.     English? gasped June.     We were afraid you would take off again before I could bring word toyou.... It's three hundred miles.... We saw your scout plane passtwice, but we couldn't attract its attention.  June looked in stunned silence at the stranger leaning against thetree. Thirty-six light years—thirty-six times six trillion milesof monotonous space travel—to be told that the planet was alreadysettled! We didn't know there was a colony here, she said. It is noton the map.     We were afraid of that, the tall bronze man answered soberly. Wehave been here three generations and yet no traders have come.     Max shifted the kit strap on his shoulder and offered a hand. My nameis Max Stark, M.D. This is June Walton, M.D., Hal Barton, M.D., andGeorge Barton, Hal's brother, also M.D.     Patrick Mead is the name, smiled the man, shaking hands casually.Just a hunter and bridge carpenter myself. Never met any medicosbefore.     The grip was effortless but even through her airproofed glove Junecould feel that the fingers that touched hers were as hard as paddedsteel.     What—what is the population of Minos? she asked.     He looked down at her curiously for a moment before answering. Onlyone hundred and fifty. He smiled. Don't worry, this isn't a cityplanet yet. There's room for a few more people. He shook hands withthe Bartons quickly. That is—you are people, aren't you? he askedstartlingly.     Why not? said Max with a poise that June admired.     Well, you are all so—so— Patrick Mead's eyes roamed across thefaces of the group. So varied.     They could find no meaning in that, and stood puzzled.     I mean, Patrick Mead said into the silence, all these—interestingdifferent hair colors and face shapes and so forth— He made a vaguewave with one hand as if he had run out of words or was anxious not toinsult them.     Joke? Max asked, bewildered.     June laid a hand on his arm. No harm meant, she said to him over theintercom. We're just as much of a shock to him as he is to us.     She addressed a question to the tall colonist on outside sound. Whatshould a person look like, Mr. Mead?     He indicated her with a smile. Like you.     June stepped closer and stood looking up at him, considering her owndescription. She was tall and tanned, like him; had a few freckles,like him; and wavy red hair, like his. She ignored the brightlyhumorous blue eyes.     In other words, she said, everyone on the planet looks like you andme?     Patrick Mead took another look at their four faces and began to grin.Like me, I guess. But I hadn't thought of it before. I did not thinkthat people could have different colored hair or that noses could fitso many ways onto faces. I was judging by my own appearance, but Isuppose any fool can walk on his hands and say the world is upsidedown! He laughed and sobered. But then why wear spacesuits? The airis breathable.     For safety, June told him. We can't take any chances on plague.     Pat Mead was wearing nothing but a loin cloth and his weapons, and thewind ruffled his hair. He looked comfortable, and they longed to takeoff the stuffy spacesuits and feel the wind against their own skins.Minos was like home, like Earth.... But they were strangers.     Plague, Pat Mead said thoughtfully. We had one here. It came twoyears after the colony arrived and killed everyone except the Meadfamilies. They were immune. I guess we look alike because we're allrelated, and that's why I grew up thinking that it is the only waypeople can look.       Plague.     What was the disease? Hal Barton asked.     Pretty gruesome, according to my father. They called it the meltingsickness. The doctors died too soon to find out what it was or what todo about it.     You should have trained for more doctors, or sent to civilization forsome. A trace of impatience was in George Barton's voice.     Pat Mead explained patiently, Our ship, with the power plant and allthe books we needed, went off into the sky to avoid the contagion,and never came back. The crew must have died. Long years of hardshipwere indicated by that statement, a colony with electric power goneand machinery stilled, with key technicians dead and no way to replacethem. June realized then the full meaning of the primitive sheath knifeand bow.     Any recurrence of melting sickness? asked Hal Barton.     No.     Any other diseases?     Not a one.     Max was eyeing the bronze red-headed figure with something approachingawe. Do you think all the Meads look like that? he said to June onthe intercom. I wouldn't mind being a Mead myself!  Their job had been made easy by the coming of Pat. They went back tothe ship laughing, exchanging anecdotes with him. There was nothingnow to keep Minos from being the home they wanted, except the meltingsickness, and, forewarned against it, they could take precautions.     The polished silver and black column of the      Explorer     seemed to risehigher and higher over the trees as they neared it. Then its symmetryblurred all sense of specific size as they stepped out from among thetrees and stood on the edge of the meadow, looking up.     Nice! said Pat. Beautiful! The admiration in his voice was warming.     It was a yacht, Max said, still looking up, second hand, an old-timebeauty without a sign of wear. Synthetic diamond-studded control boardand murals on the walls. It doesn't have the new speed drives, but itbrought us thirty-six light years in one and a half subjective years.Plenty good enough.     The tall tanned man looked faintly wistful, and June realized thathe had never had access to a full library, never seen a movie, neverexperienced luxury. He had been born and raised on Minos.  May I go aboard? Pat asked hopefully.     Max unslung the specimen kit from his shoulder, laid it on the carpetof plants that covered the ground and began to open it.     Tests first, Hal Barton said. We have to find out if you peoplestill carry this so-called melting sickness. We'll have to de-microbeyou and take specimens before we let you on board. Once on, you'll beno good as a check for what the other Meads might have.     Max was taking out a rack and a stand of preservative bottles andhypodermics.     Are you going to jab me with those? Pat asked with interest.     You're just a specimen animal to me, bud! Max grinned at Pat Mead,and Pat grinned back. June saw that they were friends already, thetall pantherish colonist, and the wry, black-haired doctor. She felt astab of guilt because she loved Max and yet could pity him for beingsmaller and frailer than Pat Mead.     Lie down, Max told him, and hold still. We need two spinal fluidsamples from the back, a body cavity one in front, and another from thearm.     Pat lay down obediently. Max knelt, and, as he spoke, expertly swabbedand inserted needles with the smooth speed that had made him a finenerve surgeon on Earth.     High above them the scout helioplane came out of an opening in the shipand angled off toward the west, its buzz diminishing. Then, suddenly,it veered and headed back, and Reno Unrich's voice came tinnily fromtheir earphones:     What's that you've got? Hey, what are you docs doing down there? Hebanked again and came to a stop, hovering fifty feet away. June couldsee his startled face looking through the glass at Pat.     Hal Barton switched to a narrow radio beam, explained rapidly andpointed in the direction of Alexandria. Reno's plane lifted and flewaway over the odd-colored forest.     The plane will drop a note on your town, telling them you gotthrough to us, Hal Barton told Pat, who was sitting up watching Maxdexterously put the blood and spinal fluids into the right bottleswithout exposing them to air.     We won't be free to contact your people until we know if they stillcarry melting sickness, Max added. You might be immune so it doesn'tshow on you, but still carry enough germs—if that's what caused it—towipe out a planet.     If you do carry melting sickness, said Hal Barton, we won't be ableto mingle with your people until we've cleared them of the disease.     Starting with me? Pat asked.     Starting with you, Max told him ruefully, as soon as you step onboard.     More needles?     Yes, and a few little extras thrown in.     Rough?     It isn't easy.     A few minutes later, standing in the stalls for spacesuitdecontamination, being buffeted by jets of hot disinfectant, bathed inglares of sterilizing ultraviolet radiation, June remembered that andcompared Pat Mead's treatment to theirs.     In the      Explorer     , stored carefully in sealed tanks and containers,was the ultimate, multi-purpose cureall. It was a solution of enzymesso like the key catalysts of the human cell nucleus that it causedchemical derangement and disintegration in any non-human cell. Nothingcould live in contact with it but human cells; any alien intruder tothe body would die. Nucleocat Cureall was its trade name.     But the cureall alone was not enough for complete safety. Plagues hadbeen known to slay too rapidly and universally to be checked by humantreatment. Doctors are not reliable; they die. Therefore spaceways andinterplanetary health law demanded that ship equipment for guardingagainst disease be totally mechanical in operation, rapid and efficient.     Somewhere near them, in a series of stalls which led around andaround like a rabbit maze, Pat was being herded from stall to stallby peremptory mechanical voices, directed to soap and shower, orderedto insert his arm into a slot which took a sample of his blood, givensolutions to drink, bathed in germicidal ultraviolet, shaken by sonicblasts, breathing air thick with sprays of germicidal mists, beingdirected to put his arms into other slots where they were anesthesizedand injected with various immunizing solutions.     Finally, he would be put in a room of high temperature and extremedryness, and instructed to sit for half an hour while more fluids weredripped into his veins through long thin tubes.     All legal spaceships were built for safety. No chance was taken ofallowing a suspected carrier to bring an infection on board with him.  June stepped from the last shower stall into the locker room, zippedoff her spacesuit with a sigh of relief, and contemplated herself in awall mirror. Red hair, dark blue eyes, tall....     I've got a good figure, she said thoughtfully.     Max turned at the door. Why this sudden interest in your looks? heasked suspiciously. Do we stand here and admire you, or do we finallyget something to eat?     Wait a minute. She went to a wall phone and dialed it carefully,using a combination from the ship's directory. How're you doing, Pat?     The phone picked up a hissing of water or spray. There was a startledchuckle. Voices, too! Hello, June. How do you tell a machine to gojump in the lake?     Are you hungry?     No food since yesterday.     We'll have a banquet ready for you when you get out, she told Pat andhung up, smiling. Pat Mead's voice had a vitality and enjoyment whichmade shipboard talk sound like sad artificial gaiety in contrast.     They looked into the nearby small laboratory where twelve squealinghamsters were protestingly submitting to a small injection each ofPat's blood. In most of them the injection was followed by one ofantihistaminics and adaptives. Otherwise the hamster defense systemwould treat all non-hamster cells as enemies, even the harmless humanblood cells, and fight back against them violently.     One hamster, the twelfth, was given an extra large dose of adaptive,so that if there were a disease, he would not fight it or the humancells, and thus succumb more rapidly.     How ya doing, George? Max asked.     Routine, George Barton grunted absently.     On the way up the long spiral ramps to the dining hall, they passed aviewplate. It showed a long scene of mountains in the distance on thehorizon, and between them, rising step by step as they grew fartheraway, the low rolling hills, bronze and red with patches of clear greenwhere there were fields.     Someone was looking out, standing very still, as if she had beenthere a long time—Bess St. Clair, a Canadian woman. It looks likeWinnipeg, she told them as they paused. When are you doctors going tolet us out of this blithering barberpole? Look, she pointed. See thatpatch of field on the south hillside, with the brook winding throughit? I've staked that hillside for our house. When do we get out?  Reno Ulrich's tiny scout plane buzzed slowly in from the distance andbegan circling lazily.     Sooner than you think, Max told her. We've discovered a castawaycolony on the planet. They've done our tests for us by just livinghere. If there's anything here to catch, they've caught it.     People on Minos? Bess's handsome ruddy face grew alive withexcitement.     One of them is down in the medical department, June said. He'll beout in twenty minutes.     May I go see him?     Sure, said Max. Show him the way to the dining hall when he getsout. Tell him we sent you.     Right! She turned and ran down the ramp like a small girl going to afire. Max grinned at June and she grinned back. After a year and a halfof isolation in space, everyone was hungry for the sight of new faces,the sound of unfamiliar voices.  They climbed the last two turns to the cafeteria, and entered to a richsubdued blend of soft music and quiet conversations. The cafeteriawas a section of the old dining room, left when the rest of the shiphad been converted to living and working quarters, and it still hadthe original finely grained wood of the ceiling and walls, the soundabsorbency, the soft music spools and the intimate small light at eachtable where people leisurely ate and talked.     They stood in line at the hot foods counter, and behind her Junecould hear a girl's voice talking excitedly through the murmur ofconversation.     —new man, honest! I saw him through the viewplate when they came in.He's down in the medical department. A real frontiersman.     The line drew abreast of the counters, and she and Max chose threeheaping trays, starting with hydroponic mushroom steak, raised inthe growing trays of water and chemicals; sharp salad bowl with rosetomatoes and aromatic peppers; tank-grown fish with special sauce; fourdifferent desserts, and assorted beverages.     Presently they had three tottering trays successfully maneuvered to atable. Brant St. Clair came over. I beg your pardon, Max, but they aresaying something about Reno carrying messages to a colony of savages,for the medical department. Will he be back soon, do you know?     Max smiled up at him, his square face affectionate. Everyone liked theshy Canadian. He's back already. We just saw him come in.     Oh, fine. St. Clair beamed. I had an appointment with him to go outand confirm what looks like a nice vein of iron to the northeast. Haveyou seen Bess? Oh—there she is. He turned swiftly and hurried away.     A very tall man with fiery red hair came in surrounded by an eagerlytalking crowd of ship people. It was Pat Mead. He stood in the doorway,alertly scanning the dining room. Sheer vitality made him seem evenlarger than he was. Sighting June, he smiled and began to thread towardtheir table.     Look! said someone. There's the colonist! Shelia, a pretty, jeweledwoman, followed and caught his arm. Did you      really     swim across ariver to come here?     Overflowing with good-will and curiosity, people approached from alldirections. Did you actually walk three hundred miles? Come, eat withus. Let me help choose your tray.     Everyone wanted him to eat at their table, everyone was a specialistand wanted data about Minos. They all wanted anecdotes about huntingwild animals with a bow and arrow.     He needs to be rescued, Max said. He won't have a chance to eat.     June and Max got up firmly, edged through the crowd, captured Pat andescorted him back to their table. June found herself pleased to beclaiming the hero of the hour.  Pat sat in the simple, subtly designed chair and leaned back almostvoluptuously, testing the way it gave and fitted itself to him. Heran his eyes over the bright tableware and heaped plates. He lookedaround at the rich grained walls and soft lights at each table. He saidnothing, just looking and feeling and experiencing.     When we build our town and leave the ship, June explained, wewill turn all the staterooms back into the lounges and ballrooms andcocktail bars that used to be inside.     Oh, I'm not complaining, Pat said negligently. He cocked his head tothe music, and tried to locate its source.     That's big of you, said Max with gentle irony.     They fell to, Pat beginning the first meal he had had in more than aday.     Most of the other diners finished when they were halfway through,and began walking over, diffidently at first, then in another waveof smiling faces, handshakes, and introductions. Pat was asked aboutcrops, about farming methods, about rainfall and floods, about farmanimals and plant breeding, about the compatibility of imported Earthseeds with local ground, about mines and strata.     There was no need to protect him. He leaned back in his chair anddrawled answers with the lazy ease of a panther; where he could thinkof no statistic, he would fill the gap with an anecdote. It developedthat he enjoyed spinning campfire yarns and especially being the centerof interest.     Between bouts of questions, he ate with undiminished and glowing relish.     June noticed that the female specialists were prolonging the questionsmore than they needed, clustering around the table laughing at hisjokes, until presently Pat was almost surrounded by pretty faces,eager questions, and chiming laughs. Shelia the beautiful laughed mostchimingly of all.     June nudged Max, and Max shrugged indifferently. It wasn't anything aman would pay attention to, perhaps. But June watched Pat for a momentmore, then glanced uneasily back to Max. He was eating and listeningto Pat's answers and did not feel her gaze. For some reason Max lookedalmost shrunken to her. He was shorter than she had realized; she hadforgotten that he was only the same height as herself. She was dimlyaware of the clear lilting chatter of female voices increasing at Pat'send of the table.     That guy's a menace, Max said, and laughed to himself, cuttinganother slice of hydroponic mushroom steak. What's eating you? headded, glancing aside at her when he noticed her sudden stillness.     Nothing, she said hastily, but she did not turn back to watching PatMead. She felt disloyal. Pat was only a superb animal. Max was the manshe loved. Or—was he? Of course he was, she told herself angrily.They had gone colonizing together because they wanted to spend theirlives together; she had never thought of marrying any other man. Yetthe sense of dissatisfaction persisted, and along with it a feeling ofguilt.     Len Marlow, the protein tank-culture technician responsible for themushroom steaks, had wormed his way into the group and asked Pat aquestion. Now he was saying, I don't dig you, Pat. It sounds likeyou're putting the people into the tanks instead of the vegetables! Heglanced at them, looking puzzled. See if you two can make anything ofthis. It sounds medical to me.     Pat leaned back and smiled, sipping a glass of hydroponic burgundy.Wonderful stuff. You'll have to show us how to make it.     Len turned back to him. You people live off the country, right? Youhunt and bring in steaks and eat them, right? Well, say I have one ofthose steaks right here and I want to eat it, what happens?  Go ahead and eat it. It just wouldn't digest. You'd stay hungry.     Why? Len was aggrieved.     Chemical differences in the basic protoplasm of Minos. Differentamino linkages, left-handed instead of right-handed molecules in thecarbohydrates, things like that. Nothing will be digestible here untilyou are adapted chemically by a little test-tube evolution. Till thenyou'd starve to death on a full stomach.     Pat's side of the table had been loaded with the dishes from two trays,but it was almost clear now and the dishes were stacked neatly to oneside. He started on three desserts, thoughtfully tasting each in turn.     Test-tube evolution? Max repeated. What's that? I thought you peoplehad no doctors.     It's a story. Pat leaned back again. Alexander P. Mead, the head ofthe Mead clan, was a plant geneticist, a very determined personalityand no man to argue with. He didn't want us to go through the struggleof killing off all Minos plants and putting in our own, spoiling theface of the planet and upsetting the balance of its ecology. He decidedthat he would adapt our genes to this planet or kill us trying. He didit all right.'     Did which? asked June, suddenly feeling a sourceless prickle of fear.     Adapted us to Minos. He took human cells—  She listened intently, trying to find a reason for fear in theexplanation. It would have taken many human generations to adapt toMinos by ordinary evolution, and that only at a heavy toll of death andhunger which evolution exacts. There was a shorter way: Human cellshave the ability to return to their primeval condition of independence,hunting, eating and reproducing alone.     Alexander P. Mead took human cells and made them into phagocytes.He put them through the hard savage school of evolution—a thousandgenerations of multiplication, hardship and hunger, with the alienindigestible food always present, offering its reward of plenty to thecell that reluctantly learned to absorb it.     Leucocytes can run through several thousand generations of evolutionin six months, Pat Mead finished. When they reached to a point wherethey would absorb Minos food, he planted them back in the people hehad taken them from.     What was supposed to happen then? Max asked, leaning forward.     I don't know exactly how it worked. He never told anybody much aboutit, and when I was a little boy he had gone loco and was wanderingha-ha-ing around waving a test tube. Fell down a ravine and broke hisneck at the age of eighty.     A character, Max said.     Why was she afraid? It worked then?     Yes. He tried it on all the Meads the first year. The other settlersdidn't want to be experimented on until they saw how it worked out. Itworked. The Meads could hunt, and plant while the other settlers werestill eating out of hydroponics tanks.     It worked, said Max to Len. You're a plant geneticist and a tankculture expert. There's a job for you.     Uh-      uh     ! Len backed away. It sounds like a medical problem to me.Human cell control—right up your alley.     It is a one-way street, Pat warned. Once it is done, you won't beable to digest ship food. I'll get no good from this protein. I ate itjust for the taste.     Hal Barton appeared quietly beside the table. Three of the twelve testhamsters have died, he reported, and turned to Pat. Your people carrythe germs of melting sickness, as you call it. The dead hamsters wereinjected with blood taken from you before you were de-infected. Wecan't settle here unless we de-infect everybody on Minos. Would theyobject?     We wouldn't want to give you folks germs, Pat smiled. Anything forsafety. But there'll have to be a vote on it first.     The doctors went to Reno Ulrich's table and walked with him to thehangar, explaining. He was to carry the proposal to Alexandria, minglewith the people, be persuasive and wait for them to vote beforereturning. He was to give himself shots of cureall every two hours onthe hour or run the risk of disease.  Reno was pleased. He had dabbled in sociology before retraining as amechanic for the expedition. This gives me a chance to study theirmores. He winked wickedly. I may not be back for several nights.They watched through the viewplate as he took off, and then went overto the laboratory for a look at the hamsters.     Three were alive and healthy, munching lettuce. One was the control;the other two had been given shots of Pat's blood from before heentered the ship, but with no additional treatment. Apparently ahamster could fight off melting sickness easily if left alone. Threewere still feverish and ruffled, with a low red blood count, butrecovering. The three dead ones had been given strong shots of adaptiveand counter histamine, so their bodies had not fought back against theattack.     June glanced at the dead animals hastily and looked away again.They lay twisted with a strange semi-fluid limpness, as if ready todissolve. The last hamster, which had been given the heaviest doseof adaptive, had apparently lost all its hair before death. It washairless and pink, like a still-born baby.     We can find no micro-organisms, George Barton said. None at all.Nothing in the body that should not be there. Leucosis and anemia.Fever only for the ones that fought it off. He handed Max sometemperature charts and graphs of blood counts.     June wandered out into the hall. Pediatrics and obstetrics were herfield; she left the cellular research to Max, and just helped him withlaboratory routine. The strange mood followed her out into the hall,then abruptly lightened.     Coming toward her, busily telling a tale of adventure to the gorgeousShelia Davenport, was a tall, red-headed, magnificently handsome man.It was his handsomeness which made Pat such a pleasure to look uponand talk with, she guiltily told herself, and it was his tremendousvitality.... It was like meeting a movie hero in the flesh, or a heroout of the pages of a book—Deer-slayer, John Clayton, Lord Greystoke.     She waited in the doorway to the laboratory and made no move to jointhem, merely acknowledged the two with a nod and a smile and a casuallift of the hand. They nodded and smiled back.     Hello, June, said Pat and continued telling his tale, but as theypassed he lightly touched her arm.     Oh, pioneer! she said mockingly and softly to his passing profile,and knew that he had heard.  ","The story begins with the ship, the Explorer, landing on an unknown planet. It has an Earth-like forest in the fall. The leaves were of various colors, green, copper, purple, and red. To get to this planet, known as Minos, it took 36 light-years from Earth. The ship they traveled on is described as being like a silver and black column. It was previously a yacht that was retrofitted to become the Explorer. They take Pat back to the ship and they all decontaminate. Once they are done, they go to the dining hall for food. After eating their food in the dining, June and some of the other doctors return to the laboratory to inspect the mice. "
"What is the plot of the story? </s>    THE CREATURES THAT TIME FORGOT     By RAY BRADBURY     Mad, impossible world! Sun-blasted by day,     cold-wracked by night—and life condensed by     radiation into eight days! Sim eyed the     Ship—if he only dared reach it and     escape! ... but it was more than half an     hour distant—the limit of life itself!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Fall 1946.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      During the night, Sim was born. He lay wailing upon the cold cavestones. His blood beat through him a thousand pulses each minute. Hegrew, steadily.     Into his mouth his mother with feverish hands put the food. Thenightmare of living was begun. Almost instantly at birth his eyes grewalert, and then, without half understanding why, filled with bright,insistent terror. He gagged upon the food, choked and wailed. He lookedabout, blindly.     There was a thick fog. It cleared. The outlines of the cave appeared.And a man loomed up, insane and wild and terrible. A man with a dyingface. Old, withered by winds, baked like adobe in the heat. The man wascrouched in a far corner of the cave, his eyes whitening to one side ofhis face, listening to the far wind trumpeting up above on the frozennight planet.     Sim's mother, trembling, now and again, staring at the man, fed Simpebble-fruits, valley-grasses and ice-nipples broken from the cavernentrances, and eating, eliminating, eating again, he grew larger,larger.     The man in the corner of the cave was his father! The man's eyes wereall that was alive in his face. He held a crude stone dagger in hiswithered hands and his jaw hung loose and senseless.     Then, with a widening focus, Sim saw the old people sitting in thetunnel beyond this living quarter. And as he watched, they began to die.     Their agonies filled the cave. They melted like waxen images, theirfaces collapsed inward on their sharp bones, their teeth protruded. Oneminute their faces were mature, fairly smooth, alive, electric. Thenext minute a desication and burning away of their flesh occurred.     Sim thrashed in his mother's grasp. She held him. No, no, she soothedhim, quietly, earnestly, looking to see if this, too, would cause herhusband to rise again.     With a soft swift padding of naked feet, Sim's father ran across thecave. Sim's mother screamed. Sim felt himself torn loose from hergrasp. He fell upon the stones, rolling, shrieking with his new, moistlungs!        With a soft padding of naked feet Sim's father ran across the cave.        The webbed face of his father jerked over him, the knife was poised.It was like one of those prenatal nightmares he'd had while stillin his mother's flesh. In the next few blazing, impossible instantsquestions flicked through his brain. The knife was high, suspended,ready to destroy him. But the whole question of life in this cave, thedying people, the withering and the insanity, surged through Sim'snew, small head. How was it that he understood? A newborn child? Can anewborn child think, see, understand, interpret? No. It was wrong! Itwas impossible. Yet it was happening! To him. He had been alive an hournow. And in the next instant perhaps dead!     His mother flung herself upon the back of his father, and beat down theweapon. Sim caught the terrific backwash of emotion from both theirconflicting minds. Let me kill him! shouted the father, breathingharshly, sobbingly. What has he to live for?     No, no! insisted the mother, and her body, frail and old as it was,stretched across the huge body of the father, tearing at his weapon.He must live! There may be a future for him! He may live longer thanus, and be young!     The father fell back against a stone crib. Lying there, staring,eyes glittering, Sim saw another figure inside that stone crib. Agirl-child, quietly feeding itself, moving its delicate hands toprocure food. His sister.     The mother wrenched the dagger from her husband's grasp, stood up,weeping and pushing back her cloud of stiffening gray hair. Her mouthtrembled and jerked. I'll kill you! she said, glaring down at herhusband. Leave my children alone.     The old man spat tiredly, bitterly, and looked vacantly into the stonecrib, at the little girl. One-eighth of      her     life's over, already,he gasped. And she doesn't know it. What's the use?     As Sim watched, his own mother seemed to shift and take a tortured,smoke-like form. The thin bony face broke out into a maze of wrinkles.She was shaken with pain and had to sit by him, shuddering and cuddlingthe knife to her shriveled breasts. She, like the old people in thetunnel, was aging, dying.     Sim cried steadily. Everywhere he looked was horror. A mind came tomeet his own. Instinctively he glanced toward the stone crib. Dark, hissister, returned his glance. Their minds brushed like straying fingers.He relaxed somewhat. He began to learn.     The father sighed, shut his lids down over his green eyes. Feed thechild, he said, exhaustedly. Hurry. It is almost dawn and it is ourlast day of living, woman. Feed him. Make him grow.     Sim quieted, and images, out of the terror, floated to him.     This was a planet next to the sun. The nights burned with cold, thedays were like torches of fire. It was a violent, impossible world. Thepeople lived in the cliffs to escape the incredible ice and the day offlame. Only at dawn and sunset was the air breath-sweet, flower-strong,and then the cave peoples brought their children out into a stony,barren valley. At dawn the ice thawed into creeks and rivers, at sunsetthe day-fires died and cooled. In the intervals of even, livabletemperature the people lived, ran, played, loved, free of the caverns;all life on the planet jumped, burst into life. Plants grew instantly,birds were flung like pellets across the sky. Smaller, legged animallife rushed frantically through the rocks; everything tried to getits living down in the brief hour of respite.     It was an unbearable planet. Sim understood this, a matter of hoursafter birth. Racial memory bloomed in him. He would live his entirelife in the caves, with two hours a day outside. Here, in stonechannels of air he would talk, talk incessantly with his people, sleepnever, think, think and lie upon his back, dreaming; but never sleeping.       And he would live exactly eight days.    The violence of this thought evacuated his bowels. Eight days. Eight      short     days. It was wrong, impossible, but a fact. Even while in hismother's flesh some racial knowledge had told him he was being formedrapidly, shaped and propelled out swiftly.     Birth was quick as a knife. Childhood was over in a flash. Adolescencewas a sheet of lightning. Manhood was a dream, maturity a myth, old agean inescapably quick reality, death a swift certainty.     Eight days from now he'd stand half-blind, withering, dying, as hisfather now stood, staring uselessly at his own wife and child.     This day was an eighth part of his total life! He must enjoy everysecond of it. He must search his parents' thoughts for knowledge.       Because in a few hours they'd be dead.       This was so impossibly unfair. Was this all of life? In his prenatalstate hadn't he dreamed of      long     lives, valleys not of blasted stonebut green foliage and temperate clime? Yes! And if he'd dreamed thenthere must be truth in the visions. How could he seek and find the longlife? Where? And how could he accomplish a life mission that huge anddepressing in eight short, vanishing days?     How had his people gotten into such a condition?     As if at a button pressed, he saw an image. Metal seeds, blown acrossspace from a distant green world, fighting with long flames, crashingon this bleak planet. From their shattered hulls tumble men and women.     When? Long ago. Ten thousand days. The crash victims hid in the cliffsfrom the sun. Fire, ice and floods washed away the wreckage of thehuge metal seeds. The victims were shaped and beaten like iron upona forge. Solar radiations drenched them. Their pulses quickened,two hundred, five hundred, a thousand beats a minute. Their skinsthickened, their blood changed. Old age came rushing. Children wereborn in the caves. Swifter, swifter, swifter the process. Like all thisworld's wild life, the men and women from the crash lived and died in aweek, leaving children to do likewise.     So this is life, thought Sim. It was not spoken in his mind, forhe knew no words, he knew only images, old memory, an awareness, atelepathy that could penetrate flesh, rock, metal. So I'm the fivethousandth in a long line of futile sons? What can I do to save myselffrom dying eight days from now? Is there escape?     His eyes widened, another image came to focus.     Beyond this valley of cliffs, on a low mountain lay a perfect,unscarred metal seed. A metal ship, not rusted or touched by theavalanches. The ship was deserted, whole, intact. It was the only shipof all these that had crashed that was still a unit, still usable. Butit was so far away. There was no one in it to help. This ship, then, onthe far mountain, was the destiny toward which he would grow. There washis only hope of escape.     His mind flexed.     In this cliff, deep down in a confinement of solitude, worked a handfulof scientists. To these men, when he was old enough and wise enough, hemust go. They, too, dreamed of escape, of long life, of green valleysand temperate weathers. They, too, stared longingly at that distantship upon its high mountain, its metal so perfect it did not rust orage.     The cliff groaned.     Sim's father lifted his eroded, lifeless face.     Dawn's coming, he said.      II     Morning relaxed the mighty granite cliff muscles. It was the time ofthe Avalanche.     The tunnels echoed to running bare feet. Adults, children pushed witheager, hungry eyes toward the outside dawn. From far out, Sim hearda rumble of rock, a scream, a silence. Avalanches fell into valley.Stones that had been biding their time, not quite ready to fall, fora million years let go their bulks, and where they had begun theirjourney as single boulders they smashed upon the valley floor in athousand shrapnels and friction-heated nuggets.     Every morning at least one person was caught in the downpour.     The cliff people dared the avalanches. It added one more excitement totheir lives, already too short, too headlong, too dangerous.     Sim felt himself seized up by his father. He was carried brusquely downthe tunnel for a thousand yards, to where the daylight appeared. Therewas a shining insane light in his father's eyes. Sim could not move. Hesensed what was going to happen. Behind his father, his mother hurried,bringing with her the little sister, Dark. Wait! Be careful! shecried to her husband.     Sim felt his father crouch, listening.     High in the cliff was a tremor, a shivering.     Now! bellowed his father, and leaped out.     An avalanche fell down at them!     Sim had accelerated impressions of plunging walls, dust, confusion. Hismother screamed! There was a jolting, a plunging.     With one last step, Sim's father hurried him forward into the day. Theavalanche thundered behind him. The mouth of the cave, where mother andDark stood back out of the way, was choked with rubble and two bouldersthat weighed a hundred pounds each.     The storm thunder of the avalanche passed away to a trickle of sand.Sim's father burst out into laughter. Made it! By the Gods! Made italive! And he looked scornfully at the cliff and spat. Pagh!     Mother and sister Dark struggled through the rubble. She cursed herhusband. Fool! You might have killed Sim!     I may yet, retorted the father.     Sim was not listening. He was fascinated with the remains of anavalanche afront of the next tunnel. A blood stain trickled out fromunder a rise of boulders, soaking into the ground. There was nothingelse to be seen. Someone else had lost the game.     Dark ran ahead on lithe, supple feet, naked and certain.     The valley air was like a wine filtered between mountains. The heavenwas a restive blue; not the pale scorched atmosphere of full day, northe bloated, bruised black-purple of night, a-riot with sickly shiningstars.     This was a tide pool. A place where waves of varying and violenttemperatures struck, receded. Now the tide pool was quiet, cool, andits life moved abroad.     Laughter! Far away, Sim heard it. Why laughter? How could any of hispeople find time for laughing? Perhaps later he would discover why.     The valley suddenly blushed with impulsive color. Plant-life, thawingin the precipitant dawn, shoved out from most unexpected sources. Itflowered as you watched. Pale green tendrils appeared on scoured rocks.Seconds later, ripe globes of fruit twitched upon the blade-tips.Father gave Sim over to mother and harvested the momentary, volatilecrop, thrust scarlet, blue, yellow fruits into a fur sack which hung athis waist. Mother tugged at the moist new grasses, laid them on Sim'stongue.     His senses were being honed to a fine edge. He stored knowledgethirstily. He understood love, marriage, customs, anger, pity, rage,selfishness, shadings and subtleties, realities and reflections. Onething suggested another. The sight of green plant life whirled his mindlike a gyroscope, seeking balance in a world where lack of time forexplanations made a mind seek and interpret on its own. The soft burdenof food gave him knowledge of his system, of energy, of movement. Likea bird newly cracking its way from a shell, he was almost a unit,complete, all-knowing. Heredity had done all this for him. He grewexcited with his ability.  They walked, mother, father and the two children, smelling the smells,watching the birds bounce from wall to wall of the valley likescurrying pebbles and suddenly the father said a strange thing:     Remember?     Remember what? Sim lay cradled. Was it any effort for them to rememberwhen they'd lived only seven days!     The husband and wife looked at each other.     Was it only three days ago? said the woman, her body shaking, hereyes closing to think. I can't believe it. It is so unfair. Shesobbed, then drew her hand across her face and bit her parched lips.The wind played at her gray hair. Now is my turn to cry. An hour agoit was you!     An hour is half a life.     Come, she took her husband's arm. Let us look at everything, becauseit will be our last looking.     The sun'll be up in a few minutes, said the old man. We must turnback now.     Just one more moment, pleaded the woman.     The sun will catch us.     Let it catch me then!     You don't mean that.     I mean nothing, nothing at all, cried the woman.     The sun was coming fast. The green in the valley burnt away. Searingwind blasted from over the cliffs. Far away where sun bolts hammeredbattlements of cliff, the huge stone faces shook their contents; thoseavalanches not already powdered down, were now released and fell likemantles.     Dark! shouted the father. The girl sprang over the warm floor of thevalley, answering, her hair a black flag behind her. Hands full ofgreen fruits, she joined them.     The sun rimmed the horizon with flame, the air convulsed dangerouslywith it, and whistled.     The cave people bolted, shouting, picking up their fallen children,bearing vast loads of fruit and grass with them back to their deephideouts. In moments the valley was bare. Except for one small childsomeone had forgotten. He was running far out on the flatness, but hewas not strong enough, and the engulfing heat was drifting down fromthe cliffs even as he was half across the valley.     Flowers were burnt into effigies, grasses sucked back into rocks likesinged snakes, flower seeds whirled and fell in the sudden furnaceblast of wind, sown far into gullies and crannies, ready to blossom atsunset tonight, and then go to seed and die again.     Sim's father watched that child running, alone, out on the floor ofthe valley. He and his wife and Dark and Sim were safe in the mouth oftheir tunnel.     He'll never make it, said father. Do not watch him, woman. It's nota good thing to watch.     They turned away. All except Sim, whose eyes had caught a glint ofmetal far away. His heart hammered in him, and his eyes blurred.Far away, atop a low mountain, one of those metal seeds from spacereflected a dazzling ripple of light! It was like one of hisintra-embryo dreams fulfilled! A metal space seed, intact, undamaged,lying on a mountain! There was his future! There was his hopefor survival! There was where he would go in a few days, when hewas—strange thought—a grown man!     The sun plunged into the valley like molten lava.     The little running child screamed, the sun burned, and the screamingstopped.     Sim's mother walked painfully, with sudden age, down the tunnel,paused, reached up, broke off two last icicles that had formed duringthe night. She handed one to her husband, kept the other. We willdrink one last toast. To you, to the children.     To      you     , he nodded to her. To the children. They lifted theicicles. The warmth melted the ice down into their thirsty mouths.  All day the sun seemed to blaze and erupt into the valley. Sim couldnot see it, but the vivid pictorials in his parents' minds weresufficient evidence of the nature of the day fire. The light ran likemercury, sizzling and roasting the caves, poking inward, but neverpenetrating deeply enough. It lighted the caves. It made the hollows ofthe cliff comfortably warm.     Sim fought to keep his parents young. But no matter how hard he foughtwith mind and image, they became like mummies before him. His fatherseemed to dissolve from one stage of oldness to another. This is whatwill happen to me soon, though Sim in terror.     Sim grew upon himself. He felt the digestive-eliminatory movementsof his body. He was fed every minute, he was continually swallowing,feeding. He began to fit words to images and processes. Such a word waslove. It was not an abstraction, but a process, a stir of breath, asmell of morning air, a flutter of heart, the curve of arm holding him,the look in the suspended face of his mother. He saw the processes,then searched behind her suspended face and there was the word, in herbrain, ready to use. His throat prepared to speak. Life was pushinghim, rushing him along toward oblivion.     He sensed the expansion of his fingernails, the adjustments of hiscells, the profusion of his hair, the multiplication of his bones andsinew, the grooving of the soft pale wax of his brain. His brain atbirth as clear as a circle of ice, innocent, unmarked, was, an instantlater, as if hit with a thrown rock, cracked and marked and patternedin a million crevices of thought and discovery.     His sister, Dark, ran in and out with other little hothouse children,forever eating. His mother trembled over him, not eating, she had noappetite, her eyes were webbed shut.     Sunset, said his father, at last.     The day was over. The light faded, a wind sounded.     His mother arose. I want to see the outside world once more ... justonce more.... She stared blindly, shivering.     His father's eyes were shut, he lay against the wall.     I cannot rise, he whispered faintly. I cannot.     Dark! The mother croaked, the girl came running. Here, and Sim washanded to the girl. Hold to Sim, Dark, feed him, care for him. Shegave Sim one last fondling touch.     Dark said not a word, holding Sim, her great green eyes shining wetly.     Go now, said the mother. Take him out into the sunset time. Enjoyyourselves. Pick foods, eat. Play.     Dark walked away without looking back. Sim twisted in her grasp,looking over her shoulder with unbelieving, tragic eyes. He cried outand somehow summoned from his lips the first word of his existence.     Why...?     He saw his mother stiffen. The child spoke!     Aye, said his father. Did you hear what he said?     I heard, said the mother quietly.     The last thing Sim saw of his living parents was his mother weakly,swayingly, slowly moving across the floor to lie beside her silenthusband. That was the last time he ever saw them move.      IV     The night came and passed and then started the second day.     The bodies of all those who had died during the night were carried in afuneral procession to the top of a small hill. The procession was long,the bodies numerous.     Dark walked in the procession, holding the newly walking Sim by onehand. Only an hour before dawn Sim had learned to walk.     At the top of the hill, Sim saw once again the far off metal seed.Nobody ever looked at it, or spoke of it. Why? Was there some reason?Was it a mirage? Why did they not run toward it? Worship it? Try to getto it and fly away into space?     The funeral words were spoken. The bodies were placed upon the groundwhere the sun, in a few minutes, would cremate them.     The procession then turned and ran down the hill, eager to have theirfew minutes of free time running and playing and laughing in the sweetair.     Dark and Sim, chattering like birds, feeding among the rocks, exchangedwhat they knew of life. He was in his second day, she in her third.They were driven, as always, by the mercurial speed of their lives.     Another piece of his life opened wide.     Fifty young men ran down from the cliffs, holding sharp stones and rockdaggers in their thick hands. Shouting, they ran off toward distantblack, low lines of small rock cliffs.     War!     The thought stood in Sim's brain. It shocked and beat at him. These menwere running to fight, to kill, over there in those small black cliffswhere other people lived.     But why? Wasn't life short enough without fighting, killing?     From a great distance he heard the sound of conflict, and it made hisstomach cold. Why, Dark, why?     Dark didn't know. Perhaps they would understand tomorrow. Now, therewas the business of eating to sustain and support their lives. WatchingDark was like seeing a lizard forever flickering its pink tongue,forever hungry.     Pale children ran on all sides of them. One beetle-like boy scuttled upthe rocks, knocking Sim aside, to take from him a particularly lusciousred berry he had found growing under an outcrop.     The child ate hastily of the fruit before Sim could gain his feet. ThenSim hurled himself unsteadily, the two of them fell in a ridiculousjumble, rolling, until Dark pried them, squalling, apart.     Sim bled. A part of him stood off, like a god, and said, This shouldnot be. Children should not be this way. It is wrong!     Dark slapped the little intruding boy away. Get on! she cried.What's your name, bad one?     Chion! laughed the boy. Chion, Chion, Chion!     Sim glared at him with all the ferocity in his small, unskilledfeatures. He choked. This was his enemy. It was as if he'd waitedfor an enemy of person as well as scene. He had already understoodthe avalanches, the heat, the cold, the shortness of life, but thesewere things of places, of scene—mute, extravagant manifestations ofunthinking nature, not motivated save by gravity and radiation. Here,now, in this stridulent Chion he recognized a thinking enemy!     Chion darted off, turned at a distance, tauntingly crying:     Tomorrow I will be big enough to kill you!     And he vanished around a rock.     More children ran, giggling, by Sim. Which of them would be friends,enemies? How could friends and enemies come about in this impossible,quick life time? There was no time to make either, was there?     Dark, as if knowing his thoughts, drew him away. As they searched fordesired foods, she whispered fiercely in his ear. Enemies are madeover things like stolen foods; gifts of long grasses make friends.Enemies come, too, from opinions and thoughts. In five seconds you'vemade an enemy for life. Life's so short enemies must be made quickly.And she laughed with an irony strange for one so young, who was growingolder before her rightful time. You must fight to protect yourself.Others, superstitious ones, will try killing you. There is a belief, aridiculous belief, that if one kills another, the murderer partakes ofthe life energy of the slain, and therefore will live an extra day. Yousee? As long as that is believed, you're in danger.     But Sim was not listening. Bursting from a flock of delicate girls whotomorrow would be tall, quieter, and who day after that would gainbreasts and the next day take husbands, Sim caught sight of one smallgirl whose hair was a violet blue flame.     She ran past, brushed Sim, their bodies touched. Her eyes, white assilver coins, shone at him. He knew then that he'd found a friend, alove, a wife, one who'd a week from now lie with him atop the funeralpyre as sunlight undressed their flesh from bone.     Only the glance, but it held them in mid-motion, one instant.     Your name? he shouted after her.     Lyte! she called laughingly back.     I'm Sim, he answered, confused and bewildered.     Sim! she repeated it, flashing on. I'll remember!     Dark nudged his ribs. Here,      eat     , she said to the distracted boy.Eat or you'll never get big enough to catch her.     From nowhere, Chion appeared, running by. Lyte! he mocked, dancingmalevolently along and away. Lyte! I'll remember Lyte, too!     Dark stood tall and reed slender, shaking her dark ebony clouds ofhair, sadly. I see your life before you, little Sim. You'll needweapons soon to fight for this Lyte one. Now, hurry—the sun's coming!     They ran back to the caves.  ","The story begins with Sim being born in a cold cave. He’s wailing with tears while his mom feverishly feeds him. Even though he is a newborn, he interestingly has some self-awareness. Sim looked around the cave and spotted some old people dying in a graphic, grotesque manner. He raged in angst and his mom moved to soothe him. Suddenly, his father goes to attack him and his mother with a knife. His father wants to kill him as he reasons that there is no reason to live. Sim’s mother begs him not to and tells him to have faith that their son might live longer. After this altercation, Sim notices his sister, Dark, for the first time. Afterwards, he notices that his mother goes through a painful process of aging. Sim cannot seem to find anywhere to look in the cave that is not horrifying to look at and cries himself at these revelations. Because the people on this planet age incredibly fast, Sim goes through a lot of understanding and self-thought during the first day of his life. Eventually, the next day arrives. As an avalanche falls into the valley, Sim’s father takes him and they both jump into the avalanche and are carried by it into the valley. Sim and his family enjoy the valley during the time that it is livable to play within its borders. During this time, Sim’s mother and father become upset as there is a pressing realization that they both will die soon. They all hurriedly return back to their cave as the sun is coming out and would kill them if they are caught in its rays. A young child is caught in the sun’s rays and burned to death. Upon their return, Sim’s mother and father toast icicles to signify their last day. Throughout the day, Sim continues to grow and gain more intelligence. His mother feeds him and lovingly embraces him. Upon their mother’s instruction, Dark takes Sim out into the valley and watches over him. While they are in the valley, the two parents die from old age. In the valley, Sim wonders why no one else asks about the metal seed in the distance that he sees. He thinks it is a potential escape plan. While outside, Sim observes meaning screaming a war rallying cry. When he finds a red berry, a boy named Chion goes and steals it from Sim. Dark slaps the boy and scolds him for stealing the berry. Sim thinks to himself about how he does not understand the fighting nature people have when life is already so short. He then threatens Chion and acknowledges the boy as his new enemy. Dark gives him advice about enemies and friends, how quick they can be made. However, Sim gets distracted with lustful thoughts about a girl that passes him. Dark mentions that she is concerned for his future as he will have to fight Chion. They then both run back to the caves. "
"What is the setting of the story? </s>    THE CREATURES THAT TIME FORGOT     By RAY BRADBURY     Mad, impossible world! Sun-blasted by day,     cold-wracked by night—and life condensed by     radiation into eight days! Sim eyed the     Ship—if he only dared reach it and     escape! ... but it was more than half an     hour distant—the limit of life itself!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Fall 1946.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      During the night, Sim was born. He lay wailing upon the cold cavestones. His blood beat through him a thousand pulses each minute. Hegrew, steadily.     Into his mouth his mother with feverish hands put the food. Thenightmare of living was begun. Almost instantly at birth his eyes grewalert, and then, without half understanding why, filled with bright,insistent terror. He gagged upon the food, choked and wailed. He lookedabout, blindly.     There was a thick fog. It cleared. The outlines of the cave appeared.And a man loomed up, insane and wild and terrible. A man with a dyingface. Old, withered by winds, baked like adobe in the heat. The man wascrouched in a far corner of the cave, his eyes whitening to one side ofhis face, listening to the far wind trumpeting up above on the frozennight planet.     Sim's mother, trembling, now and again, staring at the man, fed Simpebble-fruits, valley-grasses and ice-nipples broken from the cavernentrances, and eating, eliminating, eating again, he grew larger,larger.     The man in the corner of the cave was his father! The man's eyes wereall that was alive in his face. He held a crude stone dagger in hiswithered hands and his jaw hung loose and senseless.     Then, with a widening focus, Sim saw the old people sitting in thetunnel beyond this living quarter. And as he watched, they began to die.     Their agonies filled the cave. They melted like waxen images, theirfaces collapsed inward on their sharp bones, their teeth protruded. Oneminute their faces were mature, fairly smooth, alive, electric. Thenext minute a desication and burning away of their flesh occurred.     Sim thrashed in his mother's grasp. She held him. No, no, she soothedhim, quietly, earnestly, looking to see if this, too, would cause herhusband to rise again.     With a soft swift padding of naked feet, Sim's father ran across thecave. Sim's mother screamed. Sim felt himself torn loose from hergrasp. He fell upon the stones, rolling, shrieking with his new, moistlungs!        With a soft padding of naked feet Sim's father ran across the cave.        The webbed face of his father jerked over him, the knife was poised.It was like one of those prenatal nightmares he'd had while stillin his mother's flesh. In the next few blazing, impossible instantsquestions flicked through his brain. The knife was high, suspended,ready to destroy him. But the whole question of life in this cave, thedying people, the withering and the insanity, surged through Sim'snew, small head. How was it that he understood? A newborn child? Can anewborn child think, see, understand, interpret? No. It was wrong! Itwas impossible. Yet it was happening! To him. He had been alive an hournow. And in the next instant perhaps dead!     His mother flung herself upon the back of his father, and beat down theweapon. Sim caught the terrific backwash of emotion from both theirconflicting minds. Let me kill him! shouted the father, breathingharshly, sobbingly. What has he to live for?     No, no! insisted the mother, and her body, frail and old as it was,stretched across the huge body of the father, tearing at his weapon.He must live! There may be a future for him! He may live longer thanus, and be young!     The father fell back against a stone crib. Lying there, staring,eyes glittering, Sim saw another figure inside that stone crib. Agirl-child, quietly feeding itself, moving its delicate hands toprocure food. His sister.     The mother wrenched the dagger from her husband's grasp, stood up,weeping and pushing back her cloud of stiffening gray hair. Her mouthtrembled and jerked. I'll kill you! she said, glaring down at herhusband. Leave my children alone.     The old man spat tiredly, bitterly, and looked vacantly into the stonecrib, at the little girl. One-eighth of      her     life's over, already,he gasped. And she doesn't know it. What's the use?     As Sim watched, his own mother seemed to shift and take a tortured,smoke-like form. The thin bony face broke out into a maze of wrinkles.She was shaken with pain and had to sit by him, shuddering and cuddlingthe knife to her shriveled breasts. She, like the old people in thetunnel, was aging, dying.     Sim cried steadily. Everywhere he looked was horror. A mind came tomeet his own. Instinctively he glanced toward the stone crib. Dark, hissister, returned his glance. Their minds brushed like straying fingers.He relaxed somewhat. He began to learn.     The father sighed, shut his lids down over his green eyes. Feed thechild, he said, exhaustedly. Hurry. It is almost dawn and it is ourlast day of living, woman. Feed him. Make him grow.     Sim quieted, and images, out of the terror, floated to him.     This was a planet next to the sun. The nights burned with cold, thedays were like torches of fire. It was a violent, impossible world. Thepeople lived in the cliffs to escape the incredible ice and the day offlame. Only at dawn and sunset was the air breath-sweet, flower-strong,and then the cave peoples brought their children out into a stony,barren valley. At dawn the ice thawed into creeks and rivers, at sunsetthe day-fires died and cooled. In the intervals of even, livabletemperature the people lived, ran, played, loved, free of the caverns;all life on the planet jumped, burst into life. Plants grew instantly,birds were flung like pellets across the sky. Smaller, legged animallife rushed frantically through the rocks; everything tried to getits living down in the brief hour of respite.     It was an unbearable planet. Sim understood this, a matter of hoursafter birth. Racial memory bloomed in him. He would live his entirelife in the caves, with two hours a day outside. Here, in stonechannels of air he would talk, talk incessantly with his people, sleepnever, think, think and lie upon his back, dreaming; but never sleeping.       And he would live exactly eight days.    The violence of this thought evacuated his bowels. Eight days. Eight      short     days. It was wrong, impossible, but a fact. Even while in hismother's flesh some racial knowledge had told him he was being formedrapidly, shaped and propelled out swiftly.     Birth was quick as a knife. Childhood was over in a flash. Adolescencewas a sheet of lightning. Manhood was a dream, maturity a myth, old agean inescapably quick reality, death a swift certainty.     Eight days from now he'd stand half-blind, withering, dying, as hisfather now stood, staring uselessly at his own wife and child.     This day was an eighth part of his total life! He must enjoy everysecond of it. He must search his parents' thoughts for knowledge.       Because in a few hours they'd be dead.       This was so impossibly unfair. Was this all of life? In his prenatalstate hadn't he dreamed of      long     lives, valleys not of blasted stonebut green foliage and temperate clime? Yes! And if he'd dreamed thenthere must be truth in the visions. How could he seek and find the longlife? Where? And how could he accomplish a life mission that huge anddepressing in eight short, vanishing days?     How had his people gotten into such a condition?     As if at a button pressed, he saw an image. Metal seeds, blown acrossspace from a distant green world, fighting with long flames, crashingon this bleak planet. From their shattered hulls tumble men and women.     When? Long ago. Ten thousand days. The crash victims hid in the cliffsfrom the sun. Fire, ice and floods washed away the wreckage of thehuge metal seeds. The victims were shaped and beaten like iron upona forge. Solar radiations drenched them. Their pulses quickened,two hundred, five hundred, a thousand beats a minute. Their skinsthickened, their blood changed. Old age came rushing. Children wereborn in the caves. Swifter, swifter, swifter the process. Like all thisworld's wild life, the men and women from the crash lived and died in aweek, leaving children to do likewise.     So this is life, thought Sim. It was not spoken in his mind, forhe knew no words, he knew only images, old memory, an awareness, atelepathy that could penetrate flesh, rock, metal. So I'm the fivethousandth in a long line of futile sons? What can I do to save myselffrom dying eight days from now? Is there escape?     His eyes widened, another image came to focus.     Beyond this valley of cliffs, on a low mountain lay a perfect,unscarred metal seed. A metal ship, not rusted or touched by theavalanches. The ship was deserted, whole, intact. It was the only shipof all these that had crashed that was still a unit, still usable. Butit was so far away. There was no one in it to help. This ship, then, onthe far mountain, was the destiny toward which he would grow. There washis only hope of escape.     His mind flexed.     In this cliff, deep down in a confinement of solitude, worked a handfulof scientists. To these men, when he was old enough and wise enough, hemust go. They, too, dreamed of escape, of long life, of green valleysand temperate weathers. They, too, stared longingly at that distantship upon its high mountain, its metal so perfect it did not rust orage.     The cliff groaned.     Sim's father lifted his eroded, lifeless face.     Dawn's coming, he said.      II     Morning relaxed the mighty granite cliff muscles. It was the time ofthe Avalanche.     The tunnels echoed to running bare feet. Adults, children pushed witheager, hungry eyes toward the outside dawn. From far out, Sim hearda rumble of rock, a scream, a silence. Avalanches fell into valley.Stones that had been biding their time, not quite ready to fall, fora million years let go their bulks, and where they had begun theirjourney as single boulders they smashed upon the valley floor in athousand shrapnels and friction-heated nuggets.     Every morning at least one person was caught in the downpour.     The cliff people dared the avalanches. It added one more excitement totheir lives, already too short, too headlong, too dangerous.     Sim felt himself seized up by his father. He was carried brusquely downthe tunnel for a thousand yards, to where the daylight appeared. Therewas a shining insane light in his father's eyes. Sim could not move. Hesensed what was going to happen. Behind his father, his mother hurried,bringing with her the little sister, Dark. Wait! Be careful! shecried to her husband.     Sim felt his father crouch, listening.     High in the cliff was a tremor, a shivering.     Now! bellowed his father, and leaped out.     An avalanche fell down at them!     Sim had accelerated impressions of plunging walls, dust, confusion. Hismother screamed! There was a jolting, a plunging.     With one last step, Sim's father hurried him forward into the day. Theavalanche thundered behind him. The mouth of the cave, where mother andDark stood back out of the way, was choked with rubble and two bouldersthat weighed a hundred pounds each.     The storm thunder of the avalanche passed away to a trickle of sand.Sim's father burst out into laughter. Made it! By the Gods! Made italive! And he looked scornfully at the cliff and spat. Pagh!     Mother and sister Dark struggled through the rubble. She cursed herhusband. Fool! You might have killed Sim!     I may yet, retorted the father.     Sim was not listening. He was fascinated with the remains of anavalanche afront of the next tunnel. A blood stain trickled out fromunder a rise of boulders, soaking into the ground. There was nothingelse to be seen. Someone else had lost the game.     Dark ran ahead on lithe, supple feet, naked and certain.     The valley air was like a wine filtered between mountains. The heavenwas a restive blue; not the pale scorched atmosphere of full day, northe bloated, bruised black-purple of night, a-riot with sickly shiningstars.     This was a tide pool. A place where waves of varying and violenttemperatures struck, receded. Now the tide pool was quiet, cool, andits life moved abroad.     Laughter! Far away, Sim heard it. Why laughter? How could any of hispeople find time for laughing? Perhaps later he would discover why.     The valley suddenly blushed with impulsive color. Plant-life, thawingin the precipitant dawn, shoved out from most unexpected sources. Itflowered as you watched. Pale green tendrils appeared on scoured rocks.Seconds later, ripe globes of fruit twitched upon the blade-tips.Father gave Sim over to mother and harvested the momentary, volatilecrop, thrust scarlet, blue, yellow fruits into a fur sack which hung athis waist. Mother tugged at the moist new grasses, laid them on Sim'stongue.     His senses were being honed to a fine edge. He stored knowledgethirstily. He understood love, marriage, customs, anger, pity, rage,selfishness, shadings and subtleties, realities and reflections. Onething suggested another. The sight of green plant life whirled his mindlike a gyroscope, seeking balance in a world where lack of time forexplanations made a mind seek and interpret on its own. The soft burdenof food gave him knowledge of his system, of energy, of movement. Likea bird newly cracking its way from a shell, he was almost a unit,complete, all-knowing. Heredity had done all this for him. He grewexcited with his ability.  They walked, mother, father and the two children, smelling the smells,watching the birds bounce from wall to wall of the valley likescurrying pebbles and suddenly the father said a strange thing:     Remember?     Remember what? Sim lay cradled. Was it any effort for them to rememberwhen they'd lived only seven days!     The husband and wife looked at each other.     Was it only three days ago? said the woman, her body shaking, hereyes closing to think. I can't believe it. It is so unfair. Shesobbed, then drew her hand across her face and bit her parched lips.The wind played at her gray hair. Now is my turn to cry. An hour agoit was you!     An hour is half a life.     Come, she took her husband's arm. Let us look at everything, becauseit will be our last looking.     The sun'll be up in a few minutes, said the old man. We must turnback now.     Just one more moment, pleaded the woman.     The sun will catch us.     Let it catch me then!     You don't mean that.     I mean nothing, nothing at all, cried the woman.     The sun was coming fast. The green in the valley burnt away. Searingwind blasted from over the cliffs. Far away where sun bolts hammeredbattlements of cliff, the huge stone faces shook their contents; thoseavalanches not already powdered down, were now released and fell likemantles.     Dark! shouted the father. The girl sprang over the warm floor of thevalley, answering, her hair a black flag behind her. Hands full ofgreen fruits, she joined them.     The sun rimmed the horizon with flame, the air convulsed dangerouslywith it, and whistled.     The cave people bolted, shouting, picking up their fallen children,bearing vast loads of fruit and grass with them back to their deephideouts. In moments the valley was bare. Except for one small childsomeone had forgotten. He was running far out on the flatness, but hewas not strong enough, and the engulfing heat was drifting down fromthe cliffs even as he was half across the valley.     Flowers were burnt into effigies, grasses sucked back into rocks likesinged snakes, flower seeds whirled and fell in the sudden furnaceblast of wind, sown far into gullies and crannies, ready to blossom atsunset tonight, and then go to seed and die again.     Sim's father watched that child running, alone, out on the floor ofthe valley. He and his wife and Dark and Sim were safe in the mouth oftheir tunnel.     He'll never make it, said father. Do not watch him, woman. It's nota good thing to watch.     They turned away. All except Sim, whose eyes had caught a glint ofmetal far away. His heart hammered in him, and his eyes blurred.Far away, atop a low mountain, one of those metal seeds from spacereflected a dazzling ripple of light! It was like one of hisintra-embryo dreams fulfilled! A metal space seed, intact, undamaged,lying on a mountain! There was his future! There was his hopefor survival! There was where he would go in a few days, when hewas—strange thought—a grown man!     The sun plunged into the valley like molten lava.     The little running child screamed, the sun burned, and the screamingstopped.     Sim's mother walked painfully, with sudden age, down the tunnel,paused, reached up, broke off two last icicles that had formed duringthe night. She handed one to her husband, kept the other. We willdrink one last toast. To you, to the children.     To      you     , he nodded to her. To the children. They lifted theicicles. The warmth melted the ice down into their thirsty mouths.  All day the sun seemed to blaze and erupt into the valley. Sim couldnot see it, but the vivid pictorials in his parents' minds weresufficient evidence of the nature of the day fire. The light ran likemercury, sizzling and roasting the caves, poking inward, but neverpenetrating deeply enough. It lighted the caves. It made the hollows ofthe cliff comfortably warm.     Sim fought to keep his parents young. But no matter how hard he foughtwith mind and image, they became like mummies before him. His fatherseemed to dissolve from one stage of oldness to another. This is whatwill happen to me soon, though Sim in terror.     Sim grew upon himself. He felt the digestive-eliminatory movementsof his body. He was fed every minute, he was continually swallowing,feeding. He began to fit words to images and processes. Such a word waslove. It was not an abstraction, but a process, a stir of breath, asmell of morning air, a flutter of heart, the curve of arm holding him,the look in the suspended face of his mother. He saw the processes,then searched behind her suspended face and there was the word, in herbrain, ready to use. His throat prepared to speak. Life was pushinghim, rushing him along toward oblivion.     He sensed the expansion of his fingernails, the adjustments of hiscells, the profusion of his hair, the multiplication of his bones andsinew, the grooving of the soft pale wax of his brain. His brain atbirth as clear as a circle of ice, innocent, unmarked, was, an instantlater, as if hit with a thrown rock, cracked and marked and patternedin a million crevices of thought and discovery.     His sister, Dark, ran in and out with other little hothouse children,forever eating. His mother trembled over him, not eating, she had noappetite, her eyes were webbed shut.     Sunset, said his father, at last.     The day was over. The light faded, a wind sounded.     His mother arose. I want to see the outside world once more ... justonce more.... She stared blindly, shivering.     His father's eyes were shut, he lay against the wall.     I cannot rise, he whispered faintly. I cannot.     Dark! The mother croaked, the girl came running. Here, and Sim washanded to the girl. Hold to Sim, Dark, feed him, care for him. Shegave Sim one last fondling touch.     Dark said not a word, holding Sim, her great green eyes shining wetly.     Go now, said the mother. Take him out into the sunset time. Enjoyyourselves. Pick foods, eat. Play.     Dark walked away without looking back. Sim twisted in her grasp,looking over her shoulder with unbelieving, tragic eyes. He cried outand somehow summoned from his lips the first word of his existence.     Why...?     He saw his mother stiffen. The child spoke!     Aye, said his father. Did you hear what he said?     I heard, said the mother quietly.     The last thing Sim saw of his living parents was his mother weakly,swayingly, slowly moving across the floor to lie beside her silenthusband. That was the last time he ever saw them move.      IV     The night came and passed and then started the second day.     The bodies of all those who had died during the night were carried in afuneral procession to the top of a small hill. The procession was long,the bodies numerous.     Dark walked in the procession, holding the newly walking Sim by onehand. Only an hour before dawn Sim had learned to walk.     At the top of the hill, Sim saw once again the far off metal seed.Nobody ever looked at it, or spoke of it. Why? Was there some reason?Was it a mirage? Why did they not run toward it? Worship it? Try to getto it and fly away into space?     The funeral words were spoken. The bodies were placed upon the groundwhere the sun, in a few minutes, would cremate them.     The procession then turned and ran down the hill, eager to have theirfew minutes of free time running and playing and laughing in the sweetair.     Dark and Sim, chattering like birds, feeding among the rocks, exchangedwhat they knew of life. He was in his second day, she in her third.They were driven, as always, by the mercurial speed of their lives.     Another piece of his life opened wide.     Fifty young men ran down from the cliffs, holding sharp stones and rockdaggers in their thick hands. Shouting, they ran off toward distantblack, low lines of small rock cliffs.     War!     The thought stood in Sim's brain. It shocked and beat at him. These menwere running to fight, to kill, over there in those small black cliffswhere other people lived.     But why? Wasn't life short enough without fighting, killing?     From a great distance he heard the sound of conflict, and it made hisstomach cold. Why, Dark, why?     Dark didn't know. Perhaps they would understand tomorrow. Now, therewas the business of eating to sustain and support their lives. WatchingDark was like seeing a lizard forever flickering its pink tongue,forever hungry.     Pale children ran on all sides of them. One beetle-like boy scuttled upthe rocks, knocking Sim aside, to take from him a particularly lusciousred berry he had found growing under an outcrop.     The child ate hastily of the fruit before Sim could gain his feet. ThenSim hurled himself unsteadily, the two of them fell in a ridiculousjumble, rolling, until Dark pried them, squalling, apart.     Sim bled. A part of him stood off, like a god, and said, This shouldnot be. Children should not be this way. It is wrong!     Dark slapped the little intruding boy away. Get on! she cried.What's your name, bad one?     Chion! laughed the boy. Chion, Chion, Chion!     Sim glared at him with all the ferocity in his small, unskilledfeatures. He choked. This was his enemy. It was as if he'd waitedfor an enemy of person as well as scene. He had already understoodthe avalanches, the heat, the cold, the shortness of life, but thesewere things of places, of scene—mute, extravagant manifestations ofunthinking nature, not motivated save by gravity and radiation. Here,now, in this stridulent Chion he recognized a thinking enemy!     Chion darted off, turned at a distance, tauntingly crying:     Tomorrow I will be big enough to kill you!     And he vanished around a rock.     More children ran, giggling, by Sim. Which of them would be friends,enemies? How could friends and enemies come about in this impossible,quick life time? There was no time to make either, was there?     Dark, as if knowing his thoughts, drew him away. As they searched fordesired foods, she whispered fiercely in his ear. Enemies are madeover things like stolen foods; gifts of long grasses make friends.Enemies come, too, from opinions and thoughts. In five seconds you'vemade an enemy for life. Life's so short enemies must be made quickly.And she laughed with an irony strange for one so young, who was growingolder before her rightful time. You must fight to protect yourself.Others, superstitious ones, will try killing you. There is a belief, aridiculous belief, that if one kills another, the murderer partakes ofthe life energy of the slain, and therefore will live an extra day. Yousee? As long as that is believed, you're in danger.     But Sim was not listening. Bursting from a flock of delicate girls whotomorrow would be tall, quieter, and who day after that would gainbreasts and the next day take husbands, Sim caught sight of one smallgirl whose hair was a violet blue flame.     She ran past, brushed Sim, their bodies touched. Her eyes, white assilver coins, shone at him. He knew then that he'd found a friend, alove, a wife, one who'd a week from now lie with him atop the funeralpyre as sunlight undressed their flesh from bone.     Only the glance, but it held them in mid-motion, one instant.     Your name? he shouted after her.     Lyte! she called laughingly back.     I'm Sim, he answered, confused and bewildered.     Sim! she repeated it, flashing on. I'll remember!     Dark nudged his ribs. Here,      eat     , she said to the distracted boy.Eat or you'll never get big enough to catch her.     From nowhere, Chion appeared, running by. Lyte! he mocked, dancingmalevolently along and away. Lyte! I'll remember Lyte, too!     Dark stood tall and reed slender, shaking her dark ebony clouds ofhair, sadly. I see your life before you, little Sim. You'll needweapons soon to fight for this Lyte one. Now, hurry—the sun's coming!     They ran back to the caves.  ","The story begins at night when Sim is born. He and his family are inside of the cold cave. The cave had a thick fog in it that originally obscured his dad from view. The cave is where people on the planet spend most of their time. During the two hours of the day that they are able to venture out into the valley, they enjoy the beautiful scenery of greenery until they have to return to their cave tunnels. When the time is up, the sun returns and its rays scorch and kill everything in the valley. "
"What is the relationship between Dark and Sim? </s>    THE CREATURES THAT TIME FORGOT     By RAY BRADBURY     Mad, impossible world! Sun-blasted by day,     cold-wracked by night—and life condensed by     radiation into eight days! Sim eyed the     Ship—if he only dared reach it and     escape! ... but it was more than half an     hour distant—the limit of life itself!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Fall 1946.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      During the night, Sim was born. He lay wailing upon the cold cavestones. His blood beat through him a thousand pulses each minute. Hegrew, steadily.     Into his mouth his mother with feverish hands put the food. Thenightmare of living was begun. Almost instantly at birth his eyes grewalert, and then, without half understanding why, filled with bright,insistent terror. He gagged upon the food, choked and wailed. He lookedabout, blindly.     There was a thick fog. It cleared. The outlines of the cave appeared.And a man loomed up, insane and wild and terrible. A man with a dyingface. Old, withered by winds, baked like adobe in the heat. The man wascrouched in a far corner of the cave, his eyes whitening to one side ofhis face, listening to the far wind trumpeting up above on the frozennight planet.     Sim's mother, trembling, now and again, staring at the man, fed Simpebble-fruits, valley-grasses and ice-nipples broken from the cavernentrances, and eating, eliminating, eating again, he grew larger,larger.     The man in the corner of the cave was his father! The man's eyes wereall that was alive in his face. He held a crude stone dagger in hiswithered hands and his jaw hung loose and senseless.     Then, with a widening focus, Sim saw the old people sitting in thetunnel beyond this living quarter. And as he watched, they began to die.     Their agonies filled the cave. They melted like waxen images, theirfaces collapsed inward on their sharp bones, their teeth protruded. Oneminute their faces were mature, fairly smooth, alive, electric. Thenext minute a desication and burning away of their flesh occurred.     Sim thrashed in his mother's grasp. She held him. No, no, she soothedhim, quietly, earnestly, looking to see if this, too, would cause herhusband to rise again.     With a soft swift padding of naked feet, Sim's father ran across thecave. Sim's mother screamed. Sim felt himself torn loose from hergrasp. He fell upon the stones, rolling, shrieking with his new, moistlungs!        With a soft padding of naked feet Sim's father ran across the cave.        The webbed face of his father jerked over him, the knife was poised.It was like one of those prenatal nightmares he'd had while stillin his mother's flesh. In the next few blazing, impossible instantsquestions flicked through his brain. The knife was high, suspended,ready to destroy him. But the whole question of life in this cave, thedying people, the withering and the insanity, surged through Sim'snew, small head. How was it that he understood? A newborn child? Can anewborn child think, see, understand, interpret? No. It was wrong! Itwas impossible. Yet it was happening! To him. He had been alive an hournow. And in the next instant perhaps dead!     His mother flung herself upon the back of his father, and beat down theweapon. Sim caught the terrific backwash of emotion from both theirconflicting minds. Let me kill him! shouted the father, breathingharshly, sobbingly. What has he to live for?     No, no! insisted the mother, and her body, frail and old as it was,stretched across the huge body of the father, tearing at his weapon.He must live! There may be a future for him! He may live longer thanus, and be young!     The father fell back against a stone crib. Lying there, staring,eyes glittering, Sim saw another figure inside that stone crib. Agirl-child, quietly feeding itself, moving its delicate hands toprocure food. His sister.     The mother wrenched the dagger from her husband's grasp, stood up,weeping and pushing back her cloud of stiffening gray hair. Her mouthtrembled and jerked. I'll kill you! she said, glaring down at herhusband. Leave my children alone.     The old man spat tiredly, bitterly, and looked vacantly into the stonecrib, at the little girl. One-eighth of      her     life's over, already,he gasped. And she doesn't know it. What's the use?     As Sim watched, his own mother seemed to shift and take a tortured,smoke-like form. The thin bony face broke out into a maze of wrinkles.She was shaken with pain and had to sit by him, shuddering and cuddlingthe knife to her shriveled breasts. She, like the old people in thetunnel, was aging, dying.     Sim cried steadily. Everywhere he looked was horror. A mind came tomeet his own. Instinctively he glanced toward the stone crib. Dark, hissister, returned his glance. Their minds brushed like straying fingers.He relaxed somewhat. He began to learn.     The father sighed, shut his lids down over his green eyes. Feed thechild, he said, exhaustedly. Hurry. It is almost dawn and it is ourlast day of living, woman. Feed him. Make him grow.     Sim quieted, and images, out of the terror, floated to him.     This was a planet next to the sun. The nights burned with cold, thedays were like torches of fire. It was a violent, impossible world. Thepeople lived in the cliffs to escape the incredible ice and the day offlame. Only at dawn and sunset was the air breath-sweet, flower-strong,and then the cave peoples brought their children out into a stony,barren valley. At dawn the ice thawed into creeks and rivers, at sunsetthe day-fires died and cooled. In the intervals of even, livabletemperature the people lived, ran, played, loved, free of the caverns;all life on the planet jumped, burst into life. Plants grew instantly,birds were flung like pellets across the sky. Smaller, legged animallife rushed frantically through the rocks; everything tried to getits living down in the brief hour of respite.     It was an unbearable planet. Sim understood this, a matter of hoursafter birth. Racial memory bloomed in him. He would live his entirelife in the caves, with two hours a day outside. Here, in stonechannels of air he would talk, talk incessantly with his people, sleepnever, think, think and lie upon his back, dreaming; but never sleeping.       And he would live exactly eight days.    The violence of this thought evacuated his bowels. Eight days. Eight      short     days. It was wrong, impossible, but a fact. Even while in hismother's flesh some racial knowledge had told him he was being formedrapidly, shaped and propelled out swiftly.     Birth was quick as a knife. Childhood was over in a flash. Adolescencewas a sheet of lightning. Manhood was a dream, maturity a myth, old agean inescapably quick reality, death a swift certainty.     Eight days from now he'd stand half-blind, withering, dying, as hisfather now stood, staring uselessly at his own wife and child.     This day was an eighth part of his total life! He must enjoy everysecond of it. He must search his parents' thoughts for knowledge.       Because in a few hours they'd be dead.       This was so impossibly unfair. Was this all of life? In his prenatalstate hadn't he dreamed of      long     lives, valleys not of blasted stonebut green foliage and temperate clime? Yes! And if he'd dreamed thenthere must be truth in the visions. How could he seek and find the longlife? Where? And how could he accomplish a life mission that huge anddepressing in eight short, vanishing days?     How had his people gotten into such a condition?     As if at a button pressed, he saw an image. Metal seeds, blown acrossspace from a distant green world, fighting with long flames, crashingon this bleak planet. From their shattered hulls tumble men and women.     When? Long ago. Ten thousand days. The crash victims hid in the cliffsfrom the sun. Fire, ice and floods washed away the wreckage of thehuge metal seeds. The victims were shaped and beaten like iron upona forge. Solar radiations drenched them. Their pulses quickened,two hundred, five hundred, a thousand beats a minute. Their skinsthickened, their blood changed. Old age came rushing. Children wereborn in the caves. Swifter, swifter, swifter the process. Like all thisworld's wild life, the men and women from the crash lived and died in aweek, leaving children to do likewise.     So this is life, thought Sim. It was not spoken in his mind, forhe knew no words, he knew only images, old memory, an awareness, atelepathy that could penetrate flesh, rock, metal. So I'm the fivethousandth in a long line of futile sons? What can I do to save myselffrom dying eight days from now? Is there escape?     His eyes widened, another image came to focus.     Beyond this valley of cliffs, on a low mountain lay a perfect,unscarred metal seed. A metal ship, not rusted or touched by theavalanches. The ship was deserted, whole, intact. It was the only shipof all these that had crashed that was still a unit, still usable. Butit was so far away. There was no one in it to help. This ship, then, onthe far mountain, was the destiny toward which he would grow. There washis only hope of escape.     His mind flexed.     In this cliff, deep down in a confinement of solitude, worked a handfulof scientists. To these men, when he was old enough and wise enough, hemust go. They, too, dreamed of escape, of long life, of green valleysand temperate weathers. They, too, stared longingly at that distantship upon its high mountain, its metal so perfect it did not rust orage.     The cliff groaned.     Sim's father lifted his eroded, lifeless face.     Dawn's coming, he said.      II     Morning relaxed the mighty granite cliff muscles. It was the time ofthe Avalanche.     The tunnels echoed to running bare feet. Adults, children pushed witheager, hungry eyes toward the outside dawn. From far out, Sim hearda rumble of rock, a scream, a silence. Avalanches fell into valley.Stones that had been biding their time, not quite ready to fall, fora million years let go their bulks, and where they had begun theirjourney as single boulders they smashed upon the valley floor in athousand shrapnels and friction-heated nuggets.     Every morning at least one person was caught in the downpour.     The cliff people dared the avalanches. It added one more excitement totheir lives, already too short, too headlong, too dangerous.     Sim felt himself seized up by his father. He was carried brusquely downthe tunnel for a thousand yards, to where the daylight appeared. Therewas a shining insane light in his father's eyes. Sim could not move. Hesensed what was going to happen. Behind his father, his mother hurried,bringing with her the little sister, Dark. Wait! Be careful! shecried to her husband.     Sim felt his father crouch, listening.     High in the cliff was a tremor, a shivering.     Now! bellowed his father, and leaped out.     An avalanche fell down at them!     Sim had accelerated impressions of plunging walls, dust, confusion. Hismother screamed! There was a jolting, a plunging.     With one last step, Sim's father hurried him forward into the day. Theavalanche thundered behind him. The mouth of the cave, where mother andDark stood back out of the way, was choked with rubble and two bouldersthat weighed a hundred pounds each.     The storm thunder of the avalanche passed away to a trickle of sand.Sim's father burst out into laughter. Made it! By the Gods! Made italive! And he looked scornfully at the cliff and spat. Pagh!     Mother and sister Dark struggled through the rubble. She cursed herhusband. Fool! You might have killed Sim!     I may yet, retorted the father.     Sim was not listening. He was fascinated with the remains of anavalanche afront of the next tunnel. A blood stain trickled out fromunder a rise of boulders, soaking into the ground. There was nothingelse to be seen. Someone else had lost the game.     Dark ran ahead on lithe, supple feet, naked and certain.     The valley air was like a wine filtered between mountains. The heavenwas a restive blue; not the pale scorched atmosphere of full day, northe bloated, bruised black-purple of night, a-riot with sickly shiningstars.     This was a tide pool. A place where waves of varying and violenttemperatures struck, receded. Now the tide pool was quiet, cool, andits life moved abroad.     Laughter! Far away, Sim heard it. Why laughter? How could any of hispeople find time for laughing? Perhaps later he would discover why.     The valley suddenly blushed with impulsive color. Plant-life, thawingin the precipitant dawn, shoved out from most unexpected sources. Itflowered as you watched. Pale green tendrils appeared on scoured rocks.Seconds later, ripe globes of fruit twitched upon the blade-tips.Father gave Sim over to mother and harvested the momentary, volatilecrop, thrust scarlet, blue, yellow fruits into a fur sack which hung athis waist. Mother tugged at the moist new grasses, laid them on Sim'stongue.     His senses were being honed to a fine edge. He stored knowledgethirstily. He understood love, marriage, customs, anger, pity, rage,selfishness, shadings and subtleties, realities and reflections. Onething suggested another. The sight of green plant life whirled his mindlike a gyroscope, seeking balance in a world where lack of time forexplanations made a mind seek and interpret on its own. The soft burdenof food gave him knowledge of his system, of energy, of movement. Likea bird newly cracking its way from a shell, he was almost a unit,complete, all-knowing. Heredity had done all this for him. He grewexcited with his ability.  They walked, mother, father and the two children, smelling the smells,watching the birds bounce from wall to wall of the valley likescurrying pebbles and suddenly the father said a strange thing:     Remember?     Remember what? Sim lay cradled. Was it any effort for them to rememberwhen they'd lived only seven days!     The husband and wife looked at each other.     Was it only three days ago? said the woman, her body shaking, hereyes closing to think. I can't believe it. It is so unfair. Shesobbed, then drew her hand across her face and bit her parched lips.The wind played at her gray hair. Now is my turn to cry. An hour agoit was you!     An hour is half a life.     Come, she took her husband's arm. Let us look at everything, becauseit will be our last looking.     The sun'll be up in a few minutes, said the old man. We must turnback now.     Just one more moment, pleaded the woman.     The sun will catch us.     Let it catch me then!     You don't mean that.     I mean nothing, nothing at all, cried the woman.     The sun was coming fast. The green in the valley burnt away. Searingwind blasted from over the cliffs. Far away where sun bolts hammeredbattlements of cliff, the huge stone faces shook their contents; thoseavalanches not already powdered down, were now released and fell likemantles.     Dark! shouted the father. The girl sprang over the warm floor of thevalley, answering, her hair a black flag behind her. Hands full ofgreen fruits, she joined them.     The sun rimmed the horizon with flame, the air convulsed dangerouslywith it, and whistled.     The cave people bolted, shouting, picking up their fallen children,bearing vast loads of fruit and grass with them back to their deephideouts. In moments the valley was bare. Except for one small childsomeone had forgotten. He was running far out on the flatness, but hewas not strong enough, and the engulfing heat was drifting down fromthe cliffs even as he was half across the valley.     Flowers were burnt into effigies, grasses sucked back into rocks likesinged snakes, flower seeds whirled and fell in the sudden furnaceblast of wind, sown far into gullies and crannies, ready to blossom atsunset tonight, and then go to seed and die again.     Sim's father watched that child running, alone, out on the floor ofthe valley. He and his wife and Dark and Sim were safe in the mouth oftheir tunnel.     He'll never make it, said father. Do not watch him, woman. It's nota good thing to watch.     They turned away. All except Sim, whose eyes had caught a glint ofmetal far away. His heart hammered in him, and his eyes blurred.Far away, atop a low mountain, one of those metal seeds from spacereflected a dazzling ripple of light! It was like one of hisintra-embryo dreams fulfilled! A metal space seed, intact, undamaged,lying on a mountain! There was his future! There was his hopefor survival! There was where he would go in a few days, when hewas—strange thought—a grown man!     The sun plunged into the valley like molten lava.     The little running child screamed, the sun burned, and the screamingstopped.     Sim's mother walked painfully, with sudden age, down the tunnel,paused, reached up, broke off two last icicles that had formed duringthe night. She handed one to her husband, kept the other. We willdrink one last toast. To you, to the children.     To      you     , he nodded to her. To the children. They lifted theicicles. The warmth melted the ice down into their thirsty mouths.  All day the sun seemed to blaze and erupt into the valley. Sim couldnot see it, but the vivid pictorials in his parents' minds weresufficient evidence of the nature of the day fire. The light ran likemercury, sizzling and roasting the caves, poking inward, but neverpenetrating deeply enough. It lighted the caves. It made the hollows ofthe cliff comfortably warm.     Sim fought to keep his parents young. But no matter how hard he foughtwith mind and image, they became like mummies before him. His fatherseemed to dissolve from one stage of oldness to another. This is whatwill happen to me soon, though Sim in terror.     Sim grew upon himself. He felt the digestive-eliminatory movementsof his body. He was fed every minute, he was continually swallowing,feeding. He began to fit words to images and processes. Such a word waslove. It was not an abstraction, but a process, a stir of breath, asmell of morning air, a flutter of heart, the curve of arm holding him,the look in the suspended face of his mother. He saw the processes,then searched behind her suspended face and there was the word, in herbrain, ready to use. His throat prepared to speak. Life was pushinghim, rushing him along toward oblivion.     He sensed the expansion of his fingernails, the adjustments of hiscells, the profusion of his hair, the multiplication of his bones andsinew, the grooving of the soft pale wax of his brain. His brain atbirth as clear as a circle of ice, innocent, unmarked, was, an instantlater, as if hit with a thrown rock, cracked and marked and patternedin a million crevices of thought and discovery.     His sister, Dark, ran in and out with other little hothouse children,forever eating. His mother trembled over him, not eating, she had noappetite, her eyes were webbed shut.     Sunset, said his father, at last.     The day was over. The light faded, a wind sounded.     His mother arose. I want to see the outside world once more ... justonce more.... She stared blindly, shivering.     His father's eyes were shut, he lay against the wall.     I cannot rise, he whispered faintly. I cannot.     Dark! The mother croaked, the girl came running. Here, and Sim washanded to the girl. Hold to Sim, Dark, feed him, care for him. Shegave Sim one last fondling touch.     Dark said not a word, holding Sim, her great green eyes shining wetly.     Go now, said the mother. Take him out into the sunset time. Enjoyyourselves. Pick foods, eat. Play.     Dark walked away without looking back. Sim twisted in her grasp,looking over her shoulder with unbelieving, tragic eyes. He cried outand somehow summoned from his lips the first word of his existence.     Why...?     He saw his mother stiffen. The child spoke!     Aye, said his father. Did you hear what he said?     I heard, said the mother quietly.     The last thing Sim saw of his living parents was his mother weakly,swayingly, slowly moving across the floor to lie beside her silenthusband. That was the last time he ever saw them move.      IV     The night came and passed and then started the second day.     The bodies of all those who had died during the night were carried in afuneral procession to the top of a small hill. The procession was long,the bodies numerous.     Dark walked in the procession, holding the newly walking Sim by onehand. Only an hour before dawn Sim had learned to walk.     At the top of the hill, Sim saw once again the far off metal seed.Nobody ever looked at it, or spoke of it. Why? Was there some reason?Was it a mirage? Why did they not run toward it? Worship it? Try to getto it and fly away into space?     The funeral words were spoken. The bodies were placed upon the groundwhere the sun, in a few minutes, would cremate them.     The procession then turned and ran down the hill, eager to have theirfew minutes of free time running and playing and laughing in the sweetair.     Dark and Sim, chattering like birds, feeding among the rocks, exchangedwhat they knew of life. He was in his second day, she in her third.They were driven, as always, by the mercurial speed of their lives.     Another piece of his life opened wide.     Fifty young men ran down from the cliffs, holding sharp stones and rockdaggers in their thick hands. Shouting, they ran off toward distantblack, low lines of small rock cliffs.     War!     The thought stood in Sim's brain. It shocked and beat at him. These menwere running to fight, to kill, over there in those small black cliffswhere other people lived.     But why? Wasn't life short enough without fighting, killing?     From a great distance he heard the sound of conflict, and it made hisstomach cold. Why, Dark, why?     Dark didn't know. Perhaps they would understand tomorrow. Now, therewas the business of eating to sustain and support their lives. WatchingDark was like seeing a lizard forever flickering its pink tongue,forever hungry.     Pale children ran on all sides of them. One beetle-like boy scuttled upthe rocks, knocking Sim aside, to take from him a particularly lusciousred berry he had found growing under an outcrop.     The child ate hastily of the fruit before Sim could gain his feet. ThenSim hurled himself unsteadily, the two of them fell in a ridiculousjumble, rolling, until Dark pried them, squalling, apart.     Sim bled. A part of him stood off, like a god, and said, This shouldnot be. Children should not be this way. It is wrong!     Dark slapped the little intruding boy away. Get on! she cried.What's your name, bad one?     Chion! laughed the boy. Chion, Chion, Chion!     Sim glared at him with all the ferocity in his small, unskilledfeatures. He choked. This was his enemy. It was as if he'd waitedfor an enemy of person as well as scene. He had already understoodthe avalanches, the heat, the cold, the shortness of life, but thesewere things of places, of scene—mute, extravagant manifestations ofunthinking nature, not motivated save by gravity and radiation. Here,now, in this stridulent Chion he recognized a thinking enemy!     Chion darted off, turned at a distance, tauntingly crying:     Tomorrow I will be big enough to kill you!     And he vanished around a rock.     More children ran, giggling, by Sim. Which of them would be friends,enemies? How could friends and enemies come about in this impossible,quick life time? There was no time to make either, was there?     Dark, as if knowing his thoughts, drew him away. As they searched fordesired foods, she whispered fiercely in his ear. Enemies are madeover things like stolen foods; gifts of long grasses make friends.Enemies come, too, from opinions and thoughts. In five seconds you'vemade an enemy for life. Life's so short enemies must be made quickly.And she laughed with an irony strange for one so young, who was growingolder before her rightful time. You must fight to protect yourself.Others, superstitious ones, will try killing you. There is a belief, aridiculous belief, that if one kills another, the murderer partakes ofthe life energy of the slain, and therefore will live an extra day. Yousee? As long as that is believed, you're in danger.     But Sim was not listening. Bursting from a flock of delicate girls whotomorrow would be tall, quieter, and who day after that would gainbreasts and the next day take husbands, Sim caught sight of one smallgirl whose hair was a violet blue flame.     She ran past, brushed Sim, their bodies touched. Her eyes, white assilver coins, shone at him. He knew then that he'd found a friend, alove, a wife, one who'd a week from now lie with him atop the funeralpyre as sunlight undressed their flesh from bone.     Only the glance, but it held them in mid-motion, one instant.     Your name? he shouted after her.     Lyte! she called laughingly back.     I'm Sim, he answered, confused and bewildered.     Sim! she repeated it, flashing on. I'll remember!     Dark nudged his ribs. Here,      eat     , she said to the distracted boy.Eat or you'll never get big enough to catch her.     From nowhere, Chion appeared, running by. Lyte! he mocked, dancingmalevolently along and away. Lyte! I'll remember Lyte, too!     Dark stood tall and reed slender, shaking her dark ebony clouds ofhair, sadly. I see your life before you, little Sim. You'll needweapons soon to fight for this Lyte one. Now, hurry—the sun's coming!     They ran back to the caves.  ","Dark is the older sister to Sim. When both of their parents die from old age, on the eighth day of their existence, Dark takes over as a carrying role for Sim. She tries her best to impart knowledge to him about friends and enemies. Noticing the interactions Sim is having with other kids his age, she warns him about the violence that his future surely holds due to a new enemy. While she is not his mother and was not born much before him, she does take a protective role. She makes sure he is fed and defends him when he is being bullied. "
"What is strange about the planet? </s>    THE CREATURES THAT TIME FORGOT     By RAY BRADBURY     Mad, impossible world! Sun-blasted by day,     cold-wracked by night—and life condensed by     radiation into eight days! Sim eyed the     Ship—if he only dared reach it and     escape! ... but it was more than half an     hour distant—the limit of life itself!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Fall 1946.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      During the night, Sim was born. He lay wailing upon the cold cavestones. His blood beat through him a thousand pulses each minute. Hegrew, steadily.     Into his mouth his mother with feverish hands put the food. Thenightmare of living was begun. Almost instantly at birth his eyes grewalert, and then, without half understanding why, filled with bright,insistent terror. He gagged upon the food, choked and wailed. He lookedabout, blindly.     There was a thick fog. It cleared. The outlines of the cave appeared.And a man loomed up, insane and wild and terrible. A man with a dyingface. Old, withered by winds, baked like adobe in the heat. The man wascrouched in a far corner of the cave, his eyes whitening to one side ofhis face, listening to the far wind trumpeting up above on the frozennight planet.     Sim's mother, trembling, now and again, staring at the man, fed Simpebble-fruits, valley-grasses and ice-nipples broken from the cavernentrances, and eating, eliminating, eating again, he grew larger,larger.     The man in the corner of the cave was his father! The man's eyes wereall that was alive in his face. He held a crude stone dagger in hiswithered hands and his jaw hung loose and senseless.     Then, with a widening focus, Sim saw the old people sitting in thetunnel beyond this living quarter. And as he watched, they began to die.     Their agonies filled the cave. They melted like waxen images, theirfaces collapsed inward on their sharp bones, their teeth protruded. Oneminute their faces were mature, fairly smooth, alive, electric. Thenext minute a desication and burning away of their flesh occurred.     Sim thrashed in his mother's grasp. She held him. No, no, she soothedhim, quietly, earnestly, looking to see if this, too, would cause herhusband to rise again.     With a soft swift padding of naked feet, Sim's father ran across thecave. Sim's mother screamed. Sim felt himself torn loose from hergrasp. He fell upon the stones, rolling, shrieking with his new, moistlungs!        With a soft padding of naked feet Sim's father ran across the cave.        The webbed face of his father jerked over him, the knife was poised.It was like one of those prenatal nightmares he'd had while stillin his mother's flesh. In the next few blazing, impossible instantsquestions flicked through his brain. The knife was high, suspended,ready to destroy him. But the whole question of life in this cave, thedying people, the withering and the insanity, surged through Sim'snew, small head. How was it that he understood? A newborn child? Can anewborn child think, see, understand, interpret? No. It was wrong! Itwas impossible. Yet it was happening! To him. He had been alive an hournow. And in the next instant perhaps dead!     His mother flung herself upon the back of his father, and beat down theweapon. Sim caught the terrific backwash of emotion from both theirconflicting minds. Let me kill him! shouted the father, breathingharshly, sobbingly. What has he to live for?     No, no! insisted the mother, and her body, frail and old as it was,stretched across the huge body of the father, tearing at his weapon.He must live! There may be a future for him! He may live longer thanus, and be young!     The father fell back against a stone crib. Lying there, staring,eyes glittering, Sim saw another figure inside that stone crib. Agirl-child, quietly feeding itself, moving its delicate hands toprocure food. His sister.     The mother wrenched the dagger from her husband's grasp, stood up,weeping and pushing back her cloud of stiffening gray hair. Her mouthtrembled and jerked. I'll kill you! she said, glaring down at herhusband. Leave my children alone.     The old man spat tiredly, bitterly, and looked vacantly into the stonecrib, at the little girl. One-eighth of      her     life's over, already,he gasped. And she doesn't know it. What's the use?     As Sim watched, his own mother seemed to shift and take a tortured,smoke-like form. The thin bony face broke out into a maze of wrinkles.She was shaken with pain and had to sit by him, shuddering and cuddlingthe knife to her shriveled breasts. She, like the old people in thetunnel, was aging, dying.     Sim cried steadily. Everywhere he looked was horror. A mind came tomeet his own. Instinctively he glanced toward the stone crib. Dark, hissister, returned his glance. Their minds brushed like straying fingers.He relaxed somewhat. He began to learn.     The father sighed, shut his lids down over his green eyes. Feed thechild, he said, exhaustedly. Hurry. It is almost dawn and it is ourlast day of living, woman. Feed him. Make him grow.     Sim quieted, and images, out of the terror, floated to him.     This was a planet next to the sun. The nights burned with cold, thedays were like torches of fire. It was a violent, impossible world. Thepeople lived in the cliffs to escape the incredible ice and the day offlame. Only at dawn and sunset was the air breath-sweet, flower-strong,and then the cave peoples brought their children out into a stony,barren valley. At dawn the ice thawed into creeks and rivers, at sunsetthe day-fires died and cooled. In the intervals of even, livabletemperature the people lived, ran, played, loved, free of the caverns;all life on the planet jumped, burst into life. Plants grew instantly,birds were flung like pellets across the sky. Smaller, legged animallife rushed frantically through the rocks; everything tried to getits living down in the brief hour of respite.     It was an unbearable planet. Sim understood this, a matter of hoursafter birth. Racial memory bloomed in him. He would live his entirelife in the caves, with two hours a day outside. Here, in stonechannels of air he would talk, talk incessantly with his people, sleepnever, think, think and lie upon his back, dreaming; but never sleeping.       And he would live exactly eight days.    The violence of this thought evacuated his bowels. Eight days. Eight      short     days. It was wrong, impossible, but a fact. Even while in hismother's flesh some racial knowledge had told him he was being formedrapidly, shaped and propelled out swiftly.     Birth was quick as a knife. Childhood was over in a flash. Adolescencewas a sheet of lightning. Manhood was a dream, maturity a myth, old agean inescapably quick reality, death a swift certainty.     Eight days from now he'd stand half-blind, withering, dying, as hisfather now stood, staring uselessly at his own wife and child.     This day was an eighth part of his total life! He must enjoy everysecond of it. He must search his parents' thoughts for knowledge.       Because in a few hours they'd be dead.       This was so impossibly unfair. Was this all of life? In his prenatalstate hadn't he dreamed of      long     lives, valleys not of blasted stonebut green foliage and temperate clime? Yes! And if he'd dreamed thenthere must be truth in the visions. How could he seek and find the longlife? Where? And how could he accomplish a life mission that huge anddepressing in eight short, vanishing days?     How had his people gotten into such a condition?     As if at a button pressed, he saw an image. Metal seeds, blown acrossspace from a distant green world, fighting with long flames, crashingon this bleak planet. From their shattered hulls tumble men and women.     When? Long ago. Ten thousand days. The crash victims hid in the cliffsfrom the sun. Fire, ice and floods washed away the wreckage of thehuge metal seeds. The victims were shaped and beaten like iron upona forge. Solar radiations drenched them. Their pulses quickened,two hundred, five hundred, a thousand beats a minute. Their skinsthickened, their blood changed. Old age came rushing. Children wereborn in the caves. Swifter, swifter, swifter the process. Like all thisworld's wild life, the men and women from the crash lived and died in aweek, leaving children to do likewise.     So this is life, thought Sim. It was not spoken in his mind, forhe knew no words, he knew only images, old memory, an awareness, atelepathy that could penetrate flesh, rock, metal. So I'm the fivethousandth in a long line of futile sons? What can I do to save myselffrom dying eight days from now? Is there escape?     His eyes widened, another image came to focus.     Beyond this valley of cliffs, on a low mountain lay a perfect,unscarred metal seed. A metal ship, not rusted or touched by theavalanches. The ship was deserted, whole, intact. It was the only shipof all these that had crashed that was still a unit, still usable. Butit was so far away. There was no one in it to help. This ship, then, onthe far mountain, was the destiny toward which he would grow. There washis only hope of escape.     His mind flexed.     In this cliff, deep down in a confinement of solitude, worked a handfulof scientists. To these men, when he was old enough and wise enough, hemust go. They, too, dreamed of escape, of long life, of green valleysand temperate weathers. They, too, stared longingly at that distantship upon its high mountain, its metal so perfect it did not rust orage.     The cliff groaned.     Sim's father lifted his eroded, lifeless face.     Dawn's coming, he said.      II     Morning relaxed the mighty granite cliff muscles. It was the time ofthe Avalanche.     The tunnels echoed to running bare feet. Adults, children pushed witheager, hungry eyes toward the outside dawn. From far out, Sim hearda rumble of rock, a scream, a silence. Avalanches fell into valley.Stones that had been biding their time, not quite ready to fall, fora million years let go their bulks, and where they had begun theirjourney as single boulders they smashed upon the valley floor in athousand shrapnels and friction-heated nuggets.     Every morning at least one person was caught in the downpour.     The cliff people dared the avalanches. It added one more excitement totheir lives, already too short, too headlong, too dangerous.     Sim felt himself seized up by his father. He was carried brusquely downthe tunnel for a thousand yards, to where the daylight appeared. Therewas a shining insane light in his father's eyes. Sim could not move. Hesensed what was going to happen. Behind his father, his mother hurried,bringing with her the little sister, Dark. Wait! Be careful! shecried to her husband.     Sim felt his father crouch, listening.     High in the cliff was a tremor, a shivering.     Now! bellowed his father, and leaped out.     An avalanche fell down at them!     Sim had accelerated impressions of plunging walls, dust, confusion. Hismother screamed! There was a jolting, a plunging.     With one last step, Sim's father hurried him forward into the day. Theavalanche thundered behind him. The mouth of the cave, where mother andDark stood back out of the way, was choked with rubble and two bouldersthat weighed a hundred pounds each.     The storm thunder of the avalanche passed away to a trickle of sand.Sim's father burst out into laughter. Made it! By the Gods! Made italive! And he looked scornfully at the cliff and spat. Pagh!     Mother and sister Dark struggled through the rubble. She cursed herhusband. Fool! You might have killed Sim!     I may yet, retorted the father.     Sim was not listening. He was fascinated with the remains of anavalanche afront of the next tunnel. A blood stain trickled out fromunder a rise of boulders, soaking into the ground. There was nothingelse to be seen. Someone else had lost the game.     Dark ran ahead on lithe, supple feet, naked and certain.     The valley air was like a wine filtered between mountains. The heavenwas a restive blue; not the pale scorched atmosphere of full day, northe bloated, bruised black-purple of night, a-riot with sickly shiningstars.     This was a tide pool. A place where waves of varying and violenttemperatures struck, receded. Now the tide pool was quiet, cool, andits life moved abroad.     Laughter! Far away, Sim heard it. Why laughter? How could any of hispeople find time for laughing? Perhaps later he would discover why.     The valley suddenly blushed with impulsive color. Plant-life, thawingin the precipitant dawn, shoved out from most unexpected sources. Itflowered as you watched. Pale green tendrils appeared on scoured rocks.Seconds later, ripe globes of fruit twitched upon the blade-tips.Father gave Sim over to mother and harvested the momentary, volatilecrop, thrust scarlet, blue, yellow fruits into a fur sack which hung athis waist. Mother tugged at the moist new grasses, laid them on Sim'stongue.     His senses were being honed to a fine edge. He stored knowledgethirstily. He understood love, marriage, customs, anger, pity, rage,selfishness, shadings and subtleties, realities and reflections. Onething suggested another. The sight of green plant life whirled his mindlike a gyroscope, seeking balance in a world where lack of time forexplanations made a mind seek and interpret on its own. The soft burdenof food gave him knowledge of his system, of energy, of movement. Likea bird newly cracking its way from a shell, he was almost a unit,complete, all-knowing. Heredity had done all this for him. He grewexcited with his ability.  They walked, mother, father and the two children, smelling the smells,watching the birds bounce from wall to wall of the valley likescurrying pebbles and suddenly the father said a strange thing:     Remember?     Remember what? Sim lay cradled. Was it any effort for them to rememberwhen they'd lived only seven days!     The husband and wife looked at each other.     Was it only three days ago? said the woman, her body shaking, hereyes closing to think. I can't believe it. It is so unfair. Shesobbed, then drew her hand across her face and bit her parched lips.The wind played at her gray hair. Now is my turn to cry. An hour agoit was you!     An hour is half a life.     Come, she took her husband's arm. Let us look at everything, becauseit will be our last looking.     The sun'll be up in a few minutes, said the old man. We must turnback now.     Just one more moment, pleaded the woman.     The sun will catch us.     Let it catch me then!     You don't mean that.     I mean nothing, nothing at all, cried the woman.     The sun was coming fast. The green in the valley burnt away. Searingwind blasted from over the cliffs. Far away where sun bolts hammeredbattlements of cliff, the huge stone faces shook their contents; thoseavalanches not already powdered down, were now released and fell likemantles.     Dark! shouted the father. The girl sprang over the warm floor of thevalley, answering, her hair a black flag behind her. Hands full ofgreen fruits, she joined them.     The sun rimmed the horizon with flame, the air convulsed dangerouslywith it, and whistled.     The cave people bolted, shouting, picking up their fallen children,bearing vast loads of fruit and grass with them back to their deephideouts. In moments the valley was bare. Except for one small childsomeone had forgotten. He was running far out on the flatness, but hewas not strong enough, and the engulfing heat was drifting down fromthe cliffs even as he was half across the valley.     Flowers were burnt into effigies, grasses sucked back into rocks likesinged snakes, flower seeds whirled and fell in the sudden furnaceblast of wind, sown far into gullies and crannies, ready to blossom atsunset tonight, and then go to seed and die again.     Sim's father watched that child running, alone, out on the floor ofthe valley. He and his wife and Dark and Sim were safe in the mouth oftheir tunnel.     He'll never make it, said father. Do not watch him, woman. It's nota good thing to watch.     They turned away. All except Sim, whose eyes had caught a glint ofmetal far away. His heart hammered in him, and his eyes blurred.Far away, atop a low mountain, one of those metal seeds from spacereflected a dazzling ripple of light! It was like one of hisintra-embryo dreams fulfilled! A metal space seed, intact, undamaged,lying on a mountain! There was his future! There was his hopefor survival! There was where he would go in a few days, when hewas—strange thought—a grown man!     The sun plunged into the valley like molten lava.     The little running child screamed, the sun burned, and the screamingstopped.     Sim's mother walked painfully, with sudden age, down the tunnel,paused, reached up, broke off two last icicles that had formed duringthe night. She handed one to her husband, kept the other. We willdrink one last toast. To you, to the children.     To      you     , he nodded to her. To the children. They lifted theicicles. The warmth melted the ice down into their thirsty mouths.  All day the sun seemed to blaze and erupt into the valley. Sim couldnot see it, but the vivid pictorials in his parents' minds weresufficient evidence of the nature of the day fire. The light ran likemercury, sizzling and roasting the caves, poking inward, but neverpenetrating deeply enough. It lighted the caves. It made the hollows ofthe cliff comfortably warm.     Sim fought to keep his parents young. But no matter how hard he foughtwith mind and image, they became like mummies before him. His fatherseemed to dissolve from one stage of oldness to another. This is whatwill happen to me soon, though Sim in terror.     Sim grew upon himself. He felt the digestive-eliminatory movementsof his body. He was fed every minute, he was continually swallowing,feeding. He began to fit words to images and processes. Such a word waslove. It was not an abstraction, but a process, a stir of breath, asmell of morning air, a flutter of heart, the curve of arm holding him,the look in the suspended face of his mother. He saw the processes,then searched behind her suspended face and there was the word, in herbrain, ready to use. His throat prepared to speak. Life was pushinghim, rushing him along toward oblivion.     He sensed the expansion of his fingernails, the adjustments of hiscells, the profusion of his hair, the multiplication of his bones andsinew, the grooving of the soft pale wax of his brain. His brain atbirth as clear as a circle of ice, innocent, unmarked, was, an instantlater, as if hit with a thrown rock, cracked and marked and patternedin a million crevices of thought and discovery.     His sister, Dark, ran in and out with other little hothouse children,forever eating. His mother trembled over him, not eating, she had noappetite, her eyes were webbed shut.     Sunset, said his father, at last.     The day was over. The light faded, a wind sounded.     His mother arose. I want to see the outside world once more ... justonce more.... She stared blindly, shivering.     His father's eyes were shut, he lay against the wall.     I cannot rise, he whispered faintly. I cannot.     Dark! The mother croaked, the girl came running. Here, and Sim washanded to the girl. Hold to Sim, Dark, feed him, care for him. Shegave Sim one last fondling touch.     Dark said not a word, holding Sim, her great green eyes shining wetly.     Go now, said the mother. Take him out into the sunset time. Enjoyyourselves. Pick foods, eat. Play.     Dark walked away without looking back. Sim twisted in her grasp,looking over her shoulder with unbelieving, tragic eyes. He cried outand somehow summoned from his lips the first word of his existence.     Why...?     He saw his mother stiffen. The child spoke!     Aye, said his father. Did you hear what he said?     I heard, said the mother quietly.     The last thing Sim saw of his living parents was his mother weakly,swayingly, slowly moving across the floor to lie beside her silenthusband. That was the last time he ever saw them move.      IV     The night came and passed and then started the second day.     The bodies of all those who had died during the night were carried in afuneral procession to the top of a small hill. The procession was long,the bodies numerous.     Dark walked in the procession, holding the newly walking Sim by onehand. Only an hour before dawn Sim had learned to walk.     At the top of the hill, Sim saw once again the far off metal seed.Nobody ever looked at it, or spoke of it. Why? Was there some reason?Was it a mirage? Why did they not run toward it? Worship it? Try to getto it and fly away into space?     The funeral words were spoken. The bodies were placed upon the groundwhere the sun, in a few minutes, would cremate them.     The procession then turned and ran down the hill, eager to have theirfew minutes of free time running and playing and laughing in the sweetair.     Dark and Sim, chattering like birds, feeding among the rocks, exchangedwhat they knew of life. He was in his second day, she in her third.They were driven, as always, by the mercurial speed of their lives.     Another piece of his life opened wide.     Fifty young men ran down from the cliffs, holding sharp stones and rockdaggers in their thick hands. Shouting, they ran off toward distantblack, low lines of small rock cliffs.     War!     The thought stood in Sim's brain. It shocked and beat at him. These menwere running to fight, to kill, over there in those small black cliffswhere other people lived.     But why? Wasn't life short enough without fighting, killing?     From a great distance he heard the sound of conflict, and it made hisstomach cold. Why, Dark, why?     Dark didn't know. Perhaps they would understand tomorrow. Now, therewas the business of eating to sustain and support their lives. WatchingDark was like seeing a lizard forever flickering its pink tongue,forever hungry.     Pale children ran on all sides of them. One beetle-like boy scuttled upthe rocks, knocking Sim aside, to take from him a particularly lusciousred berry he had found growing under an outcrop.     The child ate hastily of the fruit before Sim could gain his feet. ThenSim hurled himself unsteadily, the two of them fell in a ridiculousjumble, rolling, until Dark pried them, squalling, apart.     Sim bled. A part of him stood off, like a god, and said, This shouldnot be. Children should not be this way. It is wrong!     Dark slapped the little intruding boy away. Get on! she cried.What's your name, bad one?     Chion! laughed the boy. Chion, Chion, Chion!     Sim glared at him with all the ferocity in his small, unskilledfeatures. He choked. This was his enemy. It was as if he'd waitedfor an enemy of person as well as scene. He had already understoodthe avalanches, the heat, the cold, the shortness of life, but thesewere things of places, of scene—mute, extravagant manifestations ofunthinking nature, not motivated save by gravity and radiation. Here,now, in this stridulent Chion he recognized a thinking enemy!     Chion darted off, turned at a distance, tauntingly crying:     Tomorrow I will be big enough to kill you!     And he vanished around a rock.     More children ran, giggling, by Sim. Which of them would be friends,enemies? How could friends and enemies come about in this impossible,quick life time? There was no time to make either, was there?     Dark, as if knowing his thoughts, drew him away. As they searched fordesired foods, she whispered fiercely in his ear. Enemies are madeover things like stolen foods; gifts of long grasses make friends.Enemies come, too, from opinions and thoughts. In five seconds you'vemade an enemy for life. Life's so short enemies must be made quickly.And she laughed with an irony strange for one so young, who was growingolder before her rightful time. You must fight to protect yourself.Others, superstitious ones, will try killing you. There is a belief, aridiculous belief, that if one kills another, the murderer partakes ofthe life energy of the slain, and therefore will live an extra day. Yousee? As long as that is believed, you're in danger.     But Sim was not listening. Bursting from a flock of delicate girls whotomorrow would be tall, quieter, and who day after that would gainbreasts and the next day take husbands, Sim caught sight of one smallgirl whose hair was a violet blue flame.     She ran past, brushed Sim, their bodies touched. Her eyes, white assilver coins, shone at him. He knew then that he'd found a friend, alove, a wife, one who'd a week from now lie with him atop the funeralpyre as sunlight undressed their flesh from bone.     Only the glance, but it held them in mid-motion, one instant.     Your name? he shouted after her.     Lyte! she called laughingly back.     I'm Sim, he answered, confused and bewildered.     Sim! she repeated it, flashing on. I'll remember!     Dark nudged his ribs. Here,      eat     , she said to the distracted boy.Eat or you'll never get big enough to catch her.     From nowhere, Chion appeared, running by. Lyte! he mocked, dancingmalevolently along and away. Lyte! I'll remember Lyte, too!     Dark stood tall and reed slender, shaking her dark ebony clouds ofhair, sadly. I see your life before you, little Sim. You'll needweapons soon to fight for this Lyte one. Now, hurry—the sun's coming!     They ran back to the caves.  ","The planet is strange because of its extremes. The people that live on the planet have to spend most of their time in the caves because during most of the day the sun is too powerful and kills everything that it touches. At night, there is a cold, burning sensation. There are about two hours during the day, dawn and sunset, where the people are able to venture into the valley. During this time, the rivers flow, the flowers bloom, and the people enjoy the livable temperatures outside. Even more strange on the planet is the extreme aging that people go through. People only live 8 days. As a result, they mature, understand, grow, and age at an incredible pace. "
"How does Sim gain his knowledge and absorb his surroundings? </s>    THE CREATURES THAT TIME FORGOT     By RAY BRADBURY     Mad, impossible world! Sun-blasted by day,     cold-wracked by night—and life condensed by     radiation into eight days! Sim eyed the     Ship—if he only dared reach it and     escape! ... but it was more than half an     hour distant—the limit of life itself!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Fall 1946.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      During the night, Sim was born. He lay wailing upon the cold cavestones. His blood beat through him a thousand pulses each minute. Hegrew, steadily.     Into his mouth his mother with feverish hands put the food. Thenightmare of living was begun. Almost instantly at birth his eyes grewalert, and then, without half understanding why, filled with bright,insistent terror. He gagged upon the food, choked and wailed. He lookedabout, blindly.     There was a thick fog. It cleared. The outlines of the cave appeared.And a man loomed up, insane and wild and terrible. A man with a dyingface. Old, withered by winds, baked like adobe in the heat. The man wascrouched in a far corner of the cave, his eyes whitening to one side ofhis face, listening to the far wind trumpeting up above on the frozennight planet.     Sim's mother, trembling, now and again, staring at the man, fed Simpebble-fruits, valley-grasses and ice-nipples broken from the cavernentrances, and eating, eliminating, eating again, he grew larger,larger.     The man in the corner of the cave was his father! The man's eyes wereall that was alive in his face. He held a crude stone dagger in hiswithered hands and his jaw hung loose and senseless.     Then, with a widening focus, Sim saw the old people sitting in thetunnel beyond this living quarter. And as he watched, they began to die.     Their agonies filled the cave. They melted like waxen images, theirfaces collapsed inward on their sharp bones, their teeth protruded. Oneminute their faces were mature, fairly smooth, alive, electric. Thenext minute a desication and burning away of their flesh occurred.     Sim thrashed in his mother's grasp. She held him. No, no, she soothedhim, quietly, earnestly, looking to see if this, too, would cause herhusband to rise again.     With a soft swift padding of naked feet, Sim's father ran across thecave. Sim's mother screamed. Sim felt himself torn loose from hergrasp. He fell upon the stones, rolling, shrieking with his new, moistlungs!        With a soft padding of naked feet Sim's father ran across the cave.        The webbed face of his father jerked over him, the knife was poised.It was like one of those prenatal nightmares he'd had while stillin his mother's flesh. In the next few blazing, impossible instantsquestions flicked through his brain. The knife was high, suspended,ready to destroy him. But the whole question of life in this cave, thedying people, the withering and the insanity, surged through Sim'snew, small head. How was it that he understood? A newborn child? Can anewborn child think, see, understand, interpret? No. It was wrong! Itwas impossible. Yet it was happening! To him. He had been alive an hournow. And in the next instant perhaps dead!     His mother flung herself upon the back of his father, and beat down theweapon. Sim caught the terrific backwash of emotion from both theirconflicting minds. Let me kill him! shouted the father, breathingharshly, sobbingly. What has he to live for?     No, no! insisted the mother, and her body, frail and old as it was,stretched across the huge body of the father, tearing at his weapon.He must live! There may be a future for him! He may live longer thanus, and be young!     The father fell back against a stone crib. Lying there, staring,eyes glittering, Sim saw another figure inside that stone crib. Agirl-child, quietly feeding itself, moving its delicate hands toprocure food. His sister.     The mother wrenched the dagger from her husband's grasp, stood up,weeping and pushing back her cloud of stiffening gray hair. Her mouthtrembled and jerked. I'll kill you! she said, glaring down at herhusband. Leave my children alone.     The old man spat tiredly, bitterly, and looked vacantly into the stonecrib, at the little girl. One-eighth of      her     life's over, already,he gasped. And she doesn't know it. What's the use?     As Sim watched, his own mother seemed to shift and take a tortured,smoke-like form. The thin bony face broke out into a maze of wrinkles.She was shaken with pain and had to sit by him, shuddering and cuddlingthe knife to her shriveled breasts. She, like the old people in thetunnel, was aging, dying.     Sim cried steadily. Everywhere he looked was horror. A mind came tomeet his own. Instinctively he glanced toward the stone crib. Dark, hissister, returned his glance. Their minds brushed like straying fingers.He relaxed somewhat. He began to learn.     The father sighed, shut his lids down over his green eyes. Feed thechild, he said, exhaustedly. Hurry. It is almost dawn and it is ourlast day of living, woman. Feed him. Make him grow.     Sim quieted, and images, out of the terror, floated to him.     This was a planet next to the sun. The nights burned with cold, thedays were like torches of fire. It was a violent, impossible world. Thepeople lived in the cliffs to escape the incredible ice and the day offlame. Only at dawn and sunset was the air breath-sweet, flower-strong,and then the cave peoples brought their children out into a stony,barren valley. At dawn the ice thawed into creeks and rivers, at sunsetthe day-fires died and cooled. In the intervals of even, livabletemperature the people lived, ran, played, loved, free of the caverns;all life on the planet jumped, burst into life. Plants grew instantly,birds were flung like pellets across the sky. Smaller, legged animallife rushed frantically through the rocks; everything tried to getits living down in the brief hour of respite.     It was an unbearable planet. Sim understood this, a matter of hoursafter birth. Racial memory bloomed in him. He would live his entirelife in the caves, with two hours a day outside. Here, in stonechannels of air he would talk, talk incessantly with his people, sleepnever, think, think and lie upon his back, dreaming; but never sleeping.       And he would live exactly eight days.    The violence of this thought evacuated his bowels. Eight days. Eight      short     days. It was wrong, impossible, but a fact. Even while in hismother's flesh some racial knowledge had told him he was being formedrapidly, shaped and propelled out swiftly.     Birth was quick as a knife. Childhood was over in a flash. Adolescencewas a sheet of lightning. Manhood was a dream, maturity a myth, old agean inescapably quick reality, death a swift certainty.     Eight days from now he'd stand half-blind, withering, dying, as hisfather now stood, staring uselessly at his own wife and child.     This day was an eighth part of his total life! He must enjoy everysecond of it. He must search his parents' thoughts for knowledge.       Because in a few hours they'd be dead.       This was so impossibly unfair. Was this all of life? In his prenatalstate hadn't he dreamed of      long     lives, valleys not of blasted stonebut green foliage and temperate clime? Yes! And if he'd dreamed thenthere must be truth in the visions. How could he seek and find the longlife? Where? And how could he accomplish a life mission that huge anddepressing in eight short, vanishing days?     How had his people gotten into such a condition?     As if at a button pressed, he saw an image. Metal seeds, blown acrossspace from a distant green world, fighting with long flames, crashingon this bleak planet. From their shattered hulls tumble men and women.     When? Long ago. Ten thousand days. The crash victims hid in the cliffsfrom the sun. Fire, ice and floods washed away the wreckage of thehuge metal seeds. The victims were shaped and beaten like iron upona forge. Solar radiations drenched them. Their pulses quickened,two hundred, five hundred, a thousand beats a minute. Their skinsthickened, their blood changed. Old age came rushing. Children wereborn in the caves. Swifter, swifter, swifter the process. Like all thisworld's wild life, the men and women from the crash lived and died in aweek, leaving children to do likewise.     So this is life, thought Sim. It was not spoken in his mind, forhe knew no words, he knew only images, old memory, an awareness, atelepathy that could penetrate flesh, rock, metal. So I'm the fivethousandth in a long line of futile sons? What can I do to save myselffrom dying eight days from now? Is there escape?     His eyes widened, another image came to focus.     Beyond this valley of cliffs, on a low mountain lay a perfect,unscarred metal seed. A metal ship, not rusted or touched by theavalanches. The ship was deserted, whole, intact. It was the only shipof all these that had crashed that was still a unit, still usable. Butit was so far away. There was no one in it to help. This ship, then, onthe far mountain, was the destiny toward which he would grow. There washis only hope of escape.     His mind flexed.     In this cliff, deep down in a confinement of solitude, worked a handfulof scientists. To these men, when he was old enough and wise enough, hemust go. They, too, dreamed of escape, of long life, of green valleysand temperate weathers. They, too, stared longingly at that distantship upon its high mountain, its metal so perfect it did not rust orage.     The cliff groaned.     Sim's father lifted his eroded, lifeless face.     Dawn's coming, he said.      II     Morning relaxed the mighty granite cliff muscles. It was the time ofthe Avalanche.     The tunnels echoed to running bare feet. Adults, children pushed witheager, hungry eyes toward the outside dawn. From far out, Sim hearda rumble of rock, a scream, a silence. Avalanches fell into valley.Stones that had been biding their time, not quite ready to fall, fora million years let go their bulks, and where they had begun theirjourney as single boulders they smashed upon the valley floor in athousand shrapnels and friction-heated nuggets.     Every morning at least one person was caught in the downpour.     The cliff people dared the avalanches. It added one more excitement totheir lives, already too short, too headlong, too dangerous.     Sim felt himself seized up by his father. He was carried brusquely downthe tunnel for a thousand yards, to where the daylight appeared. Therewas a shining insane light in his father's eyes. Sim could not move. Hesensed what was going to happen. Behind his father, his mother hurried,bringing with her the little sister, Dark. Wait! Be careful! shecried to her husband.     Sim felt his father crouch, listening.     High in the cliff was a tremor, a shivering.     Now! bellowed his father, and leaped out.     An avalanche fell down at them!     Sim had accelerated impressions of plunging walls, dust, confusion. Hismother screamed! There was a jolting, a plunging.     With one last step, Sim's father hurried him forward into the day. Theavalanche thundered behind him. The mouth of the cave, where mother andDark stood back out of the way, was choked with rubble and two bouldersthat weighed a hundred pounds each.     The storm thunder of the avalanche passed away to a trickle of sand.Sim's father burst out into laughter. Made it! By the Gods! Made italive! And he looked scornfully at the cliff and spat. Pagh!     Mother and sister Dark struggled through the rubble. She cursed herhusband. Fool! You might have killed Sim!     I may yet, retorted the father.     Sim was not listening. He was fascinated with the remains of anavalanche afront of the next tunnel. A blood stain trickled out fromunder a rise of boulders, soaking into the ground. There was nothingelse to be seen. Someone else had lost the game.     Dark ran ahead on lithe, supple feet, naked and certain.     The valley air was like a wine filtered between mountains. The heavenwas a restive blue; not the pale scorched atmosphere of full day, northe bloated, bruised black-purple of night, a-riot with sickly shiningstars.     This was a tide pool. A place where waves of varying and violenttemperatures struck, receded. Now the tide pool was quiet, cool, andits life moved abroad.     Laughter! Far away, Sim heard it. Why laughter? How could any of hispeople find time for laughing? Perhaps later he would discover why.     The valley suddenly blushed with impulsive color. Plant-life, thawingin the precipitant dawn, shoved out from most unexpected sources. Itflowered as you watched. Pale green tendrils appeared on scoured rocks.Seconds later, ripe globes of fruit twitched upon the blade-tips.Father gave Sim over to mother and harvested the momentary, volatilecrop, thrust scarlet, blue, yellow fruits into a fur sack which hung athis waist. Mother tugged at the moist new grasses, laid them on Sim'stongue.     His senses were being honed to a fine edge. He stored knowledgethirstily. He understood love, marriage, customs, anger, pity, rage,selfishness, shadings and subtleties, realities and reflections. Onething suggested another. The sight of green plant life whirled his mindlike a gyroscope, seeking balance in a world where lack of time forexplanations made a mind seek and interpret on its own. The soft burdenof food gave him knowledge of his system, of energy, of movement. Likea bird newly cracking its way from a shell, he was almost a unit,complete, all-knowing. Heredity had done all this for him. He grewexcited with his ability.  They walked, mother, father and the two children, smelling the smells,watching the birds bounce from wall to wall of the valley likescurrying pebbles and suddenly the father said a strange thing:     Remember?     Remember what? Sim lay cradled. Was it any effort for them to rememberwhen they'd lived only seven days!     The husband and wife looked at each other.     Was it only three days ago? said the woman, her body shaking, hereyes closing to think. I can't believe it. It is so unfair. Shesobbed, then drew her hand across her face and bit her parched lips.The wind played at her gray hair. Now is my turn to cry. An hour agoit was you!     An hour is half a life.     Come, she took her husband's arm. Let us look at everything, becauseit will be our last looking.     The sun'll be up in a few minutes, said the old man. We must turnback now.     Just one more moment, pleaded the woman.     The sun will catch us.     Let it catch me then!     You don't mean that.     I mean nothing, nothing at all, cried the woman.     The sun was coming fast. The green in the valley burnt away. Searingwind blasted from over the cliffs. Far away where sun bolts hammeredbattlements of cliff, the huge stone faces shook their contents; thoseavalanches not already powdered down, were now released and fell likemantles.     Dark! shouted the father. The girl sprang over the warm floor of thevalley, answering, her hair a black flag behind her. Hands full ofgreen fruits, she joined them.     The sun rimmed the horizon with flame, the air convulsed dangerouslywith it, and whistled.     The cave people bolted, shouting, picking up their fallen children,bearing vast loads of fruit and grass with them back to their deephideouts. In moments the valley was bare. Except for one small childsomeone had forgotten. He was running far out on the flatness, but hewas not strong enough, and the engulfing heat was drifting down fromthe cliffs even as he was half across the valley.     Flowers were burnt into effigies, grasses sucked back into rocks likesinged snakes, flower seeds whirled and fell in the sudden furnaceblast of wind, sown far into gullies and crannies, ready to blossom atsunset tonight, and then go to seed and die again.     Sim's father watched that child running, alone, out on the floor ofthe valley. He and his wife and Dark and Sim were safe in the mouth oftheir tunnel.     He'll never make it, said father. Do not watch him, woman. It's nota good thing to watch.     They turned away. All except Sim, whose eyes had caught a glint ofmetal far away. His heart hammered in him, and his eyes blurred.Far away, atop a low mountain, one of those metal seeds from spacereflected a dazzling ripple of light! It was like one of hisintra-embryo dreams fulfilled! A metal space seed, intact, undamaged,lying on a mountain! There was his future! There was his hopefor survival! There was where he would go in a few days, when hewas—strange thought—a grown man!     The sun plunged into the valley like molten lava.     The little running child screamed, the sun burned, and the screamingstopped.     Sim's mother walked painfully, with sudden age, down the tunnel,paused, reached up, broke off two last icicles that had formed duringthe night. She handed one to her husband, kept the other. We willdrink one last toast. To you, to the children.     To      you     , he nodded to her. To the children. They lifted theicicles. The warmth melted the ice down into their thirsty mouths.  All day the sun seemed to blaze and erupt into the valley. Sim couldnot see it, but the vivid pictorials in his parents' minds weresufficient evidence of the nature of the day fire. The light ran likemercury, sizzling and roasting the caves, poking inward, but neverpenetrating deeply enough. It lighted the caves. It made the hollows ofthe cliff comfortably warm.     Sim fought to keep his parents young. But no matter how hard he foughtwith mind and image, they became like mummies before him. His fatherseemed to dissolve from one stage of oldness to another. This is whatwill happen to me soon, though Sim in terror.     Sim grew upon himself. He felt the digestive-eliminatory movementsof his body. He was fed every minute, he was continually swallowing,feeding. He began to fit words to images and processes. Such a word waslove. It was not an abstraction, but a process, a stir of breath, asmell of morning air, a flutter of heart, the curve of arm holding him,the look in the suspended face of his mother. He saw the processes,then searched behind her suspended face and there was the word, in herbrain, ready to use. His throat prepared to speak. Life was pushinghim, rushing him along toward oblivion.     He sensed the expansion of his fingernails, the adjustments of hiscells, the profusion of his hair, the multiplication of his bones andsinew, the grooving of the soft pale wax of his brain. His brain atbirth as clear as a circle of ice, innocent, unmarked, was, an instantlater, as if hit with a thrown rock, cracked and marked and patternedin a million crevices of thought and discovery.     His sister, Dark, ran in and out with other little hothouse children,forever eating. His mother trembled over him, not eating, she had noappetite, her eyes were webbed shut.     Sunset, said his father, at last.     The day was over. The light faded, a wind sounded.     His mother arose. I want to see the outside world once more ... justonce more.... She stared blindly, shivering.     His father's eyes were shut, he lay against the wall.     I cannot rise, he whispered faintly. I cannot.     Dark! The mother croaked, the girl came running. Here, and Sim washanded to the girl. Hold to Sim, Dark, feed him, care for him. Shegave Sim one last fondling touch.     Dark said not a word, holding Sim, her great green eyes shining wetly.     Go now, said the mother. Take him out into the sunset time. Enjoyyourselves. Pick foods, eat. Play.     Dark walked away without looking back. Sim twisted in her grasp,looking over her shoulder with unbelieving, tragic eyes. He cried outand somehow summoned from his lips the first word of his existence.     Why...?     He saw his mother stiffen. The child spoke!     Aye, said his father. Did you hear what he said?     I heard, said the mother quietly.     The last thing Sim saw of his living parents was his mother weakly,swayingly, slowly moving across the floor to lie beside her silenthusband. That was the last time he ever saw them move.      IV     The night came and passed and then started the second day.     The bodies of all those who had died during the night were carried in afuneral procession to the top of a small hill. The procession was long,the bodies numerous.     Dark walked in the procession, holding the newly walking Sim by onehand. Only an hour before dawn Sim had learned to walk.     At the top of the hill, Sim saw once again the far off metal seed.Nobody ever looked at it, or spoke of it. Why? Was there some reason?Was it a mirage? Why did they not run toward it? Worship it? Try to getto it and fly away into space?     The funeral words were spoken. The bodies were placed upon the groundwhere the sun, in a few minutes, would cremate them.     The procession then turned and ran down the hill, eager to have theirfew minutes of free time running and playing and laughing in the sweetair.     Dark and Sim, chattering like birds, feeding among the rocks, exchangedwhat they knew of life. He was in his second day, she in her third.They were driven, as always, by the mercurial speed of their lives.     Another piece of his life opened wide.     Fifty young men ran down from the cliffs, holding sharp stones and rockdaggers in their thick hands. Shouting, they ran off toward distantblack, low lines of small rock cliffs.     War!     The thought stood in Sim's brain. It shocked and beat at him. These menwere running to fight, to kill, over there in those small black cliffswhere other people lived.     But why? Wasn't life short enough without fighting, killing?     From a great distance he heard the sound of conflict, and it made hisstomach cold. Why, Dark, why?     Dark didn't know. Perhaps they would understand tomorrow. Now, therewas the business of eating to sustain and support their lives. WatchingDark was like seeing a lizard forever flickering its pink tongue,forever hungry.     Pale children ran on all sides of them. One beetle-like boy scuttled upthe rocks, knocking Sim aside, to take from him a particularly lusciousred berry he had found growing under an outcrop.     The child ate hastily of the fruit before Sim could gain his feet. ThenSim hurled himself unsteadily, the two of them fell in a ridiculousjumble, rolling, until Dark pried them, squalling, apart.     Sim bled. A part of him stood off, like a god, and said, This shouldnot be. Children should not be this way. It is wrong!     Dark slapped the little intruding boy away. Get on! she cried.What's your name, bad one?     Chion! laughed the boy. Chion, Chion, Chion!     Sim glared at him with all the ferocity in his small, unskilledfeatures. He choked. This was his enemy. It was as if he'd waitedfor an enemy of person as well as scene. He had already understoodthe avalanches, the heat, the cold, the shortness of life, but thesewere things of places, of scene—mute, extravagant manifestations ofunthinking nature, not motivated save by gravity and radiation. Here,now, in this stridulent Chion he recognized a thinking enemy!     Chion darted off, turned at a distance, tauntingly crying:     Tomorrow I will be big enough to kill you!     And he vanished around a rock.     More children ran, giggling, by Sim. Which of them would be friends,enemies? How could friends and enemies come about in this impossible,quick life time? There was no time to make either, was there?     Dark, as if knowing his thoughts, drew him away. As they searched fordesired foods, she whispered fiercely in his ear. Enemies are madeover things like stolen foods; gifts of long grasses make friends.Enemies come, too, from opinions and thoughts. In five seconds you'vemade an enemy for life. Life's so short enemies must be made quickly.And she laughed with an irony strange for one so young, who was growingolder before her rightful time. You must fight to protect yourself.Others, superstitious ones, will try killing you. There is a belief, aridiculous belief, that if one kills another, the murderer partakes ofthe life energy of the slain, and therefore will live an extra day. Yousee? As long as that is believed, you're in danger.     But Sim was not listening. Bursting from a flock of delicate girls whotomorrow would be tall, quieter, and who day after that would gainbreasts and the next day take husbands, Sim caught sight of one smallgirl whose hair was a violet blue flame.     She ran past, brushed Sim, their bodies touched. Her eyes, white assilver coins, shone at him. He knew then that he'd found a friend, alove, a wife, one who'd a week from now lie with him atop the funeralpyre as sunlight undressed their flesh from bone.     Only the glance, but it held them in mid-motion, one instant.     Your name? he shouted after her.     Lyte! she called laughingly back.     I'm Sim, he answered, confused and bewildered.     Sim! she repeated it, flashing on. I'll remember!     Dark nudged his ribs. Here,      eat     , she said to the distracted boy.Eat or you'll never get big enough to catch her.     From nowhere, Chion appeared, running by. Lyte! he mocked, dancingmalevolently along and away. Lyte! I'll remember Lyte, too!     Dark stood tall and reed slender, shaking her dark ebony clouds ofhair, sadly. I see your life before you, little Sim. You'll needweapons soon to fight for this Lyte one. Now, hurry—the sun's coming!     They ran back to the caves.  ","During his first day, Sim knows no words and has not yet spoken. Yet, he gains a lot of knowledge from images, old memories, and a telepathic type of awareness that seems to penetrate everything. He observes much of his surroundings and is upset by his analysis of the horror that occurs every day on the planet. On the second day of his existence, Sim readily and eagerly acquires more knowledge about social customs and how his society worked. "
"What is the plot of the story? </s>    HOME IS WHERE YOU LEFT IT     By ADAM CHASE     [Transcriber Note: This etext was produced from Amazing Stories February1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed.]      The chance of mass slaughter was their eternal nightmare.      How black is the blackest treachery? Is the most calloustraitor entitled to mercy? Steve pondered these questions. His decision?That at times the villain should possibly be spoken of as a hero.     Only the shells of deserted mud-brick houses greeted Steve Cantwell whenhe reached the village.     He poked around in them for a while. The desert heat was searing,parching, and the Sirian sun gleamed balefully off the blades of Steve'sunicopter, which had brought him from Oasis City, almost five hundredmiles away. He had remembered heat from his childhood here on Sirius'second planet with the Earth colony, but not heat like this. It was likea magnet drawing all the moisture out of his body.     He walked among the buildings, surprise and perhaps sadness etched onhis gaunt, weather-beaten face. Childhood memories flooded back: thesingle well from which all the families drew their water, the mud-brickhouse, hardly different from the others and just four walls and a roofnow, in which he'd lived with his aunt after his parents had been killedin a      Kumaji     raid, the community center where he'd spent his happiesttime as a boy.     He went to the well and hoisted up a pailful of water. The winch creakedas he remembered. He ladled out the water, suddenly very thirsty, andbrought the ladle to his lips.     He hurled the ladle away. The water was bitter. Not brackish.     Poisoned.     He spat with fury, then kneeled and stuffed his mouth with sand, almostgagging. After a while he spat out the sand too and opened his canteenand rinsed his mouth. His lips and mouth were paralyzed by contact withthe poison. He walked quickly across the well-square to his aunt'shouse. Inside, it was dim but hardly cooler. Steve was sweating, thesaline sweat making him blink. He scowled, not understanding. The tablewas set in his aunt's house. A coffeepot was on the stove and lastnight's partially-consumed dinner still on the table.     The well had been poisoned, the town had been deserted on the spur ofthe moment, and Steve had returned to his boyhood home from Earth—toolate for anything.     He went outside into the square. A lizard was sunning itself and staringat him with lidless eyes. When he moved across the square, the lizardscurried away.     Earthman! a quavering voice called.     Steve ran toward the sound. In the scant shadow of the community center,a Kumaji was resting. He was a withered old man, all skin and bones andsweat-stiffened tunic, with enormous red-rimmed eyes. His purple skin,which had been blasted by the merciless sun, was almost black.     Steve held the canteen to his lips and watched his throat working almostspasmodically to get the water down. After a while Steve withdrew thecanteen and said:     What happened here?     They're gone. All gone.     Yes, but what happened?     The Kumaji—     You're Kumaji.     This is my town, the old man said. I lived with the Earthmen. Nowthey're gone.     But you stayed here—     To die, the old man said, without self-pity. I'm too old to flee, tooold to fight, too old for anything but death. More water.  Steve gave him another drink. You still haven't told me what happened.Actually, though, Steve could guess. With the twenty-second centuryEarth population hovering at the eleven billion mark, colonies weresought everywhere. Even on a parched desert wasteland like this. TheKumaji tribesmen had never accepted the colony as a fact of their lifeon the desert, and in a way Steve could not blame them. It meant oneoasis less for their own nomadic sustenance. When Steve was a boy,Kumaji raids were frequent. At school on Earth and Luna he'd read aboutthe raids, how they'd increased in violence, how the Earth government,so far away and utterly unable to protect its distant colony, hadsuggested withdrawal from the Kumaji desert settlement, especially sincea colony could exist there under only the most primitive conditions,almost like the purple-skinned Kumaji natives themselves.     When did it happen? Steve demanded.     Last night. It was now midafternoon. Three folks died, the Kumajisaid in his almost perfect English, from the poisoning of the well. Thewell was the last straw. The colonists had no choice. They had to go,and go fast, taking what little water they had left in the houses.     Will they try to walk all the way through to Oasis City? Oasis City,built at the confluence of two underground rivers which came to thesurface there and flowed the rest of the way to the sea above ground,was almost five hundred miles from the colony. Five hundred miles oftrackless sands and hundred-and-thirty-degree heat....     They have to, the old man said. And they have to hurry. Men, womenand children. The Kumaji are after them.  Steve felt irrational hatred then. He thought it would help if he couldfind some of the nomadic tribesmen and kill them. It might help the wayhe felt, he knew, but it certainly wouldn't help the fleeing colonists,trekking across a parched wilderness—to the safety of Oasis City—ordeath.     Come on, Steve said, making up his mind. The unicopter can hold twoin a pinch.     You're going after them?     I've got to. They're my people. I've been away too long.     Say, you're young Cantwell, aren't you? Now I remember.     Yes, I'm Steve Cantwell.     I'm not going anyplace, young fellow.     But you can't stay here, without any good water to drink, without—     I'm staying, the old man said, still without self-pity, justmatter-of-factly. The Earth folks have no room for me and I can't blame'em. The Kumaji'll kill me for a renegade, I figure. I lived a good,long life. I've no regrets. Go after your people, young fellow. They'llneed every extra strong right arm they can get. You got any weapons?     No, Steve said.     Too bad. Well, good-bye and good luck.     But you can't—     Oh, I'm staying. I want to stay. This is my home. It's the only homeI'll ever have. Good luck, young fellow.     Slowly, Steve walked to his unicopter. It was nothing more than a smallmetal disk on which to stand, and a shaft with four turbo-blades. Itcould do sixty miles an hour at an elevation of two thousand feet.  Steve turned the little turbo-jet engine over, then on impulse ran backto the old man and gave him his canteen, turning away before it could berefused and striding quickly back to the unicopter and getting himselfairborne without looking at the deserted village or the old man again.     The old man's voice called after him: Tell the people ... hurry ...Kumaji looking for them to kill ... desert wind ought to wipe out theirtrail ... but hurry....     The voice faded into the faint rushing sound of the hot desert wind.Steve gazed down on bare sun-blasted rock, on rippled dunes, onhate-haze. He circled wider and wider, seeking his people.     Hours later he spotted the caravan in the immensity of sand andwasteland. He brought the unicopter down quickly, with a rush of air anda whine of turbojets. He alighted in the sand in front of theslow-moving column. It was like something out of Earth's MiddleEast—and Middle Ages. They had even imported camels for their life hereon the Sirian desert, deciding the Earth camel was a better beast ofburden than anything the Sirius II wastelands had to offer. They walkedbeside the great-humped beasts of burden, the animals piled high withthe swaying baggage of their belongings. They moved through the sandswith agonizing slowness. Already, after only one day's travel, Stevecould see that some of the people were spent and exhausted and had toride on camelback. They had gone perhaps fifteen miles, with almost fivehundred to go across searing desert, the Kumaji seeking them....     Hullo! Steve shouted, and a man armed with an atorifle came stridingclumsily through the sand toward him. Cantwell's the name, Steve said.I'm one of you.     Bleak hostility in his face, the man approached. Cantwell. Yeah, Iremember you. Colony wasn't good enough for young Steve Cantwell. Oh,no. Had to go off to Earth to get himself educated. What are you doinghere now on that fancy aircraft of yours, coming to crow at our wake?     The bitterness surprised Steve. He recognized the man now as TobiasWhiting, who had been the Colony's most successful man when Steve was aboy. Except for his bitterness and for the bleak self-pity and defeat inhis eyes, the years had been good to Tobias Whiting. He was probably inhis mid-forties now, twenty years Steve's senior, but he waswell-muscled, his flesh was solid, his step bold and strong. He was abig muscular man with a craggy, handsome face. In ten years he hadhardly changed at all, while Steve Cantwell, the boy, had become SteveCantwell the man. He had been the Colony's official trader with theKumajis, and had grown rich—by colony standards—at his business. Now,Steve realized, all that was behind him, and he could only flee with theothers—either back to the terribly crowded Earth or on in search of anew colony on some other outworld, if they could get the transportation.Perhaps that explained his bitterness.     So you've come back, eh? You sure picked a time, Cantwell.     The refugees were still about a quarter of a mile off, coming up slowly.They hardly seemed to be moving at all. Is my aunt all right? Stevesaid. She was the only family he remembered.     Tobias Whiting shook his head slowly. I hate to be the one to tell youthis. Brace yourself for a shock. Your aunt was one of those who diedfrom the poisoned water last night.     For a long moment, Steve said nothing. The only emotion he felt waspity—pity for the hard life his aunt had lived, and the hard death.Sadness would come later, if there was to be a time for sadness.  The caravan reached them then. The first person Steve saw was a girl.She wore the shroud-like desert garment and her face—it would be apretty face under other circumstances, Steve realized—was etched withlines of fatigue. Steve did not recognize her. Who is he, Dad? thegirl said.     Young Cantwell. Remember?     So this was Mary Whiting, Steve thought. Why, she'd been a moppet tenyears ago! How old? Ten years old maybe. The years crowded him suddenly.She was a woman now....     Steve Cantwell? Mary said. Of course I remember. Hello, Steve. I—I'msorry you had to come back at a time like this. I'm sorry about youraunt. If there's anything I can do....     Steve shook his head, then shook the hand she offered him. She was aslim, strong girl with a firm handshake. Her concern for him at a timelike this was little short of amazing, especially since it wascompletely genuine.     He appreciated it.     Tobias Whiting said: Shame of it is, Cantwell, some of us could getalong with the Kumaji. I had a pretty good business here, you knowthat. He looked with bitterness at the dusty file of refugees. But Inever got a credit out of it. Wherever we wind up, my girl and I will bepoor again. We could have been rich.     Steve asked, What happened to all your profits?     Tied up with a Kumaji moneylender, but thanks to what happened I'llnever see it again.     Mary winced, as if her father's words and his self-pity were painful toher. Then others came up and a few minutes were spent in back-poundingand hand-shaking as some of the men who had been boys with Steve came upto recognize and be recognized. Their greeting was warm, as TobiasWhiting's had been cool. Despite the knowledge of what lay behind all ofthem, and what still lay ahead, it was a little like homecoming.     But Steve liked Mary Whiting's warm, friendly smile best of all. It wascomforting and reassuring.  Three days later, Tobias Whiting disappeared.     The caravan had been making no more than ten or fifteen miles a day.Their water supply was almost gone but on the fourth day they hoped toreach an oasis in the desert. Two of the older folks had died offatigue. A third was critically ill and there was little that could bedone for him. The food supply was running short, but they could alwaysslaughter their camels for food and make their way to Oasis City, stillfour hundred and some miles away, with nothing but the clothes on theirbacks.     And then, during the fourth night, Tobias Whiting disappeared, takingSteve's unicopter. A sentry had heard the low muffled whine of theturbojets during the night and had seen the small craft take off, buthad assumed Steve had taken it up for some reason. Each day Steve haddone so, reconnoitering for signs of the Kumaji.     But why? someone asked. Why?     At first there was no answer. Then a woman whose husband had died theday before said: It's no secret Whiting has plenty of money—with theKumaji.     None of them looked at Mary. She stood there defiantly, not sayinganything, and Steve squeezed her hand.     Now, wait a minute, one of Whiting's friends said.     Wait, nothing. This was Jeremy Gort, who twice had been mayor of thecolony. I know how Whiting's mind works. He slaved all his life forthat money, that's the way he'll see it. Cantwell, didn't you say theKumaji were looking for us, to kill us?     That's what I was told, Steve said.     All right, Gort went on relentlessly. Then this is what I figure musthave happened. Whiting got to brooding over his lost fortune and finallydecided he had to have it. So, he went off at night in Cantwell's'copter, determined to get it. Only catch is, folks, if I know theKumaji, they won't just give it to him—not by a long sight.     No? someone asked.     No sir. They'll trade. For our location. And if Whiting went off likethat without even saying good-bye to his girl here, my guess is he'llmake the trade. His voice reflected some bitterness.  Mary went to Gort and slapped his face. The elderly man did not evenblink. Well, he asked her gently, did your pa tell you he was going?     N-no, Mary said. There were tears in her eyes, but she did not cry.     Gort turned to Steve. Cantwell, can he get far in that 'copter?     Steve shook his head. Ten or fifteen miles is all. Almost out of fuel,Mr. Gort. You saw how I took her up for only a quick mile swing eachday. He won't get far.     He'll crash in the desert?     Crash or crash-land, Steve said.     Mary sobbed, and bit her lip, and was silent.     We've got to stop him, Gort said. And fast. If he gets to the Kumaji,they'll send down a raiding party and we'll be finished. We could neverfight them off without the protection of our village. Near as I canfigure, there's a Kumaji base fifty miles due north of here. Whitingknows it too, so that's where he'll be going, I figure. Can't spare morethan a couple of men to look for him, though, in case the Kumaji findus—or are led to us—and attack.     Steve said, I should have taken something out of the 'copter everynight, so it couldn't start. I'll go.     Mary came forward boldly. I have to go. He's my father. If he crashedout there, he may be hurt. He may be—dying.     Gort looked at her. And if he's trying to sell us out to the Kumajis?     Then—then I'll do whatever Steve asks me to. I promise.     That's good enough for me, Steve said.     A few minutes later, armed with atorifles and their share of the foodand water that was left, Steve and Mary set out northward across thesand while the caravan continued east. Fear of what they might findmounted.  The first night, they camped in the lee of low sandhills. The secondnight they found a small spring with brackish but drinkable water. Onthe third day, having covered half the distance to the Kumajisettlement, they began to encounter Kumaji patrols, on foot or      thlotback     , the six-legged desert animals running so swiftly over thesands and so low to the ground that they almost seemed to be gliding.Steve and Mary hardly spoke. Talk was unnecessary. But slowly a bondgrew between them. Steve liked this slim silent girl who had come outhere with him risking her life although she must have known deep in herheart that her father had almost certainly decided to turn traitor inorder to regain his fortune.     On the fourth day, they spotted the unicopter from a long way off andmade their way toward it. It had come much further than Steve hadexpected. With sinking heart he realized that Tobias Whiting, if heescaped the crash-landing without injury, must surely have reached theKumaji encampment by now.     It doesn't seem badly damaged, Mary said.     The platform had buckled slightly, the 'copter was tilted over, one ofthe rotors twisted, its end buried in sand. Tobias Whiting wasn't there.     No, Steve said. It's hardly damaged at all. Your father got out of itall right.     To go—to them?     I think so, Mary. I don't want to pass judgment until we're sure. I'msorry.     Oh, Steve! Steve! What will we do? What      can     we do?     Find him, if it isn't too late. Come on.     North?     North.     And if by some miracle we find him?     Steve said nothing. The answer—capture or death—was obvious. But youcouldn't tell that to a traitor's daughter, could you?     As it turned out, they did not find Tobias Whiting through their ownefforts. Half an hour after setting out from the unicopter, they werespotted by a roving band of Kumajis, who came streaking toward them ontheir      thlots     . Mary raised her atorifle, but Steve struck the barrelaside. They'd kill us, he said. We can only surrender.     They were hobbled and led painfully across the sand. They were takenthat way to a small Kumaji encampment, and thrust within a circulartent.     Tobias Whiting was in there.  Mary! he cried. My God! Mary....     We came for you, Dad, she said coldly. To stop you. To ... to killyou if necessary.     Mary....     Oh, Dad, why did you do it? Why?     We couldn't start all over again, could we? You have a right to livethe sort of life I planned for you. You....     Whiting, Steve said, did you tell them yet?     No. No, I haven't. I have information to trade, sure. But I want tomake sure it's going to the right people. I want to get our....     Dad! Our money, and all those deaths?     It doesn't matter now. I—I had changed my mind, Mary. Truly. But now,now that you're a prisoner, what if I don't talk? Don't you see, they'lltorture you. They'll make you talk. And that way—we get nothing. Icouldn't stand to see them hurt you.     They can do—what they think they have to do. I'll tell them nothing.     You won't have to, Whiting said. I'll tell them when we reach thelarger settlement. They're taking us there tomorrow, they told me.     Then we've got to get out of here tonight, Steve said.     The low sun cast the shadow of their guard against the      thlot     skin wallof their tent. He was a single man, armed with a long, pike-like weapon.When darkness came, if the guard were not increased....     They were brought a pasty gruel for their supper, and ate in silence anddistaste, ate because they needed the strength. Mary said, Dad, I don'twant you to tell them anything. Dad, please. If you thought you weredoing it for me....     I've made up my mind, Tobias Whiting said.     Mary turned to Steve, in despair. Steve, she said. Steve.Do—whatever you have to do. I—I'll understand.     Steve didn't answer her. Wasn't Whiting right now? he thought. If Stevesilenced him, wouldn't the Kumaji torture them for the information?Steve could stand up to it perhaps—but he couldn't stand to see themhurt Mary. He'd talk if they did that....     Then silencing Whiting wasn't the answer. But the Kumajis had onewilling prisoner and two unwilling ones. They knew that. If the willingone yelled for help but the yelling was kept to a minimum so only oneguard, the man outside, came....  Darkness in the Kumaji encampment.     Far off, a lone tribesman singing a chant old as the desert.     Are you asleep? Mary asked.     No, Steve said.     Dad is. Listen to the way he's breathing—like a baby. As if—as if hewasn't going to betray all our people. Oh, I hate him, I hate him!     Steve crawled to where the older man was sleeping. Tobias Whiting'svoice surprised him. I'm not asleep. I was thinking. I—     I'm going to kill you, Steve said very softly, and sprang at Whiting.He paused, though. It was a calculated pause, and Whiting cried out asSteve had hoped he would. Then his hands found the older man's throatand closed there—not to kill him but to keep him from crying out again.     Sand stirred, the tentflap lifted, and a bulky figure rushed inside.Steve got up, met him halfway, felt the jarring contact of their bodies.The pike came up dimly in the darkness, the point scraping againstSteve's ribs as the guard lunged awkwardly. Steve's fingers sought thethick-muscled neck, clamped there—squeezing.     The guard writhed. His feet drummed the sand. With one hand he stabbedout wildly with the unwieldy pike. There was a cry from Mary and theguard managed a low squawking noise. Outside, the rest of the campseemed undisturbed. There was death in Steve's strong tighteningfingers. There had to be death there. Death for the Kumaji guard—ordeath for the fleeing Earthmen, who had lost one colony and must seekanother.  They fell together on the sand, the guard still struggling. Stevecouldn't release his throat to grab the pike. The guard stabbed outawkwardly, blindly with it, kicking up sand. Then Tobias Whiting moaned,but Steve hardly heard him.     When the guard's legs stopped drumming, Steve released him. The man waseither dead or so close to death that he would be out for hours. Stevehad never killed a man before, had never in violence and with intent tokill attacked a man....     Steve!     It was Mary, calling his name and crying.     It's Dad. Dad was—hit. The pike, a wild stab. He's hit bad—     Steve crawled over to them. It was very dark. He could barely make outTobias Whiting's pain-contorted face.     My stomach, Whiting said, gasping for breath. The pain....     Steve probed with his hands, found the wound. Blood was rushing out. Hecouldn't stop it and he knew it and he thought Whiting knew it too. Hetouched Mary's hand, and held it. Mary sobbed against him, cryingsoftly.     You two ... Whiting gasped. You two ... Mary, Mary girl. Is—he—whatyou want?     Yes, Dad. Oh, yes!     You can get her out of here, Cantwell?     I think so, Steve said.     Then go. Go while you can. I'll tell them—due south. The Earthmen areheading due south. They'll go—south. They won't find the caravan.You'll—all—get away. If it's—what you want, Mary.     She leaned away from Steve, kissing her father. She asked Steve: Isn'tthere anything we can do for him?     Steve shook his head. But he's got to live long enough to tell them, todeceive them.     I'll live long enough, Whiting said, and Steve knew then that hewould. Luck to—all of you. From a—very foolish—man....  Steve took Mary's hand and pulled her out into the hot, dark, wind-blownnight. He carried the dead Kumaji's pike and they slipped across thesand to where the      thlots     were hobbled for the night. He hardlyremembered the rest of it. There was violence and death, but necessarydeath. He killed a man with the pike, and unhobbled one of the      thlots     .The animal screamed and two more Kumajis came sleepily through the nightto see what was the matter. With the long edge of the pike's blade hedecapitated one of them. He slammed the shaft of the weapon across theother's face, probably breaking his jaw. The camp was in a turmoil. Inthe darkness he flung Mary on the      thlot's     bare back in front of him,and they glided off across the sand.     Pursuit was disorganized—and unsuccessful. It was too dark foreffective pursuit, as Steve had hoped it would be. They rode swiftly allnight and continued riding with the dawn. They could have gone in anydirection. The wind-driven sand would obliterate their trail.     Two days later they reached the caravan. As they rode up, Mary said,Steve, do you have to tell them?     We can tell them this, Steve said. Your father died a hero's death,sending the Kumajis off in the wrong direction.     And not—not what he'd planned to do at first.     No. We'll tell them that was his intention all the while. A man canmake a mistake, can't he?     I love you, Steve. I love you.     Then they rode down on the caravan. Somehow Steve knew they would allreach Oasis City in safety.     With Mary he would find a new world out in the vastness of space.  ","Steve Cantwell grew up in a desert village on Sirius' second planet, he lived with his aunt. It is one of the human colonies, and it has never been accepted by the Kumaji tribesmen - the natives who have been raiding the settlements for years. Steve went to Earth to get an education, but now he came back to the planet. He flew from Oasis City to his native village on a unicopter only to find the deserted buildings and poisoned water. A Kumaji, who lived with the earthmen, tells him that the natives poisoned the well - three people died, and everybody else had to leave their home and walk to Oasis City through the desert wasteland. Now the Kumaji are looking for them to kill. The man stayed here to die since he’s too old to flee or fight. Steve gives him his water canteen and flies away to find the other citizens. Hours later, he spots a caravan with camels. He first meets Tobias Whiting, who was the most successful man in the village when Steve was a child. The man greets him coldly and soon informs Steve that his aunt was one of the people who died from the poisoned water. Then he introduces him to his daughter Mary, the young woman who charms Steve. Tobias says he had a profitable business, but all his money is gone now. Three days later, he disappears, taking Steve’s unicopter with him. The other members suppose that Tobias decided to trade the caravan’s location for his profits, thus betraying them. Mary and Steve take some food and head towards the Kumaji base to the north of the caravan since Tobias probably decided to fly there. Four days later, they spot the empty unicopter and realize that Tobias must’ve reached the base by now. They keep walking and soon surrender to the Kumajis, who put them in a circular tent where they meet Tobias. He explains to Mary that he wants to give her the life she deserves. Now he’s determined to tell the Kumaji everything since his daughter got captured, and the Kumaji might torture her for information. Steve devises an escape plan: at night, he makes Tobias scream for a second to make one of the guards come in. Steve kills this one Kumaji, but the guard manages to lethally wound Tobias while fighting with the attacker. Whiting blesses Mary and Steve and orders them to leave, promising that he’ll deceive the Kumaji and not share the true location of the caravan. The couple runs from the tent, and Steve kills several more guards before gliding off on the thlot’s - desert animal - back with Mary. They reach the caravan two days later and decide to tell everyone that Whiting initially went to the Kumaji to save everyone. Mary admits to Steve that she loves him."
"Who is Tobias Whiting and what happens to him throughout the story? </s>    HOME IS WHERE YOU LEFT IT     By ADAM CHASE     [Transcriber Note: This etext was produced from Amazing Stories February1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed.]      The chance of mass slaughter was their eternal nightmare.      How black is the blackest treachery? Is the most calloustraitor entitled to mercy? Steve pondered these questions. His decision?That at times the villain should possibly be spoken of as a hero.     Only the shells of deserted mud-brick houses greeted Steve Cantwell whenhe reached the village.     He poked around in them for a while. The desert heat was searing,parching, and the Sirian sun gleamed balefully off the blades of Steve'sunicopter, which had brought him from Oasis City, almost five hundredmiles away. He had remembered heat from his childhood here on Sirius'second planet with the Earth colony, but not heat like this. It was likea magnet drawing all the moisture out of his body.     He walked among the buildings, surprise and perhaps sadness etched onhis gaunt, weather-beaten face. Childhood memories flooded back: thesingle well from which all the families drew their water, the mud-brickhouse, hardly different from the others and just four walls and a roofnow, in which he'd lived with his aunt after his parents had been killedin a      Kumaji     raid, the community center where he'd spent his happiesttime as a boy.     He went to the well and hoisted up a pailful of water. The winch creakedas he remembered. He ladled out the water, suddenly very thirsty, andbrought the ladle to his lips.     He hurled the ladle away. The water was bitter. Not brackish.     Poisoned.     He spat with fury, then kneeled and stuffed his mouth with sand, almostgagging. After a while he spat out the sand too and opened his canteenand rinsed his mouth. His lips and mouth were paralyzed by contact withthe poison. He walked quickly across the well-square to his aunt'shouse. Inside, it was dim but hardly cooler. Steve was sweating, thesaline sweat making him blink. He scowled, not understanding. The tablewas set in his aunt's house. A coffeepot was on the stove and lastnight's partially-consumed dinner still on the table.     The well had been poisoned, the town had been deserted on the spur ofthe moment, and Steve had returned to his boyhood home from Earth—toolate for anything.     He went outside into the square. A lizard was sunning itself and staringat him with lidless eyes. When he moved across the square, the lizardscurried away.     Earthman! a quavering voice called.     Steve ran toward the sound. In the scant shadow of the community center,a Kumaji was resting. He was a withered old man, all skin and bones andsweat-stiffened tunic, with enormous red-rimmed eyes. His purple skin,which had been blasted by the merciless sun, was almost black.     Steve held the canteen to his lips and watched his throat working almostspasmodically to get the water down. After a while Steve withdrew thecanteen and said:     What happened here?     They're gone. All gone.     Yes, but what happened?     The Kumaji—     You're Kumaji.     This is my town, the old man said. I lived with the Earthmen. Nowthey're gone.     But you stayed here—     To die, the old man said, without self-pity. I'm too old to flee, tooold to fight, too old for anything but death. More water.  Steve gave him another drink. You still haven't told me what happened.Actually, though, Steve could guess. With the twenty-second centuryEarth population hovering at the eleven billion mark, colonies weresought everywhere. Even on a parched desert wasteland like this. TheKumaji tribesmen had never accepted the colony as a fact of their lifeon the desert, and in a way Steve could not blame them. It meant oneoasis less for their own nomadic sustenance. When Steve was a boy,Kumaji raids were frequent. At school on Earth and Luna he'd read aboutthe raids, how they'd increased in violence, how the Earth government,so far away and utterly unable to protect its distant colony, hadsuggested withdrawal from the Kumaji desert settlement, especially sincea colony could exist there under only the most primitive conditions,almost like the purple-skinned Kumaji natives themselves.     When did it happen? Steve demanded.     Last night. It was now midafternoon. Three folks died, the Kumajisaid in his almost perfect English, from the poisoning of the well. Thewell was the last straw. The colonists had no choice. They had to go,and go fast, taking what little water they had left in the houses.     Will they try to walk all the way through to Oasis City? Oasis City,built at the confluence of two underground rivers which came to thesurface there and flowed the rest of the way to the sea above ground,was almost five hundred miles from the colony. Five hundred miles oftrackless sands and hundred-and-thirty-degree heat....     They have to, the old man said. And they have to hurry. Men, womenand children. The Kumaji are after them.  Steve felt irrational hatred then. He thought it would help if he couldfind some of the nomadic tribesmen and kill them. It might help the wayhe felt, he knew, but it certainly wouldn't help the fleeing colonists,trekking across a parched wilderness—to the safety of Oasis City—ordeath.     Come on, Steve said, making up his mind. The unicopter can hold twoin a pinch.     You're going after them?     I've got to. They're my people. I've been away too long.     Say, you're young Cantwell, aren't you? Now I remember.     Yes, I'm Steve Cantwell.     I'm not going anyplace, young fellow.     But you can't stay here, without any good water to drink, without—     I'm staying, the old man said, still without self-pity, justmatter-of-factly. The Earth folks have no room for me and I can't blame'em. The Kumaji'll kill me for a renegade, I figure. I lived a good,long life. I've no regrets. Go after your people, young fellow. They'llneed every extra strong right arm they can get. You got any weapons?     No, Steve said.     Too bad. Well, good-bye and good luck.     But you can't—     Oh, I'm staying. I want to stay. This is my home. It's the only homeI'll ever have. Good luck, young fellow.     Slowly, Steve walked to his unicopter. It was nothing more than a smallmetal disk on which to stand, and a shaft with four turbo-blades. Itcould do sixty miles an hour at an elevation of two thousand feet.  Steve turned the little turbo-jet engine over, then on impulse ran backto the old man and gave him his canteen, turning away before it could berefused and striding quickly back to the unicopter and getting himselfairborne without looking at the deserted village or the old man again.     The old man's voice called after him: Tell the people ... hurry ...Kumaji looking for them to kill ... desert wind ought to wipe out theirtrail ... but hurry....     The voice faded into the faint rushing sound of the hot desert wind.Steve gazed down on bare sun-blasted rock, on rippled dunes, onhate-haze. He circled wider and wider, seeking his people.     Hours later he spotted the caravan in the immensity of sand andwasteland. He brought the unicopter down quickly, with a rush of air anda whine of turbojets. He alighted in the sand in front of theslow-moving column. It was like something out of Earth's MiddleEast—and Middle Ages. They had even imported camels for their life hereon the Sirian desert, deciding the Earth camel was a better beast ofburden than anything the Sirius II wastelands had to offer. They walkedbeside the great-humped beasts of burden, the animals piled high withthe swaying baggage of their belongings. They moved through the sandswith agonizing slowness. Already, after only one day's travel, Stevecould see that some of the people were spent and exhausted and had toride on camelback. They had gone perhaps fifteen miles, with almost fivehundred to go across searing desert, the Kumaji seeking them....     Hullo! Steve shouted, and a man armed with an atorifle came stridingclumsily through the sand toward him. Cantwell's the name, Steve said.I'm one of you.     Bleak hostility in his face, the man approached. Cantwell. Yeah, Iremember you. Colony wasn't good enough for young Steve Cantwell. Oh,no. Had to go off to Earth to get himself educated. What are you doinghere now on that fancy aircraft of yours, coming to crow at our wake?     The bitterness surprised Steve. He recognized the man now as TobiasWhiting, who had been the Colony's most successful man when Steve was aboy. Except for his bitterness and for the bleak self-pity and defeat inhis eyes, the years had been good to Tobias Whiting. He was probably inhis mid-forties now, twenty years Steve's senior, but he waswell-muscled, his flesh was solid, his step bold and strong. He was abig muscular man with a craggy, handsome face. In ten years he hadhardly changed at all, while Steve Cantwell, the boy, had become SteveCantwell the man. He had been the Colony's official trader with theKumajis, and had grown rich—by colony standards—at his business. Now,Steve realized, all that was behind him, and he could only flee with theothers—either back to the terribly crowded Earth or on in search of anew colony on some other outworld, if they could get the transportation.Perhaps that explained his bitterness.     So you've come back, eh? You sure picked a time, Cantwell.     The refugees were still about a quarter of a mile off, coming up slowly.They hardly seemed to be moving at all. Is my aunt all right? Stevesaid. She was the only family he remembered.     Tobias Whiting shook his head slowly. I hate to be the one to tell youthis. Brace yourself for a shock. Your aunt was one of those who diedfrom the poisoned water last night.     For a long moment, Steve said nothing. The only emotion he felt waspity—pity for the hard life his aunt had lived, and the hard death.Sadness would come later, if there was to be a time for sadness.  The caravan reached them then. The first person Steve saw was a girl.She wore the shroud-like desert garment and her face—it would be apretty face under other circumstances, Steve realized—was etched withlines of fatigue. Steve did not recognize her. Who is he, Dad? thegirl said.     Young Cantwell. Remember?     So this was Mary Whiting, Steve thought. Why, she'd been a moppet tenyears ago! How old? Ten years old maybe. The years crowded him suddenly.She was a woman now....     Steve Cantwell? Mary said. Of course I remember. Hello, Steve. I—I'msorry you had to come back at a time like this. I'm sorry about youraunt. If there's anything I can do....     Steve shook his head, then shook the hand she offered him. She was aslim, strong girl with a firm handshake. Her concern for him at a timelike this was little short of amazing, especially since it wascompletely genuine.     He appreciated it.     Tobias Whiting said: Shame of it is, Cantwell, some of us could getalong with the Kumaji. I had a pretty good business here, you knowthat. He looked with bitterness at the dusty file of refugees. But Inever got a credit out of it. Wherever we wind up, my girl and I will bepoor again. We could have been rich.     Steve asked, What happened to all your profits?     Tied up with a Kumaji moneylender, but thanks to what happened I'llnever see it again.     Mary winced, as if her father's words and his self-pity were painful toher. Then others came up and a few minutes were spent in back-poundingand hand-shaking as some of the men who had been boys with Steve came upto recognize and be recognized. Their greeting was warm, as TobiasWhiting's had been cool. Despite the knowledge of what lay behind all ofthem, and what still lay ahead, it was a little like homecoming.     But Steve liked Mary Whiting's warm, friendly smile best of all. It wascomforting and reassuring.  Three days later, Tobias Whiting disappeared.     The caravan had been making no more than ten or fifteen miles a day.Their water supply was almost gone but on the fourth day they hoped toreach an oasis in the desert. Two of the older folks had died offatigue. A third was critically ill and there was little that could bedone for him. The food supply was running short, but they could alwaysslaughter their camels for food and make their way to Oasis City, stillfour hundred and some miles away, with nothing but the clothes on theirbacks.     And then, during the fourth night, Tobias Whiting disappeared, takingSteve's unicopter. A sentry had heard the low muffled whine of theturbojets during the night and had seen the small craft take off, buthad assumed Steve had taken it up for some reason. Each day Steve haddone so, reconnoitering for signs of the Kumaji.     But why? someone asked. Why?     At first there was no answer. Then a woman whose husband had died theday before said: It's no secret Whiting has plenty of money—with theKumaji.     None of them looked at Mary. She stood there defiantly, not sayinganything, and Steve squeezed her hand.     Now, wait a minute, one of Whiting's friends said.     Wait, nothing. This was Jeremy Gort, who twice had been mayor of thecolony. I know how Whiting's mind works. He slaved all his life forthat money, that's the way he'll see it. Cantwell, didn't you say theKumaji were looking for us, to kill us?     That's what I was told, Steve said.     All right, Gort went on relentlessly. Then this is what I figure musthave happened. Whiting got to brooding over his lost fortune and finallydecided he had to have it. So, he went off at night in Cantwell's'copter, determined to get it. Only catch is, folks, if I know theKumaji, they won't just give it to him—not by a long sight.     No? someone asked.     No sir. They'll trade. For our location. And if Whiting went off likethat without even saying good-bye to his girl here, my guess is he'llmake the trade. His voice reflected some bitterness.  Mary went to Gort and slapped his face. The elderly man did not evenblink. Well, he asked her gently, did your pa tell you he was going?     N-no, Mary said. There were tears in her eyes, but she did not cry.     Gort turned to Steve. Cantwell, can he get far in that 'copter?     Steve shook his head. Ten or fifteen miles is all. Almost out of fuel,Mr. Gort. You saw how I took her up for only a quick mile swing eachday. He won't get far.     He'll crash in the desert?     Crash or crash-land, Steve said.     Mary sobbed, and bit her lip, and was silent.     We've got to stop him, Gort said. And fast. If he gets to the Kumaji,they'll send down a raiding party and we'll be finished. We could neverfight them off without the protection of our village. Near as I canfigure, there's a Kumaji base fifty miles due north of here. Whitingknows it too, so that's where he'll be going, I figure. Can't spare morethan a couple of men to look for him, though, in case the Kumaji findus—or are led to us—and attack.     Steve said, I should have taken something out of the 'copter everynight, so it couldn't start. I'll go.     Mary came forward boldly. I have to go. He's my father. If he crashedout there, he may be hurt. He may be—dying.     Gort looked at her. And if he's trying to sell us out to the Kumajis?     Then—then I'll do whatever Steve asks me to. I promise.     That's good enough for me, Steve said.     A few minutes later, armed with atorifles and their share of the foodand water that was left, Steve and Mary set out northward across thesand while the caravan continued east. Fear of what they might findmounted.  The first night, they camped in the lee of low sandhills. The secondnight they found a small spring with brackish but drinkable water. Onthe third day, having covered half the distance to the Kumajisettlement, they began to encounter Kumaji patrols, on foot or      thlotback     , the six-legged desert animals running so swiftly over thesands and so low to the ground that they almost seemed to be gliding.Steve and Mary hardly spoke. Talk was unnecessary. But slowly a bondgrew between them. Steve liked this slim silent girl who had come outhere with him risking her life although she must have known deep in herheart that her father had almost certainly decided to turn traitor inorder to regain his fortune.     On the fourth day, they spotted the unicopter from a long way off andmade their way toward it. It had come much further than Steve hadexpected. With sinking heart he realized that Tobias Whiting, if heescaped the crash-landing without injury, must surely have reached theKumaji encampment by now.     It doesn't seem badly damaged, Mary said.     The platform had buckled slightly, the 'copter was tilted over, one ofthe rotors twisted, its end buried in sand. Tobias Whiting wasn't there.     No, Steve said. It's hardly damaged at all. Your father got out of itall right.     To go—to them?     I think so, Mary. I don't want to pass judgment until we're sure. I'msorry.     Oh, Steve! Steve! What will we do? What      can     we do?     Find him, if it isn't too late. Come on.     North?     North.     And if by some miracle we find him?     Steve said nothing. The answer—capture or death—was obvious. But youcouldn't tell that to a traitor's daughter, could you?     As it turned out, they did not find Tobias Whiting through their ownefforts. Half an hour after setting out from the unicopter, they werespotted by a roving band of Kumajis, who came streaking toward them ontheir      thlots     . Mary raised her atorifle, but Steve struck the barrelaside. They'd kill us, he said. We can only surrender.     They were hobbled and led painfully across the sand. They were takenthat way to a small Kumaji encampment, and thrust within a circulartent.     Tobias Whiting was in there.  Mary! he cried. My God! Mary....     We came for you, Dad, she said coldly. To stop you. To ... to killyou if necessary.     Mary....     Oh, Dad, why did you do it? Why?     We couldn't start all over again, could we? You have a right to livethe sort of life I planned for you. You....     Whiting, Steve said, did you tell them yet?     No. No, I haven't. I have information to trade, sure. But I want tomake sure it's going to the right people. I want to get our....     Dad! Our money, and all those deaths?     It doesn't matter now. I—I had changed my mind, Mary. Truly. But now,now that you're a prisoner, what if I don't talk? Don't you see, they'lltorture you. They'll make you talk. And that way—we get nothing. Icouldn't stand to see them hurt you.     They can do—what they think they have to do. I'll tell them nothing.     You won't have to, Whiting said. I'll tell them when we reach thelarger settlement. They're taking us there tomorrow, they told me.     Then we've got to get out of here tonight, Steve said.     The low sun cast the shadow of their guard against the      thlot     skin wallof their tent. He was a single man, armed with a long, pike-like weapon.When darkness came, if the guard were not increased....     They were brought a pasty gruel for their supper, and ate in silence anddistaste, ate because they needed the strength. Mary said, Dad, I don'twant you to tell them anything. Dad, please. If you thought you weredoing it for me....     I've made up my mind, Tobias Whiting said.     Mary turned to Steve, in despair. Steve, she said. Steve.Do—whatever you have to do. I—I'll understand.     Steve didn't answer her. Wasn't Whiting right now? he thought. If Stevesilenced him, wouldn't the Kumaji torture them for the information?Steve could stand up to it perhaps—but he couldn't stand to see themhurt Mary. He'd talk if they did that....     Then silencing Whiting wasn't the answer. But the Kumajis had onewilling prisoner and two unwilling ones. They knew that. If the willingone yelled for help but the yelling was kept to a minimum so only oneguard, the man outside, came....  Darkness in the Kumaji encampment.     Far off, a lone tribesman singing a chant old as the desert.     Are you asleep? Mary asked.     No, Steve said.     Dad is. Listen to the way he's breathing—like a baby. As if—as if hewasn't going to betray all our people. Oh, I hate him, I hate him!     Steve crawled to where the older man was sleeping. Tobias Whiting'svoice surprised him. I'm not asleep. I was thinking. I—     I'm going to kill you, Steve said very softly, and sprang at Whiting.He paused, though. It was a calculated pause, and Whiting cried out asSteve had hoped he would. Then his hands found the older man's throatand closed there—not to kill him but to keep him from crying out again.     Sand stirred, the tentflap lifted, and a bulky figure rushed inside.Steve got up, met him halfway, felt the jarring contact of their bodies.The pike came up dimly in the darkness, the point scraping againstSteve's ribs as the guard lunged awkwardly. Steve's fingers sought thethick-muscled neck, clamped there—squeezing.     The guard writhed. His feet drummed the sand. With one hand he stabbedout wildly with the unwieldy pike. There was a cry from Mary and theguard managed a low squawking noise. Outside, the rest of the campseemed undisturbed. There was death in Steve's strong tighteningfingers. There had to be death there. Death for the Kumaji guard—ordeath for the fleeing Earthmen, who had lost one colony and must seekanother.  They fell together on the sand, the guard still struggling. Stevecouldn't release his throat to grab the pike. The guard stabbed outawkwardly, blindly with it, kicking up sand. Then Tobias Whiting moaned,but Steve hardly heard him.     When the guard's legs stopped drumming, Steve released him. The man waseither dead or so close to death that he would be out for hours. Stevehad never killed a man before, had never in violence and with intent tokill attacked a man....     Steve!     It was Mary, calling his name and crying.     It's Dad. Dad was—hit. The pike, a wild stab. He's hit bad—     Steve crawled over to them. It was very dark. He could barely make outTobias Whiting's pain-contorted face.     My stomach, Whiting said, gasping for breath. The pain....     Steve probed with his hands, found the wound. Blood was rushing out. Hecouldn't stop it and he knew it and he thought Whiting knew it too. Hetouched Mary's hand, and held it. Mary sobbed against him, cryingsoftly.     You two ... Whiting gasped. You two ... Mary, Mary girl. Is—he—whatyou want?     Yes, Dad. Oh, yes!     You can get her out of here, Cantwell?     I think so, Steve said.     Then go. Go while you can. I'll tell them—due south. The Earthmen areheading due south. They'll go—south. They won't find the caravan.You'll—all—get away. If it's—what you want, Mary.     She leaned away from Steve, kissing her father. She asked Steve: Isn'tthere anything we can do for him?     Steve shook his head. But he's got to live long enough to tell them, todeceive them.     I'll live long enough, Whiting said, and Steve knew then that hewould. Luck to—all of you. From a—very foolish—man....  Steve took Mary's hand and pulled her out into the hot, dark, wind-blownnight. He carried the dead Kumaji's pike and they slipped across thesand to where the      thlots     were hobbled for the night. He hardlyremembered the rest of it. There was violence and death, but necessarydeath. He killed a man with the pike, and unhobbled one of the      thlots     .The animal screamed and two more Kumajis came sleepily through the nightto see what was the matter. With the long edge of the pike's blade hedecapitated one of them. He slammed the shaft of the weapon across theother's face, probably breaking his jaw. The camp was in a turmoil. Inthe darkness he flung Mary on the      thlot's     bare back in front of him,and they glided off across the sand.     Pursuit was disorganized—and unsuccessful. It was too dark foreffective pursuit, as Steve had hoped it would be. They rode swiftly allnight and continued riding with the dawn. They could have gone in anydirection. The wind-driven sand would obliterate their trail.     Two days later they reached the caravan. As they rode up, Mary said,Steve, do you have to tell them?     We can tell them this, Steve said. Your father died a hero's death,sending the Kumajis off in the wrong direction.     And not—not what he'd planned to do at first.     No. We'll tell them that was his intention all the while. A man canmake a mistake, can't he?     I love you, Steve. I love you.     Then they rode down on the caravan. Somehow Steve knew they would allreach Oasis City in safety.     With Mary he would find a new world out in the vastness of space.  ","Tobias is a well-muscled, handsome man in his mid-forties. He is the Colony’s official trader with the Kumajis. Steve believed him to have been the most successful man in the Colony before the events of the story. The water in his village gets poisoned by the Kumaji. He, together with his daughter and other citizens, is forced to abandon his home and walk through the desert to Oasis City, leaving all his treasures and assets behind. The Kumajis are trying to chase them and kill the Colony. At some point in their journey, he meets Steve, who found the caravan on his unicopter. Several days later, Tobias decides to steal the unicopter and fly to the Kumaji’s base fifty miles due north of their stop and trade the caravan’s location for his money. He’s kept in one of the tents, and soon Mary and Steve join him. Now that his daughter is a prisoner, he’s eager to share the location of the caravan and save her from torture. At night Steve whispers that he will kill Tobias, and the man screams. Steve quickly silences him and attacks the coming guard. The Kumaji loses the battle with Steve but stabs Tobias in the stomach. He realizes that he won’t be able to leave the camp alive, so he blesses Mary and Steve and promises to give the Kumaji the wrong direction and save the caravan."
"Describe the Setting of the story. </s>    HOME IS WHERE YOU LEFT IT     By ADAM CHASE     [Transcriber Note: This etext was produced from Amazing Stories February1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed.]      The chance of mass slaughter was their eternal nightmare.      How black is the blackest treachery? Is the most calloustraitor entitled to mercy? Steve pondered these questions. His decision?That at times the villain should possibly be spoken of as a hero.     Only the shells of deserted mud-brick houses greeted Steve Cantwell whenhe reached the village.     He poked around in them for a while. The desert heat was searing,parching, and the Sirian sun gleamed balefully off the blades of Steve'sunicopter, which had brought him from Oasis City, almost five hundredmiles away. He had remembered heat from his childhood here on Sirius'second planet with the Earth colony, but not heat like this. It was likea magnet drawing all the moisture out of his body.     He walked among the buildings, surprise and perhaps sadness etched onhis gaunt, weather-beaten face. Childhood memories flooded back: thesingle well from which all the families drew their water, the mud-brickhouse, hardly different from the others and just four walls and a roofnow, in which he'd lived with his aunt after his parents had been killedin a      Kumaji     raid, the community center where he'd spent his happiesttime as a boy.     He went to the well and hoisted up a pailful of water. The winch creakedas he remembered. He ladled out the water, suddenly very thirsty, andbrought the ladle to his lips.     He hurled the ladle away. The water was bitter. Not brackish.     Poisoned.     He spat with fury, then kneeled and stuffed his mouth with sand, almostgagging. After a while he spat out the sand too and opened his canteenand rinsed his mouth. His lips and mouth were paralyzed by contact withthe poison. He walked quickly across the well-square to his aunt'shouse. Inside, it was dim but hardly cooler. Steve was sweating, thesaline sweat making him blink. He scowled, not understanding. The tablewas set in his aunt's house. A coffeepot was on the stove and lastnight's partially-consumed dinner still on the table.     The well had been poisoned, the town had been deserted on the spur ofthe moment, and Steve had returned to his boyhood home from Earth—toolate for anything.     He went outside into the square. A lizard was sunning itself and staringat him with lidless eyes. When he moved across the square, the lizardscurried away.     Earthman! a quavering voice called.     Steve ran toward the sound. In the scant shadow of the community center,a Kumaji was resting. He was a withered old man, all skin and bones andsweat-stiffened tunic, with enormous red-rimmed eyes. His purple skin,which had been blasted by the merciless sun, was almost black.     Steve held the canteen to his lips and watched his throat working almostspasmodically to get the water down. After a while Steve withdrew thecanteen and said:     What happened here?     They're gone. All gone.     Yes, but what happened?     The Kumaji—     You're Kumaji.     This is my town, the old man said. I lived with the Earthmen. Nowthey're gone.     But you stayed here—     To die, the old man said, without self-pity. I'm too old to flee, tooold to fight, too old for anything but death. More water.  Steve gave him another drink. You still haven't told me what happened.Actually, though, Steve could guess. With the twenty-second centuryEarth population hovering at the eleven billion mark, colonies weresought everywhere. Even on a parched desert wasteland like this. TheKumaji tribesmen had never accepted the colony as a fact of their lifeon the desert, and in a way Steve could not blame them. It meant oneoasis less for their own nomadic sustenance. When Steve was a boy,Kumaji raids were frequent. At school on Earth and Luna he'd read aboutthe raids, how they'd increased in violence, how the Earth government,so far away and utterly unable to protect its distant colony, hadsuggested withdrawal from the Kumaji desert settlement, especially sincea colony could exist there under only the most primitive conditions,almost like the purple-skinned Kumaji natives themselves.     When did it happen? Steve demanded.     Last night. It was now midafternoon. Three folks died, the Kumajisaid in his almost perfect English, from the poisoning of the well. Thewell was the last straw. The colonists had no choice. They had to go,and go fast, taking what little water they had left in the houses.     Will they try to walk all the way through to Oasis City? Oasis City,built at the confluence of two underground rivers which came to thesurface there and flowed the rest of the way to the sea above ground,was almost five hundred miles from the colony. Five hundred miles oftrackless sands and hundred-and-thirty-degree heat....     They have to, the old man said. And they have to hurry. Men, womenand children. The Kumaji are after them.  Steve felt irrational hatred then. He thought it would help if he couldfind some of the nomadic tribesmen and kill them. It might help the wayhe felt, he knew, but it certainly wouldn't help the fleeing colonists,trekking across a parched wilderness—to the safety of Oasis City—ordeath.     Come on, Steve said, making up his mind. The unicopter can hold twoin a pinch.     You're going after them?     I've got to. They're my people. I've been away too long.     Say, you're young Cantwell, aren't you? Now I remember.     Yes, I'm Steve Cantwell.     I'm not going anyplace, young fellow.     But you can't stay here, without any good water to drink, without—     I'm staying, the old man said, still without self-pity, justmatter-of-factly. The Earth folks have no room for me and I can't blame'em. The Kumaji'll kill me for a renegade, I figure. I lived a good,long life. I've no regrets. Go after your people, young fellow. They'llneed every extra strong right arm they can get. You got any weapons?     No, Steve said.     Too bad. Well, good-bye and good luck.     But you can't—     Oh, I'm staying. I want to stay. This is my home. It's the only homeI'll ever have. Good luck, young fellow.     Slowly, Steve walked to his unicopter. It was nothing more than a smallmetal disk on which to stand, and a shaft with four turbo-blades. Itcould do sixty miles an hour at an elevation of two thousand feet.  Steve turned the little turbo-jet engine over, then on impulse ran backto the old man and gave him his canteen, turning away before it could berefused and striding quickly back to the unicopter and getting himselfairborne without looking at the deserted village or the old man again.     The old man's voice called after him: Tell the people ... hurry ...Kumaji looking for them to kill ... desert wind ought to wipe out theirtrail ... but hurry....     The voice faded into the faint rushing sound of the hot desert wind.Steve gazed down on bare sun-blasted rock, on rippled dunes, onhate-haze. He circled wider and wider, seeking his people.     Hours later he spotted the caravan in the immensity of sand andwasteland. He brought the unicopter down quickly, with a rush of air anda whine of turbojets. He alighted in the sand in front of theslow-moving column. It was like something out of Earth's MiddleEast—and Middle Ages. They had even imported camels for their life hereon the Sirian desert, deciding the Earth camel was a better beast ofburden than anything the Sirius II wastelands had to offer. They walkedbeside the great-humped beasts of burden, the animals piled high withthe swaying baggage of their belongings. They moved through the sandswith agonizing slowness. Already, after only one day's travel, Stevecould see that some of the people were spent and exhausted and had toride on camelback. They had gone perhaps fifteen miles, with almost fivehundred to go across searing desert, the Kumaji seeking them....     Hullo! Steve shouted, and a man armed with an atorifle came stridingclumsily through the sand toward him. Cantwell's the name, Steve said.I'm one of you.     Bleak hostility in his face, the man approached. Cantwell. Yeah, Iremember you. Colony wasn't good enough for young Steve Cantwell. Oh,no. Had to go off to Earth to get himself educated. What are you doinghere now on that fancy aircraft of yours, coming to crow at our wake?     The bitterness surprised Steve. He recognized the man now as TobiasWhiting, who had been the Colony's most successful man when Steve was aboy. Except for his bitterness and for the bleak self-pity and defeat inhis eyes, the years had been good to Tobias Whiting. He was probably inhis mid-forties now, twenty years Steve's senior, but he waswell-muscled, his flesh was solid, his step bold and strong. He was abig muscular man with a craggy, handsome face. In ten years he hadhardly changed at all, while Steve Cantwell, the boy, had become SteveCantwell the man. He had been the Colony's official trader with theKumajis, and had grown rich—by colony standards—at his business. Now,Steve realized, all that was behind him, and he could only flee with theothers—either back to the terribly crowded Earth or on in search of anew colony on some other outworld, if they could get the transportation.Perhaps that explained his bitterness.     So you've come back, eh? You sure picked a time, Cantwell.     The refugees were still about a quarter of a mile off, coming up slowly.They hardly seemed to be moving at all. Is my aunt all right? Stevesaid. She was the only family he remembered.     Tobias Whiting shook his head slowly. I hate to be the one to tell youthis. Brace yourself for a shock. Your aunt was one of those who diedfrom the poisoned water last night.     For a long moment, Steve said nothing. The only emotion he felt waspity—pity for the hard life his aunt had lived, and the hard death.Sadness would come later, if there was to be a time for sadness.  The caravan reached them then. The first person Steve saw was a girl.She wore the shroud-like desert garment and her face—it would be apretty face under other circumstances, Steve realized—was etched withlines of fatigue. Steve did not recognize her. Who is he, Dad? thegirl said.     Young Cantwell. Remember?     So this was Mary Whiting, Steve thought. Why, she'd been a moppet tenyears ago! How old? Ten years old maybe. The years crowded him suddenly.She was a woman now....     Steve Cantwell? Mary said. Of course I remember. Hello, Steve. I—I'msorry you had to come back at a time like this. I'm sorry about youraunt. If there's anything I can do....     Steve shook his head, then shook the hand she offered him. She was aslim, strong girl with a firm handshake. Her concern for him at a timelike this was little short of amazing, especially since it wascompletely genuine.     He appreciated it.     Tobias Whiting said: Shame of it is, Cantwell, some of us could getalong with the Kumaji. I had a pretty good business here, you knowthat. He looked with bitterness at the dusty file of refugees. But Inever got a credit out of it. Wherever we wind up, my girl and I will bepoor again. We could have been rich.     Steve asked, What happened to all your profits?     Tied up with a Kumaji moneylender, but thanks to what happened I'llnever see it again.     Mary winced, as if her father's words and his self-pity were painful toher. Then others came up and a few minutes were spent in back-poundingand hand-shaking as some of the men who had been boys with Steve came upto recognize and be recognized. Their greeting was warm, as TobiasWhiting's had been cool. Despite the knowledge of what lay behind all ofthem, and what still lay ahead, it was a little like homecoming.     But Steve liked Mary Whiting's warm, friendly smile best of all. It wascomforting and reassuring.  Three days later, Tobias Whiting disappeared.     The caravan had been making no more than ten or fifteen miles a day.Their water supply was almost gone but on the fourth day they hoped toreach an oasis in the desert. Two of the older folks had died offatigue. A third was critically ill and there was little that could bedone for him. The food supply was running short, but they could alwaysslaughter their camels for food and make their way to Oasis City, stillfour hundred and some miles away, with nothing but the clothes on theirbacks.     And then, during the fourth night, Tobias Whiting disappeared, takingSteve's unicopter. A sentry had heard the low muffled whine of theturbojets during the night and had seen the small craft take off, buthad assumed Steve had taken it up for some reason. Each day Steve haddone so, reconnoitering for signs of the Kumaji.     But why? someone asked. Why?     At first there was no answer. Then a woman whose husband had died theday before said: It's no secret Whiting has plenty of money—with theKumaji.     None of them looked at Mary. She stood there defiantly, not sayinganything, and Steve squeezed her hand.     Now, wait a minute, one of Whiting's friends said.     Wait, nothing. This was Jeremy Gort, who twice had been mayor of thecolony. I know how Whiting's mind works. He slaved all his life forthat money, that's the way he'll see it. Cantwell, didn't you say theKumaji were looking for us, to kill us?     That's what I was told, Steve said.     All right, Gort went on relentlessly. Then this is what I figure musthave happened. Whiting got to brooding over his lost fortune and finallydecided he had to have it. So, he went off at night in Cantwell's'copter, determined to get it. Only catch is, folks, if I know theKumaji, they won't just give it to him—not by a long sight.     No? someone asked.     No sir. They'll trade. For our location. And if Whiting went off likethat without even saying good-bye to his girl here, my guess is he'llmake the trade. His voice reflected some bitterness.  Mary went to Gort and slapped his face. The elderly man did not evenblink. Well, he asked her gently, did your pa tell you he was going?     N-no, Mary said. There were tears in her eyes, but she did not cry.     Gort turned to Steve. Cantwell, can he get far in that 'copter?     Steve shook his head. Ten or fifteen miles is all. Almost out of fuel,Mr. Gort. You saw how I took her up for only a quick mile swing eachday. He won't get far.     He'll crash in the desert?     Crash or crash-land, Steve said.     Mary sobbed, and bit her lip, and was silent.     We've got to stop him, Gort said. And fast. If he gets to the Kumaji,they'll send down a raiding party and we'll be finished. We could neverfight them off without the protection of our village. Near as I canfigure, there's a Kumaji base fifty miles due north of here. Whitingknows it too, so that's where he'll be going, I figure. Can't spare morethan a couple of men to look for him, though, in case the Kumaji findus—or are led to us—and attack.     Steve said, I should have taken something out of the 'copter everynight, so it couldn't start. I'll go.     Mary came forward boldly. I have to go. He's my father. If he crashedout there, he may be hurt. He may be—dying.     Gort looked at her. And if he's trying to sell us out to the Kumajis?     Then—then I'll do whatever Steve asks me to. I promise.     That's good enough for me, Steve said.     A few minutes later, armed with atorifles and their share of the foodand water that was left, Steve and Mary set out northward across thesand while the caravan continued east. Fear of what they might findmounted.  The first night, they camped in the lee of low sandhills. The secondnight they found a small spring with brackish but drinkable water. Onthe third day, having covered half the distance to the Kumajisettlement, they began to encounter Kumaji patrols, on foot or      thlotback     , the six-legged desert animals running so swiftly over thesands and so low to the ground that they almost seemed to be gliding.Steve and Mary hardly spoke. Talk was unnecessary. But slowly a bondgrew between them. Steve liked this slim silent girl who had come outhere with him risking her life although she must have known deep in herheart that her father had almost certainly decided to turn traitor inorder to regain his fortune.     On the fourth day, they spotted the unicopter from a long way off andmade their way toward it. It had come much further than Steve hadexpected. With sinking heart he realized that Tobias Whiting, if heescaped the crash-landing without injury, must surely have reached theKumaji encampment by now.     It doesn't seem badly damaged, Mary said.     The platform had buckled slightly, the 'copter was tilted over, one ofthe rotors twisted, its end buried in sand. Tobias Whiting wasn't there.     No, Steve said. It's hardly damaged at all. Your father got out of itall right.     To go—to them?     I think so, Mary. I don't want to pass judgment until we're sure. I'msorry.     Oh, Steve! Steve! What will we do? What      can     we do?     Find him, if it isn't too late. Come on.     North?     North.     And if by some miracle we find him?     Steve said nothing. The answer—capture or death—was obvious. But youcouldn't tell that to a traitor's daughter, could you?     As it turned out, they did not find Tobias Whiting through their ownefforts. Half an hour after setting out from the unicopter, they werespotted by a roving band of Kumajis, who came streaking toward them ontheir      thlots     . Mary raised her atorifle, but Steve struck the barrelaside. They'd kill us, he said. We can only surrender.     They were hobbled and led painfully across the sand. They were takenthat way to a small Kumaji encampment, and thrust within a circulartent.     Tobias Whiting was in there.  Mary! he cried. My God! Mary....     We came for you, Dad, she said coldly. To stop you. To ... to killyou if necessary.     Mary....     Oh, Dad, why did you do it? Why?     We couldn't start all over again, could we? You have a right to livethe sort of life I planned for you. You....     Whiting, Steve said, did you tell them yet?     No. No, I haven't. I have information to trade, sure. But I want tomake sure it's going to the right people. I want to get our....     Dad! Our money, and all those deaths?     It doesn't matter now. I—I had changed my mind, Mary. Truly. But now,now that you're a prisoner, what if I don't talk? Don't you see, they'lltorture you. They'll make you talk. And that way—we get nothing. Icouldn't stand to see them hurt you.     They can do—what they think they have to do. I'll tell them nothing.     You won't have to, Whiting said. I'll tell them when we reach thelarger settlement. They're taking us there tomorrow, they told me.     Then we've got to get out of here tonight, Steve said.     The low sun cast the shadow of their guard against the      thlot     skin wallof their tent. He was a single man, armed with a long, pike-like weapon.When darkness came, if the guard were not increased....     They were brought a pasty gruel for their supper, and ate in silence anddistaste, ate because they needed the strength. Mary said, Dad, I don'twant you to tell them anything. Dad, please. If you thought you weredoing it for me....     I've made up my mind, Tobias Whiting said.     Mary turned to Steve, in despair. Steve, she said. Steve.Do—whatever you have to do. I—I'll understand.     Steve didn't answer her. Wasn't Whiting right now? he thought. If Stevesilenced him, wouldn't the Kumaji torture them for the information?Steve could stand up to it perhaps—but he couldn't stand to see themhurt Mary. He'd talk if they did that....     Then silencing Whiting wasn't the answer. But the Kumajis had onewilling prisoner and two unwilling ones. They knew that. If the willingone yelled for help but the yelling was kept to a minimum so only oneguard, the man outside, came....  Darkness in the Kumaji encampment.     Far off, a lone tribesman singing a chant old as the desert.     Are you asleep? Mary asked.     No, Steve said.     Dad is. Listen to the way he's breathing—like a baby. As if—as if hewasn't going to betray all our people. Oh, I hate him, I hate him!     Steve crawled to where the older man was sleeping. Tobias Whiting'svoice surprised him. I'm not asleep. I was thinking. I—     I'm going to kill you, Steve said very softly, and sprang at Whiting.He paused, though. It was a calculated pause, and Whiting cried out asSteve had hoped he would. Then his hands found the older man's throatand closed there—not to kill him but to keep him from crying out again.     Sand stirred, the tentflap lifted, and a bulky figure rushed inside.Steve got up, met him halfway, felt the jarring contact of their bodies.The pike came up dimly in the darkness, the point scraping againstSteve's ribs as the guard lunged awkwardly. Steve's fingers sought thethick-muscled neck, clamped there—squeezing.     The guard writhed. His feet drummed the sand. With one hand he stabbedout wildly with the unwieldy pike. There was a cry from Mary and theguard managed a low squawking noise. Outside, the rest of the campseemed undisturbed. There was death in Steve's strong tighteningfingers. There had to be death there. Death for the Kumaji guard—ordeath for the fleeing Earthmen, who had lost one colony and must seekanother.  They fell together on the sand, the guard still struggling. Stevecouldn't release his throat to grab the pike. The guard stabbed outawkwardly, blindly with it, kicking up sand. Then Tobias Whiting moaned,but Steve hardly heard him.     When the guard's legs stopped drumming, Steve released him. The man waseither dead or so close to death that he would be out for hours. Stevehad never killed a man before, had never in violence and with intent tokill attacked a man....     Steve!     It was Mary, calling his name and crying.     It's Dad. Dad was—hit. The pike, a wild stab. He's hit bad—     Steve crawled over to them. It was very dark. He could barely make outTobias Whiting's pain-contorted face.     My stomach, Whiting said, gasping for breath. The pain....     Steve probed with his hands, found the wound. Blood was rushing out. Hecouldn't stop it and he knew it and he thought Whiting knew it too. Hetouched Mary's hand, and held it. Mary sobbed against him, cryingsoftly.     You two ... Whiting gasped. You two ... Mary, Mary girl. Is—he—whatyou want?     Yes, Dad. Oh, yes!     You can get her out of here, Cantwell?     I think so, Steve said.     Then go. Go while you can. I'll tell them—due south. The Earthmen areheading due south. They'll go—south. They won't find the caravan.You'll—all—get away. If it's—what you want, Mary.     She leaned away from Steve, kissing her father. She asked Steve: Isn'tthere anything we can do for him?     Steve shook his head. But he's got to live long enough to tell them, todeceive them.     I'll live long enough, Whiting said, and Steve knew then that hewould. Luck to—all of you. From a—very foolish—man....  Steve took Mary's hand and pulled her out into the hot, dark, wind-blownnight. He carried the dead Kumaji's pike and they slipped across thesand to where the      thlots     were hobbled for the night. He hardlyremembered the rest of it. There was violence and death, but necessarydeath. He killed a man with the pike, and unhobbled one of the      thlots     .The animal screamed and two more Kumajis came sleepily through the nightto see what was the matter. With the long edge of the pike's blade hedecapitated one of them. He slammed the shaft of the weapon across theother's face, probably breaking his jaw. The camp was in a turmoil. Inthe darkness he flung Mary on the      thlot's     bare back in front of him,and they glided off across the sand.     Pursuit was disorganized—and unsuccessful. It was too dark foreffective pursuit, as Steve had hoped it would be. They rode swiftly allnight and continued riding with the dawn. They could have gone in anydirection. The wind-driven sand would obliterate their trail.     Two days later they reached the caravan. As they rode up, Mary said,Steve, do you have to tell them?     We can tell them this, Steve said. Your father died a hero's death,sending the Kumajis off in the wrong direction.     And not—not what he'd planned to do at first.     No. We'll tell them that was his intention all the while. A man canmake a mistake, can't he?     I love you, Steve. I love you.     Then they rode down on the caravan. Somehow Steve knew they would allreach Oasis City in safety.     With Mary he would find a new world out in the vastness of space.  ","The story is set in the twenty-second century: the Earth government is seeking colonies in many places. One of them is on Sirius’ second planet. Steve spent his early childhood here in a human settlement in the middle of a desert, but he went to Earth to get an education. Now he got back to Oasis City, which is built at the confluence of two underground rivers and is 500 miles from his home Colony. At the beginning, Steve flies across the desert to his village: it looks abandoned. He walks from the well with water to his aunt’s house and soon finds the dying Kumaji. Later, Steve flies above the desert dunes and spots the caravan. He lands there and spends the next several days with the people walking east to Oasis City. Then Steve and Mary go to the north - to the Kumaji base. They surrender, and the Kumaji take them both to a small encampment. In a secular tent, they find Mary’s Father. When it’s dark, Mary and Steve sneak out of the tent and soon glide off across the sand on the thlot’s back. "
"What is the significance of the Kumaji's in the story? </s>    HOME IS WHERE YOU LEFT IT     By ADAM CHASE     [Transcriber Note: This etext was produced from Amazing Stories February1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed.]      The chance of mass slaughter was their eternal nightmare.      How black is the blackest treachery? Is the most calloustraitor entitled to mercy? Steve pondered these questions. His decision?That at times the villain should possibly be spoken of as a hero.     Only the shells of deserted mud-brick houses greeted Steve Cantwell whenhe reached the village.     He poked around in them for a while. The desert heat was searing,parching, and the Sirian sun gleamed balefully off the blades of Steve'sunicopter, which had brought him from Oasis City, almost five hundredmiles away. He had remembered heat from his childhood here on Sirius'second planet with the Earth colony, but not heat like this. It was likea magnet drawing all the moisture out of his body.     He walked among the buildings, surprise and perhaps sadness etched onhis gaunt, weather-beaten face. Childhood memories flooded back: thesingle well from which all the families drew their water, the mud-brickhouse, hardly different from the others and just four walls and a roofnow, in which he'd lived with his aunt after his parents had been killedin a      Kumaji     raid, the community center where he'd spent his happiesttime as a boy.     He went to the well and hoisted up a pailful of water. The winch creakedas he remembered. He ladled out the water, suddenly very thirsty, andbrought the ladle to his lips.     He hurled the ladle away. The water was bitter. Not brackish.     Poisoned.     He spat with fury, then kneeled and stuffed his mouth with sand, almostgagging. After a while he spat out the sand too and opened his canteenand rinsed his mouth. His lips and mouth were paralyzed by contact withthe poison. He walked quickly across the well-square to his aunt'shouse. Inside, it was dim but hardly cooler. Steve was sweating, thesaline sweat making him blink. He scowled, not understanding. The tablewas set in his aunt's house. A coffeepot was on the stove and lastnight's partially-consumed dinner still on the table.     The well had been poisoned, the town had been deserted on the spur ofthe moment, and Steve had returned to his boyhood home from Earth—toolate for anything.     He went outside into the square. A lizard was sunning itself and staringat him with lidless eyes. When he moved across the square, the lizardscurried away.     Earthman! a quavering voice called.     Steve ran toward the sound. In the scant shadow of the community center,a Kumaji was resting. He was a withered old man, all skin and bones andsweat-stiffened tunic, with enormous red-rimmed eyes. His purple skin,which had been blasted by the merciless sun, was almost black.     Steve held the canteen to his lips and watched his throat working almostspasmodically to get the water down. After a while Steve withdrew thecanteen and said:     What happened here?     They're gone. All gone.     Yes, but what happened?     The Kumaji—     You're Kumaji.     This is my town, the old man said. I lived with the Earthmen. Nowthey're gone.     But you stayed here—     To die, the old man said, without self-pity. I'm too old to flee, tooold to fight, too old for anything but death. More water.  Steve gave him another drink. You still haven't told me what happened.Actually, though, Steve could guess. With the twenty-second centuryEarth population hovering at the eleven billion mark, colonies weresought everywhere. Even on a parched desert wasteland like this. TheKumaji tribesmen had never accepted the colony as a fact of their lifeon the desert, and in a way Steve could not blame them. It meant oneoasis less for their own nomadic sustenance. When Steve was a boy,Kumaji raids were frequent. At school on Earth and Luna he'd read aboutthe raids, how they'd increased in violence, how the Earth government,so far away and utterly unable to protect its distant colony, hadsuggested withdrawal from the Kumaji desert settlement, especially sincea colony could exist there under only the most primitive conditions,almost like the purple-skinned Kumaji natives themselves.     When did it happen? Steve demanded.     Last night. It was now midafternoon. Three folks died, the Kumajisaid in his almost perfect English, from the poisoning of the well. Thewell was the last straw. The colonists had no choice. They had to go,and go fast, taking what little water they had left in the houses.     Will they try to walk all the way through to Oasis City? Oasis City,built at the confluence of two underground rivers which came to thesurface there and flowed the rest of the way to the sea above ground,was almost five hundred miles from the colony. Five hundred miles oftrackless sands and hundred-and-thirty-degree heat....     They have to, the old man said. And they have to hurry. Men, womenand children. The Kumaji are after them.  Steve felt irrational hatred then. He thought it would help if he couldfind some of the nomadic tribesmen and kill them. It might help the wayhe felt, he knew, but it certainly wouldn't help the fleeing colonists,trekking across a parched wilderness—to the safety of Oasis City—ordeath.     Come on, Steve said, making up his mind. The unicopter can hold twoin a pinch.     You're going after them?     I've got to. They're my people. I've been away too long.     Say, you're young Cantwell, aren't you? Now I remember.     Yes, I'm Steve Cantwell.     I'm not going anyplace, young fellow.     But you can't stay here, without any good water to drink, without—     I'm staying, the old man said, still without self-pity, justmatter-of-factly. The Earth folks have no room for me and I can't blame'em. The Kumaji'll kill me for a renegade, I figure. I lived a good,long life. I've no regrets. Go after your people, young fellow. They'llneed every extra strong right arm they can get. You got any weapons?     No, Steve said.     Too bad. Well, good-bye and good luck.     But you can't—     Oh, I'm staying. I want to stay. This is my home. It's the only homeI'll ever have. Good luck, young fellow.     Slowly, Steve walked to his unicopter. It was nothing more than a smallmetal disk on which to stand, and a shaft with four turbo-blades. Itcould do sixty miles an hour at an elevation of two thousand feet.  Steve turned the little turbo-jet engine over, then on impulse ran backto the old man and gave him his canteen, turning away before it could berefused and striding quickly back to the unicopter and getting himselfairborne without looking at the deserted village or the old man again.     The old man's voice called after him: Tell the people ... hurry ...Kumaji looking for them to kill ... desert wind ought to wipe out theirtrail ... but hurry....     The voice faded into the faint rushing sound of the hot desert wind.Steve gazed down on bare sun-blasted rock, on rippled dunes, onhate-haze. He circled wider and wider, seeking his people.     Hours later he spotted the caravan in the immensity of sand andwasteland. He brought the unicopter down quickly, with a rush of air anda whine of turbojets. He alighted in the sand in front of theslow-moving column. It was like something out of Earth's MiddleEast—and Middle Ages. They had even imported camels for their life hereon the Sirian desert, deciding the Earth camel was a better beast ofburden than anything the Sirius II wastelands had to offer. They walkedbeside the great-humped beasts of burden, the animals piled high withthe swaying baggage of their belongings. They moved through the sandswith agonizing slowness. Already, after only one day's travel, Stevecould see that some of the people were spent and exhausted and had toride on camelback. They had gone perhaps fifteen miles, with almost fivehundred to go across searing desert, the Kumaji seeking them....     Hullo! Steve shouted, and a man armed with an atorifle came stridingclumsily through the sand toward him. Cantwell's the name, Steve said.I'm one of you.     Bleak hostility in his face, the man approached. Cantwell. Yeah, Iremember you. Colony wasn't good enough for young Steve Cantwell. Oh,no. Had to go off to Earth to get himself educated. What are you doinghere now on that fancy aircraft of yours, coming to crow at our wake?     The bitterness surprised Steve. He recognized the man now as TobiasWhiting, who had been the Colony's most successful man when Steve was aboy. Except for his bitterness and for the bleak self-pity and defeat inhis eyes, the years had been good to Tobias Whiting. He was probably inhis mid-forties now, twenty years Steve's senior, but he waswell-muscled, his flesh was solid, his step bold and strong. He was abig muscular man with a craggy, handsome face. In ten years he hadhardly changed at all, while Steve Cantwell, the boy, had become SteveCantwell the man. He had been the Colony's official trader with theKumajis, and had grown rich—by colony standards—at his business. Now,Steve realized, all that was behind him, and he could only flee with theothers—either back to the terribly crowded Earth or on in search of anew colony on some other outworld, if they could get the transportation.Perhaps that explained his bitterness.     So you've come back, eh? You sure picked a time, Cantwell.     The refugees were still about a quarter of a mile off, coming up slowly.They hardly seemed to be moving at all. Is my aunt all right? Stevesaid. She was the only family he remembered.     Tobias Whiting shook his head slowly. I hate to be the one to tell youthis. Brace yourself for a shock. Your aunt was one of those who diedfrom the poisoned water last night.     For a long moment, Steve said nothing. The only emotion he felt waspity—pity for the hard life his aunt had lived, and the hard death.Sadness would come later, if there was to be a time for sadness.  The caravan reached them then. The first person Steve saw was a girl.She wore the shroud-like desert garment and her face—it would be apretty face under other circumstances, Steve realized—was etched withlines of fatigue. Steve did not recognize her. Who is he, Dad? thegirl said.     Young Cantwell. Remember?     So this was Mary Whiting, Steve thought. Why, she'd been a moppet tenyears ago! How old? Ten years old maybe. The years crowded him suddenly.She was a woman now....     Steve Cantwell? Mary said. Of course I remember. Hello, Steve. I—I'msorry you had to come back at a time like this. I'm sorry about youraunt. If there's anything I can do....     Steve shook his head, then shook the hand she offered him. She was aslim, strong girl with a firm handshake. Her concern for him at a timelike this was little short of amazing, especially since it wascompletely genuine.     He appreciated it.     Tobias Whiting said: Shame of it is, Cantwell, some of us could getalong with the Kumaji. I had a pretty good business here, you knowthat. He looked with bitterness at the dusty file of refugees. But Inever got a credit out of it. Wherever we wind up, my girl and I will bepoor again. We could have been rich.     Steve asked, What happened to all your profits?     Tied up with a Kumaji moneylender, but thanks to what happened I'llnever see it again.     Mary winced, as if her father's words and his self-pity were painful toher. Then others came up and a few minutes were spent in back-poundingand hand-shaking as some of the men who had been boys with Steve came upto recognize and be recognized. Their greeting was warm, as TobiasWhiting's had been cool. Despite the knowledge of what lay behind all ofthem, and what still lay ahead, it was a little like homecoming.     But Steve liked Mary Whiting's warm, friendly smile best of all. It wascomforting and reassuring.  Three days later, Tobias Whiting disappeared.     The caravan had been making no more than ten or fifteen miles a day.Their water supply was almost gone but on the fourth day they hoped toreach an oasis in the desert. Two of the older folks had died offatigue. A third was critically ill and there was little that could bedone for him. The food supply was running short, but they could alwaysslaughter their camels for food and make their way to Oasis City, stillfour hundred and some miles away, with nothing but the clothes on theirbacks.     And then, during the fourth night, Tobias Whiting disappeared, takingSteve's unicopter. A sentry had heard the low muffled whine of theturbojets during the night and had seen the small craft take off, buthad assumed Steve had taken it up for some reason. Each day Steve haddone so, reconnoitering for signs of the Kumaji.     But why? someone asked. Why?     At first there was no answer. Then a woman whose husband had died theday before said: It's no secret Whiting has plenty of money—with theKumaji.     None of them looked at Mary. She stood there defiantly, not sayinganything, and Steve squeezed her hand.     Now, wait a minute, one of Whiting's friends said.     Wait, nothing. This was Jeremy Gort, who twice had been mayor of thecolony. I know how Whiting's mind works. He slaved all his life forthat money, that's the way he'll see it. Cantwell, didn't you say theKumaji were looking for us, to kill us?     That's what I was told, Steve said.     All right, Gort went on relentlessly. Then this is what I figure musthave happened. Whiting got to brooding over his lost fortune and finallydecided he had to have it. So, he went off at night in Cantwell's'copter, determined to get it. Only catch is, folks, if I know theKumaji, they won't just give it to him—not by a long sight.     No? someone asked.     No sir. They'll trade. For our location. And if Whiting went off likethat without even saying good-bye to his girl here, my guess is he'llmake the trade. His voice reflected some bitterness.  Mary went to Gort and slapped his face. The elderly man did not evenblink. Well, he asked her gently, did your pa tell you he was going?     N-no, Mary said. There were tears in her eyes, but she did not cry.     Gort turned to Steve. Cantwell, can he get far in that 'copter?     Steve shook his head. Ten or fifteen miles is all. Almost out of fuel,Mr. Gort. You saw how I took her up for only a quick mile swing eachday. He won't get far.     He'll crash in the desert?     Crash or crash-land, Steve said.     Mary sobbed, and bit her lip, and was silent.     We've got to stop him, Gort said. And fast. If he gets to the Kumaji,they'll send down a raiding party and we'll be finished. We could neverfight them off without the protection of our village. Near as I canfigure, there's a Kumaji base fifty miles due north of here. Whitingknows it too, so that's where he'll be going, I figure. Can't spare morethan a couple of men to look for him, though, in case the Kumaji findus—or are led to us—and attack.     Steve said, I should have taken something out of the 'copter everynight, so it couldn't start. I'll go.     Mary came forward boldly. I have to go. He's my father. If he crashedout there, he may be hurt. He may be—dying.     Gort looked at her. And if he's trying to sell us out to the Kumajis?     Then—then I'll do whatever Steve asks me to. I promise.     That's good enough for me, Steve said.     A few minutes later, armed with atorifles and their share of the foodand water that was left, Steve and Mary set out northward across thesand while the caravan continued east. Fear of what they might findmounted.  The first night, they camped in the lee of low sandhills. The secondnight they found a small spring with brackish but drinkable water. Onthe third day, having covered half the distance to the Kumajisettlement, they began to encounter Kumaji patrols, on foot or      thlotback     , the six-legged desert animals running so swiftly over thesands and so low to the ground that they almost seemed to be gliding.Steve and Mary hardly spoke. Talk was unnecessary. But slowly a bondgrew between them. Steve liked this slim silent girl who had come outhere with him risking her life although she must have known deep in herheart that her father had almost certainly decided to turn traitor inorder to regain his fortune.     On the fourth day, they spotted the unicopter from a long way off andmade their way toward it. It had come much further than Steve hadexpected. With sinking heart he realized that Tobias Whiting, if heescaped the crash-landing without injury, must surely have reached theKumaji encampment by now.     It doesn't seem badly damaged, Mary said.     The platform had buckled slightly, the 'copter was tilted over, one ofthe rotors twisted, its end buried in sand. Tobias Whiting wasn't there.     No, Steve said. It's hardly damaged at all. Your father got out of itall right.     To go—to them?     I think so, Mary. I don't want to pass judgment until we're sure. I'msorry.     Oh, Steve! Steve! What will we do? What      can     we do?     Find him, if it isn't too late. Come on.     North?     North.     And if by some miracle we find him?     Steve said nothing. The answer—capture or death—was obvious. But youcouldn't tell that to a traitor's daughter, could you?     As it turned out, they did not find Tobias Whiting through their ownefforts. Half an hour after setting out from the unicopter, they werespotted by a roving band of Kumajis, who came streaking toward them ontheir      thlots     . Mary raised her atorifle, but Steve struck the barrelaside. They'd kill us, he said. We can only surrender.     They were hobbled and led painfully across the sand. They were takenthat way to a small Kumaji encampment, and thrust within a circulartent.     Tobias Whiting was in there.  Mary! he cried. My God! Mary....     We came for you, Dad, she said coldly. To stop you. To ... to killyou if necessary.     Mary....     Oh, Dad, why did you do it? Why?     We couldn't start all over again, could we? You have a right to livethe sort of life I planned for you. You....     Whiting, Steve said, did you tell them yet?     No. No, I haven't. I have information to trade, sure. But I want tomake sure it's going to the right people. I want to get our....     Dad! Our money, and all those deaths?     It doesn't matter now. I—I had changed my mind, Mary. Truly. But now,now that you're a prisoner, what if I don't talk? Don't you see, they'lltorture you. They'll make you talk. And that way—we get nothing. Icouldn't stand to see them hurt you.     They can do—what they think they have to do. I'll tell them nothing.     You won't have to, Whiting said. I'll tell them when we reach thelarger settlement. They're taking us there tomorrow, they told me.     Then we've got to get out of here tonight, Steve said.     The low sun cast the shadow of their guard against the      thlot     skin wallof their tent. He was a single man, armed with a long, pike-like weapon.When darkness came, if the guard were not increased....     They were brought a pasty gruel for their supper, and ate in silence anddistaste, ate because they needed the strength. Mary said, Dad, I don'twant you to tell them anything. Dad, please. If you thought you weredoing it for me....     I've made up my mind, Tobias Whiting said.     Mary turned to Steve, in despair. Steve, she said. Steve.Do—whatever you have to do. I—I'll understand.     Steve didn't answer her. Wasn't Whiting right now? he thought. If Stevesilenced him, wouldn't the Kumaji torture them for the information?Steve could stand up to it perhaps—but he couldn't stand to see themhurt Mary. He'd talk if they did that....     Then silencing Whiting wasn't the answer. But the Kumajis had onewilling prisoner and two unwilling ones. They knew that. If the willingone yelled for help but the yelling was kept to a minimum so only oneguard, the man outside, came....  Darkness in the Kumaji encampment.     Far off, a lone tribesman singing a chant old as the desert.     Are you asleep? Mary asked.     No, Steve said.     Dad is. Listen to the way he's breathing—like a baby. As if—as if hewasn't going to betray all our people. Oh, I hate him, I hate him!     Steve crawled to where the older man was sleeping. Tobias Whiting'svoice surprised him. I'm not asleep. I was thinking. I—     I'm going to kill you, Steve said very softly, and sprang at Whiting.He paused, though. It was a calculated pause, and Whiting cried out asSteve had hoped he would. Then his hands found the older man's throatand closed there—not to kill him but to keep him from crying out again.     Sand stirred, the tentflap lifted, and a bulky figure rushed inside.Steve got up, met him halfway, felt the jarring contact of their bodies.The pike came up dimly in the darkness, the point scraping againstSteve's ribs as the guard lunged awkwardly. Steve's fingers sought thethick-muscled neck, clamped there—squeezing.     The guard writhed. His feet drummed the sand. With one hand he stabbedout wildly with the unwieldy pike. There was a cry from Mary and theguard managed a low squawking noise. Outside, the rest of the campseemed undisturbed. There was death in Steve's strong tighteningfingers. There had to be death there. Death for the Kumaji guard—ordeath for the fleeing Earthmen, who had lost one colony and must seekanother.  They fell together on the sand, the guard still struggling. Stevecouldn't release his throat to grab the pike. The guard stabbed outawkwardly, blindly with it, kicking up sand. Then Tobias Whiting moaned,but Steve hardly heard him.     When the guard's legs stopped drumming, Steve released him. The man waseither dead or so close to death that he would be out for hours. Stevehad never killed a man before, had never in violence and with intent tokill attacked a man....     Steve!     It was Mary, calling his name and crying.     It's Dad. Dad was—hit. The pike, a wild stab. He's hit bad—     Steve crawled over to them. It was very dark. He could barely make outTobias Whiting's pain-contorted face.     My stomach, Whiting said, gasping for breath. The pain....     Steve probed with his hands, found the wound. Blood was rushing out. Hecouldn't stop it and he knew it and he thought Whiting knew it too. Hetouched Mary's hand, and held it. Mary sobbed against him, cryingsoftly.     You two ... Whiting gasped. You two ... Mary, Mary girl. Is—he—whatyou want?     Yes, Dad. Oh, yes!     You can get her out of here, Cantwell?     I think so, Steve said.     Then go. Go while you can. I'll tell them—due south. The Earthmen areheading due south. They'll go—south. They won't find the caravan.You'll—all—get away. If it's—what you want, Mary.     She leaned away from Steve, kissing her father. She asked Steve: Isn'tthere anything we can do for him?     Steve shook his head. But he's got to live long enough to tell them, todeceive them.     I'll live long enough, Whiting said, and Steve knew then that hewould. Luck to—all of you. From a—very foolish—man....  Steve took Mary's hand and pulled her out into the hot, dark, wind-blownnight. He carried the dead Kumaji's pike and they slipped across thesand to where the      thlots     were hobbled for the night. He hardlyremembered the rest of it. There was violence and death, but necessarydeath. He killed a man with the pike, and unhobbled one of the      thlots     .The animal screamed and two more Kumajis came sleepily through the nightto see what was the matter. With the long edge of the pike's blade hedecapitated one of them. He slammed the shaft of the weapon across theother's face, probably breaking his jaw. The camp was in a turmoil. Inthe darkness he flung Mary on the      thlot's     bare back in front of him,and they glided off across the sand.     Pursuit was disorganized—and unsuccessful. It was too dark foreffective pursuit, as Steve had hoped it would be. They rode swiftly allnight and continued riding with the dawn. They could have gone in anydirection. The wind-driven sand would obliterate their trail.     Two days later they reached the caravan. As they rode up, Mary said,Steve, do you have to tell them?     We can tell them this, Steve said. Your father died a hero's death,sending the Kumajis off in the wrong direction.     And not—not what he'd planned to do at first.     No. We'll tell them that was his intention all the while. A man canmake a mistake, can't he?     I love you, Steve. I love you.     Then they rode down on the caravan. Somehow Steve knew they would allreach Oasis City in safety.     With Mary he would find a new world out in the vastness of space.  ","The Kumaji are the native tribesmen, and they have been raiding the Colony for many years. They also killed Steve’s parents in the past. Now they poison the village’s well, and his aunt dies from this water. They practically force the citizens to leave their homes and walk through the desert. The Kumaji are looking for the caravan to kill everyone else who remains alive. They have Tobias’ money which upsets him and makes him initially betray his people and try to trade their location for his fortune. They take him, Steve, and Mary captive and then end up being unable to stop the last two from running away. "
"What is the significance of the old man in the story? </s>    HOME IS WHERE YOU LEFT IT     By ADAM CHASE     [Transcriber Note: This etext was produced from Amazing Stories February1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed.]      The chance of mass slaughter was their eternal nightmare.      How black is the blackest treachery? Is the most calloustraitor entitled to mercy? Steve pondered these questions. His decision?That at times the villain should possibly be spoken of as a hero.     Only the shells of deserted mud-brick houses greeted Steve Cantwell whenhe reached the village.     He poked around in them for a while. The desert heat was searing,parching, and the Sirian sun gleamed balefully off the blades of Steve'sunicopter, which had brought him from Oasis City, almost five hundredmiles away. He had remembered heat from his childhood here on Sirius'second planet with the Earth colony, but not heat like this. It was likea magnet drawing all the moisture out of his body.     He walked among the buildings, surprise and perhaps sadness etched onhis gaunt, weather-beaten face. Childhood memories flooded back: thesingle well from which all the families drew their water, the mud-brickhouse, hardly different from the others and just four walls and a roofnow, in which he'd lived with his aunt after his parents had been killedin a      Kumaji     raid, the community center where he'd spent his happiesttime as a boy.     He went to the well and hoisted up a pailful of water. The winch creakedas he remembered. He ladled out the water, suddenly very thirsty, andbrought the ladle to his lips.     He hurled the ladle away. The water was bitter. Not brackish.     Poisoned.     He spat with fury, then kneeled and stuffed his mouth with sand, almostgagging. After a while he spat out the sand too and opened his canteenand rinsed his mouth. His lips and mouth were paralyzed by contact withthe poison. He walked quickly across the well-square to his aunt'shouse. Inside, it was dim but hardly cooler. Steve was sweating, thesaline sweat making him blink. He scowled, not understanding. The tablewas set in his aunt's house. A coffeepot was on the stove and lastnight's partially-consumed dinner still on the table.     The well had been poisoned, the town had been deserted on the spur ofthe moment, and Steve had returned to his boyhood home from Earth—toolate for anything.     He went outside into the square. A lizard was sunning itself and staringat him with lidless eyes. When he moved across the square, the lizardscurried away.     Earthman! a quavering voice called.     Steve ran toward the sound. In the scant shadow of the community center,a Kumaji was resting. He was a withered old man, all skin and bones andsweat-stiffened tunic, with enormous red-rimmed eyes. His purple skin,which had been blasted by the merciless sun, was almost black.     Steve held the canteen to his lips and watched his throat working almostspasmodically to get the water down. After a while Steve withdrew thecanteen and said:     What happened here?     They're gone. All gone.     Yes, but what happened?     The Kumaji—     You're Kumaji.     This is my town, the old man said. I lived with the Earthmen. Nowthey're gone.     But you stayed here—     To die, the old man said, without self-pity. I'm too old to flee, tooold to fight, too old for anything but death. More water.  Steve gave him another drink. You still haven't told me what happened.Actually, though, Steve could guess. With the twenty-second centuryEarth population hovering at the eleven billion mark, colonies weresought everywhere. Even on a parched desert wasteland like this. TheKumaji tribesmen had never accepted the colony as a fact of their lifeon the desert, and in a way Steve could not blame them. It meant oneoasis less for their own nomadic sustenance. When Steve was a boy,Kumaji raids were frequent. At school on Earth and Luna he'd read aboutthe raids, how they'd increased in violence, how the Earth government,so far away and utterly unable to protect its distant colony, hadsuggested withdrawal from the Kumaji desert settlement, especially sincea colony could exist there under only the most primitive conditions,almost like the purple-skinned Kumaji natives themselves.     When did it happen? Steve demanded.     Last night. It was now midafternoon. Three folks died, the Kumajisaid in his almost perfect English, from the poisoning of the well. Thewell was the last straw. The colonists had no choice. They had to go,and go fast, taking what little water they had left in the houses.     Will they try to walk all the way through to Oasis City? Oasis City,built at the confluence of two underground rivers which came to thesurface there and flowed the rest of the way to the sea above ground,was almost five hundred miles from the colony. Five hundred miles oftrackless sands and hundred-and-thirty-degree heat....     They have to, the old man said. And they have to hurry. Men, womenand children. The Kumaji are after them.  Steve felt irrational hatred then. He thought it would help if he couldfind some of the nomadic tribesmen and kill them. It might help the wayhe felt, he knew, but it certainly wouldn't help the fleeing colonists,trekking across a parched wilderness—to the safety of Oasis City—ordeath.     Come on, Steve said, making up his mind. The unicopter can hold twoin a pinch.     You're going after them?     I've got to. They're my people. I've been away too long.     Say, you're young Cantwell, aren't you? Now I remember.     Yes, I'm Steve Cantwell.     I'm not going anyplace, young fellow.     But you can't stay here, without any good water to drink, without—     I'm staying, the old man said, still without self-pity, justmatter-of-factly. The Earth folks have no room for me and I can't blame'em. The Kumaji'll kill me for a renegade, I figure. I lived a good,long life. I've no regrets. Go after your people, young fellow. They'llneed every extra strong right arm they can get. You got any weapons?     No, Steve said.     Too bad. Well, good-bye and good luck.     But you can't—     Oh, I'm staying. I want to stay. This is my home. It's the only homeI'll ever have. Good luck, young fellow.     Slowly, Steve walked to his unicopter. It was nothing more than a smallmetal disk on which to stand, and a shaft with four turbo-blades. Itcould do sixty miles an hour at an elevation of two thousand feet.  Steve turned the little turbo-jet engine over, then on impulse ran backto the old man and gave him his canteen, turning away before it could berefused and striding quickly back to the unicopter and getting himselfairborne without looking at the deserted village or the old man again.     The old man's voice called after him: Tell the people ... hurry ...Kumaji looking for them to kill ... desert wind ought to wipe out theirtrail ... but hurry....     The voice faded into the faint rushing sound of the hot desert wind.Steve gazed down on bare sun-blasted rock, on rippled dunes, onhate-haze. He circled wider and wider, seeking his people.     Hours later he spotted the caravan in the immensity of sand andwasteland. He brought the unicopter down quickly, with a rush of air anda whine of turbojets. He alighted in the sand in front of theslow-moving column. It was like something out of Earth's MiddleEast—and Middle Ages. They had even imported camels for their life hereon the Sirian desert, deciding the Earth camel was a better beast ofburden than anything the Sirius II wastelands had to offer. They walkedbeside the great-humped beasts of burden, the animals piled high withthe swaying baggage of their belongings. They moved through the sandswith agonizing slowness. Already, after only one day's travel, Stevecould see that some of the people were spent and exhausted and had toride on camelback. They had gone perhaps fifteen miles, with almost fivehundred to go across searing desert, the Kumaji seeking them....     Hullo! Steve shouted, and a man armed with an atorifle came stridingclumsily through the sand toward him. Cantwell's the name, Steve said.I'm one of you.     Bleak hostility in his face, the man approached. Cantwell. Yeah, Iremember you. Colony wasn't good enough for young Steve Cantwell. Oh,no. Had to go off to Earth to get himself educated. What are you doinghere now on that fancy aircraft of yours, coming to crow at our wake?     The bitterness surprised Steve. He recognized the man now as TobiasWhiting, who had been the Colony's most successful man when Steve was aboy. Except for his bitterness and for the bleak self-pity and defeat inhis eyes, the years had been good to Tobias Whiting. He was probably inhis mid-forties now, twenty years Steve's senior, but he waswell-muscled, his flesh was solid, his step bold and strong. He was abig muscular man with a craggy, handsome face. In ten years he hadhardly changed at all, while Steve Cantwell, the boy, had become SteveCantwell the man. He had been the Colony's official trader with theKumajis, and had grown rich—by colony standards—at his business. Now,Steve realized, all that was behind him, and he could only flee with theothers—either back to the terribly crowded Earth or on in search of anew colony on some other outworld, if they could get the transportation.Perhaps that explained his bitterness.     So you've come back, eh? You sure picked a time, Cantwell.     The refugees were still about a quarter of a mile off, coming up slowly.They hardly seemed to be moving at all. Is my aunt all right? Stevesaid. She was the only family he remembered.     Tobias Whiting shook his head slowly. I hate to be the one to tell youthis. Brace yourself for a shock. Your aunt was one of those who diedfrom the poisoned water last night.     For a long moment, Steve said nothing. The only emotion he felt waspity—pity for the hard life his aunt had lived, and the hard death.Sadness would come later, if there was to be a time for sadness.  The caravan reached them then. The first person Steve saw was a girl.She wore the shroud-like desert garment and her face—it would be apretty face under other circumstances, Steve realized—was etched withlines of fatigue. Steve did not recognize her. Who is he, Dad? thegirl said.     Young Cantwell. Remember?     So this was Mary Whiting, Steve thought. Why, she'd been a moppet tenyears ago! How old? Ten years old maybe. The years crowded him suddenly.She was a woman now....     Steve Cantwell? Mary said. Of course I remember. Hello, Steve. I—I'msorry you had to come back at a time like this. I'm sorry about youraunt. If there's anything I can do....     Steve shook his head, then shook the hand she offered him. She was aslim, strong girl with a firm handshake. Her concern for him at a timelike this was little short of amazing, especially since it wascompletely genuine.     He appreciated it.     Tobias Whiting said: Shame of it is, Cantwell, some of us could getalong with the Kumaji. I had a pretty good business here, you knowthat. He looked with bitterness at the dusty file of refugees. But Inever got a credit out of it. Wherever we wind up, my girl and I will bepoor again. We could have been rich.     Steve asked, What happened to all your profits?     Tied up with a Kumaji moneylender, but thanks to what happened I'llnever see it again.     Mary winced, as if her father's words and his self-pity were painful toher. Then others came up and a few minutes were spent in back-poundingand hand-shaking as some of the men who had been boys with Steve came upto recognize and be recognized. Their greeting was warm, as TobiasWhiting's had been cool. Despite the knowledge of what lay behind all ofthem, and what still lay ahead, it was a little like homecoming.     But Steve liked Mary Whiting's warm, friendly smile best of all. It wascomforting and reassuring.  Three days later, Tobias Whiting disappeared.     The caravan had been making no more than ten or fifteen miles a day.Their water supply was almost gone but on the fourth day they hoped toreach an oasis in the desert. Two of the older folks had died offatigue. A third was critically ill and there was little that could bedone for him. The food supply was running short, but they could alwaysslaughter their camels for food and make their way to Oasis City, stillfour hundred and some miles away, with nothing but the clothes on theirbacks.     And then, during the fourth night, Tobias Whiting disappeared, takingSteve's unicopter. A sentry had heard the low muffled whine of theturbojets during the night and had seen the small craft take off, buthad assumed Steve had taken it up for some reason. Each day Steve haddone so, reconnoitering for signs of the Kumaji.     But why? someone asked. Why?     At first there was no answer. Then a woman whose husband had died theday before said: It's no secret Whiting has plenty of money—with theKumaji.     None of them looked at Mary. She stood there defiantly, not sayinganything, and Steve squeezed her hand.     Now, wait a minute, one of Whiting's friends said.     Wait, nothing. This was Jeremy Gort, who twice had been mayor of thecolony. I know how Whiting's mind works. He slaved all his life forthat money, that's the way he'll see it. Cantwell, didn't you say theKumaji were looking for us, to kill us?     That's what I was told, Steve said.     All right, Gort went on relentlessly. Then this is what I figure musthave happened. Whiting got to brooding over his lost fortune and finallydecided he had to have it. So, he went off at night in Cantwell's'copter, determined to get it. Only catch is, folks, if I know theKumaji, they won't just give it to him—not by a long sight.     No? someone asked.     No sir. They'll trade. For our location. And if Whiting went off likethat without even saying good-bye to his girl here, my guess is he'llmake the trade. His voice reflected some bitterness.  Mary went to Gort and slapped his face. The elderly man did not evenblink. Well, he asked her gently, did your pa tell you he was going?     N-no, Mary said. There were tears in her eyes, but she did not cry.     Gort turned to Steve. Cantwell, can he get far in that 'copter?     Steve shook his head. Ten or fifteen miles is all. Almost out of fuel,Mr. Gort. You saw how I took her up for only a quick mile swing eachday. He won't get far.     He'll crash in the desert?     Crash or crash-land, Steve said.     Mary sobbed, and bit her lip, and was silent.     We've got to stop him, Gort said. And fast. If he gets to the Kumaji,they'll send down a raiding party and we'll be finished. We could neverfight them off without the protection of our village. Near as I canfigure, there's a Kumaji base fifty miles due north of here. Whitingknows it too, so that's where he'll be going, I figure. Can't spare morethan a couple of men to look for him, though, in case the Kumaji findus—or are led to us—and attack.     Steve said, I should have taken something out of the 'copter everynight, so it couldn't start. I'll go.     Mary came forward boldly. I have to go. He's my father. If he crashedout there, he may be hurt. He may be—dying.     Gort looked at her. And if he's trying to sell us out to the Kumajis?     Then—then I'll do whatever Steve asks me to. I promise.     That's good enough for me, Steve said.     A few minutes later, armed with atorifles and their share of the foodand water that was left, Steve and Mary set out northward across thesand while the caravan continued east. Fear of what they might findmounted.  The first night, they camped in the lee of low sandhills. The secondnight they found a small spring with brackish but drinkable water. Onthe third day, having covered half the distance to the Kumajisettlement, they began to encounter Kumaji patrols, on foot or      thlotback     , the six-legged desert animals running so swiftly over thesands and so low to the ground that they almost seemed to be gliding.Steve and Mary hardly spoke. Talk was unnecessary. But slowly a bondgrew between them. Steve liked this slim silent girl who had come outhere with him risking her life although she must have known deep in herheart that her father had almost certainly decided to turn traitor inorder to regain his fortune.     On the fourth day, they spotted the unicopter from a long way off andmade their way toward it. It had come much further than Steve hadexpected. With sinking heart he realized that Tobias Whiting, if heescaped the crash-landing without injury, must surely have reached theKumaji encampment by now.     It doesn't seem badly damaged, Mary said.     The platform had buckled slightly, the 'copter was tilted over, one ofthe rotors twisted, its end buried in sand. Tobias Whiting wasn't there.     No, Steve said. It's hardly damaged at all. Your father got out of itall right.     To go—to them?     I think so, Mary. I don't want to pass judgment until we're sure. I'msorry.     Oh, Steve! Steve! What will we do? What      can     we do?     Find him, if it isn't too late. Come on.     North?     North.     And if by some miracle we find him?     Steve said nothing. The answer—capture or death—was obvious. But youcouldn't tell that to a traitor's daughter, could you?     As it turned out, they did not find Tobias Whiting through their ownefforts. Half an hour after setting out from the unicopter, they werespotted by a roving band of Kumajis, who came streaking toward them ontheir      thlots     . Mary raised her atorifle, but Steve struck the barrelaside. They'd kill us, he said. We can only surrender.     They were hobbled and led painfully across the sand. They were takenthat way to a small Kumaji encampment, and thrust within a circulartent.     Tobias Whiting was in there.  Mary! he cried. My God! Mary....     We came for you, Dad, she said coldly. To stop you. To ... to killyou if necessary.     Mary....     Oh, Dad, why did you do it? Why?     We couldn't start all over again, could we? You have a right to livethe sort of life I planned for you. You....     Whiting, Steve said, did you tell them yet?     No. No, I haven't. I have information to trade, sure. But I want tomake sure it's going to the right people. I want to get our....     Dad! Our money, and all those deaths?     It doesn't matter now. I—I had changed my mind, Mary. Truly. But now,now that you're a prisoner, what if I don't talk? Don't you see, they'lltorture you. They'll make you talk. And that way—we get nothing. Icouldn't stand to see them hurt you.     They can do—what they think they have to do. I'll tell them nothing.     You won't have to, Whiting said. I'll tell them when we reach thelarger settlement. They're taking us there tomorrow, they told me.     Then we've got to get out of here tonight, Steve said.     The low sun cast the shadow of their guard against the      thlot     skin wallof their tent. He was a single man, armed with a long, pike-like weapon.When darkness came, if the guard were not increased....     They were brought a pasty gruel for their supper, and ate in silence anddistaste, ate because they needed the strength. Mary said, Dad, I don'twant you to tell them anything. Dad, please. If you thought you weredoing it for me....     I've made up my mind, Tobias Whiting said.     Mary turned to Steve, in despair. Steve, she said. Steve.Do—whatever you have to do. I—I'll understand.     Steve didn't answer her. Wasn't Whiting right now? he thought. If Stevesilenced him, wouldn't the Kumaji torture them for the information?Steve could stand up to it perhaps—but he couldn't stand to see themhurt Mary. He'd talk if they did that....     Then silencing Whiting wasn't the answer. But the Kumajis had onewilling prisoner and two unwilling ones. They knew that. If the willingone yelled for help but the yelling was kept to a minimum so only oneguard, the man outside, came....  Darkness in the Kumaji encampment.     Far off, a lone tribesman singing a chant old as the desert.     Are you asleep? Mary asked.     No, Steve said.     Dad is. Listen to the way he's breathing—like a baby. As if—as if hewasn't going to betray all our people. Oh, I hate him, I hate him!     Steve crawled to where the older man was sleeping. Tobias Whiting'svoice surprised him. I'm not asleep. I was thinking. I—     I'm going to kill you, Steve said very softly, and sprang at Whiting.He paused, though. It was a calculated pause, and Whiting cried out asSteve had hoped he would. Then his hands found the older man's throatand closed there—not to kill him but to keep him from crying out again.     Sand stirred, the tentflap lifted, and a bulky figure rushed inside.Steve got up, met him halfway, felt the jarring contact of their bodies.The pike came up dimly in the darkness, the point scraping againstSteve's ribs as the guard lunged awkwardly. Steve's fingers sought thethick-muscled neck, clamped there—squeezing.     The guard writhed. His feet drummed the sand. With one hand he stabbedout wildly with the unwieldy pike. There was a cry from Mary and theguard managed a low squawking noise. Outside, the rest of the campseemed undisturbed. There was death in Steve's strong tighteningfingers. There had to be death there. Death for the Kumaji guard—ordeath for the fleeing Earthmen, who had lost one colony and must seekanother.  They fell together on the sand, the guard still struggling. Stevecouldn't release his throat to grab the pike. The guard stabbed outawkwardly, blindly with it, kicking up sand. Then Tobias Whiting moaned,but Steve hardly heard him.     When the guard's legs stopped drumming, Steve released him. The man waseither dead or so close to death that he would be out for hours. Stevehad never killed a man before, had never in violence and with intent tokill attacked a man....     Steve!     It was Mary, calling his name and crying.     It's Dad. Dad was—hit. The pike, a wild stab. He's hit bad—     Steve crawled over to them. It was very dark. He could barely make outTobias Whiting's pain-contorted face.     My stomach, Whiting said, gasping for breath. The pain....     Steve probed with his hands, found the wound. Blood was rushing out. Hecouldn't stop it and he knew it and he thought Whiting knew it too. Hetouched Mary's hand, and held it. Mary sobbed against him, cryingsoftly.     You two ... Whiting gasped. You two ... Mary, Mary girl. Is—he—whatyou want?     Yes, Dad. Oh, yes!     You can get her out of here, Cantwell?     I think so, Steve said.     Then go. Go while you can. I'll tell them—due south. The Earthmen areheading due south. They'll go—south. They won't find the caravan.You'll—all—get away. If it's—what you want, Mary.     She leaned away from Steve, kissing her father. She asked Steve: Isn'tthere anything we can do for him?     Steve shook his head. But he's got to live long enough to tell them, todeceive them.     I'll live long enough, Whiting said, and Steve knew then that hewould. Luck to—all of you. From a—very foolish—man....  Steve took Mary's hand and pulled her out into the hot, dark, wind-blownnight. He carried the dead Kumaji's pike and they slipped across thesand to where the      thlots     were hobbled for the night. He hardlyremembered the rest of it. There was violence and death, but necessarydeath. He killed a man with the pike, and unhobbled one of the      thlots     .The animal screamed and two more Kumajis came sleepily through the nightto see what was the matter. With the long edge of the pike's blade hedecapitated one of them. He slammed the shaft of the weapon across theother's face, probably breaking his jaw. The camp was in a turmoil. Inthe darkness he flung Mary on the      thlot's     bare back in front of him,and they glided off across the sand.     Pursuit was disorganized—and unsuccessful. It was too dark foreffective pursuit, as Steve had hoped it would be. They rode swiftly allnight and continued riding with the dawn. They could have gone in anydirection. The wind-driven sand would obliterate their trail.     Two days later they reached the caravan. As they rode up, Mary said,Steve, do you have to tell them?     We can tell them this, Steve said. Your father died a hero's death,sending the Kumajis off in the wrong direction.     And not—not what he'd planned to do at first.     No. We'll tell them that was his intention all the while. A man canmake a mistake, can't he?     I love you, Steve. I love you.     Then they rode down on the caravan. Somehow Steve knew they would allreach Oasis City in safety.     With Mary he would find a new world out in the vastness of space.  ","When Steve arrives at the Colony, he sees deserted buildings and realizes that the well water is poisoned. The old man - the Kumaji who lived with the humans - tells him that the day before, three people died from the poisoned drinking water. The Kumaji are behind this and are trying to locate the others who left the Colony. They want to find the caravan, and even though the desert wind will wipe out the humans' trail, they still need to be informed about this danger. Knowing all of this allows Steve to find the caravan and eventually save them from the Kumaji, who could learn their location from Tobias Whiting. "
"What is the plot of the story? </s>      Henry Slesar, young New York advertising executive and by now nolonger a new-comer to either this magazine or to this field, describesa strange little town that you, yourself, may blunder into one of theseevenings. But, if you do, beware—beware of the Knights!         dream       town         by ... HENRY SLESAR         The woman in the doorway looked so harmless. Whowas to tell she had some rather startling interests?       The  woman in thedoorway looked like Mom inthe homier political cartoons.She was plump, apple-cheeked,white-haired. Shewore a fussy, old-fashionednightgown, and was busilyclutching a worn house-robearound her expansive middle.She blinked at Sol Becker'srain-flattened hair and hang-dogexpression, and said:What is it? What do youwant?     I'm sorry— Sol's voicewas pained. The man in thediner said you might put meup. I had my car stolen: ahitchhiker; going to Salinas ...He was puffing.     Hitchhiker? I don't understand.She clucked at thesight of the pool of water hewas creating in her foyer.Well, come inside, for heaven'ssake. You're soaking!     Thanks, Sol said gratefully.     With the door firmly shutbehind him, the warm interiorof the little house coveredhim like a blanket. Heshivered, and let the warmthseep over him. I'm terriblysorry. I know how late it is.He looked at his watch, butthe face was too misty tomake out the hour.     Must be nearly three, thewoman sniffed. You couldn'thave come at a worse time. Iwas just on my way tocourt—     The words slid by him. IfI could just stay overnight.Until the morning. I couldcall some friends in San Fernando.I'm very susceptible tohead colds, he added inanely.     Well, take those shoes off,first, the woman grumbled.You can undress in the parlor,if you'll keep off the rug.You won't mind using thesofa?     No, of course not. I'd behappy to pay—     Oh, tush, nobody's askingyou to pay. This isn't a hotel.You mind if I go back upstairs?They're gonna missme at the palace.     No, of course not, Solsaid. He followed her intothe darkened parlor, andwatched as she turned thescrew on a hurricane-stylelamp, shedding a yellow poolof light over half a flowerysofa and a doily-covered wingchair. You go on up. I'll beperfectly fine.     Guess you can use a towel,though. I'll get you one,then I'm going up. We wakepretty early in this house.Breakfast's at seven; you'llhave to be up if you wantany.     I really can't thank youenough—     Tush, the woman said.She scurried out, and returneda moment later with athick bath towel. Sorry Ican't give you any bedding.But you'll find it nice andwarm in here. She squintedat the dim face of a ship's-wheelclock on the mantle,and made a noise with hertongue. Three-thirty! sheexclaimed. I'll miss thewhole execution ...     The what?     Goodnight, young man,Mom said firmly.     She padded off, leaving Solholding the towel. He pattedhis face, and then scrubbedthe wet tangle of brown hair.Carefully, he stepped off thecarpet and onto the stonefloor in front of the fireplace.He removed hisdrenched coat and suit jacket,and squeezed water outover the ashes.     He stripped down to hisunderwear, wondering aboutnext morning's possible embarrassment,and decided touse the damp bath towel as ablanket. The sofa was downyand comfortable. He curledup under the towel, shiveredonce, and closed his eyes.   He  was tired and verysleepy, and his customarynightly review was limited toa few detached thoughtsabout the wedding he wassupposed to attend in Salinasthat weekend ... the hoodlumwho had responded to hisgood-nature by dumping himout of his own car ... the sloggingwalk to the village ...the little round woman whowas hurrying off, like theWhite Rabbit, to some mysteriousappointment on theupper floor ...     Then he went to sleep.     A voice awoke him, shrilland questioning.     Are you      nakkid     ?     His eyes flew open, and hepulled the towel protectivelyaround his body and glaredat the little girl with the rust-redpigtails.     Huh, mister? she said,pushing a finger against herfreckled nose. Are you?     No, he said angrily. I'mnot naked. Will you pleasego away?     Sally! It was Mom, appearingin the doorway of theparlor. You leave the gentlemanalone. She went offagain.     Yes, Sol said. Please letme get dressed. If you don'tmind. The girl didn't move.What time is it?     Dunno, Sally shrugged.I like poached eggs. They'remy favorite eggs in the wholeworld.     That's good, Sol said desperately.Now why don't yoube a good girl and eat yourpoached eggs. In the kitchen.     Ain't ready yet. You goingto stay for breakfast?     I'm not going to do anythinguntil you get out ofhere.     She put the end of a pigtailin her mouth and sat down onthe chair opposite. I went tothe palace last night. Theyhad an exelution.     Please, Sol groaned. Bea good girl, Sally. If you letme get dressed, I'll show youhow to take your thumb off.     Oh, that's an old trick. Didyou ever see an exelution?     No. Did you ever see a littlegirl with her hidetanned?     Huh?           Sally!      Mom again, sterner.You get out of there, oryou-know-what ...     Okay, the girl saidblithely. I'm goin' to the palaceagain. If I brush myteeth. Aren't you      ever     gonnaget up? She skipped out ofthe room, and Sol hastily satup and reached for histrousers.     When he had dressed, theclothes still damp and unpleasantagainst his skin, hewent out of the parlor andfound the kitchen. Mom wasbusy at the stove. He said:Good morning.     Breakfast in ten minutes,she said cheerfully. You likepoached eggs?     Sure. Do you have a telephone?     In the hallway. Party line,so you may have to wait.     He tried for fifteen minutesto get through, but therewas a woman on the line whowas terribly upset about acotton dress she had orderedfrom Sears, and was tellingthe world about it.     Finally, he got his callthrough to Salinas, and asleepy-voiced Fred, his oldArmy buddy, listened somewhatindifferently to his taleof woe. I might miss thewedding, Sol said unhappily.I'm awfully sorry. Freddidn't seem to be half as sorryas he was. When Sol hungup, he was feeling more despondentthan ever.     A man, tall and rangy, witha bobbing Adam's apple anda lined face, came into thehallway. Hullo? he said inquiringly.You the fella hadthe car stolen?     Yes.     The man scratched his ear.Take you over to SheriffCoogan after breakfast. He'lllet the Stateys know about it.My name's Dawes.     Sol accepted a carefulhandshake.     Don't get many peoplecomin' into town, Dawessaid, looking at him curiously.Ain't seen a stranger inyears. But you look like therest of us. He chuckled.     Mom called out: Breakfast!   At  the table, Dawesasked his destination.     Wedding in Salinas, heexplained. Old Army friendof mine. I picked this hitchhikerup about two miles fromhere. He      seemed     okay.     Never can tell, Dawessaid placidly, munching egg.Hey, Ma. That why youwere so late comin' to courtlast night?     That's right, Pa. Shepoured the blackest coffeeSol had ever seen. Didn'tmiss much, though.     What court is that? Solasked politely, his mouth full.     Umagum, Sally said, apiece of toast sticking outfrom the side of her mouth.Don't you know      nothin'     ?           Arma     gon, Dawes corrected.He looked sheepishly atthe stranger. Don't expectMister— He cocked an eyebrow.What's the name?     Becker.     Don't expect Mr. Beckerknows anything about Armagon.It's just a dream, youknow. He smiled apologetically.     Dream? You mean this—Armagonis a place you dreamabout?     Yep, Dawes said. He liftedcup to lip. Great coffee,Ma. He leaned back with acontented sigh. Dream aboutit every night. Got so used tothe place, I get all confusedin the daytime.     Mom said: I get muddle-headedtoo, sometimes.     You mean— Sol put hisnapkin in his lap. You mean      you     dream about the sameplace?     Sure, Sally piped. Weall go there at night. I'm goin'to the palace again, too.     If you brush your teeth,Mom said primly.     If I brush my teeth. Boy,you shoulda seen the exelution!     Execution, her fathersaid.     Oh, my goodness! Momgot up hastily. That remindsme. I gotta call poor Mrs.Brundage. It's the      least     Icould do.     Good idea, Dawes nodded.And I'll have to roundup some folks and get oldBrundage out of there.     Sol was staring. He openedhis mouth, but couldn't thinkof the right question to ask.Then he blurted out: Whatexecution?     None of      your     business,the man said coldly. You eatup, young man. If you wantme to get Sheriff Cooganlookin' for your car.     The rest of the meal wentsilently, except for Sally's insistenceupon singing herschool song between mouthfuls.When Dawes wasthrough, he pushed back hisplate and ordered Sol to getready.     Sol grabbed his topcoat andfollowed the man out thedoor.     Have to stop someplacefirst, Dawes said. But we'llbe pickin' up the Sheriff onthe way. Okay with you?     Fine, Sol said uneasily.     The rain had stopped, butthe heavy clouds seemed reluctantto leave the skies overthe small town. There was askittish breeze blowing, andSol Becker tightened the collarof his coat around hisneck as he tried to keep upwith the fast-stepping Dawes.   They  crossed thestreet diagonally, and entereda two-story wooden building.Dawes took the stairs at abrisk pace, and pushed openthe door on the second floor.A fat man looked up frombehind a desk.     Hi, Charlie. Thought I'dsee if you wanted to helpmove Brundage.     The man batted his eyes.Oh, Brundage! he said.You know, I clean forgotabout him? He laughed.Imagine me forgettingthat?     Yeah. Dawes wasn'tamused. And you Prince Regent.     Aw, Willie—     Well, come on. Stir thatfat carcass. Gotta pick upSheriff Coogan, too. Thishere gentleman has to see himabout somethin' else.     The man regarded Sol suspiciously.Never seen youbefore. Night      or     day. Stranger?     Come      on     ! Dawes said.     The fat man grunted andhoisted himself out of theswivel chair. He followedlamely behind the two menas they went out into thestreet again.     A woman, with an emptymarket basket, nodded casuallyto them. Mornin', folks.Enjoyed it last night.Thought you made a rightnice speech, Mr. Dawes.     Thanks, Dawes answeredgruffly, but obviously flattered.We were just goin'over to Brundage's to pick upthe body. Ma's gonna pay acall on Mrs. Brundage aroundten o'clock. You care to visit?     Why, I think that's verynice, the woman said. I'llbe sure and do that. Shesmiled at the fat man. Mornin',Prince.     Sol's head was spinning. Asthey left the woman and continuedtheir determinedmarch down the quiet street,he tried to find answers.     Look, Mr. Dawes. He waspanting; the pace was fast.Does      she     dream about this—Armagon,too? That womanback there?     Yep.     Charlie chuckled. He's astranger, all right.     And you, Mr.— Solturned to the fat man. Youalso know about this palaceand everything?     I told you, Dawes saidtestily. Charlie here's PrinceRegent. But don't let the fancytitle fool you. He got nomore power than any Knightof the Realm. He's just toodern fat to do much more'nsit on a throne and eat grapes.That right, Charlie?     The fat man giggled.     Here's the Sheriff, Dawessaid.     The Sheriff, a sleepy-eyedcitizen with a long, sad face,was rocking on a porch asthey approached his house,trying to puff a half-lit pipe.He lifted one hand wearilywhen he saw them.     Hi, Cookie, Dawesgrinned. Thought you, me,and Charlie would get Brundage'sbody outa the house.This here's Mr. Becker; hegot another problem. Mr.Becker, meet Cookie Coogan.     The Sheriff joined the procession,pausing only once toinquire into Sol's predicament.     He described the hitchhikerincident, but Cooganlistened stoically. He murmuredsomething about theTroopers, and shuffled alongsidethe puffing fat man.     Sol soon realized that theirdestination was a barber shop.     Dawes cupped his handsover the plate glass andpeered inside. Gold letters onthe glass advertised: HAIRCUTSHAVE & MASSAGEPARLOR. He reported: Nobodyin the shop. Must beupstairs.   The  fat man rang thebell. It was a while before ananswer came.     It was a reedy woman in ahousecoat, her hair in curlers,her eyes red and swollen.     Now, now, Dawes saidgently. Don't you take onlike that, Mrs. Brundage. Youheard the charges. It haddabe this way.     My poor Vincent, shesobbed.     Better let us up, theSheriff said kindly. No usejust lettin' him lay there,Mrs. Brundage.     He didn't mean no harm,the woman snuffled. He wasjust purely ornery, Vincentwas. Just plain mean stubborn.     The law's the law, thefat man sighed.     Sol couldn't hold himselfin.     What law? Who's dead?How did it happen?     Dawes looked at him disgustedly.Now is it any of      your     business? I mean, is it?     I don't know, Sol saidmiserably.     You better stay out ofthis, the Sheriff warned.This is a local matter, youngman. You better stay in theshop while we go up.     They filed past him and thecrying Mrs. Brundage.     When they were out ofsight, Sol pleaded with her.     What happened? How didyour husband die?     Please ...     You must tell me! Was itsomething to do with Armagon?Do you dream about theplace, too?     She was shocked at thequestion. Of course!     And your husband? Didhe have the same dream?     Fresh tears resulted. Can'tyou leave me alone? Sheturned her back. I got thingsto do. You can make yourselfcomfortable— She indicatedthe barber chairs, and leftthrough the back door.     Sol looked after her, andthen ambled over to the firstchair and slipped into thehigh seat. His reflection inthe mirror, strangely gray inthe dim light, made himgroan. His clothes were amess, and he needed a shave.If only Brundage had beenalive ...     He leaped out of the chairas voices sounded behind thedoor. Dawes was kicking itopen with his foot, his armsladen with two rather largefeet, still encased in bedroomslippers. Charlie was at theother end of the burden,which appeared to be a middle-agedman in pajamas. TheSheriff followed the trio upwith a sad, undertaker expression.Behind him came Mrs.Brundage, properly weeping.     We'll take him to the funeralparlor, Dawes said,breathing hard. Weighs aton, don't he?     What killed him? Solsaid.     Heart attack.     The fat man chuckled.     The tableau was grisly. Sollooked away, towards thecomfortingly mundane atmosphereof the barber shop. Buteven the sight of the thick-paddedchairs, the shavingmugs on the wall, the neatrows of cutting instruments,seemed grotesque and morbid.     Listen, Sol said, as theywent through the doorway.About my car—     The Sheriff turned and regardedhim lugubriously.Your      car     ? Young man, ain'tyou got no      respect     ?     Sol swallowed hard and fellsilent. He went outside withthem, the woman slammingthe barber-shop door behindhim. He waited in front ofthe building while the mentoted away the corpse to somenew destination.   He  took a walk.     The town was just comingto life. People were strollingout of their houses, commentingon the weather, chucklingamiably about local affairs.Kids on bicycles were beginningto appear, jangling thelittle bells and hooting toeach other. A woman, hangingwash in the back yard,called out to him, thinkinghe was somebody else.     He found a little park, nomore than twenty yards incircumference, centeredaround a weatherbeaten monumentof some unrecognizablemilitary figure. Threeold men took their places onthe bench that circled theGeneral, and leaned on theircanes.     Sol was a civil engineer.But he made like a reporter.     Pardon me, sir. The oldman, leathery-faced, with afine yellow moustache, lookedat him dumbly. Have youever heard of Armagon?     You a stranger?     Yes.     Thought so.     Sol repeated the question.     Course I did. Been goin'there ever since I was a kid.Night-times, that is.     How—I mean, what kindof place is it?     Said you're a stranger?     Yes.     Then 'tain't your business.     That was that.     He left the park, and wanderedinto a thriving luncheonette.He tried questioningthe man behind the counter,who merely snickered andsaid: You stayin' with theDawes, ain't you? Better askWillie, then. He knows theplace better than anybody.     He asked about the execution,and the man stiffened.     Don't think I can talkabout that. Fella broke one ofthe Laws; that's about it.Don't see where you comeinto it.     At eleven o'clock, he returnedto the Dawes residence,and found Mom in thekitchen, surrounded by thewarm nostalgic odor of home-bakedbread. She told himthat her husband had left amessage for the stranger, informinghim that the StatePolice would be around to gethis story.     He waited in the house,gloomily turning the pages ofthe local newspaper, searchingfor references to Armagon.He found nothing.     At eleven-thirty, a brown-facedState Trooper came tocall, and Sol told his story.He was promised nothing,and told to stay in town untilhe was contacted again bythe authorities.     Mom fixed him a lightlunch, the greatest feature ofwhich was some hot biscuitsshe plucked out of the oven.It made him feel almost normal.     He wandered around thetown some more after lunch,trying to spark conversationwith the residents.     He learned little.   At  five-thirty, he returnedto the Dawes house, and waspromptly leaped upon bylittle Sally.     Hi! Hi! Hi! she said,clutching his right leg andalmost toppling him over.We had a party in school. Ihad chocolate cake. You goin'to stay with us?     Just another night, Soltold her, trying to shake thegirl off. If it's okay withyour folks. They haven'tfound my car yet.     Sally! Mom was peeringout of the screen door. Youlet Mr. Becker alone and gowash. Your Pa will be homesoon.     Oh, pooh, the girl said,her pigtails swinging. Doyou got a girlfriend, mister?     No. Sol struggled towardsthe house with herdead weight on his leg.Would you mind? I can'twalk.     Would you be my boyfriend?     Well, we'll talk about it.If you let go my leg.     Inside the house, she said:We're having pot roast. Youstayin'?     Of course Mr. Becker'sstayin', Mom said. He's ourguest.     That's very kind of you,Sol said. I really wish you'dlet me pay something—     Don't want to hear anotherword about pay.   Mr. Dawes  came home anhour later, looking tired.Mom pecked him lightly onthe forehead. He glanced atthe evening paper, and thenspoke to Sol.     Hear you been askingquestions, Mr. Becker.     Sol nodded, embarrassed.Guess I have. I'm awfullycurious about this Armagonplace. Never heard of anythinglike it before.     Dawes grunted. You ain'ta reporter?     Oh, no. I'm an engineer. Iwas just satisfying my owncuriosity.     Uh-huh. Dawes lookedreflective. You wouldn't bethinkin' about writing us upor anything. I mean, this is apretty private affair.     Writing it up? Solblinked. I hadn't thought ofit. But you'll have to admit—it'ssure interesting.     Yeah, Dawes said narrowly.I guess it would be.     Supper! Mom called.     After the meal, they spenta quiet evening at home. Sallywent to bed, screaming herreluctance, at eight-thirty.Mom, dozing in the big chairnear the fireplace, padded upstairsat nine. Then Dawesyawned widely, stood up, andsaid goodnight at quarter-of-ten.     He paused in the doorwaybefore leaving.     I'd think about that, hesaid. Writing it up, I mean.A lot of folks would thinkyou were just plum crazy.     Sol laughed feebly. Iguess they would at that.     Goodnight, Dawes said.     Goodnight.     He read Sally's copy of      Treasure Island     for abouthalf an hour. Then he undressed,made himself comfortableon the sofa, snuggledunder the soft blanketthat Mom had provided, andshut his eyes.     He reviewed the events ofthe day before dropping offto sleep. The troublesomeSally. The strange dreamworld of Armagon. The visitto the barber shop. The removalof Brundage's body.The conversations with thetownspeople. Dawes' suspiciousattitude ...     Then sleep came.   He  was flanked by marblepillars, thrusting towardsa high-domed ceiling.     The room stretched longand wide before him, thewalls bedecked in stunningpurple draperies.     He whirled at the sound offootsteps, echoing stridentlyon the stone floor. Someonewas running towards him.     It was Sally, pigtailsstreaming out behind her, thesmall body wearing a flowingwhite toga. She was shrieking,laughing as she skitteredpast him, clutching a gleaminggold helmet.     He called out to her, butshe was too busy outdistancingher pursuer. It was SheriffCoogan, puffing and huffing,the metal-and-gold clothuniform ludicrous on hislanky frame.     Consarn kid! he wheezed.Gimme my hat!     Mom was following him,her stout body regal in scarletrobes. Sally! You giveSir Coogan his helmet! Youhear?     Mrs. Dawes! Sol said.     Why, Mr. Becker! Hownice to see you again! Pa!      Pa!     Look who's here!     Willie Dawes appeared.      No!     Sol thought. This was      King     Dawes; nothing elsecould explain the magnificenceof his attire.     Yes, Dawes said craftily.So I see. Welcome to Armagon,Mr. Becker.     Armagon? Sol gaped.Then this is the placeyou've been dreaming about?     Yep, the King said. Andnow      you're     in it, too.     Then I'm only dreaming!     Charlie, the fat man,clumsy as ever in his robes ofState, said: So      that's     thesnooper, eh?     Yep, Dawes chuckled.Think you better round upthe Knights.     Sol said: The Knights?     Exelution! Exelution!Sally shrieked.     Now wait a minute—     Charlie shouted.     Running feet, clanking ofarmor. Sol backed up againsta pillar. Now look here.You've gone far enough—     Not quite, said the King.     The Knights stepped forward.     Wait! Sol screamed.     Familiar faces, under shininghelmets, moved towardshim; the tips of sharp-pointedspears gleaming wickedly.And Sol Becker wondered—wouldhe ever awake?     Transcriber's Note:   This etext was produced from    Fantastic Universe   January 1957.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note.","The plot follows Sol, a veteran of the U.S. army who, after picking up a hitchhiker on the way to a wedding, gets his car robbed near a small town. He ends up staying in the house of a young family who are kind enough to host him. They are very nice with him, and even offer him breakfast the next morning. As Sol learns more of the town and the family, he learns that the people in the town share the same dream every night, in a place called the Armagon. He also learns that there was an execution last night in the same place. He follows Willie Dawes, the head of the family, to pick up the body of the person that was executed. They are also accompanied by the sheriff of the town and by a man named Charlie. When Sol sees the body of the executed person, he starts to get worried and starts asking people in the town questions about the Armagon. That night, Sol stays with the Dawes family again, and when he goes to sleep he meets with the townspeople in the Armagon, where it seems that he will be executed. "
"Who is Willie Dawes, and what are his characteristics? </s>      Henry Slesar, young New York advertising executive and by now nolonger a new-comer to either this magazine or to this field, describesa strange little town that you, yourself, may blunder into one of theseevenings. But, if you do, beware—beware of the Knights!         dream       town         by ... HENRY SLESAR         The woman in the doorway looked so harmless. Whowas to tell she had some rather startling interests?       The  woman in thedoorway looked like Mom inthe homier political cartoons.She was plump, apple-cheeked,white-haired. Shewore a fussy, old-fashionednightgown, and was busilyclutching a worn house-robearound her expansive middle.She blinked at Sol Becker'srain-flattened hair and hang-dogexpression, and said:What is it? What do youwant?     I'm sorry— Sol's voicewas pained. The man in thediner said you might put meup. I had my car stolen: ahitchhiker; going to Salinas ...He was puffing.     Hitchhiker? I don't understand.She clucked at thesight of the pool of water hewas creating in her foyer.Well, come inside, for heaven'ssake. You're soaking!     Thanks, Sol said gratefully.     With the door firmly shutbehind him, the warm interiorof the little house coveredhim like a blanket. Heshivered, and let the warmthseep over him. I'm terriblysorry. I know how late it is.He looked at his watch, butthe face was too misty tomake out the hour.     Must be nearly three, thewoman sniffed. You couldn'thave come at a worse time. Iwas just on my way tocourt—     The words slid by him. IfI could just stay overnight.Until the morning. I couldcall some friends in San Fernando.I'm very susceptible tohead colds, he added inanely.     Well, take those shoes off,first, the woman grumbled.You can undress in the parlor,if you'll keep off the rug.You won't mind using thesofa?     No, of course not. I'd behappy to pay—     Oh, tush, nobody's askingyou to pay. This isn't a hotel.You mind if I go back upstairs?They're gonna missme at the palace.     No, of course not, Solsaid. He followed her intothe darkened parlor, andwatched as she turned thescrew on a hurricane-stylelamp, shedding a yellow poolof light over half a flowerysofa and a doily-covered wingchair. You go on up. I'll beperfectly fine.     Guess you can use a towel,though. I'll get you one,then I'm going up. We wakepretty early in this house.Breakfast's at seven; you'llhave to be up if you wantany.     I really can't thank youenough—     Tush, the woman said.She scurried out, and returneda moment later with athick bath towel. Sorry Ican't give you any bedding.But you'll find it nice andwarm in here. She squintedat the dim face of a ship's-wheelclock on the mantle,and made a noise with hertongue. Three-thirty! sheexclaimed. I'll miss thewhole execution ...     The what?     Goodnight, young man,Mom said firmly.     She padded off, leaving Solholding the towel. He pattedhis face, and then scrubbedthe wet tangle of brown hair.Carefully, he stepped off thecarpet and onto the stonefloor in front of the fireplace.He removed hisdrenched coat and suit jacket,and squeezed water outover the ashes.     He stripped down to hisunderwear, wondering aboutnext morning's possible embarrassment,and decided touse the damp bath towel as ablanket. The sofa was downyand comfortable. He curledup under the towel, shiveredonce, and closed his eyes.   He  was tired and verysleepy, and his customarynightly review was limited toa few detached thoughtsabout the wedding he wassupposed to attend in Salinasthat weekend ... the hoodlumwho had responded to hisgood-nature by dumping himout of his own car ... the sloggingwalk to the village ...the little round woman whowas hurrying off, like theWhite Rabbit, to some mysteriousappointment on theupper floor ...     Then he went to sleep.     A voice awoke him, shrilland questioning.     Are you      nakkid     ?     His eyes flew open, and hepulled the towel protectivelyaround his body and glaredat the little girl with the rust-redpigtails.     Huh, mister? she said,pushing a finger against herfreckled nose. Are you?     No, he said angrily. I'mnot naked. Will you pleasego away?     Sally! It was Mom, appearingin the doorway of theparlor. You leave the gentlemanalone. She went offagain.     Yes, Sol said. Please letme get dressed. If you don'tmind. The girl didn't move.What time is it?     Dunno, Sally shrugged.I like poached eggs. They'remy favorite eggs in the wholeworld.     That's good, Sol said desperately.Now why don't yoube a good girl and eat yourpoached eggs. In the kitchen.     Ain't ready yet. You goingto stay for breakfast?     I'm not going to do anythinguntil you get out ofhere.     She put the end of a pigtailin her mouth and sat down onthe chair opposite. I went tothe palace last night. Theyhad an exelution.     Please, Sol groaned. Bea good girl, Sally. If you letme get dressed, I'll show youhow to take your thumb off.     Oh, that's an old trick. Didyou ever see an exelution?     No. Did you ever see a littlegirl with her hidetanned?     Huh?           Sally!      Mom again, sterner.You get out of there, oryou-know-what ...     Okay, the girl saidblithely. I'm goin' to the palaceagain. If I brush myteeth. Aren't you      ever     gonnaget up? She skipped out ofthe room, and Sol hastily satup and reached for histrousers.     When he had dressed, theclothes still damp and unpleasantagainst his skin, hewent out of the parlor andfound the kitchen. Mom wasbusy at the stove. He said:Good morning.     Breakfast in ten minutes,she said cheerfully. You likepoached eggs?     Sure. Do you have a telephone?     In the hallway. Party line,so you may have to wait.     He tried for fifteen minutesto get through, but therewas a woman on the line whowas terribly upset about acotton dress she had orderedfrom Sears, and was tellingthe world about it.     Finally, he got his callthrough to Salinas, and asleepy-voiced Fred, his oldArmy buddy, listened somewhatindifferently to his taleof woe. I might miss thewedding, Sol said unhappily.I'm awfully sorry. Freddidn't seem to be half as sorryas he was. When Sol hungup, he was feeling more despondentthan ever.     A man, tall and rangy, witha bobbing Adam's apple anda lined face, came into thehallway. Hullo? he said inquiringly.You the fella hadthe car stolen?     Yes.     The man scratched his ear.Take you over to SheriffCoogan after breakfast. He'lllet the Stateys know about it.My name's Dawes.     Sol accepted a carefulhandshake.     Don't get many peoplecomin' into town, Dawessaid, looking at him curiously.Ain't seen a stranger inyears. But you look like therest of us. He chuckled.     Mom called out: Breakfast!   At  the table, Dawesasked his destination.     Wedding in Salinas, heexplained. Old Army friendof mine. I picked this hitchhikerup about two miles fromhere. He      seemed     okay.     Never can tell, Dawessaid placidly, munching egg.Hey, Ma. That why youwere so late comin' to courtlast night?     That's right, Pa. Shepoured the blackest coffeeSol had ever seen. Didn'tmiss much, though.     What court is that? Solasked politely, his mouth full.     Umagum, Sally said, apiece of toast sticking outfrom the side of her mouth.Don't you know      nothin'     ?           Arma     gon, Dawes corrected.He looked sheepishly atthe stranger. Don't expectMister— He cocked an eyebrow.What's the name?     Becker.     Don't expect Mr. Beckerknows anything about Armagon.It's just a dream, youknow. He smiled apologetically.     Dream? You mean this—Armagonis a place you dreamabout?     Yep, Dawes said. He liftedcup to lip. Great coffee,Ma. He leaned back with acontented sigh. Dream aboutit every night. Got so used tothe place, I get all confusedin the daytime.     Mom said: I get muddle-headedtoo, sometimes.     You mean— Sol put hisnapkin in his lap. You mean      you     dream about the sameplace?     Sure, Sally piped. Weall go there at night. I'm goin'to the palace again, too.     If you brush your teeth,Mom said primly.     If I brush my teeth. Boy,you shoulda seen the exelution!     Execution, her fathersaid.     Oh, my goodness! Momgot up hastily. That remindsme. I gotta call poor Mrs.Brundage. It's the      least     Icould do.     Good idea, Dawes nodded.And I'll have to roundup some folks and get oldBrundage out of there.     Sol was staring. He openedhis mouth, but couldn't thinkof the right question to ask.Then he blurted out: Whatexecution?     None of      your     business,the man said coldly. You eatup, young man. If you wantme to get Sheriff Cooganlookin' for your car.     The rest of the meal wentsilently, except for Sally's insistenceupon singing herschool song between mouthfuls.When Dawes wasthrough, he pushed back hisplate and ordered Sol to getready.     Sol grabbed his topcoat andfollowed the man out thedoor.     Have to stop someplacefirst, Dawes said. But we'llbe pickin' up the Sheriff onthe way. Okay with you?     Fine, Sol said uneasily.     The rain had stopped, butthe heavy clouds seemed reluctantto leave the skies overthe small town. There was askittish breeze blowing, andSol Becker tightened the collarof his coat around hisneck as he tried to keep upwith the fast-stepping Dawes.   They  crossed thestreet diagonally, and entereda two-story wooden building.Dawes took the stairs at abrisk pace, and pushed openthe door on the second floor.A fat man looked up frombehind a desk.     Hi, Charlie. Thought I'dsee if you wanted to helpmove Brundage.     The man batted his eyes.Oh, Brundage! he said.You know, I clean forgotabout him? He laughed.Imagine me forgettingthat?     Yeah. Dawes wasn'tamused. And you Prince Regent.     Aw, Willie—     Well, come on. Stir thatfat carcass. Gotta pick upSheriff Coogan, too. Thishere gentleman has to see himabout somethin' else.     The man regarded Sol suspiciously.Never seen youbefore. Night      or     day. Stranger?     Come      on     ! Dawes said.     The fat man grunted andhoisted himself out of theswivel chair. He followedlamely behind the two menas they went out into thestreet again.     A woman, with an emptymarket basket, nodded casuallyto them. Mornin', folks.Enjoyed it last night.Thought you made a rightnice speech, Mr. Dawes.     Thanks, Dawes answeredgruffly, but obviously flattered.We were just goin'over to Brundage's to pick upthe body. Ma's gonna pay acall on Mrs. Brundage aroundten o'clock. You care to visit?     Why, I think that's verynice, the woman said. I'llbe sure and do that. Shesmiled at the fat man. Mornin',Prince.     Sol's head was spinning. Asthey left the woman and continuedtheir determinedmarch down the quiet street,he tried to find answers.     Look, Mr. Dawes. He waspanting; the pace was fast.Does      she     dream about this—Armagon,too? That womanback there?     Yep.     Charlie chuckled. He's astranger, all right.     And you, Mr.— Solturned to the fat man. Youalso know about this palaceand everything?     I told you, Dawes saidtestily. Charlie here's PrinceRegent. But don't let the fancytitle fool you. He got nomore power than any Knightof the Realm. He's just toodern fat to do much more'nsit on a throne and eat grapes.That right, Charlie?     The fat man giggled.     Here's the Sheriff, Dawessaid.     The Sheriff, a sleepy-eyedcitizen with a long, sad face,was rocking on a porch asthey approached his house,trying to puff a half-lit pipe.He lifted one hand wearilywhen he saw them.     Hi, Cookie, Dawesgrinned. Thought you, me,and Charlie would get Brundage'sbody outa the house.This here's Mr. Becker; hegot another problem. Mr.Becker, meet Cookie Coogan.     The Sheriff joined the procession,pausing only once toinquire into Sol's predicament.     He described the hitchhikerincident, but Cooganlistened stoically. He murmuredsomething about theTroopers, and shuffled alongsidethe puffing fat man.     Sol soon realized that theirdestination was a barber shop.     Dawes cupped his handsover the plate glass andpeered inside. Gold letters onthe glass advertised: HAIRCUTSHAVE & MASSAGEPARLOR. He reported: Nobodyin the shop. Must beupstairs.   The  fat man rang thebell. It was a while before ananswer came.     It was a reedy woman in ahousecoat, her hair in curlers,her eyes red and swollen.     Now, now, Dawes saidgently. Don't you take onlike that, Mrs. Brundage. Youheard the charges. It haddabe this way.     My poor Vincent, shesobbed.     Better let us up, theSheriff said kindly. No usejust lettin' him lay there,Mrs. Brundage.     He didn't mean no harm,the woman snuffled. He wasjust purely ornery, Vincentwas. Just plain mean stubborn.     The law's the law, thefat man sighed.     Sol couldn't hold himselfin.     What law? Who's dead?How did it happen?     Dawes looked at him disgustedly.Now is it any of      your     business? I mean, is it?     I don't know, Sol saidmiserably.     You better stay out ofthis, the Sheriff warned.This is a local matter, youngman. You better stay in theshop while we go up.     They filed past him and thecrying Mrs. Brundage.     When they were out ofsight, Sol pleaded with her.     What happened? How didyour husband die?     Please ...     You must tell me! Was itsomething to do with Armagon?Do you dream about theplace, too?     She was shocked at thequestion. Of course!     And your husband? Didhe have the same dream?     Fresh tears resulted. Can'tyou leave me alone? Sheturned her back. I got thingsto do. You can make yourselfcomfortable— She indicatedthe barber chairs, and leftthrough the back door.     Sol looked after her, andthen ambled over to the firstchair and slipped into thehigh seat. His reflection inthe mirror, strangely gray inthe dim light, made himgroan. His clothes were amess, and he needed a shave.If only Brundage had beenalive ...     He leaped out of the chairas voices sounded behind thedoor. Dawes was kicking itopen with his foot, his armsladen with two rather largefeet, still encased in bedroomslippers. Charlie was at theother end of the burden,which appeared to be a middle-agedman in pajamas. TheSheriff followed the trio upwith a sad, undertaker expression.Behind him came Mrs.Brundage, properly weeping.     We'll take him to the funeralparlor, Dawes said,breathing hard. Weighs aton, don't he?     What killed him? Solsaid.     Heart attack.     The fat man chuckled.     The tableau was grisly. Sollooked away, towards thecomfortingly mundane atmosphereof the barber shop. Buteven the sight of the thick-paddedchairs, the shavingmugs on the wall, the neatrows of cutting instruments,seemed grotesque and morbid.     Listen, Sol said, as theywent through the doorway.About my car—     The Sheriff turned and regardedhim lugubriously.Your      car     ? Young man, ain'tyou got no      respect     ?     Sol swallowed hard and fellsilent. He went outside withthem, the woman slammingthe barber-shop door behindhim. He waited in front ofthe building while the mentoted away the corpse to somenew destination.   He  took a walk.     The town was just comingto life. People were strollingout of their houses, commentingon the weather, chucklingamiably about local affairs.Kids on bicycles were beginningto appear, jangling thelittle bells and hooting toeach other. A woman, hangingwash in the back yard,called out to him, thinkinghe was somebody else.     He found a little park, nomore than twenty yards incircumference, centeredaround a weatherbeaten monumentof some unrecognizablemilitary figure. Threeold men took their places onthe bench that circled theGeneral, and leaned on theircanes.     Sol was a civil engineer.But he made like a reporter.     Pardon me, sir. The oldman, leathery-faced, with afine yellow moustache, lookedat him dumbly. Have youever heard of Armagon?     You a stranger?     Yes.     Thought so.     Sol repeated the question.     Course I did. Been goin'there ever since I was a kid.Night-times, that is.     How—I mean, what kindof place is it?     Said you're a stranger?     Yes.     Then 'tain't your business.     That was that.     He left the park, and wanderedinto a thriving luncheonette.He tried questioningthe man behind the counter,who merely snickered andsaid: You stayin' with theDawes, ain't you? Better askWillie, then. He knows theplace better than anybody.     He asked about the execution,and the man stiffened.     Don't think I can talkabout that. Fella broke one ofthe Laws; that's about it.Don't see where you comeinto it.     At eleven o'clock, he returnedto the Dawes residence,and found Mom in thekitchen, surrounded by thewarm nostalgic odor of home-bakedbread. She told himthat her husband had left amessage for the stranger, informinghim that the StatePolice would be around to gethis story.     He waited in the house,gloomily turning the pages ofthe local newspaper, searchingfor references to Armagon.He found nothing.     At eleven-thirty, a brown-facedState Trooper came tocall, and Sol told his story.He was promised nothing,and told to stay in town untilhe was contacted again bythe authorities.     Mom fixed him a lightlunch, the greatest feature ofwhich was some hot biscuitsshe plucked out of the oven.It made him feel almost normal.     He wandered around thetown some more after lunch,trying to spark conversationwith the residents.     He learned little.   At  five-thirty, he returnedto the Dawes house, and waspromptly leaped upon bylittle Sally.     Hi! Hi! Hi! she said,clutching his right leg andalmost toppling him over.We had a party in school. Ihad chocolate cake. You goin'to stay with us?     Just another night, Soltold her, trying to shake thegirl off. If it's okay withyour folks. They haven'tfound my car yet.     Sally! Mom was peeringout of the screen door. Youlet Mr. Becker alone and gowash. Your Pa will be homesoon.     Oh, pooh, the girl said,her pigtails swinging. Doyou got a girlfriend, mister?     No. Sol struggled towardsthe house with herdead weight on his leg.Would you mind? I can'twalk.     Would you be my boyfriend?     Well, we'll talk about it.If you let go my leg.     Inside the house, she said:We're having pot roast. Youstayin'?     Of course Mr. Becker'sstayin', Mom said. He's ourguest.     That's very kind of you,Sol said. I really wish you'dlet me pay something—     Don't want to hear anotherword about pay.   Mr. Dawes  came home anhour later, looking tired.Mom pecked him lightly onthe forehead. He glanced atthe evening paper, and thenspoke to Sol.     Hear you been askingquestions, Mr. Becker.     Sol nodded, embarrassed.Guess I have. I'm awfullycurious about this Armagonplace. Never heard of anythinglike it before.     Dawes grunted. You ain'ta reporter?     Oh, no. I'm an engineer. Iwas just satisfying my owncuriosity.     Uh-huh. Dawes lookedreflective. You wouldn't bethinkin' about writing us upor anything. I mean, this is apretty private affair.     Writing it up? Solblinked. I hadn't thought ofit. But you'll have to admit—it'ssure interesting.     Yeah, Dawes said narrowly.I guess it would be.     Supper! Mom called.     After the meal, they spenta quiet evening at home. Sallywent to bed, screaming herreluctance, at eight-thirty.Mom, dozing in the big chairnear the fireplace, padded upstairsat nine. Then Dawesyawned widely, stood up, andsaid goodnight at quarter-of-ten.     He paused in the doorwaybefore leaving.     I'd think about that, hesaid. Writing it up, I mean.A lot of folks would thinkyou were just plum crazy.     Sol laughed feebly. Iguess they would at that.     Goodnight, Dawes said.     Goodnight.     He read Sally's copy of      Treasure Island     for abouthalf an hour. Then he undressed,made himself comfortableon the sofa, snuggledunder the soft blanketthat Mom had provided, andshut his eyes.     He reviewed the events ofthe day before dropping offto sleep. The troublesomeSally. The strange dreamworld of Armagon. The visitto the barber shop. The removalof Brundage's body.The conversations with thetownspeople. Dawes' suspiciousattitude ...     Then sleep came.   He  was flanked by marblepillars, thrusting towardsa high-domed ceiling.     The room stretched longand wide before him, thewalls bedecked in stunningpurple draperies.     He whirled at the sound offootsteps, echoing stridentlyon the stone floor. Someonewas running towards him.     It was Sally, pigtailsstreaming out behind her, thesmall body wearing a flowingwhite toga. She was shrieking,laughing as she skitteredpast him, clutching a gleaminggold helmet.     He called out to her, butshe was too busy outdistancingher pursuer. It was SheriffCoogan, puffing and huffing,the metal-and-gold clothuniform ludicrous on hislanky frame.     Consarn kid! he wheezed.Gimme my hat!     Mom was following him,her stout body regal in scarletrobes. Sally! You giveSir Coogan his helmet! Youhear?     Mrs. Dawes! Sol said.     Why, Mr. Becker! Hownice to see you again! Pa!      Pa!     Look who's here!     Willie Dawes appeared.      No!     Sol thought. This was      King     Dawes; nothing elsecould explain the magnificenceof his attire.     Yes, Dawes said craftily.So I see. Welcome to Armagon,Mr. Becker.     Armagon? Sol gaped.Then this is the placeyou've been dreaming about?     Yep, the King said. Andnow      you're     in it, too.     Then I'm only dreaming!     Charlie, the fat man,clumsy as ever in his robes ofState, said: So      that's     thesnooper, eh?     Yep, Dawes chuckled.Think you better round upthe Knights.     Sol said: The Knights?     Exelution! Exelution!Sally shrieked.     Now wait a minute—     Charlie shouted.     Running feet, clanking ofarmor. Sol backed up againsta pillar. Now look here.You've gone far enough—     Not quite, said the King.     The Knights stepped forward.     Wait! Sol screamed.     Familiar faces, under shininghelmets, moved towardshim; the tips of sharp-pointedspears gleaming wickedly.And Sol Becker wondered—wouldhe ever awake?     Transcriber's Note:   This etext was produced from    Fantastic Universe   January 1957.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note.","Willie is the head of the family that hosts and helps Sol after his car was stolen. He seems to have a lot of influence in the town, as he helps the sheriff in his day to day tasks and everyone in the town knows him. He is described as a tall and skinny man. He is also married to Mom, which is the woman that first received Sol after his car was stolen. Together she and Willie have a child called Sally. At the end, it is revealed that Willie is actually the king of the Armagon, which is why he has so much influence in the town. "
"Who is Mrs. Brundage, and what happens to her? </s>      Henry Slesar, young New York advertising executive and by now nolonger a new-comer to either this magazine or to this field, describesa strange little town that you, yourself, may blunder into one of theseevenings. But, if you do, beware—beware of the Knights!         dream       town         by ... HENRY SLESAR         The woman in the doorway looked so harmless. Whowas to tell she had some rather startling interests?       The  woman in thedoorway looked like Mom inthe homier political cartoons.She was plump, apple-cheeked,white-haired. Shewore a fussy, old-fashionednightgown, and was busilyclutching a worn house-robearound her expansive middle.She blinked at Sol Becker'srain-flattened hair and hang-dogexpression, and said:What is it? What do youwant?     I'm sorry— Sol's voicewas pained. The man in thediner said you might put meup. I had my car stolen: ahitchhiker; going to Salinas ...He was puffing.     Hitchhiker? I don't understand.She clucked at thesight of the pool of water hewas creating in her foyer.Well, come inside, for heaven'ssake. You're soaking!     Thanks, Sol said gratefully.     With the door firmly shutbehind him, the warm interiorof the little house coveredhim like a blanket. Heshivered, and let the warmthseep over him. I'm terriblysorry. I know how late it is.He looked at his watch, butthe face was too misty tomake out the hour.     Must be nearly three, thewoman sniffed. You couldn'thave come at a worse time. Iwas just on my way tocourt—     The words slid by him. IfI could just stay overnight.Until the morning. I couldcall some friends in San Fernando.I'm very susceptible tohead colds, he added inanely.     Well, take those shoes off,first, the woman grumbled.You can undress in the parlor,if you'll keep off the rug.You won't mind using thesofa?     No, of course not. I'd behappy to pay—     Oh, tush, nobody's askingyou to pay. This isn't a hotel.You mind if I go back upstairs?They're gonna missme at the palace.     No, of course not, Solsaid. He followed her intothe darkened parlor, andwatched as she turned thescrew on a hurricane-stylelamp, shedding a yellow poolof light over half a flowerysofa and a doily-covered wingchair. You go on up. I'll beperfectly fine.     Guess you can use a towel,though. I'll get you one,then I'm going up. We wakepretty early in this house.Breakfast's at seven; you'llhave to be up if you wantany.     I really can't thank youenough—     Tush, the woman said.She scurried out, and returneda moment later with athick bath towel. Sorry Ican't give you any bedding.But you'll find it nice andwarm in here. She squintedat the dim face of a ship's-wheelclock on the mantle,and made a noise with hertongue. Three-thirty! sheexclaimed. I'll miss thewhole execution ...     The what?     Goodnight, young man,Mom said firmly.     She padded off, leaving Solholding the towel. He pattedhis face, and then scrubbedthe wet tangle of brown hair.Carefully, he stepped off thecarpet and onto the stonefloor in front of the fireplace.He removed hisdrenched coat and suit jacket,and squeezed water outover the ashes.     He stripped down to hisunderwear, wondering aboutnext morning's possible embarrassment,and decided touse the damp bath towel as ablanket. The sofa was downyand comfortable. He curledup under the towel, shiveredonce, and closed his eyes.   He  was tired and verysleepy, and his customarynightly review was limited toa few detached thoughtsabout the wedding he wassupposed to attend in Salinasthat weekend ... the hoodlumwho had responded to hisgood-nature by dumping himout of his own car ... the sloggingwalk to the village ...the little round woman whowas hurrying off, like theWhite Rabbit, to some mysteriousappointment on theupper floor ...     Then he went to sleep.     A voice awoke him, shrilland questioning.     Are you      nakkid     ?     His eyes flew open, and hepulled the towel protectivelyaround his body and glaredat the little girl with the rust-redpigtails.     Huh, mister? she said,pushing a finger against herfreckled nose. Are you?     No, he said angrily. I'mnot naked. Will you pleasego away?     Sally! It was Mom, appearingin the doorway of theparlor. You leave the gentlemanalone. She went offagain.     Yes, Sol said. Please letme get dressed. If you don'tmind. The girl didn't move.What time is it?     Dunno, Sally shrugged.I like poached eggs. They'remy favorite eggs in the wholeworld.     That's good, Sol said desperately.Now why don't yoube a good girl and eat yourpoached eggs. In the kitchen.     Ain't ready yet. You goingto stay for breakfast?     I'm not going to do anythinguntil you get out ofhere.     She put the end of a pigtailin her mouth and sat down onthe chair opposite. I went tothe palace last night. Theyhad an exelution.     Please, Sol groaned. Bea good girl, Sally. If you letme get dressed, I'll show youhow to take your thumb off.     Oh, that's an old trick. Didyou ever see an exelution?     No. Did you ever see a littlegirl with her hidetanned?     Huh?           Sally!      Mom again, sterner.You get out of there, oryou-know-what ...     Okay, the girl saidblithely. I'm goin' to the palaceagain. If I brush myteeth. Aren't you      ever     gonnaget up? She skipped out ofthe room, and Sol hastily satup and reached for histrousers.     When he had dressed, theclothes still damp and unpleasantagainst his skin, hewent out of the parlor andfound the kitchen. Mom wasbusy at the stove. He said:Good morning.     Breakfast in ten minutes,she said cheerfully. You likepoached eggs?     Sure. Do you have a telephone?     In the hallway. Party line,so you may have to wait.     He tried for fifteen minutesto get through, but therewas a woman on the line whowas terribly upset about acotton dress she had orderedfrom Sears, and was tellingthe world about it.     Finally, he got his callthrough to Salinas, and asleepy-voiced Fred, his oldArmy buddy, listened somewhatindifferently to his taleof woe. I might miss thewedding, Sol said unhappily.I'm awfully sorry. Freddidn't seem to be half as sorryas he was. When Sol hungup, he was feeling more despondentthan ever.     A man, tall and rangy, witha bobbing Adam's apple anda lined face, came into thehallway. Hullo? he said inquiringly.You the fella hadthe car stolen?     Yes.     The man scratched his ear.Take you over to SheriffCoogan after breakfast. He'lllet the Stateys know about it.My name's Dawes.     Sol accepted a carefulhandshake.     Don't get many peoplecomin' into town, Dawessaid, looking at him curiously.Ain't seen a stranger inyears. But you look like therest of us. He chuckled.     Mom called out: Breakfast!   At  the table, Dawesasked his destination.     Wedding in Salinas, heexplained. Old Army friendof mine. I picked this hitchhikerup about two miles fromhere. He      seemed     okay.     Never can tell, Dawessaid placidly, munching egg.Hey, Ma. That why youwere so late comin' to courtlast night?     That's right, Pa. Shepoured the blackest coffeeSol had ever seen. Didn'tmiss much, though.     What court is that? Solasked politely, his mouth full.     Umagum, Sally said, apiece of toast sticking outfrom the side of her mouth.Don't you know      nothin'     ?           Arma     gon, Dawes corrected.He looked sheepishly atthe stranger. Don't expectMister— He cocked an eyebrow.What's the name?     Becker.     Don't expect Mr. Beckerknows anything about Armagon.It's just a dream, youknow. He smiled apologetically.     Dream? You mean this—Armagonis a place you dreamabout?     Yep, Dawes said. He liftedcup to lip. Great coffee,Ma. He leaned back with acontented sigh. Dream aboutit every night. Got so used tothe place, I get all confusedin the daytime.     Mom said: I get muddle-headedtoo, sometimes.     You mean— Sol put hisnapkin in his lap. You mean      you     dream about the sameplace?     Sure, Sally piped. Weall go there at night. I'm goin'to the palace again, too.     If you brush your teeth,Mom said primly.     If I brush my teeth. Boy,you shoulda seen the exelution!     Execution, her fathersaid.     Oh, my goodness! Momgot up hastily. That remindsme. I gotta call poor Mrs.Brundage. It's the      least     Icould do.     Good idea, Dawes nodded.And I'll have to roundup some folks and get oldBrundage out of there.     Sol was staring. He openedhis mouth, but couldn't thinkof the right question to ask.Then he blurted out: Whatexecution?     None of      your     business,the man said coldly. You eatup, young man. If you wantme to get Sheriff Cooganlookin' for your car.     The rest of the meal wentsilently, except for Sally's insistenceupon singing herschool song between mouthfuls.When Dawes wasthrough, he pushed back hisplate and ordered Sol to getready.     Sol grabbed his topcoat andfollowed the man out thedoor.     Have to stop someplacefirst, Dawes said. But we'llbe pickin' up the Sheriff onthe way. Okay with you?     Fine, Sol said uneasily.     The rain had stopped, butthe heavy clouds seemed reluctantto leave the skies overthe small town. There was askittish breeze blowing, andSol Becker tightened the collarof his coat around hisneck as he tried to keep upwith the fast-stepping Dawes.   They  crossed thestreet diagonally, and entereda two-story wooden building.Dawes took the stairs at abrisk pace, and pushed openthe door on the second floor.A fat man looked up frombehind a desk.     Hi, Charlie. Thought I'dsee if you wanted to helpmove Brundage.     The man batted his eyes.Oh, Brundage! he said.You know, I clean forgotabout him? He laughed.Imagine me forgettingthat?     Yeah. Dawes wasn'tamused. And you Prince Regent.     Aw, Willie—     Well, come on. Stir thatfat carcass. Gotta pick upSheriff Coogan, too. Thishere gentleman has to see himabout somethin' else.     The man regarded Sol suspiciously.Never seen youbefore. Night      or     day. Stranger?     Come      on     ! Dawes said.     The fat man grunted andhoisted himself out of theswivel chair. He followedlamely behind the two menas they went out into thestreet again.     A woman, with an emptymarket basket, nodded casuallyto them. Mornin', folks.Enjoyed it last night.Thought you made a rightnice speech, Mr. Dawes.     Thanks, Dawes answeredgruffly, but obviously flattered.We were just goin'over to Brundage's to pick upthe body. Ma's gonna pay acall on Mrs. Brundage aroundten o'clock. You care to visit?     Why, I think that's verynice, the woman said. I'llbe sure and do that. Shesmiled at the fat man. Mornin',Prince.     Sol's head was spinning. Asthey left the woman and continuedtheir determinedmarch down the quiet street,he tried to find answers.     Look, Mr. Dawes. He waspanting; the pace was fast.Does      she     dream about this—Armagon,too? That womanback there?     Yep.     Charlie chuckled. He's astranger, all right.     And you, Mr.— Solturned to the fat man. Youalso know about this palaceand everything?     I told you, Dawes saidtestily. Charlie here's PrinceRegent. But don't let the fancytitle fool you. He got nomore power than any Knightof the Realm. He's just toodern fat to do much more'nsit on a throne and eat grapes.That right, Charlie?     The fat man giggled.     Here's the Sheriff, Dawessaid.     The Sheriff, a sleepy-eyedcitizen with a long, sad face,was rocking on a porch asthey approached his house,trying to puff a half-lit pipe.He lifted one hand wearilywhen he saw them.     Hi, Cookie, Dawesgrinned. Thought you, me,and Charlie would get Brundage'sbody outa the house.This here's Mr. Becker; hegot another problem. Mr.Becker, meet Cookie Coogan.     The Sheriff joined the procession,pausing only once toinquire into Sol's predicament.     He described the hitchhikerincident, but Cooganlistened stoically. He murmuredsomething about theTroopers, and shuffled alongsidethe puffing fat man.     Sol soon realized that theirdestination was a barber shop.     Dawes cupped his handsover the plate glass andpeered inside. Gold letters onthe glass advertised: HAIRCUTSHAVE & MASSAGEPARLOR. He reported: Nobodyin the shop. Must beupstairs.   The  fat man rang thebell. It was a while before ananswer came.     It was a reedy woman in ahousecoat, her hair in curlers,her eyes red and swollen.     Now, now, Dawes saidgently. Don't you take onlike that, Mrs. Brundage. Youheard the charges. It haddabe this way.     My poor Vincent, shesobbed.     Better let us up, theSheriff said kindly. No usejust lettin' him lay there,Mrs. Brundage.     He didn't mean no harm,the woman snuffled. He wasjust purely ornery, Vincentwas. Just plain mean stubborn.     The law's the law, thefat man sighed.     Sol couldn't hold himselfin.     What law? Who's dead?How did it happen?     Dawes looked at him disgustedly.Now is it any of      your     business? I mean, is it?     I don't know, Sol saidmiserably.     You better stay out ofthis, the Sheriff warned.This is a local matter, youngman. You better stay in theshop while we go up.     They filed past him and thecrying Mrs. Brundage.     When they were out ofsight, Sol pleaded with her.     What happened? How didyour husband die?     Please ...     You must tell me! Was itsomething to do with Armagon?Do you dream about theplace, too?     She was shocked at thequestion. Of course!     And your husband? Didhe have the same dream?     Fresh tears resulted. Can'tyou leave me alone? Sheturned her back. I got thingsto do. You can make yourselfcomfortable— She indicatedthe barber chairs, and leftthrough the back door.     Sol looked after her, andthen ambled over to the firstchair and slipped into thehigh seat. His reflection inthe mirror, strangely gray inthe dim light, made himgroan. His clothes were amess, and he needed a shave.If only Brundage had beenalive ...     He leaped out of the chairas voices sounded behind thedoor. Dawes was kicking itopen with his foot, his armsladen with two rather largefeet, still encased in bedroomslippers. Charlie was at theother end of the burden,which appeared to be a middle-agedman in pajamas. TheSheriff followed the trio upwith a sad, undertaker expression.Behind him came Mrs.Brundage, properly weeping.     We'll take him to the funeralparlor, Dawes said,breathing hard. Weighs aton, don't he?     What killed him? Solsaid.     Heart attack.     The fat man chuckled.     The tableau was grisly. Sollooked away, towards thecomfortingly mundane atmosphereof the barber shop. Buteven the sight of the thick-paddedchairs, the shavingmugs on the wall, the neatrows of cutting instruments,seemed grotesque and morbid.     Listen, Sol said, as theywent through the doorway.About my car—     The Sheriff turned and regardedhim lugubriously.Your      car     ? Young man, ain'tyou got no      respect     ?     Sol swallowed hard and fellsilent. He went outside withthem, the woman slammingthe barber-shop door behindhim. He waited in front ofthe building while the mentoted away the corpse to somenew destination.   He  took a walk.     The town was just comingto life. People were strollingout of their houses, commentingon the weather, chucklingamiably about local affairs.Kids on bicycles were beginningto appear, jangling thelittle bells and hooting toeach other. A woman, hangingwash in the back yard,called out to him, thinkinghe was somebody else.     He found a little park, nomore than twenty yards incircumference, centeredaround a weatherbeaten monumentof some unrecognizablemilitary figure. Threeold men took their places onthe bench that circled theGeneral, and leaned on theircanes.     Sol was a civil engineer.But he made like a reporter.     Pardon me, sir. The oldman, leathery-faced, with afine yellow moustache, lookedat him dumbly. Have youever heard of Armagon?     You a stranger?     Yes.     Thought so.     Sol repeated the question.     Course I did. Been goin'there ever since I was a kid.Night-times, that is.     How—I mean, what kindof place is it?     Said you're a stranger?     Yes.     Then 'tain't your business.     That was that.     He left the park, and wanderedinto a thriving luncheonette.He tried questioningthe man behind the counter,who merely snickered andsaid: You stayin' with theDawes, ain't you? Better askWillie, then. He knows theplace better than anybody.     He asked about the execution,and the man stiffened.     Don't think I can talkabout that. Fella broke one ofthe Laws; that's about it.Don't see where you comeinto it.     At eleven o'clock, he returnedto the Dawes residence,and found Mom in thekitchen, surrounded by thewarm nostalgic odor of home-bakedbread. She told himthat her husband had left amessage for the stranger, informinghim that the StatePolice would be around to gethis story.     He waited in the house,gloomily turning the pages ofthe local newspaper, searchingfor references to Armagon.He found nothing.     At eleven-thirty, a brown-facedState Trooper came tocall, and Sol told his story.He was promised nothing,and told to stay in town untilhe was contacted again bythe authorities.     Mom fixed him a lightlunch, the greatest feature ofwhich was some hot biscuitsshe plucked out of the oven.It made him feel almost normal.     He wandered around thetown some more after lunch,trying to spark conversationwith the residents.     He learned little.   At  five-thirty, he returnedto the Dawes house, and waspromptly leaped upon bylittle Sally.     Hi! Hi! Hi! she said,clutching his right leg andalmost toppling him over.We had a party in school. Ihad chocolate cake. You goin'to stay with us?     Just another night, Soltold her, trying to shake thegirl off. If it's okay withyour folks. They haven'tfound my car yet.     Sally! Mom was peeringout of the screen door. Youlet Mr. Becker alone and gowash. Your Pa will be homesoon.     Oh, pooh, the girl said,her pigtails swinging. Doyou got a girlfriend, mister?     No. Sol struggled towardsthe house with herdead weight on his leg.Would you mind? I can'twalk.     Would you be my boyfriend?     Well, we'll talk about it.If you let go my leg.     Inside the house, she said:We're having pot roast. Youstayin'?     Of course Mr. Becker'sstayin', Mom said. He's ourguest.     That's very kind of you,Sol said. I really wish you'dlet me pay something—     Don't want to hear anotherword about pay.   Mr. Dawes  came home anhour later, looking tired.Mom pecked him lightly onthe forehead. He glanced atthe evening paper, and thenspoke to Sol.     Hear you been askingquestions, Mr. Becker.     Sol nodded, embarrassed.Guess I have. I'm awfullycurious about this Armagonplace. Never heard of anythinglike it before.     Dawes grunted. You ain'ta reporter?     Oh, no. I'm an engineer. Iwas just satisfying my owncuriosity.     Uh-huh. Dawes lookedreflective. You wouldn't bethinkin' about writing us upor anything. I mean, this is apretty private affair.     Writing it up? Solblinked. I hadn't thought ofit. But you'll have to admit—it'ssure interesting.     Yeah, Dawes said narrowly.I guess it would be.     Supper! Mom called.     After the meal, they spenta quiet evening at home. Sallywent to bed, screaming herreluctance, at eight-thirty.Mom, dozing in the big chairnear the fireplace, padded upstairsat nine. Then Dawesyawned widely, stood up, andsaid goodnight at quarter-of-ten.     He paused in the doorwaybefore leaving.     I'd think about that, hesaid. Writing it up, I mean.A lot of folks would thinkyou were just plum crazy.     Sol laughed feebly. Iguess they would at that.     Goodnight, Dawes said.     Goodnight.     He read Sally's copy of      Treasure Island     for abouthalf an hour. Then he undressed,made himself comfortableon the sofa, snuggledunder the soft blanketthat Mom had provided, andshut his eyes.     He reviewed the events ofthe day before dropping offto sleep. The troublesomeSally. The strange dreamworld of Armagon. The visitto the barber shop. The removalof Brundage's body.The conversations with thetownspeople. Dawes' suspiciousattitude ...     Then sleep came.   He  was flanked by marblepillars, thrusting towardsa high-domed ceiling.     The room stretched longand wide before him, thewalls bedecked in stunningpurple draperies.     He whirled at the sound offootsteps, echoing stridentlyon the stone floor. Someonewas running towards him.     It was Sally, pigtailsstreaming out behind her, thesmall body wearing a flowingwhite toga. She was shrieking,laughing as she skitteredpast him, clutching a gleaminggold helmet.     He called out to her, butshe was too busy outdistancingher pursuer. It was SheriffCoogan, puffing and huffing,the metal-and-gold clothuniform ludicrous on hislanky frame.     Consarn kid! he wheezed.Gimme my hat!     Mom was following him,her stout body regal in scarletrobes. Sally! You giveSir Coogan his helmet! Youhear?     Mrs. Dawes! Sol said.     Why, Mr. Becker! Hownice to see you again! Pa!      Pa!     Look who's here!     Willie Dawes appeared.      No!     Sol thought. This was      King     Dawes; nothing elsecould explain the magnificenceof his attire.     Yes, Dawes said craftily.So I see. Welcome to Armagon,Mr. Becker.     Armagon? Sol gaped.Then this is the placeyou've been dreaming about?     Yep, the King said. Andnow      you're     in it, too.     Then I'm only dreaming!     Charlie, the fat man,clumsy as ever in his robes ofState, said: So      that's     thesnooper, eh?     Yep, Dawes chuckled.Think you better round upthe Knights.     Sol said: The Knights?     Exelution! Exelution!Sally shrieked.     Now wait a minute—     Charlie shouted.     Running feet, clanking ofarmor. Sol backed up againsta pillar. Now look here.You've gone far enough—     Not quite, said the King.     The Knights stepped forward.     Wait! Sol screamed.     Familiar faces, under shininghelmets, moved towardshim; the tips of sharp-pointedspears gleaming wickedly.And Sol Becker wondered—wouldhe ever awake?     Transcriber's Note:   This etext was produced from    Fantastic Universe   January 1957.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note.","Mrs. Brundage is one of the townspeople that live in the town that Sol got robbed in. She and her Husband own a barber shop, in which her husband was the barber. It is revealed that the execution in the Armagon from the first night was in fact Mr. Brundage, and that he was executed for breaking the rules. When Sol and Mr. Dawes picks up the body, she seems very distraught and sad, but she seems to understand the repercussions of her husband’s actions. "
"Who is Mom, and what are her characteristics? </s>      Henry Slesar, young New York advertising executive and by now nolonger a new-comer to either this magazine or to this field, describesa strange little town that you, yourself, may blunder into one of theseevenings. But, if you do, beware—beware of the Knights!         dream       town         by ... HENRY SLESAR         The woman in the doorway looked so harmless. Whowas to tell she had some rather startling interests?       The  woman in thedoorway looked like Mom inthe homier political cartoons.She was plump, apple-cheeked,white-haired. Shewore a fussy, old-fashionednightgown, and was busilyclutching a worn house-robearound her expansive middle.She blinked at Sol Becker'srain-flattened hair and hang-dogexpression, and said:What is it? What do youwant?     I'm sorry— Sol's voicewas pained. The man in thediner said you might put meup. I had my car stolen: ahitchhiker; going to Salinas ...He was puffing.     Hitchhiker? I don't understand.She clucked at thesight of the pool of water hewas creating in her foyer.Well, come inside, for heaven'ssake. You're soaking!     Thanks, Sol said gratefully.     With the door firmly shutbehind him, the warm interiorof the little house coveredhim like a blanket. Heshivered, and let the warmthseep over him. I'm terriblysorry. I know how late it is.He looked at his watch, butthe face was too misty tomake out the hour.     Must be nearly three, thewoman sniffed. You couldn'thave come at a worse time. Iwas just on my way tocourt—     The words slid by him. IfI could just stay overnight.Until the morning. I couldcall some friends in San Fernando.I'm very susceptible tohead colds, he added inanely.     Well, take those shoes off,first, the woman grumbled.You can undress in the parlor,if you'll keep off the rug.You won't mind using thesofa?     No, of course not. I'd behappy to pay—     Oh, tush, nobody's askingyou to pay. This isn't a hotel.You mind if I go back upstairs?They're gonna missme at the palace.     No, of course not, Solsaid. He followed her intothe darkened parlor, andwatched as she turned thescrew on a hurricane-stylelamp, shedding a yellow poolof light over half a flowerysofa and a doily-covered wingchair. You go on up. I'll beperfectly fine.     Guess you can use a towel,though. I'll get you one,then I'm going up. We wakepretty early in this house.Breakfast's at seven; you'llhave to be up if you wantany.     I really can't thank youenough—     Tush, the woman said.She scurried out, and returneda moment later with athick bath towel. Sorry Ican't give you any bedding.But you'll find it nice andwarm in here. She squintedat the dim face of a ship's-wheelclock on the mantle,and made a noise with hertongue. Three-thirty! sheexclaimed. I'll miss thewhole execution ...     The what?     Goodnight, young man,Mom said firmly.     She padded off, leaving Solholding the towel. He pattedhis face, and then scrubbedthe wet tangle of brown hair.Carefully, he stepped off thecarpet and onto the stonefloor in front of the fireplace.He removed hisdrenched coat and suit jacket,and squeezed water outover the ashes.     He stripped down to hisunderwear, wondering aboutnext morning's possible embarrassment,and decided touse the damp bath towel as ablanket. The sofa was downyand comfortable. He curledup under the towel, shiveredonce, and closed his eyes.   He  was tired and verysleepy, and his customarynightly review was limited toa few detached thoughtsabout the wedding he wassupposed to attend in Salinasthat weekend ... the hoodlumwho had responded to hisgood-nature by dumping himout of his own car ... the sloggingwalk to the village ...the little round woman whowas hurrying off, like theWhite Rabbit, to some mysteriousappointment on theupper floor ...     Then he went to sleep.     A voice awoke him, shrilland questioning.     Are you      nakkid     ?     His eyes flew open, and hepulled the towel protectivelyaround his body and glaredat the little girl with the rust-redpigtails.     Huh, mister? she said,pushing a finger against herfreckled nose. Are you?     No, he said angrily. I'mnot naked. Will you pleasego away?     Sally! It was Mom, appearingin the doorway of theparlor. You leave the gentlemanalone. She went offagain.     Yes, Sol said. Please letme get dressed. If you don'tmind. The girl didn't move.What time is it?     Dunno, Sally shrugged.I like poached eggs. They'remy favorite eggs in the wholeworld.     That's good, Sol said desperately.Now why don't yoube a good girl and eat yourpoached eggs. In the kitchen.     Ain't ready yet. You goingto stay for breakfast?     I'm not going to do anythinguntil you get out ofhere.     She put the end of a pigtailin her mouth and sat down onthe chair opposite. I went tothe palace last night. Theyhad an exelution.     Please, Sol groaned. Bea good girl, Sally. If you letme get dressed, I'll show youhow to take your thumb off.     Oh, that's an old trick. Didyou ever see an exelution?     No. Did you ever see a littlegirl with her hidetanned?     Huh?           Sally!      Mom again, sterner.You get out of there, oryou-know-what ...     Okay, the girl saidblithely. I'm goin' to the palaceagain. If I brush myteeth. Aren't you      ever     gonnaget up? She skipped out ofthe room, and Sol hastily satup and reached for histrousers.     When he had dressed, theclothes still damp and unpleasantagainst his skin, hewent out of the parlor andfound the kitchen. Mom wasbusy at the stove. He said:Good morning.     Breakfast in ten minutes,she said cheerfully. You likepoached eggs?     Sure. Do you have a telephone?     In the hallway. Party line,so you may have to wait.     He tried for fifteen minutesto get through, but therewas a woman on the line whowas terribly upset about acotton dress she had orderedfrom Sears, and was tellingthe world about it.     Finally, he got his callthrough to Salinas, and asleepy-voiced Fred, his oldArmy buddy, listened somewhatindifferently to his taleof woe. I might miss thewedding, Sol said unhappily.I'm awfully sorry. Freddidn't seem to be half as sorryas he was. When Sol hungup, he was feeling more despondentthan ever.     A man, tall and rangy, witha bobbing Adam's apple anda lined face, came into thehallway. Hullo? he said inquiringly.You the fella hadthe car stolen?     Yes.     The man scratched his ear.Take you over to SheriffCoogan after breakfast. He'lllet the Stateys know about it.My name's Dawes.     Sol accepted a carefulhandshake.     Don't get many peoplecomin' into town, Dawessaid, looking at him curiously.Ain't seen a stranger inyears. But you look like therest of us. He chuckled.     Mom called out: Breakfast!   At  the table, Dawesasked his destination.     Wedding in Salinas, heexplained. Old Army friendof mine. I picked this hitchhikerup about two miles fromhere. He      seemed     okay.     Never can tell, Dawessaid placidly, munching egg.Hey, Ma. That why youwere so late comin' to courtlast night?     That's right, Pa. Shepoured the blackest coffeeSol had ever seen. Didn'tmiss much, though.     What court is that? Solasked politely, his mouth full.     Umagum, Sally said, apiece of toast sticking outfrom the side of her mouth.Don't you know      nothin'     ?           Arma     gon, Dawes corrected.He looked sheepishly atthe stranger. Don't expectMister— He cocked an eyebrow.What's the name?     Becker.     Don't expect Mr. Beckerknows anything about Armagon.It's just a dream, youknow. He smiled apologetically.     Dream? You mean this—Armagonis a place you dreamabout?     Yep, Dawes said. He liftedcup to lip. Great coffee,Ma. He leaned back with acontented sigh. Dream aboutit every night. Got so used tothe place, I get all confusedin the daytime.     Mom said: I get muddle-headedtoo, sometimes.     You mean— Sol put hisnapkin in his lap. You mean      you     dream about the sameplace?     Sure, Sally piped. Weall go there at night. I'm goin'to the palace again, too.     If you brush your teeth,Mom said primly.     If I brush my teeth. Boy,you shoulda seen the exelution!     Execution, her fathersaid.     Oh, my goodness! Momgot up hastily. That remindsme. I gotta call poor Mrs.Brundage. It's the      least     Icould do.     Good idea, Dawes nodded.And I'll have to roundup some folks and get oldBrundage out of there.     Sol was staring. He openedhis mouth, but couldn't thinkof the right question to ask.Then he blurted out: Whatexecution?     None of      your     business,the man said coldly. You eatup, young man. If you wantme to get Sheriff Cooganlookin' for your car.     The rest of the meal wentsilently, except for Sally's insistenceupon singing herschool song between mouthfuls.When Dawes wasthrough, he pushed back hisplate and ordered Sol to getready.     Sol grabbed his topcoat andfollowed the man out thedoor.     Have to stop someplacefirst, Dawes said. But we'llbe pickin' up the Sheriff onthe way. Okay with you?     Fine, Sol said uneasily.     The rain had stopped, butthe heavy clouds seemed reluctantto leave the skies overthe small town. There was askittish breeze blowing, andSol Becker tightened the collarof his coat around hisneck as he tried to keep upwith the fast-stepping Dawes.   They  crossed thestreet diagonally, and entereda two-story wooden building.Dawes took the stairs at abrisk pace, and pushed openthe door on the second floor.A fat man looked up frombehind a desk.     Hi, Charlie. Thought I'dsee if you wanted to helpmove Brundage.     The man batted his eyes.Oh, Brundage! he said.You know, I clean forgotabout him? He laughed.Imagine me forgettingthat?     Yeah. Dawes wasn'tamused. And you Prince Regent.     Aw, Willie—     Well, come on. Stir thatfat carcass. Gotta pick upSheriff Coogan, too. Thishere gentleman has to see himabout somethin' else.     The man regarded Sol suspiciously.Never seen youbefore. Night      or     day. Stranger?     Come      on     ! Dawes said.     The fat man grunted andhoisted himself out of theswivel chair. He followedlamely behind the two menas they went out into thestreet again.     A woman, with an emptymarket basket, nodded casuallyto them. Mornin', folks.Enjoyed it last night.Thought you made a rightnice speech, Mr. Dawes.     Thanks, Dawes answeredgruffly, but obviously flattered.We were just goin'over to Brundage's to pick upthe body. Ma's gonna pay acall on Mrs. Brundage aroundten o'clock. You care to visit?     Why, I think that's verynice, the woman said. I'llbe sure and do that. Shesmiled at the fat man. Mornin',Prince.     Sol's head was spinning. Asthey left the woman and continuedtheir determinedmarch down the quiet street,he tried to find answers.     Look, Mr. Dawes. He waspanting; the pace was fast.Does      she     dream about this—Armagon,too? That womanback there?     Yep.     Charlie chuckled. He's astranger, all right.     And you, Mr.— Solturned to the fat man. Youalso know about this palaceand everything?     I told you, Dawes saidtestily. Charlie here's PrinceRegent. But don't let the fancytitle fool you. He got nomore power than any Knightof the Realm. He's just toodern fat to do much more'nsit on a throne and eat grapes.That right, Charlie?     The fat man giggled.     Here's the Sheriff, Dawessaid.     The Sheriff, a sleepy-eyedcitizen with a long, sad face,was rocking on a porch asthey approached his house,trying to puff a half-lit pipe.He lifted one hand wearilywhen he saw them.     Hi, Cookie, Dawesgrinned. Thought you, me,and Charlie would get Brundage'sbody outa the house.This here's Mr. Becker; hegot another problem. Mr.Becker, meet Cookie Coogan.     The Sheriff joined the procession,pausing only once toinquire into Sol's predicament.     He described the hitchhikerincident, but Cooganlistened stoically. He murmuredsomething about theTroopers, and shuffled alongsidethe puffing fat man.     Sol soon realized that theirdestination was a barber shop.     Dawes cupped his handsover the plate glass andpeered inside. Gold letters onthe glass advertised: HAIRCUTSHAVE & MASSAGEPARLOR. He reported: Nobodyin the shop. Must beupstairs.   The  fat man rang thebell. It was a while before ananswer came.     It was a reedy woman in ahousecoat, her hair in curlers,her eyes red and swollen.     Now, now, Dawes saidgently. Don't you take onlike that, Mrs. Brundage. Youheard the charges. It haddabe this way.     My poor Vincent, shesobbed.     Better let us up, theSheriff said kindly. No usejust lettin' him lay there,Mrs. Brundage.     He didn't mean no harm,the woman snuffled. He wasjust purely ornery, Vincentwas. Just plain mean stubborn.     The law's the law, thefat man sighed.     Sol couldn't hold himselfin.     What law? Who's dead?How did it happen?     Dawes looked at him disgustedly.Now is it any of      your     business? I mean, is it?     I don't know, Sol saidmiserably.     You better stay out ofthis, the Sheriff warned.This is a local matter, youngman. You better stay in theshop while we go up.     They filed past him and thecrying Mrs. Brundage.     When they were out ofsight, Sol pleaded with her.     What happened? How didyour husband die?     Please ...     You must tell me! Was itsomething to do with Armagon?Do you dream about theplace, too?     She was shocked at thequestion. Of course!     And your husband? Didhe have the same dream?     Fresh tears resulted. Can'tyou leave me alone? Sheturned her back. I got thingsto do. You can make yourselfcomfortable— She indicatedthe barber chairs, and leftthrough the back door.     Sol looked after her, andthen ambled over to the firstchair and slipped into thehigh seat. His reflection inthe mirror, strangely gray inthe dim light, made himgroan. His clothes were amess, and he needed a shave.If only Brundage had beenalive ...     He leaped out of the chairas voices sounded behind thedoor. Dawes was kicking itopen with his foot, his armsladen with two rather largefeet, still encased in bedroomslippers. Charlie was at theother end of the burden,which appeared to be a middle-agedman in pajamas. TheSheriff followed the trio upwith a sad, undertaker expression.Behind him came Mrs.Brundage, properly weeping.     We'll take him to the funeralparlor, Dawes said,breathing hard. Weighs aton, don't he?     What killed him? Solsaid.     Heart attack.     The fat man chuckled.     The tableau was grisly. Sollooked away, towards thecomfortingly mundane atmosphereof the barber shop. Buteven the sight of the thick-paddedchairs, the shavingmugs on the wall, the neatrows of cutting instruments,seemed grotesque and morbid.     Listen, Sol said, as theywent through the doorway.About my car—     The Sheriff turned and regardedhim lugubriously.Your      car     ? Young man, ain'tyou got no      respect     ?     Sol swallowed hard and fellsilent. He went outside withthem, the woman slammingthe barber-shop door behindhim. He waited in front ofthe building while the mentoted away the corpse to somenew destination.   He  took a walk.     The town was just comingto life. People were strollingout of their houses, commentingon the weather, chucklingamiably about local affairs.Kids on bicycles were beginningto appear, jangling thelittle bells and hooting toeach other. A woman, hangingwash in the back yard,called out to him, thinkinghe was somebody else.     He found a little park, nomore than twenty yards incircumference, centeredaround a weatherbeaten monumentof some unrecognizablemilitary figure. Threeold men took their places onthe bench that circled theGeneral, and leaned on theircanes.     Sol was a civil engineer.But he made like a reporter.     Pardon me, sir. The oldman, leathery-faced, with afine yellow moustache, lookedat him dumbly. Have youever heard of Armagon?     You a stranger?     Yes.     Thought so.     Sol repeated the question.     Course I did. Been goin'there ever since I was a kid.Night-times, that is.     How—I mean, what kindof place is it?     Said you're a stranger?     Yes.     Then 'tain't your business.     That was that.     He left the park, and wanderedinto a thriving luncheonette.He tried questioningthe man behind the counter,who merely snickered andsaid: You stayin' with theDawes, ain't you? Better askWillie, then. He knows theplace better than anybody.     He asked about the execution,and the man stiffened.     Don't think I can talkabout that. Fella broke one ofthe Laws; that's about it.Don't see where you comeinto it.     At eleven o'clock, he returnedto the Dawes residence,and found Mom in thekitchen, surrounded by thewarm nostalgic odor of home-bakedbread. She told himthat her husband had left amessage for the stranger, informinghim that the StatePolice would be around to gethis story.     He waited in the house,gloomily turning the pages ofthe local newspaper, searchingfor references to Armagon.He found nothing.     At eleven-thirty, a brown-facedState Trooper came tocall, and Sol told his story.He was promised nothing,and told to stay in town untilhe was contacted again bythe authorities.     Mom fixed him a lightlunch, the greatest feature ofwhich was some hot biscuitsshe plucked out of the oven.It made him feel almost normal.     He wandered around thetown some more after lunch,trying to spark conversationwith the residents.     He learned little.   At  five-thirty, he returnedto the Dawes house, and waspromptly leaped upon bylittle Sally.     Hi! Hi! Hi! she said,clutching his right leg andalmost toppling him over.We had a party in school. Ihad chocolate cake. You goin'to stay with us?     Just another night, Soltold her, trying to shake thegirl off. If it's okay withyour folks. They haven'tfound my car yet.     Sally! Mom was peeringout of the screen door. Youlet Mr. Becker alone and gowash. Your Pa will be homesoon.     Oh, pooh, the girl said,her pigtails swinging. Doyou got a girlfriend, mister?     No. Sol struggled towardsthe house with herdead weight on his leg.Would you mind? I can'twalk.     Would you be my boyfriend?     Well, we'll talk about it.If you let go my leg.     Inside the house, she said:We're having pot roast. Youstayin'?     Of course Mr. Becker'sstayin', Mom said. He's ourguest.     That's very kind of you,Sol said. I really wish you'dlet me pay something—     Don't want to hear anotherword about pay.   Mr. Dawes  came home anhour later, looking tired.Mom pecked him lightly onthe forehead. He glanced atthe evening paper, and thenspoke to Sol.     Hear you been askingquestions, Mr. Becker.     Sol nodded, embarrassed.Guess I have. I'm awfullycurious about this Armagonplace. Never heard of anythinglike it before.     Dawes grunted. You ain'ta reporter?     Oh, no. I'm an engineer. Iwas just satisfying my owncuriosity.     Uh-huh. Dawes lookedreflective. You wouldn't bethinkin' about writing us upor anything. I mean, this is apretty private affair.     Writing it up? Solblinked. I hadn't thought ofit. But you'll have to admit—it'ssure interesting.     Yeah, Dawes said narrowly.I guess it would be.     Supper! Mom called.     After the meal, they spenta quiet evening at home. Sallywent to bed, screaming herreluctance, at eight-thirty.Mom, dozing in the big chairnear the fireplace, padded upstairsat nine. Then Dawesyawned widely, stood up, andsaid goodnight at quarter-of-ten.     He paused in the doorwaybefore leaving.     I'd think about that, hesaid. Writing it up, I mean.A lot of folks would thinkyou were just plum crazy.     Sol laughed feebly. Iguess they would at that.     Goodnight, Dawes said.     Goodnight.     He read Sally's copy of      Treasure Island     for abouthalf an hour. Then he undressed,made himself comfortableon the sofa, snuggledunder the soft blanketthat Mom had provided, andshut his eyes.     He reviewed the events ofthe day before dropping offto sleep. The troublesomeSally. The strange dreamworld of Armagon. The visitto the barber shop. The removalof Brundage's body.The conversations with thetownspeople. Dawes' suspiciousattitude ...     Then sleep came.   He  was flanked by marblepillars, thrusting towardsa high-domed ceiling.     The room stretched longand wide before him, thewalls bedecked in stunningpurple draperies.     He whirled at the sound offootsteps, echoing stridentlyon the stone floor. Someonewas running towards him.     It was Sally, pigtailsstreaming out behind her, thesmall body wearing a flowingwhite toga. She was shrieking,laughing as she skitteredpast him, clutching a gleaminggold helmet.     He called out to her, butshe was too busy outdistancingher pursuer. It was SheriffCoogan, puffing and huffing,the metal-and-gold clothuniform ludicrous on hislanky frame.     Consarn kid! he wheezed.Gimme my hat!     Mom was following him,her stout body regal in scarletrobes. Sally! You giveSir Coogan his helmet! Youhear?     Mrs. Dawes! Sol said.     Why, Mr. Becker! Hownice to see you again! Pa!      Pa!     Look who's here!     Willie Dawes appeared.      No!     Sol thought. This was      King     Dawes; nothing elsecould explain the magnificenceof his attire.     Yes, Dawes said craftily.So I see. Welcome to Armagon,Mr. Becker.     Armagon? Sol gaped.Then this is the placeyou've been dreaming about?     Yep, the King said. Andnow      you're     in it, too.     Then I'm only dreaming!     Charlie, the fat man,clumsy as ever in his robes ofState, said: So      that's     thesnooper, eh?     Yep, Dawes chuckled.Think you better round upthe Knights.     Sol said: The Knights?     Exelution! Exelution!Sally shrieked.     Now wait a minute—     Charlie shouted.     Running feet, clanking ofarmor. Sol backed up againsta pillar. Now look here.You've gone far enough—     Not quite, said the King.     The Knights stepped forward.     Wait! Sol screamed.     Familiar faces, under shininghelmets, moved towardshim; the tips of sharp-pointedspears gleaming wickedly.And Sol Becker wondered—wouldhe ever awake?     Transcriber's Note:   This etext was produced from    Fantastic Universe   January 1957.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note.","Mom is the wife of Willie Dawes, and is the kind woman who received Sol when his car was robbed and he was wet from the rain. She was very kind to give him the sofa, after which she hurried up to her room to attend the Armagon execution. She seems to be a very good mom, and she enjoys cooking for her family. She is very helpful to Sol, but she also makes it clear that she isn’t going to go out of her way to help him more, like he has to sleep on the sofa and that breakfast is at 7. "
"What is the significance of the dream of townspeople? </s>      Henry Slesar, young New York advertising executive and by now nolonger a new-comer to either this magazine or to this field, describesa strange little town that you, yourself, may blunder into one of theseevenings. But, if you do, beware—beware of the Knights!         dream       town         by ... HENRY SLESAR         The woman in the doorway looked so harmless. Whowas to tell she had some rather startling interests?       The  woman in thedoorway looked like Mom inthe homier political cartoons.She was plump, apple-cheeked,white-haired. Shewore a fussy, old-fashionednightgown, and was busilyclutching a worn house-robearound her expansive middle.She blinked at Sol Becker'srain-flattened hair and hang-dogexpression, and said:What is it? What do youwant?     I'm sorry— Sol's voicewas pained. The man in thediner said you might put meup. I had my car stolen: ahitchhiker; going to Salinas ...He was puffing.     Hitchhiker? I don't understand.She clucked at thesight of the pool of water hewas creating in her foyer.Well, come inside, for heaven'ssake. You're soaking!     Thanks, Sol said gratefully.     With the door firmly shutbehind him, the warm interiorof the little house coveredhim like a blanket. Heshivered, and let the warmthseep over him. I'm terriblysorry. I know how late it is.He looked at his watch, butthe face was too misty tomake out the hour.     Must be nearly three, thewoman sniffed. You couldn'thave come at a worse time. Iwas just on my way tocourt—     The words slid by him. IfI could just stay overnight.Until the morning. I couldcall some friends in San Fernando.I'm very susceptible tohead colds, he added inanely.     Well, take those shoes off,first, the woman grumbled.You can undress in the parlor,if you'll keep off the rug.You won't mind using thesofa?     No, of course not. I'd behappy to pay—     Oh, tush, nobody's askingyou to pay. This isn't a hotel.You mind if I go back upstairs?They're gonna missme at the palace.     No, of course not, Solsaid. He followed her intothe darkened parlor, andwatched as she turned thescrew on a hurricane-stylelamp, shedding a yellow poolof light over half a flowerysofa and a doily-covered wingchair. You go on up. I'll beperfectly fine.     Guess you can use a towel,though. I'll get you one,then I'm going up. We wakepretty early in this house.Breakfast's at seven; you'llhave to be up if you wantany.     I really can't thank youenough—     Tush, the woman said.She scurried out, and returneda moment later with athick bath towel. Sorry Ican't give you any bedding.But you'll find it nice andwarm in here. She squintedat the dim face of a ship's-wheelclock on the mantle,and made a noise with hertongue. Three-thirty! sheexclaimed. I'll miss thewhole execution ...     The what?     Goodnight, young man,Mom said firmly.     She padded off, leaving Solholding the towel. He pattedhis face, and then scrubbedthe wet tangle of brown hair.Carefully, he stepped off thecarpet and onto the stonefloor in front of the fireplace.He removed hisdrenched coat and suit jacket,and squeezed water outover the ashes.     He stripped down to hisunderwear, wondering aboutnext morning's possible embarrassment,and decided touse the damp bath towel as ablanket. The sofa was downyand comfortable. He curledup under the towel, shiveredonce, and closed his eyes.   He  was tired and verysleepy, and his customarynightly review was limited toa few detached thoughtsabout the wedding he wassupposed to attend in Salinasthat weekend ... the hoodlumwho had responded to hisgood-nature by dumping himout of his own car ... the sloggingwalk to the village ...the little round woman whowas hurrying off, like theWhite Rabbit, to some mysteriousappointment on theupper floor ...     Then he went to sleep.     A voice awoke him, shrilland questioning.     Are you      nakkid     ?     His eyes flew open, and hepulled the towel protectivelyaround his body and glaredat the little girl with the rust-redpigtails.     Huh, mister? she said,pushing a finger against herfreckled nose. Are you?     No, he said angrily. I'mnot naked. Will you pleasego away?     Sally! It was Mom, appearingin the doorway of theparlor. You leave the gentlemanalone. She went offagain.     Yes, Sol said. Please letme get dressed. If you don'tmind. The girl didn't move.What time is it?     Dunno, Sally shrugged.I like poached eggs. They'remy favorite eggs in the wholeworld.     That's good, Sol said desperately.Now why don't yoube a good girl and eat yourpoached eggs. In the kitchen.     Ain't ready yet. You goingto stay for breakfast?     I'm not going to do anythinguntil you get out ofhere.     She put the end of a pigtailin her mouth and sat down onthe chair opposite. I went tothe palace last night. Theyhad an exelution.     Please, Sol groaned. Bea good girl, Sally. If you letme get dressed, I'll show youhow to take your thumb off.     Oh, that's an old trick. Didyou ever see an exelution?     No. Did you ever see a littlegirl with her hidetanned?     Huh?           Sally!      Mom again, sterner.You get out of there, oryou-know-what ...     Okay, the girl saidblithely. I'm goin' to the palaceagain. If I brush myteeth. Aren't you      ever     gonnaget up? She skipped out ofthe room, and Sol hastily satup and reached for histrousers.     When he had dressed, theclothes still damp and unpleasantagainst his skin, hewent out of the parlor andfound the kitchen. Mom wasbusy at the stove. He said:Good morning.     Breakfast in ten minutes,she said cheerfully. You likepoached eggs?     Sure. Do you have a telephone?     In the hallway. Party line,so you may have to wait.     He tried for fifteen minutesto get through, but therewas a woman on the line whowas terribly upset about acotton dress she had orderedfrom Sears, and was tellingthe world about it.     Finally, he got his callthrough to Salinas, and asleepy-voiced Fred, his oldArmy buddy, listened somewhatindifferently to his taleof woe. I might miss thewedding, Sol said unhappily.I'm awfully sorry. Freddidn't seem to be half as sorryas he was. When Sol hungup, he was feeling more despondentthan ever.     A man, tall and rangy, witha bobbing Adam's apple anda lined face, came into thehallway. Hullo? he said inquiringly.You the fella hadthe car stolen?     Yes.     The man scratched his ear.Take you over to SheriffCoogan after breakfast. He'lllet the Stateys know about it.My name's Dawes.     Sol accepted a carefulhandshake.     Don't get many peoplecomin' into town, Dawessaid, looking at him curiously.Ain't seen a stranger inyears. But you look like therest of us. He chuckled.     Mom called out: Breakfast!   At  the table, Dawesasked his destination.     Wedding in Salinas, heexplained. Old Army friendof mine. I picked this hitchhikerup about two miles fromhere. He      seemed     okay.     Never can tell, Dawessaid placidly, munching egg.Hey, Ma. That why youwere so late comin' to courtlast night?     That's right, Pa. Shepoured the blackest coffeeSol had ever seen. Didn'tmiss much, though.     What court is that? Solasked politely, his mouth full.     Umagum, Sally said, apiece of toast sticking outfrom the side of her mouth.Don't you know      nothin'     ?           Arma     gon, Dawes corrected.He looked sheepishly atthe stranger. Don't expectMister— He cocked an eyebrow.What's the name?     Becker.     Don't expect Mr. Beckerknows anything about Armagon.It's just a dream, youknow. He smiled apologetically.     Dream? You mean this—Armagonis a place you dreamabout?     Yep, Dawes said. He liftedcup to lip. Great coffee,Ma. He leaned back with acontented sigh. Dream aboutit every night. Got so used tothe place, I get all confusedin the daytime.     Mom said: I get muddle-headedtoo, sometimes.     You mean— Sol put hisnapkin in his lap. You mean      you     dream about the sameplace?     Sure, Sally piped. Weall go there at night. I'm goin'to the palace again, too.     If you brush your teeth,Mom said primly.     If I brush my teeth. Boy,you shoulda seen the exelution!     Execution, her fathersaid.     Oh, my goodness! Momgot up hastily. That remindsme. I gotta call poor Mrs.Brundage. It's the      least     Icould do.     Good idea, Dawes nodded.And I'll have to roundup some folks and get oldBrundage out of there.     Sol was staring. He openedhis mouth, but couldn't thinkof the right question to ask.Then he blurted out: Whatexecution?     None of      your     business,the man said coldly. You eatup, young man. If you wantme to get Sheriff Cooganlookin' for your car.     The rest of the meal wentsilently, except for Sally's insistenceupon singing herschool song between mouthfuls.When Dawes wasthrough, he pushed back hisplate and ordered Sol to getready.     Sol grabbed his topcoat andfollowed the man out thedoor.     Have to stop someplacefirst, Dawes said. But we'llbe pickin' up the Sheriff onthe way. Okay with you?     Fine, Sol said uneasily.     The rain had stopped, butthe heavy clouds seemed reluctantto leave the skies overthe small town. There was askittish breeze blowing, andSol Becker tightened the collarof his coat around hisneck as he tried to keep upwith the fast-stepping Dawes.   They  crossed thestreet diagonally, and entereda two-story wooden building.Dawes took the stairs at abrisk pace, and pushed openthe door on the second floor.A fat man looked up frombehind a desk.     Hi, Charlie. Thought I'dsee if you wanted to helpmove Brundage.     The man batted his eyes.Oh, Brundage! he said.You know, I clean forgotabout him? He laughed.Imagine me forgettingthat?     Yeah. Dawes wasn'tamused. And you Prince Regent.     Aw, Willie—     Well, come on. Stir thatfat carcass. Gotta pick upSheriff Coogan, too. Thishere gentleman has to see himabout somethin' else.     The man regarded Sol suspiciously.Never seen youbefore. Night      or     day. Stranger?     Come      on     ! Dawes said.     The fat man grunted andhoisted himself out of theswivel chair. He followedlamely behind the two menas they went out into thestreet again.     A woman, with an emptymarket basket, nodded casuallyto them. Mornin', folks.Enjoyed it last night.Thought you made a rightnice speech, Mr. Dawes.     Thanks, Dawes answeredgruffly, but obviously flattered.We were just goin'over to Brundage's to pick upthe body. Ma's gonna pay acall on Mrs. Brundage aroundten o'clock. You care to visit?     Why, I think that's verynice, the woman said. I'llbe sure and do that. Shesmiled at the fat man. Mornin',Prince.     Sol's head was spinning. Asthey left the woman and continuedtheir determinedmarch down the quiet street,he tried to find answers.     Look, Mr. Dawes. He waspanting; the pace was fast.Does      she     dream about this—Armagon,too? That womanback there?     Yep.     Charlie chuckled. He's astranger, all right.     And you, Mr.— Solturned to the fat man. Youalso know about this palaceand everything?     I told you, Dawes saidtestily. Charlie here's PrinceRegent. But don't let the fancytitle fool you. He got nomore power than any Knightof the Realm. He's just toodern fat to do much more'nsit on a throne and eat grapes.That right, Charlie?     The fat man giggled.     Here's the Sheriff, Dawessaid.     The Sheriff, a sleepy-eyedcitizen with a long, sad face,was rocking on a porch asthey approached his house,trying to puff a half-lit pipe.He lifted one hand wearilywhen he saw them.     Hi, Cookie, Dawesgrinned. Thought you, me,and Charlie would get Brundage'sbody outa the house.This here's Mr. Becker; hegot another problem. Mr.Becker, meet Cookie Coogan.     The Sheriff joined the procession,pausing only once toinquire into Sol's predicament.     He described the hitchhikerincident, but Cooganlistened stoically. He murmuredsomething about theTroopers, and shuffled alongsidethe puffing fat man.     Sol soon realized that theirdestination was a barber shop.     Dawes cupped his handsover the plate glass andpeered inside. Gold letters onthe glass advertised: HAIRCUTSHAVE & MASSAGEPARLOR. He reported: Nobodyin the shop. Must beupstairs.   The  fat man rang thebell. It was a while before ananswer came.     It was a reedy woman in ahousecoat, her hair in curlers,her eyes red and swollen.     Now, now, Dawes saidgently. Don't you take onlike that, Mrs. Brundage. Youheard the charges. It haddabe this way.     My poor Vincent, shesobbed.     Better let us up, theSheriff said kindly. No usejust lettin' him lay there,Mrs. Brundage.     He didn't mean no harm,the woman snuffled. He wasjust purely ornery, Vincentwas. Just plain mean stubborn.     The law's the law, thefat man sighed.     Sol couldn't hold himselfin.     What law? Who's dead?How did it happen?     Dawes looked at him disgustedly.Now is it any of      your     business? I mean, is it?     I don't know, Sol saidmiserably.     You better stay out ofthis, the Sheriff warned.This is a local matter, youngman. You better stay in theshop while we go up.     They filed past him and thecrying Mrs. Brundage.     When they were out ofsight, Sol pleaded with her.     What happened? How didyour husband die?     Please ...     You must tell me! Was itsomething to do with Armagon?Do you dream about theplace, too?     She was shocked at thequestion. Of course!     And your husband? Didhe have the same dream?     Fresh tears resulted. Can'tyou leave me alone? Sheturned her back. I got thingsto do. You can make yourselfcomfortable— She indicatedthe barber chairs, and leftthrough the back door.     Sol looked after her, andthen ambled over to the firstchair and slipped into thehigh seat. His reflection inthe mirror, strangely gray inthe dim light, made himgroan. His clothes were amess, and he needed a shave.If only Brundage had beenalive ...     He leaped out of the chairas voices sounded behind thedoor. Dawes was kicking itopen with his foot, his armsladen with two rather largefeet, still encased in bedroomslippers. Charlie was at theother end of the burden,which appeared to be a middle-agedman in pajamas. TheSheriff followed the trio upwith a sad, undertaker expression.Behind him came Mrs.Brundage, properly weeping.     We'll take him to the funeralparlor, Dawes said,breathing hard. Weighs aton, don't he?     What killed him? Solsaid.     Heart attack.     The fat man chuckled.     The tableau was grisly. Sollooked away, towards thecomfortingly mundane atmosphereof the barber shop. Buteven the sight of the thick-paddedchairs, the shavingmugs on the wall, the neatrows of cutting instruments,seemed grotesque and morbid.     Listen, Sol said, as theywent through the doorway.About my car—     The Sheriff turned and regardedhim lugubriously.Your      car     ? Young man, ain'tyou got no      respect     ?     Sol swallowed hard and fellsilent. He went outside withthem, the woman slammingthe barber-shop door behindhim. He waited in front ofthe building while the mentoted away the corpse to somenew destination.   He  took a walk.     The town was just comingto life. People were strollingout of their houses, commentingon the weather, chucklingamiably about local affairs.Kids on bicycles were beginningto appear, jangling thelittle bells and hooting toeach other. A woman, hangingwash in the back yard,called out to him, thinkinghe was somebody else.     He found a little park, nomore than twenty yards incircumference, centeredaround a weatherbeaten monumentof some unrecognizablemilitary figure. Threeold men took their places onthe bench that circled theGeneral, and leaned on theircanes.     Sol was a civil engineer.But he made like a reporter.     Pardon me, sir. The oldman, leathery-faced, with afine yellow moustache, lookedat him dumbly. Have youever heard of Armagon?     You a stranger?     Yes.     Thought so.     Sol repeated the question.     Course I did. Been goin'there ever since I was a kid.Night-times, that is.     How—I mean, what kindof place is it?     Said you're a stranger?     Yes.     Then 'tain't your business.     That was that.     He left the park, and wanderedinto a thriving luncheonette.He tried questioningthe man behind the counter,who merely snickered andsaid: You stayin' with theDawes, ain't you? Better askWillie, then. He knows theplace better than anybody.     He asked about the execution,and the man stiffened.     Don't think I can talkabout that. Fella broke one ofthe Laws; that's about it.Don't see where you comeinto it.     At eleven o'clock, he returnedto the Dawes residence,and found Mom in thekitchen, surrounded by thewarm nostalgic odor of home-bakedbread. She told himthat her husband had left amessage for the stranger, informinghim that the StatePolice would be around to gethis story.     He waited in the house,gloomily turning the pages ofthe local newspaper, searchingfor references to Armagon.He found nothing.     At eleven-thirty, a brown-facedState Trooper came tocall, and Sol told his story.He was promised nothing,and told to stay in town untilhe was contacted again bythe authorities.     Mom fixed him a lightlunch, the greatest feature ofwhich was some hot biscuitsshe plucked out of the oven.It made him feel almost normal.     He wandered around thetown some more after lunch,trying to spark conversationwith the residents.     He learned little.   At  five-thirty, he returnedto the Dawes house, and waspromptly leaped upon bylittle Sally.     Hi! Hi! Hi! she said,clutching his right leg andalmost toppling him over.We had a party in school. Ihad chocolate cake. You goin'to stay with us?     Just another night, Soltold her, trying to shake thegirl off. If it's okay withyour folks. They haven'tfound my car yet.     Sally! Mom was peeringout of the screen door. Youlet Mr. Becker alone and gowash. Your Pa will be homesoon.     Oh, pooh, the girl said,her pigtails swinging. Doyou got a girlfriend, mister?     No. Sol struggled towardsthe house with herdead weight on his leg.Would you mind? I can'twalk.     Would you be my boyfriend?     Well, we'll talk about it.If you let go my leg.     Inside the house, she said:We're having pot roast. Youstayin'?     Of course Mr. Becker'sstayin', Mom said. He's ourguest.     That's very kind of you,Sol said. I really wish you'dlet me pay something—     Don't want to hear anotherword about pay.   Mr. Dawes  came home anhour later, looking tired.Mom pecked him lightly onthe forehead. He glanced atthe evening paper, and thenspoke to Sol.     Hear you been askingquestions, Mr. Becker.     Sol nodded, embarrassed.Guess I have. I'm awfullycurious about this Armagonplace. Never heard of anythinglike it before.     Dawes grunted. You ain'ta reporter?     Oh, no. I'm an engineer. Iwas just satisfying my owncuriosity.     Uh-huh. Dawes lookedreflective. You wouldn't bethinkin' about writing us upor anything. I mean, this is apretty private affair.     Writing it up? Solblinked. I hadn't thought ofit. But you'll have to admit—it'ssure interesting.     Yeah, Dawes said narrowly.I guess it would be.     Supper! Mom called.     After the meal, they spenta quiet evening at home. Sallywent to bed, screaming herreluctance, at eight-thirty.Mom, dozing in the big chairnear the fireplace, padded upstairsat nine. Then Dawesyawned widely, stood up, andsaid goodnight at quarter-of-ten.     He paused in the doorwaybefore leaving.     I'd think about that, hesaid. Writing it up, I mean.A lot of folks would thinkyou were just plum crazy.     Sol laughed feebly. Iguess they would at that.     Goodnight, Dawes said.     Goodnight.     He read Sally's copy of      Treasure Island     for abouthalf an hour. Then he undressed,made himself comfortableon the sofa, snuggledunder the soft blanketthat Mom had provided, andshut his eyes.     He reviewed the events ofthe day before dropping offto sleep. The troublesomeSally. The strange dreamworld of Armagon. The visitto the barber shop. The removalof Brundage's body.The conversations with thetownspeople. Dawes' suspiciousattitude ...     Then sleep came.   He  was flanked by marblepillars, thrusting towardsa high-domed ceiling.     The room stretched longand wide before him, thewalls bedecked in stunningpurple draperies.     He whirled at the sound offootsteps, echoing stridentlyon the stone floor. Someonewas running towards him.     It was Sally, pigtailsstreaming out behind her, thesmall body wearing a flowingwhite toga. She was shrieking,laughing as she skitteredpast him, clutching a gleaminggold helmet.     He called out to her, butshe was too busy outdistancingher pursuer. It was SheriffCoogan, puffing and huffing,the metal-and-gold clothuniform ludicrous on hislanky frame.     Consarn kid! he wheezed.Gimme my hat!     Mom was following him,her stout body regal in scarletrobes. Sally! You giveSir Coogan his helmet! Youhear?     Mrs. Dawes! Sol said.     Why, Mr. Becker! Hownice to see you again! Pa!      Pa!     Look who's here!     Willie Dawes appeared.      No!     Sol thought. This was      King     Dawes; nothing elsecould explain the magnificenceof his attire.     Yes, Dawes said craftily.So I see. Welcome to Armagon,Mr. Becker.     Armagon? Sol gaped.Then this is the placeyou've been dreaming about?     Yep, the King said. Andnow      you're     in it, too.     Then I'm only dreaming!     Charlie, the fat man,clumsy as ever in his robes ofState, said: So      that's     thesnooper, eh?     Yep, Dawes chuckled.Think you better round upthe Knights.     Sol said: The Knights?     Exelution! Exelution!Sally shrieked.     Now wait a minute—     Charlie shouted.     Running feet, clanking ofarmor. Sol backed up againsta pillar. Now look here.You've gone far enough—     Not quite, said the King.     The Knights stepped forward.     Wait! Sol screamed.     Familiar faces, under shininghelmets, moved towardshim; the tips of sharp-pointedspears gleaming wickedly.And Sol Becker wondered—wouldhe ever awake?     Transcriber's Note:   This etext was produced from    Fantastic Universe   January 1957.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note.","The dream of the townspeople is what makes the town unique, and what puts Sol in danger. At the beginning Sol thought that the Dawes family shared a dream, but then he learned that everyone in the town had the same dream every night together. Also, the dream is a courtroom style, where Dawes is the king and can execute people. Charlie, the fat man that helps Dawes, is one of the knights in the Armagon. At the end, Sol attends this shared dream and it is implied that he is going to be killed by Dawes and the others. "
"What is the plot of the story? </s>     PRIME DIFFERENCE     By ALAN E. NOURSE     Illustrated by SCHOENHEER     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction June 1957.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        Being two men rolled out of one would solve       my problems—but which one would I be?        I suppose that every guy reaches a point once in his lifetime when hegets one hundred and forty per cent fed up with his wife.     Understand now—I've got nothing against marriage or any thinglike that. Marriage is great. It's a good old red-blooded AmericanInstitution. Except that it's got one defect in it big enough to throwa cat through, especially when you happen to be married to a womanlike Marge—     It's so      permanent     .     Oh, I'd have divorced Marge in a minute if we'd been living in theBlissful 'Fifties—but with the Family Solidarity Amendment of 1968,and all the divorce taxes we have these days since the women gottheir teeth into politics, to say nothing of the Aggrieved SpouseCompensation Act, I'd have been a pauper for the rest of my life ifI'd tried it. That's aside from the social repercussions involved.     You can't really blame me for looking for another way out. But a manhas to be desperate to try to buy himself an Ego Prime.     So, all right, I was desperate. I'd spent eight years trying to keepMarge happy, which was exactly seven and a half years too long.     Marge was a dream to look at, with her tawny hair and her sulky eyesand a shape that could set your teeth chattering—but that was wherethe dream stopped.     She had a tongue like a #10 wood rasp and a list of grievances longenough to paper the bedroom wall. When she wasn't complaining, she wascrying, and when she wasn't crying, she was pointing out in chillingdetail exactly where George Faircloth fell short as a model husband,which happened to be everywhere. Half of the time she had a beastlyheadache (for which I was personally responsible) and the other halfshe was sore about something, so ninety-nine per cent of the time wegot along like a couple of tomcats in a packing case.  Maybe we just weren't meant for each other. I don't know. I used toenvy guys like Harry Folsom at the office. His wife is no joy to livewith either, but at least he could take a spin down to Rio once in awhile with one of the stenographers and get away with it.     I knew better than to try. Marge was already so jealous that I couldn'teven smile at the company receptionist without a twinge of guilt. GiveMarge something real to howl about, and I'd be ready for the RehabCenter in a week.     But I'd underestimated Marge. She didn't need anything real, as I foundout when Jeree came along.     Business was booming and the secretaries at the office got shuffledaround from time to time. Since I had an executive-type job, I got anexecutive-type secretary. Her name was Jeree and she was gorgeous. Asa matter of fact, she was better than gorgeous. She was the sort ofsecretary every businessman ought to have in his office. Not to do anywork—just to sit there.     Jeree was tall and dark, and she could convey more without sayinganything than I ever dreamed was possible. The first day she wasthere, she conveyed to me very clearly that if I cared to supply theopportunity, she'd be glad to supply the motive.     That night, I could tell that Marge had been thinking something overduring the day. She let me get the first bite of dinner halfway to mymouth, and then she said, I hear you got a new secretary today.     I muttered something into my coffee cup and pretended not to hear.     Marge turned on her Accusing Look #7. I also hear that she'sfive-foot-eight and tapes out at 38-25-36 and thinks you're handsome.     Marge had quite a spy system.     She couldn't be much of a secretary, she added.     She's a perfectly good secretary, I blurted, and kicked myselfmentally. I should have known Marge's traps by then.     Marge exploded. I didn't get any supper, and she was still going strongat midnight. I tried to argue, but when Marge got going, there was nostopping her. I had my ultimatum, as far as Jeree was concerned.     Harry Folsom administered the      coup de grace     at coffee next morning.What you need is an Ego Prime, he said with a grin. Solve all yourproblems. I hear they work like a charm.     I set my coffee cup down. Bells were ringing in my ears. Don't beridiculous. It's against the law. Anyway, I wouldn't think of such athing. It's—it's indecent.     Harry shrugged. Just joking, old man, just joking. Still, it's fun tothink about, eh? Freedom from wife. Absolutely safe and harmless. Noteven too expensive, if you've got the right contacts. And I've got afriend who knows a guy—     Just then, Jeree walked past us and flashed me a big smile. I grippedmy cup for dear life and still spilled coffee on my tie.     As I said, a guy gets fed up.     And maybe opportunity would only knock once.     And an Ego Prime would solve all my problems, as Harry had told me.  It was completely illegal, of course. The wonder was that Ego Prime,Inc., ever got to put their product on the market at all, once thenation's housewives got wind of just what their product was.     From the first, there was rigid Federal control and laws regulating theuse of Primes right down to the local level. You could get a licensefor a Utility model Prime if you were a big business executive, or ahigh public official, or a movie star, or something like that; but eventhen his circuits had to be inspected every two months, and he had tohave a thousand built-in Paralyzers, and you had to specify in advanceexactly what you wanted your Prime to be able to do when, where, how,why, and under what circumstances.     The law didn't leave a man much leeway.     But everybody knew that if you      really     wanted a personal Prime withall his circuits open and no questions asked, you could get one. Blackmarket prices were steep and you ran your own risk, but it could bedone.     Harry Folsom told his friend who knew a guy, and a few greenbacks gotlost somewhere, and I found myself looking at a greasy little man witha black mustache and a bald spot, up in a dingy fourth-story warehouseoff lower Broadway.     Ah, yes, the little man said. Mr. Faircloth. We've been expectingyou.  I didn't like the looks of the guy any more than the looks of theplace. I've been told you can supply me with a—     He coughed. Yes, yes. I understand. It might be possible. He fingeredhis mustache and regarded me from pouchy eyes. Busy executives oftencome to us to avoid the—ah—unpleasantness of formal arrangements.Naturally, we only act as agents, you might say. We never see themerchandise ourselves— He wiped his hands on his trousers. Now wereyou interested in the ordinary Utility model, Mr. Faircloth?     I assumed he was just being polite. You didn't come to the back doorfor Utility models.     Or perhaps you'd require one of our Deluxe models. Very carefulworkmanship. Only a few key Paralyzers in operation and practicallycomplete circuit duplication. Very useful for—ah—close contact work,you know. Social engagements, conferences—     I was shaking my head. I want a      Super     Deluxe model, I told him.     He grinned and winked. Ah, indeed! You want perfect duplication.Yes, indeed. Domestic situations can be—awkward, shall we say. Veryawkward—     I gave him a cold stare. I couldn't see where my domestic problems wereany affairs of his. He got the idea and hurried me back to a storeroom.     We keep a few blanks here for the basic measurement. You'll go to ourlaboratory on 14th Street to have the minute impressions taken. But Ican assure you you'll be delighted, simply delighted.     The blanks weren't very impressive—clay and putty and steel, faceless,brainless. He went over me like a tailor, checking measurements of allsorts. He was thorough—embarrassingly thorough, in fact—but finallyhe was finished. I went on to the laboratory.     And that was all there was to it.  Practical androids had been a pipe dream until Hunyadi invented theNeuro-pantograph. Hunyadi had no idea in the world what to do with itonce he'd invented it, but a couple of enterprising engineers boughthim body and soul, sub-contracted the problems of anatomy, design,artistry, audio and visio circuitry, and so forth, and ended up withthe modern Ego Primes we have today.     I spent a busy two hours under the NP microprobes; the artists workedoutside while the NP technicians worked inside. I came out of it prettywoozy, but a shot of Happy-O set that straight. Then I waited in therecovery room for another two hours, dreaming up ways to use my Primewhen I got him. Finally the door opened and the head technician walkedin, followed by a tall, sandy-haired man with worried blue eyes and atired look on his face.       Meet George Faircloth Prime, the technician said, grinning at me likea nursing mother.     I shook hands with myself. Good firm handshake, I thought admiringly.Nothing flabby about it.     I slapped George Prime on the shoulder happily. Come on, Brother, Isaid. You've got a job to do.     But, secretly, I was wondering what Jeree was doing that night.     George Prime had remote controls, as well as a completely recordedneurological analogue of his boss, who was me. George Prime thoughtwhat I thought about the same things I did in the same way I did. Theonly difference was that what I told George Prime to do, George Primedid.     If I told him to go to a business conference in San Francisco and makethe smallest possible concessions for the largest possible orders,he would go there and do precisely that. His signature would be mysignature. It would hold up in court.     And if I told him that my wife Marge was really a sweet, good-heartedgirl and that he was to stay home and keep her quiet and happy any timeI chose, he'd do that, too.     George Prime was a duplicate of me right down to the sandy hairs onthe back of my hands. Our fingerprints were the same. We had the samemannerisms and used the same figures of speech. The only physicaldifference apparent even to an expert was the tiny finger-depressionburied in the hair above his ear. A little pressure there would stopGeorge Prime dead in his tracks.     He was so lifelike, even I kept forgetting that he was basically just apile of gears.     I'd planned very carefully how I meant to use him, of course.     Every man who's been married eight years has a sanctuary. He builds itup and maintains it against assault in the very teeth of his wife'snatural instinct to clean, poke, pry and rearrange things. Sometimesit takes him years of diligent work to establish his hideout and beconfident that it will stay inviolate, but if he starts early enough,and sticks with it long enough, and is fierce enough and persistentenough and crafty enough, he'll probably win in the end. The girls hatehim for it, but he'll win.     With some men, it's just a box on their dressers, or a desk, or acorner of an unused back room. But I had set my sights high early inthe game. With me, it was the whole workshop in the garage.  At first, Marge tried open warfare. She had to clean the place up, shesaid. I told her I didn't      want     her to clean it up. She could cleanthe whole house as often as she chose, but      I     would clean up theworkshop.     After a couple of sharp engagements on that field, Marge staged astrategic withdrawal and reorganized her attack. A little pile of woodshavings would be on the workshop floor one night and be gone the next.A wrench would be back on the rack—upside down, of course. An openpaint can would have a cover on it.     I always knew. I screamed loudly and bitterly. I ranted and raved. Iswore I'd rig up a booby-trap with a shotgun.     So she quit trying to clean in there and just went in once in a whileto take a look around. I fixed that with the old toothpick-in-the-doorroutine. Every time she so much as set foot in that workshop, she had abattle on her hands for the next week or so. She could count on it. Itwas that predictable.     She never found out how I knew, and after seven years or so, it woreher down. She didn't go into the workshop any more.     As I said, you've got to be persistent, but you'll win.     Eventually.     If you're      really     persistent.     Now all my effort paid off. I got Marge out of the house for an houror two that day and had George Prime delivered and stored in the bigcloset in the workshop. They hooked his controls up and left me amanual of instructions for running him. When I got home that night,there he was, just waiting to be put to work.     After supper, I went out to the workshop—to get the pipe I'd leftthere, I said. I pushed George Prime's button, winked at him andswitched on the free-behavior circuits.     Go to it, Brother, I said.     George Prime put my pipe in his mouth, lit it and walked back into thehouse.     Five minutes later, I heard them fighting.     It sounded so familiar that I laughed out loud. Then I caught a cab onthe corner and headed uptown.     We had quite a night, Jeree and I. I got home just about time to startfor work, and sure enough, there was George Prime starting my car,business suit on, briefcase under his arm.     I pushed the recall and George Prime got out of the car and walked intothe workshop. He stepped into his cradle in the closet. I turned himoff and then drove away in the car.     Bless his metallic soul, he'd even kissed Marge good-by for me!  Needless to say, the affairs of George Faircloth took on a new sparklewith George Prime on hand to cover the home front.     For the first week, I was hardly home at all. I must say I felt alittle guilty, leaving poor old George Prime to cope with Marge allthe time—he looked and acted so human, it was easy to forget thathe literally couldn't care less. But I felt apologetic all the samewhenever I took him out of his closet.     She's really a sweet girl underneath it all, I'd say. You'll learnto like her after a bit.     Of course I like her, George Prime said. You told me to, didn't you?Stop worrying. She's really a sweet girl underneath it all.     He sounded convincing enough, but still it bothered me. You're sureyou understand the exchange mechanism? I asked. I didn't want anyfoul-ups there, as you can imagine.     Perfectly, said George Prime. When you buzz the recall, I wait forthe first logical opportunity I can find to come out to the workshop,and you take over.     But you might get nervous. You might inadvertently tip her off.     George Prime looked pained. Really, old man! I'm a Super Deluxe model,remember? I don't have fourteen activated Hunyadi tubes up in thiscranial vault of mine just for nothing. You're the one that's nervous.I'll take care of everything. Relax.     So I did.     Jeree made good all her tacit promises and then some. She had a verycozy little apartment on 34th Street where we went to relax aftera hard day at the office. When we weren't doing the town, that is.As long as Jeree didn't try too much conversation, everything waswonderful.     And then, when Jeree got a little boring, there was Sybil in theaccounting department. Or Dorothy in promotion. Or Jane. Or Ingrid.     I could go on at some length, but I won't. I was building quite areputation for myself around the office.     Of course, it was like buying your first 3-V set. In a week or so, thenovelty wears off a little and you start eating on schedule again. Ittook a little while, but I finally had things down to a reasonableprogram.     Tuesday and Thursday nights, I was informally out while formallyin. Sometimes I took Sunday nights out if things got too stickyaround the house over the weekend. The rest of the time, George Primecooled his heels in his closet. Locked up, of course. Can't completelytrust a wife to observe a taboo, no matter how well trained she is.     There, was an irreconcilable amount of risk. George Prime had toquick-step some questions about my work at the office—there was noway to supply him with current data until the time for his regulartwo-month refill and pattern-accommodation at the laboratory. In themeantime, George Prime had to make do with what he had.     But as he himself pointed out he was a Super Deluxe model.  Marge didn't suspect a thing. In fact, George Prime seemed to be havinga remarkable effect on her. I didn't notice anything at first—I washardly ever home. But one night I found my pipe and slippers laid outfor me, and the evening paper neatly folded on my chair, and it broughtme up short. Marge had been extremely docile lately. We hadn't had agood fight in days. Weeks, come to think of it.     I thought it over and shrugged. Old age, I figured. She was bound tomellow sometime.     But pretty soon I began to wonder if she wasn't mellowing a little toomuch.     One night when I got home, she kissed me almost as though she reallymeant it. There wasn't an unpleasant word all through dinner, whichhappened to be steak with mushrooms, served in the dining room (!) bycandlelight (!!) with dinner music that Marge could never bear, chieflybecause I liked it.     We sat over coffee and cigarettes, and it seemed almost like oldtimes.      Very     old times, in fact I even caught myself looking at Margeagain—really      looking     at her, watching the light catch in her hair,almost admiring the sparkle in her brown eyes. Sparkle, I said, notglint.     As I mentioned before, Marge was always easy to look at. That night,she was practically ravishing.     What are you doing to her? I asked George Prime later, out in theworkshop.     Why, nothing, said George Prime, looking innocent. He couldn't foolme with his look, though, because it was exactly the look I use whenI'm guilty and pretending to be innocent.     There must be      something     .     George Prime shrugged. Any woman will warm up if you spend enough timetelling her all the things she wants to hear and pay all the attentionto her that she wants paid to her. That's elemental psychology. I cangive you page references.     I ought to mention that George Prime had a complete set of basic textsrun into his circuits, at a slightly additional charge. Never can tellwhen an odd bit of information will come in useful.     Well, you must be doing quite a job, I said.      I'd     never managed towarm Marge up much.     I try, said George Prime.     Oh, I'm not complaining, I hastened to add, forgetting that a Prime'sfeelings can't be hurt and that he was only acting like me because itwas in character. I was just curious.     Of course, George.     I'm really delighted that you're doing so well.     Thank you, George.     But the next night when I was with Dawn, who happens to be a gorgeousredhead who could put Marge to shame on practically any field of battleexcept maybe brains, I kept thinking about Marge all evening long, andwondering if things weren't getting just a little out of hand.  The next evening I almost tripped over George Prime coming out of aliquor store. I ducked quickly into an alley and flagged him.       Whatare you doing out on the street?          He gave me my martyred look. Just buying some bourbon. You were out.     But you're not supposed to be off the premises—     Marge asked me to come. I couldn't tell her I was sorry, but herhusband wouldn't let me, could I?     Well, certainly not—     You want me to keep her happy, don't you? You don't want her to getsuspicious.     No, but suppose somebody saw us together! If she ever got a hint—     I'm sorry, George Prime said contritely. It seemed the right thingto do.      You     would have done it. At least that's what my judgmentcenter maintained. We had quite an argument.     Well, tell your judgment center to use a little sense, I snapped. Idon't want it to happen again.     The next night, I stayed home, even though it was Tuesday night. I wasbeginning to get worried. Of course, I did have complete control—Icould snap George Prime off any time I wanted, or even take him in fora complete recircuiting—but it seemed a pity. He was doing such a nicejob.     Marge was docile as a kitten, even more so than before. She sympathizedwith my hard day at the office and agreed heartily that the boss,despite all appearances, was in reality a jabbering idiot. Afterdinner, I suggested a movie, but Marge gave me an odd sort of look andsaid she thought it would be much nicer to spend the evening at home bythe fire.     I'd just gotten settled with the paper when she came into the livingroom and sat down beside me. She was wearing some sort of filmy affairI'd never laid eyes on before, and I caught a whiff of my favoriteperfume.     Georgie? she said.     Uh?     Do you still love me?     I set the paper down and stared at her. How's that? Of course Istill—     Well, sometimes you don't act much like it.     Mm. I guess I've—uh—got an awful headache tonight. Damn thatperfume!     Oh, said Marge.     In fact, I thought I'd turn in early and get some sleep—     Sleep, said Marge. There was no mistaking the disappointment in hervoice. Now I knew that things were out of hand.     The next evening, I activated George Prime and caught the taxi at thecorner, but I called Ruby and broke my date with her. I took in anearly movie alone and was back by ten o'clock. I left the cab at thecorner and walked quietly up the path toward the garage.     Then I stopped. I could see Marge and George Prime through the livingroom windows.     George Prime was kissing my wife the way I hadn't kissed her in eightlong years. It made my hair stand on end. And Marge wasn't exactlyfighting him off, either. She was coming back for more. After a little,the lights went off.     George Prime was a Super Deluxe model, all right.  I dashed into the workshop and punched the recall button as hard as Icould, swearing under my breath. How long had this been going on? Ipunched the button again, viciously, and waited.     George Prime didn't come out.     It was plenty cold out in the workshop that night and I didn't sleepa wink. About dawn, out came George Prime, looking like a man with afour-day hangover.     Our conversation got down to fundamentals. George Prime kept insistingblandly that, according to my own directions, he was to pick the firstlogical opportunity to come out when I buzzed, and that was exactlywhat he'd done.     I was furious all the way to work. I'd take care of this nonsense, allright. I'd have George Prime rewired from top to bottom as soon as thelaboratory could take him.     But I never phoned the laboratory. The bank was calling me when I gotto the office. They wanted to know what I planned to do about thatcheck of mine that had just bounced.     What check? I asked.     The one you wrote to cash yesterday—five hundred dollars—againstyour regular account, Mr. Faircloth.     The last I'd looked, I'd had about three thousand dollars in thataccount. I told the man so rather bluntly.     Oh, no, sir. That is, you      did     until last week. But all these checksyou've been cashing have emptied the account.     He flashed the checks on the desk screen. My signature was on every oneof them.     What about my special account? I'd learned long before that anaccount Marge didn't know about was sound rear-guard strategy.     That's been closed out for two weeks.     I hadn't written a check against that account for over a year! I glaredat the ceiling and tried to think things through.     I came up with a horrible thought.     Marge had always had her heart set on a trip to Bermuda. Just to getaway from it all, she'd say. A second honeymoon.     I got a list of travel agencies from the business directory and starteddown them. The third one I tried had a pleasant tenor voice. No, sir,not      Mrs.     Faircloth.      You     bought two tickets. One way. Champagneflight to Bermuda.     When? I choked out.     Why, today, as a matter of fact. It leaves Idlewild at eleveno'clock—     I let him worry about my amnesia and started home fast. I didn't knowwhat they'd given that Prime for circuits, but there was no questionnow that he was out of control—      way     out of control. And poor Marge,all worked up for a second honeymoon—     Then it struck me. Poor Marge? Poor sucker George! No Prime in hisright circuits would behave this way without some human guidance andthat meant only one thing: Marge had spotted him. It had happenedbefore. Couple of nasty court battles I'd read about. And she'd knownall about George Prime.       For how long?    When I got home, the house was empty. George Prime wasn't in hiscloset. And Marge wasn't in the house.     They were gone.     I started to call the police, but caught myself just in time. Icouldn't very well complain to the cops that my wife had run off withan android.     Worse yet, I could get twenty years for having an illegal Primewandering around.     I sat down and poured myself a stiff drink.     My own wife deserting me for a pile of bearings.     It was indecent.     Then I heard the front door open and there was Marge, her arms full ofgrocery bundles. Why, darling! You're home early!     I just blinked for a moment. Then I said, You're still here!     Of course. Where did you think I'd be?     But I thought—I mean the ticket office—     She set down the bundles and kissed me and looked up into my eyes,almost smiling, half reproachful. You didn't really think I'd gorunning off with something out of a lab, did you?     Then—you knew?     Certainly I knew, silly. You didn't do a very good job of instructinghim, either. You gave him far too much latitude. Let him have ideas ofhis own and all that. And next thing I knew, he was trying to get me torun off with him to Hawaii or someplace.     Bermuda, I said.     And then Marge was in my arms, kissing me and snuggling her cheekagainst my chest.     Even though he looked like you, I knew he couldn't be, she said. Hewas like you, but he wasn't      you     , darling. And all I ever want is you.I just never appreciated you before....     I held her close and tried to keep my hands from shaking. GeorgeFaircloth, Idiot, I thought. She'd never been more beautiful. But whatdid you do with him?     I sent him back to the factory, naturally. They said they could blothim out and use him over again. But let's not talk about that any more.We've got more interesting things to discuss.     Maybe we had, but we didn't waste a lot of time talking. It was theMarge I'd once known and I was beginning to wonder how I could havebeen so wrong about her. In fact unless my memory was getting awfullyporous, the old Marge was      never     like this—     I kissed her tenderly and ran my hands through her hair, and feltthe depression with my fore-finger, and then I knew what had reallyhappened.     That Marge always had been a sly one.     I wondered how she was liking things in Bermuda.  Marge probably thought she'd really put me where I belonged, but thelaugh was on her, after all.     As I said, the old Marge was never like the new one. Marge Prime makesJeree and Sybil and Dorothy and Dawn and Jane and Ruby all look prettysad by comparison.     She cooks like a dream and she always brings me my pipe and slippers.As they say, there's nothing a man likes more than to be appreciated.     A hundred per cent appreciated, with a factory guarantee to correct anyslippage, which would only be temporary, anyhow.     One of these days, we'll take that second honeymoon. But I think we'llgo to Hawaii.   ","George Faircloth, a husband who has an eight-year marriage with Marge Faircloth, is unsatisfied with his wife as he thinks she is annoying and unbearable. He desires but cannot divorce her as the law and society are critical of the divorce. His colleague, Harry Folsom, suggests he get an illegal Ego Prime, a technology that can produce a human duplicate possessing all the human features and functions, after he becomes fed up with his wife after a fight over his new secretary. He goes to the black market, goes through all the examinations needed for the technology, and buys a Super Deluxe Prime, George Prime, to hide in his workshop in the garage. The workshop is his sanctuary that he keeps for years after a long fight with Marge, a place where Marge cannot go in. He sets up George Prime and orders it to pretend him whenever he goes out to have some extramarital affairs with women in his office. George Prime does an excellent job on that as it behaves completely identical to George Faircloth, except that it gives Marge Faircloth more pleasure than George Faircloth does. At first, George Faircloth enjoys the freedom of playing around with women and not having to worry about Marge’s hysteria. But after a while, as he realizes that Marge has been more mellow and sweet whenever he is at home, catching George Prime on the street once when it is not supposed to be outside according to his order, he starts to suspect whether his choice is correct or not. One day, he leaves his date and comes home early, seeing George Prime have sexual affairs with Marge. Gripped by the anger, he tries to recall George Prime coming back to the garage, but it doesn’t respond due to the lack of the first logical opportunity for it to return. After that, through the conversation with George Prime, he realizes that things are out of his control as he cannot decide specifically what George Prime will do. Even worse, he finds out that his money is spent through the signature of George Prime as their signatures both have legal effects, and that he cannot call the police to fix it as he couldn’t explain the situation of illegal George Prime. George Prime and Marge Faircloth leave for Bermuda with his money. Marge comes home when he feels desperate in his house and comforts him. He soon realizes that it is not Marge Faircloth but Marge Prime, his wife’s duplicate and that his wife had already found out his trick long before. In the end, George Faircloth lives happily with Marge Prime, and Marge Faircloth lives happily with George Prime. Both of them are satisfied with the duplicates as they would satisfy their needs in the marriage."
"What is the significance of the “Prime” technology? </s>     PRIME DIFFERENCE     By ALAN E. NOURSE     Illustrated by SCHOENHEER     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction June 1957.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        Being two men rolled out of one would solve       my problems—but which one would I be?        I suppose that every guy reaches a point once in his lifetime when hegets one hundred and forty per cent fed up with his wife.     Understand now—I've got nothing against marriage or any thinglike that. Marriage is great. It's a good old red-blooded AmericanInstitution. Except that it's got one defect in it big enough to throwa cat through, especially when you happen to be married to a womanlike Marge—     It's so      permanent     .     Oh, I'd have divorced Marge in a minute if we'd been living in theBlissful 'Fifties—but with the Family Solidarity Amendment of 1968,and all the divorce taxes we have these days since the women gottheir teeth into politics, to say nothing of the Aggrieved SpouseCompensation Act, I'd have been a pauper for the rest of my life ifI'd tried it. That's aside from the social repercussions involved.     You can't really blame me for looking for another way out. But a manhas to be desperate to try to buy himself an Ego Prime.     So, all right, I was desperate. I'd spent eight years trying to keepMarge happy, which was exactly seven and a half years too long.     Marge was a dream to look at, with her tawny hair and her sulky eyesand a shape that could set your teeth chattering—but that was wherethe dream stopped.     She had a tongue like a #10 wood rasp and a list of grievances longenough to paper the bedroom wall. When she wasn't complaining, she wascrying, and when she wasn't crying, she was pointing out in chillingdetail exactly where George Faircloth fell short as a model husband,which happened to be everywhere. Half of the time she had a beastlyheadache (for which I was personally responsible) and the other halfshe was sore about something, so ninety-nine per cent of the time wegot along like a couple of tomcats in a packing case.  Maybe we just weren't meant for each other. I don't know. I used toenvy guys like Harry Folsom at the office. His wife is no joy to livewith either, but at least he could take a spin down to Rio once in awhile with one of the stenographers and get away with it.     I knew better than to try. Marge was already so jealous that I couldn'teven smile at the company receptionist without a twinge of guilt. GiveMarge something real to howl about, and I'd be ready for the RehabCenter in a week.     But I'd underestimated Marge. She didn't need anything real, as I foundout when Jeree came along.     Business was booming and the secretaries at the office got shuffledaround from time to time. Since I had an executive-type job, I got anexecutive-type secretary. Her name was Jeree and she was gorgeous. Asa matter of fact, she was better than gorgeous. She was the sort ofsecretary every businessman ought to have in his office. Not to do anywork—just to sit there.     Jeree was tall and dark, and she could convey more without sayinganything than I ever dreamed was possible. The first day she wasthere, she conveyed to me very clearly that if I cared to supply theopportunity, she'd be glad to supply the motive.     That night, I could tell that Marge had been thinking something overduring the day. She let me get the first bite of dinner halfway to mymouth, and then she said, I hear you got a new secretary today.     I muttered something into my coffee cup and pretended not to hear.     Marge turned on her Accusing Look #7. I also hear that she'sfive-foot-eight and tapes out at 38-25-36 and thinks you're handsome.     Marge had quite a spy system.     She couldn't be much of a secretary, she added.     She's a perfectly good secretary, I blurted, and kicked myselfmentally. I should have known Marge's traps by then.     Marge exploded. I didn't get any supper, and she was still going strongat midnight. I tried to argue, but when Marge got going, there was nostopping her. I had my ultimatum, as far as Jeree was concerned.     Harry Folsom administered the      coup de grace     at coffee next morning.What you need is an Ego Prime, he said with a grin. Solve all yourproblems. I hear they work like a charm.     I set my coffee cup down. Bells were ringing in my ears. Don't beridiculous. It's against the law. Anyway, I wouldn't think of such athing. It's—it's indecent.     Harry shrugged. Just joking, old man, just joking. Still, it's fun tothink about, eh? Freedom from wife. Absolutely safe and harmless. Noteven too expensive, if you've got the right contacts. And I've got afriend who knows a guy—     Just then, Jeree walked past us and flashed me a big smile. I grippedmy cup for dear life and still spilled coffee on my tie.     As I said, a guy gets fed up.     And maybe opportunity would only knock once.     And an Ego Prime would solve all my problems, as Harry had told me.  It was completely illegal, of course. The wonder was that Ego Prime,Inc., ever got to put their product on the market at all, once thenation's housewives got wind of just what their product was.     From the first, there was rigid Federal control and laws regulating theuse of Primes right down to the local level. You could get a licensefor a Utility model Prime if you were a big business executive, or ahigh public official, or a movie star, or something like that; but eventhen his circuits had to be inspected every two months, and he had tohave a thousand built-in Paralyzers, and you had to specify in advanceexactly what you wanted your Prime to be able to do when, where, how,why, and under what circumstances.     The law didn't leave a man much leeway.     But everybody knew that if you      really     wanted a personal Prime withall his circuits open and no questions asked, you could get one. Blackmarket prices were steep and you ran your own risk, but it could bedone.     Harry Folsom told his friend who knew a guy, and a few greenbacks gotlost somewhere, and I found myself looking at a greasy little man witha black mustache and a bald spot, up in a dingy fourth-story warehouseoff lower Broadway.     Ah, yes, the little man said. Mr. Faircloth. We've been expectingyou.  I didn't like the looks of the guy any more than the looks of theplace. I've been told you can supply me with a—     He coughed. Yes, yes. I understand. It might be possible. He fingeredhis mustache and regarded me from pouchy eyes. Busy executives oftencome to us to avoid the—ah—unpleasantness of formal arrangements.Naturally, we only act as agents, you might say. We never see themerchandise ourselves— He wiped his hands on his trousers. Now wereyou interested in the ordinary Utility model, Mr. Faircloth?     I assumed he was just being polite. You didn't come to the back doorfor Utility models.     Or perhaps you'd require one of our Deluxe models. Very carefulworkmanship. Only a few key Paralyzers in operation and practicallycomplete circuit duplication. Very useful for—ah—close contact work,you know. Social engagements, conferences—     I was shaking my head. I want a      Super     Deluxe model, I told him.     He grinned and winked. Ah, indeed! You want perfect duplication.Yes, indeed. Domestic situations can be—awkward, shall we say. Veryawkward—     I gave him a cold stare. I couldn't see where my domestic problems wereany affairs of his. He got the idea and hurried me back to a storeroom.     We keep a few blanks here for the basic measurement. You'll go to ourlaboratory on 14th Street to have the minute impressions taken. But Ican assure you you'll be delighted, simply delighted.     The blanks weren't very impressive—clay and putty and steel, faceless,brainless. He went over me like a tailor, checking measurements of allsorts. He was thorough—embarrassingly thorough, in fact—but finallyhe was finished. I went on to the laboratory.     And that was all there was to it.  Practical androids had been a pipe dream until Hunyadi invented theNeuro-pantograph. Hunyadi had no idea in the world what to do with itonce he'd invented it, but a couple of enterprising engineers boughthim body and soul, sub-contracted the problems of anatomy, design,artistry, audio and visio circuitry, and so forth, and ended up withthe modern Ego Primes we have today.     I spent a busy two hours under the NP microprobes; the artists workedoutside while the NP technicians worked inside. I came out of it prettywoozy, but a shot of Happy-O set that straight. Then I waited in therecovery room for another two hours, dreaming up ways to use my Primewhen I got him. Finally the door opened and the head technician walkedin, followed by a tall, sandy-haired man with worried blue eyes and atired look on his face.       Meet George Faircloth Prime, the technician said, grinning at me likea nursing mother.     I shook hands with myself. Good firm handshake, I thought admiringly.Nothing flabby about it.     I slapped George Prime on the shoulder happily. Come on, Brother, Isaid. You've got a job to do.     But, secretly, I was wondering what Jeree was doing that night.     George Prime had remote controls, as well as a completely recordedneurological analogue of his boss, who was me. George Prime thoughtwhat I thought about the same things I did in the same way I did. Theonly difference was that what I told George Prime to do, George Primedid.     If I told him to go to a business conference in San Francisco and makethe smallest possible concessions for the largest possible orders,he would go there and do precisely that. His signature would be mysignature. It would hold up in court.     And if I told him that my wife Marge was really a sweet, good-heartedgirl and that he was to stay home and keep her quiet and happy any timeI chose, he'd do that, too.     George Prime was a duplicate of me right down to the sandy hairs onthe back of my hands. Our fingerprints were the same. We had the samemannerisms and used the same figures of speech. The only physicaldifference apparent even to an expert was the tiny finger-depressionburied in the hair above his ear. A little pressure there would stopGeorge Prime dead in his tracks.     He was so lifelike, even I kept forgetting that he was basically just apile of gears.     I'd planned very carefully how I meant to use him, of course.     Every man who's been married eight years has a sanctuary. He builds itup and maintains it against assault in the very teeth of his wife'snatural instinct to clean, poke, pry and rearrange things. Sometimesit takes him years of diligent work to establish his hideout and beconfident that it will stay inviolate, but if he starts early enough,and sticks with it long enough, and is fierce enough and persistentenough and crafty enough, he'll probably win in the end. The girls hatehim for it, but he'll win.     With some men, it's just a box on their dressers, or a desk, or acorner of an unused back room. But I had set my sights high early inthe game. With me, it was the whole workshop in the garage.  At first, Marge tried open warfare. She had to clean the place up, shesaid. I told her I didn't      want     her to clean it up. She could cleanthe whole house as often as she chose, but      I     would clean up theworkshop.     After a couple of sharp engagements on that field, Marge staged astrategic withdrawal and reorganized her attack. A little pile of woodshavings would be on the workshop floor one night and be gone the next.A wrench would be back on the rack—upside down, of course. An openpaint can would have a cover on it.     I always knew. I screamed loudly and bitterly. I ranted and raved. Iswore I'd rig up a booby-trap with a shotgun.     So she quit trying to clean in there and just went in once in a whileto take a look around. I fixed that with the old toothpick-in-the-doorroutine. Every time she so much as set foot in that workshop, she had abattle on her hands for the next week or so. She could count on it. Itwas that predictable.     She never found out how I knew, and after seven years or so, it woreher down. She didn't go into the workshop any more.     As I said, you've got to be persistent, but you'll win.     Eventually.     If you're      really     persistent.     Now all my effort paid off. I got Marge out of the house for an houror two that day and had George Prime delivered and stored in the bigcloset in the workshop. They hooked his controls up and left me amanual of instructions for running him. When I got home that night,there he was, just waiting to be put to work.     After supper, I went out to the workshop—to get the pipe I'd leftthere, I said. I pushed George Prime's button, winked at him andswitched on the free-behavior circuits.     Go to it, Brother, I said.     George Prime put my pipe in his mouth, lit it and walked back into thehouse.     Five minutes later, I heard them fighting.     It sounded so familiar that I laughed out loud. Then I caught a cab onthe corner and headed uptown.     We had quite a night, Jeree and I. I got home just about time to startfor work, and sure enough, there was George Prime starting my car,business suit on, briefcase under his arm.     I pushed the recall and George Prime got out of the car and walked intothe workshop. He stepped into his cradle in the closet. I turned himoff and then drove away in the car.     Bless his metallic soul, he'd even kissed Marge good-by for me!  Needless to say, the affairs of George Faircloth took on a new sparklewith George Prime on hand to cover the home front.     For the first week, I was hardly home at all. I must say I felt alittle guilty, leaving poor old George Prime to cope with Marge allthe time—he looked and acted so human, it was easy to forget thathe literally couldn't care less. But I felt apologetic all the samewhenever I took him out of his closet.     She's really a sweet girl underneath it all, I'd say. You'll learnto like her after a bit.     Of course I like her, George Prime said. You told me to, didn't you?Stop worrying. She's really a sweet girl underneath it all.     He sounded convincing enough, but still it bothered me. You're sureyou understand the exchange mechanism? I asked. I didn't want anyfoul-ups there, as you can imagine.     Perfectly, said George Prime. When you buzz the recall, I wait forthe first logical opportunity I can find to come out to the workshop,and you take over.     But you might get nervous. You might inadvertently tip her off.     George Prime looked pained. Really, old man! I'm a Super Deluxe model,remember? I don't have fourteen activated Hunyadi tubes up in thiscranial vault of mine just for nothing. You're the one that's nervous.I'll take care of everything. Relax.     So I did.     Jeree made good all her tacit promises and then some. She had a verycozy little apartment on 34th Street where we went to relax aftera hard day at the office. When we weren't doing the town, that is.As long as Jeree didn't try too much conversation, everything waswonderful.     And then, when Jeree got a little boring, there was Sybil in theaccounting department. Or Dorothy in promotion. Or Jane. Or Ingrid.     I could go on at some length, but I won't. I was building quite areputation for myself around the office.     Of course, it was like buying your first 3-V set. In a week or so, thenovelty wears off a little and you start eating on schedule again. Ittook a little while, but I finally had things down to a reasonableprogram.     Tuesday and Thursday nights, I was informally out while formallyin. Sometimes I took Sunday nights out if things got too stickyaround the house over the weekend. The rest of the time, George Primecooled his heels in his closet. Locked up, of course. Can't completelytrust a wife to observe a taboo, no matter how well trained she is.     There, was an irreconcilable amount of risk. George Prime had toquick-step some questions about my work at the office—there was noway to supply him with current data until the time for his regulartwo-month refill and pattern-accommodation at the laboratory. In themeantime, George Prime had to make do with what he had.     But as he himself pointed out he was a Super Deluxe model.  Marge didn't suspect a thing. In fact, George Prime seemed to be havinga remarkable effect on her. I didn't notice anything at first—I washardly ever home. But one night I found my pipe and slippers laid outfor me, and the evening paper neatly folded on my chair, and it broughtme up short. Marge had been extremely docile lately. We hadn't had agood fight in days. Weeks, come to think of it.     I thought it over and shrugged. Old age, I figured. She was bound tomellow sometime.     But pretty soon I began to wonder if she wasn't mellowing a little toomuch.     One night when I got home, she kissed me almost as though she reallymeant it. There wasn't an unpleasant word all through dinner, whichhappened to be steak with mushrooms, served in the dining room (!) bycandlelight (!!) with dinner music that Marge could never bear, chieflybecause I liked it.     We sat over coffee and cigarettes, and it seemed almost like oldtimes.      Very     old times, in fact I even caught myself looking at Margeagain—really      looking     at her, watching the light catch in her hair,almost admiring the sparkle in her brown eyes. Sparkle, I said, notglint.     As I mentioned before, Marge was always easy to look at. That night,she was practically ravishing.     What are you doing to her? I asked George Prime later, out in theworkshop.     Why, nothing, said George Prime, looking innocent. He couldn't foolme with his look, though, because it was exactly the look I use whenI'm guilty and pretending to be innocent.     There must be      something     .     George Prime shrugged. Any woman will warm up if you spend enough timetelling her all the things she wants to hear and pay all the attentionto her that she wants paid to her. That's elemental psychology. I cangive you page references.     I ought to mention that George Prime had a complete set of basic textsrun into his circuits, at a slightly additional charge. Never can tellwhen an odd bit of information will come in useful.     Well, you must be doing quite a job, I said.      I'd     never managed towarm Marge up much.     I try, said George Prime.     Oh, I'm not complaining, I hastened to add, forgetting that a Prime'sfeelings can't be hurt and that he was only acting like me because itwas in character. I was just curious.     Of course, George.     I'm really delighted that you're doing so well.     Thank you, George.     But the next night when I was with Dawn, who happens to be a gorgeousredhead who could put Marge to shame on practically any field of battleexcept maybe brains, I kept thinking about Marge all evening long, andwondering if things weren't getting just a little out of hand.  The next evening I almost tripped over George Prime coming out of aliquor store. I ducked quickly into an alley and flagged him.       Whatare you doing out on the street?          He gave me my martyred look. Just buying some bourbon. You were out.     But you're not supposed to be off the premises—     Marge asked me to come. I couldn't tell her I was sorry, but herhusband wouldn't let me, could I?     Well, certainly not—     You want me to keep her happy, don't you? You don't want her to getsuspicious.     No, but suppose somebody saw us together! If she ever got a hint—     I'm sorry, George Prime said contritely. It seemed the right thingto do.      You     would have done it. At least that's what my judgmentcenter maintained. We had quite an argument.     Well, tell your judgment center to use a little sense, I snapped. Idon't want it to happen again.     The next night, I stayed home, even though it was Tuesday night. I wasbeginning to get worried. Of course, I did have complete control—Icould snap George Prime off any time I wanted, or even take him in fora complete recircuiting—but it seemed a pity. He was doing such a nicejob.     Marge was docile as a kitten, even more so than before. She sympathizedwith my hard day at the office and agreed heartily that the boss,despite all appearances, was in reality a jabbering idiot. Afterdinner, I suggested a movie, but Marge gave me an odd sort of look andsaid she thought it would be much nicer to spend the evening at home bythe fire.     I'd just gotten settled with the paper when she came into the livingroom and sat down beside me. She was wearing some sort of filmy affairI'd never laid eyes on before, and I caught a whiff of my favoriteperfume.     Georgie? she said.     Uh?     Do you still love me?     I set the paper down and stared at her. How's that? Of course Istill—     Well, sometimes you don't act much like it.     Mm. I guess I've—uh—got an awful headache tonight. Damn thatperfume!     Oh, said Marge.     In fact, I thought I'd turn in early and get some sleep—     Sleep, said Marge. There was no mistaking the disappointment in hervoice. Now I knew that things were out of hand.     The next evening, I activated George Prime and caught the taxi at thecorner, but I called Ruby and broke my date with her. I took in anearly movie alone and was back by ten o'clock. I left the cab at thecorner and walked quietly up the path toward the garage.     Then I stopped. I could see Marge and George Prime through the livingroom windows.     George Prime was kissing my wife the way I hadn't kissed her in eightlong years. It made my hair stand on end. And Marge wasn't exactlyfighting him off, either. She was coming back for more. After a little,the lights went off.     George Prime was a Super Deluxe model, all right.  I dashed into the workshop and punched the recall button as hard as Icould, swearing under my breath. How long had this been going on? Ipunched the button again, viciously, and waited.     George Prime didn't come out.     It was plenty cold out in the workshop that night and I didn't sleepa wink. About dawn, out came George Prime, looking like a man with afour-day hangover.     Our conversation got down to fundamentals. George Prime kept insistingblandly that, according to my own directions, he was to pick the firstlogical opportunity to come out when I buzzed, and that was exactlywhat he'd done.     I was furious all the way to work. I'd take care of this nonsense, allright. I'd have George Prime rewired from top to bottom as soon as thelaboratory could take him.     But I never phoned the laboratory. The bank was calling me when I gotto the office. They wanted to know what I planned to do about thatcheck of mine that had just bounced.     What check? I asked.     The one you wrote to cash yesterday—five hundred dollars—againstyour regular account, Mr. Faircloth.     The last I'd looked, I'd had about three thousand dollars in thataccount. I told the man so rather bluntly.     Oh, no, sir. That is, you      did     until last week. But all these checksyou've been cashing have emptied the account.     He flashed the checks on the desk screen. My signature was on every oneof them.     What about my special account? I'd learned long before that anaccount Marge didn't know about was sound rear-guard strategy.     That's been closed out for two weeks.     I hadn't written a check against that account for over a year! I glaredat the ceiling and tried to think things through.     I came up with a horrible thought.     Marge had always had her heart set on a trip to Bermuda. Just to getaway from it all, she'd say. A second honeymoon.     I got a list of travel agencies from the business directory and starteddown them. The third one I tried had a pleasant tenor voice. No, sir,not      Mrs.     Faircloth.      You     bought two tickets. One way. Champagneflight to Bermuda.     When? I choked out.     Why, today, as a matter of fact. It leaves Idlewild at eleveno'clock—     I let him worry about my amnesia and started home fast. I didn't knowwhat they'd given that Prime for circuits, but there was no questionnow that he was out of control—      way     out of control. And poor Marge,all worked up for a second honeymoon—     Then it struck me. Poor Marge? Poor sucker George! No Prime in hisright circuits would behave this way without some human guidance andthat meant only one thing: Marge had spotted him. It had happenedbefore. Couple of nasty court battles I'd read about. And she'd knownall about George Prime.       For how long?    When I got home, the house was empty. George Prime wasn't in hiscloset. And Marge wasn't in the house.     They were gone.     I started to call the police, but caught myself just in time. Icouldn't very well complain to the cops that my wife had run off withan android.     Worse yet, I could get twenty years for having an illegal Primewandering around.     I sat down and poured myself a stiff drink.     My own wife deserting me for a pile of bearings.     It was indecent.     Then I heard the front door open and there was Marge, her arms full ofgrocery bundles. Why, darling! You're home early!     I just blinked for a moment. Then I said, You're still here!     Of course. Where did you think I'd be?     But I thought—I mean the ticket office—     She set down the bundles and kissed me and looked up into my eyes,almost smiling, half reproachful. You didn't really think I'd gorunning off with something out of a lab, did you?     Then—you knew?     Certainly I knew, silly. You didn't do a very good job of instructinghim, either. You gave him far too much latitude. Let him have ideas ofhis own and all that. And next thing I knew, he was trying to get me torun off with him to Hawaii or someplace.     Bermuda, I said.     And then Marge was in my arms, kissing me and snuggling her cheekagainst my chest.     Even though he looked like you, I knew he couldn't be, she said. Hewas like you, but he wasn't      you     , darling. And all I ever want is you.I just never appreciated you before....     I held her close and tried to keep my hands from shaking. GeorgeFaircloth, Idiot, I thought. She'd never been more beautiful. But whatdid you do with him?     I sent him back to the factory, naturally. They said they could blothim out and use him over again. But let's not talk about that any more.We've got more interesting things to discuss.     Maybe we had, but we didn't waste a lot of time talking. It was theMarge I'd once known and I was beginning to wonder how I could havebeen so wrong about her. In fact unless my memory was getting awfullyporous, the old Marge was      never     like this—     I kissed her tenderly and ran my hands through her hair, and feltthe depression with my fore-finger, and then I knew what had reallyhappened.     That Marge always had been a sly one.     I wondered how she was liking things in Bermuda.  Marge probably thought she'd really put me where I belonged, but thelaugh was on her, after all.     As I said, the old Marge was never like the new one. Marge Prime makesJeree and Sybil and Dorothy and Dawn and Jane and Ruby all look prettysad by comparison.     She cooks like a dream and she always brings me my pipe and slippers.As they say, there's nothing a man likes more than to be appreciated.     A hundred per cent appreciated, with a factory guarantee to correct anyslippage, which would only be temporary, anyhow.     One of these days, we'll take that second honeymoon. But I think we'llgo to Hawaii.   ","The Ego Prime is a technology that produces a robotic duplicate of a person. This duplicate is based on a neuro-pantograph with a humanlike body and soul. The duplicate is identical to a real person, including the habits, thought processes, physiological functions, or even the handwritten legal signature that one person may have. The only difference between the real person and one’s duplicate is that the duplicate has a finger-depression button hidden underneath the hair above the ear. Throughout the story, George, a husband who has been tired of his wife, buys a George Prime, the duplicate of himself, to deal with his wife and have sexual affairs with other women around his office. However, he finds out that George Prime leaves with her wife, and his wife, Marge Faircloth, sends her duplicate Marge Prime to accompany her, just as he did to her. The exchange of their duplicates to escape from the unsatisfying marriage contributes to most of the story. Prime technology plays a significant role as duplicates can satisfy human needs better than a natural person. Due to this characteristic of being able to meet one’s demand by their logical inferences and inability to feel annoyed, the duplicates of both sides become the ideal mates for each person, both George and Marge, ending the story with both of them living with the Primes. Without Prime Technology, the story would not have developed."
"How is the theme of marriage explored throughout the story? </s>     PRIME DIFFERENCE     By ALAN E. NOURSE     Illustrated by SCHOENHEER     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction June 1957.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        Being two men rolled out of one would solve       my problems—but which one would I be?        I suppose that every guy reaches a point once in his lifetime when hegets one hundred and forty per cent fed up with his wife.     Understand now—I've got nothing against marriage or any thinglike that. Marriage is great. It's a good old red-blooded AmericanInstitution. Except that it's got one defect in it big enough to throwa cat through, especially when you happen to be married to a womanlike Marge—     It's so      permanent     .     Oh, I'd have divorced Marge in a minute if we'd been living in theBlissful 'Fifties—but with the Family Solidarity Amendment of 1968,and all the divorce taxes we have these days since the women gottheir teeth into politics, to say nothing of the Aggrieved SpouseCompensation Act, I'd have been a pauper for the rest of my life ifI'd tried it. That's aside from the social repercussions involved.     You can't really blame me for looking for another way out. But a manhas to be desperate to try to buy himself an Ego Prime.     So, all right, I was desperate. I'd spent eight years trying to keepMarge happy, which was exactly seven and a half years too long.     Marge was a dream to look at, with her tawny hair and her sulky eyesand a shape that could set your teeth chattering—but that was wherethe dream stopped.     She had a tongue like a #10 wood rasp and a list of grievances longenough to paper the bedroom wall. When she wasn't complaining, she wascrying, and when she wasn't crying, she was pointing out in chillingdetail exactly where George Faircloth fell short as a model husband,which happened to be everywhere. Half of the time she had a beastlyheadache (for which I was personally responsible) and the other halfshe was sore about something, so ninety-nine per cent of the time wegot along like a couple of tomcats in a packing case.  Maybe we just weren't meant for each other. I don't know. I used toenvy guys like Harry Folsom at the office. His wife is no joy to livewith either, but at least he could take a spin down to Rio once in awhile with one of the stenographers and get away with it.     I knew better than to try. Marge was already so jealous that I couldn'teven smile at the company receptionist without a twinge of guilt. GiveMarge something real to howl about, and I'd be ready for the RehabCenter in a week.     But I'd underestimated Marge. She didn't need anything real, as I foundout when Jeree came along.     Business was booming and the secretaries at the office got shuffledaround from time to time. Since I had an executive-type job, I got anexecutive-type secretary. Her name was Jeree and she was gorgeous. Asa matter of fact, she was better than gorgeous. She was the sort ofsecretary every businessman ought to have in his office. Not to do anywork—just to sit there.     Jeree was tall and dark, and she could convey more without sayinganything than I ever dreamed was possible. The first day she wasthere, she conveyed to me very clearly that if I cared to supply theopportunity, she'd be glad to supply the motive.     That night, I could tell that Marge had been thinking something overduring the day. She let me get the first bite of dinner halfway to mymouth, and then she said, I hear you got a new secretary today.     I muttered something into my coffee cup and pretended not to hear.     Marge turned on her Accusing Look #7. I also hear that she'sfive-foot-eight and tapes out at 38-25-36 and thinks you're handsome.     Marge had quite a spy system.     She couldn't be much of a secretary, she added.     She's a perfectly good secretary, I blurted, and kicked myselfmentally. I should have known Marge's traps by then.     Marge exploded. I didn't get any supper, and she was still going strongat midnight. I tried to argue, but when Marge got going, there was nostopping her. I had my ultimatum, as far as Jeree was concerned.     Harry Folsom administered the      coup de grace     at coffee next morning.What you need is an Ego Prime, he said with a grin. Solve all yourproblems. I hear they work like a charm.     I set my coffee cup down. Bells were ringing in my ears. Don't beridiculous. It's against the law. Anyway, I wouldn't think of such athing. It's—it's indecent.     Harry shrugged. Just joking, old man, just joking. Still, it's fun tothink about, eh? Freedom from wife. Absolutely safe and harmless. Noteven too expensive, if you've got the right contacts. And I've got afriend who knows a guy—     Just then, Jeree walked past us and flashed me a big smile. I grippedmy cup for dear life and still spilled coffee on my tie.     As I said, a guy gets fed up.     And maybe opportunity would only knock once.     And an Ego Prime would solve all my problems, as Harry had told me.  It was completely illegal, of course. The wonder was that Ego Prime,Inc., ever got to put their product on the market at all, once thenation's housewives got wind of just what their product was.     From the first, there was rigid Federal control and laws regulating theuse of Primes right down to the local level. You could get a licensefor a Utility model Prime if you were a big business executive, or ahigh public official, or a movie star, or something like that; but eventhen his circuits had to be inspected every two months, and he had tohave a thousand built-in Paralyzers, and you had to specify in advanceexactly what you wanted your Prime to be able to do when, where, how,why, and under what circumstances.     The law didn't leave a man much leeway.     But everybody knew that if you      really     wanted a personal Prime withall his circuits open and no questions asked, you could get one. Blackmarket prices were steep and you ran your own risk, but it could bedone.     Harry Folsom told his friend who knew a guy, and a few greenbacks gotlost somewhere, and I found myself looking at a greasy little man witha black mustache and a bald spot, up in a dingy fourth-story warehouseoff lower Broadway.     Ah, yes, the little man said. Mr. Faircloth. We've been expectingyou.  I didn't like the looks of the guy any more than the looks of theplace. I've been told you can supply me with a—     He coughed. Yes, yes. I understand. It might be possible. He fingeredhis mustache and regarded me from pouchy eyes. Busy executives oftencome to us to avoid the—ah—unpleasantness of formal arrangements.Naturally, we only act as agents, you might say. We never see themerchandise ourselves— He wiped his hands on his trousers. Now wereyou interested in the ordinary Utility model, Mr. Faircloth?     I assumed he was just being polite. You didn't come to the back doorfor Utility models.     Or perhaps you'd require one of our Deluxe models. Very carefulworkmanship. Only a few key Paralyzers in operation and practicallycomplete circuit duplication. Very useful for—ah—close contact work,you know. Social engagements, conferences—     I was shaking my head. I want a      Super     Deluxe model, I told him.     He grinned and winked. Ah, indeed! You want perfect duplication.Yes, indeed. Domestic situations can be—awkward, shall we say. Veryawkward—     I gave him a cold stare. I couldn't see where my domestic problems wereany affairs of his. He got the idea and hurried me back to a storeroom.     We keep a few blanks here for the basic measurement. You'll go to ourlaboratory on 14th Street to have the minute impressions taken. But Ican assure you you'll be delighted, simply delighted.     The blanks weren't very impressive—clay and putty and steel, faceless,brainless. He went over me like a tailor, checking measurements of allsorts. He was thorough—embarrassingly thorough, in fact—but finallyhe was finished. I went on to the laboratory.     And that was all there was to it.  Practical androids had been a pipe dream until Hunyadi invented theNeuro-pantograph. Hunyadi had no idea in the world what to do with itonce he'd invented it, but a couple of enterprising engineers boughthim body and soul, sub-contracted the problems of anatomy, design,artistry, audio and visio circuitry, and so forth, and ended up withthe modern Ego Primes we have today.     I spent a busy two hours under the NP microprobes; the artists workedoutside while the NP technicians worked inside. I came out of it prettywoozy, but a shot of Happy-O set that straight. Then I waited in therecovery room for another two hours, dreaming up ways to use my Primewhen I got him. Finally the door opened and the head technician walkedin, followed by a tall, sandy-haired man with worried blue eyes and atired look on his face.       Meet George Faircloth Prime, the technician said, grinning at me likea nursing mother.     I shook hands with myself. Good firm handshake, I thought admiringly.Nothing flabby about it.     I slapped George Prime on the shoulder happily. Come on, Brother, Isaid. You've got a job to do.     But, secretly, I was wondering what Jeree was doing that night.     George Prime had remote controls, as well as a completely recordedneurological analogue of his boss, who was me. George Prime thoughtwhat I thought about the same things I did in the same way I did. Theonly difference was that what I told George Prime to do, George Primedid.     If I told him to go to a business conference in San Francisco and makethe smallest possible concessions for the largest possible orders,he would go there and do precisely that. His signature would be mysignature. It would hold up in court.     And if I told him that my wife Marge was really a sweet, good-heartedgirl and that he was to stay home and keep her quiet and happy any timeI chose, he'd do that, too.     George Prime was a duplicate of me right down to the sandy hairs onthe back of my hands. Our fingerprints were the same. We had the samemannerisms and used the same figures of speech. The only physicaldifference apparent even to an expert was the tiny finger-depressionburied in the hair above his ear. A little pressure there would stopGeorge Prime dead in his tracks.     He was so lifelike, even I kept forgetting that he was basically just apile of gears.     I'd planned very carefully how I meant to use him, of course.     Every man who's been married eight years has a sanctuary. He builds itup and maintains it against assault in the very teeth of his wife'snatural instinct to clean, poke, pry and rearrange things. Sometimesit takes him years of diligent work to establish his hideout and beconfident that it will stay inviolate, but if he starts early enough,and sticks with it long enough, and is fierce enough and persistentenough and crafty enough, he'll probably win in the end. The girls hatehim for it, but he'll win.     With some men, it's just a box on their dressers, or a desk, or acorner of an unused back room. But I had set my sights high early inthe game. With me, it was the whole workshop in the garage.  At first, Marge tried open warfare. She had to clean the place up, shesaid. I told her I didn't      want     her to clean it up. She could cleanthe whole house as often as she chose, but      I     would clean up theworkshop.     After a couple of sharp engagements on that field, Marge staged astrategic withdrawal and reorganized her attack. A little pile of woodshavings would be on the workshop floor one night and be gone the next.A wrench would be back on the rack—upside down, of course. An openpaint can would have a cover on it.     I always knew. I screamed loudly and bitterly. I ranted and raved. Iswore I'd rig up a booby-trap with a shotgun.     So she quit trying to clean in there and just went in once in a whileto take a look around. I fixed that with the old toothpick-in-the-doorroutine. Every time she so much as set foot in that workshop, she had abattle on her hands for the next week or so. She could count on it. Itwas that predictable.     She never found out how I knew, and after seven years or so, it woreher down. She didn't go into the workshop any more.     As I said, you've got to be persistent, but you'll win.     Eventually.     If you're      really     persistent.     Now all my effort paid off. I got Marge out of the house for an houror two that day and had George Prime delivered and stored in the bigcloset in the workshop. They hooked his controls up and left me amanual of instructions for running him. When I got home that night,there he was, just waiting to be put to work.     After supper, I went out to the workshop—to get the pipe I'd leftthere, I said. I pushed George Prime's button, winked at him andswitched on the free-behavior circuits.     Go to it, Brother, I said.     George Prime put my pipe in his mouth, lit it and walked back into thehouse.     Five minutes later, I heard them fighting.     It sounded so familiar that I laughed out loud. Then I caught a cab onthe corner and headed uptown.     We had quite a night, Jeree and I. I got home just about time to startfor work, and sure enough, there was George Prime starting my car,business suit on, briefcase under his arm.     I pushed the recall and George Prime got out of the car and walked intothe workshop. He stepped into his cradle in the closet. I turned himoff and then drove away in the car.     Bless his metallic soul, he'd even kissed Marge good-by for me!  Needless to say, the affairs of George Faircloth took on a new sparklewith George Prime on hand to cover the home front.     For the first week, I was hardly home at all. I must say I felt alittle guilty, leaving poor old George Prime to cope with Marge allthe time—he looked and acted so human, it was easy to forget thathe literally couldn't care less. But I felt apologetic all the samewhenever I took him out of his closet.     She's really a sweet girl underneath it all, I'd say. You'll learnto like her after a bit.     Of course I like her, George Prime said. You told me to, didn't you?Stop worrying. She's really a sweet girl underneath it all.     He sounded convincing enough, but still it bothered me. You're sureyou understand the exchange mechanism? I asked. I didn't want anyfoul-ups there, as you can imagine.     Perfectly, said George Prime. When you buzz the recall, I wait forthe first logical opportunity I can find to come out to the workshop,and you take over.     But you might get nervous. You might inadvertently tip her off.     George Prime looked pained. Really, old man! I'm a Super Deluxe model,remember? I don't have fourteen activated Hunyadi tubes up in thiscranial vault of mine just for nothing. You're the one that's nervous.I'll take care of everything. Relax.     So I did.     Jeree made good all her tacit promises and then some. She had a verycozy little apartment on 34th Street where we went to relax aftera hard day at the office. When we weren't doing the town, that is.As long as Jeree didn't try too much conversation, everything waswonderful.     And then, when Jeree got a little boring, there was Sybil in theaccounting department. Or Dorothy in promotion. Or Jane. Or Ingrid.     I could go on at some length, but I won't. I was building quite areputation for myself around the office.     Of course, it was like buying your first 3-V set. In a week or so, thenovelty wears off a little and you start eating on schedule again. Ittook a little while, but I finally had things down to a reasonableprogram.     Tuesday and Thursday nights, I was informally out while formallyin. Sometimes I took Sunday nights out if things got too stickyaround the house over the weekend. The rest of the time, George Primecooled his heels in his closet. Locked up, of course. Can't completelytrust a wife to observe a taboo, no matter how well trained she is.     There, was an irreconcilable amount of risk. George Prime had toquick-step some questions about my work at the office—there was noway to supply him with current data until the time for his regulartwo-month refill and pattern-accommodation at the laboratory. In themeantime, George Prime had to make do with what he had.     But as he himself pointed out he was a Super Deluxe model.  Marge didn't suspect a thing. In fact, George Prime seemed to be havinga remarkable effect on her. I didn't notice anything at first—I washardly ever home. But one night I found my pipe and slippers laid outfor me, and the evening paper neatly folded on my chair, and it broughtme up short. Marge had been extremely docile lately. We hadn't had agood fight in days. Weeks, come to think of it.     I thought it over and shrugged. Old age, I figured. She was bound tomellow sometime.     But pretty soon I began to wonder if she wasn't mellowing a little toomuch.     One night when I got home, she kissed me almost as though she reallymeant it. There wasn't an unpleasant word all through dinner, whichhappened to be steak with mushrooms, served in the dining room (!) bycandlelight (!!) with dinner music that Marge could never bear, chieflybecause I liked it.     We sat over coffee and cigarettes, and it seemed almost like oldtimes.      Very     old times, in fact I even caught myself looking at Margeagain—really      looking     at her, watching the light catch in her hair,almost admiring the sparkle in her brown eyes. Sparkle, I said, notglint.     As I mentioned before, Marge was always easy to look at. That night,she was practically ravishing.     What are you doing to her? I asked George Prime later, out in theworkshop.     Why, nothing, said George Prime, looking innocent. He couldn't foolme with his look, though, because it was exactly the look I use whenI'm guilty and pretending to be innocent.     There must be      something     .     George Prime shrugged. Any woman will warm up if you spend enough timetelling her all the things she wants to hear and pay all the attentionto her that she wants paid to her. That's elemental psychology. I cangive you page references.     I ought to mention that George Prime had a complete set of basic textsrun into his circuits, at a slightly additional charge. Never can tellwhen an odd bit of information will come in useful.     Well, you must be doing quite a job, I said.      I'd     never managed towarm Marge up much.     I try, said George Prime.     Oh, I'm not complaining, I hastened to add, forgetting that a Prime'sfeelings can't be hurt and that he was only acting like me because itwas in character. I was just curious.     Of course, George.     I'm really delighted that you're doing so well.     Thank you, George.     But the next night when I was with Dawn, who happens to be a gorgeousredhead who could put Marge to shame on practically any field of battleexcept maybe brains, I kept thinking about Marge all evening long, andwondering if things weren't getting just a little out of hand.  The next evening I almost tripped over George Prime coming out of aliquor store. I ducked quickly into an alley and flagged him.       Whatare you doing out on the street?          He gave me my martyred look. Just buying some bourbon. You were out.     But you're not supposed to be off the premises—     Marge asked me to come. I couldn't tell her I was sorry, but herhusband wouldn't let me, could I?     Well, certainly not—     You want me to keep her happy, don't you? You don't want her to getsuspicious.     No, but suppose somebody saw us together! If she ever got a hint—     I'm sorry, George Prime said contritely. It seemed the right thingto do.      You     would have done it. At least that's what my judgmentcenter maintained. We had quite an argument.     Well, tell your judgment center to use a little sense, I snapped. Idon't want it to happen again.     The next night, I stayed home, even though it was Tuesday night. I wasbeginning to get worried. Of course, I did have complete control—Icould snap George Prime off any time I wanted, or even take him in fora complete recircuiting—but it seemed a pity. He was doing such a nicejob.     Marge was docile as a kitten, even more so than before. She sympathizedwith my hard day at the office and agreed heartily that the boss,despite all appearances, was in reality a jabbering idiot. Afterdinner, I suggested a movie, but Marge gave me an odd sort of look andsaid she thought it would be much nicer to spend the evening at home bythe fire.     I'd just gotten settled with the paper when she came into the livingroom and sat down beside me. She was wearing some sort of filmy affairI'd never laid eyes on before, and I caught a whiff of my favoriteperfume.     Georgie? she said.     Uh?     Do you still love me?     I set the paper down and stared at her. How's that? Of course Istill—     Well, sometimes you don't act much like it.     Mm. I guess I've—uh—got an awful headache tonight. Damn thatperfume!     Oh, said Marge.     In fact, I thought I'd turn in early and get some sleep—     Sleep, said Marge. There was no mistaking the disappointment in hervoice. Now I knew that things were out of hand.     The next evening, I activated George Prime and caught the taxi at thecorner, but I called Ruby and broke my date with her. I took in anearly movie alone and was back by ten o'clock. I left the cab at thecorner and walked quietly up the path toward the garage.     Then I stopped. I could see Marge and George Prime through the livingroom windows.     George Prime was kissing my wife the way I hadn't kissed her in eightlong years. It made my hair stand on end. And Marge wasn't exactlyfighting him off, either. She was coming back for more. After a little,the lights went off.     George Prime was a Super Deluxe model, all right.  I dashed into the workshop and punched the recall button as hard as Icould, swearing under my breath. How long had this been going on? Ipunched the button again, viciously, and waited.     George Prime didn't come out.     It was plenty cold out in the workshop that night and I didn't sleepa wink. About dawn, out came George Prime, looking like a man with afour-day hangover.     Our conversation got down to fundamentals. George Prime kept insistingblandly that, according to my own directions, he was to pick the firstlogical opportunity to come out when I buzzed, and that was exactlywhat he'd done.     I was furious all the way to work. I'd take care of this nonsense, allright. I'd have George Prime rewired from top to bottom as soon as thelaboratory could take him.     But I never phoned the laboratory. The bank was calling me when I gotto the office. They wanted to know what I planned to do about thatcheck of mine that had just bounced.     What check? I asked.     The one you wrote to cash yesterday—five hundred dollars—againstyour regular account, Mr. Faircloth.     The last I'd looked, I'd had about three thousand dollars in thataccount. I told the man so rather bluntly.     Oh, no, sir. That is, you      did     until last week. But all these checksyou've been cashing have emptied the account.     He flashed the checks on the desk screen. My signature was on every oneof them.     What about my special account? I'd learned long before that anaccount Marge didn't know about was sound rear-guard strategy.     That's been closed out for two weeks.     I hadn't written a check against that account for over a year! I glaredat the ceiling and tried to think things through.     I came up with a horrible thought.     Marge had always had her heart set on a trip to Bermuda. Just to getaway from it all, she'd say. A second honeymoon.     I got a list of travel agencies from the business directory and starteddown them. The third one I tried had a pleasant tenor voice. No, sir,not      Mrs.     Faircloth.      You     bought two tickets. One way. Champagneflight to Bermuda.     When? I choked out.     Why, today, as a matter of fact. It leaves Idlewild at eleveno'clock—     I let him worry about my amnesia and started home fast. I didn't knowwhat they'd given that Prime for circuits, but there was no questionnow that he was out of control—      way     out of control. And poor Marge,all worked up for a second honeymoon—     Then it struck me. Poor Marge? Poor sucker George! No Prime in hisright circuits would behave this way without some human guidance andthat meant only one thing: Marge had spotted him. It had happenedbefore. Couple of nasty court battles I'd read about. And she'd knownall about George Prime.       For how long?    When I got home, the house was empty. George Prime wasn't in hiscloset. And Marge wasn't in the house.     They were gone.     I started to call the police, but caught myself just in time. Icouldn't very well complain to the cops that my wife had run off withan android.     Worse yet, I could get twenty years for having an illegal Primewandering around.     I sat down and poured myself a stiff drink.     My own wife deserting me for a pile of bearings.     It was indecent.     Then I heard the front door open and there was Marge, her arms full ofgrocery bundles. Why, darling! You're home early!     I just blinked for a moment. Then I said, You're still here!     Of course. Where did you think I'd be?     But I thought—I mean the ticket office—     She set down the bundles and kissed me and looked up into my eyes,almost smiling, half reproachful. You didn't really think I'd gorunning off with something out of a lab, did you?     Then—you knew?     Certainly I knew, silly. You didn't do a very good job of instructinghim, either. You gave him far too much latitude. Let him have ideas ofhis own and all that. And next thing I knew, he was trying to get me torun off with him to Hawaii or someplace.     Bermuda, I said.     And then Marge was in my arms, kissing me and snuggling her cheekagainst my chest.     Even though he looked like you, I knew he couldn't be, she said. Hewas like you, but he wasn't      you     , darling. And all I ever want is you.I just never appreciated you before....     I held her close and tried to keep my hands from shaking. GeorgeFaircloth, Idiot, I thought. She'd never been more beautiful. But whatdid you do with him?     I sent him back to the factory, naturally. They said they could blothim out and use him over again. But let's not talk about that any more.We've got more interesting things to discuss.     Maybe we had, but we didn't waste a lot of time talking. It was theMarge I'd once known and I was beginning to wonder how I could havebeen so wrong about her. In fact unless my memory was getting awfullyporous, the old Marge was      never     like this—     I kissed her tenderly and ran my hands through her hair, and feltthe depression with my fore-finger, and then I knew what had reallyhappened.     That Marge always had been a sly one.     I wondered how she was liking things in Bermuda.  Marge probably thought she'd really put me where I belonged, but thelaugh was on her, after all.     As I said, the old Marge was never like the new one. Marge Prime makesJeree and Sybil and Dorothy and Dawn and Jane and Ruby all look prettysad by comparison.     She cooks like a dream and she always brings me my pipe and slippers.As they say, there's nothing a man likes more than to be appreciated.     A hundred per cent appreciated, with a factory guarantee to correct anyslippage, which would only be temporary, anyhow.     One of these days, we'll take that second honeymoon. But I think we'llgo to Hawaii.   ","The story starts with a husband, George Faircloth, who is unsatisfied with his marriage, trying to escape from his wife without communicating with her. Throughout the story, he uses Prime Technology, a technology that can produce an identical duplicate of a human, to deal with his wife’s complaints and other annoying interactions with him. However, when he finds out that George Prime, his duplicate, gets along better with his wife than him and finally leaves him behind together, he realizes what he has done wrong. When he feels desperate, his wife’s duplicate comes to stay with him, and he finally finds his wife’s duplicate better than his wife. The central theme of the story is the marriage relationship. The beginning of the story reveals a marriage failure where both the husband and the wife are not satisfied with each other after years-long marriage. Their solutions are not to communicate with each other or change for the better but to escape from each other through Prime technology. In the middle of the story, where George Faircloth once finds his wife adorable again due to George Prime’s effort, it shows the importance of communication and mutual support in the marriage, which is lacking in their relationship. The ending of the story, where both of them live with the duplicates of each other, indicates that a good relationship in marriage is to listen to and satisfy what each other needs with proper communication."
"What is the relationship between George Faircloth and Marge Faircloth? </s>     PRIME DIFFERENCE     By ALAN E. NOURSE     Illustrated by SCHOENHEER     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction June 1957.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        Being two men rolled out of one would solve       my problems—but which one would I be?        I suppose that every guy reaches a point once in his lifetime when hegets one hundred and forty per cent fed up with his wife.     Understand now—I've got nothing against marriage or any thinglike that. Marriage is great. It's a good old red-blooded AmericanInstitution. Except that it's got one defect in it big enough to throwa cat through, especially when you happen to be married to a womanlike Marge—     It's so      permanent     .     Oh, I'd have divorced Marge in a minute if we'd been living in theBlissful 'Fifties—but with the Family Solidarity Amendment of 1968,and all the divorce taxes we have these days since the women gottheir teeth into politics, to say nothing of the Aggrieved SpouseCompensation Act, I'd have been a pauper for the rest of my life ifI'd tried it. That's aside from the social repercussions involved.     You can't really blame me for looking for another way out. But a manhas to be desperate to try to buy himself an Ego Prime.     So, all right, I was desperate. I'd spent eight years trying to keepMarge happy, which was exactly seven and a half years too long.     Marge was a dream to look at, with her tawny hair and her sulky eyesand a shape that could set your teeth chattering—but that was wherethe dream stopped.     She had a tongue like a #10 wood rasp and a list of grievances longenough to paper the bedroom wall. When she wasn't complaining, she wascrying, and when she wasn't crying, she was pointing out in chillingdetail exactly where George Faircloth fell short as a model husband,which happened to be everywhere. Half of the time she had a beastlyheadache (for which I was personally responsible) and the other halfshe was sore about something, so ninety-nine per cent of the time wegot along like a couple of tomcats in a packing case.  Maybe we just weren't meant for each other. I don't know. I used toenvy guys like Harry Folsom at the office. His wife is no joy to livewith either, but at least he could take a spin down to Rio once in awhile with one of the stenographers and get away with it.     I knew better than to try. Marge was already so jealous that I couldn'teven smile at the company receptionist without a twinge of guilt. GiveMarge something real to howl about, and I'd be ready for the RehabCenter in a week.     But I'd underestimated Marge. She didn't need anything real, as I foundout when Jeree came along.     Business was booming and the secretaries at the office got shuffledaround from time to time. Since I had an executive-type job, I got anexecutive-type secretary. Her name was Jeree and she was gorgeous. Asa matter of fact, she was better than gorgeous. She was the sort ofsecretary every businessman ought to have in his office. Not to do anywork—just to sit there.     Jeree was tall and dark, and she could convey more without sayinganything than I ever dreamed was possible. The first day she wasthere, she conveyed to me very clearly that if I cared to supply theopportunity, she'd be glad to supply the motive.     That night, I could tell that Marge had been thinking something overduring the day. She let me get the first bite of dinner halfway to mymouth, and then she said, I hear you got a new secretary today.     I muttered something into my coffee cup and pretended not to hear.     Marge turned on her Accusing Look #7. I also hear that she'sfive-foot-eight and tapes out at 38-25-36 and thinks you're handsome.     Marge had quite a spy system.     She couldn't be much of a secretary, she added.     She's a perfectly good secretary, I blurted, and kicked myselfmentally. I should have known Marge's traps by then.     Marge exploded. I didn't get any supper, and she was still going strongat midnight. I tried to argue, but when Marge got going, there was nostopping her. I had my ultimatum, as far as Jeree was concerned.     Harry Folsom administered the      coup de grace     at coffee next morning.What you need is an Ego Prime, he said with a grin. Solve all yourproblems. I hear they work like a charm.     I set my coffee cup down. Bells were ringing in my ears. Don't beridiculous. It's against the law. Anyway, I wouldn't think of such athing. It's—it's indecent.     Harry shrugged. Just joking, old man, just joking. Still, it's fun tothink about, eh? Freedom from wife. Absolutely safe and harmless. Noteven too expensive, if you've got the right contacts. And I've got afriend who knows a guy—     Just then, Jeree walked past us and flashed me a big smile. I grippedmy cup for dear life and still spilled coffee on my tie.     As I said, a guy gets fed up.     And maybe opportunity would only knock once.     And an Ego Prime would solve all my problems, as Harry had told me.  It was completely illegal, of course. The wonder was that Ego Prime,Inc., ever got to put their product on the market at all, once thenation's housewives got wind of just what their product was.     From the first, there was rigid Federal control and laws regulating theuse of Primes right down to the local level. You could get a licensefor a Utility model Prime if you were a big business executive, or ahigh public official, or a movie star, or something like that; but eventhen his circuits had to be inspected every two months, and he had tohave a thousand built-in Paralyzers, and you had to specify in advanceexactly what you wanted your Prime to be able to do when, where, how,why, and under what circumstances.     The law didn't leave a man much leeway.     But everybody knew that if you      really     wanted a personal Prime withall his circuits open and no questions asked, you could get one. Blackmarket prices were steep and you ran your own risk, but it could bedone.     Harry Folsom told his friend who knew a guy, and a few greenbacks gotlost somewhere, and I found myself looking at a greasy little man witha black mustache and a bald spot, up in a dingy fourth-story warehouseoff lower Broadway.     Ah, yes, the little man said. Mr. Faircloth. We've been expectingyou.  I didn't like the looks of the guy any more than the looks of theplace. I've been told you can supply me with a—     He coughed. Yes, yes. I understand. It might be possible. He fingeredhis mustache and regarded me from pouchy eyes. Busy executives oftencome to us to avoid the—ah—unpleasantness of formal arrangements.Naturally, we only act as agents, you might say. We never see themerchandise ourselves— He wiped his hands on his trousers. Now wereyou interested in the ordinary Utility model, Mr. Faircloth?     I assumed he was just being polite. You didn't come to the back doorfor Utility models.     Or perhaps you'd require one of our Deluxe models. Very carefulworkmanship. Only a few key Paralyzers in operation and practicallycomplete circuit duplication. Very useful for—ah—close contact work,you know. Social engagements, conferences—     I was shaking my head. I want a      Super     Deluxe model, I told him.     He grinned and winked. Ah, indeed! You want perfect duplication.Yes, indeed. Domestic situations can be—awkward, shall we say. Veryawkward—     I gave him a cold stare. I couldn't see where my domestic problems wereany affairs of his. He got the idea and hurried me back to a storeroom.     We keep a few blanks here for the basic measurement. You'll go to ourlaboratory on 14th Street to have the minute impressions taken. But Ican assure you you'll be delighted, simply delighted.     The blanks weren't very impressive—clay and putty and steel, faceless,brainless. He went over me like a tailor, checking measurements of allsorts. He was thorough—embarrassingly thorough, in fact—but finallyhe was finished. I went on to the laboratory.     And that was all there was to it.  Practical androids had been a pipe dream until Hunyadi invented theNeuro-pantograph. Hunyadi had no idea in the world what to do with itonce he'd invented it, but a couple of enterprising engineers boughthim body and soul, sub-contracted the problems of anatomy, design,artistry, audio and visio circuitry, and so forth, and ended up withthe modern Ego Primes we have today.     I spent a busy two hours under the NP microprobes; the artists workedoutside while the NP technicians worked inside. I came out of it prettywoozy, but a shot of Happy-O set that straight. Then I waited in therecovery room for another two hours, dreaming up ways to use my Primewhen I got him. Finally the door opened and the head technician walkedin, followed by a tall, sandy-haired man with worried blue eyes and atired look on his face.       Meet George Faircloth Prime, the technician said, grinning at me likea nursing mother.     I shook hands with myself. Good firm handshake, I thought admiringly.Nothing flabby about it.     I slapped George Prime on the shoulder happily. Come on, Brother, Isaid. You've got a job to do.     But, secretly, I was wondering what Jeree was doing that night.     George Prime had remote controls, as well as a completely recordedneurological analogue of his boss, who was me. George Prime thoughtwhat I thought about the same things I did in the same way I did. Theonly difference was that what I told George Prime to do, George Primedid.     If I told him to go to a business conference in San Francisco and makethe smallest possible concessions for the largest possible orders,he would go there and do precisely that. His signature would be mysignature. It would hold up in court.     And if I told him that my wife Marge was really a sweet, good-heartedgirl and that he was to stay home and keep her quiet and happy any timeI chose, he'd do that, too.     George Prime was a duplicate of me right down to the sandy hairs onthe back of my hands. Our fingerprints were the same. We had the samemannerisms and used the same figures of speech. The only physicaldifference apparent even to an expert was the tiny finger-depressionburied in the hair above his ear. A little pressure there would stopGeorge Prime dead in his tracks.     He was so lifelike, even I kept forgetting that he was basically just apile of gears.     I'd planned very carefully how I meant to use him, of course.     Every man who's been married eight years has a sanctuary. He builds itup and maintains it against assault in the very teeth of his wife'snatural instinct to clean, poke, pry and rearrange things. Sometimesit takes him years of diligent work to establish his hideout and beconfident that it will stay inviolate, but if he starts early enough,and sticks with it long enough, and is fierce enough and persistentenough and crafty enough, he'll probably win in the end. The girls hatehim for it, but he'll win.     With some men, it's just a box on their dressers, or a desk, or acorner of an unused back room. But I had set my sights high early inthe game. With me, it was the whole workshop in the garage.  At first, Marge tried open warfare. She had to clean the place up, shesaid. I told her I didn't      want     her to clean it up. She could cleanthe whole house as often as she chose, but      I     would clean up theworkshop.     After a couple of sharp engagements on that field, Marge staged astrategic withdrawal and reorganized her attack. A little pile of woodshavings would be on the workshop floor one night and be gone the next.A wrench would be back on the rack—upside down, of course. An openpaint can would have a cover on it.     I always knew. I screamed loudly and bitterly. I ranted and raved. Iswore I'd rig up a booby-trap with a shotgun.     So she quit trying to clean in there and just went in once in a whileto take a look around. I fixed that with the old toothpick-in-the-doorroutine. Every time she so much as set foot in that workshop, she had abattle on her hands for the next week or so. She could count on it. Itwas that predictable.     She never found out how I knew, and after seven years or so, it woreher down. She didn't go into the workshop any more.     As I said, you've got to be persistent, but you'll win.     Eventually.     If you're      really     persistent.     Now all my effort paid off. I got Marge out of the house for an houror two that day and had George Prime delivered and stored in the bigcloset in the workshop. They hooked his controls up and left me amanual of instructions for running him. When I got home that night,there he was, just waiting to be put to work.     After supper, I went out to the workshop—to get the pipe I'd leftthere, I said. I pushed George Prime's button, winked at him andswitched on the free-behavior circuits.     Go to it, Brother, I said.     George Prime put my pipe in his mouth, lit it and walked back into thehouse.     Five minutes later, I heard them fighting.     It sounded so familiar that I laughed out loud. Then I caught a cab onthe corner and headed uptown.     We had quite a night, Jeree and I. I got home just about time to startfor work, and sure enough, there was George Prime starting my car,business suit on, briefcase under his arm.     I pushed the recall and George Prime got out of the car and walked intothe workshop. He stepped into his cradle in the closet. I turned himoff and then drove away in the car.     Bless his metallic soul, he'd even kissed Marge good-by for me!  Needless to say, the affairs of George Faircloth took on a new sparklewith George Prime on hand to cover the home front.     For the first week, I was hardly home at all. I must say I felt alittle guilty, leaving poor old George Prime to cope with Marge allthe time—he looked and acted so human, it was easy to forget thathe literally couldn't care less. But I felt apologetic all the samewhenever I took him out of his closet.     She's really a sweet girl underneath it all, I'd say. You'll learnto like her after a bit.     Of course I like her, George Prime said. You told me to, didn't you?Stop worrying. She's really a sweet girl underneath it all.     He sounded convincing enough, but still it bothered me. You're sureyou understand the exchange mechanism? I asked. I didn't want anyfoul-ups there, as you can imagine.     Perfectly, said George Prime. When you buzz the recall, I wait forthe first logical opportunity I can find to come out to the workshop,and you take over.     But you might get nervous. You might inadvertently tip her off.     George Prime looked pained. Really, old man! I'm a Super Deluxe model,remember? I don't have fourteen activated Hunyadi tubes up in thiscranial vault of mine just for nothing. You're the one that's nervous.I'll take care of everything. Relax.     So I did.     Jeree made good all her tacit promises and then some. She had a verycozy little apartment on 34th Street where we went to relax aftera hard day at the office. When we weren't doing the town, that is.As long as Jeree didn't try too much conversation, everything waswonderful.     And then, when Jeree got a little boring, there was Sybil in theaccounting department. Or Dorothy in promotion. Or Jane. Or Ingrid.     I could go on at some length, but I won't. I was building quite areputation for myself around the office.     Of course, it was like buying your first 3-V set. In a week or so, thenovelty wears off a little and you start eating on schedule again. Ittook a little while, but I finally had things down to a reasonableprogram.     Tuesday and Thursday nights, I was informally out while formallyin. Sometimes I took Sunday nights out if things got too stickyaround the house over the weekend. The rest of the time, George Primecooled his heels in his closet. Locked up, of course. Can't completelytrust a wife to observe a taboo, no matter how well trained she is.     There, was an irreconcilable amount of risk. George Prime had toquick-step some questions about my work at the office—there was noway to supply him with current data until the time for his regulartwo-month refill and pattern-accommodation at the laboratory. In themeantime, George Prime had to make do with what he had.     But as he himself pointed out he was a Super Deluxe model.  Marge didn't suspect a thing. In fact, George Prime seemed to be havinga remarkable effect on her. I didn't notice anything at first—I washardly ever home. But one night I found my pipe and slippers laid outfor me, and the evening paper neatly folded on my chair, and it broughtme up short. Marge had been extremely docile lately. We hadn't had agood fight in days. Weeks, come to think of it.     I thought it over and shrugged. Old age, I figured. She was bound tomellow sometime.     But pretty soon I began to wonder if she wasn't mellowing a little toomuch.     One night when I got home, she kissed me almost as though she reallymeant it. There wasn't an unpleasant word all through dinner, whichhappened to be steak with mushrooms, served in the dining room (!) bycandlelight (!!) with dinner music that Marge could never bear, chieflybecause I liked it.     We sat over coffee and cigarettes, and it seemed almost like oldtimes.      Very     old times, in fact I even caught myself looking at Margeagain—really      looking     at her, watching the light catch in her hair,almost admiring the sparkle in her brown eyes. Sparkle, I said, notglint.     As I mentioned before, Marge was always easy to look at. That night,she was practically ravishing.     What are you doing to her? I asked George Prime later, out in theworkshop.     Why, nothing, said George Prime, looking innocent. He couldn't foolme with his look, though, because it was exactly the look I use whenI'm guilty and pretending to be innocent.     There must be      something     .     George Prime shrugged. Any woman will warm up if you spend enough timetelling her all the things she wants to hear and pay all the attentionto her that she wants paid to her. That's elemental psychology. I cangive you page references.     I ought to mention that George Prime had a complete set of basic textsrun into his circuits, at a slightly additional charge. Never can tellwhen an odd bit of information will come in useful.     Well, you must be doing quite a job, I said.      I'd     never managed towarm Marge up much.     I try, said George Prime.     Oh, I'm not complaining, I hastened to add, forgetting that a Prime'sfeelings can't be hurt and that he was only acting like me because itwas in character. I was just curious.     Of course, George.     I'm really delighted that you're doing so well.     Thank you, George.     But the next night when I was with Dawn, who happens to be a gorgeousredhead who could put Marge to shame on practically any field of battleexcept maybe brains, I kept thinking about Marge all evening long, andwondering if things weren't getting just a little out of hand.  The next evening I almost tripped over George Prime coming out of aliquor store. I ducked quickly into an alley and flagged him.       Whatare you doing out on the street?          He gave me my martyred look. Just buying some bourbon. You were out.     But you're not supposed to be off the premises—     Marge asked me to come. I couldn't tell her I was sorry, but herhusband wouldn't let me, could I?     Well, certainly not—     You want me to keep her happy, don't you? You don't want her to getsuspicious.     No, but suppose somebody saw us together! If she ever got a hint—     I'm sorry, George Prime said contritely. It seemed the right thingto do.      You     would have done it. At least that's what my judgmentcenter maintained. We had quite an argument.     Well, tell your judgment center to use a little sense, I snapped. Idon't want it to happen again.     The next night, I stayed home, even though it was Tuesday night. I wasbeginning to get worried. Of course, I did have complete control—Icould snap George Prime off any time I wanted, or even take him in fora complete recircuiting—but it seemed a pity. He was doing such a nicejob.     Marge was docile as a kitten, even more so than before. She sympathizedwith my hard day at the office and agreed heartily that the boss,despite all appearances, was in reality a jabbering idiot. Afterdinner, I suggested a movie, but Marge gave me an odd sort of look andsaid she thought it would be much nicer to spend the evening at home bythe fire.     I'd just gotten settled with the paper when she came into the livingroom and sat down beside me. She was wearing some sort of filmy affairI'd never laid eyes on before, and I caught a whiff of my favoriteperfume.     Georgie? she said.     Uh?     Do you still love me?     I set the paper down and stared at her. How's that? Of course Istill—     Well, sometimes you don't act much like it.     Mm. I guess I've—uh—got an awful headache tonight. Damn thatperfume!     Oh, said Marge.     In fact, I thought I'd turn in early and get some sleep—     Sleep, said Marge. There was no mistaking the disappointment in hervoice. Now I knew that things were out of hand.     The next evening, I activated George Prime and caught the taxi at thecorner, but I called Ruby and broke my date with her. I took in anearly movie alone and was back by ten o'clock. I left the cab at thecorner and walked quietly up the path toward the garage.     Then I stopped. I could see Marge and George Prime through the livingroom windows.     George Prime was kissing my wife the way I hadn't kissed her in eightlong years. It made my hair stand on end. And Marge wasn't exactlyfighting him off, either. She was coming back for more. After a little,the lights went off.     George Prime was a Super Deluxe model, all right.  I dashed into the workshop and punched the recall button as hard as Icould, swearing under my breath. How long had this been going on? Ipunched the button again, viciously, and waited.     George Prime didn't come out.     It was plenty cold out in the workshop that night and I didn't sleepa wink. About dawn, out came George Prime, looking like a man with afour-day hangover.     Our conversation got down to fundamentals. George Prime kept insistingblandly that, according to my own directions, he was to pick the firstlogical opportunity to come out when I buzzed, and that was exactlywhat he'd done.     I was furious all the way to work. I'd take care of this nonsense, allright. I'd have George Prime rewired from top to bottom as soon as thelaboratory could take him.     But I never phoned the laboratory. The bank was calling me when I gotto the office. They wanted to know what I planned to do about thatcheck of mine that had just bounced.     What check? I asked.     The one you wrote to cash yesterday—five hundred dollars—againstyour regular account, Mr. Faircloth.     The last I'd looked, I'd had about three thousand dollars in thataccount. I told the man so rather bluntly.     Oh, no, sir. That is, you      did     until last week. But all these checksyou've been cashing have emptied the account.     He flashed the checks on the desk screen. My signature was on every oneof them.     What about my special account? I'd learned long before that anaccount Marge didn't know about was sound rear-guard strategy.     That's been closed out for two weeks.     I hadn't written a check against that account for over a year! I glaredat the ceiling and tried to think things through.     I came up with a horrible thought.     Marge had always had her heart set on a trip to Bermuda. Just to getaway from it all, she'd say. A second honeymoon.     I got a list of travel agencies from the business directory and starteddown them. The third one I tried had a pleasant tenor voice. No, sir,not      Mrs.     Faircloth.      You     bought two tickets. One way. Champagneflight to Bermuda.     When? I choked out.     Why, today, as a matter of fact. It leaves Idlewild at eleveno'clock—     I let him worry about my amnesia and started home fast. I didn't knowwhat they'd given that Prime for circuits, but there was no questionnow that he was out of control—      way     out of control. And poor Marge,all worked up for a second honeymoon—     Then it struck me. Poor Marge? Poor sucker George! No Prime in hisright circuits would behave this way without some human guidance andthat meant only one thing: Marge had spotted him. It had happenedbefore. Couple of nasty court battles I'd read about. And she'd knownall about George Prime.       For how long?    When I got home, the house was empty. George Prime wasn't in hiscloset. And Marge wasn't in the house.     They were gone.     I started to call the police, but caught myself just in time. Icouldn't very well complain to the cops that my wife had run off withan android.     Worse yet, I could get twenty years for having an illegal Primewandering around.     I sat down and poured myself a stiff drink.     My own wife deserting me for a pile of bearings.     It was indecent.     Then I heard the front door open and there was Marge, her arms full ofgrocery bundles. Why, darling! You're home early!     I just blinked for a moment. Then I said, You're still here!     Of course. Where did you think I'd be?     But I thought—I mean the ticket office—     She set down the bundles and kissed me and looked up into my eyes,almost smiling, half reproachful. You didn't really think I'd gorunning off with something out of a lab, did you?     Then—you knew?     Certainly I knew, silly. You didn't do a very good job of instructinghim, either. You gave him far too much latitude. Let him have ideas ofhis own and all that. And next thing I knew, he was trying to get me torun off with him to Hawaii or someplace.     Bermuda, I said.     And then Marge was in my arms, kissing me and snuggling her cheekagainst my chest.     Even though he looked like you, I knew he couldn't be, she said. Hewas like you, but he wasn't      you     , darling. And all I ever want is you.I just never appreciated you before....     I held her close and tried to keep my hands from shaking. GeorgeFaircloth, Idiot, I thought. She'd never been more beautiful. But whatdid you do with him?     I sent him back to the factory, naturally. They said they could blothim out and use him over again. But let's not talk about that any more.We've got more interesting things to discuss.     Maybe we had, but we didn't waste a lot of time talking. It was theMarge I'd once known and I was beginning to wonder how I could havebeen so wrong about her. In fact unless my memory was getting awfullyporous, the old Marge was      never     like this—     I kissed her tenderly and ran my hands through her hair, and feltthe depression with my fore-finger, and then I knew what had reallyhappened.     That Marge always had been a sly one.     I wondered how she was liking things in Bermuda.  Marge probably thought she'd really put me where I belonged, but thelaugh was on her, after all.     As I said, the old Marge was never like the new one. Marge Prime makesJeree and Sybil and Dorothy and Dawn and Jane and Ruby all look prettysad by comparison.     She cooks like a dream and she always brings me my pipe and slippers.As they say, there's nothing a man likes more than to be appreciated.     A hundred per cent appreciated, with a factory guarantee to correct anyslippage, which would only be temporary, anyhow.     One of these days, we'll take that second honeymoon. But I think we'llgo to Hawaii.   ","George Faircloth and Marge Faircloth are husband and wife. They have married for 8 years. Their relationship is toxic and unsatisfying. George is fed up with Marge’s constant complaints, grievance, and crying. Marge is unsatisfied with George’s inattention to her and his possible affairs with women in his office, so she often spies on George’s office life, which irritates George more. They are constantly in fight. Their way of communicating with each other is to attack and fight, and they haven’t seen each other carefully and sweetly for a long time. Their relationship is to conquer and be conquered repeatedly, fighting all the time."
"Who is Harry Folsom and what role does he play in the story? </s>     PRIME DIFFERENCE     By ALAN E. NOURSE     Illustrated by SCHOENHEER     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction June 1957.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        Being two men rolled out of one would solve       my problems—but which one would I be?        I suppose that every guy reaches a point once in his lifetime when hegets one hundred and forty per cent fed up with his wife.     Understand now—I've got nothing against marriage or any thinglike that. Marriage is great. It's a good old red-blooded AmericanInstitution. Except that it's got one defect in it big enough to throwa cat through, especially when you happen to be married to a womanlike Marge—     It's so      permanent     .     Oh, I'd have divorced Marge in a minute if we'd been living in theBlissful 'Fifties—but with the Family Solidarity Amendment of 1968,and all the divorce taxes we have these days since the women gottheir teeth into politics, to say nothing of the Aggrieved SpouseCompensation Act, I'd have been a pauper for the rest of my life ifI'd tried it. That's aside from the social repercussions involved.     You can't really blame me for looking for another way out. But a manhas to be desperate to try to buy himself an Ego Prime.     So, all right, I was desperate. I'd spent eight years trying to keepMarge happy, which was exactly seven and a half years too long.     Marge was a dream to look at, with her tawny hair and her sulky eyesand a shape that could set your teeth chattering—but that was wherethe dream stopped.     She had a tongue like a #10 wood rasp and a list of grievances longenough to paper the bedroom wall. When she wasn't complaining, she wascrying, and when she wasn't crying, she was pointing out in chillingdetail exactly where George Faircloth fell short as a model husband,which happened to be everywhere. Half of the time she had a beastlyheadache (for which I was personally responsible) and the other halfshe was sore about something, so ninety-nine per cent of the time wegot along like a couple of tomcats in a packing case.  Maybe we just weren't meant for each other. I don't know. I used toenvy guys like Harry Folsom at the office. His wife is no joy to livewith either, but at least he could take a spin down to Rio once in awhile with one of the stenographers and get away with it.     I knew better than to try. Marge was already so jealous that I couldn'teven smile at the company receptionist without a twinge of guilt. GiveMarge something real to howl about, and I'd be ready for the RehabCenter in a week.     But I'd underestimated Marge. She didn't need anything real, as I foundout when Jeree came along.     Business was booming and the secretaries at the office got shuffledaround from time to time. Since I had an executive-type job, I got anexecutive-type secretary. Her name was Jeree and she was gorgeous. Asa matter of fact, she was better than gorgeous. She was the sort ofsecretary every businessman ought to have in his office. Not to do anywork—just to sit there.     Jeree was tall and dark, and she could convey more without sayinganything than I ever dreamed was possible. The first day she wasthere, she conveyed to me very clearly that if I cared to supply theopportunity, she'd be glad to supply the motive.     That night, I could tell that Marge had been thinking something overduring the day. She let me get the first bite of dinner halfway to mymouth, and then she said, I hear you got a new secretary today.     I muttered something into my coffee cup and pretended not to hear.     Marge turned on her Accusing Look #7. I also hear that she'sfive-foot-eight and tapes out at 38-25-36 and thinks you're handsome.     Marge had quite a spy system.     She couldn't be much of a secretary, she added.     She's a perfectly good secretary, I blurted, and kicked myselfmentally. I should have known Marge's traps by then.     Marge exploded. I didn't get any supper, and she was still going strongat midnight. I tried to argue, but when Marge got going, there was nostopping her. I had my ultimatum, as far as Jeree was concerned.     Harry Folsom administered the      coup de grace     at coffee next morning.What you need is an Ego Prime, he said with a grin. Solve all yourproblems. I hear they work like a charm.     I set my coffee cup down. Bells were ringing in my ears. Don't beridiculous. It's against the law. Anyway, I wouldn't think of such athing. It's—it's indecent.     Harry shrugged. Just joking, old man, just joking. Still, it's fun tothink about, eh? Freedom from wife. Absolutely safe and harmless. Noteven too expensive, if you've got the right contacts. And I've got afriend who knows a guy—     Just then, Jeree walked past us and flashed me a big smile. I grippedmy cup for dear life and still spilled coffee on my tie.     As I said, a guy gets fed up.     And maybe opportunity would only knock once.     And an Ego Prime would solve all my problems, as Harry had told me.  It was completely illegal, of course. The wonder was that Ego Prime,Inc., ever got to put their product on the market at all, once thenation's housewives got wind of just what their product was.     From the first, there was rigid Federal control and laws regulating theuse of Primes right down to the local level. You could get a licensefor a Utility model Prime if you were a big business executive, or ahigh public official, or a movie star, or something like that; but eventhen his circuits had to be inspected every two months, and he had tohave a thousand built-in Paralyzers, and you had to specify in advanceexactly what you wanted your Prime to be able to do when, where, how,why, and under what circumstances.     The law didn't leave a man much leeway.     But everybody knew that if you      really     wanted a personal Prime withall his circuits open and no questions asked, you could get one. Blackmarket prices were steep and you ran your own risk, but it could bedone.     Harry Folsom told his friend who knew a guy, and a few greenbacks gotlost somewhere, and I found myself looking at a greasy little man witha black mustache and a bald spot, up in a dingy fourth-story warehouseoff lower Broadway.     Ah, yes, the little man said. Mr. Faircloth. We've been expectingyou.  I didn't like the looks of the guy any more than the looks of theplace. I've been told you can supply me with a—     He coughed. Yes, yes. I understand. It might be possible. He fingeredhis mustache and regarded me from pouchy eyes. Busy executives oftencome to us to avoid the—ah—unpleasantness of formal arrangements.Naturally, we only act as agents, you might say. We never see themerchandise ourselves— He wiped his hands on his trousers. Now wereyou interested in the ordinary Utility model, Mr. Faircloth?     I assumed he was just being polite. You didn't come to the back doorfor Utility models.     Or perhaps you'd require one of our Deluxe models. Very carefulworkmanship. Only a few key Paralyzers in operation and practicallycomplete circuit duplication. Very useful for—ah—close contact work,you know. Social engagements, conferences—     I was shaking my head. I want a      Super     Deluxe model, I told him.     He grinned and winked. Ah, indeed! You want perfect duplication.Yes, indeed. Domestic situations can be—awkward, shall we say. Veryawkward—     I gave him a cold stare. I couldn't see where my domestic problems wereany affairs of his. He got the idea and hurried me back to a storeroom.     We keep a few blanks here for the basic measurement. You'll go to ourlaboratory on 14th Street to have the minute impressions taken. But Ican assure you you'll be delighted, simply delighted.     The blanks weren't very impressive—clay and putty and steel, faceless,brainless. He went over me like a tailor, checking measurements of allsorts. He was thorough—embarrassingly thorough, in fact—but finallyhe was finished. I went on to the laboratory.     And that was all there was to it.  Practical androids had been a pipe dream until Hunyadi invented theNeuro-pantograph. Hunyadi had no idea in the world what to do with itonce he'd invented it, but a couple of enterprising engineers boughthim body and soul, sub-contracted the problems of anatomy, design,artistry, audio and visio circuitry, and so forth, and ended up withthe modern Ego Primes we have today.     I spent a busy two hours under the NP microprobes; the artists workedoutside while the NP technicians worked inside. I came out of it prettywoozy, but a shot of Happy-O set that straight. Then I waited in therecovery room for another two hours, dreaming up ways to use my Primewhen I got him. Finally the door opened and the head technician walkedin, followed by a tall, sandy-haired man with worried blue eyes and atired look on his face.       Meet George Faircloth Prime, the technician said, grinning at me likea nursing mother.     I shook hands with myself. Good firm handshake, I thought admiringly.Nothing flabby about it.     I slapped George Prime on the shoulder happily. Come on, Brother, Isaid. You've got a job to do.     But, secretly, I was wondering what Jeree was doing that night.     George Prime had remote controls, as well as a completely recordedneurological analogue of his boss, who was me. George Prime thoughtwhat I thought about the same things I did in the same way I did. Theonly difference was that what I told George Prime to do, George Primedid.     If I told him to go to a business conference in San Francisco and makethe smallest possible concessions for the largest possible orders,he would go there and do precisely that. His signature would be mysignature. It would hold up in court.     And if I told him that my wife Marge was really a sweet, good-heartedgirl and that he was to stay home and keep her quiet and happy any timeI chose, he'd do that, too.     George Prime was a duplicate of me right down to the sandy hairs onthe back of my hands. Our fingerprints were the same. We had the samemannerisms and used the same figures of speech. The only physicaldifference apparent even to an expert was the tiny finger-depressionburied in the hair above his ear. A little pressure there would stopGeorge Prime dead in his tracks.     He was so lifelike, even I kept forgetting that he was basically just apile of gears.     I'd planned very carefully how I meant to use him, of course.     Every man who's been married eight years has a sanctuary. He builds itup and maintains it against assault in the very teeth of his wife'snatural instinct to clean, poke, pry and rearrange things. Sometimesit takes him years of diligent work to establish his hideout and beconfident that it will stay inviolate, but if he starts early enough,and sticks with it long enough, and is fierce enough and persistentenough and crafty enough, he'll probably win in the end. The girls hatehim for it, but he'll win.     With some men, it's just a box on their dressers, or a desk, or acorner of an unused back room. But I had set my sights high early inthe game. With me, it was the whole workshop in the garage.  At first, Marge tried open warfare. She had to clean the place up, shesaid. I told her I didn't      want     her to clean it up. She could cleanthe whole house as often as she chose, but      I     would clean up theworkshop.     After a couple of sharp engagements on that field, Marge staged astrategic withdrawal and reorganized her attack. A little pile of woodshavings would be on the workshop floor one night and be gone the next.A wrench would be back on the rack—upside down, of course. An openpaint can would have a cover on it.     I always knew. I screamed loudly and bitterly. I ranted and raved. Iswore I'd rig up a booby-trap with a shotgun.     So she quit trying to clean in there and just went in once in a whileto take a look around. I fixed that with the old toothpick-in-the-doorroutine. Every time she so much as set foot in that workshop, she had abattle on her hands for the next week or so. She could count on it. Itwas that predictable.     She never found out how I knew, and after seven years or so, it woreher down. She didn't go into the workshop any more.     As I said, you've got to be persistent, but you'll win.     Eventually.     If you're      really     persistent.     Now all my effort paid off. I got Marge out of the house for an houror two that day and had George Prime delivered and stored in the bigcloset in the workshop. They hooked his controls up and left me amanual of instructions for running him. When I got home that night,there he was, just waiting to be put to work.     After supper, I went out to the workshop—to get the pipe I'd leftthere, I said. I pushed George Prime's button, winked at him andswitched on the free-behavior circuits.     Go to it, Brother, I said.     George Prime put my pipe in his mouth, lit it and walked back into thehouse.     Five minutes later, I heard them fighting.     It sounded so familiar that I laughed out loud. Then I caught a cab onthe corner and headed uptown.     We had quite a night, Jeree and I. I got home just about time to startfor work, and sure enough, there was George Prime starting my car,business suit on, briefcase under his arm.     I pushed the recall and George Prime got out of the car and walked intothe workshop. He stepped into his cradle in the closet. I turned himoff and then drove away in the car.     Bless his metallic soul, he'd even kissed Marge good-by for me!  Needless to say, the affairs of George Faircloth took on a new sparklewith George Prime on hand to cover the home front.     For the first week, I was hardly home at all. I must say I felt alittle guilty, leaving poor old George Prime to cope with Marge allthe time—he looked and acted so human, it was easy to forget thathe literally couldn't care less. But I felt apologetic all the samewhenever I took him out of his closet.     She's really a sweet girl underneath it all, I'd say. You'll learnto like her after a bit.     Of course I like her, George Prime said. You told me to, didn't you?Stop worrying. She's really a sweet girl underneath it all.     He sounded convincing enough, but still it bothered me. You're sureyou understand the exchange mechanism? I asked. I didn't want anyfoul-ups there, as you can imagine.     Perfectly, said George Prime. When you buzz the recall, I wait forthe first logical opportunity I can find to come out to the workshop,and you take over.     But you might get nervous. You might inadvertently tip her off.     George Prime looked pained. Really, old man! I'm a Super Deluxe model,remember? I don't have fourteen activated Hunyadi tubes up in thiscranial vault of mine just for nothing. You're the one that's nervous.I'll take care of everything. Relax.     So I did.     Jeree made good all her tacit promises and then some. She had a verycozy little apartment on 34th Street where we went to relax aftera hard day at the office. When we weren't doing the town, that is.As long as Jeree didn't try too much conversation, everything waswonderful.     And then, when Jeree got a little boring, there was Sybil in theaccounting department. Or Dorothy in promotion. Or Jane. Or Ingrid.     I could go on at some length, but I won't. I was building quite areputation for myself around the office.     Of course, it was like buying your first 3-V set. In a week or so, thenovelty wears off a little and you start eating on schedule again. Ittook a little while, but I finally had things down to a reasonableprogram.     Tuesday and Thursday nights, I was informally out while formallyin. Sometimes I took Sunday nights out if things got too stickyaround the house over the weekend. The rest of the time, George Primecooled his heels in his closet. Locked up, of course. Can't completelytrust a wife to observe a taboo, no matter how well trained she is.     There, was an irreconcilable amount of risk. George Prime had toquick-step some questions about my work at the office—there was noway to supply him with current data until the time for his regulartwo-month refill and pattern-accommodation at the laboratory. In themeantime, George Prime had to make do with what he had.     But as he himself pointed out he was a Super Deluxe model.  Marge didn't suspect a thing. In fact, George Prime seemed to be havinga remarkable effect on her. I didn't notice anything at first—I washardly ever home. But one night I found my pipe and slippers laid outfor me, and the evening paper neatly folded on my chair, and it broughtme up short. Marge had been extremely docile lately. We hadn't had agood fight in days. Weeks, come to think of it.     I thought it over and shrugged. Old age, I figured. She was bound tomellow sometime.     But pretty soon I began to wonder if she wasn't mellowing a little toomuch.     One night when I got home, she kissed me almost as though she reallymeant it. There wasn't an unpleasant word all through dinner, whichhappened to be steak with mushrooms, served in the dining room (!) bycandlelight (!!) with dinner music that Marge could never bear, chieflybecause I liked it.     We sat over coffee and cigarettes, and it seemed almost like oldtimes.      Very     old times, in fact I even caught myself looking at Margeagain—really      looking     at her, watching the light catch in her hair,almost admiring the sparkle in her brown eyes. Sparkle, I said, notglint.     As I mentioned before, Marge was always easy to look at. That night,she was practically ravishing.     What are you doing to her? I asked George Prime later, out in theworkshop.     Why, nothing, said George Prime, looking innocent. He couldn't foolme with his look, though, because it was exactly the look I use whenI'm guilty and pretending to be innocent.     There must be      something     .     George Prime shrugged. Any woman will warm up if you spend enough timetelling her all the things she wants to hear and pay all the attentionto her that she wants paid to her. That's elemental psychology. I cangive you page references.     I ought to mention that George Prime had a complete set of basic textsrun into his circuits, at a slightly additional charge. Never can tellwhen an odd bit of information will come in useful.     Well, you must be doing quite a job, I said.      I'd     never managed towarm Marge up much.     I try, said George Prime.     Oh, I'm not complaining, I hastened to add, forgetting that a Prime'sfeelings can't be hurt and that he was only acting like me because itwas in character. I was just curious.     Of course, George.     I'm really delighted that you're doing so well.     Thank you, George.     But the next night when I was with Dawn, who happens to be a gorgeousredhead who could put Marge to shame on practically any field of battleexcept maybe brains, I kept thinking about Marge all evening long, andwondering if things weren't getting just a little out of hand.  The next evening I almost tripped over George Prime coming out of aliquor store. I ducked quickly into an alley and flagged him.       Whatare you doing out on the street?          He gave me my martyred look. Just buying some bourbon. You were out.     But you're not supposed to be off the premises—     Marge asked me to come. I couldn't tell her I was sorry, but herhusband wouldn't let me, could I?     Well, certainly not—     You want me to keep her happy, don't you? You don't want her to getsuspicious.     No, but suppose somebody saw us together! If she ever got a hint—     I'm sorry, George Prime said contritely. It seemed the right thingto do.      You     would have done it. At least that's what my judgmentcenter maintained. We had quite an argument.     Well, tell your judgment center to use a little sense, I snapped. Idon't want it to happen again.     The next night, I stayed home, even though it was Tuesday night. I wasbeginning to get worried. Of course, I did have complete control—Icould snap George Prime off any time I wanted, or even take him in fora complete recircuiting—but it seemed a pity. He was doing such a nicejob.     Marge was docile as a kitten, even more so than before. She sympathizedwith my hard day at the office and agreed heartily that the boss,despite all appearances, was in reality a jabbering idiot. Afterdinner, I suggested a movie, but Marge gave me an odd sort of look andsaid she thought it would be much nicer to spend the evening at home bythe fire.     I'd just gotten settled with the paper when she came into the livingroom and sat down beside me. She was wearing some sort of filmy affairI'd never laid eyes on before, and I caught a whiff of my favoriteperfume.     Georgie? she said.     Uh?     Do you still love me?     I set the paper down and stared at her. How's that? Of course Istill—     Well, sometimes you don't act much like it.     Mm. I guess I've—uh—got an awful headache tonight. Damn thatperfume!     Oh, said Marge.     In fact, I thought I'd turn in early and get some sleep—     Sleep, said Marge. There was no mistaking the disappointment in hervoice. Now I knew that things were out of hand.     The next evening, I activated George Prime and caught the taxi at thecorner, but I called Ruby and broke my date with her. I took in anearly movie alone and was back by ten o'clock. I left the cab at thecorner and walked quietly up the path toward the garage.     Then I stopped. I could see Marge and George Prime through the livingroom windows.     George Prime was kissing my wife the way I hadn't kissed her in eightlong years. It made my hair stand on end. And Marge wasn't exactlyfighting him off, either. She was coming back for more. After a little,the lights went off.     George Prime was a Super Deluxe model, all right.  I dashed into the workshop and punched the recall button as hard as Icould, swearing under my breath. How long had this been going on? Ipunched the button again, viciously, and waited.     George Prime didn't come out.     It was plenty cold out in the workshop that night and I didn't sleepa wink. About dawn, out came George Prime, looking like a man with afour-day hangover.     Our conversation got down to fundamentals. George Prime kept insistingblandly that, according to my own directions, he was to pick the firstlogical opportunity to come out when I buzzed, and that was exactlywhat he'd done.     I was furious all the way to work. I'd take care of this nonsense, allright. I'd have George Prime rewired from top to bottom as soon as thelaboratory could take him.     But I never phoned the laboratory. The bank was calling me when I gotto the office. They wanted to know what I planned to do about thatcheck of mine that had just bounced.     What check? I asked.     The one you wrote to cash yesterday—five hundred dollars—againstyour regular account, Mr. Faircloth.     The last I'd looked, I'd had about three thousand dollars in thataccount. I told the man so rather bluntly.     Oh, no, sir. That is, you      did     until last week. But all these checksyou've been cashing have emptied the account.     He flashed the checks on the desk screen. My signature was on every oneof them.     What about my special account? I'd learned long before that anaccount Marge didn't know about was sound rear-guard strategy.     That's been closed out for two weeks.     I hadn't written a check against that account for over a year! I glaredat the ceiling and tried to think things through.     I came up with a horrible thought.     Marge had always had her heart set on a trip to Bermuda. Just to getaway from it all, she'd say. A second honeymoon.     I got a list of travel agencies from the business directory and starteddown them. The third one I tried had a pleasant tenor voice. No, sir,not      Mrs.     Faircloth.      You     bought two tickets. One way. Champagneflight to Bermuda.     When? I choked out.     Why, today, as a matter of fact. It leaves Idlewild at eleveno'clock—     I let him worry about my amnesia and started home fast. I didn't knowwhat they'd given that Prime for circuits, but there was no questionnow that he was out of control—      way     out of control. And poor Marge,all worked up for a second honeymoon—     Then it struck me. Poor Marge? Poor sucker George! No Prime in hisright circuits would behave this way without some human guidance andthat meant only one thing: Marge had spotted him. It had happenedbefore. Couple of nasty court battles I'd read about. And she'd knownall about George Prime.       For how long?    When I got home, the house was empty. George Prime wasn't in hiscloset. And Marge wasn't in the house.     They were gone.     I started to call the police, but caught myself just in time. Icouldn't very well complain to the cops that my wife had run off withan android.     Worse yet, I could get twenty years for having an illegal Primewandering around.     I sat down and poured myself a stiff drink.     My own wife deserting me for a pile of bearings.     It was indecent.     Then I heard the front door open and there was Marge, her arms full ofgrocery bundles. Why, darling! You're home early!     I just blinked for a moment. Then I said, You're still here!     Of course. Where did you think I'd be?     But I thought—I mean the ticket office—     She set down the bundles and kissed me and looked up into my eyes,almost smiling, half reproachful. You didn't really think I'd gorunning off with something out of a lab, did you?     Then—you knew?     Certainly I knew, silly. You didn't do a very good job of instructinghim, either. You gave him far too much latitude. Let him have ideas ofhis own and all that. And next thing I knew, he was trying to get me torun off with him to Hawaii or someplace.     Bermuda, I said.     And then Marge was in my arms, kissing me and snuggling her cheekagainst my chest.     Even though he looked like you, I knew he couldn't be, she said. Hewas like you, but he wasn't      you     , darling. And all I ever want is you.I just never appreciated you before....     I held her close and tried to keep my hands from shaking. GeorgeFaircloth, Idiot, I thought. She'd never been more beautiful. But whatdid you do with him?     I sent him back to the factory, naturally. They said they could blothim out and use him over again. But let's not talk about that any more.We've got more interesting things to discuss.     Maybe we had, but we didn't waste a lot of time talking. It was theMarge I'd once known and I was beginning to wonder how I could havebeen so wrong about her. In fact unless my memory was getting awfullyporous, the old Marge was      never     like this—     I kissed her tenderly and ran my hands through her hair, and feltthe depression with my fore-finger, and then I knew what had reallyhappened.     That Marge always had been a sly one.     I wondered how she was liking things in Bermuda.  Marge probably thought she'd really put me where I belonged, but thelaugh was on her, after all.     As I said, the old Marge was never like the new one. Marge Prime makesJeree and Sybil and Dorothy and Dawn and Jane and Ruby all look prettysad by comparison.     She cooks like a dream and she always brings me my pipe and slippers.As they say, there's nothing a man likes more than to be appreciated.     A hundred per cent appreciated, with a factory guarantee to correct anyslippage, which would only be temporary, anyhow.     One of these days, we'll take that second honeymoon. But I think we'llgo to Hawaii.   ","Harry Folsom is a colleague of George Faircloth, a husband fed up with his wife. He also has a wife who is unbearable to him, but he gets the chance to escape from her once in a while. In addition, he has a friend who knows how to get the Ego Prime, a technology to produce duplicate people from natural human beings, from the black market. Harry is the person who inspires and provides the resource for George to get an illegal Ego Prime, which contributes to the whole story."
"What is the plot of the story? </s>     Well, naturally Kaiser would transmit baby     talk messages to his mother ship! He was—     GROWING UP ON BIG MUDDY     By CHARLES V. DE VET     Illustrated by TURPIN     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction July 1957.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Kaiser stared at the tape in his hand for a long uncomprehendingminute. How long had the stuff been coming through in this inane babytalk? And why hadn't he noticed it before? Why had he had to read thislast communication a third time before he recognized anything unusualabout it?     He went over the words again, as though maybe this time they'd read asthey should.     OO IS SICK, SMOKY. DO TO BEDDY-BY. KEEP UM WARM. WHEN UM FEELS BETTER,LET USNS KNOW.     SS II     Kaiser let himself ease back in the pilot chair and rolled the tapethoughtfully between his fingers. Overhead and to each side, largedrops of rain thudded softly against the transparent walls of the scoutship and dripped wearily from the bottom ledge to the ground.     Damn this climate! Kaiser muttered irrelevantly. Doesn't it ever doanything here except rain?     His attention returned to the matter at hand. Why the baby talk? Andwhy was his memory so hazy? How long had he been here? What had he beendoing during that time?     Listlessly he reached for the towel at his elbow and wiped the moisturefrom his face and bare shoulders. The air conditioning had gone outwhen the scout ship cracked up. He'd have to repair the scout or hewas stuck here for good. He remembered now that he had gone over thejob very carefully and thoroughly, and had found it too big to handlealone—or without better equipment, at least. Yet there was little orno chance of his being able to find either here.     Calmly, deliberately, Kaiser collected his thoughts, his memories, andbrought them out where he could look at them:     The mother ship,      Soscites II     , had been on the last leg of itsplanet-mapping tour. It had dropped Kaiser in the one remaining scoutship—the other seven had all been lost one way or another during theexploring of new worlds—and set itself into a giant orbit about thisplanet that Kaiser had named Big Muddy.     The      Soscites II     had to maintain its constant speed; it had no meansof slowing, except to stop, and no way to start again once it did stop.Its limited range of maneuverability made it necessary to set up anorbit that would take it approximately one month, Earth time, to circlea pinpointed planet. And now its fuel was low.     Kaiser had that one month to repair his scout or be stranded hereforever.     That was all he could remember. Nothing of what he had been doingrecently.     A small shiver passed through his body as he glanced once again at thetape in his hand. Baby talk....  One thing he could find out: how long this had been going on. Heturned to the communicator and unhooked the paper receptacle on itsbottom. It held about a yard and a half of tape, probably his lastseveral messages—both those sent and those received. He pulled it outimpatiently and began reading.     The first was from himself:     YOUR SUGGESTIONS NO HELP. HOW AM I GOING TO REPAIR DAMAGE TO SCOUTWITHOUT PROPER EQUIPMENT? AND WHERE DO I GET IT? DO YOU THINK I FOUNDA TOOL SHOP DOWN HERE? FOR GOD'S SAKE, COME UP WITH SOMETHING BETTER.     VISITED SEAL-PEOPLE AGAIN TODAY. STILL HAVE THEIR STINK IN MY NOSE.FOUND HUTS ALONG RIVER BANK, SO I GUESS THEY DON'T LIVE IN WATER.BUT THEY DO SPEND MOST OF THEIR TIME THERE. NO, I HAVE NO WAY OFESTIMATING THEIR INTELLIGENCE. I WOULD JUDGE IT AVERAGES NO HIGHERTHAN SEVEN-YEAR-OLD HUMAN. THEY DEFINITELY DO TALK TO ONE ANOTHER.WILL TRY TO FIND OUT MORE ABOUT THEM, BUT YOU GET TO WORK FAST ON HOWI REPAIR SCOUT.     SWELLING IN ARM WORSE AND AM DEVELOPING A FEVER. TEMPERATURE 102.7 ANHOUR AGO.     SMOKY     The ship must have answered immediately, for the return message timewas six hours later than his own, the minimum interval necessary fortwo-way exchange.     DOING OUR BEST, SMOKY. YOUR IMMEDIATE PROBLEM, AS WE SEE IT, IS TOKEEP WELL. WE FED ALL THE INFORMATION YOU GAVE US INTO SAM, BUT YOUDIDN'T HAVE MUCH EXCEPT THE STING IN YOUR ARM. AS EXPECTED, ALL THATCAME OUT WAS DATA INSUFFICIENT. TRY TO GIVE US MORE. ALSO DETAILALL SYMPTOMS SINCE YOUR LAST REPORT. IN THE MEANTIME, WE'RE DOINGEVERYTHING WE CAN AT THIS END. GOOD LUCK.     SS II     Sam, Kaiser knew, was the ship's mechanical diagnostician. His reportfollowed:     ARM SWOLLEN. UNABLE TO KEEP DOWN FOOD LAST TWELVE HOURS. ABOUT TWOHOURS AGO, ENTIRE BODY TURNED LIVID RED. BRIEF PERIODS OF BLANKNESS.THINGS KEEP COMING AND GOING. SICK AS HELL. HURRY.     SMOKY     The ship's next message read:     INFECTION QUITE DEFINITE. BUT SOMETHING STRANGE THERE. GIVE USANYTHING MORE YOU HAVE.     SS II     His own reply perplexed Kaiser:     LAST LETTER FUNNY. I NOT UNDERSTAND. WHY IS OO SENDING GARBLE TALK?DID USNS MAKE UP SECRET MESSAGES?     SMOKY     The expedition, apparently, was as puzzled as he:     WHAT'S THE MATTER, SMOKY? THAT LAST MESSAGE WAS IN PLAIN TERRAN. NOREASON WHY YOU COULDN'T READ IT. AND WHY THE BABY TALK? IF YOU'RESPOOFING, STOP. GIVE US MORE SYMPTOMS. HOW ARE YOU FEELING NOW?     SS II     The baby talk was worse on Kaiser's next:     TWAZY. WHAT FOR OO TENDING TWAZY LETTERS? FINK UM CAN WEAD TWAZYLETTERS? SKIN ALL YELLOW NOW. COLD. COLD. CO     The ship's following communication was three hours late. It was thelast on the tape—the one Kaiser had read earlier. Apparently theydecided to humor him.     OO IS SICK, SMOKY. DO TO BEDDY-BY. KEEP UM WARM. WHEN UM FEELS BETTER,LET USNS KNOW.     SS II     That was not much help. All it told him was that he had been sick.     He felt better now, outside of a muscular weariness, as thoughconvalescing from a long illness. He put the back of his hand to hisforehead. Cool. No fever anyway.     He glanced at the clock-calendar on the instrument board and back atthe date and time on the tape where he'd started his baby talk. Twentyhours. He hadn't been out of his head too long. He began punching thecommunicator keys while he nibbled at a biscuit.     SEEM TO BE FULLY RECOVERED. FEELING FINE. ANYTHING NEW FROM SAM? ANDHOW ABOUT THE DAMAGE TO SCOUT? GIVE ME ANYTHING YOU HAVE ON EITHER ORBOTH.     SMOKY     Kaiser felt suddenly weary. He lay on the scout's bunk and triedto sleep. Soon he was in that phantasm land between sleep andwakefulness—he knew he was not sleeping, yet he did dream.     It was the same dream he had had many times before. In it, he was backhome again, the home he had joined the space service to escape. He hadrealized soon after his marriage that his wife, Helene, did not lovehim. She had married him for the security his pay check provided. Andthough it soon became evident that she, too, regretted her bargain,she would not divorce him. Instead, she had her revenge on him bypersistent nagging, by letting herself grow fat and querulous, and bycaring for their house only in a slovenly way.     Her crippled brother had moved in with them the day they were married.His mind was as crippled as his body and he took an unhealthy delightin helping his sister torment Kaiser.  Kaiser came wide awake in a cold sweat. The clock showed that only anhour had passed since he had sent his last message to the ship. Stillfive more long hours to wait. He rose and wiped the sweat from his neckand shoulders and restlessly paced the small corridor of the scout.     After a few minutes, he stopped pacing and peered out into the gloom ofBig Muddy. The rain seemed to have eased off some. Not much more than aheavy drizzle now.     Kaiser reached impulsively for the slicker he had thrown over a chestagainst one wall and put it on, then a pair of hip-high plastic bootsand a plastic hat. He opened the door. The scout had come to rest witha slight tilt when it crashed, and Kaiser had to sit down and rollover onto his stomach to ease himself to the ground.     The weather outside was normal for Big Muddy: wet, humid, and warm.     Kaiser sank to his ankles in soft mud before his feet reached solidground. He half walked and half slid to the rear of the scout. Besidethe ship, the octopus was busily at work. Tentacles and antennae,extending from the yard-high box of its body, tested and recordedtemperature, atmosphere, soil, and all other pertinent planetaryconditions. The octopus was connected to the ship's communicator andall its findings were being transmitted to the mother ship for study.     Kaiser observed that it was working well and turned toward a wide,sluggish river, perhaps two hundred yards from the scout. Once there,he headed upstream. He could hear the pipings, and now and then ahigher whistling, of the seal-people before he reached a bend and sawthem. As usual, most were swimming in the river.       One old fellow, whose chocolate-brown fur showed a heavy intermixtureof gray, was sitting on the bank of the river just at the bend. Perhapsa lookout. He pulled himself to his feet as he spied Kaiser and histoothless, hard-gummed mouth opened and emitted a long whistle thatmight have been a greeting—or a warning to the others that a strangerapproached.     The native stood perhaps five feet tall, with the heavy, blubberybody of a seal, and short, thick arms. Membranes connected the armsto his body from shoulder-pits to mid-biceps. The arms ended inthree-fingered, thumbless hands. His legs also were short and thick,with footpads that splayed out at forty-five-degree angles. They gavehis legs the appearance of a split tail. About him hung a rank-fishsmell that made Kaiser's stomach squirm.     The old fellow sounded a cheerful chirp as Kaiser came near. Feelingslightly ineffectual, Kaiser raised both hands and held them palmforward. The other chirped again and Kaiser went on toward the maingroup.  They had stopped their play and eating as Kaiser approached and nowmost of them swam in to shore and stood in the water, staring andpiping. They varied in size from small seal-pups to full-grown adults.Some chewed on bunches of water weed, which they manipulated with theirlips and drew into their mouths.     They had mammalian characteristics, Kaiser had noted before, so itwas not difficult to distinguish the females from the males. Theproportion was roughly fifty-fifty.     Several of the bolder males climbed up beside Kaiser and began pawinghis plastic clothing. Kaiser stood still and tried to keep hisbreathing shallow, for their odor was almost more than he could bear.One native smeared Kaiser's face with an exploring paw and Kaisergagged and pushed him roughly away. He was bound by regulations todisplay no hostility to newly discovered natives, but he couldn't takemuch more of this.     A young female splashed water on two young males who stood near andthey turned with shrill pipings and chased her into the water. Theentire group seemed to lose interest in Kaiser and joined in the chase,or went back to other diversions of their own. Kaiser's inspectorsfollowed.     They were a mindless lot, Kaiser observed. The river supplied them withan easy existence, with food and living space, and apparently they hadfew natural enemies.     Kaiser walked away, following the long slow bend of the river, andcame to a collection of perhaps two hundred dwellings built in threehaphazard rows along the river bank. He took time to study theirconstruction more closely this time.     They were all round domes, little more than the height of a man, builtof blocks that appeared to be mud, packed with river weed and sand. Howthey were able to dry these to give them the necessary solidity, Kaiserdid not know. He had found no signs that they knew how to use fire, andall apparent evidence was against their having it. They then had tohave sunlight. Maybe it rained less during certain seasons.     The domes' construction was based on a series of four arches built in acircle. When the base covering the periphery had been laid, four otherswere built on and between them, and continued in successive tiers untilthe top was reached. Each tier thus furnished support for the nextabove. No other framework was needed. The final tier formed the roof.They made sound shelters, but Kaiser had peered into several and foundthem dark and dank—and as smelly as the natives themselves.     The few loungers in the village paid little attention to Kaiser andhe wandered through the irregular streets until he became bored andreturned to the scout.     The      Soscites II     sent little that helped during the next twelve hoursand Kaiser occupied his time trying again to repair the damage to thescout.     The job appeared maddeningly simply. As the scout had glided in fora soft landing, its metal bottom had ridden a concealed rock and bentinward. The bent metal had carried up with it the tube supplying thefuel pump and flattened it against the motor casing.  Opening the tube again would not have been difficult, but first it hadto be freed from under the ship. Kaiser had tried forcing the sheetmetal back into place with a small crowbar—the best leverage he had onhand—but it resisted his best efforts. He still could think of no wayto do the job, simple as it was, though he gave his concentration to itthe rest of the day.     That evening, Kaiser received information from the      Soscites II     thatwas at least definite:     SET YOURSELF FOR A SHOCK, SMOKY. SAM FINALLY CAME THROUGH. YOU WON'TLIKE WHAT YOU HEAR. AT LEAST NOT AT FIRST. BUT IT COULD BE WORSE. YOUHAVE BEEN INVADED BY A SYMBIOTE—SIMILAR TO THE TYPE FOUND ON THE SANDWORLD, BARTEL-BLEETHERS. GIVE US A FEW MORE HOURS TO WORK WITH SAM ANDWE'LL GET YOU ALL THE PARTICULARS HE CAN GIVE US. HANG ON NOW!     SOSCITES II     Kaiser's reply was short and succinct:     WHAT THE HELL?     SMOKY       Soscites II's     next communication followed within twenty minutes andwas signed by the ship's doctor:     JUST A FEW WORDS, SMOKY, IN CASE YOU'RE WORRIED. I THOUGHT I'D GETTHIS OFF WHILE WE'RE WAITING FOR MORE INFORMATION FROM SAM. REMEMBERTHAT A SYMBIOTE IS NOT A PARASITE. IT WILL NOT HARM YOU, EXCEPTINADVERTENTLY. YOUR WELFARE IS AS ESSENTIAL TO IT AS TO YOU. ALMOSTCERTAINLY, IF YOU DIE, IT WILL DIE WITH YOU. ANY TROUBLE YOU'VE HADSO FAR WAS PROBABLY CAUSED BY THE SYMBIOTE'S DIFFICULTY IN ADJUSTINGITSELF TO ITS NEW ENVIRONMENT. IN A WAY, I ENVY YOU. MORE LATER, WHENWE FINISH WITH SAM.     J. G. ZARWELL     Kaiser did not answer. The news was so startling, so unforeseen, thathis mind refused to accept the actuality. He lay on the scout's bunkand stared at the ceiling without conscious attention, and with verylittle clear thought, for several hours—until the next communicationcame in:     WELL, THIS IS WHAT SAM HAS TO SAY, SMOKY. SYMBIOTE AMICABLE ANDAPPARENTLY SWIFTLY ADAPTABLE. YOUR CHANGING COLOR, DIFFICULTY INEATING AND EVEN BABY TALK WERE THE RESULT OF ITS EFFORTS TO GIVE YOUWHAT IT BELIEVED YOU NEEDED OR WANTED.     CHANGING COLOR: PROTECTIVE CAMOUFLAGE. TROUBLE KEEPING FOOD DOWN: ITKEPT YOUR STOMACH EMPTY BECAUSE IT SENSED YOU WERE IN TROUBLE ANDMIGHT HAVE NEED FOR SHARP REFLEXES, WITH NO EXCESS WEIGHT TO CARRY.THE BABY TALK WE AREN'T TOO CERTAIN ABOUT, BUT OUR BEST CONCLUSION ISTHAT WHEN YOU WERE A CHILD, YOU WERE MOST HAPPY. IT WAS TRYING TO GIVEYOU BACK THAT HAPPY STATE OF MIND. OBVIOUSLY IT QUICKLY RECOGNIZEDTHE MISTAKES IT MADE AND CORRECTED THEM.     SAM CAME UP WITH A FEW MORE IDEAS, BUT WE WANT TO WORK ON THEM A BITBEFORE WE SEND THEM THROUGH. SLEEP ON THIS.     SS II  Kaiser could imagine that most of the crew were not too concerned aboutthe trouble he was in. He was not the gregarious type and had no closefriends on board. He had hoped to find the solitude he liked best inspace, but he had been disappointed. True, there were fewer peoplehere, but he was brought into such intimate contact with them that hewould have been more contented living in a crowded city.     His naturally unsociable nature was more irksome to the crew becausehe was more intelligent and efficient than they were. He did his workwell and painstakingly and was seldom in error. They would have likedhim better had he been more prone to mistakes. He was certain that theyrespected him, but they did not like him. And he returned the dislike.     The suggestion that he get some sleep might not be a bad idea. Hehadn't slept in over eighteen hours, Kaiser realized—and fellinstantly asleep.     The communicator had a message waiting for him when he awoke:     SAM COULDN'T HELP US MUCH ON THIS PART, BUT AFTER RESEARCH AND MUCHDISCUSSION, WE ARRIVED AT THE FOLLOWING TWO CONCLUSIONS.     FIRST, PHYSICAL PROPERTY OF SYMBIOTE IS EITHER THAT OF A VERY THINLIQUID OR, MORE PROBABLY, A VIRUS FORM WITH SWIFT PROPAGATIONCHARACTERISTIC. IT UNDOUBTEDLY LIVES IN YOUR BLOOD STREAM ANDPERMEATES YOUR SYSTEM.     SECOND, IT SEEMED TO US, AS IT MUST HAVE TO YOU, THAT THE SYMBIOTECOULD ONLY KNOW WHAT YOU WANTED BY READING YOUR MIND. HOWEVER, WEBELIEVE DIFFERENTLY NOW. WE THINK THAT IT HAS SUCH CLOSE CONTACT WITHYOUR GLANDS AND THEIR SECRETIONS, WHICH STIMULATE EMOTION, THAT IT CANGAUGE YOUR FEELINGS EVEN MORE ACCURATELY THAN YOU YOURSELF CAN. THUSIT CAN JUDGE YOUR LIKES AND DISLIKES QUITE ACCURATELY.     WE WOULD LIKE TO HAVE YOU TEST OUR THEORY. THERE ARE DOZENS OF WAYS.IF YOU ARE STUMPED AND NEED SUGGESTIONS, JUST LET US KNOW. WE AWAITWORD FROM YOU WITH GREAT INTEREST.     SS II     By now, Kaiser had accepted what had happened to him. His distress andanxiety were gone and he was impatient to do what he could to establishbetter contact with his uninvited tenant. With eager anticipation, heset to thinking how it could be done. After a few minutes, an ideaoccurred to him.     Taking a small scalpel from a medical kit, he made a shallow cut inhis arm, just deep enough to bleed freely. He knew that the pain wouldsupply the necessary glandular reaction. The cut bled a few slowdrops—and as Kaiser watched, a shiny film formed and the bleedingstopped.     That checked pretty well with the ship's theory.     Perhaps the symbiote had made his senses more acute. He tried closinghis eyes and fingering several objects in the room. It seemed to himthat he could determine the texture of each better than before, butthe test was inconclusive. Walking to the rear of the scout, he triedreading the printed words on the instrument panel. Each letter stoodout sharp and clear!     Kaiser wondered if he might not make an immediate, practical use of thesymbiote's apparent desire to help him. Concentrating on the discomfortof the high humidity and exaggerating his own displeasure with it, hewaited. The result surprised and pleased him.     The temperature within the scout cabin seemed to lower, the moistureon his body vanished, and he was more comfortable than he had yet beenhere.     As a double check, he looked at the ship's thermometer. Temperature102, humidity 113—just about the same as it had been on earlierreadings.  During the next twenty-four hours, Kaiser and the mother ship exchangedmessages at regular six-hour intervals. In between, he worked atrepairing the damaged scout. He had no more success than before.     He tired easily and lay on the cot often to rest. Each time he seemedto drop off to sleep immediately—and awake at the exact times hehad decided on beforehand. At first, despite the lack of success instraightening the bent metal of the scout bottom, there had been asubdued exhilaration in reporting each new discovery concerning thesymbiote, but as time passed, his enthusiasm ebbed. His one reallyimportant problem was how to repair the scout and he was fast becomingdiscouraged.     At last Kaiser could bear the futility of his efforts no longer. Hesent out a terse message to the      Soscites II     :     TAKING SHORT TRIP TO ANOTHER LOCATION ON RIVER. HOPE TO FIND MOREINTELLIGENT NATIVES. COULD BE THAT THE SETTLEMENT I FOUND HERE ISANALOGOUS TO TRIBE OF MONKEYS ON EARTH. I KNOW THE CHANCE IS SMALL,BUT WHAT HAVE I TO LOSE? I CAN'T FIX SCOUT WITHOUT BETTER TOOLS, ANDIF MY GUESS IS RIGHT, I MAY BE ABLE TO GET EQUIPMENT. EXPECT TO RETURNIN TEN OR TWELVE HOURS. PLEASE KEEP CONTACT WITH SCOUT.     SMOKY     Kaiser packed a mudsled with tent, portable generator and guard wires,a spare sidearm and ammunition, and food for two days. He had noticedthat a range of high hills, which caused the bend in the river atthe native settlement, seemed to continue its long curve, and hewondered if the hills might not turn the river in the shape of a gianthorseshoe. He intended to find out.     Wrapping his equipment in a plastic tarp, Kaiser eased it out thedoorway and tied it on the sled. He hooked a towline to a harness onhis shoulders and began his journey—in the opposite direction from thefirst native settlement.     He walked for more than seven hours before he found that his surmisehad been correct. And a second cluster of huts, and seal-people in theriver, greeted his sight. He received a further pleasant surprise. Thisgroup was decidedly more advanced than the first!     They were little different in actual physical appearance; the changewas mainly noticeable in their actions and demeanor. And their odor wasmore subdued, less repugnant.     By signs, Kaiser indicated that he came in peace, and they seemed tounderstand. A thick-bodied male went solemnly to the river bank andcalled to a second, who dived and brought up a mouthful of weed. Thefirst male took the weed and brought it to Kaiser. This was obviously agesture of friendship.     The weed had a white starchy core and looked edible. Kaiser cleanedpart of it with his handkerchief, bit and chewed it.     The weed had a slight iron taste, but was not unpalatable. He swallowedthe mouthful and tried another. He ate most of what had been given himand waited with some trepidation for a reaction.  As dusk fell, Kaiser set up his tent a few hundred yards back from thenative settlement. All apprehension about how his stomach would reactto the river weed had left him. Apparently it could be assimilated byhis digestive system. Lying on his air mattress, he felt thoroughly atpeace with this world.     Once, just before dropping off to sleep, he heard the snuffling noiseof some large animal outside his tent and picked up a pistol, just incase. However, the first jolt of the guard-wire charge discouraged thebeast and Kaiser heard it shuffle away, making puzzled mewing sounds asit went.     The next morning, Kaiser left off all his clothes except a pair ofshorts and went swimming in the river. The seal-people were already inthe water when he arrived and were very friendly.     That friendliness nearly resulted in disaster. The natives crowdedaround as he swam—they maneuvered with an otter-like proficiency—andoften nudged him with their bodies when they came too close. He haddifficulty keeping afloat and soon turned and started back. As heneared the river edge, a playful female grabbed him by the ankle andpulled him under.     Kaiser tried to break her hold, but she evidently thought he wasclowning and wrapped her warm furred arms around him and held himhelpless. They sank deeper.     When his breath threatened to burst from his lungs in a stream ofbubbles, and he still could not free himself, Kaiser brought his kneeup into her stomach and her grip loosened abruptly. He reached thesurface, choking and coughing, and swam blindly toward shore until hisfeet hit the river bottom.     As he stood on the bank, getting his breath, the natives were quiet andseemed to be looking at him reproachfully. He stood for a time, tryingto think of a way to explain the necessity of what he had done, butthere was none. He shrugged helplessly.     There was no longer anything to be gained by staying here—if theyhad the tools he needed, he had no way of finding out or asking forthem—and he packed and started back to the scout.     Kaiser's good spirits returned on his return journey. He had enjoyedthe relief from the tedium of spending day after day in the scout, andnow he enjoyed the exercise of pulling the mudsled. Above the waist,he wore only the harness and the large, soft drops of rain against hisbare skin were pleasant to feel.     When he reached the scout, Kaiser began to unload the sled. Thetarpaulin caught on the edge of a runner and he gave it a tug to freeit. To his amazement, the heavy sled turned completely over, spillingthe equipment to the ground.     Perplexed, Kaiser stooped and began replacing the spilled articles inthe tarp. They felt exceptionally light. He paused again, and suddenlyhis eyes widened.  Moving quickly to the door of the scout, he shoved his equipmentthrough and crawled in behind it. He did not consult the communicator,as he customarily did on entering, but went directly to the warpedplace on the floor and picked up the crowbar he had laid there.     Inserting the bar between the metal of the scout bottom and the enginecasing, he lifted. Nothing happened. He rested a minute and triedagain, this time concentrating on his desire to raise the bar. Themetal beneath yielded slightly—but he felt the palms of his handsbruise against the lever.     Only after he dropped the bar did he realize the force he had exerted.His hands ached and tingled. His strength must have been increasedtremendously. With his plastic coat wrapped around the lever, he triedagain. The metal of the scout bottom gave slowly—until the fuel pumphung free!     Kaiser did not repair the tube immediately. He let the solutionrest in his hands, like a package to be opened, the pleasure of itsanticipation to be enjoyed as much as the final act.     He transmitted the news of what he had been able to do and sat down toread the two messages waiting for him.     The first was quite routine:     REPORTS FROM THE OCTOPUS INDICATE THAT BIG MUDDY UNDERGOES RADICALWEATHER-CYCLE CHANGES DURING SPRING AND FALL SEASONS, FROM EXTREMEMOISTURE TO EXTREME ARIDITY. AT HEIGHT OF DRY SEASON, PLANET MUST BECOMPLETELY DEVOID OF SURFACE LIQUID.     TO SURVIVE THESE UNUSUAL EXTREMES, SEAL-PEOPLE WOULD NEED EXTREMEADAPTABILITY. THIS VERIFIES OUR EARLIER GUESS THAT NATIVES HAVESYMBIOSIS WITH THE SAME VIRUS FORM THAT INVADED YOU. WITH SYMBIOTES'AID, SUCH RADICAL PHYSICAL CHANGE COULD BE POSSIBLE. WILL KEEP YOUINFORMED.     GIVE US ANY NEW INFORMATION YOU MIGHT HAVE ON NATIVES.     SS II     The second report was not so routine. Kaiser thought he detected a noteof uneasiness in it.     SUGGEST YOU DEVOTE ALL TIME AND EFFORT TO REPAIR OF SCOUT. INFORMATIONON SEAL-PEOPLE ADEQUATE FOR OUR PURPOSES.     SS II     Kaiser did not answer either communication. His earlier report hadcovered all that he had learned lately. He lay on his cot and went tosleep.     In the morning, another message was waiting:     VERY PLEASED TO HEAR OF PROGRESS ON REPAIR OF SCOUT. COMPLETE ASQUICKLY AS POSSIBLE AND RETURN HERE IMMEDIATELY.     SS II  Kaiser wondered about the abrupt recall. Could the      Soscites II     beexperiencing some difficulty? He shrugged the thought aside. If theywere, they would have told him. The last notes had had more than just asuggestion of urgency—there appeared to be a deliberate concealing ofinformation.     Strangely, the messages indicated need for haste did not prod Kaiser.He knew now that the job could be done, perhaps in a few hours' time.And the      Soscites II     would not complete its orbit of the planet fortwo weeks yet.     Without putting on more than the shirt and trousers he had grown usedto wearing, Kaiser went outside and wandered listlessly about thevicinity of the ship for several hours. When he became hungry, he wentback inside.     Another message came in as he finished eating. This one was from thecaptain himself:     WHY HAVE WE RECEIVED NO VERIFICATION OF LAST INSTRUCTIONS? REPAIRSCOUT IMMEDIATELY AND RETURN WITHOUT FURTHER DELAY. THIS IS AN ORDER!     H. A. HESSE, CAPT.     Kaiser pushed the last of his meal—which he had been eating with hisfingers—into his mouth, crumpled the tape, wiped the grease from hishands with it and dropped it to the floor.     He pondered mildly, as he packed his equipment, why he was disregardingthe captain's message. For some reason, it seemed too trivial forserious consideration. He placated his slightly uneasy conscience onlyto the extent of packing the communicator in with his other equipment.It was a self-contained unit and he'd be able to receive messages fromthe ship on his trip.  The tracks of his earlier journey had been erased by the soft rain, andwhen Kaiser reached the river, he found that he had not returned tothe village he had visited the day before. However, there were otherseal-people here.     And they were almost human!     The resemblance was still not so much in their physical makeup—thatwas little changed from the first he had found—as in their obviouslygreater intelligence.     This was mainly noticeable in their facile expressions as they talked.Kaiser was even certain that he read smiles on their faces when heslipped on a particularly slick mud patch as he hurried toward them.Where the members of the first tribes had all looked almost exactlyalike, these had very marked individual characteristics. Also, thesehad no odor—only a mild, rather pleasing scent. When they came to meethim, Kaiser could detect distinct syllabism in their pipings.     Most of the natives returned to the river after the first ten minutesof curious inspection, but two stayed behind as Kaiser set up his tent.     One was a female.     They made small noises while he went about his work. After a time, heunderstood that they were trying to give names to his paraphernalia. Hetried saying tent and wire and tarp as he handled each object,but their piping voices could not repeat the words. Kaiser amusedhimself by trying to imitate their sounds for the articles. He wasfairly successful. He was certain that he could soon learn enough tocarry on a limited conversation.     The male became bored after a time and left, but the girl stayed untilKaiser finished. She motioned to him then to follow. When they reachedthe river bank, he saw that she wanted him to go into the water.  Before he had time to decide, Kaiser heard the small bell of thecommunicator from the tent behind him. He stood undecided for a moment,then returned and read the message on the tape:     STILL ANXIOUSLY AWAITING WORD FROM YOU.     IN MEANTIME, GIVE VERY CLOSE ATTENTION TO FOLLOWING.     WE KNOW THAT THE SYMBIOTES MUST BE ABLE TO MAKE RADICAL CHANGES IN THEPHYSIOLOGY OF THE SEAL-PEOPLE. THERE IS EVERY PROBABILITY THAT YOURSWILL ATTEMPT TO DO THE SAME TO YOU—TO BETTER FIT YOUR BODY TO ITSPRESENT ENVIRONMENT.     THE DANGER, WHICH WE HESITATED TO MENTION UNTIL NOW—WHEN YOU HAVEFORCED US BY YOUR OBSTINATE SILENCE—IS THAT IT CAN ALTER YOURMIND ALSO. YOUR REPORT ON SECOND TRIBE OF SEAL-PEOPLE STRONGLYINDICATES THAT THIS IS ALREADY HAPPENING. THEY WERE PROBABLY NOT MOREINTELLIGENT AND HUMANLIKE THAN THE OTHERS. ON THE CONTRARY, YOU AREBECOMING MORE LIKE THEM.     DANGER ACUTE. RETURN IMMEDIATELY. REPEAT: IMMEDIATELY!     SS II     Kaiser picked up a large rock and slowly, methodically pounded thecommunicator into a flattened jumble of metal and loose parts.     When he finished, he returned to the waiting girl on the river bank.She pointed at his plastic trousers and made laughing sounds in herthroat. Kaiser returned the laugh and stripped off the trousers. Theyran, still laughing, into the water.     Already the long pink hair that had been growing on his body during thepast week was beginning to turn brown at the roots.   ","Kaiser is a young man who was unhappily married and decided to join space service to escape his wife and her brother. He was on the mothership, Soscites II, that was finishing its planet-mapping tour. The team put him in a scout ship and sent him to the planet he calls Big Muddy. During the landing, the scout’s bottom bent inward and flattened the fuel tube. At some point, Kaiser finds himself lost because he doesn’t remember what was happening in the last hours, only the fact that he must fix the scout during the next few weeks. He reads the message tape with the mothership and learns that he had a swollen arm, a fever, periods of blankness, and in the middle of the exchange, he started using baby-talk. Now Kaiser feels better and asks for some information on fixing the scout from the mothership’s team. Then, he walks around the scout, looks at the “octopus” testing the environment of Big Muddy, and heads toward a sluggish river and native seal-people. They are short, with the body of a seal, thick arms, and thumbless hands, and have mammalian characteristics. The man spends some time observing them and then looks at their domed buildings. Soon the mothership informs Kaiser that he has probably been invaded by a symbiote, though it is not supposed to harm him. It’s adaptable and tried to give Kaiser what he emotionally desired. Hours later, the team adds that the symbiote can accurately gauge his feelings, and he needs to test this. Kaiser makes a shallow cut - it immediately heels, his sensory perception improves, and now he can control how humidity affects him. He spends a day trying to repair the scout and then leaves for a day walking trip. He meets another group of seal-people. They seem more advanced than the first ones. Kaiser sleeps in a tent and, in the morning, swims with the natives until one of them starts playfully drowning him. He comes back to his ship and realizes that his physical strength has improved. Kaiser manages to partially fix the metal bottom and report the events of the day to the mothership. They tell him that the natives probably have the symbiote and then order him to repair the ship as soon as possible. In the morning, they repeat that he needs to leave very soon, which puzzles Kaiser. The captain sends an angry message with the order to finish repairing the scout. Kaiser goes to the river and takes the communicator with him. The natives look almost human-like now and use syllabism. A female native invites him to the river, but Kaiser hears that the communicator received a message. He walks back and reads that the team has a suspicion the symbiote can alter Kaiser’s mind. The second group of seal-people was not more advanced - he just became more like them. The man destroys the communicator and follows the girl to the river. "
"Describe the setting of the story. </s>     Well, naturally Kaiser would transmit baby     talk messages to his mother ship! He was—     GROWING UP ON BIG MUDDY     By CHARLES V. DE VET     Illustrated by TURPIN     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction July 1957.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Kaiser stared at the tape in his hand for a long uncomprehendingminute. How long had the stuff been coming through in this inane babytalk? And why hadn't he noticed it before? Why had he had to read thislast communication a third time before he recognized anything unusualabout it?     He went over the words again, as though maybe this time they'd read asthey should.     OO IS SICK, SMOKY. DO TO BEDDY-BY. KEEP UM WARM. WHEN UM FEELS BETTER,LET USNS KNOW.     SS II     Kaiser let himself ease back in the pilot chair and rolled the tapethoughtfully between his fingers. Overhead and to each side, largedrops of rain thudded softly against the transparent walls of the scoutship and dripped wearily from the bottom ledge to the ground.     Damn this climate! Kaiser muttered irrelevantly. Doesn't it ever doanything here except rain?     His attention returned to the matter at hand. Why the baby talk? Andwhy was his memory so hazy? How long had he been here? What had he beendoing during that time?     Listlessly he reached for the towel at his elbow and wiped the moisturefrom his face and bare shoulders. The air conditioning had gone outwhen the scout ship cracked up. He'd have to repair the scout or hewas stuck here for good. He remembered now that he had gone over thejob very carefully and thoroughly, and had found it too big to handlealone—or without better equipment, at least. Yet there was little orno chance of his being able to find either here.     Calmly, deliberately, Kaiser collected his thoughts, his memories, andbrought them out where he could look at them:     The mother ship,      Soscites II     , had been on the last leg of itsplanet-mapping tour. It had dropped Kaiser in the one remaining scoutship—the other seven had all been lost one way or another during theexploring of new worlds—and set itself into a giant orbit about thisplanet that Kaiser had named Big Muddy.     The      Soscites II     had to maintain its constant speed; it had no meansof slowing, except to stop, and no way to start again once it did stop.Its limited range of maneuverability made it necessary to set up anorbit that would take it approximately one month, Earth time, to circlea pinpointed planet. And now its fuel was low.     Kaiser had that one month to repair his scout or be stranded hereforever.     That was all he could remember. Nothing of what he had been doingrecently.     A small shiver passed through his body as he glanced once again at thetape in his hand. Baby talk....  One thing he could find out: how long this had been going on. Heturned to the communicator and unhooked the paper receptacle on itsbottom. It held about a yard and a half of tape, probably his lastseveral messages—both those sent and those received. He pulled it outimpatiently and began reading.     The first was from himself:     YOUR SUGGESTIONS NO HELP. HOW AM I GOING TO REPAIR DAMAGE TO SCOUTWITHOUT PROPER EQUIPMENT? AND WHERE DO I GET IT? DO YOU THINK I FOUNDA TOOL SHOP DOWN HERE? FOR GOD'S SAKE, COME UP WITH SOMETHING BETTER.     VISITED SEAL-PEOPLE AGAIN TODAY. STILL HAVE THEIR STINK IN MY NOSE.FOUND HUTS ALONG RIVER BANK, SO I GUESS THEY DON'T LIVE IN WATER.BUT THEY DO SPEND MOST OF THEIR TIME THERE. NO, I HAVE NO WAY OFESTIMATING THEIR INTELLIGENCE. I WOULD JUDGE IT AVERAGES NO HIGHERTHAN SEVEN-YEAR-OLD HUMAN. THEY DEFINITELY DO TALK TO ONE ANOTHER.WILL TRY TO FIND OUT MORE ABOUT THEM, BUT YOU GET TO WORK FAST ON HOWI REPAIR SCOUT.     SWELLING IN ARM WORSE AND AM DEVELOPING A FEVER. TEMPERATURE 102.7 ANHOUR AGO.     SMOKY     The ship must have answered immediately, for the return message timewas six hours later than his own, the minimum interval necessary fortwo-way exchange.     DOING OUR BEST, SMOKY. YOUR IMMEDIATE PROBLEM, AS WE SEE IT, IS TOKEEP WELL. WE FED ALL THE INFORMATION YOU GAVE US INTO SAM, BUT YOUDIDN'T HAVE MUCH EXCEPT THE STING IN YOUR ARM. AS EXPECTED, ALL THATCAME OUT WAS DATA INSUFFICIENT. TRY TO GIVE US MORE. ALSO DETAILALL SYMPTOMS SINCE YOUR LAST REPORT. IN THE MEANTIME, WE'RE DOINGEVERYTHING WE CAN AT THIS END. GOOD LUCK.     SS II     Sam, Kaiser knew, was the ship's mechanical diagnostician. His reportfollowed:     ARM SWOLLEN. UNABLE TO KEEP DOWN FOOD LAST TWELVE HOURS. ABOUT TWOHOURS AGO, ENTIRE BODY TURNED LIVID RED. BRIEF PERIODS OF BLANKNESS.THINGS KEEP COMING AND GOING. SICK AS HELL. HURRY.     SMOKY     The ship's next message read:     INFECTION QUITE DEFINITE. BUT SOMETHING STRANGE THERE. GIVE USANYTHING MORE YOU HAVE.     SS II     His own reply perplexed Kaiser:     LAST LETTER FUNNY. I NOT UNDERSTAND. WHY IS OO SENDING GARBLE TALK?DID USNS MAKE UP SECRET MESSAGES?     SMOKY     The expedition, apparently, was as puzzled as he:     WHAT'S THE MATTER, SMOKY? THAT LAST MESSAGE WAS IN PLAIN TERRAN. NOREASON WHY YOU COULDN'T READ IT. AND WHY THE BABY TALK? IF YOU'RESPOOFING, STOP. GIVE US MORE SYMPTOMS. HOW ARE YOU FEELING NOW?     SS II     The baby talk was worse on Kaiser's next:     TWAZY. WHAT FOR OO TENDING TWAZY LETTERS? FINK UM CAN WEAD TWAZYLETTERS? SKIN ALL YELLOW NOW. COLD. COLD. CO     The ship's following communication was three hours late. It was thelast on the tape—the one Kaiser had read earlier. Apparently theydecided to humor him.     OO IS SICK, SMOKY. DO TO BEDDY-BY. KEEP UM WARM. WHEN UM FEELS BETTER,LET USNS KNOW.     SS II     That was not much help. All it told him was that he had been sick.     He felt better now, outside of a muscular weariness, as thoughconvalescing from a long illness. He put the back of his hand to hisforehead. Cool. No fever anyway.     He glanced at the clock-calendar on the instrument board and back atthe date and time on the tape where he'd started his baby talk. Twentyhours. He hadn't been out of his head too long. He began punching thecommunicator keys while he nibbled at a biscuit.     SEEM TO BE FULLY RECOVERED. FEELING FINE. ANYTHING NEW FROM SAM? ANDHOW ABOUT THE DAMAGE TO SCOUT? GIVE ME ANYTHING YOU HAVE ON EITHER ORBOTH.     SMOKY     Kaiser felt suddenly weary. He lay on the scout's bunk and triedto sleep. Soon he was in that phantasm land between sleep andwakefulness—he knew he was not sleeping, yet he did dream.     It was the same dream he had had many times before. In it, he was backhome again, the home he had joined the space service to escape. He hadrealized soon after his marriage that his wife, Helene, did not lovehim. She had married him for the security his pay check provided. Andthough it soon became evident that she, too, regretted her bargain,she would not divorce him. Instead, she had her revenge on him bypersistent nagging, by letting herself grow fat and querulous, and bycaring for their house only in a slovenly way.     Her crippled brother had moved in with them the day they were married.His mind was as crippled as his body and he took an unhealthy delightin helping his sister torment Kaiser.  Kaiser came wide awake in a cold sweat. The clock showed that only anhour had passed since he had sent his last message to the ship. Stillfive more long hours to wait. He rose and wiped the sweat from his neckand shoulders and restlessly paced the small corridor of the scout.     After a few minutes, he stopped pacing and peered out into the gloom ofBig Muddy. The rain seemed to have eased off some. Not much more than aheavy drizzle now.     Kaiser reached impulsively for the slicker he had thrown over a chestagainst one wall and put it on, then a pair of hip-high plastic bootsand a plastic hat. He opened the door. The scout had come to rest witha slight tilt when it crashed, and Kaiser had to sit down and rollover onto his stomach to ease himself to the ground.     The weather outside was normal for Big Muddy: wet, humid, and warm.     Kaiser sank to his ankles in soft mud before his feet reached solidground. He half walked and half slid to the rear of the scout. Besidethe ship, the octopus was busily at work. Tentacles and antennae,extending from the yard-high box of its body, tested and recordedtemperature, atmosphere, soil, and all other pertinent planetaryconditions. The octopus was connected to the ship's communicator andall its findings were being transmitted to the mother ship for study.     Kaiser observed that it was working well and turned toward a wide,sluggish river, perhaps two hundred yards from the scout. Once there,he headed upstream. He could hear the pipings, and now and then ahigher whistling, of the seal-people before he reached a bend and sawthem. As usual, most were swimming in the river.       One old fellow, whose chocolate-brown fur showed a heavy intermixtureof gray, was sitting on the bank of the river just at the bend. Perhapsa lookout. He pulled himself to his feet as he spied Kaiser and histoothless, hard-gummed mouth opened and emitted a long whistle thatmight have been a greeting—or a warning to the others that a strangerapproached.     The native stood perhaps five feet tall, with the heavy, blubberybody of a seal, and short, thick arms. Membranes connected the armsto his body from shoulder-pits to mid-biceps. The arms ended inthree-fingered, thumbless hands. His legs also were short and thick,with footpads that splayed out at forty-five-degree angles. They gavehis legs the appearance of a split tail. About him hung a rank-fishsmell that made Kaiser's stomach squirm.     The old fellow sounded a cheerful chirp as Kaiser came near. Feelingslightly ineffectual, Kaiser raised both hands and held them palmforward. The other chirped again and Kaiser went on toward the maingroup.  They had stopped their play and eating as Kaiser approached and nowmost of them swam in to shore and stood in the water, staring andpiping. They varied in size from small seal-pups to full-grown adults.Some chewed on bunches of water weed, which they manipulated with theirlips and drew into their mouths.     They had mammalian characteristics, Kaiser had noted before, so itwas not difficult to distinguish the females from the males. Theproportion was roughly fifty-fifty.     Several of the bolder males climbed up beside Kaiser and began pawinghis plastic clothing. Kaiser stood still and tried to keep hisbreathing shallow, for their odor was almost more than he could bear.One native smeared Kaiser's face with an exploring paw and Kaisergagged and pushed him roughly away. He was bound by regulations todisplay no hostility to newly discovered natives, but he couldn't takemuch more of this.     A young female splashed water on two young males who stood near andthey turned with shrill pipings and chased her into the water. Theentire group seemed to lose interest in Kaiser and joined in the chase,or went back to other diversions of their own. Kaiser's inspectorsfollowed.     They were a mindless lot, Kaiser observed. The river supplied them withan easy existence, with food and living space, and apparently they hadfew natural enemies.     Kaiser walked away, following the long slow bend of the river, andcame to a collection of perhaps two hundred dwellings built in threehaphazard rows along the river bank. He took time to study theirconstruction more closely this time.     They were all round domes, little more than the height of a man, builtof blocks that appeared to be mud, packed with river weed and sand. Howthey were able to dry these to give them the necessary solidity, Kaiserdid not know. He had found no signs that they knew how to use fire, andall apparent evidence was against their having it. They then had tohave sunlight. Maybe it rained less during certain seasons.     The domes' construction was based on a series of four arches built in acircle. When the base covering the periphery had been laid, four otherswere built on and between them, and continued in successive tiers untilthe top was reached. Each tier thus furnished support for the nextabove. No other framework was needed. The final tier formed the roof.They made sound shelters, but Kaiser had peered into several and foundthem dark and dank—and as smelly as the natives themselves.     The few loungers in the village paid little attention to Kaiser andhe wandered through the irregular streets until he became bored andreturned to the scout.     The      Soscites II     sent little that helped during the next twelve hoursand Kaiser occupied his time trying again to repair the damage to thescout.     The job appeared maddeningly simply. As the scout had glided in fora soft landing, its metal bottom had ridden a concealed rock and bentinward. The bent metal had carried up with it the tube supplying thefuel pump and flattened it against the motor casing.  Opening the tube again would not have been difficult, but first it hadto be freed from under the ship. Kaiser had tried forcing the sheetmetal back into place with a small crowbar—the best leverage he had onhand—but it resisted his best efforts. He still could think of no wayto do the job, simple as it was, though he gave his concentration to itthe rest of the day.     That evening, Kaiser received information from the      Soscites II     thatwas at least definite:     SET YOURSELF FOR A SHOCK, SMOKY. SAM FINALLY CAME THROUGH. YOU WON'TLIKE WHAT YOU HEAR. AT LEAST NOT AT FIRST. BUT IT COULD BE WORSE. YOUHAVE BEEN INVADED BY A SYMBIOTE—SIMILAR TO THE TYPE FOUND ON THE SANDWORLD, BARTEL-BLEETHERS. GIVE US A FEW MORE HOURS TO WORK WITH SAM ANDWE'LL GET YOU ALL THE PARTICULARS HE CAN GIVE US. HANG ON NOW!     SOSCITES II     Kaiser's reply was short and succinct:     WHAT THE HELL?     SMOKY       Soscites II's     next communication followed within twenty minutes andwas signed by the ship's doctor:     JUST A FEW WORDS, SMOKY, IN CASE YOU'RE WORRIED. I THOUGHT I'D GETTHIS OFF WHILE WE'RE WAITING FOR MORE INFORMATION FROM SAM. REMEMBERTHAT A SYMBIOTE IS NOT A PARASITE. IT WILL NOT HARM YOU, EXCEPTINADVERTENTLY. YOUR WELFARE IS AS ESSENTIAL TO IT AS TO YOU. ALMOSTCERTAINLY, IF YOU DIE, IT WILL DIE WITH YOU. ANY TROUBLE YOU'VE HADSO FAR WAS PROBABLY CAUSED BY THE SYMBIOTE'S DIFFICULTY IN ADJUSTINGITSELF TO ITS NEW ENVIRONMENT. IN A WAY, I ENVY YOU. MORE LATER, WHENWE FINISH WITH SAM.     J. G. ZARWELL     Kaiser did not answer. The news was so startling, so unforeseen, thathis mind refused to accept the actuality. He lay on the scout's bunkand stared at the ceiling without conscious attention, and with verylittle clear thought, for several hours—until the next communicationcame in:     WELL, THIS IS WHAT SAM HAS TO SAY, SMOKY. SYMBIOTE AMICABLE ANDAPPARENTLY SWIFTLY ADAPTABLE. YOUR CHANGING COLOR, DIFFICULTY INEATING AND EVEN BABY TALK WERE THE RESULT OF ITS EFFORTS TO GIVE YOUWHAT IT BELIEVED YOU NEEDED OR WANTED.     CHANGING COLOR: PROTECTIVE CAMOUFLAGE. TROUBLE KEEPING FOOD DOWN: ITKEPT YOUR STOMACH EMPTY BECAUSE IT SENSED YOU WERE IN TROUBLE ANDMIGHT HAVE NEED FOR SHARP REFLEXES, WITH NO EXCESS WEIGHT TO CARRY.THE BABY TALK WE AREN'T TOO CERTAIN ABOUT, BUT OUR BEST CONCLUSION ISTHAT WHEN YOU WERE A CHILD, YOU WERE MOST HAPPY. IT WAS TRYING TO GIVEYOU BACK THAT HAPPY STATE OF MIND. OBVIOUSLY IT QUICKLY RECOGNIZEDTHE MISTAKES IT MADE AND CORRECTED THEM.     SAM CAME UP WITH A FEW MORE IDEAS, BUT WE WANT TO WORK ON THEM A BITBEFORE WE SEND THEM THROUGH. SLEEP ON THIS.     SS II  Kaiser could imagine that most of the crew were not too concerned aboutthe trouble he was in. He was not the gregarious type and had no closefriends on board. He had hoped to find the solitude he liked best inspace, but he had been disappointed. True, there were fewer peoplehere, but he was brought into such intimate contact with them that hewould have been more contented living in a crowded city.     His naturally unsociable nature was more irksome to the crew becausehe was more intelligent and efficient than they were. He did his workwell and painstakingly and was seldom in error. They would have likedhim better had he been more prone to mistakes. He was certain that theyrespected him, but they did not like him. And he returned the dislike.     The suggestion that he get some sleep might not be a bad idea. Hehadn't slept in over eighteen hours, Kaiser realized—and fellinstantly asleep.     The communicator had a message waiting for him when he awoke:     SAM COULDN'T HELP US MUCH ON THIS PART, BUT AFTER RESEARCH AND MUCHDISCUSSION, WE ARRIVED AT THE FOLLOWING TWO CONCLUSIONS.     FIRST, PHYSICAL PROPERTY OF SYMBIOTE IS EITHER THAT OF A VERY THINLIQUID OR, MORE PROBABLY, A VIRUS FORM WITH SWIFT PROPAGATIONCHARACTERISTIC. IT UNDOUBTEDLY LIVES IN YOUR BLOOD STREAM ANDPERMEATES YOUR SYSTEM.     SECOND, IT SEEMED TO US, AS IT MUST HAVE TO YOU, THAT THE SYMBIOTECOULD ONLY KNOW WHAT YOU WANTED BY READING YOUR MIND. HOWEVER, WEBELIEVE DIFFERENTLY NOW. WE THINK THAT IT HAS SUCH CLOSE CONTACT WITHYOUR GLANDS AND THEIR SECRETIONS, WHICH STIMULATE EMOTION, THAT IT CANGAUGE YOUR FEELINGS EVEN MORE ACCURATELY THAN YOU YOURSELF CAN. THUSIT CAN JUDGE YOUR LIKES AND DISLIKES QUITE ACCURATELY.     WE WOULD LIKE TO HAVE YOU TEST OUR THEORY. THERE ARE DOZENS OF WAYS.IF YOU ARE STUMPED AND NEED SUGGESTIONS, JUST LET US KNOW. WE AWAITWORD FROM YOU WITH GREAT INTEREST.     SS II     By now, Kaiser had accepted what had happened to him. His distress andanxiety were gone and he was impatient to do what he could to establishbetter contact with his uninvited tenant. With eager anticipation, heset to thinking how it could be done. After a few minutes, an ideaoccurred to him.     Taking a small scalpel from a medical kit, he made a shallow cut inhis arm, just deep enough to bleed freely. He knew that the pain wouldsupply the necessary glandular reaction. The cut bled a few slowdrops—and as Kaiser watched, a shiny film formed and the bleedingstopped.     That checked pretty well with the ship's theory.     Perhaps the symbiote had made his senses more acute. He tried closinghis eyes and fingering several objects in the room. It seemed to himthat he could determine the texture of each better than before, butthe test was inconclusive. Walking to the rear of the scout, he triedreading the printed words on the instrument panel. Each letter stoodout sharp and clear!     Kaiser wondered if he might not make an immediate, practical use of thesymbiote's apparent desire to help him. Concentrating on the discomfortof the high humidity and exaggerating his own displeasure with it, hewaited. The result surprised and pleased him.     The temperature within the scout cabin seemed to lower, the moistureon his body vanished, and he was more comfortable than he had yet beenhere.     As a double check, he looked at the ship's thermometer. Temperature102, humidity 113—just about the same as it had been on earlierreadings.  During the next twenty-four hours, Kaiser and the mother ship exchangedmessages at regular six-hour intervals. In between, he worked atrepairing the damaged scout. He had no more success than before.     He tired easily and lay on the cot often to rest. Each time he seemedto drop off to sleep immediately—and awake at the exact times hehad decided on beforehand. At first, despite the lack of success instraightening the bent metal of the scout bottom, there had been asubdued exhilaration in reporting each new discovery concerning thesymbiote, but as time passed, his enthusiasm ebbed. His one reallyimportant problem was how to repair the scout and he was fast becomingdiscouraged.     At last Kaiser could bear the futility of his efforts no longer. Hesent out a terse message to the      Soscites II     :     TAKING SHORT TRIP TO ANOTHER LOCATION ON RIVER. HOPE TO FIND MOREINTELLIGENT NATIVES. COULD BE THAT THE SETTLEMENT I FOUND HERE ISANALOGOUS TO TRIBE OF MONKEYS ON EARTH. I KNOW THE CHANCE IS SMALL,BUT WHAT HAVE I TO LOSE? I CAN'T FIX SCOUT WITHOUT BETTER TOOLS, ANDIF MY GUESS IS RIGHT, I MAY BE ABLE TO GET EQUIPMENT. EXPECT TO RETURNIN TEN OR TWELVE HOURS. PLEASE KEEP CONTACT WITH SCOUT.     SMOKY     Kaiser packed a mudsled with tent, portable generator and guard wires,a spare sidearm and ammunition, and food for two days. He had noticedthat a range of high hills, which caused the bend in the river atthe native settlement, seemed to continue its long curve, and hewondered if the hills might not turn the river in the shape of a gianthorseshoe. He intended to find out.     Wrapping his equipment in a plastic tarp, Kaiser eased it out thedoorway and tied it on the sled. He hooked a towline to a harness onhis shoulders and began his journey—in the opposite direction from thefirst native settlement.     He walked for more than seven hours before he found that his surmisehad been correct. And a second cluster of huts, and seal-people in theriver, greeted his sight. He received a further pleasant surprise. Thisgroup was decidedly more advanced than the first!     They were little different in actual physical appearance; the changewas mainly noticeable in their actions and demeanor. And their odor wasmore subdued, less repugnant.     By signs, Kaiser indicated that he came in peace, and they seemed tounderstand. A thick-bodied male went solemnly to the river bank andcalled to a second, who dived and brought up a mouthful of weed. Thefirst male took the weed and brought it to Kaiser. This was obviously agesture of friendship.     The weed had a white starchy core and looked edible. Kaiser cleanedpart of it with his handkerchief, bit and chewed it.     The weed had a slight iron taste, but was not unpalatable. He swallowedthe mouthful and tried another. He ate most of what had been given himand waited with some trepidation for a reaction.  As dusk fell, Kaiser set up his tent a few hundred yards back from thenative settlement. All apprehension about how his stomach would reactto the river weed had left him. Apparently it could be assimilated byhis digestive system. Lying on his air mattress, he felt thoroughly atpeace with this world.     Once, just before dropping off to sleep, he heard the snuffling noiseof some large animal outside his tent and picked up a pistol, just incase. However, the first jolt of the guard-wire charge discouraged thebeast and Kaiser heard it shuffle away, making puzzled mewing sounds asit went.     The next morning, Kaiser left off all his clothes except a pair ofshorts and went swimming in the river. The seal-people were already inthe water when he arrived and were very friendly.     That friendliness nearly resulted in disaster. The natives crowdedaround as he swam—they maneuvered with an otter-like proficiency—andoften nudged him with their bodies when they came too close. He haddifficulty keeping afloat and soon turned and started back. As heneared the river edge, a playful female grabbed him by the ankle andpulled him under.     Kaiser tried to break her hold, but she evidently thought he wasclowning and wrapped her warm furred arms around him and held himhelpless. They sank deeper.     When his breath threatened to burst from his lungs in a stream ofbubbles, and he still could not free himself, Kaiser brought his kneeup into her stomach and her grip loosened abruptly. He reached thesurface, choking and coughing, and swam blindly toward shore until hisfeet hit the river bottom.     As he stood on the bank, getting his breath, the natives were quiet andseemed to be looking at him reproachfully. He stood for a time, tryingto think of a way to explain the necessity of what he had done, butthere was none. He shrugged helplessly.     There was no longer anything to be gained by staying here—if theyhad the tools he needed, he had no way of finding out or asking forthem—and he packed and started back to the scout.     Kaiser's good spirits returned on his return journey. He had enjoyedthe relief from the tedium of spending day after day in the scout, andnow he enjoyed the exercise of pulling the mudsled. Above the waist,he wore only the harness and the large, soft drops of rain against hisbare skin were pleasant to feel.     When he reached the scout, Kaiser began to unload the sled. Thetarpaulin caught on the edge of a runner and he gave it a tug to freeit. To his amazement, the heavy sled turned completely over, spillingthe equipment to the ground.     Perplexed, Kaiser stooped and began replacing the spilled articles inthe tarp. They felt exceptionally light. He paused again, and suddenlyhis eyes widened.  Moving quickly to the door of the scout, he shoved his equipmentthrough and crawled in behind it. He did not consult the communicator,as he customarily did on entering, but went directly to the warpedplace on the floor and picked up the crowbar he had laid there.     Inserting the bar between the metal of the scout bottom and the enginecasing, he lifted. Nothing happened. He rested a minute and triedagain, this time concentrating on his desire to raise the bar. Themetal beneath yielded slightly—but he felt the palms of his handsbruise against the lever.     Only after he dropped the bar did he realize the force he had exerted.His hands ached and tingled. His strength must have been increasedtremendously. With his plastic coat wrapped around the lever, he triedagain. The metal of the scout bottom gave slowly—until the fuel pumphung free!     Kaiser did not repair the tube immediately. He let the solutionrest in his hands, like a package to be opened, the pleasure of itsanticipation to be enjoyed as much as the final act.     He transmitted the news of what he had been able to do and sat down toread the two messages waiting for him.     The first was quite routine:     REPORTS FROM THE OCTOPUS INDICATE THAT BIG MUDDY UNDERGOES RADICALWEATHER-CYCLE CHANGES DURING SPRING AND FALL SEASONS, FROM EXTREMEMOISTURE TO EXTREME ARIDITY. AT HEIGHT OF DRY SEASON, PLANET MUST BECOMPLETELY DEVOID OF SURFACE LIQUID.     TO SURVIVE THESE UNUSUAL EXTREMES, SEAL-PEOPLE WOULD NEED EXTREMEADAPTABILITY. THIS VERIFIES OUR EARLIER GUESS THAT NATIVES HAVESYMBIOSIS WITH THE SAME VIRUS FORM THAT INVADED YOU. WITH SYMBIOTES'AID, SUCH RADICAL PHYSICAL CHANGE COULD BE POSSIBLE. WILL KEEP YOUINFORMED.     GIVE US ANY NEW INFORMATION YOU MIGHT HAVE ON NATIVES.     SS II     The second report was not so routine. Kaiser thought he detected a noteof uneasiness in it.     SUGGEST YOU DEVOTE ALL TIME AND EFFORT TO REPAIR OF SCOUT. INFORMATIONON SEAL-PEOPLE ADEQUATE FOR OUR PURPOSES.     SS II     Kaiser did not answer either communication. His earlier report hadcovered all that he had learned lately. He lay on his cot and went tosleep.     In the morning, another message was waiting:     VERY PLEASED TO HEAR OF PROGRESS ON REPAIR OF SCOUT. COMPLETE ASQUICKLY AS POSSIBLE AND RETURN HERE IMMEDIATELY.     SS II  Kaiser wondered about the abrupt recall. Could the      Soscites II     beexperiencing some difficulty? He shrugged the thought aside. If theywere, they would have told him. The last notes had had more than just asuggestion of urgency—there appeared to be a deliberate concealing ofinformation.     Strangely, the messages indicated need for haste did not prod Kaiser.He knew now that the job could be done, perhaps in a few hours' time.And the      Soscites II     would not complete its orbit of the planet fortwo weeks yet.     Without putting on more than the shirt and trousers he had grown usedto wearing, Kaiser went outside and wandered listlessly about thevicinity of the ship for several hours. When he became hungry, he wentback inside.     Another message came in as he finished eating. This one was from thecaptain himself:     WHY HAVE WE RECEIVED NO VERIFICATION OF LAST INSTRUCTIONS? REPAIRSCOUT IMMEDIATELY AND RETURN WITHOUT FURTHER DELAY. THIS IS AN ORDER!     H. A. HESSE, CAPT.     Kaiser pushed the last of his meal—which he had been eating with hisfingers—into his mouth, crumpled the tape, wiped the grease from hishands with it and dropped it to the floor.     He pondered mildly, as he packed his equipment, why he was disregardingthe captain's message. For some reason, it seemed too trivial forserious consideration. He placated his slightly uneasy conscience onlyto the extent of packing the communicator in with his other equipment.It was a self-contained unit and he'd be able to receive messages fromthe ship on his trip.  The tracks of his earlier journey had been erased by the soft rain, andwhen Kaiser reached the river, he found that he had not returned tothe village he had visited the day before. However, there were otherseal-people here.     And they were almost human!     The resemblance was still not so much in their physical makeup—thatwas little changed from the first he had found—as in their obviouslygreater intelligence.     This was mainly noticeable in their facile expressions as they talked.Kaiser was even certain that he read smiles on their faces when heslipped on a particularly slick mud patch as he hurried toward them.Where the members of the first tribes had all looked almost exactlyalike, these had very marked individual characteristics. Also, thesehad no odor—only a mild, rather pleasing scent. When they came to meethim, Kaiser could detect distinct syllabism in their pipings.     Most of the natives returned to the river after the first ten minutesof curious inspection, but two stayed behind as Kaiser set up his tent.     One was a female.     They made small noises while he went about his work. After a time, heunderstood that they were trying to give names to his paraphernalia. Hetried saying tent and wire and tarp as he handled each object,but their piping voices could not repeat the words. Kaiser amusedhimself by trying to imitate their sounds for the articles. He wasfairly successful. He was certain that he could soon learn enough tocarry on a limited conversation.     The male became bored after a time and left, but the girl stayed untilKaiser finished. She motioned to him then to follow. When they reachedthe river bank, he saw that she wanted him to go into the water.  Before he had time to decide, Kaiser heard the small bell of thecommunicator from the tent behind him. He stood undecided for a moment,then returned and read the message on the tape:     STILL ANXIOUSLY AWAITING WORD FROM YOU.     IN MEANTIME, GIVE VERY CLOSE ATTENTION TO FOLLOWING.     WE KNOW THAT THE SYMBIOTES MUST BE ABLE TO MAKE RADICAL CHANGES IN THEPHYSIOLOGY OF THE SEAL-PEOPLE. THERE IS EVERY PROBABILITY THAT YOURSWILL ATTEMPT TO DO THE SAME TO YOU—TO BETTER FIT YOUR BODY TO ITSPRESENT ENVIRONMENT.     THE DANGER, WHICH WE HESITATED TO MENTION UNTIL NOW—WHEN YOU HAVEFORCED US BY YOUR OBSTINATE SILENCE—IS THAT IT CAN ALTER YOURMIND ALSO. YOUR REPORT ON SECOND TRIBE OF SEAL-PEOPLE STRONGLYINDICATES THAT THIS IS ALREADY HAPPENING. THEY WERE PROBABLY NOT MOREINTELLIGENT AND HUMANLIKE THAN THE OTHERS. ON THE CONTRARY, YOU AREBECOMING MORE LIKE THEM.     DANGER ACUTE. RETURN IMMEDIATELY. REPEAT: IMMEDIATELY!     SS II     Kaiser picked up a large rock and slowly, methodically pounded thecommunicator into a flattened jumble of metal and loose parts.     When he finished, he returned to the waiting girl on the river bank.She pointed at his plastic trousers and made laughing sounds in herthroat. Kaiser returned the laugh and stripped off the trousers. Theyran, still laughing, into the water.     Already the long pink hair that had been growing on his body during thepast week was beginning to turn brown at the roots.   ","Kaiser left Earth on a mothership Soscites II, that soon, finishing its planet-mapping tour, approached a planet that the man named Big Muddy. He left the spacecraft in a small scout ship - which had a pilot chair, a communicator, and a bunk - and landed on the muddy surface. The other seven scouts got lost during the previous exploration of new worlds. It is wet, humid, and warm on Big muddy, constantly raining with different intensity. There is a wide sluggish river, which has the shape of a horseshoe, two hundred yards away from the scout and also a chain of hills. Farther, along the stream, there is a group of several hundred domed dwellings, built of mud blocks, packed with river weed and sand. Another group of seal-people lives near the riverbank in the opposite direction of Kaiser's first observational walk. "
"What is the importance of the seal-people in the story? </s>     Well, naturally Kaiser would transmit baby     talk messages to his mother ship! He was—     GROWING UP ON BIG MUDDY     By CHARLES V. DE VET     Illustrated by TURPIN     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction July 1957.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Kaiser stared at the tape in his hand for a long uncomprehendingminute. How long had the stuff been coming through in this inane babytalk? And why hadn't he noticed it before? Why had he had to read thislast communication a third time before he recognized anything unusualabout it?     He went over the words again, as though maybe this time they'd read asthey should.     OO IS SICK, SMOKY. DO TO BEDDY-BY. KEEP UM WARM. WHEN UM FEELS BETTER,LET USNS KNOW.     SS II     Kaiser let himself ease back in the pilot chair and rolled the tapethoughtfully between his fingers. Overhead and to each side, largedrops of rain thudded softly against the transparent walls of the scoutship and dripped wearily from the bottom ledge to the ground.     Damn this climate! Kaiser muttered irrelevantly. Doesn't it ever doanything here except rain?     His attention returned to the matter at hand. Why the baby talk? Andwhy was his memory so hazy? How long had he been here? What had he beendoing during that time?     Listlessly he reached for the towel at his elbow and wiped the moisturefrom his face and bare shoulders. The air conditioning had gone outwhen the scout ship cracked up. He'd have to repair the scout or hewas stuck here for good. He remembered now that he had gone over thejob very carefully and thoroughly, and had found it too big to handlealone—or without better equipment, at least. Yet there was little orno chance of his being able to find either here.     Calmly, deliberately, Kaiser collected his thoughts, his memories, andbrought them out where he could look at them:     The mother ship,      Soscites II     , had been on the last leg of itsplanet-mapping tour. It had dropped Kaiser in the one remaining scoutship—the other seven had all been lost one way or another during theexploring of new worlds—and set itself into a giant orbit about thisplanet that Kaiser had named Big Muddy.     The      Soscites II     had to maintain its constant speed; it had no meansof slowing, except to stop, and no way to start again once it did stop.Its limited range of maneuverability made it necessary to set up anorbit that would take it approximately one month, Earth time, to circlea pinpointed planet. And now its fuel was low.     Kaiser had that one month to repair his scout or be stranded hereforever.     That was all he could remember. Nothing of what he had been doingrecently.     A small shiver passed through his body as he glanced once again at thetape in his hand. Baby talk....  One thing he could find out: how long this had been going on. Heturned to the communicator and unhooked the paper receptacle on itsbottom. It held about a yard and a half of tape, probably his lastseveral messages—both those sent and those received. He pulled it outimpatiently and began reading.     The first was from himself:     YOUR SUGGESTIONS NO HELP. HOW AM I GOING TO REPAIR DAMAGE TO SCOUTWITHOUT PROPER EQUIPMENT? AND WHERE DO I GET IT? DO YOU THINK I FOUNDA TOOL SHOP DOWN HERE? FOR GOD'S SAKE, COME UP WITH SOMETHING BETTER.     VISITED SEAL-PEOPLE AGAIN TODAY. STILL HAVE THEIR STINK IN MY NOSE.FOUND HUTS ALONG RIVER BANK, SO I GUESS THEY DON'T LIVE IN WATER.BUT THEY DO SPEND MOST OF THEIR TIME THERE. NO, I HAVE NO WAY OFESTIMATING THEIR INTELLIGENCE. I WOULD JUDGE IT AVERAGES NO HIGHERTHAN SEVEN-YEAR-OLD HUMAN. THEY DEFINITELY DO TALK TO ONE ANOTHER.WILL TRY TO FIND OUT MORE ABOUT THEM, BUT YOU GET TO WORK FAST ON HOWI REPAIR SCOUT.     SWELLING IN ARM WORSE AND AM DEVELOPING A FEVER. TEMPERATURE 102.7 ANHOUR AGO.     SMOKY     The ship must have answered immediately, for the return message timewas six hours later than his own, the minimum interval necessary fortwo-way exchange.     DOING OUR BEST, SMOKY. YOUR IMMEDIATE PROBLEM, AS WE SEE IT, IS TOKEEP WELL. WE FED ALL THE INFORMATION YOU GAVE US INTO SAM, BUT YOUDIDN'T HAVE MUCH EXCEPT THE STING IN YOUR ARM. AS EXPECTED, ALL THATCAME OUT WAS DATA INSUFFICIENT. TRY TO GIVE US MORE. ALSO DETAILALL SYMPTOMS SINCE YOUR LAST REPORT. IN THE MEANTIME, WE'RE DOINGEVERYTHING WE CAN AT THIS END. GOOD LUCK.     SS II     Sam, Kaiser knew, was the ship's mechanical diagnostician. His reportfollowed:     ARM SWOLLEN. UNABLE TO KEEP DOWN FOOD LAST TWELVE HOURS. ABOUT TWOHOURS AGO, ENTIRE BODY TURNED LIVID RED. BRIEF PERIODS OF BLANKNESS.THINGS KEEP COMING AND GOING. SICK AS HELL. HURRY.     SMOKY     The ship's next message read:     INFECTION QUITE DEFINITE. BUT SOMETHING STRANGE THERE. GIVE USANYTHING MORE YOU HAVE.     SS II     His own reply perplexed Kaiser:     LAST LETTER FUNNY. I NOT UNDERSTAND. WHY IS OO SENDING GARBLE TALK?DID USNS MAKE UP SECRET MESSAGES?     SMOKY     The expedition, apparently, was as puzzled as he:     WHAT'S THE MATTER, SMOKY? THAT LAST MESSAGE WAS IN PLAIN TERRAN. NOREASON WHY YOU COULDN'T READ IT. AND WHY THE BABY TALK? IF YOU'RESPOOFING, STOP. GIVE US MORE SYMPTOMS. HOW ARE YOU FEELING NOW?     SS II     The baby talk was worse on Kaiser's next:     TWAZY. WHAT FOR OO TENDING TWAZY LETTERS? FINK UM CAN WEAD TWAZYLETTERS? SKIN ALL YELLOW NOW. COLD. COLD. CO     The ship's following communication was three hours late. It was thelast on the tape—the one Kaiser had read earlier. Apparently theydecided to humor him.     OO IS SICK, SMOKY. DO TO BEDDY-BY. KEEP UM WARM. WHEN UM FEELS BETTER,LET USNS KNOW.     SS II     That was not much help. All it told him was that he had been sick.     He felt better now, outside of a muscular weariness, as thoughconvalescing from a long illness. He put the back of his hand to hisforehead. Cool. No fever anyway.     He glanced at the clock-calendar on the instrument board and back atthe date and time on the tape where he'd started his baby talk. Twentyhours. He hadn't been out of his head too long. He began punching thecommunicator keys while he nibbled at a biscuit.     SEEM TO BE FULLY RECOVERED. FEELING FINE. ANYTHING NEW FROM SAM? ANDHOW ABOUT THE DAMAGE TO SCOUT? GIVE ME ANYTHING YOU HAVE ON EITHER ORBOTH.     SMOKY     Kaiser felt suddenly weary. He lay on the scout's bunk and triedto sleep. Soon he was in that phantasm land between sleep andwakefulness—he knew he was not sleeping, yet he did dream.     It was the same dream he had had many times before. In it, he was backhome again, the home he had joined the space service to escape. He hadrealized soon after his marriage that his wife, Helene, did not lovehim. She had married him for the security his pay check provided. Andthough it soon became evident that she, too, regretted her bargain,she would not divorce him. Instead, she had her revenge on him bypersistent nagging, by letting herself grow fat and querulous, and bycaring for their house only in a slovenly way.     Her crippled brother had moved in with them the day they were married.His mind was as crippled as his body and he took an unhealthy delightin helping his sister torment Kaiser.  Kaiser came wide awake in a cold sweat. The clock showed that only anhour had passed since he had sent his last message to the ship. Stillfive more long hours to wait. He rose and wiped the sweat from his neckand shoulders and restlessly paced the small corridor of the scout.     After a few minutes, he stopped pacing and peered out into the gloom ofBig Muddy. The rain seemed to have eased off some. Not much more than aheavy drizzle now.     Kaiser reached impulsively for the slicker he had thrown over a chestagainst one wall and put it on, then a pair of hip-high plastic bootsand a plastic hat. He opened the door. The scout had come to rest witha slight tilt when it crashed, and Kaiser had to sit down and rollover onto his stomach to ease himself to the ground.     The weather outside was normal for Big Muddy: wet, humid, and warm.     Kaiser sank to his ankles in soft mud before his feet reached solidground. He half walked and half slid to the rear of the scout. Besidethe ship, the octopus was busily at work. Tentacles and antennae,extending from the yard-high box of its body, tested and recordedtemperature, atmosphere, soil, and all other pertinent planetaryconditions. The octopus was connected to the ship's communicator andall its findings were being transmitted to the mother ship for study.     Kaiser observed that it was working well and turned toward a wide,sluggish river, perhaps two hundred yards from the scout. Once there,he headed upstream. He could hear the pipings, and now and then ahigher whistling, of the seal-people before he reached a bend and sawthem. As usual, most were swimming in the river.       One old fellow, whose chocolate-brown fur showed a heavy intermixtureof gray, was sitting on the bank of the river just at the bend. Perhapsa lookout. He pulled himself to his feet as he spied Kaiser and histoothless, hard-gummed mouth opened and emitted a long whistle thatmight have been a greeting—or a warning to the others that a strangerapproached.     The native stood perhaps five feet tall, with the heavy, blubberybody of a seal, and short, thick arms. Membranes connected the armsto his body from shoulder-pits to mid-biceps. The arms ended inthree-fingered, thumbless hands. His legs also were short and thick,with footpads that splayed out at forty-five-degree angles. They gavehis legs the appearance of a split tail. About him hung a rank-fishsmell that made Kaiser's stomach squirm.     The old fellow sounded a cheerful chirp as Kaiser came near. Feelingslightly ineffectual, Kaiser raised both hands and held them palmforward. The other chirped again and Kaiser went on toward the maingroup.  They had stopped their play and eating as Kaiser approached and nowmost of them swam in to shore and stood in the water, staring andpiping. They varied in size from small seal-pups to full-grown adults.Some chewed on bunches of water weed, which they manipulated with theirlips and drew into their mouths.     They had mammalian characteristics, Kaiser had noted before, so itwas not difficult to distinguish the females from the males. Theproportion was roughly fifty-fifty.     Several of the bolder males climbed up beside Kaiser and began pawinghis plastic clothing. Kaiser stood still and tried to keep hisbreathing shallow, for their odor was almost more than he could bear.One native smeared Kaiser's face with an exploring paw and Kaisergagged and pushed him roughly away. He was bound by regulations todisplay no hostility to newly discovered natives, but he couldn't takemuch more of this.     A young female splashed water on two young males who stood near andthey turned with shrill pipings and chased her into the water. Theentire group seemed to lose interest in Kaiser and joined in the chase,or went back to other diversions of their own. Kaiser's inspectorsfollowed.     They were a mindless lot, Kaiser observed. The river supplied them withan easy existence, with food and living space, and apparently they hadfew natural enemies.     Kaiser walked away, following the long slow bend of the river, andcame to a collection of perhaps two hundred dwellings built in threehaphazard rows along the river bank. He took time to study theirconstruction more closely this time.     They were all round domes, little more than the height of a man, builtof blocks that appeared to be mud, packed with river weed and sand. Howthey were able to dry these to give them the necessary solidity, Kaiserdid not know. He had found no signs that they knew how to use fire, andall apparent evidence was against their having it. They then had tohave sunlight. Maybe it rained less during certain seasons.     The domes' construction was based on a series of four arches built in acircle. When the base covering the periphery had been laid, four otherswere built on and between them, and continued in successive tiers untilthe top was reached. Each tier thus furnished support for the nextabove. No other framework was needed. The final tier formed the roof.They made sound shelters, but Kaiser had peered into several and foundthem dark and dank—and as smelly as the natives themselves.     The few loungers in the village paid little attention to Kaiser andhe wandered through the irregular streets until he became bored andreturned to the scout.     The      Soscites II     sent little that helped during the next twelve hoursand Kaiser occupied his time trying again to repair the damage to thescout.     The job appeared maddeningly simply. As the scout had glided in fora soft landing, its metal bottom had ridden a concealed rock and bentinward. The bent metal had carried up with it the tube supplying thefuel pump and flattened it against the motor casing.  Opening the tube again would not have been difficult, but first it hadto be freed from under the ship. Kaiser had tried forcing the sheetmetal back into place with a small crowbar—the best leverage he had onhand—but it resisted his best efforts. He still could think of no wayto do the job, simple as it was, though he gave his concentration to itthe rest of the day.     That evening, Kaiser received information from the      Soscites II     thatwas at least definite:     SET YOURSELF FOR A SHOCK, SMOKY. SAM FINALLY CAME THROUGH. YOU WON'TLIKE WHAT YOU HEAR. AT LEAST NOT AT FIRST. BUT IT COULD BE WORSE. YOUHAVE BEEN INVADED BY A SYMBIOTE—SIMILAR TO THE TYPE FOUND ON THE SANDWORLD, BARTEL-BLEETHERS. GIVE US A FEW MORE HOURS TO WORK WITH SAM ANDWE'LL GET YOU ALL THE PARTICULARS HE CAN GIVE US. HANG ON NOW!     SOSCITES II     Kaiser's reply was short and succinct:     WHAT THE HELL?     SMOKY       Soscites II's     next communication followed within twenty minutes andwas signed by the ship's doctor:     JUST A FEW WORDS, SMOKY, IN CASE YOU'RE WORRIED. I THOUGHT I'D GETTHIS OFF WHILE WE'RE WAITING FOR MORE INFORMATION FROM SAM. REMEMBERTHAT A SYMBIOTE IS NOT A PARASITE. IT WILL NOT HARM YOU, EXCEPTINADVERTENTLY. YOUR WELFARE IS AS ESSENTIAL TO IT AS TO YOU. ALMOSTCERTAINLY, IF YOU DIE, IT WILL DIE WITH YOU. ANY TROUBLE YOU'VE HADSO FAR WAS PROBABLY CAUSED BY THE SYMBIOTE'S DIFFICULTY IN ADJUSTINGITSELF TO ITS NEW ENVIRONMENT. IN A WAY, I ENVY YOU. MORE LATER, WHENWE FINISH WITH SAM.     J. G. ZARWELL     Kaiser did not answer. The news was so startling, so unforeseen, thathis mind refused to accept the actuality. He lay on the scout's bunkand stared at the ceiling without conscious attention, and with verylittle clear thought, for several hours—until the next communicationcame in:     WELL, THIS IS WHAT SAM HAS TO SAY, SMOKY. SYMBIOTE AMICABLE ANDAPPARENTLY SWIFTLY ADAPTABLE. YOUR CHANGING COLOR, DIFFICULTY INEATING AND EVEN BABY TALK WERE THE RESULT OF ITS EFFORTS TO GIVE YOUWHAT IT BELIEVED YOU NEEDED OR WANTED.     CHANGING COLOR: PROTECTIVE CAMOUFLAGE. TROUBLE KEEPING FOOD DOWN: ITKEPT YOUR STOMACH EMPTY BECAUSE IT SENSED YOU WERE IN TROUBLE ANDMIGHT HAVE NEED FOR SHARP REFLEXES, WITH NO EXCESS WEIGHT TO CARRY.THE BABY TALK WE AREN'T TOO CERTAIN ABOUT, BUT OUR BEST CONCLUSION ISTHAT WHEN YOU WERE A CHILD, YOU WERE MOST HAPPY. IT WAS TRYING TO GIVEYOU BACK THAT HAPPY STATE OF MIND. OBVIOUSLY IT QUICKLY RECOGNIZEDTHE MISTAKES IT MADE AND CORRECTED THEM.     SAM CAME UP WITH A FEW MORE IDEAS, BUT WE WANT TO WORK ON THEM A BITBEFORE WE SEND THEM THROUGH. SLEEP ON THIS.     SS II  Kaiser could imagine that most of the crew were not too concerned aboutthe trouble he was in. He was not the gregarious type and had no closefriends on board. He had hoped to find the solitude he liked best inspace, but he had been disappointed. True, there were fewer peoplehere, but he was brought into such intimate contact with them that hewould have been more contented living in a crowded city.     His naturally unsociable nature was more irksome to the crew becausehe was more intelligent and efficient than they were. He did his workwell and painstakingly and was seldom in error. They would have likedhim better had he been more prone to mistakes. He was certain that theyrespected him, but they did not like him. And he returned the dislike.     The suggestion that he get some sleep might not be a bad idea. Hehadn't slept in over eighteen hours, Kaiser realized—and fellinstantly asleep.     The communicator had a message waiting for him when he awoke:     SAM COULDN'T HELP US MUCH ON THIS PART, BUT AFTER RESEARCH AND MUCHDISCUSSION, WE ARRIVED AT THE FOLLOWING TWO CONCLUSIONS.     FIRST, PHYSICAL PROPERTY OF SYMBIOTE IS EITHER THAT OF A VERY THINLIQUID OR, MORE PROBABLY, A VIRUS FORM WITH SWIFT PROPAGATIONCHARACTERISTIC. IT UNDOUBTEDLY LIVES IN YOUR BLOOD STREAM ANDPERMEATES YOUR SYSTEM.     SECOND, IT SEEMED TO US, AS IT MUST HAVE TO YOU, THAT THE SYMBIOTECOULD ONLY KNOW WHAT YOU WANTED BY READING YOUR MIND. HOWEVER, WEBELIEVE DIFFERENTLY NOW. WE THINK THAT IT HAS SUCH CLOSE CONTACT WITHYOUR GLANDS AND THEIR SECRETIONS, WHICH STIMULATE EMOTION, THAT IT CANGAUGE YOUR FEELINGS EVEN MORE ACCURATELY THAN YOU YOURSELF CAN. THUSIT CAN JUDGE YOUR LIKES AND DISLIKES QUITE ACCURATELY.     WE WOULD LIKE TO HAVE YOU TEST OUR THEORY. THERE ARE DOZENS OF WAYS.IF YOU ARE STUMPED AND NEED SUGGESTIONS, JUST LET US KNOW. WE AWAITWORD FROM YOU WITH GREAT INTEREST.     SS II     By now, Kaiser had accepted what had happened to him. His distress andanxiety were gone and he was impatient to do what he could to establishbetter contact with his uninvited tenant. With eager anticipation, heset to thinking how it could be done. After a few minutes, an ideaoccurred to him.     Taking a small scalpel from a medical kit, he made a shallow cut inhis arm, just deep enough to bleed freely. He knew that the pain wouldsupply the necessary glandular reaction. The cut bled a few slowdrops—and as Kaiser watched, a shiny film formed and the bleedingstopped.     That checked pretty well with the ship's theory.     Perhaps the symbiote had made his senses more acute. He tried closinghis eyes and fingering several objects in the room. It seemed to himthat he could determine the texture of each better than before, butthe test was inconclusive. Walking to the rear of the scout, he triedreading the printed words on the instrument panel. Each letter stoodout sharp and clear!     Kaiser wondered if he might not make an immediate, practical use of thesymbiote's apparent desire to help him. Concentrating on the discomfortof the high humidity and exaggerating his own displeasure with it, hewaited. The result surprised and pleased him.     The temperature within the scout cabin seemed to lower, the moistureon his body vanished, and he was more comfortable than he had yet beenhere.     As a double check, he looked at the ship's thermometer. Temperature102, humidity 113—just about the same as it had been on earlierreadings.  During the next twenty-four hours, Kaiser and the mother ship exchangedmessages at regular six-hour intervals. In between, he worked atrepairing the damaged scout. He had no more success than before.     He tired easily and lay on the cot often to rest. Each time he seemedto drop off to sleep immediately—and awake at the exact times hehad decided on beforehand. At first, despite the lack of success instraightening the bent metal of the scout bottom, there had been asubdued exhilaration in reporting each new discovery concerning thesymbiote, but as time passed, his enthusiasm ebbed. His one reallyimportant problem was how to repair the scout and he was fast becomingdiscouraged.     At last Kaiser could bear the futility of his efforts no longer. Hesent out a terse message to the      Soscites II     :     TAKING SHORT TRIP TO ANOTHER LOCATION ON RIVER. HOPE TO FIND MOREINTELLIGENT NATIVES. COULD BE THAT THE SETTLEMENT I FOUND HERE ISANALOGOUS TO TRIBE OF MONKEYS ON EARTH. I KNOW THE CHANCE IS SMALL,BUT WHAT HAVE I TO LOSE? I CAN'T FIX SCOUT WITHOUT BETTER TOOLS, ANDIF MY GUESS IS RIGHT, I MAY BE ABLE TO GET EQUIPMENT. EXPECT TO RETURNIN TEN OR TWELVE HOURS. PLEASE KEEP CONTACT WITH SCOUT.     SMOKY     Kaiser packed a mudsled with tent, portable generator and guard wires,a spare sidearm and ammunition, and food for two days. He had noticedthat a range of high hills, which caused the bend in the river atthe native settlement, seemed to continue its long curve, and hewondered if the hills might not turn the river in the shape of a gianthorseshoe. He intended to find out.     Wrapping his equipment in a plastic tarp, Kaiser eased it out thedoorway and tied it on the sled. He hooked a towline to a harness onhis shoulders and began his journey—in the opposite direction from thefirst native settlement.     He walked for more than seven hours before he found that his surmisehad been correct. And a second cluster of huts, and seal-people in theriver, greeted his sight. He received a further pleasant surprise. Thisgroup was decidedly more advanced than the first!     They were little different in actual physical appearance; the changewas mainly noticeable in their actions and demeanor. And their odor wasmore subdued, less repugnant.     By signs, Kaiser indicated that he came in peace, and they seemed tounderstand. A thick-bodied male went solemnly to the river bank andcalled to a second, who dived and brought up a mouthful of weed. Thefirst male took the weed and brought it to Kaiser. This was obviously agesture of friendship.     The weed had a white starchy core and looked edible. Kaiser cleanedpart of it with his handkerchief, bit and chewed it.     The weed had a slight iron taste, but was not unpalatable. He swallowedthe mouthful and tried another. He ate most of what had been given himand waited with some trepidation for a reaction.  As dusk fell, Kaiser set up his tent a few hundred yards back from thenative settlement. All apprehension about how his stomach would reactto the river weed had left him. Apparently it could be assimilated byhis digestive system. Lying on his air mattress, he felt thoroughly atpeace with this world.     Once, just before dropping off to sleep, he heard the snuffling noiseof some large animal outside his tent and picked up a pistol, just incase. However, the first jolt of the guard-wire charge discouraged thebeast and Kaiser heard it shuffle away, making puzzled mewing sounds asit went.     The next morning, Kaiser left off all his clothes except a pair ofshorts and went swimming in the river. The seal-people were already inthe water when he arrived and were very friendly.     That friendliness nearly resulted in disaster. The natives crowdedaround as he swam—they maneuvered with an otter-like proficiency—andoften nudged him with their bodies when they came too close. He haddifficulty keeping afloat and soon turned and started back. As heneared the river edge, a playful female grabbed him by the ankle andpulled him under.     Kaiser tried to break her hold, but she evidently thought he wasclowning and wrapped her warm furred arms around him and held himhelpless. They sank deeper.     When his breath threatened to burst from his lungs in a stream ofbubbles, and he still could not free himself, Kaiser brought his kneeup into her stomach and her grip loosened abruptly. He reached thesurface, choking and coughing, and swam blindly toward shore until hisfeet hit the river bottom.     As he stood on the bank, getting his breath, the natives were quiet andseemed to be looking at him reproachfully. He stood for a time, tryingto think of a way to explain the necessity of what he had done, butthere was none. He shrugged helplessly.     There was no longer anything to be gained by staying here—if theyhad the tools he needed, he had no way of finding out or asking forthem—and he packed and started back to the scout.     Kaiser's good spirits returned on his return journey. He had enjoyedthe relief from the tedium of spending day after day in the scout, andnow he enjoyed the exercise of pulling the mudsled. Above the waist,he wore only the harness and the large, soft drops of rain against hisbare skin were pleasant to feel.     When he reached the scout, Kaiser began to unload the sled. Thetarpaulin caught on the edge of a runner and he gave it a tug to freeit. To his amazement, the heavy sled turned completely over, spillingthe equipment to the ground.     Perplexed, Kaiser stooped and began replacing the spilled articles inthe tarp. They felt exceptionally light. He paused again, and suddenlyhis eyes widened.  Moving quickly to the door of the scout, he shoved his equipmentthrough and crawled in behind it. He did not consult the communicator,as he customarily did on entering, but went directly to the warpedplace on the floor and picked up the crowbar he had laid there.     Inserting the bar between the metal of the scout bottom and the enginecasing, he lifted. Nothing happened. He rested a minute and triedagain, this time concentrating on his desire to raise the bar. Themetal beneath yielded slightly—but he felt the palms of his handsbruise against the lever.     Only after he dropped the bar did he realize the force he had exerted.His hands ached and tingled. His strength must have been increasedtremendously. With his plastic coat wrapped around the lever, he triedagain. The metal of the scout bottom gave slowly—until the fuel pumphung free!     Kaiser did not repair the tube immediately. He let the solutionrest in his hands, like a package to be opened, the pleasure of itsanticipation to be enjoyed as much as the final act.     He transmitted the news of what he had been able to do and sat down toread the two messages waiting for him.     The first was quite routine:     REPORTS FROM THE OCTOPUS INDICATE THAT BIG MUDDY UNDERGOES RADICALWEATHER-CYCLE CHANGES DURING SPRING AND FALL SEASONS, FROM EXTREMEMOISTURE TO EXTREME ARIDITY. AT HEIGHT OF DRY SEASON, PLANET MUST BECOMPLETELY DEVOID OF SURFACE LIQUID.     TO SURVIVE THESE UNUSUAL EXTREMES, SEAL-PEOPLE WOULD NEED EXTREMEADAPTABILITY. THIS VERIFIES OUR EARLIER GUESS THAT NATIVES HAVESYMBIOSIS WITH THE SAME VIRUS FORM THAT INVADED YOU. WITH SYMBIOTES'AID, SUCH RADICAL PHYSICAL CHANGE COULD BE POSSIBLE. WILL KEEP YOUINFORMED.     GIVE US ANY NEW INFORMATION YOU MIGHT HAVE ON NATIVES.     SS II     The second report was not so routine. Kaiser thought he detected a noteof uneasiness in it.     SUGGEST YOU DEVOTE ALL TIME AND EFFORT TO REPAIR OF SCOUT. INFORMATIONON SEAL-PEOPLE ADEQUATE FOR OUR PURPOSES.     SS II     Kaiser did not answer either communication. His earlier report hadcovered all that he had learned lately. He lay on his cot and went tosleep.     In the morning, another message was waiting:     VERY PLEASED TO HEAR OF PROGRESS ON REPAIR OF SCOUT. COMPLETE ASQUICKLY AS POSSIBLE AND RETURN HERE IMMEDIATELY.     SS II  Kaiser wondered about the abrupt recall. Could the      Soscites II     beexperiencing some difficulty? He shrugged the thought aside. If theywere, they would have told him. The last notes had had more than just asuggestion of urgency—there appeared to be a deliberate concealing ofinformation.     Strangely, the messages indicated need for haste did not prod Kaiser.He knew now that the job could be done, perhaps in a few hours' time.And the      Soscites II     would not complete its orbit of the planet fortwo weeks yet.     Without putting on more than the shirt and trousers he had grown usedto wearing, Kaiser went outside and wandered listlessly about thevicinity of the ship for several hours. When he became hungry, he wentback inside.     Another message came in as he finished eating. This one was from thecaptain himself:     WHY HAVE WE RECEIVED NO VERIFICATION OF LAST INSTRUCTIONS? REPAIRSCOUT IMMEDIATELY AND RETURN WITHOUT FURTHER DELAY. THIS IS AN ORDER!     H. A. HESSE, CAPT.     Kaiser pushed the last of his meal—which he had been eating with hisfingers—into his mouth, crumpled the tape, wiped the grease from hishands with it and dropped it to the floor.     He pondered mildly, as he packed his equipment, why he was disregardingthe captain's message. For some reason, it seemed too trivial forserious consideration. He placated his slightly uneasy conscience onlyto the extent of packing the communicator in with his other equipment.It was a self-contained unit and he'd be able to receive messages fromthe ship on his trip.  The tracks of his earlier journey had been erased by the soft rain, andwhen Kaiser reached the river, he found that he had not returned tothe village he had visited the day before. However, there were otherseal-people here.     And they were almost human!     The resemblance was still not so much in their physical makeup—thatwas little changed from the first he had found—as in their obviouslygreater intelligence.     This was mainly noticeable in their facile expressions as they talked.Kaiser was even certain that he read smiles on their faces when heslipped on a particularly slick mud patch as he hurried toward them.Where the members of the first tribes had all looked almost exactlyalike, these had very marked individual characteristics. Also, thesehad no odor—only a mild, rather pleasing scent. When they came to meethim, Kaiser could detect distinct syllabism in their pipings.     Most of the natives returned to the river after the first ten minutesof curious inspection, but two stayed behind as Kaiser set up his tent.     One was a female.     They made small noises while he went about his work. After a time, heunderstood that they were trying to give names to his paraphernalia. Hetried saying tent and wire and tarp as he handled each object,but their piping voices could not repeat the words. Kaiser amusedhimself by trying to imitate their sounds for the articles. He wasfairly successful. He was certain that he could soon learn enough tocarry on a limited conversation.     The male became bored after a time and left, but the girl stayed untilKaiser finished. She motioned to him then to follow. When they reachedthe river bank, he saw that she wanted him to go into the water.  Before he had time to decide, Kaiser heard the small bell of thecommunicator from the tent behind him. He stood undecided for a moment,then returned and read the message on the tape:     STILL ANXIOUSLY AWAITING WORD FROM YOU.     IN MEANTIME, GIVE VERY CLOSE ATTENTION TO FOLLOWING.     WE KNOW THAT THE SYMBIOTES MUST BE ABLE TO MAKE RADICAL CHANGES IN THEPHYSIOLOGY OF THE SEAL-PEOPLE. THERE IS EVERY PROBABILITY THAT YOURSWILL ATTEMPT TO DO THE SAME TO YOU—TO BETTER FIT YOUR BODY TO ITSPRESENT ENVIRONMENT.     THE DANGER, WHICH WE HESITATED TO MENTION UNTIL NOW—WHEN YOU HAVEFORCED US BY YOUR OBSTINATE SILENCE—IS THAT IT CAN ALTER YOURMIND ALSO. YOUR REPORT ON SECOND TRIBE OF SEAL-PEOPLE STRONGLYINDICATES THAT THIS IS ALREADY HAPPENING. THEY WERE PROBABLY NOT MOREINTELLIGENT AND HUMANLIKE THAN THE OTHERS. ON THE CONTRARY, YOU AREBECOMING MORE LIKE THEM.     DANGER ACUTE. RETURN IMMEDIATELY. REPEAT: IMMEDIATELY!     SS II     Kaiser picked up a large rock and slowly, methodically pounded thecommunicator into a flattened jumble of metal and loose parts.     When he finished, he returned to the waiting girl on the river bank.She pointed at his plastic trousers and made laughing sounds in herthroat. Kaiser returned the laugh and stripped off the trousers. Theyran, still laughing, into the water.     Already the long pink hair that had been growing on his body during thepast week was beginning to turn brown at the roots.   ","Kaiser’s perception of the native groups of seal-people represents how his body is affected by the symbiote that has invaded his system. The first time the man sees them, he considers them mindless repulsive creatures with an unbearable odor and no proper communication system. The second meeting changes his opinion about them - now they seem more advanced in their demeanor and actions, friendlier, and their smell is less repugnant. This change in perception shows that Kaiser has already started changing, becoming more like them. The last meeting with the seal-people makes the man believe that they have more individualistic characteristics. They don’t have the bad odor anymore, just a pleasant scent. They use distinct syllabism, and, finally, living with them and swimming in the river seems more appealing to him than going back to the Soscites II. These seal-people have the same symbiote, which has altered their appearance and mind. At the end, Kaiser practically becomes one of them. "
"What is the importance of the communication device in the story? </s>     Well, naturally Kaiser would transmit baby     talk messages to his mother ship! He was—     GROWING UP ON BIG MUDDY     By CHARLES V. DE VET     Illustrated by TURPIN     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction July 1957.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Kaiser stared at the tape in his hand for a long uncomprehendingminute. How long had the stuff been coming through in this inane babytalk? And why hadn't he noticed it before? Why had he had to read thislast communication a third time before he recognized anything unusualabout it?     He went over the words again, as though maybe this time they'd read asthey should.     OO IS SICK, SMOKY. DO TO BEDDY-BY. KEEP UM WARM. WHEN UM FEELS BETTER,LET USNS KNOW.     SS II     Kaiser let himself ease back in the pilot chair and rolled the tapethoughtfully between his fingers. Overhead and to each side, largedrops of rain thudded softly against the transparent walls of the scoutship and dripped wearily from the bottom ledge to the ground.     Damn this climate! Kaiser muttered irrelevantly. Doesn't it ever doanything here except rain?     His attention returned to the matter at hand. Why the baby talk? Andwhy was his memory so hazy? How long had he been here? What had he beendoing during that time?     Listlessly he reached for the towel at his elbow and wiped the moisturefrom his face and bare shoulders. The air conditioning had gone outwhen the scout ship cracked up. He'd have to repair the scout or hewas stuck here for good. He remembered now that he had gone over thejob very carefully and thoroughly, and had found it too big to handlealone—or without better equipment, at least. Yet there was little orno chance of his being able to find either here.     Calmly, deliberately, Kaiser collected his thoughts, his memories, andbrought them out where he could look at them:     The mother ship,      Soscites II     , had been on the last leg of itsplanet-mapping tour. It had dropped Kaiser in the one remaining scoutship—the other seven had all been lost one way or another during theexploring of new worlds—and set itself into a giant orbit about thisplanet that Kaiser had named Big Muddy.     The      Soscites II     had to maintain its constant speed; it had no meansof slowing, except to stop, and no way to start again once it did stop.Its limited range of maneuverability made it necessary to set up anorbit that would take it approximately one month, Earth time, to circlea pinpointed planet. And now its fuel was low.     Kaiser had that one month to repair his scout or be stranded hereforever.     That was all he could remember. Nothing of what he had been doingrecently.     A small shiver passed through his body as he glanced once again at thetape in his hand. Baby talk....  One thing he could find out: how long this had been going on. Heturned to the communicator and unhooked the paper receptacle on itsbottom. It held about a yard and a half of tape, probably his lastseveral messages—both those sent and those received. He pulled it outimpatiently and began reading.     The first was from himself:     YOUR SUGGESTIONS NO HELP. HOW AM I GOING TO REPAIR DAMAGE TO SCOUTWITHOUT PROPER EQUIPMENT? AND WHERE DO I GET IT? DO YOU THINK I FOUNDA TOOL SHOP DOWN HERE? FOR GOD'S SAKE, COME UP WITH SOMETHING BETTER.     VISITED SEAL-PEOPLE AGAIN TODAY. STILL HAVE THEIR STINK IN MY NOSE.FOUND HUTS ALONG RIVER BANK, SO I GUESS THEY DON'T LIVE IN WATER.BUT THEY DO SPEND MOST OF THEIR TIME THERE. NO, I HAVE NO WAY OFESTIMATING THEIR INTELLIGENCE. I WOULD JUDGE IT AVERAGES NO HIGHERTHAN SEVEN-YEAR-OLD HUMAN. THEY DEFINITELY DO TALK TO ONE ANOTHER.WILL TRY TO FIND OUT MORE ABOUT THEM, BUT YOU GET TO WORK FAST ON HOWI REPAIR SCOUT.     SWELLING IN ARM WORSE AND AM DEVELOPING A FEVER. TEMPERATURE 102.7 ANHOUR AGO.     SMOKY     The ship must have answered immediately, for the return message timewas six hours later than his own, the minimum interval necessary fortwo-way exchange.     DOING OUR BEST, SMOKY. YOUR IMMEDIATE PROBLEM, AS WE SEE IT, IS TOKEEP WELL. WE FED ALL THE INFORMATION YOU GAVE US INTO SAM, BUT YOUDIDN'T HAVE MUCH EXCEPT THE STING IN YOUR ARM. AS EXPECTED, ALL THATCAME OUT WAS DATA INSUFFICIENT. TRY TO GIVE US MORE. ALSO DETAILALL SYMPTOMS SINCE YOUR LAST REPORT. IN THE MEANTIME, WE'RE DOINGEVERYTHING WE CAN AT THIS END. GOOD LUCK.     SS II     Sam, Kaiser knew, was the ship's mechanical diagnostician. His reportfollowed:     ARM SWOLLEN. UNABLE TO KEEP DOWN FOOD LAST TWELVE HOURS. ABOUT TWOHOURS AGO, ENTIRE BODY TURNED LIVID RED. BRIEF PERIODS OF BLANKNESS.THINGS KEEP COMING AND GOING. SICK AS HELL. HURRY.     SMOKY     The ship's next message read:     INFECTION QUITE DEFINITE. BUT SOMETHING STRANGE THERE. GIVE USANYTHING MORE YOU HAVE.     SS II     His own reply perplexed Kaiser:     LAST LETTER FUNNY. I NOT UNDERSTAND. WHY IS OO SENDING GARBLE TALK?DID USNS MAKE UP SECRET MESSAGES?     SMOKY     The expedition, apparently, was as puzzled as he:     WHAT'S THE MATTER, SMOKY? THAT LAST MESSAGE WAS IN PLAIN TERRAN. NOREASON WHY YOU COULDN'T READ IT. AND WHY THE BABY TALK? IF YOU'RESPOOFING, STOP. GIVE US MORE SYMPTOMS. HOW ARE YOU FEELING NOW?     SS II     The baby talk was worse on Kaiser's next:     TWAZY. WHAT FOR OO TENDING TWAZY LETTERS? FINK UM CAN WEAD TWAZYLETTERS? SKIN ALL YELLOW NOW. COLD. COLD. CO     The ship's following communication was three hours late. It was thelast on the tape—the one Kaiser had read earlier. Apparently theydecided to humor him.     OO IS SICK, SMOKY. DO TO BEDDY-BY. KEEP UM WARM. WHEN UM FEELS BETTER,LET USNS KNOW.     SS II     That was not much help. All it told him was that he had been sick.     He felt better now, outside of a muscular weariness, as thoughconvalescing from a long illness. He put the back of his hand to hisforehead. Cool. No fever anyway.     He glanced at the clock-calendar on the instrument board and back atthe date and time on the tape where he'd started his baby talk. Twentyhours. He hadn't been out of his head too long. He began punching thecommunicator keys while he nibbled at a biscuit.     SEEM TO BE FULLY RECOVERED. FEELING FINE. ANYTHING NEW FROM SAM? ANDHOW ABOUT THE DAMAGE TO SCOUT? GIVE ME ANYTHING YOU HAVE ON EITHER ORBOTH.     SMOKY     Kaiser felt suddenly weary. He lay on the scout's bunk and triedto sleep. Soon he was in that phantasm land between sleep andwakefulness—he knew he was not sleeping, yet he did dream.     It was the same dream he had had many times before. In it, he was backhome again, the home he had joined the space service to escape. He hadrealized soon after his marriage that his wife, Helene, did not lovehim. She had married him for the security his pay check provided. Andthough it soon became evident that she, too, regretted her bargain,she would not divorce him. Instead, she had her revenge on him bypersistent nagging, by letting herself grow fat and querulous, and bycaring for their house only in a slovenly way.     Her crippled brother had moved in with them the day they were married.His mind was as crippled as his body and he took an unhealthy delightin helping his sister torment Kaiser.  Kaiser came wide awake in a cold sweat. The clock showed that only anhour had passed since he had sent his last message to the ship. Stillfive more long hours to wait. He rose and wiped the sweat from his neckand shoulders and restlessly paced the small corridor of the scout.     After a few minutes, he stopped pacing and peered out into the gloom ofBig Muddy. The rain seemed to have eased off some. Not much more than aheavy drizzle now.     Kaiser reached impulsively for the slicker he had thrown over a chestagainst one wall and put it on, then a pair of hip-high plastic bootsand a plastic hat. He opened the door. The scout had come to rest witha slight tilt when it crashed, and Kaiser had to sit down and rollover onto his stomach to ease himself to the ground.     The weather outside was normal for Big Muddy: wet, humid, and warm.     Kaiser sank to his ankles in soft mud before his feet reached solidground. He half walked and half slid to the rear of the scout. Besidethe ship, the octopus was busily at work. Tentacles and antennae,extending from the yard-high box of its body, tested and recordedtemperature, atmosphere, soil, and all other pertinent planetaryconditions. The octopus was connected to the ship's communicator andall its findings were being transmitted to the mother ship for study.     Kaiser observed that it was working well and turned toward a wide,sluggish river, perhaps two hundred yards from the scout. Once there,he headed upstream. He could hear the pipings, and now and then ahigher whistling, of the seal-people before he reached a bend and sawthem. As usual, most were swimming in the river.       One old fellow, whose chocolate-brown fur showed a heavy intermixtureof gray, was sitting on the bank of the river just at the bend. Perhapsa lookout. He pulled himself to his feet as he spied Kaiser and histoothless, hard-gummed mouth opened and emitted a long whistle thatmight have been a greeting—or a warning to the others that a strangerapproached.     The native stood perhaps five feet tall, with the heavy, blubberybody of a seal, and short, thick arms. Membranes connected the armsto his body from shoulder-pits to mid-biceps. The arms ended inthree-fingered, thumbless hands. His legs also were short and thick,with footpads that splayed out at forty-five-degree angles. They gavehis legs the appearance of a split tail. About him hung a rank-fishsmell that made Kaiser's stomach squirm.     The old fellow sounded a cheerful chirp as Kaiser came near. Feelingslightly ineffectual, Kaiser raised both hands and held them palmforward. The other chirped again and Kaiser went on toward the maingroup.  They had stopped their play and eating as Kaiser approached and nowmost of them swam in to shore and stood in the water, staring andpiping. They varied in size from small seal-pups to full-grown adults.Some chewed on bunches of water weed, which they manipulated with theirlips and drew into their mouths.     They had mammalian characteristics, Kaiser had noted before, so itwas not difficult to distinguish the females from the males. Theproportion was roughly fifty-fifty.     Several of the bolder males climbed up beside Kaiser and began pawinghis plastic clothing. Kaiser stood still and tried to keep hisbreathing shallow, for their odor was almost more than he could bear.One native smeared Kaiser's face with an exploring paw and Kaisergagged and pushed him roughly away. He was bound by regulations todisplay no hostility to newly discovered natives, but he couldn't takemuch more of this.     A young female splashed water on two young males who stood near andthey turned with shrill pipings and chased her into the water. Theentire group seemed to lose interest in Kaiser and joined in the chase,or went back to other diversions of their own. Kaiser's inspectorsfollowed.     They were a mindless lot, Kaiser observed. The river supplied them withan easy existence, with food and living space, and apparently they hadfew natural enemies.     Kaiser walked away, following the long slow bend of the river, andcame to a collection of perhaps two hundred dwellings built in threehaphazard rows along the river bank. He took time to study theirconstruction more closely this time.     They were all round domes, little more than the height of a man, builtof blocks that appeared to be mud, packed with river weed and sand. Howthey were able to dry these to give them the necessary solidity, Kaiserdid not know. He had found no signs that they knew how to use fire, andall apparent evidence was against their having it. They then had tohave sunlight. Maybe it rained less during certain seasons.     The domes' construction was based on a series of four arches built in acircle. When the base covering the periphery had been laid, four otherswere built on and between them, and continued in successive tiers untilthe top was reached. Each tier thus furnished support for the nextabove. No other framework was needed. The final tier formed the roof.They made sound shelters, but Kaiser had peered into several and foundthem dark and dank—and as smelly as the natives themselves.     The few loungers in the village paid little attention to Kaiser andhe wandered through the irregular streets until he became bored andreturned to the scout.     The      Soscites II     sent little that helped during the next twelve hoursand Kaiser occupied his time trying again to repair the damage to thescout.     The job appeared maddeningly simply. As the scout had glided in fora soft landing, its metal bottom had ridden a concealed rock and bentinward. The bent metal had carried up with it the tube supplying thefuel pump and flattened it against the motor casing.  Opening the tube again would not have been difficult, but first it hadto be freed from under the ship. Kaiser had tried forcing the sheetmetal back into place with a small crowbar—the best leverage he had onhand—but it resisted his best efforts. He still could think of no wayto do the job, simple as it was, though he gave his concentration to itthe rest of the day.     That evening, Kaiser received information from the      Soscites II     thatwas at least definite:     SET YOURSELF FOR A SHOCK, SMOKY. SAM FINALLY CAME THROUGH. YOU WON'TLIKE WHAT YOU HEAR. AT LEAST NOT AT FIRST. BUT IT COULD BE WORSE. YOUHAVE BEEN INVADED BY A SYMBIOTE—SIMILAR TO THE TYPE FOUND ON THE SANDWORLD, BARTEL-BLEETHERS. GIVE US A FEW MORE HOURS TO WORK WITH SAM ANDWE'LL GET YOU ALL THE PARTICULARS HE CAN GIVE US. HANG ON NOW!     SOSCITES II     Kaiser's reply was short and succinct:     WHAT THE HELL?     SMOKY       Soscites II's     next communication followed within twenty minutes andwas signed by the ship's doctor:     JUST A FEW WORDS, SMOKY, IN CASE YOU'RE WORRIED. I THOUGHT I'D GETTHIS OFF WHILE WE'RE WAITING FOR MORE INFORMATION FROM SAM. REMEMBERTHAT A SYMBIOTE IS NOT A PARASITE. IT WILL NOT HARM YOU, EXCEPTINADVERTENTLY. YOUR WELFARE IS AS ESSENTIAL TO IT AS TO YOU. ALMOSTCERTAINLY, IF YOU DIE, IT WILL DIE WITH YOU. ANY TROUBLE YOU'VE HADSO FAR WAS PROBABLY CAUSED BY THE SYMBIOTE'S DIFFICULTY IN ADJUSTINGITSELF TO ITS NEW ENVIRONMENT. IN A WAY, I ENVY YOU. MORE LATER, WHENWE FINISH WITH SAM.     J. G. ZARWELL     Kaiser did not answer. The news was so startling, so unforeseen, thathis mind refused to accept the actuality. He lay on the scout's bunkand stared at the ceiling without conscious attention, and with verylittle clear thought, for several hours—until the next communicationcame in:     WELL, THIS IS WHAT SAM HAS TO SAY, SMOKY. SYMBIOTE AMICABLE ANDAPPARENTLY SWIFTLY ADAPTABLE. YOUR CHANGING COLOR, DIFFICULTY INEATING AND EVEN BABY TALK WERE THE RESULT OF ITS EFFORTS TO GIVE YOUWHAT IT BELIEVED YOU NEEDED OR WANTED.     CHANGING COLOR: PROTECTIVE CAMOUFLAGE. TROUBLE KEEPING FOOD DOWN: ITKEPT YOUR STOMACH EMPTY BECAUSE IT SENSED YOU WERE IN TROUBLE ANDMIGHT HAVE NEED FOR SHARP REFLEXES, WITH NO EXCESS WEIGHT TO CARRY.THE BABY TALK WE AREN'T TOO CERTAIN ABOUT, BUT OUR BEST CONCLUSION ISTHAT WHEN YOU WERE A CHILD, YOU WERE MOST HAPPY. IT WAS TRYING TO GIVEYOU BACK THAT HAPPY STATE OF MIND. OBVIOUSLY IT QUICKLY RECOGNIZEDTHE MISTAKES IT MADE AND CORRECTED THEM.     SAM CAME UP WITH A FEW MORE IDEAS, BUT WE WANT TO WORK ON THEM A BITBEFORE WE SEND THEM THROUGH. SLEEP ON THIS.     SS II  Kaiser could imagine that most of the crew were not too concerned aboutthe trouble he was in. He was not the gregarious type and had no closefriends on board. He had hoped to find the solitude he liked best inspace, but he had been disappointed. True, there were fewer peoplehere, but he was brought into such intimate contact with them that hewould have been more contented living in a crowded city.     His naturally unsociable nature was more irksome to the crew becausehe was more intelligent and efficient than they were. He did his workwell and painstakingly and was seldom in error. They would have likedhim better had he been more prone to mistakes. He was certain that theyrespected him, but they did not like him. And he returned the dislike.     The suggestion that he get some sleep might not be a bad idea. Hehadn't slept in over eighteen hours, Kaiser realized—and fellinstantly asleep.     The communicator had a message waiting for him when he awoke:     SAM COULDN'T HELP US MUCH ON THIS PART, BUT AFTER RESEARCH AND MUCHDISCUSSION, WE ARRIVED AT THE FOLLOWING TWO CONCLUSIONS.     FIRST, PHYSICAL PROPERTY OF SYMBIOTE IS EITHER THAT OF A VERY THINLIQUID OR, MORE PROBABLY, A VIRUS FORM WITH SWIFT PROPAGATIONCHARACTERISTIC. IT UNDOUBTEDLY LIVES IN YOUR BLOOD STREAM ANDPERMEATES YOUR SYSTEM.     SECOND, IT SEEMED TO US, AS IT MUST HAVE TO YOU, THAT THE SYMBIOTECOULD ONLY KNOW WHAT YOU WANTED BY READING YOUR MIND. HOWEVER, WEBELIEVE DIFFERENTLY NOW. WE THINK THAT IT HAS SUCH CLOSE CONTACT WITHYOUR GLANDS AND THEIR SECRETIONS, WHICH STIMULATE EMOTION, THAT IT CANGAUGE YOUR FEELINGS EVEN MORE ACCURATELY THAN YOU YOURSELF CAN. THUSIT CAN JUDGE YOUR LIKES AND DISLIKES QUITE ACCURATELY.     WE WOULD LIKE TO HAVE YOU TEST OUR THEORY. THERE ARE DOZENS OF WAYS.IF YOU ARE STUMPED AND NEED SUGGESTIONS, JUST LET US KNOW. WE AWAITWORD FROM YOU WITH GREAT INTEREST.     SS II     By now, Kaiser had accepted what had happened to him. His distress andanxiety were gone and he was impatient to do what he could to establishbetter contact with his uninvited tenant. With eager anticipation, heset to thinking how it could be done. After a few minutes, an ideaoccurred to him.     Taking a small scalpel from a medical kit, he made a shallow cut inhis arm, just deep enough to bleed freely. He knew that the pain wouldsupply the necessary glandular reaction. The cut bled a few slowdrops—and as Kaiser watched, a shiny film formed and the bleedingstopped.     That checked pretty well with the ship's theory.     Perhaps the symbiote had made his senses more acute. He tried closinghis eyes and fingering several objects in the room. It seemed to himthat he could determine the texture of each better than before, butthe test was inconclusive. Walking to the rear of the scout, he triedreading the printed words on the instrument panel. Each letter stoodout sharp and clear!     Kaiser wondered if he might not make an immediate, practical use of thesymbiote's apparent desire to help him. Concentrating on the discomfortof the high humidity and exaggerating his own displeasure with it, hewaited. The result surprised and pleased him.     The temperature within the scout cabin seemed to lower, the moistureon his body vanished, and he was more comfortable than he had yet beenhere.     As a double check, he looked at the ship's thermometer. Temperature102, humidity 113—just about the same as it had been on earlierreadings.  During the next twenty-four hours, Kaiser and the mother ship exchangedmessages at regular six-hour intervals. In between, he worked atrepairing the damaged scout. He had no more success than before.     He tired easily and lay on the cot often to rest. Each time he seemedto drop off to sleep immediately—and awake at the exact times hehad decided on beforehand. At first, despite the lack of success instraightening the bent metal of the scout bottom, there had been asubdued exhilaration in reporting each new discovery concerning thesymbiote, but as time passed, his enthusiasm ebbed. His one reallyimportant problem was how to repair the scout and he was fast becomingdiscouraged.     At last Kaiser could bear the futility of his efforts no longer. Hesent out a terse message to the      Soscites II     :     TAKING SHORT TRIP TO ANOTHER LOCATION ON RIVER. HOPE TO FIND MOREINTELLIGENT NATIVES. COULD BE THAT THE SETTLEMENT I FOUND HERE ISANALOGOUS TO TRIBE OF MONKEYS ON EARTH. I KNOW THE CHANCE IS SMALL,BUT WHAT HAVE I TO LOSE? I CAN'T FIX SCOUT WITHOUT BETTER TOOLS, ANDIF MY GUESS IS RIGHT, I MAY BE ABLE TO GET EQUIPMENT. EXPECT TO RETURNIN TEN OR TWELVE HOURS. PLEASE KEEP CONTACT WITH SCOUT.     SMOKY     Kaiser packed a mudsled with tent, portable generator and guard wires,a spare sidearm and ammunition, and food for two days. He had noticedthat a range of high hills, which caused the bend in the river atthe native settlement, seemed to continue its long curve, and hewondered if the hills might not turn the river in the shape of a gianthorseshoe. He intended to find out.     Wrapping his equipment in a plastic tarp, Kaiser eased it out thedoorway and tied it on the sled. He hooked a towline to a harness onhis shoulders and began his journey—in the opposite direction from thefirst native settlement.     He walked for more than seven hours before he found that his surmisehad been correct. And a second cluster of huts, and seal-people in theriver, greeted his sight. He received a further pleasant surprise. Thisgroup was decidedly more advanced than the first!     They were little different in actual physical appearance; the changewas mainly noticeable in their actions and demeanor. And their odor wasmore subdued, less repugnant.     By signs, Kaiser indicated that he came in peace, and they seemed tounderstand. A thick-bodied male went solemnly to the river bank andcalled to a second, who dived and brought up a mouthful of weed. Thefirst male took the weed and brought it to Kaiser. This was obviously agesture of friendship.     The weed had a white starchy core and looked edible. Kaiser cleanedpart of it with his handkerchief, bit and chewed it.     The weed had a slight iron taste, but was not unpalatable. He swallowedthe mouthful and tried another. He ate most of what had been given himand waited with some trepidation for a reaction.  As dusk fell, Kaiser set up his tent a few hundred yards back from thenative settlement. All apprehension about how his stomach would reactto the river weed had left him. Apparently it could be assimilated byhis digestive system. Lying on his air mattress, he felt thoroughly atpeace with this world.     Once, just before dropping off to sleep, he heard the snuffling noiseof some large animal outside his tent and picked up a pistol, just incase. However, the first jolt of the guard-wire charge discouraged thebeast and Kaiser heard it shuffle away, making puzzled mewing sounds asit went.     The next morning, Kaiser left off all his clothes except a pair ofshorts and went swimming in the river. The seal-people were already inthe water when he arrived and were very friendly.     That friendliness nearly resulted in disaster. The natives crowdedaround as he swam—they maneuvered with an otter-like proficiency—andoften nudged him with their bodies when they came too close. He haddifficulty keeping afloat and soon turned and started back. As heneared the river edge, a playful female grabbed him by the ankle andpulled him under.     Kaiser tried to break her hold, but she evidently thought he wasclowning and wrapped her warm furred arms around him and held himhelpless. They sank deeper.     When his breath threatened to burst from his lungs in a stream ofbubbles, and he still could not free himself, Kaiser brought his kneeup into her stomach and her grip loosened abruptly. He reached thesurface, choking and coughing, and swam blindly toward shore until hisfeet hit the river bottom.     As he stood on the bank, getting his breath, the natives were quiet andseemed to be looking at him reproachfully. He stood for a time, tryingto think of a way to explain the necessity of what he had done, butthere was none. He shrugged helplessly.     There was no longer anything to be gained by staying here—if theyhad the tools he needed, he had no way of finding out or asking forthem—and he packed and started back to the scout.     Kaiser's good spirits returned on his return journey. He had enjoyedthe relief from the tedium of spending day after day in the scout, andnow he enjoyed the exercise of pulling the mudsled. Above the waist,he wore only the harness and the large, soft drops of rain against hisbare skin were pleasant to feel.     When he reached the scout, Kaiser began to unload the sled. Thetarpaulin caught on the edge of a runner and he gave it a tug to freeit. To his amazement, the heavy sled turned completely over, spillingthe equipment to the ground.     Perplexed, Kaiser stooped and began replacing the spilled articles inthe tarp. They felt exceptionally light. He paused again, and suddenlyhis eyes widened.  Moving quickly to the door of the scout, he shoved his equipmentthrough and crawled in behind it. He did not consult the communicator,as he customarily did on entering, but went directly to the warpedplace on the floor and picked up the crowbar he had laid there.     Inserting the bar between the metal of the scout bottom and the enginecasing, he lifted. Nothing happened. He rested a minute and triedagain, this time concentrating on his desire to raise the bar. Themetal beneath yielded slightly—but he felt the palms of his handsbruise against the lever.     Only after he dropped the bar did he realize the force he had exerted.His hands ached and tingled. His strength must have been increasedtremendously. With his plastic coat wrapped around the lever, he triedagain. The metal of the scout bottom gave slowly—until the fuel pumphung free!     Kaiser did not repair the tube immediately. He let the solutionrest in his hands, like a package to be opened, the pleasure of itsanticipation to be enjoyed as much as the final act.     He transmitted the news of what he had been able to do and sat down toread the two messages waiting for him.     The first was quite routine:     REPORTS FROM THE OCTOPUS INDICATE THAT BIG MUDDY UNDERGOES RADICALWEATHER-CYCLE CHANGES DURING SPRING AND FALL SEASONS, FROM EXTREMEMOISTURE TO EXTREME ARIDITY. AT HEIGHT OF DRY SEASON, PLANET MUST BECOMPLETELY DEVOID OF SURFACE LIQUID.     TO SURVIVE THESE UNUSUAL EXTREMES, SEAL-PEOPLE WOULD NEED EXTREMEADAPTABILITY. THIS VERIFIES OUR EARLIER GUESS THAT NATIVES HAVESYMBIOSIS WITH THE SAME VIRUS FORM THAT INVADED YOU. WITH SYMBIOTES'AID, SUCH RADICAL PHYSICAL CHANGE COULD BE POSSIBLE. WILL KEEP YOUINFORMED.     GIVE US ANY NEW INFORMATION YOU MIGHT HAVE ON NATIVES.     SS II     The second report was not so routine. Kaiser thought he detected a noteof uneasiness in it.     SUGGEST YOU DEVOTE ALL TIME AND EFFORT TO REPAIR OF SCOUT. INFORMATIONON SEAL-PEOPLE ADEQUATE FOR OUR PURPOSES.     SS II     Kaiser did not answer either communication. His earlier report hadcovered all that he had learned lately. He lay on his cot and went tosleep.     In the morning, another message was waiting:     VERY PLEASED TO HEAR OF PROGRESS ON REPAIR OF SCOUT. COMPLETE ASQUICKLY AS POSSIBLE AND RETURN HERE IMMEDIATELY.     SS II  Kaiser wondered about the abrupt recall. Could the      Soscites II     beexperiencing some difficulty? He shrugged the thought aside. If theywere, they would have told him. The last notes had had more than just asuggestion of urgency—there appeared to be a deliberate concealing ofinformation.     Strangely, the messages indicated need for haste did not prod Kaiser.He knew now that the job could be done, perhaps in a few hours' time.And the      Soscites II     would not complete its orbit of the planet fortwo weeks yet.     Without putting on more than the shirt and trousers he had grown usedto wearing, Kaiser went outside and wandered listlessly about thevicinity of the ship for several hours. When he became hungry, he wentback inside.     Another message came in as he finished eating. This one was from thecaptain himself:     WHY HAVE WE RECEIVED NO VERIFICATION OF LAST INSTRUCTIONS? REPAIRSCOUT IMMEDIATELY AND RETURN WITHOUT FURTHER DELAY. THIS IS AN ORDER!     H. A. HESSE, CAPT.     Kaiser pushed the last of his meal—which he had been eating with hisfingers—into his mouth, crumpled the tape, wiped the grease from hishands with it and dropped it to the floor.     He pondered mildly, as he packed his equipment, why he was disregardingthe captain's message. For some reason, it seemed too trivial forserious consideration. He placated his slightly uneasy conscience onlyto the extent of packing the communicator in with his other equipment.It was a self-contained unit and he'd be able to receive messages fromthe ship on his trip.  The tracks of his earlier journey had been erased by the soft rain, andwhen Kaiser reached the river, he found that he had not returned tothe village he had visited the day before. However, there were otherseal-people here.     And they were almost human!     The resemblance was still not so much in their physical makeup—thatwas little changed from the first he had found—as in their obviouslygreater intelligence.     This was mainly noticeable in their facile expressions as they talked.Kaiser was even certain that he read smiles on their faces when heslipped on a particularly slick mud patch as he hurried toward them.Where the members of the first tribes had all looked almost exactlyalike, these had very marked individual characteristics. Also, thesehad no odor—only a mild, rather pleasing scent. When they came to meethim, Kaiser could detect distinct syllabism in their pipings.     Most of the natives returned to the river after the first ten minutesof curious inspection, but two stayed behind as Kaiser set up his tent.     One was a female.     They made small noises while he went about his work. After a time, heunderstood that they were trying to give names to his paraphernalia. Hetried saying tent and wire and tarp as he handled each object,but their piping voices could not repeat the words. Kaiser amusedhimself by trying to imitate their sounds for the articles. He wasfairly successful. He was certain that he could soon learn enough tocarry on a limited conversation.     The male became bored after a time and left, but the girl stayed untilKaiser finished. She motioned to him then to follow. When they reachedthe river bank, he saw that she wanted him to go into the water.  Before he had time to decide, Kaiser heard the small bell of thecommunicator from the tent behind him. He stood undecided for a moment,then returned and read the message on the tape:     STILL ANXIOUSLY AWAITING WORD FROM YOU.     IN MEANTIME, GIVE VERY CLOSE ATTENTION TO FOLLOWING.     WE KNOW THAT THE SYMBIOTES MUST BE ABLE TO MAKE RADICAL CHANGES IN THEPHYSIOLOGY OF THE SEAL-PEOPLE. THERE IS EVERY PROBABILITY THAT YOURSWILL ATTEMPT TO DO THE SAME TO YOU—TO BETTER FIT YOUR BODY TO ITSPRESENT ENVIRONMENT.     THE DANGER, WHICH WE HESITATED TO MENTION UNTIL NOW—WHEN YOU HAVEFORCED US BY YOUR OBSTINATE SILENCE—IS THAT IT CAN ALTER YOURMIND ALSO. YOUR REPORT ON SECOND TRIBE OF SEAL-PEOPLE STRONGLYINDICATES THAT THIS IS ALREADY HAPPENING. THEY WERE PROBABLY NOT MOREINTELLIGENT AND HUMANLIKE THAN THE OTHERS. ON THE CONTRARY, YOU AREBECOMING MORE LIKE THEM.     DANGER ACUTE. RETURN IMMEDIATELY. REPEAT: IMMEDIATELY!     SS II     Kaiser picked up a large rock and slowly, methodically pounded thecommunicator into a flattened jumble of metal and loose parts.     When he finished, he returned to the waiting girl on the river bank.She pointed at his plastic trousers and made laughing sounds in herthroat. Kaiser returned the laugh and stripped off the trousers. Theyran, still laughing, into the water.     Already the long pink hair that had been growing on his body during thepast week was beginning to turn brown at the roots.   ","The communicator allows Kaiser to receive messages from the mothership and its team. It’s the only mechanism that connects him to other intelligent human beings. Throughout the story, these messages help him understand why he had a fever, swelling, a brief period of blankness, and why he used baby-talk. Using the communication device, the mothership’s team and scientists explain to Kaiser what kind of symbiote lives in his body and how it can gauge his emotional reactions and adapt to various environmental and mental triggers. They manage to ask Keiser to test their theory and later inform him of their findings regarding the planet's climate. They use the tape to order Kaiser to return as soon as possible and finally tell him that the symbiote is probably changing his mind and turning him into someone equal in intelligence to the seal-people. "
"What is the importance of the baby talk in the story? </s>     Well, naturally Kaiser would transmit baby     talk messages to his mother ship! He was—     GROWING UP ON BIG MUDDY     By CHARLES V. DE VET     Illustrated by TURPIN     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction July 1957.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Kaiser stared at the tape in his hand for a long uncomprehendingminute. How long had the stuff been coming through in this inane babytalk? And why hadn't he noticed it before? Why had he had to read thislast communication a third time before he recognized anything unusualabout it?     He went over the words again, as though maybe this time they'd read asthey should.     OO IS SICK, SMOKY. DO TO BEDDY-BY. KEEP UM WARM. WHEN UM FEELS BETTER,LET USNS KNOW.     SS II     Kaiser let himself ease back in the pilot chair and rolled the tapethoughtfully between his fingers. Overhead and to each side, largedrops of rain thudded softly against the transparent walls of the scoutship and dripped wearily from the bottom ledge to the ground.     Damn this climate! Kaiser muttered irrelevantly. Doesn't it ever doanything here except rain?     His attention returned to the matter at hand. Why the baby talk? Andwhy was his memory so hazy? How long had he been here? What had he beendoing during that time?     Listlessly he reached for the towel at his elbow and wiped the moisturefrom his face and bare shoulders. The air conditioning had gone outwhen the scout ship cracked up. He'd have to repair the scout or hewas stuck here for good. He remembered now that he had gone over thejob very carefully and thoroughly, and had found it too big to handlealone—or without better equipment, at least. Yet there was little orno chance of his being able to find either here.     Calmly, deliberately, Kaiser collected his thoughts, his memories, andbrought them out where he could look at them:     The mother ship,      Soscites II     , had been on the last leg of itsplanet-mapping tour. It had dropped Kaiser in the one remaining scoutship—the other seven had all been lost one way or another during theexploring of new worlds—and set itself into a giant orbit about thisplanet that Kaiser had named Big Muddy.     The      Soscites II     had to maintain its constant speed; it had no meansof slowing, except to stop, and no way to start again once it did stop.Its limited range of maneuverability made it necessary to set up anorbit that would take it approximately one month, Earth time, to circlea pinpointed planet. And now its fuel was low.     Kaiser had that one month to repair his scout or be stranded hereforever.     That was all he could remember. Nothing of what he had been doingrecently.     A small shiver passed through his body as he glanced once again at thetape in his hand. Baby talk....  One thing he could find out: how long this had been going on. Heturned to the communicator and unhooked the paper receptacle on itsbottom. It held about a yard and a half of tape, probably his lastseveral messages—both those sent and those received. He pulled it outimpatiently and began reading.     The first was from himself:     YOUR SUGGESTIONS NO HELP. HOW AM I GOING TO REPAIR DAMAGE TO SCOUTWITHOUT PROPER EQUIPMENT? AND WHERE DO I GET IT? DO YOU THINK I FOUNDA TOOL SHOP DOWN HERE? FOR GOD'S SAKE, COME UP WITH SOMETHING BETTER.     VISITED SEAL-PEOPLE AGAIN TODAY. STILL HAVE THEIR STINK IN MY NOSE.FOUND HUTS ALONG RIVER BANK, SO I GUESS THEY DON'T LIVE IN WATER.BUT THEY DO SPEND MOST OF THEIR TIME THERE. NO, I HAVE NO WAY OFESTIMATING THEIR INTELLIGENCE. I WOULD JUDGE IT AVERAGES NO HIGHERTHAN SEVEN-YEAR-OLD HUMAN. THEY DEFINITELY DO TALK TO ONE ANOTHER.WILL TRY TO FIND OUT MORE ABOUT THEM, BUT YOU GET TO WORK FAST ON HOWI REPAIR SCOUT.     SWELLING IN ARM WORSE AND AM DEVELOPING A FEVER. TEMPERATURE 102.7 ANHOUR AGO.     SMOKY     The ship must have answered immediately, for the return message timewas six hours later than his own, the minimum interval necessary fortwo-way exchange.     DOING OUR BEST, SMOKY. YOUR IMMEDIATE PROBLEM, AS WE SEE IT, IS TOKEEP WELL. WE FED ALL THE INFORMATION YOU GAVE US INTO SAM, BUT YOUDIDN'T HAVE MUCH EXCEPT THE STING IN YOUR ARM. AS EXPECTED, ALL THATCAME OUT WAS DATA INSUFFICIENT. TRY TO GIVE US MORE. ALSO DETAILALL SYMPTOMS SINCE YOUR LAST REPORT. IN THE MEANTIME, WE'RE DOINGEVERYTHING WE CAN AT THIS END. GOOD LUCK.     SS II     Sam, Kaiser knew, was the ship's mechanical diagnostician. His reportfollowed:     ARM SWOLLEN. UNABLE TO KEEP DOWN FOOD LAST TWELVE HOURS. ABOUT TWOHOURS AGO, ENTIRE BODY TURNED LIVID RED. BRIEF PERIODS OF BLANKNESS.THINGS KEEP COMING AND GOING. SICK AS HELL. HURRY.     SMOKY     The ship's next message read:     INFECTION QUITE DEFINITE. BUT SOMETHING STRANGE THERE. GIVE USANYTHING MORE YOU HAVE.     SS II     His own reply perplexed Kaiser:     LAST LETTER FUNNY. I NOT UNDERSTAND. WHY IS OO SENDING GARBLE TALK?DID USNS MAKE UP SECRET MESSAGES?     SMOKY     The expedition, apparently, was as puzzled as he:     WHAT'S THE MATTER, SMOKY? THAT LAST MESSAGE WAS IN PLAIN TERRAN. NOREASON WHY YOU COULDN'T READ IT. AND WHY THE BABY TALK? IF YOU'RESPOOFING, STOP. GIVE US MORE SYMPTOMS. HOW ARE YOU FEELING NOW?     SS II     The baby talk was worse on Kaiser's next:     TWAZY. WHAT FOR OO TENDING TWAZY LETTERS? FINK UM CAN WEAD TWAZYLETTERS? SKIN ALL YELLOW NOW. COLD. COLD. CO     The ship's following communication was three hours late. It was thelast on the tape—the one Kaiser had read earlier. Apparently theydecided to humor him.     OO IS SICK, SMOKY. DO TO BEDDY-BY. KEEP UM WARM. WHEN UM FEELS BETTER,LET USNS KNOW.     SS II     That was not much help. All it told him was that he had been sick.     He felt better now, outside of a muscular weariness, as thoughconvalescing from a long illness. He put the back of his hand to hisforehead. Cool. No fever anyway.     He glanced at the clock-calendar on the instrument board and back atthe date and time on the tape where he'd started his baby talk. Twentyhours. He hadn't been out of his head too long. He began punching thecommunicator keys while he nibbled at a biscuit.     SEEM TO BE FULLY RECOVERED. FEELING FINE. ANYTHING NEW FROM SAM? ANDHOW ABOUT THE DAMAGE TO SCOUT? GIVE ME ANYTHING YOU HAVE ON EITHER ORBOTH.     SMOKY     Kaiser felt suddenly weary. He lay on the scout's bunk and triedto sleep. Soon he was in that phantasm land between sleep andwakefulness—he knew he was not sleeping, yet he did dream.     It was the same dream he had had many times before. In it, he was backhome again, the home he had joined the space service to escape. He hadrealized soon after his marriage that his wife, Helene, did not lovehim. She had married him for the security his pay check provided. Andthough it soon became evident that she, too, regretted her bargain,she would not divorce him. Instead, she had her revenge on him bypersistent nagging, by letting herself grow fat and querulous, and bycaring for their house only in a slovenly way.     Her crippled brother had moved in with them the day they were married.His mind was as crippled as his body and he took an unhealthy delightin helping his sister torment Kaiser.  Kaiser came wide awake in a cold sweat. The clock showed that only anhour had passed since he had sent his last message to the ship. Stillfive more long hours to wait. He rose and wiped the sweat from his neckand shoulders and restlessly paced the small corridor of the scout.     After a few minutes, he stopped pacing and peered out into the gloom ofBig Muddy. The rain seemed to have eased off some. Not much more than aheavy drizzle now.     Kaiser reached impulsively for the slicker he had thrown over a chestagainst one wall and put it on, then a pair of hip-high plastic bootsand a plastic hat. He opened the door. The scout had come to rest witha slight tilt when it crashed, and Kaiser had to sit down and rollover onto his stomach to ease himself to the ground.     The weather outside was normal for Big Muddy: wet, humid, and warm.     Kaiser sank to his ankles in soft mud before his feet reached solidground. He half walked and half slid to the rear of the scout. Besidethe ship, the octopus was busily at work. Tentacles and antennae,extending from the yard-high box of its body, tested and recordedtemperature, atmosphere, soil, and all other pertinent planetaryconditions. The octopus was connected to the ship's communicator andall its findings were being transmitted to the mother ship for study.     Kaiser observed that it was working well and turned toward a wide,sluggish river, perhaps two hundred yards from the scout. Once there,he headed upstream. He could hear the pipings, and now and then ahigher whistling, of the seal-people before he reached a bend and sawthem. As usual, most were swimming in the river.       One old fellow, whose chocolate-brown fur showed a heavy intermixtureof gray, was sitting on the bank of the river just at the bend. Perhapsa lookout. He pulled himself to his feet as he spied Kaiser and histoothless, hard-gummed mouth opened and emitted a long whistle thatmight have been a greeting—or a warning to the others that a strangerapproached.     The native stood perhaps five feet tall, with the heavy, blubberybody of a seal, and short, thick arms. Membranes connected the armsto his body from shoulder-pits to mid-biceps. The arms ended inthree-fingered, thumbless hands. His legs also were short and thick,with footpads that splayed out at forty-five-degree angles. They gavehis legs the appearance of a split tail. About him hung a rank-fishsmell that made Kaiser's stomach squirm.     The old fellow sounded a cheerful chirp as Kaiser came near. Feelingslightly ineffectual, Kaiser raised both hands and held them palmforward. The other chirped again and Kaiser went on toward the maingroup.  They had stopped their play and eating as Kaiser approached and nowmost of them swam in to shore and stood in the water, staring andpiping. They varied in size from small seal-pups to full-grown adults.Some chewed on bunches of water weed, which they manipulated with theirlips and drew into their mouths.     They had mammalian characteristics, Kaiser had noted before, so itwas not difficult to distinguish the females from the males. Theproportion was roughly fifty-fifty.     Several of the bolder males climbed up beside Kaiser and began pawinghis plastic clothing. Kaiser stood still and tried to keep hisbreathing shallow, for their odor was almost more than he could bear.One native smeared Kaiser's face with an exploring paw and Kaisergagged and pushed him roughly away. He was bound by regulations todisplay no hostility to newly discovered natives, but he couldn't takemuch more of this.     A young female splashed water on two young males who stood near andthey turned with shrill pipings and chased her into the water. Theentire group seemed to lose interest in Kaiser and joined in the chase,or went back to other diversions of their own. Kaiser's inspectorsfollowed.     They were a mindless lot, Kaiser observed. The river supplied them withan easy existence, with food and living space, and apparently they hadfew natural enemies.     Kaiser walked away, following the long slow bend of the river, andcame to a collection of perhaps two hundred dwellings built in threehaphazard rows along the river bank. He took time to study theirconstruction more closely this time.     They were all round domes, little more than the height of a man, builtof blocks that appeared to be mud, packed with river weed and sand. Howthey were able to dry these to give them the necessary solidity, Kaiserdid not know. He had found no signs that they knew how to use fire, andall apparent evidence was against their having it. They then had tohave sunlight. Maybe it rained less during certain seasons.     The domes' construction was based on a series of four arches built in acircle. When the base covering the periphery had been laid, four otherswere built on and between them, and continued in successive tiers untilthe top was reached. Each tier thus furnished support for the nextabove. No other framework was needed. The final tier formed the roof.They made sound shelters, but Kaiser had peered into several and foundthem dark and dank—and as smelly as the natives themselves.     The few loungers in the village paid little attention to Kaiser andhe wandered through the irregular streets until he became bored andreturned to the scout.     The      Soscites II     sent little that helped during the next twelve hoursand Kaiser occupied his time trying again to repair the damage to thescout.     The job appeared maddeningly simply. As the scout had glided in fora soft landing, its metal bottom had ridden a concealed rock and bentinward. The bent metal had carried up with it the tube supplying thefuel pump and flattened it against the motor casing.  Opening the tube again would not have been difficult, but first it hadto be freed from under the ship. Kaiser had tried forcing the sheetmetal back into place with a small crowbar—the best leverage he had onhand—but it resisted his best efforts. He still could think of no wayto do the job, simple as it was, though he gave his concentration to itthe rest of the day.     That evening, Kaiser received information from the      Soscites II     thatwas at least definite:     SET YOURSELF FOR A SHOCK, SMOKY. SAM FINALLY CAME THROUGH. YOU WON'TLIKE WHAT YOU HEAR. AT LEAST NOT AT FIRST. BUT IT COULD BE WORSE. YOUHAVE BEEN INVADED BY A SYMBIOTE—SIMILAR TO THE TYPE FOUND ON THE SANDWORLD, BARTEL-BLEETHERS. GIVE US A FEW MORE HOURS TO WORK WITH SAM ANDWE'LL GET YOU ALL THE PARTICULARS HE CAN GIVE US. HANG ON NOW!     SOSCITES II     Kaiser's reply was short and succinct:     WHAT THE HELL?     SMOKY       Soscites II's     next communication followed within twenty minutes andwas signed by the ship's doctor:     JUST A FEW WORDS, SMOKY, IN CASE YOU'RE WORRIED. I THOUGHT I'D GETTHIS OFF WHILE WE'RE WAITING FOR MORE INFORMATION FROM SAM. REMEMBERTHAT A SYMBIOTE IS NOT A PARASITE. IT WILL NOT HARM YOU, EXCEPTINADVERTENTLY. YOUR WELFARE IS AS ESSENTIAL TO IT AS TO YOU. ALMOSTCERTAINLY, IF YOU DIE, IT WILL DIE WITH YOU. ANY TROUBLE YOU'VE HADSO FAR WAS PROBABLY CAUSED BY THE SYMBIOTE'S DIFFICULTY IN ADJUSTINGITSELF TO ITS NEW ENVIRONMENT. IN A WAY, I ENVY YOU. MORE LATER, WHENWE FINISH WITH SAM.     J. G. ZARWELL     Kaiser did not answer. The news was so startling, so unforeseen, thathis mind refused to accept the actuality. He lay on the scout's bunkand stared at the ceiling without conscious attention, and with verylittle clear thought, for several hours—until the next communicationcame in:     WELL, THIS IS WHAT SAM HAS TO SAY, SMOKY. SYMBIOTE AMICABLE ANDAPPARENTLY SWIFTLY ADAPTABLE. YOUR CHANGING COLOR, DIFFICULTY INEATING AND EVEN BABY TALK WERE THE RESULT OF ITS EFFORTS TO GIVE YOUWHAT IT BELIEVED YOU NEEDED OR WANTED.     CHANGING COLOR: PROTECTIVE CAMOUFLAGE. TROUBLE KEEPING FOOD DOWN: ITKEPT YOUR STOMACH EMPTY BECAUSE IT SENSED YOU WERE IN TROUBLE ANDMIGHT HAVE NEED FOR SHARP REFLEXES, WITH NO EXCESS WEIGHT TO CARRY.THE BABY TALK WE AREN'T TOO CERTAIN ABOUT, BUT OUR BEST CONCLUSION ISTHAT WHEN YOU WERE A CHILD, YOU WERE MOST HAPPY. IT WAS TRYING TO GIVEYOU BACK THAT HAPPY STATE OF MIND. OBVIOUSLY IT QUICKLY RECOGNIZEDTHE MISTAKES IT MADE AND CORRECTED THEM.     SAM CAME UP WITH A FEW MORE IDEAS, BUT WE WANT TO WORK ON THEM A BITBEFORE WE SEND THEM THROUGH. SLEEP ON THIS.     SS II  Kaiser could imagine that most of the crew were not too concerned aboutthe trouble he was in. He was not the gregarious type and had no closefriends on board. He had hoped to find the solitude he liked best inspace, but he had been disappointed. True, there were fewer peoplehere, but he was brought into such intimate contact with them that hewould have been more contented living in a crowded city.     His naturally unsociable nature was more irksome to the crew becausehe was more intelligent and efficient than they were. He did his workwell and painstakingly and was seldom in error. They would have likedhim better had he been more prone to mistakes. He was certain that theyrespected him, but they did not like him. And he returned the dislike.     The suggestion that he get some sleep might not be a bad idea. Hehadn't slept in over eighteen hours, Kaiser realized—and fellinstantly asleep.     The communicator had a message waiting for him when he awoke:     SAM COULDN'T HELP US MUCH ON THIS PART, BUT AFTER RESEARCH AND MUCHDISCUSSION, WE ARRIVED AT THE FOLLOWING TWO CONCLUSIONS.     FIRST, PHYSICAL PROPERTY OF SYMBIOTE IS EITHER THAT OF A VERY THINLIQUID OR, MORE PROBABLY, A VIRUS FORM WITH SWIFT PROPAGATIONCHARACTERISTIC. IT UNDOUBTEDLY LIVES IN YOUR BLOOD STREAM ANDPERMEATES YOUR SYSTEM.     SECOND, IT SEEMED TO US, AS IT MUST HAVE TO YOU, THAT THE SYMBIOTECOULD ONLY KNOW WHAT YOU WANTED BY READING YOUR MIND. HOWEVER, WEBELIEVE DIFFERENTLY NOW. WE THINK THAT IT HAS SUCH CLOSE CONTACT WITHYOUR GLANDS AND THEIR SECRETIONS, WHICH STIMULATE EMOTION, THAT IT CANGAUGE YOUR FEELINGS EVEN MORE ACCURATELY THAN YOU YOURSELF CAN. THUSIT CAN JUDGE YOUR LIKES AND DISLIKES QUITE ACCURATELY.     WE WOULD LIKE TO HAVE YOU TEST OUR THEORY. THERE ARE DOZENS OF WAYS.IF YOU ARE STUMPED AND NEED SUGGESTIONS, JUST LET US KNOW. WE AWAITWORD FROM YOU WITH GREAT INTEREST.     SS II     By now, Kaiser had accepted what had happened to him. His distress andanxiety were gone and he was impatient to do what he could to establishbetter contact with his uninvited tenant. With eager anticipation, heset to thinking how it could be done. After a few minutes, an ideaoccurred to him.     Taking a small scalpel from a medical kit, he made a shallow cut inhis arm, just deep enough to bleed freely. He knew that the pain wouldsupply the necessary glandular reaction. The cut bled a few slowdrops—and as Kaiser watched, a shiny film formed and the bleedingstopped.     That checked pretty well with the ship's theory.     Perhaps the symbiote had made his senses more acute. He tried closinghis eyes and fingering several objects in the room. It seemed to himthat he could determine the texture of each better than before, butthe test was inconclusive. Walking to the rear of the scout, he triedreading the printed words on the instrument panel. Each letter stoodout sharp and clear!     Kaiser wondered if he might not make an immediate, practical use of thesymbiote's apparent desire to help him. Concentrating on the discomfortof the high humidity and exaggerating his own displeasure with it, hewaited. The result surprised and pleased him.     The temperature within the scout cabin seemed to lower, the moistureon his body vanished, and he was more comfortable than he had yet beenhere.     As a double check, he looked at the ship's thermometer. Temperature102, humidity 113—just about the same as it had been on earlierreadings.  During the next twenty-four hours, Kaiser and the mother ship exchangedmessages at regular six-hour intervals. In between, he worked atrepairing the damaged scout. He had no more success than before.     He tired easily and lay on the cot often to rest. Each time he seemedto drop off to sleep immediately—and awake at the exact times hehad decided on beforehand. At first, despite the lack of success instraightening the bent metal of the scout bottom, there had been asubdued exhilaration in reporting each new discovery concerning thesymbiote, but as time passed, his enthusiasm ebbed. His one reallyimportant problem was how to repair the scout and he was fast becomingdiscouraged.     At last Kaiser could bear the futility of his efforts no longer. Hesent out a terse message to the      Soscites II     :     TAKING SHORT TRIP TO ANOTHER LOCATION ON RIVER. HOPE TO FIND MOREINTELLIGENT NATIVES. COULD BE THAT THE SETTLEMENT I FOUND HERE ISANALOGOUS TO TRIBE OF MONKEYS ON EARTH. I KNOW THE CHANCE IS SMALL,BUT WHAT HAVE I TO LOSE? I CAN'T FIX SCOUT WITHOUT BETTER TOOLS, ANDIF MY GUESS IS RIGHT, I MAY BE ABLE TO GET EQUIPMENT. EXPECT TO RETURNIN TEN OR TWELVE HOURS. PLEASE KEEP CONTACT WITH SCOUT.     SMOKY     Kaiser packed a mudsled with tent, portable generator and guard wires,a spare sidearm and ammunition, and food for two days. He had noticedthat a range of high hills, which caused the bend in the river atthe native settlement, seemed to continue its long curve, and hewondered if the hills might not turn the river in the shape of a gianthorseshoe. He intended to find out.     Wrapping his equipment in a plastic tarp, Kaiser eased it out thedoorway and tied it on the sled. He hooked a towline to a harness onhis shoulders and began his journey—in the opposite direction from thefirst native settlement.     He walked for more than seven hours before he found that his surmisehad been correct. And a second cluster of huts, and seal-people in theriver, greeted his sight. He received a further pleasant surprise. Thisgroup was decidedly more advanced than the first!     They were little different in actual physical appearance; the changewas mainly noticeable in their actions and demeanor. And their odor wasmore subdued, less repugnant.     By signs, Kaiser indicated that he came in peace, and they seemed tounderstand. A thick-bodied male went solemnly to the river bank andcalled to a second, who dived and brought up a mouthful of weed. Thefirst male took the weed and brought it to Kaiser. This was obviously agesture of friendship.     The weed had a white starchy core and looked edible. Kaiser cleanedpart of it with his handkerchief, bit and chewed it.     The weed had a slight iron taste, but was not unpalatable. He swallowedthe mouthful and tried another. He ate most of what had been given himand waited with some trepidation for a reaction.  As dusk fell, Kaiser set up his tent a few hundred yards back from thenative settlement. All apprehension about how his stomach would reactto the river weed had left him. Apparently it could be assimilated byhis digestive system. Lying on his air mattress, he felt thoroughly atpeace with this world.     Once, just before dropping off to sleep, he heard the snuffling noiseof some large animal outside his tent and picked up a pistol, just incase. However, the first jolt of the guard-wire charge discouraged thebeast and Kaiser heard it shuffle away, making puzzled mewing sounds asit went.     The next morning, Kaiser left off all his clothes except a pair ofshorts and went swimming in the river. The seal-people were already inthe water when he arrived and were very friendly.     That friendliness nearly resulted in disaster. The natives crowdedaround as he swam—they maneuvered with an otter-like proficiency—andoften nudged him with their bodies when they came too close. He haddifficulty keeping afloat and soon turned and started back. As heneared the river edge, a playful female grabbed him by the ankle andpulled him under.     Kaiser tried to break her hold, but she evidently thought he wasclowning and wrapped her warm furred arms around him and held himhelpless. They sank deeper.     When his breath threatened to burst from his lungs in a stream ofbubbles, and he still could not free himself, Kaiser brought his kneeup into her stomach and her grip loosened abruptly. He reached thesurface, choking and coughing, and swam blindly toward shore until hisfeet hit the river bottom.     As he stood on the bank, getting his breath, the natives were quiet andseemed to be looking at him reproachfully. He stood for a time, tryingto think of a way to explain the necessity of what he had done, butthere was none. He shrugged helplessly.     There was no longer anything to be gained by staying here—if theyhad the tools he needed, he had no way of finding out or asking forthem—and he packed and started back to the scout.     Kaiser's good spirits returned on his return journey. He had enjoyedthe relief from the tedium of spending day after day in the scout, andnow he enjoyed the exercise of pulling the mudsled. Above the waist,he wore only the harness and the large, soft drops of rain against hisbare skin were pleasant to feel.     When he reached the scout, Kaiser began to unload the sled. Thetarpaulin caught on the edge of a runner and he gave it a tug to freeit. To his amazement, the heavy sled turned completely over, spillingthe equipment to the ground.     Perplexed, Kaiser stooped and began replacing the spilled articles inthe tarp. They felt exceptionally light. He paused again, and suddenlyhis eyes widened.  Moving quickly to the door of the scout, he shoved his equipmentthrough and crawled in behind it. He did not consult the communicator,as he customarily did on entering, but went directly to the warpedplace on the floor and picked up the crowbar he had laid there.     Inserting the bar between the metal of the scout bottom and the enginecasing, he lifted. Nothing happened. He rested a minute and triedagain, this time concentrating on his desire to raise the bar. Themetal beneath yielded slightly—but he felt the palms of his handsbruise against the lever.     Only after he dropped the bar did he realize the force he had exerted.His hands ached and tingled. His strength must have been increasedtremendously. With his plastic coat wrapped around the lever, he triedagain. The metal of the scout bottom gave slowly—until the fuel pumphung free!     Kaiser did not repair the tube immediately. He let the solutionrest in his hands, like a package to be opened, the pleasure of itsanticipation to be enjoyed as much as the final act.     He transmitted the news of what he had been able to do and sat down toread the two messages waiting for him.     The first was quite routine:     REPORTS FROM THE OCTOPUS INDICATE THAT BIG MUDDY UNDERGOES RADICALWEATHER-CYCLE CHANGES DURING SPRING AND FALL SEASONS, FROM EXTREMEMOISTURE TO EXTREME ARIDITY. AT HEIGHT OF DRY SEASON, PLANET MUST BECOMPLETELY DEVOID OF SURFACE LIQUID.     TO SURVIVE THESE UNUSUAL EXTREMES, SEAL-PEOPLE WOULD NEED EXTREMEADAPTABILITY. THIS VERIFIES OUR EARLIER GUESS THAT NATIVES HAVESYMBIOSIS WITH THE SAME VIRUS FORM THAT INVADED YOU. WITH SYMBIOTES'AID, SUCH RADICAL PHYSICAL CHANGE COULD BE POSSIBLE. WILL KEEP YOUINFORMED.     GIVE US ANY NEW INFORMATION YOU MIGHT HAVE ON NATIVES.     SS II     The second report was not so routine. Kaiser thought he detected a noteof uneasiness in it.     SUGGEST YOU DEVOTE ALL TIME AND EFFORT TO REPAIR OF SCOUT. INFORMATIONON SEAL-PEOPLE ADEQUATE FOR OUR PURPOSES.     SS II     Kaiser did not answer either communication. His earlier report hadcovered all that he had learned lately. He lay on his cot and went tosleep.     In the morning, another message was waiting:     VERY PLEASED TO HEAR OF PROGRESS ON REPAIR OF SCOUT. COMPLETE ASQUICKLY AS POSSIBLE AND RETURN HERE IMMEDIATELY.     SS II  Kaiser wondered about the abrupt recall. Could the      Soscites II     beexperiencing some difficulty? He shrugged the thought aside. If theywere, they would have told him. The last notes had had more than just asuggestion of urgency—there appeared to be a deliberate concealing ofinformation.     Strangely, the messages indicated need for haste did not prod Kaiser.He knew now that the job could be done, perhaps in a few hours' time.And the      Soscites II     would not complete its orbit of the planet fortwo weeks yet.     Without putting on more than the shirt and trousers he had grown usedto wearing, Kaiser went outside and wandered listlessly about thevicinity of the ship for several hours. When he became hungry, he wentback inside.     Another message came in as he finished eating. This one was from thecaptain himself:     WHY HAVE WE RECEIVED NO VERIFICATION OF LAST INSTRUCTIONS? REPAIRSCOUT IMMEDIATELY AND RETURN WITHOUT FURTHER DELAY. THIS IS AN ORDER!     H. A. HESSE, CAPT.     Kaiser pushed the last of his meal—which he had been eating with hisfingers—into his mouth, crumpled the tape, wiped the grease from hishands with it and dropped it to the floor.     He pondered mildly, as he packed his equipment, why he was disregardingthe captain's message. For some reason, it seemed too trivial forserious consideration. He placated his slightly uneasy conscience onlyto the extent of packing the communicator in with his other equipment.It was a self-contained unit and he'd be able to receive messages fromthe ship on his trip.  The tracks of his earlier journey had been erased by the soft rain, andwhen Kaiser reached the river, he found that he had not returned tothe village he had visited the day before. However, there were otherseal-people here.     And they were almost human!     The resemblance was still not so much in their physical makeup—thatwas little changed from the first he had found—as in their obviouslygreater intelligence.     This was mainly noticeable in their facile expressions as they talked.Kaiser was even certain that he read smiles on their faces when heslipped on a particularly slick mud patch as he hurried toward them.Where the members of the first tribes had all looked almost exactlyalike, these had very marked individual characteristics. Also, thesehad no odor—only a mild, rather pleasing scent. When they came to meethim, Kaiser could detect distinct syllabism in their pipings.     Most of the natives returned to the river after the first ten minutesof curious inspection, but two stayed behind as Kaiser set up his tent.     One was a female.     They made small noises while he went about his work. After a time, heunderstood that they were trying to give names to his paraphernalia. Hetried saying tent and wire and tarp as he handled each object,but their piping voices could not repeat the words. Kaiser amusedhimself by trying to imitate their sounds for the articles. He wasfairly successful. He was certain that he could soon learn enough tocarry on a limited conversation.     The male became bored after a time and left, but the girl stayed untilKaiser finished. She motioned to him then to follow. When they reachedthe river bank, he saw that she wanted him to go into the water.  Before he had time to decide, Kaiser heard the small bell of thecommunicator from the tent behind him. He stood undecided for a moment,then returned and read the message on the tape:     STILL ANXIOUSLY AWAITING WORD FROM YOU.     IN MEANTIME, GIVE VERY CLOSE ATTENTION TO FOLLOWING.     WE KNOW THAT THE SYMBIOTES MUST BE ABLE TO MAKE RADICAL CHANGES IN THEPHYSIOLOGY OF THE SEAL-PEOPLE. THERE IS EVERY PROBABILITY THAT YOURSWILL ATTEMPT TO DO THE SAME TO YOU—TO BETTER FIT YOUR BODY TO ITSPRESENT ENVIRONMENT.     THE DANGER, WHICH WE HESITATED TO MENTION UNTIL NOW—WHEN YOU HAVEFORCED US BY YOUR OBSTINATE SILENCE—IS THAT IT CAN ALTER YOURMIND ALSO. YOUR REPORT ON SECOND TRIBE OF SEAL-PEOPLE STRONGLYINDICATES THAT THIS IS ALREADY HAPPENING. THEY WERE PROBABLY NOT MOREINTELLIGENT AND HUMANLIKE THAN THE OTHERS. ON THE CONTRARY, YOU AREBECOMING MORE LIKE THEM.     DANGER ACUTE. RETURN IMMEDIATELY. REPEAT: IMMEDIATELY!     SS II     Kaiser picked up a large rock and slowly, methodically pounded thecommunicator into a flattened jumble of metal and loose parts.     When he finished, he returned to the waiting girl on the river bank.She pointed at his plastic trousers and made laughing sounds in herthroat. Kaiser returned the laugh and stripped off the trousers. Theyran, still laughing, into the water.     Already the long pink hair that had been growing on his body during thepast week was beginning to turn brown at the roots.   ","The fact that Kaiser at some point uses baby-talk helps Sam and other members of the Soscites II team determine what exactly caused Kaiser’s symptoms and how it can analyze his emotions and use them to give his body what it needs. The main reason why the man uses baby-talk seems to be that he was most happy in his childhood which also underscores his alienation from people, that he is a loner. Kaiser went to space to run away from his wife and her brother, his colleagues respect him but do not like him, and none of them is Kaiser’s friend. He’s naturally unsociable and was happier when he was a kid. "
"What is the plot of the story? </s>     THE EXPENDABLES     BY JIM HARMON     It was just a little black box,     useful for getting rid of things.     Trouble was, it worked too well!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, May 1962.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      You see my problem, Professor? Tony Carmen held his pinkly manicured,flashily ringed hands wide.     I saw his problem and it was warmly embarrassing.     Really, Mr. Carmen, I said, this isn't the sort of thing you discusswith a total stranger. I'm not a doctor—not of medicine, anyway—or alawyer.     They can't help me. I need an operator in your line.     I work for the United States government. I can't become involved inanything illegal.     Carmen smoothed down the front of his too-tight midnight blue suit andtouched the diamond sticking in his silver tie. You can't, ProfessorVenetti? Ever hear of the Mafia?     I've heard of it, I said uneasily. An old fraternal organizationsomething like the Moose or Rosicrucians, founded in Sicily. Itallegedly controls organized crime in the U.S. But that is aresponsibility-eluding myth that honest Italian-Americans are stampingout. We don't even like to see the word in print.     I can understand      honest     Italian-Americans feeling that way. But guyslike me know the Mafia is still with it. We can put the squeeze onmarks like you pretty easy.     You don't have to tell even a third generation American about theMafia. Maybe that was the trouble. I had heard too much and for toolong. All the stories I had ever heard about the Mafia, true or false,built up an unendurable threat.     All right, I'll try to help you, Carmen. But ... that is, you didn'tkill any of these people?     He snorted. I haven't killed anybody since early 1943.     Please, I said weakly. You needn't incriminate yourself with me.     I was in the Marines, Carmen said hotly. Listen, Professor, thesearen't no Prohibition times. Not many people get made for a hit thesedays. Mother, most of these bodies they keep ditching at my clubhaven't been murdered by anybody. They're accident victims. Rumbumswith too much anti-freeze for a summer's day, Spanish-American War vetsgoing to visit Teddy in the natural course of events. Harry Keno juststows them at my place to embarrass me. Figures to make me lose myliquor license or take a contempt before the Grand Jury.     I don't suppose you could just go to the police— I saw the answer inhis eyes. No. I don't suppose you could.     I told you once, Professor, but I'll tell you again. I have to get ridof these bodies they keep leaving in my kitchen. I can take 'em andthrow them in the river, sure. But what if me or my boys are stopped enroute by some tipped badge?     Quicklime? I suggested automatically.     What are you talking about? Are you sure you're some kind ofscientist? Lime doesn't do much to a stiff at all. Kind of putrifiesthem like....     I forgot, I admitted. I'd read it in so many stories I'd forgottenit wouldn't work. And I suppose the furnace leaves ashes and there'salways traces of hair and teeth in the garbage disposal... Aninteresting problem, at that.     I figured you could handle it, Carmen said, leaning back comfortablyin the favorite chair of my bachelor apartment. I heard you wereworking on something to get rid of trash for the government.     That, I told him, is restricted information. I subcontracted thatwork from the big telephone laboratories. How did you find it out?     Ways, Professor, ways.     The government did want me to find a way to dispose ofwastes—radioactive wastes. It was the most important problem anycountry could have in this time of growing atomic industry. Now asmall-time gangster was asking me to use this research to help himdispose of hot corpses. It made my scientific blood seethe. But theshadow of the Black Hand cooled it off.     Maybe I can find something in that area of research to help you, Isaid. I'll call you.     Don't take too long, Professor, Carmen said cordially.  The big drum topped with a metallic coolie's hat had started out as aneutralizer for radioactivity. Now I didn't know what to call it.     The AEC had found burying canisters of hot rubbish in the desert orin the Gulf had eventually proved unsatisfactory. Earth tremors orchanges of temperature split the tanks in the ground, causing leaks.The undersea containers rusted and corroded through the time, poisoningfish and fishermen.     Through the SBA I had been awarded a subcontract to work on theproblem. The ideal solution would be to find a way to neutralizeradioactive emanations, alpha, beta, X et cetera. (No, my dear, etcetera rays aren't any more dangerous than the rest.) But this iseasier written than done.     Of course, getting energy to destroy energy without producing energy ormatter is a violation of the maxim of the conservation of energy. ButI didn't let that stop me—any more than I would have let the velocityof light put any limitations on a spacecraft engine had I been engagedto work on one. You can't allow other people's ideas to tie you handand foot. There are some who tell me, however, that my refusal to honorsuch time-tested cliches is why I only have a small private laboratoryowned by myself, my late wife's father and the bank, instead ofworking in the vast facilities of Bell, Du Pont, or General Motors. Tothis, I can only smile and nod.     But even refusing to be balked by conservative ideas, I failed.     I could not neutralize radioactivity. All I had been able to do (by abasic disturbance in the electromagnetogravitational co-ordinant systemfor Earth-Sun) was to reduce the mass of the radioactive matter.     This only concentrated the radiations, as in boiling contaminatedwater. It did make the hot stuff vaguely easier to handle, but it wasno breakthrough on the central problem.     Now, in the middle of this, I was supposed to find a way to get rid ofsome damned bodies for Carmen.     Pressed for time and knowing the results wouldn't have to be soprecise or carefully defined for a racketeer as for the United Statesgovernment, I began experimenting.     I cut corners.     I bypassed complete safety circuits.     I put dangerous overloads on some transformers and doodled with thewiring diagrams. If I got some kind of passable incinerator I would behappy.     I turned the machine on.     The lights popped out.     There were changes that should be made before I tried that again, butinstead I only found a larger fuse for a heavier load and jammed thatin the switchbox.     I flipped my machine into service once again. The lights flickered andheld.     The dials on my control board told me the story. It was hard to take.     But there it was.     The internal Scale showed zero.     I had had a slightly hot bar of silver alloy inside. It was completelygone. Mass zero. The temperature gauge showed that there had beenno change in centigrade reading that couldn't be explained by themechanical operation of the machine itself. There had been no suddendischarge of electricity or radioactivity. I checked for a standardanti-gravity effect but there was none. Gravity inside the cylinder hadgone to zero but never to minus.     I was at last violating conservation of energy—not by successfullyinverting the cube of the ionization factor, but by destroying mass ...by simply making it cease to exist with no cause-and-effect sideeffects.     I knew the government wouldn't be interested, since I couldn't explainhow my device worked. No amount of successful demonstration could everconvince anybody with any scientific training that it actually did work.     But I shrewdly judged that Tony Carmen wouldn't ask an embarrassinghow when he was incapable of understanding the explanation.  Yeah, but how does it work? Tony Carmen demanded of me, sleeking hismirror-black hair and staring up at the disk-topped drum.     Why do you care? I asked irritably. It will dispose of your bodiesfor you.     I got a reason that goes beyond the stiff, but let's stick to thatjust for now.      Where are these bodies going?     I don't want them windingup in the D.A.'s bathtub.     Why not? How could they trace them back to you?     You're the scientist, Tony said hotly. I got great respect for thosecrime lab boys. Maybe the stiff got some of my exclusive brand of talcon it, I don't know.     Listen here, Carmen, I said, what makes you think these bodies aregoing somewhere? Think of it only as a kind of—incinerator.     Not on your life, Professor. The gadget don't get hot so how can itburn? It don't use enough electricity to fry. It don't cut 'em upor crush 'em down, or dissolve them in acid. I've seen disappearingcabinets before.     Mafia or not, I saw red. Are you daring to suggest that I am workingsome trick with trap doors or sliding panels?     Easy, Professor, Carmen said, effortlessly shoving me back with onepalm. I'm not saying you have the machine rigged. It's just thatyou have to be dropping the stuff through a sliding panel in—well,everything around us. You're sliding all that aside and dropping thingsthrough. But I want to know where they wind up. Reasonable?     Carmen was an uneducated lout and a criminal but he had an instinctivefeel for the mechanics of physics.     I don't know where the stuff goes, Carmen, I finally admitted. Itmight go into another plane of existence. 'Another dimension' thewriters for the American Weekly would describe it. Or into our past, orour future.     The swarthy racketeer pursed his lips and apparently did some rapidcalculation.     I don't mind the first two, but I don't like them going into thefuture. If they do that, they may show up again in six months.     Or six million years.     You'll have to cut that future part out, Professor.     I was beginning to get a trifle impatient. All those folk tales I hadheard about the Mafia were getting more distant. See here, Carmen, Icould lie to you and say they went into the prehistoric past and youwould never know the difference. But the truth is, I just don't knowwhere the processed material goes. There's a chance it may go intothe future, yes. But unless it goes exactly one year or exactly somany years it would appear in empty space ... because the earth willhave moved from the spot it was transmitted. I don't know for sure.Perhaps the slight Deneb-ward movement of the Solar System would wrecka perfect three-point landing even then and cause the dispatchedmaterials to burn up from atmospheric friction, like meteors. You willjust have to take a chance on the future. That's the best I can do.     Carmen inhaled deeply. Okay. I'll risk it. Pretty long odds againstany squeal on the play. How many of these things can you turn out,Professor?     I can construct a duplicate of this device so that you may destroy theunwanted corpses that you would have me believe are delivered to youwith the regularity of the morning milk run.     The racketeer waved that suggestion aside. I'm talking about a bigoperation, Venetti. These things can take the place of incinerators,garbage disposals, waste baskets....     Impractical, I snorted. You don't realize the tremendous amount ofelectrical power these devices require....     Nuts! From what you said, the machine is like a TV set; it takesa lot of power to get it started, but then on it coasts on its owngenerators.  There's something to what you say, I admitted in the face of hisunexpected information. But I can hardly turn my invention over toyour entirely persuasive salesmen, I'm sure. This is part of theresults of an investigation for the government. Washington will haveto decide what to do with the machine.     Listen, Professor, Carmen began, the Mafia—     What makes you think I'm any more afraid of the Mafia than I am of theF.B.I.? I may have already sealed my fate by letting you in on thismuch. Machinegunning is hardly a less attractive fate to me than a poorsecurity rating. To me, being dead professionally would be as bad asbeing dead biologically.     Tony Carmen laid a heavy hand on my shoulder. I finally deduced heintended to be cordial.     Of course, he said smoothly you have to give this to Washington butthere are      ways     , Professor. I know. I'm a business man—     You      are     ? I said.     He named some of the businesses in which he held large shares of stock.     You      are     .     I've had experience in this sort of thing. We simply      leak     theinformation to a few hundred well selected persons about all that yourmachine can do. We'll call 'em Expendables, because they can expendanything.     I, I interjected, planned to call it the Venetti Machine.     Professor, who calls the radio the Marconi these days?     There are Geiger-Muller Counters, though, I said.     You don't have to give a Geiger counter the sex appeal of a TV set ora hardtop convertible. We'll call them Expendables. No home will becomplete without one.     Perfect for disposing of unwanted bodies, I mused. The murder ratewill go alarmingly with those devices within easy reach.     Did that stop Sam Colt or Henry Ford? Tony Carmen asked reasonably....     Naturally, I was aware that the government would      not     be interested inmy machine. I am not a Fortean, a psychic, a psionicist or a screwball.But the government frequently gets things it doesn't know what to dowith—like airplanes in the 'twenties. When it doesn't know what to do,it doesn't do it.     There have been hundreds of workable perpetual motion machinespatented, for example. Of course, they weren't vices in the strictestsense of the word. Many of them used the external power of gravity,they would wear out or slow down in time from friction, but for themeanwhile, for some ten to two hundred years they would just sit there,moving. No one had ever been able to figure out what to do with them.     I knew the AEC wasn't going to dump tons of radioactive waste (withsome possible future reclaimation value) into a machine which theydidn't believe actually could work.     Tony Carmen knew exactly what to do with an Expendable once he got hishands on it.     Naturally, that was what I had been afraid of.  The closed sedan was warm, even in early December.     Outside, the street was a progression of shadowed block forms. I wasshivering slightly, my teeth rattling like the porcelain they were. Wasthis the storied ride, I wondered?     Carmen finally returned to the car, unlatched the door and slid in. Hedid not reinsert the ignition key. I did not feel like sprinting downthe deserted street.     The boys will have it set up in a minute, Tony the racketeer informedme.     What? The firing squad?     The Expendable, of course.     Here? You dragged me out here to see how you have prostituted myinvention? I presume you've set it up with a 'Keep Our City Clean' signpasted on it.     He chuckled. It was a somewhat nasty sound, or so I imagined.     A flashlight winked in the sooty twilight.     Okay. Let's go, Tony said, slapping my shoulder.     I got out of the car, rubbing my flabby bicep. Whenever I took myteen-age daughter to the beach from my late wife's parents' home, Ifrequently found 230 pound bullies did kick sand in my ears.     The machine was installed on the corner, half covered with a gloomywhite shroud, and fearlessly plugged into the city lighting system viaa blanketed streetlamp. Two hoods hovered in a doorway ready to takecare of the first cop with a couple of fifties or a single .38, asnecessity dictated.     Tony guided my elbow. Okay, Professor, I think I understand the bitnow, but I'll let you run it up with the flagpole for me, to see how itwaves to the national anthem.     Here? I spluttered once more. I told you, Carmen, I wanted nothingmore to do with you. Your check is still on deposit....     You didn't want anything to do with me in the first place. The thug'steeth flashed in the night. Throw your contraption into gear, buddy.     That was the first time the tone of respect, even if faked, had goneout of his voice. I moved to the switchboard of my invention. Whatremained was as simple as adjusting a modern floor lamp to a mediumlight position. I flipped.     Restraining any impulse toward colloqualism, I was also deeplydisturbed by what next occurred.     One of the massive square shapes on the horizon vanished.     What have you done? I yelped, ripping the cover off the machine.     Even under the uncertain illumination of the smogged stars I could seethat the unit was half gone—in fact, exactly halved.     Squint the Seal is one of my boys. He used to be a mechanic in theold days for Burger, Madle, the guys who used to rob banks and stuff.There was an unmistakable note of boyish admiration in Carmen's voice.He figured the thing would work like that. Separate the poles and youincrease the size of the working area.     You mean square the operational field. Your idiot doesn't even knowmechanics.     No, but he knows all about how any kind of machine works.     You call that working? I demanded. Do you realize what you havethere, Carmen?     Sure. A disintegrator ray, straight out of      Startling Stories     .     My opinion as to the type of person who followed the pages ofscience-fiction magazines with fluttering lips and tracing finger wasupheld.     I looked at the old warehouse and of course didn't see it.     What was this a test for? I asked, fearful of the Frankenstein I hadmade. What are you planning to do now?     This was no test, Venetti. This was it. I just wiped out Harry Kenoand his intimates right in the middle of their confidential squat.     Good heavens. That's uncouthly old-fashioned of you, Carmen! Why,that's      murder     .     Not, Carmen said, without no      corpus delecti     .     The body of the crime remains without the body of the victim, Iremembered from my early Ellery Queen training.     You're talking too much, Professor, Tony suggested. Remember,      you     did it with      your     machine.     Yes, I said at length. And why are we standing here letting thosemachines sit there?  There were two small items of interest to me in the Times the followingmorning.     One two-inch story—barely making page one because of a hole to fill atthe bottom of an account of the number of victims of Indian summer heatprostration—told of the incineration of a warehouse on Fleet Street byan ingenious new arson bomb that left virtually no trace. (Maybe thefire inspector had planted a few traces to make his explanation morecreditable.)     The second item was further over in a science column just off theeditorial page. It told of the government—!—developing a new processof waste disposal rivaling the old Buck Rogers disintegrator ray.     This, I presumed, was one of Tony Carmen's information leaks.     If he hoped to arouse the public into demanding my invention Idoubted he would succeed. The public had been told repeatedly of anew radioactive process for preserving food and a painless way ofspraying injections through the skin. But they were still stuck withrefrigerators and hypodermic needles.     I had forced my way half-way through the paper and the terrible coffeeI made when the doorbell rang.     I was hardly surprised when it turned out to be Tony Carmen behind thefront door.     He pushed in, slapping a rolled newspaper in his palm. Action,Professor.     The district attorney has indicted you? I asked hopefully.     He's not even indicted      you     , Venetti. No, I got a feeler on thisplant in the      Times     .     I shook my head. The government will take over the invention, nomatter what the public wants.     The public? Who cares about the public? The Arcivox corporation wantsthis machine of yours. They have their agents tracing the plant now.They will go from the columnist to his legman to my man and finally toyou. Won't be long before they get here. An hour maybe.     Arcivox makes radios and TV sets. What do they want with theExpendables?     Opening up a new appliance line with real innovations. I hear they gota new refrigerator. All open. Just shelves—no doors or sides. Theywant a revolutionary garbage disposal too.     Do you own stock in the company? Is that how you know?     I own stock in a competitor. That's how I know, Carmen informed me.Listen, Professor, you can sell to Arcivox and still keep control ofthe patents through a separate corporation. And I'll give you 49% ofits stock.     This was Carmen's idea of a magnanimous offer for my invention. It      was     a pretty good offer—49% and my good health.     But will the government let Arcivox have the machine for commercialuse?     The government would let Arcivox have the hydrogen bomb if they founda commercial use for it.     There was a sturdy knock on the door, not a shrill ring of the bell.     That must be Arcivox now, Carmen growled. They have the bestdetectives in the business. You know what to tell them?     I knew what to tell them.  I peeled off my wet shirt and threw it across the corner of my desk,casting a reproving eye at the pastel air-conditioner in the window. Itwasn't really the machine's fault—The water department reported thereservoir too low to run water-cooled systems. It would be a day or twobefore I could get the gas type into my office.     Miss Brown, my secretary, was getting a good look at my pale, bonychest. Well, for the salary she got, she could stand to look. Ofcourse, she herself was wearing a modest one-strap sun dress, notshorts and halters like some of the girls.     My, she observed it certainly is humid for March, isn't it,Professor Venetti?     I agreed that it was.     She got her pad and pencil ready.     Wheedling form letter to Better Mousetraps. Where are our royaltiesfor the last quarter of the year? We know we didn't have a full threemonths with our Expendable Field in operation on the new traps, but wewant the payola for what we have coming.     Condescending form letter to Humane Lethal Equipment. Absolutely donot send the California penal system any chambers equipped with ourpatented field until legislature officially approves them. We got awaywith it in New Mexico, but we're older and wiser now.     Rush priority telegram to President, United States, any time inthe next ten days. Thanks for citation, et cetera. Glad buddy systemworking out well in training battlefield disintegrator teams.     Indignant form letter to Arcivox. We do not feel we are properly aco-respondent in your damage suits. Small children and appliances havealways been a problem, viz ice boxes and refrigerators. Suggest you puta more complicated latch on the handles of the dangerously inferiordoors you have covering our efficient, patented field.     I leaned back and took a breather. There was no getting around it—Ijust wasn't happy as a business man. I had been counting on being onlya figurehead in the Expendable Patent Holding Corporation, but TonyCarmen didn't like office work. And he hadn't anyone he trusted anymore than me. Even.     I jerked open a drawer and pulled off a paper towel from the roll Ihad stolen in the men's room. Scrubbing my chest and neck with it, Ismoothed it out and dropped it into the wastebasket. It slid down thetapering sides and through the narrow slot above the Expendable Field.I had redesigned the wastebaskets after a janitor had stepped in one.But Gimpy was happy now, with the $50,000 we paid him.     I opened my mouth and Miss Brown's pencil perked up its eraser,reflecting her fierce alertness.     Tony Carmen banged open the door, and I closed my mouth.     G-men on the way here, he blurted and collapsed into a chair oppositeMiss Brown.     Don't revert to type, I warned him. What kind of G-Men? FBI? FCC?CIA? FDA? USTD?     Investigators for the Atomic Energy Commission.     The solemn, conservatively dressed young man in the door touched theedge of his snap-brim hat as he said it.     Miss Brown, would you mind letting our visitor use your chair? Iasked.     Not at all, sir, she said dreamily.     May I suggest, I said, that we might get more business done if youthen removed yourself from the chair first.     Miss Brown leaped to her feet with a healthy galvanic response and quitthe vicinity with her usual efficiency.  Once seated, the AEC man said I'll get right to the point. You mayfind this troublesome, gentlemen, but your government intends toconfiscate all of the devices using your so-called Expendable field,and forever bar their manufacture in this country or their importation.     You stinking G-men aren't getting away with this, Carmen saidingratiatingly. Ever hear of the Mafia?     Not much, the young man admitted earnestly, since the FBI finishedwith its deportations a few years back.     I cleared my throat. I must admit that the destruction of amulti-billion business is disconcerting before lunch. May we ask whyyou took this step?     The agent inserted a finger between his collar and tie. Have younoticed how unseasonably warm it is?     I wondered if you had. You're going to have heat prostration if youkeep that suit coat on five minutes more.     The young man collapsed back in his chair, loosening the top button ofhis ivy league jacket, looking from my naked hide to the gossomer scrapof sport shirt Carmen wore. We have to dress inconspicuously in theservice, he panted weakly.     I nodded understandingly. What does the heat have to do with theoutlawing of the Expendables?     At first we thought there might be some truth in the folk nonsensethat nuclear tests had something to do with raising the meantemperature of the world, the AEC man said. But our scientistsquickly found they weren't to blame.     Clever of them.     Yes, they saw that the widespread use of your machines was responsiblefor the higher temperature. Your device violates the law ofconservation of energy,      seemingly     . It      seemingly     destroys matterwithout creating energy. Actually—     He paused dramatically.     Actually, your device added the energy it created in destroying matterto the energy potential of the planet in the form of      heat     . You seewhat that means? If your devices continue in operation, the meantemperature of Earth will rise to the point where we burst into flame.They must be outlawed!     I agree, I said reluctantly.     Tony Carmen spoke up. No, you don't, Professor. We don't agree tothat.     I waved his protests aside.     I      would     agree, I said, except that it wouldn't work. Explain thedanger to the public, let them feel the heat rise themselves, and theywill hoard Expendables against seizure and continue to use them, untilwe do burst into flame, as you put it so religiously.     Why? the young man demanded.     Because Expendables are convenient. There is a ban on frivolous useof water due to the dire need. But the police still have to go stoppeople from watering lawns, and I suspect not a few swimming pools arebeing filled on the sly. Water is somebody else's worry. So will begenerating enough heat to turn Eden into Hell.     Mass psychology isn't my strongest point, the young man saidworriedly. But I suspect you may be right. Then—we'll be damned?     No, not necessarily, I told him comfortingly. All we have to do is      use up     the excess energy with engines of a specific design.     But can we design those engines in time? the young man wondered withuncharacteristic gloom.     Certainly, I said, practising the power of positive thinking. Nowthat your world-wide testing laboratories have confirmed a vague fearof mine, I can easily reverse the field of the Expendable device andcreate a rather low-efficiency engine that consumes the excess energyin our planetary potential.  The agent of the AEC whose name I can never remember was present alongwith Tony Carmen the night my assistants finished with the work I hadoutlined.     While it was midnight outside, the fluorescents made the scene morevisible than sunlight. My Disexpendable was a medium-sized drum in atripod frame with an unturned coolie's hat at the bottom.     Breathlessly, I closed the switch and the scooped disc began slowly torevolve.     Is it my imagination, the agent asked, or is it getting cooler inhere?     Professor. Carmen gave me a warning nudge.     There was now something on the revolving disc. It was a bar of someshiny gray metal.     Kill the power, Professor, Carmen said.     Can it be, I wondered, that the machine is somehow recreating ordrawing back the processed material from some other time or dimension?     Shut the thing off, Venetti! the racketeer demanded.     But too late.     There was now a somewhat dead man sitting in the saddle of the turningcircle of metal.     If Harry Keno had only been sane when he turned up on thatmerry-go-round in Boston I feel we would have learned much of immensevalue on the nature of time and space.     As it is, I feel that it is a miscarriage of justice to hold me inconnection with the murders I am sure Tony Carmen did commit.     I hope this personal account when published will end the viciousstory supported by the district attorney that it was I who sought TonyCarmen out and offered to dispose of his enemies and that I sought hisfinancial backing for the exploitation of my invention.     This is the true, and only true, account of the development of themachine known as the Expendable.     I am only sorry, now that the temperature has been standardized oncemore, that the Expendable's antithesis, the Disexpendable, is of toolow an order of efficiency to be of much value as a power source inthese days of nuclear and solar energy. So the world is again stuckwith the problem of waste disposal ... including all that I dumpedbefore. But as a great American once said, you can't win 'em all.     If you so desire, you may send your generous and fruitful letterstowards my upcoming defense in care of this civic-minded publication.  ","A racketeer, Tony Carmen, comes to Professor Venetti, demanding him figure out how to get rid of the corpse in his house without leaving any traces by using the information Professor Venetti has in his job for the U.S. government that is related to the disposal problem of nuclear waste. Tony threatens Professor Venetti that if Professor Venetti does not abide by what he says, his connection with Mafia will cause Professor Venetti a lot of trouble. Afraid of what the Mafia may do, Professor Venetti finally accepts his request. However, professor Venetti does not abide by the safety and careful principles when he invents the machine, which is named Expendable late after by Tony. He does not know how the machine works either; he creates a device that can turn physical mass into nothingness without knowing where the disposed of mass or energy goes. When he gives the machine to Tony, Tony asks how the machine works, but Professor Venetti cannot explain. Later on, Tony sets up the device on the street, ordering Professor Venetti to turn on the machine, which is modified by a boy who used to be a mechanic, and Professor Venetti does. The machine destroys a warehouse, including the people inside. Professor Venetti condemns Tony for committing a crime, but Tony does not care as there is no corpse to prove the crime. Tony persuades Professor Venetti to put the Expendables into business. He leaks the information about the machine through newspapers to attract big corporations to come for them. As they make more profits from the product and go through all the business matters, an agent from Atomic Energy Commission comes. The agent informs them about the ban of their products because there is a research finding that the side effect of their product is the heat transformed from the mass, which results in the rising temperature. Professor Venetti believes that people would not stop using the products even if they knew what environmental damage they would cause. He creates a reverse version of the machine, called Disexpendable, which would consume the excess energy produced by the Expendables. After he completes it, he turns it on. As the Disexpendable operates, the temperature gets colder, and the corpse, once decomposed, appears in the room in front of the agent. At the same time, Tony orders Professor Venetti to turn off the machine."
"Who is Tony Carmen and what happens to him in the story? </s>     THE EXPENDABLES     BY JIM HARMON     It was just a little black box,     useful for getting rid of things.     Trouble was, it worked too well!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, May 1962.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      You see my problem, Professor? Tony Carmen held his pinkly manicured,flashily ringed hands wide.     I saw his problem and it was warmly embarrassing.     Really, Mr. Carmen, I said, this isn't the sort of thing you discusswith a total stranger. I'm not a doctor—not of medicine, anyway—or alawyer.     They can't help me. I need an operator in your line.     I work for the United States government. I can't become involved inanything illegal.     Carmen smoothed down the front of his too-tight midnight blue suit andtouched the diamond sticking in his silver tie. You can't, ProfessorVenetti? Ever hear of the Mafia?     I've heard of it, I said uneasily. An old fraternal organizationsomething like the Moose or Rosicrucians, founded in Sicily. Itallegedly controls organized crime in the U.S. But that is aresponsibility-eluding myth that honest Italian-Americans are stampingout. We don't even like to see the word in print.     I can understand      honest     Italian-Americans feeling that way. But guyslike me know the Mafia is still with it. We can put the squeeze onmarks like you pretty easy.     You don't have to tell even a third generation American about theMafia. Maybe that was the trouble. I had heard too much and for toolong. All the stories I had ever heard about the Mafia, true or false,built up an unendurable threat.     All right, I'll try to help you, Carmen. But ... that is, you didn'tkill any of these people?     He snorted. I haven't killed anybody since early 1943.     Please, I said weakly. You needn't incriminate yourself with me.     I was in the Marines, Carmen said hotly. Listen, Professor, thesearen't no Prohibition times. Not many people get made for a hit thesedays. Mother, most of these bodies they keep ditching at my clubhaven't been murdered by anybody. They're accident victims. Rumbumswith too much anti-freeze for a summer's day, Spanish-American War vetsgoing to visit Teddy in the natural course of events. Harry Keno juststows them at my place to embarrass me. Figures to make me lose myliquor license or take a contempt before the Grand Jury.     I don't suppose you could just go to the police— I saw the answer inhis eyes. No. I don't suppose you could.     I told you once, Professor, but I'll tell you again. I have to get ridof these bodies they keep leaving in my kitchen. I can take 'em andthrow them in the river, sure. But what if me or my boys are stopped enroute by some tipped badge?     Quicklime? I suggested automatically.     What are you talking about? Are you sure you're some kind ofscientist? Lime doesn't do much to a stiff at all. Kind of putrifiesthem like....     I forgot, I admitted. I'd read it in so many stories I'd forgottenit wouldn't work. And I suppose the furnace leaves ashes and there'salways traces of hair and teeth in the garbage disposal... Aninteresting problem, at that.     I figured you could handle it, Carmen said, leaning back comfortablyin the favorite chair of my bachelor apartment. I heard you wereworking on something to get rid of trash for the government.     That, I told him, is restricted information. I subcontracted thatwork from the big telephone laboratories. How did you find it out?     Ways, Professor, ways.     The government did want me to find a way to dispose ofwastes—radioactive wastes. It was the most important problem anycountry could have in this time of growing atomic industry. Now asmall-time gangster was asking me to use this research to help himdispose of hot corpses. It made my scientific blood seethe. But theshadow of the Black Hand cooled it off.     Maybe I can find something in that area of research to help you, Isaid. I'll call you.     Don't take too long, Professor, Carmen said cordially.  The big drum topped with a metallic coolie's hat had started out as aneutralizer for radioactivity. Now I didn't know what to call it.     The AEC had found burying canisters of hot rubbish in the desert orin the Gulf had eventually proved unsatisfactory. Earth tremors orchanges of temperature split the tanks in the ground, causing leaks.The undersea containers rusted and corroded through the time, poisoningfish and fishermen.     Through the SBA I had been awarded a subcontract to work on theproblem. The ideal solution would be to find a way to neutralizeradioactive emanations, alpha, beta, X et cetera. (No, my dear, etcetera rays aren't any more dangerous than the rest.) But this iseasier written than done.     Of course, getting energy to destroy energy without producing energy ormatter is a violation of the maxim of the conservation of energy. ButI didn't let that stop me—any more than I would have let the velocityof light put any limitations on a spacecraft engine had I been engagedto work on one. You can't allow other people's ideas to tie you handand foot. There are some who tell me, however, that my refusal to honorsuch time-tested cliches is why I only have a small private laboratoryowned by myself, my late wife's father and the bank, instead ofworking in the vast facilities of Bell, Du Pont, or General Motors. Tothis, I can only smile and nod.     But even refusing to be balked by conservative ideas, I failed.     I could not neutralize radioactivity. All I had been able to do (by abasic disturbance in the electromagnetogravitational co-ordinant systemfor Earth-Sun) was to reduce the mass of the radioactive matter.     This only concentrated the radiations, as in boiling contaminatedwater. It did make the hot stuff vaguely easier to handle, but it wasno breakthrough on the central problem.     Now, in the middle of this, I was supposed to find a way to get rid ofsome damned bodies for Carmen.     Pressed for time and knowing the results wouldn't have to be soprecise or carefully defined for a racketeer as for the United Statesgovernment, I began experimenting.     I cut corners.     I bypassed complete safety circuits.     I put dangerous overloads on some transformers and doodled with thewiring diagrams. If I got some kind of passable incinerator I would behappy.     I turned the machine on.     The lights popped out.     There were changes that should be made before I tried that again, butinstead I only found a larger fuse for a heavier load and jammed thatin the switchbox.     I flipped my machine into service once again. The lights flickered andheld.     The dials on my control board told me the story. It was hard to take.     But there it was.     The internal Scale showed zero.     I had had a slightly hot bar of silver alloy inside. It was completelygone. Mass zero. The temperature gauge showed that there had beenno change in centigrade reading that couldn't be explained by themechanical operation of the machine itself. There had been no suddendischarge of electricity or radioactivity. I checked for a standardanti-gravity effect but there was none. Gravity inside the cylinder hadgone to zero but never to minus.     I was at last violating conservation of energy—not by successfullyinverting the cube of the ionization factor, but by destroying mass ...by simply making it cease to exist with no cause-and-effect sideeffects.     I knew the government wouldn't be interested, since I couldn't explainhow my device worked. No amount of successful demonstration could everconvince anybody with any scientific training that it actually did work.     But I shrewdly judged that Tony Carmen wouldn't ask an embarrassinghow when he was incapable of understanding the explanation.  Yeah, but how does it work? Tony Carmen demanded of me, sleeking hismirror-black hair and staring up at the disk-topped drum.     Why do you care? I asked irritably. It will dispose of your bodiesfor you.     I got a reason that goes beyond the stiff, but let's stick to thatjust for now.      Where are these bodies going?     I don't want them windingup in the D.A.'s bathtub.     Why not? How could they trace them back to you?     You're the scientist, Tony said hotly. I got great respect for thosecrime lab boys. Maybe the stiff got some of my exclusive brand of talcon it, I don't know.     Listen here, Carmen, I said, what makes you think these bodies aregoing somewhere? Think of it only as a kind of—incinerator.     Not on your life, Professor. The gadget don't get hot so how can itburn? It don't use enough electricity to fry. It don't cut 'em upor crush 'em down, or dissolve them in acid. I've seen disappearingcabinets before.     Mafia or not, I saw red. Are you daring to suggest that I am workingsome trick with trap doors or sliding panels?     Easy, Professor, Carmen said, effortlessly shoving me back with onepalm. I'm not saying you have the machine rigged. It's just thatyou have to be dropping the stuff through a sliding panel in—well,everything around us. You're sliding all that aside and dropping thingsthrough. But I want to know where they wind up. Reasonable?     Carmen was an uneducated lout and a criminal but he had an instinctivefeel for the mechanics of physics.     I don't know where the stuff goes, Carmen, I finally admitted. Itmight go into another plane of existence. 'Another dimension' thewriters for the American Weekly would describe it. Or into our past, orour future.     The swarthy racketeer pursed his lips and apparently did some rapidcalculation.     I don't mind the first two, but I don't like them going into thefuture. If they do that, they may show up again in six months.     Or six million years.     You'll have to cut that future part out, Professor.     I was beginning to get a trifle impatient. All those folk tales I hadheard about the Mafia were getting more distant. See here, Carmen, Icould lie to you and say they went into the prehistoric past and youwould never know the difference. But the truth is, I just don't knowwhere the processed material goes. There's a chance it may go intothe future, yes. But unless it goes exactly one year or exactly somany years it would appear in empty space ... because the earth willhave moved from the spot it was transmitted. I don't know for sure.Perhaps the slight Deneb-ward movement of the Solar System would wrecka perfect three-point landing even then and cause the dispatchedmaterials to burn up from atmospheric friction, like meteors. You willjust have to take a chance on the future. That's the best I can do.     Carmen inhaled deeply. Okay. I'll risk it. Pretty long odds againstany squeal on the play. How many of these things can you turn out,Professor?     I can construct a duplicate of this device so that you may destroy theunwanted corpses that you would have me believe are delivered to youwith the regularity of the morning milk run.     The racketeer waved that suggestion aside. I'm talking about a bigoperation, Venetti. These things can take the place of incinerators,garbage disposals, waste baskets....     Impractical, I snorted. You don't realize the tremendous amount ofelectrical power these devices require....     Nuts! From what you said, the machine is like a TV set; it takesa lot of power to get it started, but then on it coasts on its owngenerators.  There's something to what you say, I admitted in the face of hisunexpected information. But I can hardly turn my invention over toyour entirely persuasive salesmen, I'm sure. This is part of theresults of an investigation for the government. Washington will haveto decide what to do with the machine.     Listen, Professor, Carmen began, the Mafia—     What makes you think I'm any more afraid of the Mafia than I am of theF.B.I.? I may have already sealed my fate by letting you in on thismuch. Machinegunning is hardly a less attractive fate to me than a poorsecurity rating. To me, being dead professionally would be as bad asbeing dead biologically.     Tony Carmen laid a heavy hand on my shoulder. I finally deduced heintended to be cordial.     Of course, he said smoothly you have to give this to Washington butthere are      ways     , Professor. I know. I'm a business man—     You      are     ? I said.     He named some of the businesses in which he held large shares of stock.     You      are     .     I've had experience in this sort of thing. We simply      leak     theinformation to a few hundred well selected persons about all that yourmachine can do. We'll call 'em Expendables, because they can expendanything.     I, I interjected, planned to call it the Venetti Machine.     Professor, who calls the radio the Marconi these days?     There are Geiger-Muller Counters, though, I said.     You don't have to give a Geiger counter the sex appeal of a TV set ora hardtop convertible. We'll call them Expendables. No home will becomplete without one.     Perfect for disposing of unwanted bodies, I mused. The murder ratewill go alarmingly with those devices within easy reach.     Did that stop Sam Colt or Henry Ford? Tony Carmen asked reasonably....     Naturally, I was aware that the government would      not     be interested inmy machine. I am not a Fortean, a psychic, a psionicist or a screwball.But the government frequently gets things it doesn't know what to dowith—like airplanes in the 'twenties. When it doesn't know what to do,it doesn't do it.     There have been hundreds of workable perpetual motion machinespatented, for example. Of course, they weren't vices in the strictestsense of the word. Many of them used the external power of gravity,they would wear out or slow down in time from friction, but for themeanwhile, for some ten to two hundred years they would just sit there,moving. No one had ever been able to figure out what to do with them.     I knew the AEC wasn't going to dump tons of radioactive waste (withsome possible future reclaimation value) into a machine which theydidn't believe actually could work.     Tony Carmen knew exactly what to do with an Expendable once he got hishands on it.     Naturally, that was what I had been afraid of.  The closed sedan was warm, even in early December.     Outside, the street was a progression of shadowed block forms. I wasshivering slightly, my teeth rattling like the porcelain they were. Wasthis the storied ride, I wondered?     Carmen finally returned to the car, unlatched the door and slid in. Hedid not reinsert the ignition key. I did not feel like sprinting downthe deserted street.     The boys will have it set up in a minute, Tony the racketeer informedme.     What? The firing squad?     The Expendable, of course.     Here? You dragged me out here to see how you have prostituted myinvention? I presume you've set it up with a 'Keep Our City Clean' signpasted on it.     He chuckled. It was a somewhat nasty sound, or so I imagined.     A flashlight winked in the sooty twilight.     Okay. Let's go, Tony said, slapping my shoulder.     I got out of the car, rubbing my flabby bicep. Whenever I took myteen-age daughter to the beach from my late wife's parents' home, Ifrequently found 230 pound bullies did kick sand in my ears.     The machine was installed on the corner, half covered with a gloomywhite shroud, and fearlessly plugged into the city lighting system viaa blanketed streetlamp. Two hoods hovered in a doorway ready to takecare of the first cop with a couple of fifties or a single .38, asnecessity dictated.     Tony guided my elbow. Okay, Professor, I think I understand the bitnow, but I'll let you run it up with the flagpole for me, to see how itwaves to the national anthem.     Here? I spluttered once more. I told you, Carmen, I wanted nothingmore to do with you. Your check is still on deposit....     You didn't want anything to do with me in the first place. The thug'steeth flashed in the night. Throw your contraption into gear, buddy.     That was the first time the tone of respect, even if faked, had goneout of his voice. I moved to the switchboard of my invention. Whatremained was as simple as adjusting a modern floor lamp to a mediumlight position. I flipped.     Restraining any impulse toward colloqualism, I was also deeplydisturbed by what next occurred.     One of the massive square shapes on the horizon vanished.     What have you done? I yelped, ripping the cover off the machine.     Even under the uncertain illumination of the smogged stars I could seethat the unit was half gone—in fact, exactly halved.     Squint the Seal is one of my boys. He used to be a mechanic in theold days for Burger, Madle, the guys who used to rob banks and stuff.There was an unmistakable note of boyish admiration in Carmen's voice.He figured the thing would work like that. Separate the poles and youincrease the size of the working area.     You mean square the operational field. Your idiot doesn't even knowmechanics.     No, but he knows all about how any kind of machine works.     You call that working? I demanded. Do you realize what you havethere, Carmen?     Sure. A disintegrator ray, straight out of      Startling Stories     .     My opinion as to the type of person who followed the pages ofscience-fiction magazines with fluttering lips and tracing finger wasupheld.     I looked at the old warehouse and of course didn't see it.     What was this a test for? I asked, fearful of the Frankenstein I hadmade. What are you planning to do now?     This was no test, Venetti. This was it. I just wiped out Harry Kenoand his intimates right in the middle of their confidential squat.     Good heavens. That's uncouthly old-fashioned of you, Carmen! Why,that's      murder     .     Not, Carmen said, without no      corpus delecti     .     The body of the crime remains without the body of the victim, Iremembered from my early Ellery Queen training.     You're talking too much, Professor, Tony suggested. Remember,      you     did it with      your     machine.     Yes, I said at length. And why are we standing here letting thosemachines sit there?  There were two small items of interest to me in the Times the followingmorning.     One two-inch story—barely making page one because of a hole to fill atthe bottom of an account of the number of victims of Indian summer heatprostration—told of the incineration of a warehouse on Fleet Street byan ingenious new arson bomb that left virtually no trace. (Maybe thefire inspector had planted a few traces to make his explanation morecreditable.)     The second item was further over in a science column just off theeditorial page. It told of the government—!—developing a new processof waste disposal rivaling the old Buck Rogers disintegrator ray.     This, I presumed, was one of Tony Carmen's information leaks.     If he hoped to arouse the public into demanding my invention Idoubted he would succeed. The public had been told repeatedly of anew radioactive process for preserving food and a painless way ofspraying injections through the skin. But they were still stuck withrefrigerators and hypodermic needles.     I had forced my way half-way through the paper and the terrible coffeeI made when the doorbell rang.     I was hardly surprised when it turned out to be Tony Carmen behind thefront door.     He pushed in, slapping a rolled newspaper in his palm. Action,Professor.     The district attorney has indicted you? I asked hopefully.     He's not even indicted      you     , Venetti. No, I got a feeler on thisplant in the      Times     .     I shook my head. The government will take over the invention, nomatter what the public wants.     The public? Who cares about the public? The Arcivox corporation wantsthis machine of yours. They have their agents tracing the plant now.They will go from the columnist to his legman to my man and finally toyou. Won't be long before they get here. An hour maybe.     Arcivox makes radios and TV sets. What do they want with theExpendables?     Opening up a new appliance line with real innovations. I hear they gota new refrigerator. All open. Just shelves—no doors or sides. Theywant a revolutionary garbage disposal too.     Do you own stock in the company? Is that how you know?     I own stock in a competitor. That's how I know, Carmen informed me.Listen, Professor, you can sell to Arcivox and still keep control ofthe patents through a separate corporation. And I'll give you 49% ofits stock.     This was Carmen's idea of a magnanimous offer for my invention. It      was     a pretty good offer—49% and my good health.     But will the government let Arcivox have the machine for commercialuse?     The government would let Arcivox have the hydrogen bomb if they founda commercial use for it.     There was a sturdy knock on the door, not a shrill ring of the bell.     That must be Arcivox now, Carmen growled. They have the bestdetectives in the business. You know what to tell them?     I knew what to tell them.  I peeled off my wet shirt and threw it across the corner of my desk,casting a reproving eye at the pastel air-conditioner in the window. Itwasn't really the machine's fault—The water department reported thereservoir too low to run water-cooled systems. It would be a day or twobefore I could get the gas type into my office.     Miss Brown, my secretary, was getting a good look at my pale, bonychest. Well, for the salary she got, she could stand to look. Ofcourse, she herself was wearing a modest one-strap sun dress, notshorts and halters like some of the girls.     My, she observed it certainly is humid for March, isn't it,Professor Venetti?     I agreed that it was.     She got her pad and pencil ready.     Wheedling form letter to Better Mousetraps. Where are our royaltiesfor the last quarter of the year? We know we didn't have a full threemonths with our Expendable Field in operation on the new traps, but wewant the payola for what we have coming.     Condescending form letter to Humane Lethal Equipment. Absolutely donot send the California penal system any chambers equipped with ourpatented field until legislature officially approves them. We got awaywith it in New Mexico, but we're older and wiser now.     Rush priority telegram to President, United States, any time inthe next ten days. Thanks for citation, et cetera. Glad buddy systemworking out well in training battlefield disintegrator teams.     Indignant form letter to Arcivox. We do not feel we are properly aco-respondent in your damage suits. Small children and appliances havealways been a problem, viz ice boxes and refrigerators. Suggest you puta more complicated latch on the handles of the dangerously inferiordoors you have covering our efficient, patented field.     I leaned back and took a breather. There was no getting around it—Ijust wasn't happy as a business man. I had been counting on being onlya figurehead in the Expendable Patent Holding Corporation, but TonyCarmen didn't like office work. And he hadn't anyone he trusted anymore than me. Even.     I jerked open a drawer and pulled off a paper towel from the roll Ihad stolen in the men's room. Scrubbing my chest and neck with it, Ismoothed it out and dropped it into the wastebasket. It slid down thetapering sides and through the narrow slot above the Expendable Field.I had redesigned the wastebaskets after a janitor had stepped in one.But Gimpy was happy now, with the $50,000 we paid him.     I opened my mouth and Miss Brown's pencil perked up its eraser,reflecting her fierce alertness.     Tony Carmen banged open the door, and I closed my mouth.     G-men on the way here, he blurted and collapsed into a chair oppositeMiss Brown.     Don't revert to type, I warned him. What kind of G-Men? FBI? FCC?CIA? FDA? USTD?     Investigators for the Atomic Energy Commission.     The solemn, conservatively dressed young man in the door touched theedge of his snap-brim hat as he said it.     Miss Brown, would you mind letting our visitor use your chair? Iasked.     Not at all, sir, she said dreamily.     May I suggest, I said, that we might get more business done if youthen removed yourself from the chair first.     Miss Brown leaped to her feet with a healthy galvanic response and quitthe vicinity with her usual efficiency.  Once seated, the AEC man said I'll get right to the point. You mayfind this troublesome, gentlemen, but your government intends toconfiscate all of the devices using your so-called Expendable field,and forever bar their manufacture in this country or their importation.     You stinking G-men aren't getting away with this, Carmen saidingratiatingly. Ever hear of the Mafia?     Not much, the young man admitted earnestly, since the FBI finishedwith its deportations a few years back.     I cleared my throat. I must admit that the destruction of amulti-billion business is disconcerting before lunch. May we ask whyyou took this step?     The agent inserted a finger between his collar and tie. Have younoticed how unseasonably warm it is?     I wondered if you had. You're going to have heat prostration if youkeep that suit coat on five minutes more.     The young man collapsed back in his chair, loosening the top button ofhis ivy league jacket, looking from my naked hide to the gossomer scrapof sport shirt Carmen wore. We have to dress inconspicuously in theservice, he panted weakly.     I nodded understandingly. What does the heat have to do with theoutlawing of the Expendables?     At first we thought there might be some truth in the folk nonsensethat nuclear tests had something to do with raising the meantemperature of the world, the AEC man said. But our scientistsquickly found they weren't to blame.     Clever of them.     Yes, they saw that the widespread use of your machines was responsiblefor the higher temperature. Your device violates the law ofconservation of energy,      seemingly     . It      seemingly     destroys matterwithout creating energy. Actually—     He paused dramatically.     Actually, your device added the energy it created in destroying matterto the energy potential of the planet in the form of      heat     . You seewhat that means? If your devices continue in operation, the meantemperature of Earth will rise to the point where we burst into flame.They must be outlawed!     I agree, I said reluctantly.     Tony Carmen spoke up. No, you don't, Professor. We don't agree tothat.     I waved his protests aside.     I      would     agree, I said, except that it wouldn't work. Explain thedanger to the public, let them feel the heat rise themselves, and theywill hoard Expendables against seizure and continue to use them, untilwe do burst into flame, as you put it so religiously.     Why? the young man demanded.     Because Expendables are convenient. There is a ban on frivolous useof water due to the dire need. But the police still have to go stoppeople from watering lawns, and I suspect not a few swimming pools arebeing filled on the sly. Water is somebody else's worry. So will begenerating enough heat to turn Eden into Hell.     Mass psychology isn't my strongest point, the young man saidworriedly. But I suspect you may be right. Then—we'll be damned?     No, not necessarily, I told him comfortingly. All we have to do is      use up     the excess energy with engines of a specific design.     But can we design those engines in time? the young man wondered withuncharacteristic gloom.     Certainly, I said, practising the power of positive thinking. Nowthat your world-wide testing laboratories have confirmed a vague fearof mine, I can easily reverse the field of the Expendable device andcreate a rather low-efficiency engine that consumes the excess energyin our planetary potential.  The agent of the AEC whose name I can never remember was present alongwith Tony Carmen the night my assistants finished with the work I hadoutlined.     While it was midnight outside, the fluorescents made the scene morevisible than sunlight. My Disexpendable was a medium-sized drum in atripod frame with an unturned coolie's hat at the bottom.     Breathlessly, I closed the switch and the scooped disc began slowly torevolve.     Is it my imagination, the agent asked, or is it getting cooler inhere?     Professor. Carmen gave me a warning nudge.     There was now something on the revolving disc. It was a bar of someshiny gray metal.     Kill the power, Professor, Carmen said.     Can it be, I wondered, that the machine is somehow recreating ordrawing back the processed material from some other time or dimension?     Shut the thing off, Venetti! the racketeer demanded.     But too late.     There was now a somewhat dead man sitting in the saddle of the turningcircle of metal.     If Harry Keno had only been sane when he turned up on thatmerry-go-round in Boston I feel we would have learned much of immensevalue on the nature of time and space.     As it is, I feel that it is a miscarriage of justice to hold me inconnection with the murders I am sure Tony Carmen did commit.     I hope this personal account when published will end the viciousstory supported by the district attorney that it was I who sought TonyCarmen out and offered to dispose of his enemies and that I sought hisfinancial backing for the exploitation of my invention.     This is the true, and only true, account of the development of themachine known as the Expendable.     I am only sorry, now that the temperature has been standardized oncemore, that the Expendable's antithesis, the Disexpendable, is of toolow an order of efficiency to be of much value as a power source inthese days of nuclear and solar energy. So the world is again stuckwith the problem of waste disposal ... including all that I dumpedbefore. But as a great American once said, you can't win 'em all.     If you so desire, you may send your generous and fruitful letterstowards my upcoming defense in care of this civic-minded publication.  ","Tony Carmen is a racketeer who threatens Professor Venetti to invent the machine to decompose corpses without leaving any traces. He is also a criminal who does not care about killing people, so he orders Professor Venetti to conduct the machine to wipe off the warehouse and the people inside. It is also implied that he kills the corpse he wants to get rid of. When he receives the machine Professor Venetti creates, he gives it to his subordinates and lets them modify it. He takes Professor Venetti to the place where they try the machine's function. He has many connections to business, the mafia, and the news, and he knows how to make profits by manipulating the business work behind the scene. When he realizes how much profit the machine can make after seeing its effects, he persuades Professor Venetti to collaborate with him. He leaks the information through the newspaper to attract the business corporates’ attention. When the agent from Atomic Energy Commission informs the harmful consequences of the machine, he strongly disagrees with the ban on the manufacture and the selling of the device. When Professor Venetti turns on the reverse machine, Tony is panicked, and he shouts to order the professor to turn off the engine."
"What are Professor Venetti’s inventions and what do they do? </s>     THE EXPENDABLES     BY JIM HARMON     It was just a little black box,     useful for getting rid of things.     Trouble was, it worked too well!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, May 1962.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      You see my problem, Professor? Tony Carmen held his pinkly manicured,flashily ringed hands wide.     I saw his problem and it was warmly embarrassing.     Really, Mr. Carmen, I said, this isn't the sort of thing you discusswith a total stranger. I'm not a doctor—not of medicine, anyway—or alawyer.     They can't help me. I need an operator in your line.     I work for the United States government. I can't become involved inanything illegal.     Carmen smoothed down the front of his too-tight midnight blue suit andtouched the diamond sticking in his silver tie. You can't, ProfessorVenetti? Ever hear of the Mafia?     I've heard of it, I said uneasily. An old fraternal organizationsomething like the Moose or Rosicrucians, founded in Sicily. Itallegedly controls organized crime in the U.S. But that is aresponsibility-eluding myth that honest Italian-Americans are stampingout. We don't even like to see the word in print.     I can understand      honest     Italian-Americans feeling that way. But guyslike me know the Mafia is still with it. We can put the squeeze onmarks like you pretty easy.     You don't have to tell even a third generation American about theMafia. Maybe that was the trouble. I had heard too much and for toolong. All the stories I had ever heard about the Mafia, true or false,built up an unendurable threat.     All right, I'll try to help you, Carmen. But ... that is, you didn'tkill any of these people?     He snorted. I haven't killed anybody since early 1943.     Please, I said weakly. You needn't incriminate yourself with me.     I was in the Marines, Carmen said hotly. Listen, Professor, thesearen't no Prohibition times. Not many people get made for a hit thesedays. Mother, most of these bodies they keep ditching at my clubhaven't been murdered by anybody. They're accident victims. Rumbumswith too much anti-freeze for a summer's day, Spanish-American War vetsgoing to visit Teddy in the natural course of events. Harry Keno juststows them at my place to embarrass me. Figures to make me lose myliquor license or take a contempt before the Grand Jury.     I don't suppose you could just go to the police— I saw the answer inhis eyes. No. I don't suppose you could.     I told you once, Professor, but I'll tell you again. I have to get ridof these bodies they keep leaving in my kitchen. I can take 'em andthrow them in the river, sure. But what if me or my boys are stopped enroute by some tipped badge?     Quicklime? I suggested automatically.     What are you talking about? Are you sure you're some kind ofscientist? Lime doesn't do much to a stiff at all. Kind of putrifiesthem like....     I forgot, I admitted. I'd read it in so many stories I'd forgottenit wouldn't work. And I suppose the furnace leaves ashes and there'salways traces of hair and teeth in the garbage disposal... Aninteresting problem, at that.     I figured you could handle it, Carmen said, leaning back comfortablyin the favorite chair of my bachelor apartment. I heard you wereworking on something to get rid of trash for the government.     That, I told him, is restricted information. I subcontracted thatwork from the big telephone laboratories. How did you find it out?     Ways, Professor, ways.     The government did want me to find a way to dispose ofwastes—radioactive wastes. It was the most important problem anycountry could have in this time of growing atomic industry. Now asmall-time gangster was asking me to use this research to help himdispose of hot corpses. It made my scientific blood seethe. But theshadow of the Black Hand cooled it off.     Maybe I can find something in that area of research to help you, Isaid. I'll call you.     Don't take too long, Professor, Carmen said cordially.  The big drum topped with a metallic coolie's hat had started out as aneutralizer for radioactivity. Now I didn't know what to call it.     The AEC had found burying canisters of hot rubbish in the desert orin the Gulf had eventually proved unsatisfactory. Earth tremors orchanges of temperature split the tanks in the ground, causing leaks.The undersea containers rusted and corroded through the time, poisoningfish and fishermen.     Through the SBA I had been awarded a subcontract to work on theproblem. The ideal solution would be to find a way to neutralizeradioactive emanations, alpha, beta, X et cetera. (No, my dear, etcetera rays aren't any more dangerous than the rest.) But this iseasier written than done.     Of course, getting energy to destroy energy without producing energy ormatter is a violation of the maxim of the conservation of energy. ButI didn't let that stop me—any more than I would have let the velocityof light put any limitations on a spacecraft engine had I been engagedto work on one. You can't allow other people's ideas to tie you handand foot. There are some who tell me, however, that my refusal to honorsuch time-tested cliches is why I only have a small private laboratoryowned by myself, my late wife's father and the bank, instead ofworking in the vast facilities of Bell, Du Pont, or General Motors. Tothis, I can only smile and nod.     But even refusing to be balked by conservative ideas, I failed.     I could not neutralize radioactivity. All I had been able to do (by abasic disturbance in the electromagnetogravitational co-ordinant systemfor Earth-Sun) was to reduce the mass of the radioactive matter.     This only concentrated the radiations, as in boiling contaminatedwater. It did make the hot stuff vaguely easier to handle, but it wasno breakthrough on the central problem.     Now, in the middle of this, I was supposed to find a way to get rid ofsome damned bodies for Carmen.     Pressed for time and knowing the results wouldn't have to be soprecise or carefully defined for a racketeer as for the United Statesgovernment, I began experimenting.     I cut corners.     I bypassed complete safety circuits.     I put dangerous overloads on some transformers and doodled with thewiring diagrams. If I got some kind of passable incinerator I would behappy.     I turned the machine on.     The lights popped out.     There were changes that should be made before I tried that again, butinstead I only found a larger fuse for a heavier load and jammed thatin the switchbox.     I flipped my machine into service once again. The lights flickered andheld.     The dials on my control board told me the story. It was hard to take.     But there it was.     The internal Scale showed zero.     I had had a slightly hot bar of silver alloy inside. It was completelygone. Mass zero. The temperature gauge showed that there had beenno change in centigrade reading that couldn't be explained by themechanical operation of the machine itself. There had been no suddendischarge of electricity or radioactivity. I checked for a standardanti-gravity effect but there was none. Gravity inside the cylinder hadgone to zero but never to minus.     I was at last violating conservation of energy—not by successfullyinverting the cube of the ionization factor, but by destroying mass ...by simply making it cease to exist with no cause-and-effect sideeffects.     I knew the government wouldn't be interested, since I couldn't explainhow my device worked. No amount of successful demonstration could everconvince anybody with any scientific training that it actually did work.     But I shrewdly judged that Tony Carmen wouldn't ask an embarrassinghow when he was incapable of understanding the explanation.  Yeah, but how does it work? Tony Carmen demanded of me, sleeking hismirror-black hair and staring up at the disk-topped drum.     Why do you care? I asked irritably. It will dispose of your bodiesfor you.     I got a reason that goes beyond the stiff, but let's stick to thatjust for now.      Where are these bodies going?     I don't want them windingup in the D.A.'s bathtub.     Why not? How could they trace them back to you?     You're the scientist, Tony said hotly. I got great respect for thosecrime lab boys. Maybe the stiff got some of my exclusive brand of talcon it, I don't know.     Listen here, Carmen, I said, what makes you think these bodies aregoing somewhere? Think of it only as a kind of—incinerator.     Not on your life, Professor. The gadget don't get hot so how can itburn? It don't use enough electricity to fry. It don't cut 'em upor crush 'em down, or dissolve them in acid. I've seen disappearingcabinets before.     Mafia or not, I saw red. Are you daring to suggest that I am workingsome trick with trap doors or sliding panels?     Easy, Professor, Carmen said, effortlessly shoving me back with onepalm. I'm not saying you have the machine rigged. It's just thatyou have to be dropping the stuff through a sliding panel in—well,everything around us. You're sliding all that aside and dropping thingsthrough. But I want to know where they wind up. Reasonable?     Carmen was an uneducated lout and a criminal but he had an instinctivefeel for the mechanics of physics.     I don't know where the stuff goes, Carmen, I finally admitted. Itmight go into another plane of existence. 'Another dimension' thewriters for the American Weekly would describe it. Or into our past, orour future.     The swarthy racketeer pursed his lips and apparently did some rapidcalculation.     I don't mind the first two, but I don't like them going into thefuture. If they do that, they may show up again in six months.     Or six million years.     You'll have to cut that future part out, Professor.     I was beginning to get a trifle impatient. All those folk tales I hadheard about the Mafia were getting more distant. See here, Carmen, Icould lie to you and say they went into the prehistoric past and youwould never know the difference. But the truth is, I just don't knowwhere the processed material goes. There's a chance it may go intothe future, yes. But unless it goes exactly one year or exactly somany years it would appear in empty space ... because the earth willhave moved from the spot it was transmitted. I don't know for sure.Perhaps the slight Deneb-ward movement of the Solar System would wrecka perfect three-point landing even then and cause the dispatchedmaterials to burn up from atmospheric friction, like meteors. You willjust have to take a chance on the future. That's the best I can do.     Carmen inhaled deeply. Okay. I'll risk it. Pretty long odds againstany squeal on the play. How many of these things can you turn out,Professor?     I can construct a duplicate of this device so that you may destroy theunwanted corpses that you would have me believe are delivered to youwith the regularity of the morning milk run.     The racketeer waved that suggestion aside. I'm talking about a bigoperation, Venetti. These things can take the place of incinerators,garbage disposals, waste baskets....     Impractical, I snorted. You don't realize the tremendous amount ofelectrical power these devices require....     Nuts! From what you said, the machine is like a TV set; it takesa lot of power to get it started, but then on it coasts on its owngenerators.  There's something to what you say, I admitted in the face of hisunexpected information. But I can hardly turn my invention over toyour entirely persuasive salesmen, I'm sure. This is part of theresults of an investigation for the government. Washington will haveto decide what to do with the machine.     Listen, Professor, Carmen began, the Mafia—     What makes you think I'm any more afraid of the Mafia than I am of theF.B.I.? I may have already sealed my fate by letting you in on thismuch. Machinegunning is hardly a less attractive fate to me than a poorsecurity rating. To me, being dead professionally would be as bad asbeing dead biologically.     Tony Carmen laid a heavy hand on my shoulder. I finally deduced heintended to be cordial.     Of course, he said smoothly you have to give this to Washington butthere are      ways     , Professor. I know. I'm a business man—     You      are     ? I said.     He named some of the businesses in which he held large shares of stock.     You      are     .     I've had experience in this sort of thing. We simply      leak     theinformation to a few hundred well selected persons about all that yourmachine can do. We'll call 'em Expendables, because they can expendanything.     I, I interjected, planned to call it the Venetti Machine.     Professor, who calls the radio the Marconi these days?     There are Geiger-Muller Counters, though, I said.     You don't have to give a Geiger counter the sex appeal of a TV set ora hardtop convertible. We'll call them Expendables. No home will becomplete without one.     Perfect for disposing of unwanted bodies, I mused. The murder ratewill go alarmingly with those devices within easy reach.     Did that stop Sam Colt or Henry Ford? Tony Carmen asked reasonably....     Naturally, I was aware that the government would      not     be interested inmy machine. I am not a Fortean, a psychic, a psionicist or a screwball.But the government frequently gets things it doesn't know what to dowith—like airplanes in the 'twenties. When it doesn't know what to do,it doesn't do it.     There have been hundreds of workable perpetual motion machinespatented, for example. Of course, they weren't vices in the strictestsense of the word. Many of them used the external power of gravity,they would wear out or slow down in time from friction, but for themeanwhile, for some ten to two hundred years they would just sit there,moving. No one had ever been able to figure out what to do with them.     I knew the AEC wasn't going to dump tons of radioactive waste (withsome possible future reclaimation value) into a machine which theydidn't believe actually could work.     Tony Carmen knew exactly what to do with an Expendable once he got hishands on it.     Naturally, that was what I had been afraid of.  The closed sedan was warm, even in early December.     Outside, the street was a progression of shadowed block forms. I wasshivering slightly, my teeth rattling like the porcelain they were. Wasthis the storied ride, I wondered?     Carmen finally returned to the car, unlatched the door and slid in. Hedid not reinsert the ignition key. I did not feel like sprinting downthe deserted street.     The boys will have it set up in a minute, Tony the racketeer informedme.     What? The firing squad?     The Expendable, of course.     Here? You dragged me out here to see how you have prostituted myinvention? I presume you've set it up with a 'Keep Our City Clean' signpasted on it.     He chuckled. It was a somewhat nasty sound, or so I imagined.     A flashlight winked in the sooty twilight.     Okay. Let's go, Tony said, slapping my shoulder.     I got out of the car, rubbing my flabby bicep. Whenever I took myteen-age daughter to the beach from my late wife's parents' home, Ifrequently found 230 pound bullies did kick sand in my ears.     The machine was installed on the corner, half covered with a gloomywhite shroud, and fearlessly plugged into the city lighting system viaa blanketed streetlamp. Two hoods hovered in a doorway ready to takecare of the first cop with a couple of fifties or a single .38, asnecessity dictated.     Tony guided my elbow. Okay, Professor, I think I understand the bitnow, but I'll let you run it up with the flagpole for me, to see how itwaves to the national anthem.     Here? I spluttered once more. I told you, Carmen, I wanted nothingmore to do with you. Your check is still on deposit....     You didn't want anything to do with me in the first place. The thug'steeth flashed in the night. Throw your contraption into gear, buddy.     That was the first time the tone of respect, even if faked, had goneout of his voice. I moved to the switchboard of my invention. Whatremained was as simple as adjusting a modern floor lamp to a mediumlight position. I flipped.     Restraining any impulse toward colloqualism, I was also deeplydisturbed by what next occurred.     One of the massive square shapes on the horizon vanished.     What have you done? I yelped, ripping the cover off the machine.     Even under the uncertain illumination of the smogged stars I could seethat the unit was half gone—in fact, exactly halved.     Squint the Seal is one of my boys. He used to be a mechanic in theold days for Burger, Madle, the guys who used to rob banks and stuff.There was an unmistakable note of boyish admiration in Carmen's voice.He figured the thing would work like that. Separate the poles and youincrease the size of the working area.     You mean square the operational field. Your idiot doesn't even knowmechanics.     No, but he knows all about how any kind of machine works.     You call that working? I demanded. Do you realize what you havethere, Carmen?     Sure. A disintegrator ray, straight out of      Startling Stories     .     My opinion as to the type of person who followed the pages ofscience-fiction magazines with fluttering lips and tracing finger wasupheld.     I looked at the old warehouse and of course didn't see it.     What was this a test for? I asked, fearful of the Frankenstein I hadmade. What are you planning to do now?     This was no test, Venetti. This was it. I just wiped out Harry Kenoand his intimates right in the middle of their confidential squat.     Good heavens. That's uncouthly old-fashioned of you, Carmen! Why,that's      murder     .     Not, Carmen said, without no      corpus delecti     .     The body of the crime remains without the body of the victim, Iremembered from my early Ellery Queen training.     You're talking too much, Professor, Tony suggested. Remember,      you     did it with      your     machine.     Yes, I said at length. And why are we standing here letting thosemachines sit there?  There were two small items of interest to me in the Times the followingmorning.     One two-inch story—barely making page one because of a hole to fill atthe bottom of an account of the number of victims of Indian summer heatprostration—told of the incineration of a warehouse on Fleet Street byan ingenious new arson bomb that left virtually no trace. (Maybe thefire inspector had planted a few traces to make his explanation morecreditable.)     The second item was further over in a science column just off theeditorial page. It told of the government—!—developing a new processof waste disposal rivaling the old Buck Rogers disintegrator ray.     This, I presumed, was one of Tony Carmen's information leaks.     If he hoped to arouse the public into demanding my invention Idoubted he would succeed. The public had been told repeatedly of anew radioactive process for preserving food and a painless way ofspraying injections through the skin. But they were still stuck withrefrigerators and hypodermic needles.     I had forced my way half-way through the paper and the terrible coffeeI made when the doorbell rang.     I was hardly surprised when it turned out to be Tony Carmen behind thefront door.     He pushed in, slapping a rolled newspaper in his palm. Action,Professor.     The district attorney has indicted you? I asked hopefully.     He's not even indicted      you     , Venetti. No, I got a feeler on thisplant in the      Times     .     I shook my head. The government will take over the invention, nomatter what the public wants.     The public? Who cares about the public? The Arcivox corporation wantsthis machine of yours. They have their agents tracing the plant now.They will go from the columnist to his legman to my man and finally toyou. Won't be long before they get here. An hour maybe.     Arcivox makes radios and TV sets. What do they want with theExpendables?     Opening up a new appliance line with real innovations. I hear they gota new refrigerator. All open. Just shelves—no doors or sides. Theywant a revolutionary garbage disposal too.     Do you own stock in the company? Is that how you know?     I own stock in a competitor. That's how I know, Carmen informed me.Listen, Professor, you can sell to Arcivox and still keep control ofthe patents through a separate corporation. And I'll give you 49% ofits stock.     This was Carmen's idea of a magnanimous offer for my invention. It      was     a pretty good offer—49% and my good health.     But will the government let Arcivox have the machine for commercialuse?     The government would let Arcivox have the hydrogen bomb if they founda commercial use for it.     There was a sturdy knock on the door, not a shrill ring of the bell.     That must be Arcivox now, Carmen growled. They have the bestdetectives in the business. You know what to tell them?     I knew what to tell them.  I peeled off my wet shirt and threw it across the corner of my desk,casting a reproving eye at the pastel air-conditioner in the window. Itwasn't really the machine's fault—The water department reported thereservoir too low to run water-cooled systems. It would be a day or twobefore I could get the gas type into my office.     Miss Brown, my secretary, was getting a good look at my pale, bonychest. Well, for the salary she got, she could stand to look. Ofcourse, she herself was wearing a modest one-strap sun dress, notshorts and halters like some of the girls.     My, she observed it certainly is humid for March, isn't it,Professor Venetti?     I agreed that it was.     She got her pad and pencil ready.     Wheedling form letter to Better Mousetraps. Where are our royaltiesfor the last quarter of the year? We know we didn't have a full threemonths with our Expendable Field in operation on the new traps, but wewant the payola for what we have coming.     Condescending form letter to Humane Lethal Equipment. Absolutely donot send the California penal system any chambers equipped with ourpatented field until legislature officially approves them. We got awaywith it in New Mexico, but we're older and wiser now.     Rush priority telegram to President, United States, any time inthe next ten days. Thanks for citation, et cetera. Glad buddy systemworking out well in training battlefield disintegrator teams.     Indignant form letter to Arcivox. We do not feel we are properly aco-respondent in your damage suits. Small children and appliances havealways been a problem, viz ice boxes and refrigerators. Suggest you puta more complicated latch on the handles of the dangerously inferiordoors you have covering our efficient, patented field.     I leaned back and took a breather. There was no getting around it—Ijust wasn't happy as a business man. I had been counting on being onlya figurehead in the Expendable Patent Holding Corporation, but TonyCarmen didn't like office work. And he hadn't anyone he trusted anymore than me. Even.     I jerked open a drawer and pulled off a paper towel from the roll Ihad stolen in the men's room. Scrubbing my chest and neck with it, Ismoothed it out and dropped it into the wastebasket. It slid down thetapering sides and through the narrow slot above the Expendable Field.I had redesigned the wastebaskets after a janitor had stepped in one.But Gimpy was happy now, with the $50,000 we paid him.     I opened my mouth and Miss Brown's pencil perked up its eraser,reflecting her fierce alertness.     Tony Carmen banged open the door, and I closed my mouth.     G-men on the way here, he blurted and collapsed into a chair oppositeMiss Brown.     Don't revert to type, I warned him. What kind of G-Men? FBI? FCC?CIA? FDA? USTD?     Investigators for the Atomic Energy Commission.     The solemn, conservatively dressed young man in the door touched theedge of his snap-brim hat as he said it.     Miss Brown, would you mind letting our visitor use your chair? Iasked.     Not at all, sir, she said dreamily.     May I suggest, I said, that we might get more business done if youthen removed yourself from the chair first.     Miss Brown leaped to her feet with a healthy galvanic response and quitthe vicinity with her usual efficiency.  Once seated, the AEC man said I'll get right to the point. You mayfind this troublesome, gentlemen, but your government intends toconfiscate all of the devices using your so-called Expendable field,and forever bar their manufacture in this country or their importation.     You stinking G-men aren't getting away with this, Carmen saidingratiatingly. Ever hear of the Mafia?     Not much, the young man admitted earnestly, since the FBI finishedwith its deportations a few years back.     I cleared my throat. I must admit that the destruction of amulti-billion business is disconcerting before lunch. May we ask whyyou took this step?     The agent inserted a finger between his collar and tie. Have younoticed how unseasonably warm it is?     I wondered if you had. You're going to have heat prostration if youkeep that suit coat on five minutes more.     The young man collapsed back in his chair, loosening the top button ofhis ivy league jacket, looking from my naked hide to the gossomer scrapof sport shirt Carmen wore. We have to dress inconspicuously in theservice, he panted weakly.     I nodded understandingly. What does the heat have to do with theoutlawing of the Expendables?     At first we thought there might be some truth in the folk nonsensethat nuclear tests had something to do with raising the meantemperature of the world, the AEC man said. But our scientistsquickly found they weren't to blame.     Clever of them.     Yes, they saw that the widespread use of your machines was responsiblefor the higher temperature. Your device violates the law ofconservation of energy,      seemingly     . It      seemingly     destroys matterwithout creating energy. Actually—     He paused dramatically.     Actually, your device added the energy it created in destroying matterto the energy potential of the planet in the form of      heat     . You seewhat that means? If your devices continue in operation, the meantemperature of Earth will rise to the point where we burst into flame.They must be outlawed!     I agree, I said reluctantly.     Tony Carmen spoke up. No, you don't, Professor. We don't agree tothat.     I waved his protests aside.     I      would     agree, I said, except that it wouldn't work. Explain thedanger to the public, let them feel the heat rise themselves, and theywill hoard Expendables against seizure and continue to use them, untilwe do burst into flame, as you put it so religiously.     Why? the young man demanded.     Because Expendables are convenient. There is a ban on frivolous useof water due to the dire need. But the police still have to go stoppeople from watering lawns, and I suspect not a few swimming pools arebeing filled on the sly. Water is somebody else's worry. So will begenerating enough heat to turn Eden into Hell.     Mass psychology isn't my strongest point, the young man saidworriedly. But I suspect you may be right. Then—we'll be damned?     No, not necessarily, I told him comfortingly. All we have to do is      use up     the excess energy with engines of a specific design.     But can we design those engines in time? the young man wondered withuncharacteristic gloom.     Certainly, I said, practising the power of positive thinking. Nowthat your world-wide testing laboratories have confirmed a vague fearof mine, I can easily reverse the field of the Expendable device andcreate a rather low-efficiency engine that consumes the excess energyin our planetary potential.  The agent of the AEC whose name I can never remember was present alongwith Tony Carmen the night my assistants finished with the work I hadoutlined.     While it was midnight outside, the fluorescents made the scene morevisible than sunlight. My Disexpendable was a medium-sized drum in atripod frame with an unturned coolie's hat at the bottom.     Breathlessly, I closed the switch and the scooped disc began slowly torevolve.     Is it my imagination, the agent asked, or is it getting cooler inhere?     Professor. Carmen gave me a warning nudge.     There was now something on the revolving disc. It was a bar of someshiny gray metal.     Kill the power, Professor, Carmen said.     Can it be, I wondered, that the machine is somehow recreating ordrawing back the processed material from some other time or dimension?     Shut the thing off, Venetti! the racketeer demanded.     But too late.     There was now a somewhat dead man sitting in the saddle of the turningcircle of metal.     If Harry Keno had only been sane when he turned up on thatmerry-go-round in Boston I feel we would have learned much of immensevalue on the nature of time and space.     As it is, I feel that it is a miscarriage of justice to hold me inconnection with the murders I am sure Tony Carmen did commit.     I hope this personal account when published will end the viciousstory supported by the district attorney that it was I who sought TonyCarmen out and offered to dispose of his enemies and that I sought hisfinancial backing for the exploitation of my invention.     This is the true, and only true, account of the development of themachine known as the Expendable.     I am only sorry, now that the temperature has been standardized oncemore, that the Expendable's antithesis, the Disexpendable, is of toolow an order of efficiency to be of much value as a power source inthese days of nuclear and solar energy. So the world is again stuckwith the problem of waste disposal ... including all that I dumpedbefore. But as a great American once said, you can't win 'em all.     If you so desire, you may send your generous and fruitful letterstowards my upcoming defense in care of this civic-minded publication.  ","Professor Venetti’s inventions are the Expendables which can decompose anything into nothingness without apparent side effects. It is first shown to violate the energy conservation rule when Professor Venetti finds it produces nothing after the decomposition, and he does not know where the decomposed particles go. However, later in the story, it is revealed by an investigator of the Atomic Energy Commission that the energy transformed from mass through the machine turns into heat, resulting in the rising global temperature. The other device he creates is Disexpendable, the reverse version of the Expendable. It is a medium-sized drum in a frame with an unturned coolie’s hat at the bottom. Disexpendable has a low-efficiency engine, and it can consume excess energy produced by the Expendable and lower the temperature. Consuming the excess energy also makes the once-decomposed mass back together again, such as the corpse."
"How is the theme of global warming explored throughout the story? </s>     THE EXPENDABLES     BY JIM HARMON     It was just a little black box,     useful for getting rid of things.     Trouble was, it worked too well!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, May 1962.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      You see my problem, Professor? Tony Carmen held his pinkly manicured,flashily ringed hands wide.     I saw his problem and it was warmly embarrassing.     Really, Mr. Carmen, I said, this isn't the sort of thing you discusswith a total stranger. I'm not a doctor—not of medicine, anyway—or alawyer.     They can't help me. I need an operator in your line.     I work for the United States government. I can't become involved inanything illegal.     Carmen smoothed down the front of his too-tight midnight blue suit andtouched the diamond sticking in his silver tie. You can't, ProfessorVenetti? Ever hear of the Mafia?     I've heard of it, I said uneasily. An old fraternal organizationsomething like the Moose or Rosicrucians, founded in Sicily. Itallegedly controls organized crime in the U.S. But that is aresponsibility-eluding myth that honest Italian-Americans are stampingout. We don't even like to see the word in print.     I can understand      honest     Italian-Americans feeling that way. But guyslike me know the Mafia is still with it. We can put the squeeze onmarks like you pretty easy.     You don't have to tell even a third generation American about theMafia. Maybe that was the trouble. I had heard too much and for toolong. All the stories I had ever heard about the Mafia, true or false,built up an unendurable threat.     All right, I'll try to help you, Carmen. But ... that is, you didn'tkill any of these people?     He snorted. I haven't killed anybody since early 1943.     Please, I said weakly. You needn't incriminate yourself with me.     I was in the Marines, Carmen said hotly. Listen, Professor, thesearen't no Prohibition times. Not many people get made for a hit thesedays. Mother, most of these bodies they keep ditching at my clubhaven't been murdered by anybody. They're accident victims. Rumbumswith too much anti-freeze for a summer's day, Spanish-American War vetsgoing to visit Teddy in the natural course of events. Harry Keno juststows them at my place to embarrass me. Figures to make me lose myliquor license or take a contempt before the Grand Jury.     I don't suppose you could just go to the police— I saw the answer inhis eyes. No. I don't suppose you could.     I told you once, Professor, but I'll tell you again. I have to get ridof these bodies they keep leaving in my kitchen. I can take 'em andthrow them in the river, sure. But what if me or my boys are stopped enroute by some tipped badge?     Quicklime? I suggested automatically.     What are you talking about? Are you sure you're some kind ofscientist? Lime doesn't do much to a stiff at all. Kind of putrifiesthem like....     I forgot, I admitted. I'd read it in so many stories I'd forgottenit wouldn't work. And I suppose the furnace leaves ashes and there'salways traces of hair and teeth in the garbage disposal... Aninteresting problem, at that.     I figured you could handle it, Carmen said, leaning back comfortablyin the favorite chair of my bachelor apartment. I heard you wereworking on something to get rid of trash for the government.     That, I told him, is restricted information. I subcontracted thatwork from the big telephone laboratories. How did you find it out?     Ways, Professor, ways.     The government did want me to find a way to dispose ofwastes—radioactive wastes. It was the most important problem anycountry could have in this time of growing atomic industry. Now asmall-time gangster was asking me to use this research to help himdispose of hot corpses. It made my scientific blood seethe. But theshadow of the Black Hand cooled it off.     Maybe I can find something in that area of research to help you, Isaid. I'll call you.     Don't take too long, Professor, Carmen said cordially.  The big drum topped with a metallic coolie's hat had started out as aneutralizer for radioactivity. Now I didn't know what to call it.     The AEC had found burying canisters of hot rubbish in the desert orin the Gulf had eventually proved unsatisfactory. Earth tremors orchanges of temperature split the tanks in the ground, causing leaks.The undersea containers rusted and corroded through the time, poisoningfish and fishermen.     Through the SBA I had been awarded a subcontract to work on theproblem. The ideal solution would be to find a way to neutralizeradioactive emanations, alpha, beta, X et cetera. (No, my dear, etcetera rays aren't any more dangerous than the rest.) But this iseasier written than done.     Of course, getting energy to destroy energy without producing energy ormatter is a violation of the maxim of the conservation of energy. ButI didn't let that stop me—any more than I would have let the velocityof light put any limitations on a spacecraft engine had I been engagedto work on one. You can't allow other people's ideas to tie you handand foot. There are some who tell me, however, that my refusal to honorsuch time-tested cliches is why I only have a small private laboratoryowned by myself, my late wife's father and the bank, instead ofworking in the vast facilities of Bell, Du Pont, or General Motors. Tothis, I can only smile and nod.     But even refusing to be balked by conservative ideas, I failed.     I could not neutralize radioactivity. All I had been able to do (by abasic disturbance in the electromagnetogravitational co-ordinant systemfor Earth-Sun) was to reduce the mass of the radioactive matter.     This only concentrated the radiations, as in boiling contaminatedwater. It did make the hot stuff vaguely easier to handle, but it wasno breakthrough on the central problem.     Now, in the middle of this, I was supposed to find a way to get rid ofsome damned bodies for Carmen.     Pressed for time and knowing the results wouldn't have to be soprecise or carefully defined for a racketeer as for the United Statesgovernment, I began experimenting.     I cut corners.     I bypassed complete safety circuits.     I put dangerous overloads on some transformers and doodled with thewiring diagrams. If I got some kind of passable incinerator I would behappy.     I turned the machine on.     The lights popped out.     There were changes that should be made before I tried that again, butinstead I only found a larger fuse for a heavier load and jammed thatin the switchbox.     I flipped my machine into service once again. The lights flickered andheld.     The dials on my control board told me the story. It was hard to take.     But there it was.     The internal Scale showed zero.     I had had a slightly hot bar of silver alloy inside. It was completelygone. Mass zero. The temperature gauge showed that there had beenno change in centigrade reading that couldn't be explained by themechanical operation of the machine itself. There had been no suddendischarge of electricity or radioactivity. I checked for a standardanti-gravity effect but there was none. Gravity inside the cylinder hadgone to zero but never to minus.     I was at last violating conservation of energy—not by successfullyinverting the cube of the ionization factor, but by destroying mass ...by simply making it cease to exist with no cause-and-effect sideeffects.     I knew the government wouldn't be interested, since I couldn't explainhow my device worked. No amount of successful demonstration could everconvince anybody with any scientific training that it actually did work.     But I shrewdly judged that Tony Carmen wouldn't ask an embarrassinghow when he was incapable of understanding the explanation.  Yeah, but how does it work? Tony Carmen demanded of me, sleeking hismirror-black hair and staring up at the disk-topped drum.     Why do you care? I asked irritably. It will dispose of your bodiesfor you.     I got a reason that goes beyond the stiff, but let's stick to thatjust for now.      Where are these bodies going?     I don't want them windingup in the D.A.'s bathtub.     Why not? How could they trace them back to you?     You're the scientist, Tony said hotly. I got great respect for thosecrime lab boys. Maybe the stiff got some of my exclusive brand of talcon it, I don't know.     Listen here, Carmen, I said, what makes you think these bodies aregoing somewhere? Think of it only as a kind of—incinerator.     Not on your life, Professor. The gadget don't get hot so how can itburn? It don't use enough electricity to fry. It don't cut 'em upor crush 'em down, or dissolve them in acid. I've seen disappearingcabinets before.     Mafia or not, I saw red. Are you daring to suggest that I am workingsome trick with trap doors or sliding panels?     Easy, Professor, Carmen said, effortlessly shoving me back with onepalm. I'm not saying you have the machine rigged. It's just thatyou have to be dropping the stuff through a sliding panel in—well,everything around us. You're sliding all that aside and dropping thingsthrough. But I want to know where they wind up. Reasonable?     Carmen was an uneducated lout and a criminal but he had an instinctivefeel for the mechanics of physics.     I don't know where the stuff goes, Carmen, I finally admitted. Itmight go into another plane of existence. 'Another dimension' thewriters for the American Weekly would describe it. Or into our past, orour future.     The swarthy racketeer pursed his lips and apparently did some rapidcalculation.     I don't mind the first two, but I don't like them going into thefuture. If they do that, they may show up again in six months.     Or six million years.     You'll have to cut that future part out, Professor.     I was beginning to get a trifle impatient. All those folk tales I hadheard about the Mafia were getting more distant. See here, Carmen, Icould lie to you and say they went into the prehistoric past and youwould never know the difference. But the truth is, I just don't knowwhere the processed material goes. There's a chance it may go intothe future, yes. But unless it goes exactly one year or exactly somany years it would appear in empty space ... because the earth willhave moved from the spot it was transmitted. I don't know for sure.Perhaps the slight Deneb-ward movement of the Solar System would wrecka perfect three-point landing even then and cause the dispatchedmaterials to burn up from atmospheric friction, like meteors. You willjust have to take a chance on the future. That's the best I can do.     Carmen inhaled deeply. Okay. I'll risk it. Pretty long odds againstany squeal on the play. How many of these things can you turn out,Professor?     I can construct a duplicate of this device so that you may destroy theunwanted corpses that you would have me believe are delivered to youwith the regularity of the morning milk run.     The racketeer waved that suggestion aside. I'm talking about a bigoperation, Venetti. These things can take the place of incinerators,garbage disposals, waste baskets....     Impractical, I snorted. You don't realize the tremendous amount ofelectrical power these devices require....     Nuts! From what you said, the machine is like a TV set; it takesa lot of power to get it started, but then on it coasts on its owngenerators.  There's something to what you say, I admitted in the face of hisunexpected information. But I can hardly turn my invention over toyour entirely persuasive salesmen, I'm sure. This is part of theresults of an investigation for the government. Washington will haveto decide what to do with the machine.     Listen, Professor, Carmen began, the Mafia—     What makes you think I'm any more afraid of the Mafia than I am of theF.B.I.? I may have already sealed my fate by letting you in on thismuch. Machinegunning is hardly a less attractive fate to me than a poorsecurity rating. To me, being dead professionally would be as bad asbeing dead biologically.     Tony Carmen laid a heavy hand on my shoulder. I finally deduced heintended to be cordial.     Of course, he said smoothly you have to give this to Washington butthere are      ways     , Professor. I know. I'm a business man—     You      are     ? I said.     He named some of the businesses in which he held large shares of stock.     You      are     .     I've had experience in this sort of thing. We simply      leak     theinformation to a few hundred well selected persons about all that yourmachine can do. We'll call 'em Expendables, because they can expendanything.     I, I interjected, planned to call it the Venetti Machine.     Professor, who calls the radio the Marconi these days?     There are Geiger-Muller Counters, though, I said.     You don't have to give a Geiger counter the sex appeal of a TV set ora hardtop convertible. We'll call them Expendables. No home will becomplete without one.     Perfect for disposing of unwanted bodies, I mused. The murder ratewill go alarmingly with those devices within easy reach.     Did that stop Sam Colt or Henry Ford? Tony Carmen asked reasonably....     Naturally, I was aware that the government would      not     be interested inmy machine. I am not a Fortean, a psychic, a psionicist or a screwball.But the government frequently gets things it doesn't know what to dowith—like airplanes in the 'twenties. When it doesn't know what to do,it doesn't do it.     There have been hundreds of workable perpetual motion machinespatented, for example. Of course, they weren't vices in the strictestsense of the word. Many of them used the external power of gravity,they would wear out or slow down in time from friction, but for themeanwhile, for some ten to two hundred years they would just sit there,moving. No one had ever been able to figure out what to do with them.     I knew the AEC wasn't going to dump tons of radioactive waste (withsome possible future reclaimation value) into a machine which theydidn't believe actually could work.     Tony Carmen knew exactly what to do with an Expendable once he got hishands on it.     Naturally, that was what I had been afraid of.  The closed sedan was warm, even in early December.     Outside, the street was a progression of shadowed block forms. I wasshivering slightly, my teeth rattling like the porcelain they were. Wasthis the storied ride, I wondered?     Carmen finally returned to the car, unlatched the door and slid in. Hedid not reinsert the ignition key. I did not feel like sprinting downthe deserted street.     The boys will have it set up in a minute, Tony the racketeer informedme.     What? The firing squad?     The Expendable, of course.     Here? You dragged me out here to see how you have prostituted myinvention? I presume you've set it up with a 'Keep Our City Clean' signpasted on it.     He chuckled. It was a somewhat nasty sound, or so I imagined.     A flashlight winked in the sooty twilight.     Okay. Let's go, Tony said, slapping my shoulder.     I got out of the car, rubbing my flabby bicep. Whenever I took myteen-age daughter to the beach from my late wife's parents' home, Ifrequently found 230 pound bullies did kick sand in my ears.     The machine was installed on the corner, half covered with a gloomywhite shroud, and fearlessly plugged into the city lighting system viaa blanketed streetlamp. Two hoods hovered in a doorway ready to takecare of the first cop with a couple of fifties or a single .38, asnecessity dictated.     Tony guided my elbow. Okay, Professor, I think I understand the bitnow, but I'll let you run it up with the flagpole for me, to see how itwaves to the national anthem.     Here? I spluttered once more. I told you, Carmen, I wanted nothingmore to do with you. Your check is still on deposit....     You didn't want anything to do with me in the first place. The thug'steeth flashed in the night. Throw your contraption into gear, buddy.     That was the first time the tone of respect, even if faked, had goneout of his voice. I moved to the switchboard of my invention. Whatremained was as simple as adjusting a modern floor lamp to a mediumlight position. I flipped.     Restraining any impulse toward colloqualism, I was also deeplydisturbed by what next occurred.     One of the massive square shapes on the horizon vanished.     What have you done? I yelped, ripping the cover off the machine.     Even under the uncertain illumination of the smogged stars I could seethat the unit was half gone—in fact, exactly halved.     Squint the Seal is one of my boys. He used to be a mechanic in theold days for Burger, Madle, the guys who used to rob banks and stuff.There was an unmistakable note of boyish admiration in Carmen's voice.He figured the thing would work like that. Separate the poles and youincrease the size of the working area.     You mean square the operational field. Your idiot doesn't even knowmechanics.     No, but he knows all about how any kind of machine works.     You call that working? I demanded. Do you realize what you havethere, Carmen?     Sure. A disintegrator ray, straight out of      Startling Stories     .     My opinion as to the type of person who followed the pages ofscience-fiction magazines with fluttering lips and tracing finger wasupheld.     I looked at the old warehouse and of course didn't see it.     What was this a test for? I asked, fearful of the Frankenstein I hadmade. What are you planning to do now?     This was no test, Venetti. This was it. I just wiped out Harry Kenoand his intimates right in the middle of their confidential squat.     Good heavens. That's uncouthly old-fashioned of you, Carmen! Why,that's      murder     .     Not, Carmen said, without no      corpus delecti     .     The body of the crime remains without the body of the victim, Iremembered from my early Ellery Queen training.     You're talking too much, Professor, Tony suggested. Remember,      you     did it with      your     machine.     Yes, I said at length. And why are we standing here letting thosemachines sit there?  There were two small items of interest to me in the Times the followingmorning.     One two-inch story—barely making page one because of a hole to fill atthe bottom of an account of the number of victims of Indian summer heatprostration—told of the incineration of a warehouse on Fleet Street byan ingenious new arson bomb that left virtually no trace. (Maybe thefire inspector had planted a few traces to make his explanation morecreditable.)     The second item was further over in a science column just off theeditorial page. It told of the government—!—developing a new processof waste disposal rivaling the old Buck Rogers disintegrator ray.     This, I presumed, was one of Tony Carmen's information leaks.     If he hoped to arouse the public into demanding my invention Idoubted he would succeed. The public had been told repeatedly of anew radioactive process for preserving food and a painless way ofspraying injections through the skin. But they were still stuck withrefrigerators and hypodermic needles.     I had forced my way half-way through the paper and the terrible coffeeI made when the doorbell rang.     I was hardly surprised when it turned out to be Tony Carmen behind thefront door.     He pushed in, slapping a rolled newspaper in his palm. Action,Professor.     The district attorney has indicted you? I asked hopefully.     He's not even indicted      you     , Venetti. No, I got a feeler on thisplant in the      Times     .     I shook my head. The government will take over the invention, nomatter what the public wants.     The public? Who cares about the public? The Arcivox corporation wantsthis machine of yours. They have their agents tracing the plant now.They will go from the columnist to his legman to my man and finally toyou. Won't be long before they get here. An hour maybe.     Arcivox makes radios and TV sets. What do they want with theExpendables?     Opening up a new appliance line with real innovations. I hear they gota new refrigerator. All open. Just shelves—no doors or sides. Theywant a revolutionary garbage disposal too.     Do you own stock in the company? Is that how you know?     I own stock in a competitor. That's how I know, Carmen informed me.Listen, Professor, you can sell to Arcivox and still keep control ofthe patents through a separate corporation. And I'll give you 49% ofits stock.     This was Carmen's idea of a magnanimous offer for my invention. It      was     a pretty good offer—49% and my good health.     But will the government let Arcivox have the machine for commercialuse?     The government would let Arcivox have the hydrogen bomb if they founda commercial use for it.     There was a sturdy knock on the door, not a shrill ring of the bell.     That must be Arcivox now, Carmen growled. They have the bestdetectives in the business. You know what to tell them?     I knew what to tell them.  I peeled off my wet shirt and threw it across the corner of my desk,casting a reproving eye at the pastel air-conditioner in the window. Itwasn't really the machine's fault—The water department reported thereservoir too low to run water-cooled systems. It would be a day or twobefore I could get the gas type into my office.     Miss Brown, my secretary, was getting a good look at my pale, bonychest. Well, for the salary she got, she could stand to look. Ofcourse, she herself was wearing a modest one-strap sun dress, notshorts and halters like some of the girls.     My, she observed it certainly is humid for March, isn't it,Professor Venetti?     I agreed that it was.     She got her pad and pencil ready.     Wheedling form letter to Better Mousetraps. Where are our royaltiesfor the last quarter of the year? We know we didn't have a full threemonths with our Expendable Field in operation on the new traps, but wewant the payola for what we have coming.     Condescending form letter to Humane Lethal Equipment. Absolutely donot send the California penal system any chambers equipped with ourpatented field until legislature officially approves them. We got awaywith it in New Mexico, but we're older and wiser now.     Rush priority telegram to President, United States, any time inthe next ten days. Thanks for citation, et cetera. Glad buddy systemworking out well in training battlefield disintegrator teams.     Indignant form letter to Arcivox. We do not feel we are properly aco-respondent in your damage suits. Small children and appliances havealways been a problem, viz ice boxes and refrigerators. Suggest you puta more complicated latch on the handles of the dangerously inferiordoors you have covering our efficient, patented field.     I leaned back and took a breather. There was no getting around it—Ijust wasn't happy as a business man. I had been counting on being onlya figurehead in the Expendable Patent Holding Corporation, but TonyCarmen didn't like office work. And he hadn't anyone he trusted anymore than me. Even.     I jerked open a drawer and pulled off a paper towel from the roll Ihad stolen in the men's room. Scrubbing my chest and neck with it, Ismoothed it out and dropped it into the wastebasket. It slid down thetapering sides and through the narrow slot above the Expendable Field.I had redesigned the wastebaskets after a janitor had stepped in one.But Gimpy was happy now, with the $50,000 we paid him.     I opened my mouth and Miss Brown's pencil perked up its eraser,reflecting her fierce alertness.     Tony Carmen banged open the door, and I closed my mouth.     G-men on the way here, he blurted and collapsed into a chair oppositeMiss Brown.     Don't revert to type, I warned him. What kind of G-Men? FBI? FCC?CIA? FDA? USTD?     Investigators for the Atomic Energy Commission.     The solemn, conservatively dressed young man in the door touched theedge of his snap-brim hat as he said it.     Miss Brown, would you mind letting our visitor use your chair? Iasked.     Not at all, sir, she said dreamily.     May I suggest, I said, that we might get more business done if youthen removed yourself from the chair first.     Miss Brown leaped to her feet with a healthy galvanic response and quitthe vicinity with her usual efficiency.  Once seated, the AEC man said I'll get right to the point. You mayfind this troublesome, gentlemen, but your government intends toconfiscate all of the devices using your so-called Expendable field,and forever bar their manufacture in this country or their importation.     You stinking G-men aren't getting away with this, Carmen saidingratiatingly. Ever hear of the Mafia?     Not much, the young man admitted earnestly, since the FBI finishedwith its deportations a few years back.     I cleared my throat. I must admit that the destruction of amulti-billion business is disconcerting before lunch. May we ask whyyou took this step?     The agent inserted a finger between his collar and tie. Have younoticed how unseasonably warm it is?     I wondered if you had. You're going to have heat prostration if youkeep that suit coat on five minutes more.     The young man collapsed back in his chair, loosening the top button ofhis ivy league jacket, looking from my naked hide to the gossomer scrapof sport shirt Carmen wore. We have to dress inconspicuously in theservice, he panted weakly.     I nodded understandingly. What does the heat have to do with theoutlawing of the Expendables?     At first we thought there might be some truth in the folk nonsensethat nuclear tests had something to do with raising the meantemperature of the world, the AEC man said. But our scientistsquickly found they weren't to blame.     Clever of them.     Yes, they saw that the widespread use of your machines was responsiblefor the higher temperature. Your device violates the law ofconservation of energy,      seemingly     . It      seemingly     destroys matterwithout creating energy. Actually—     He paused dramatically.     Actually, your device added the energy it created in destroying matterto the energy potential of the planet in the form of      heat     . You seewhat that means? If your devices continue in operation, the meantemperature of Earth will rise to the point where we burst into flame.They must be outlawed!     I agree, I said reluctantly.     Tony Carmen spoke up. No, you don't, Professor. We don't agree tothat.     I waved his protests aside.     I      would     agree, I said, except that it wouldn't work. Explain thedanger to the public, let them feel the heat rise themselves, and theywill hoard Expendables against seizure and continue to use them, untilwe do burst into flame, as you put it so religiously.     Why? the young man demanded.     Because Expendables are convenient. There is a ban on frivolous useof water due to the dire need. But the police still have to go stoppeople from watering lawns, and I suspect not a few swimming pools arebeing filled on the sly. Water is somebody else's worry. So will begenerating enough heat to turn Eden into Hell.     Mass psychology isn't my strongest point, the young man saidworriedly. But I suspect you may be right. Then—we'll be damned?     No, not necessarily, I told him comfortingly. All we have to do is      use up     the excess energy with engines of a specific design.     But can we design those engines in time? the young man wondered withuncharacteristic gloom.     Certainly, I said, practising the power of positive thinking. Nowthat your world-wide testing laboratories have confirmed a vague fearof mine, I can easily reverse the field of the Expendable device andcreate a rather low-efficiency engine that consumes the excess energyin our planetary potential.  The agent of the AEC whose name I can never remember was present alongwith Tony Carmen the night my assistants finished with the work I hadoutlined.     While it was midnight outside, the fluorescents made the scene morevisible than sunlight. My Disexpendable was a medium-sized drum in atripod frame with an unturned coolie's hat at the bottom.     Breathlessly, I closed the switch and the scooped disc began slowly torevolve.     Is it my imagination, the agent asked, or is it getting cooler inhere?     Professor. Carmen gave me a warning nudge.     There was now something on the revolving disc. It was a bar of someshiny gray metal.     Kill the power, Professor, Carmen said.     Can it be, I wondered, that the machine is somehow recreating ordrawing back the processed material from some other time or dimension?     Shut the thing off, Venetti! the racketeer demanded.     But too late.     There was now a somewhat dead man sitting in the saddle of the turningcircle of metal.     If Harry Keno had only been sane when he turned up on thatmerry-go-round in Boston I feel we would have learned much of immensevalue on the nature of time and space.     As it is, I feel that it is a miscarriage of justice to hold me inconnection with the murders I am sure Tony Carmen did commit.     I hope this personal account when published will end the viciousstory supported by the district attorney that it was I who sought TonyCarmen out and offered to dispose of his enemies and that I sought hisfinancial backing for the exploitation of my invention.     This is the true, and only true, account of the development of themachine known as the Expendable.     I am only sorry, now that the temperature has been standardized oncemore, that the Expendable's antithesis, the Disexpendable, is of toolow an order of efficiency to be of much value as a power source inthese days of nuclear and solar energy. So the world is again stuckwith the problem of waste disposal ... including all that I dumpedbefore. But as a great American once said, you can't win 'em all.     If you so desire, you may send your generous and fruitful letterstowards my upcoming defense in care of this civic-minded publication.  ","Throughout the story, a racketeer demands a professor create a machine to destroy the dead body he has without leaving any traces. The professor invented the device that can destroy mass into nothingness without knowing where the decomposed particles or mass go. However, later in the story, it reveals that the missing energy is turned into heat under the rule of energy conservation, resulting in a rising global temperature. The officials come to ban the usage and production of the machine, but the professor knows that people will still use it for its convenience, just like what people do concerning the wasteful use of water when it is in dire need. The professor ends up creating a machine whose side effect would cool down the temperature to fix the problem. The theme of global warming is explored through the conflicted balance between convenience and environmental damage. People tend to use what is convenient for them with the knowledge of its ecological harm until the consequence is no longer recoverable. The author tries to imply that if we keep wasting resources and damage the environment for our benefit, global warming will reach a point where the earth is no longer recoverable. It is also mentioned in the professor’s thought when he is thinking about selling the machine that tons of patented perpetual motion machines are created, used, and remain as trash without the means to get rid of them. People don’t care whether there is a solution to get rid of those trash completely or don’t know how, but they still produce and use them. This preference for convenience over the environment indicates that humans would not stop their pollution until they bear the consequence of their deeds, not to mention improve the situation of global warming."
"How is the theme of capitalism explored throughout the story? </s>     THE EXPENDABLES     BY JIM HARMON     It was just a little black box,     useful for getting rid of things.     Trouble was, it worked too well!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, May 1962.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      You see my problem, Professor? Tony Carmen held his pinkly manicured,flashily ringed hands wide.     I saw his problem and it was warmly embarrassing.     Really, Mr. Carmen, I said, this isn't the sort of thing you discusswith a total stranger. I'm not a doctor—not of medicine, anyway—or alawyer.     They can't help me. I need an operator in your line.     I work for the United States government. I can't become involved inanything illegal.     Carmen smoothed down the front of his too-tight midnight blue suit andtouched the diamond sticking in his silver tie. You can't, ProfessorVenetti? Ever hear of the Mafia?     I've heard of it, I said uneasily. An old fraternal organizationsomething like the Moose or Rosicrucians, founded in Sicily. Itallegedly controls organized crime in the U.S. But that is aresponsibility-eluding myth that honest Italian-Americans are stampingout. We don't even like to see the word in print.     I can understand      honest     Italian-Americans feeling that way. But guyslike me know the Mafia is still with it. We can put the squeeze onmarks like you pretty easy.     You don't have to tell even a third generation American about theMafia. Maybe that was the trouble. I had heard too much and for toolong. All the stories I had ever heard about the Mafia, true or false,built up an unendurable threat.     All right, I'll try to help you, Carmen. But ... that is, you didn'tkill any of these people?     He snorted. I haven't killed anybody since early 1943.     Please, I said weakly. You needn't incriminate yourself with me.     I was in the Marines, Carmen said hotly. Listen, Professor, thesearen't no Prohibition times. Not many people get made for a hit thesedays. Mother, most of these bodies they keep ditching at my clubhaven't been murdered by anybody. They're accident victims. Rumbumswith too much anti-freeze for a summer's day, Spanish-American War vetsgoing to visit Teddy in the natural course of events. Harry Keno juststows them at my place to embarrass me. Figures to make me lose myliquor license or take a contempt before the Grand Jury.     I don't suppose you could just go to the police— I saw the answer inhis eyes. No. I don't suppose you could.     I told you once, Professor, but I'll tell you again. I have to get ridof these bodies they keep leaving in my kitchen. I can take 'em andthrow them in the river, sure. But what if me or my boys are stopped enroute by some tipped badge?     Quicklime? I suggested automatically.     What are you talking about? Are you sure you're some kind ofscientist? Lime doesn't do much to a stiff at all. Kind of putrifiesthem like....     I forgot, I admitted. I'd read it in so many stories I'd forgottenit wouldn't work. And I suppose the furnace leaves ashes and there'salways traces of hair and teeth in the garbage disposal... Aninteresting problem, at that.     I figured you could handle it, Carmen said, leaning back comfortablyin the favorite chair of my bachelor apartment. I heard you wereworking on something to get rid of trash for the government.     That, I told him, is restricted information. I subcontracted thatwork from the big telephone laboratories. How did you find it out?     Ways, Professor, ways.     The government did want me to find a way to dispose ofwastes—radioactive wastes. It was the most important problem anycountry could have in this time of growing atomic industry. Now asmall-time gangster was asking me to use this research to help himdispose of hot corpses. It made my scientific blood seethe. But theshadow of the Black Hand cooled it off.     Maybe I can find something in that area of research to help you, Isaid. I'll call you.     Don't take too long, Professor, Carmen said cordially.  The big drum topped with a metallic coolie's hat had started out as aneutralizer for radioactivity. Now I didn't know what to call it.     The AEC had found burying canisters of hot rubbish in the desert orin the Gulf had eventually proved unsatisfactory. Earth tremors orchanges of temperature split the tanks in the ground, causing leaks.The undersea containers rusted and corroded through the time, poisoningfish and fishermen.     Through the SBA I had been awarded a subcontract to work on theproblem. The ideal solution would be to find a way to neutralizeradioactive emanations, alpha, beta, X et cetera. (No, my dear, etcetera rays aren't any more dangerous than the rest.) But this iseasier written than done.     Of course, getting energy to destroy energy without producing energy ormatter is a violation of the maxim of the conservation of energy. ButI didn't let that stop me—any more than I would have let the velocityof light put any limitations on a spacecraft engine had I been engagedto work on one. You can't allow other people's ideas to tie you handand foot. There are some who tell me, however, that my refusal to honorsuch time-tested cliches is why I only have a small private laboratoryowned by myself, my late wife's father and the bank, instead ofworking in the vast facilities of Bell, Du Pont, or General Motors. Tothis, I can only smile and nod.     But even refusing to be balked by conservative ideas, I failed.     I could not neutralize radioactivity. All I had been able to do (by abasic disturbance in the electromagnetogravitational co-ordinant systemfor Earth-Sun) was to reduce the mass of the radioactive matter.     This only concentrated the radiations, as in boiling contaminatedwater. It did make the hot stuff vaguely easier to handle, but it wasno breakthrough on the central problem.     Now, in the middle of this, I was supposed to find a way to get rid ofsome damned bodies for Carmen.     Pressed for time and knowing the results wouldn't have to be soprecise or carefully defined for a racketeer as for the United Statesgovernment, I began experimenting.     I cut corners.     I bypassed complete safety circuits.     I put dangerous overloads on some transformers and doodled with thewiring diagrams. If I got some kind of passable incinerator I would behappy.     I turned the machine on.     The lights popped out.     There were changes that should be made before I tried that again, butinstead I only found a larger fuse for a heavier load and jammed thatin the switchbox.     I flipped my machine into service once again. The lights flickered andheld.     The dials on my control board told me the story. It was hard to take.     But there it was.     The internal Scale showed zero.     I had had a slightly hot bar of silver alloy inside. It was completelygone. Mass zero. The temperature gauge showed that there had beenno change in centigrade reading that couldn't be explained by themechanical operation of the machine itself. There had been no suddendischarge of electricity or radioactivity. I checked for a standardanti-gravity effect but there was none. Gravity inside the cylinder hadgone to zero but never to minus.     I was at last violating conservation of energy—not by successfullyinverting the cube of the ionization factor, but by destroying mass ...by simply making it cease to exist with no cause-and-effect sideeffects.     I knew the government wouldn't be interested, since I couldn't explainhow my device worked. No amount of successful demonstration could everconvince anybody with any scientific training that it actually did work.     But I shrewdly judged that Tony Carmen wouldn't ask an embarrassinghow when he was incapable of understanding the explanation.  Yeah, but how does it work? Tony Carmen demanded of me, sleeking hismirror-black hair and staring up at the disk-topped drum.     Why do you care? I asked irritably. It will dispose of your bodiesfor you.     I got a reason that goes beyond the stiff, but let's stick to thatjust for now.      Where are these bodies going?     I don't want them windingup in the D.A.'s bathtub.     Why not? How could they trace them back to you?     You're the scientist, Tony said hotly. I got great respect for thosecrime lab boys. Maybe the stiff got some of my exclusive brand of talcon it, I don't know.     Listen here, Carmen, I said, what makes you think these bodies aregoing somewhere? Think of it only as a kind of—incinerator.     Not on your life, Professor. The gadget don't get hot so how can itburn? It don't use enough electricity to fry. It don't cut 'em upor crush 'em down, or dissolve them in acid. I've seen disappearingcabinets before.     Mafia or not, I saw red. Are you daring to suggest that I am workingsome trick with trap doors or sliding panels?     Easy, Professor, Carmen said, effortlessly shoving me back with onepalm. I'm not saying you have the machine rigged. It's just thatyou have to be dropping the stuff through a sliding panel in—well,everything around us. You're sliding all that aside and dropping thingsthrough. But I want to know where they wind up. Reasonable?     Carmen was an uneducated lout and a criminal but he had an instinctivefeel for the mechanics of physics.     I don't know where the stuff goes, Carmen, I finally admitted. Itmight go into another plane of existence. 'Another dimension' thewriters for the American Weekly would describe it. Or into our past, orour future.     The swarthy racketeer pursed his lips and apparently did some rapidcalculation.     I don't mind the first two, but I don't like them going into thefuture. If they do that, they may show up again in six months.     Or six million years.     You'll have to cut that future part out, Professor.     I was beginning to get a trifle impatient. All those folk tales I hadheard about the Mafia were getting more distant. See here, Carmen, Icould lie to you and say they went into the prehistoric past and youwould never know the difference. But the truth is, I just don't knowwhere the processed material goes. There's a chance it may go intothe future, yes. But unless it goes exactly one year or exactly somany years it would appear in empty space ... because the earth willhave moved from the spot it was transmitted. I don't know for sure.Perhaps the slight Deneb-ward movement of the Solar System would wrecka perfect three-point landing even then and cause the dispatchedmaterials to burn up from atmospheric friction, like meteors. You willjust have to take a chance on the future. That's the best I can do.     Carmen inhaled deeply. Okay. I'll risk it. Pretty long odds againstany squeal on the play. How many of these things can you turn out,Professor?     I can construct a duplicate of this device so that you may destroy theunwanted corpses that you would have me believe are delivered to youwith the regularity of the morning milk run.     The racketeer waved that suggestion aside. I'm talking about a bigoperation, Venetti. These things can take the place of incinerators,garbage disposals, waste baskets....     Impractical, I snorted. You don't realize the tremendous amount ofelectrical power these devices require....     Nuts! From what you said, the machine is like a TV set; it takesa lot of power to get it started, but then on it coasts on its owngenerators.  There's something to what you say, I admitted in the face of hisunexpected information. But I can hardly turn my invention over toyour entirely persuasive salesmen, I'm sure. This is part of theresults of an investigation for the government. Washington will haveto decide what to do with the machine.     Listen, Professor, Carmen began, the Mafia—     What makes you think I'm any more afraid of the Mafia than I am of theF.B.I.? I may have already sealed my fate by letting you in on thismuch. Machinegunning is hardly a less attractive fate to me than a poorsecurity rating. To me, being dead professionally would be as bad asbeing dead biologically.     Tony Carmen laid a heavy hand on my shoulder. I finally deduced heintended to be cordial.     Of course, he said smoothly you have to give this to Washington butthere are      ways     , Professor. I know. I'm a business man—     You      are     ? I said.     He named some of the businesses in which he held large shares of stock.     You      are     .     I've had experience in this sort of thing. We simply      leak     theinformation to a few hundred well selected persons about all that yourmachine can do. We'll call 'em Expendables, because they can expendanything.     I, I interjected, planned to call it the Venetti Machine.     Professor, who calls the radio the Marconi these days?     There are Geiger-Muller Counters, though, I said.     You don't have to give a Geiger counter the sex appeal of a TV set ora hardtop convertible. We'll call them Expendables. No home will becomplete without one.     Perfect for disposing of unwanted bodies, I mused. The murder ratewill go alarmingly with those devices within easy reach.     Did that stop Sam Colt or Henry Ford? Tony Carmen asked reasonably....     Naturally, I was aware that the government would      not     be interested inmy machine. I am not a Fortean, a psychic, a psionicist or a screwball.But the government frequently gets things it doesn't know what to dowith—like airplanes in the 'twenties. When it doesn't know what to do,it doesn't do it.     There have been hundreds of workable perpetual motion machinespatented, for example. Of course, they weren't vices in the strictestsense of the word. Many of them used the external power of gravity,they would wear out or slow down in time from friction, but for themeanwhile, for some ten to two hundred years they would just sit there,moving. No one had ever been able to figure out what to do with them.     I knew the AEC wasn't going to dump tons of radioactive waste (withsome possible future reclaimation value) into a machine which theydidn't believe actually could work.     Tony Carmen knew exactly what to do with an Expendable once he got hishands on it.     Naturally, that was what I had been afraid of.  The closed sedan was warm, even in early December.     Outside, the street was a progression of shadowed block forms. I wasshivering slightly, my teeth rattling like the porcelain they were. Wasthis the storied ride, I wondered?     Carmen finally returned to the car, unlatched the door and slid in. Hedid not reinsert the ignition key. I did not feel like sprinting downthe deserted street.     The boys will have it set up in a minute, Tony the racketeer informedme.     What? The firing squad?     The Expendable, of course.     Here? You dragged me out here to see how you have prostituted myinvention? I presume you've set it up with a 'Keep Our City Clean' signpasted on it.     He chuckled. It was a somewhat nasty sound, or so I imagined.     A flashlight winked in the sooty twilight.     Okay. Let's go, Tony said, slapping my shoulder.     I got out of the car, rubbing my flabby bicep. Whenever I took myteen-age daughter to the beach from my late wife's parents' home, Ifrequently found 230 pound bullies did kick sand in my ears.     The machine was installed on the corner, half covered with a gloomywhite shroud, and fearlessly plugged into the city lighting system viaa blanketed streetlamp. Two hoods hovered in a doorway ready to takecare of the first cop with a couple of fifties or a single .38, asnecessity dictated.     Tony guided my elbow. Okay, Professor, I think I understand the bitnow, but I'll let you run it up with the flagpole for me, to see how itwaves to the national anthem.     Here? I spluttered once more. I told you, Carmen, I wanted nothingmore to do with you. Your check is still on deposit....     You didn't want anything to do with me in the first place. The thug'steeth flashed in the night. Throw your contraption into gear, buddy.     That was the first time the tone of respect, even if faked, had goneout of his voice. I moved to the switchboard of my invention. Whatremained was as simple as adjusting a modern floor lamp to a mediumlight position. I flipped.     Restraining any impulse toward colloqualism, I was also deeplydisturbed by what next occurred.     One of the massive square shapes on the horizon vanished.     What have you done? I yelped, ripping the cover off the machine.     Even under the uncertain illumination of the smogged stars I could seethat the unit was half gone—in fact, exactly halved.     Squint the Seal is one of my boys. He used to be a mechanic in theold days for Burger, Madle, the guys who used to rob banks and stuff.There was an unmistakable note of boyish admiration in Carmen's voice.He figured the thing would work like that. Separate the poles and youincrease the size of the working area.     You mean square the operational field. Your idiot doesn't even knowmechanics.     No, but he knows all about how any kind of machine works.     You call that working? I demanded. Do you realize what you havethere, Carmen?     Sure. A disintegrator ray, straight out of      Startling Stories     .     My opinion as to the type of person who followed the pages ofscience-fiction magazines with fluttering lips and tracing finger wasupheld.     I looked at the old warehouse and of course didn't see it.     What was this a test for? I asked, fearful of the Frankenstein I hadmade. What are you planning to do now?     This was no test, Venetti. This was it. I just wiped out Harry Kenoand his intimates right in the middle of their confidential squat.     Good heavens. That's uncouthly old-fashioned of you, Carmen! Why,that's      murder     .     Not, Carmen said, without no      corpus delecti     .     The body of the crime remains without the body of the victim, Iremembered from my early Ellery Queen training.     You're talking too much, Professor, Tony suggested. Remember,      you     did it with      your     machine.     Yes, I said at length. And why are we standing here letting thosemachines sit there?  There were two small items of interest to me in the Times the followingmorning.     One two-inch story—barely making page one because of a hole to fill atthe bottom of an account of the number of victims of Indian summer heatprostration—told of the incineration of a warehouse on Fleet Street byan ingenious new arson bomb that left virtually no trace. (Maybe thefire inspector had planted a few traces to make his explanation morecreditable.)     The second item was further over in a science column just off theeditorial page. It told of the government—!—developing a new processof waste disposal rivaling the old Buck Rogers disintegrator ray.     This, I presumed, was one of Tony Carmen's information leaks.     If he hoped to arouse the public into demanding my invention Idoubted he would succeed. The public had been told repeatedly of anew radioactive process for preserving food and a painless way ofspraying injections through the skin. But they were still stuck withrefrigerators and hypodermic needles.     I had forced my way half-way through the paper and the terrible coffeeI made when the doorbell rang.     I was hardly surprised when it turned out to be Tony Carmen behind thefront door.     He pushed in, slapping a rolled newspaper in his palm. Action,Professor.     The district attorney has indicted you? I asked hopefully.     He's not even indicted      you     , Venetti. No, I got a feeler on thisplant in the      Times     .     I shook my head. The government will take over the invention, nomatter what the public wants.     The public? Who cares about the public? The Arcivox corporation wantsthis machine of yours. They have their agents tracing the plant now.They will go from the columnist to his legman to my man and finally toyou. Won't be long before they get here. An hour maybe.     Arcivox makes radios and TV sets. What do they want with theExpendables?     Opening up a new appliance line with real innovations. I hear they gota new refrigerator. All open. Just shelves—no doors or sides. Theywant a revolutionary garbage disposal too.     Do you own stock in the company? Is that how you know?     I own stock in a competitor. That's how I know, Carmen informed me.Listen, Professor, you can sell to Arcivox and still keep control ofthe patents through a separate corporation. And I'll give you 49% ofits stock.     This was Carmen's idea of a magnanimous offer for my invention. It      was     a pretty good offer—49% and my good health.     But will the government let Arcivox have the machine for commercialuse?     The government would let Arcivox have the hydrogen bomb if they founda commercial use for it.     There was a sturdy knock on the door, not a shrill ring of the bell.     That must be Arcivox now, Carmen growled. They have the bestdetectives in the business. You know what to tell them?     I knew what to tell them.  I peeled off my wet shirt and threw it across the corner of my desk,casting a reproving eye at the pastel air-conditioner in the window. Itwasn't really the machine's fault—The water department reported thereservoir too low to run water-cooled systems. It would be a day or twobefore I could get the gas type into my office.     Miss Brown, my secretary, was getting a good look at my pale, bonychest. Well, for the salary she got, she could stand to look. Ofcourse, she herself was wearing a modest one-strap sun dress, notshorts and halters like some of the girls.     My, she observed it certainly is humid for March, isn't it,Professor Venetti?     I agreed that it was.     She got her pad and pencil ready.     Wheedling form letter to Better Mousetraps. Where are our royaltiesfor the last quarter of the year? We know we didn't have a full threemonths with our Expendable Field in operation on the new traps, but wewant the payola for what we have coming.     Condescending form letter to Humane Lethal Equipment. Absolutely donot send the California penal system any chambers equipped with ourpatented field until legislature officially approves them. We got awaywith it in New Mexico, but we're older and wiser now.     Rush priority telegram to President, United States, any time inthe next ten days. Thanks for citation, et cetera. Glad buddy systemworking out well in training battlefield disintegrator teams.     Indignant form letter to Arcivox. We do not feel we are properly aco-respondent in your damage suits. Small children and appliances havealways been a problem, viz ice boxes and refrigerators. Suggest you puta more complicated latch on the handles of the dangerously inferiordoors you have covering our efficient, patented field.     I leaned back and took a breather. There was no getting around it—Ijust wasn't happy as a business man. I had been counting on being onlya figurehead in the Expendable Patent Holding Corporation, but TonyCarmen didn't like office work. And he hadn't anyone he trusted anymore than me. Even.     I jerked open a drawer and pulled off a paper towel from the roll Ihad stolen in the men's room. Scrubbing my chest and neck with it, Ismoothed it out and dropped it into the wastebasket. It slid down thetapering sides and through the narrow slot above the Expendable Field.I had redesigned the wastebaskets after a janitor had stepped in one.But Gimpy was happy now, with the $50,000 we paid him.     I opened my mouth and Miss Brown's pencil perked up its eraser,reflecting her fierce alertness.     Tony Carmen banged open the door, and I closed my mouth.     G-men on the way here, he blurted and collapsed into a chair oppositeMiss Brown.     Don't revert to type, I warned him. What kind of G-Men? FBI? FCC?CIA? FDA? USTD?     Investigators for the Atomic Energy Commission.     The solemn, conservatively dressed young man in the door touched theedge of his snap-brim hat as he said it.     Miss Brown, would you mind letting our visitor use your chair? Iasked.     Not at all, sir, she said dreamily.     May I suggest, I said, that we might get more business done if youthen removed yourself from the chair first.     Miss Brown leaped to her feet with a healthy galvanic response and quitthe vicinity with her usual efficiency.  Once seated, the AEC man said I'll get right to the point. You mayfind this troublesome, gentlemen, but your government intends toconfiscate all of the devices using your so-called Expendable field,and forever bar their manufacture in this country or their importation.     You stinking G-men aren't getting away with this, Carmen saidingratiatingly. Ever hear of the Mafia?     Not much, the young man admitted earnestly, since the FBI finishedwith its deportations a few years back.     I cleared my throat. I must admit that the destruction of amulti-billion business is disconcerting before lunch. May we ask whyyou took this step?     The agent inserted a finger between his collar and tie. Have younoticed how unseasonably warm it is?     I wondered if you had. You're going to have heat prostration if youkeep that suit coat on five minutes more.     The young man collapsed back in his chair, loosening the top button ofhis ivy league jacket, looking from my naked hide to the gossomer scrapof sport shirt Carmen wore. We have to dress inconspicuously in theservice, he panted weakly.     I nodded understandingly. What does the heat have to do with theoutlawing of the Expendables?     At first we thought there might be some truth in the folk nonsensethat nuclear tests had something to do with raising the meantemperature of the world, the AEC man said. But our scientistsquickly found they weren't to blame.     Clever of them.     Yes, they saw that the widespread use of your machines was responsiblefor the higher temperature. Your device violates the law ofconservation of energy,      seemingly     . It      seemingly     destroys matterwithout creating energy. Actually—     He paused dramatically.     Actually, your device added the energy it created in destroying matterto the energy potential of the planet in the form of      heat     . You seewhat that means? If your devices continue in operation, the meantemperature of Earth will rise to the point where we burst into flame.They must be outlawed!     I agree, I said reluctantly.     Tony Carmen spoke up. No, you don't, Professor. We don't agree tothat.     I waved his protests aside.     I      would     agree, I said, except that it wouldn't work. Explain thedanger to the public, let them feel the heat rise themselves, and theywill hoard Expendables against seizure and continue to use them, untilwe do burst into flame, as you put it so religiously.     Why? the young man demanded.     Because Expendables are convenient. There is a ban on frivolous useof water due to the dire need. But the police still have to go stoppeople from watering lawns, and I suspect not a few swimming pools arebeing filled on the sly. Water is somebody else's worry. So will begenerating enough heat to turn Eden into Hell.     Mass psychology isn't my strongest point, the young man saidworriedly. But I suspect you may be right. Then—we'll be damned?     No, not necessarily, I told him comfortingly. All we have to do is      use up     the excess energy with engines of a specific design.     But can we design those engines in time? the young man wondered withuncharacteristic gloom.     Certainly, I said, practising the power of positive thinking. Nowthat your world-wide testing laboratories have confirmed a vague fearof mine, I can easily reverse the field of the Expendable device andcreate a rather low-efficiency engine that consumes the excess energyin our planetary potential.  The agent of the AEC whose name I can never remember was present alongwith Tony Carmen the night my assistants finished with the work I hadoutlined.     While it was midnight outside, the fluorescents made the scene morevisible than sunlight. My Disexpendable was a medium-sized drum in atripod frame with an unturned coolie's hat at the bottom.     Breathlessly, I closed the switch and the scooped disc began slowly torevolve.     Is it my imagination, the agent asked, or is it getting cooler inhere?     Professor. Carmen gave me a warning nudge.     There was now something on the revolving disc. It was a bar of someshiny gray metal.     Kill the power, Professor, Carmen said.     Can it be, I wondered, that the machine is somehow recreating ordrawing back the processed material from some other time or dimension?     Shut the thing off, Venetti! the racketeer demanded.     But too late.     There was now a somewhat dead man sitting in the saddle of the turningcircle of metal.     If Harry Keno had only been sane when he turned up on thatmerry-go-round in Boston I feel we would have learned much of immensevalue on the nature of time and space.     As it is, I feel that it is a miscarriage of justice to hold me inconnection with the murders I am sure Tony Carmen did commit.     I hope this personal account when published will end the viciousstory supported by the district attorney that it was I who sought TonyCarmen out and offered to dispose of his enemies and that I sought hisfinancial backing for the exploitation of my invention.     This is the true, and only true, account of the development of themachine known as the Expendable.     I am only sorry, now that the temperature has been standardized oncemore, that the Expendable's antithesis, the Disexpendable, is of toolow an order of efficiency to be of much value as a power source inthese days of nuclear and solar energy. So the world is again stuckwith the problem of waste disposal ... including all that I dumpedbefore. But as a great American once said, you can't win 'em all.     If you so desire, you may send your generous and fruitful letterstowards my upcoming defense in care of this civic-minded publication.  ","The theme of capitalism is explored throughout the story by the greed of the racketeer, Tony Carmen, and how he prefers profits over the environment. In the story, Professor Venetti creates a machine that can easily decompose anything without knowing how it works and where the decomposed particles go. His process of creating the device is also not carefully examined under the safety rules. Despite knowing these manufacturing facts and the uncertainty of its consequences, Tony Carmen makes this machine into a business and sells it for a considerable profit, with the collaboration of Professor Venetti. The theme of capitalism is shown through the preference for profits over safety when seeking profits from a product. It is also explored through Tony’s dealings with business corporates and how he attracts business corporations’ attention to sell their products. Revealed by Tony’s testimony, big business corporations would have detectives and their sources of information to buy the inventions and sell them. Finally, the mechanism of the business world and the dark side of capitalism are shown through Tony’s plan to sell the products and all the dirty work behind it when Professor Venetti’s secretary is reading the letters regarding their business matter from several organizations."
"What is the plot of the story? </s>    He had but one ambition, one desire: to pilot the first manned rocket to     the moon. And he was prepared as no man had ever prepared himself     before....      DESIRE NO MORE     by Algis Budrys     (      illustrated by Milton Luros     )           Desire no more than to thy lot may fall....          —Chaucer      THE SMALL young man looked at his father, and shook his head.     But you've      got     to learn a trade, his father said, exasperated. Ican't afford to send you to college; you know that.     I've got a trade, he answered.     His father smiled thinly. What? he asked patronizingly.     I'm a rocket pilot, the boy said, his thin jaw stretching the skin ofhis cheeks.     His father laughed in the way the boy had learned to anticipate andhate. Yeah, he said. He leaned back in his chair and laughed so hardthat the Sunday paper slipped off his wide lap and fell to the floorwith an unnoticed stiff rustle.     A      rocket     pilot! His father's derision hooted through the quietparlor. A ro—      oh, no!     —a rocket      pilot     !     The boy stared silently at the convulsed figure in the chair. His lipsfell into a set white bar, and the corners of his jaws bulged with thetension in their muscles. Suddenly, he turned on his heel and stalkedout of the parlor, through the hall, out the front door, to the porch.He stopped there, hesitating a little.           Marty!      His father's shout followed him out of the parlor. It seemedto act like a hand between the shoulder-blades, because the boy almostran as he got down the porch stairs.     What is it, Howard? Marty's mother asked in a worried voice as shecame in from the kitchen, her damp hands rubbing themselves dry againstthe sides of her housedress.     Crazy kid, Howard Isherwood muttered. He stared at the figure of hisson as the boy reached the end of the walk and turned off into thestreet.       Come back here!      he shouted. A      rocket     pilot, he cursedunder his breath. What's the kid been reading? Claiming he's a rocketpilot!     Margaret Isherwood's brow furrowed into a faint, bewildered frown.But—isn't he a little young? I know they're teaching some very oddthings in high schools these days, but it seems to me....     Oh, for Pete's sake, Marge, there aren't even any rockets yet!      Comeback here, you idiot!      Howard Isherwood was standing on his porch, hisclenched fists trembling at the ends of his stiffly-held arms.     Are you sure, Howard? his wife asked faintly.     Yes, I'm      sure     !     But, where's he going?           Stop that! Get off that bus! YOU hear me?     Marty?           Howard!     Stop acting like a child and      talk     to me! Where is that boygoing?     Howard Isherwood, stocky, red-faced, forty-seven, and defeated, turnedaway from the retreating bus and looked at his wife. I don't know, hetold her bitterly, between rushes of air into his jerkily heaving lungs.Maybe, the moon, he told her sarcastically.       Martin Isherwood, rocket pilot, weight 102, height 4', 11, had come ofage at seventeen.      THE SMALL man looked at his faculty advisor. No, he said. I am notinterested in working for a degree.     But— The faculty advisor unconsciously tapped the point of a yellowpencil against the fresh green of his desk blotter, leaving a rough arcof black flecks. Look, Ish, you've got to either deliver or get off thebasket. This program is just like the others you've followed for ninesemesters; nothing but math and engineering. You've taken just aboutevery undergrad course there is in those fields. How long are you goingto keep this up?     I'm signed up for Astronomy 101, Isherwood pointed out.     The faculty advisor snorted. A snap course. A breather, after you'vestudied the same stuff in Celestial Navigation. What's the matter, Ish?Scared of liberal arts?     Isherwood shook his head. Uh-unh. Not interested. No time. And thatAstronomy course isn't a breather. Different slant from Cee Nav—theywon't be talking about stars as check points, but as things inthemselves. Something seemed to flicker across his face as he said it.     The advisor missed it; he was too engrossed in his argument. Still asnap. What's the difference, how you look at a star?     Isherwood almost winced. Call it a hobby, he said. He looked down athis watch. Come on, Dave. You're not going to convince me. You haven'tconvinced me any of the other times, either, so you might as well giveup, don't you think? I've got a half hour before I go on the job. Let'sgo get some beer.     The advisor, not much older than Isherwood, shrugged, defeated. Crazy,he muttered. But it was a hot day, and he was as thirsty as the nextman.     The bar was air conditioned. The advisor shivered, half grinned, andsoftly quoted: Though I go bare, take ye no care,I am nothing a-cold;I stuff my skin so full withinOf jolly good ale and old.     Huh? Ish was wearing the look with which he always reacted to theunfamiliar.     The advisor lifted two fingers to the bartender and shrugged. It's apoem; about four hundred years old, as a matter of fact.     Oh.     Don't you give a damn? the advisor asked, with some peevishness.     Ish laughed shortly, without embarrassment. Sorry, Dave, but no. It'snot my racket.     The advisor cramped his hand a little too tightly around his glass.Strictly a specialist, huh?     Ish nodded. Call it that.     But      what     , for Pete's sake? What      is     this crazy specialty that blindsyou to all the fine things that man has done?     Ish took a swallow of his beer. Well, now, if I was a poet, I'd say itwas the finest thing that man has ever done.     The advisor's lips twisted in derision. That's pretty fanatical, isn'tit?     Uh-huh. Ish waved to the bartender for refills.      THE      NAVION     took a boiling thermal under its right wing and buckedupward suddenly, tilting at the same time, so that the pretty brunettegirl in the other half of the side-by-side was thrown against him. Ishlaughed, a sound that came out of his throat as turbulently as thatsudden gust of heated air had shot up out of the Everglades, andcorrected with a tilt of the wheel.     Relax, Nan, he said, his words colored by the lingering laughter.It's only air; nasty old air.     The girl patted her short hair back into place. I wish you wouldn't flythis low, she said, half-frightened.           Low?     Call      this     low? Ish teased. Here. Let's drop it a little, andyou'll      really     get an idea of how fast we're going. He nudged thewheel forward, and the      Navion     dipped its nose in a shallow dive,flattening out thirty feet above the mangrove. The swamp howled with thechug of the dancing pistons and the claw of the propeller at theprotesting air, and, from the cockpit, the Everglades resolved into adirty-green blur that rocketed backward into the slipstream.     Marty!     Ish chuckled again. He couldn't have held the ship down much longer,anyway. He tugged back on the wheel suddenly, targeting a cumulous bankwith his spinner. His lips peeled back from his teeth, and his jaw set.The      Navion     went up at the clouds, her engine turning over as fast asit could, her wings cushioned on the rising thrust of another thermal.     And, suddenly, it was as if there were no girl beside him, to be teased,and no air to rock the wings—there were no wings. His face lost allexpression. Faint beads of sweat broke out above his eyes and under hisnose. Up, he grunted through his clenched teeth. His fists locked onthe wheel. Up!     The      Navion     broke through the cloud, kept going. Up. If he listenedclosely, in just the right way, he could almost hear ...     Marty!     ... the rumble of a louder, prouder engine than the Earth had ever known.He sighed, the breath whispering through his parting teeth, and theaircraft leveled off as he pushed at the wheel with suddenly lax hands.Still half-lost, he turned and looked at the white-faced girl. Scareyou—? he asked gently.     She nodded. Her fingertips were trembling on his forearm.     Me too, he said. Lost my head. Sorry.      LOOK, HE told the girl, You got any idea of what it costs to maintaina racing-plane? Everything I own is tied up in the Foo, my ground crew,my trailer, and that scrummy old Ryan that should have been salvaged tenyears ago. I      can't     get married. Suppose I crack the Foo next week?You're dead broke, a widow, and with a funeral to pay for. The onlysmart thing to do is wait a while.     Nan's eyes clouded, and her lips trembled. That's what I've been tryingto say.      Why     do you have to win the Vandenberg Cup next week? Why can'tyou sell the Foo and go into some kind of business? You're a trainedpilot.     He had been standing in front of her with his body unconsciously tensefrom the strain of trying to make her understand. Now herelaxed—more—he slumped—and something began to die in his face, andthe first faint lines crept in to show that after it had died, it wouldnot return to life, but would fossilize, leaving his features in thealmost unreadable mask that the newspapers would come to know.     I'm a good bit more than a trained pilot, he said quietly. The Foo Isa means to an end. After I win the Vandenberg Cup, I can walk into anyplant in the States—Douglas, North American, Boeing—      any     of them—andpick up the Chief Test Pilot's job for the asking. A few of them have asgood as said so. After that— His voice had regained some of its formeranimation from this new source. Now he broke off, and shrugged. I'vetold you all this before.     The girl reached up, as if the physical touch could bring him back toher, and put her fingers around his wrist. Darling! she said. If it'sthat      rocket     pilot business again....     Somehow, his wrist was out of her encircling fingers. It's always 'that      rocket     pilot business,' he said, mimicking her voice. Damn it, I'mthe only trained rocket pilot in the world! I weigh a hundred andfifteen pounds, I'm five feet tall, and I know more navigation and maththan anybody the Air Force or Navy have! I can use words likebrennschluss and mass-ratio without running over to a copy of      Colliers     , and I— He stopped himself, half-smiled, and shruggedagain.     I guess I was kidding myself. After the Cup, there'll be the test job,and after that, there'll be the rockets. You would have had to wait along time.     All she could think of to say was, But, Darling, there      aren't     anyman-carrying rockets.     That's not my fault, he said, and walked away from her.       A week later, he took his stripped-down F-110 across the last line witha scream like that of a hawk that brings its prey safely to its nest.      HE BROUGHT the Mark VII out of her orbit after two days of running ringsaround the spinning Earth, and the world loved him. He climbed out ofthe crackling, pinging ship, bearded and dirty, with oil on his face andin his hair, with food stains all over his whipcord, red-eyed, andhuskily quiet as he said his few words into the network microphones. Andhe was not satisfied. There was no peace in his eyes, and his handsmoved even more sharply in their expressive gestures as he gave animpromptu report to the technicians who were walking back to thepersonnel bunker with him.     Nan could see that. Four years ago, he had been different. Four yearsago, if she had only known the right words, he wouldn't be so intent nowon throwing himself away to the sky.     She was a woman scorned. She had to lie to herself. She broke out of thepress section and ran over to him. Marty! She brushed past atechnician.     He looked at her with faint surprise on his face. Well, Nan! hemumbled. But he did not put his hand over her own where it touched hisshoulder.     I'm sorry, Marty, she said in a rush. I didn't understand. I couldn'tsee how much it all meant. Her face was flushed, and she spoke asrapidly as she could, not noticing that Ish had already gestured awaythe guards she was afraid would interrupt her.     But it's all right, now. You got your rockets. You've done it. Youtrained yourself for it, and now it's over. You've flown your rocket!     He looked up at her face and shook his head in quiet pity. One of theshocked technicians was trying to pull her away, and Ish made no move tostop him.     Suddenly, he was tired, there was something in him that was trying tobreak out against his will, and his reaction was that of a child whosecandy is being taken away from him after only one bite.     Rocket! he shouted into her terrified face.       Rocket!     Call that pileof tin a rocket? He pointed at the weary Mark VII with a trembling arm.Who cares about the bloody      machines     ! If I thought roller-skatingwould get me there, I would have gone to work in a      rink     when I wasseventeen! It's      getting there     that counts! Who gives a good goddam      how     it's done, or what with!     And he stood there, shaking like a leaf, outraged, while the guards cameand got her.      SIT DOWN, Ish, the Flight Surgeon said.       They always begin that way     , Isherwood thought. The standard medicalopening. Sit down. What for? Did somebody really believe that anythinghe might hear would make him faint? He smiled with as much expression ashe ever did, and chose a comfortable chair, rolling the white cylinderof a cigarette between his fingers. He glanced at his watch. Fourteenhours, thirty-six minutes, and four days to go.     How's it? the FS asked.     Ish grinned and shrugged. All right. But he didn't usually grin. Therealization disquieted him a little.     Think you'll make it?     Deliberately, rather than automatically, he fell back into his usualresponse-pattern. Don't know. That's what I'm being paid to find out.     Uh-      huh     . The FS tapped the eraser of his pencil against his teeth.Look—you want to talk to a man for a while?     What man? It didn't really matter. He had a feeling that anything hesaid or did now would have a bearing, somehow, on the trip. If theywanted him to do something for them, he was bloody well going to do it.     Fellow named MacKenzie. Big gun in the head-thumping racket. TheFlight Surgeon was trying to be as casual as he could. Air Forceinsisted on it, as a matter of fact, he said. Can't really blame them.After all, it's      their     beast.     Don't want any hole-heads denting it up on them, huh? Ish lit thecigarette and flipped his lighter shut with a snap of the lid. Sure.Bring him on.     The FS smiled. Good. He's—uh—he's in the next room. Okay to ask himin right now?     Sure. Something flickered in Isherwood's eyes. Amusement at the FlightSurgeon's discomfort was part of it. Worry was some of the rest.      MacKENZIE didn't seem to be taking any notes, or paying any specialattention to the answers Ish was giving to his casual questions. But thequestions fell into a pattern that was far from casual, and Ish couldsee the small button-mike of a portable tape-recorder nestling under theman's lapel.     Been working your own way for the last seventeen years, haven't you?MacKenzie seemed to mumble in a perfectly clear voice.     Ish nodded.     How's that?     The corners of Isherwood's mouth twitched, and he said Yes for therecorder's benefit.     Odd jobs, first of all?     Something like that. Anything I could get, the first few months. AfterI was halfway set up, I stuck to garages and repair shops.     Out at the airports around Miami, mostly, wasn't it?     Ahuh.     Took some of your pay in flying lessons.     Right.     MacKenzie's face passed no judgements—he simply hunched in his chair,seemingly dwarfed by the shoulders of his perfectly tailored suit, hisstubby fingers twiddling a Phi Beta Kappa key. He was a spare man—onlya step or two away from emaciation. Occasionally, he pushed a tiredstrand of washed-out hair away from his forehead.     Ish answered him truthfully, without more than ordinary reservations.This was the man who could ground him He was dangerous—red-letterdangerous—because of it.     No family.     Ish shrugged. Not that I know of. Cut out at seventeen. My father wasmaking good money. He had a pension plan, insurance policies. No need toworry about them.     Ish knew the normal reaction a statement like that should have brought.MacKenzie's face did not go into a blank of repression—but it stillpassed no judgements.     How's things between you and the opposite sex?     About normal.     No wife—no steady girl.     Not a very good idea, in my racket.     MacKenzie grunted. Suddenly, he sat bolt upright in his chair, and swungtoward Ish. His lean arm shot out, and his index finger was aimedbetween Isherwood's eyes. You can't go!     Ish was on his feet, his fists clenched, the blood throbbing in histemple veins. What! he roared.     MacKenzie seemed to collapse in his chair. The brief commanding burstwas over, and his face was apologetic, Sorry, he said. He seemedgenuinely abashed. Shotgun therapy. Works best, sometimes. You can go,all right; I just wanted to get a fast check on your reactions anddrives.     Ish could feel the anger that still ran through him—anger, and morefear than he wanted to admit. I'm due at a briefing, he said tautly.You through with me?     MacKenzie nodded, still embarrassed. Sorry.     Ish ignored the man's obvious feelings. He stopped at the door to send aparting stroke at the thing that had frightened him. Big gun in thepsychiatry racket, huh? Well, your professional lingo's slipping, Doc.They did put      some     learning in my head at college, you know. Therapy,hell! Testing maybe, but you sure didn't do anything to help me!     I don't know, MacKenzie said softly. I wish I did.     Ish slammed the door behind him. He stood in the corridor, jamming afresh cigarette in his mouth. He threw a glance at his watch. Twelvehours, twenty-two minutes, and four days to go.     Damn! He was late for the briefing. Odd—that fool psychiatrist hadn'tseemed to take up that much of his time.     He shrugged. What difference did it make? As he strode down the hall, helost his momentary puzzlement under the flood of realization thatnothing could stop him now, that the last hurdle was beaten. He wasgoing. He was going, and if there were faint echoes of Marty! ringingin the dark background of his mind, they only served to push him faster,as they always had. Nothing but death could stop him now.      ISH LOOKED up bitterly at the Receptionist. No, he said.     But      everybody     fills out an application, she protested.     No. I've      got     a job, he said as he had been saying for the last halfhour.     The Receptionist sighed. If you'll      only     read the literature I'vegiven you, you'll understand that all your previous commitments havebeen cancelled.     Look, Honey, I've seen company poop sheets before. Now, let's cut thisnonsense. I've got to get back.     But      nobody     goes back.     Goddam it, I don't know what kind of place this is, but— He stoppedat the Receptionist's wince, and looked around, his mouth open. Thereception desk was solid enough. There were IN and OUT and HOLD basketson the desk, and the Receptionist seemed to see nothing extraordinaryabout it. But the room—a big room, he realized—seemed to fade out atthe edges, rather than stop at walls. The lighting, too....     Let's see your back! he rapped out, his voice high.     She sighed in exasperation. If you'd read the      literature     ... Sheswiveled her chair slowly.     No wings, he said.     Of course not! she snapped. She brushed her hair away from herforehead without his telling her to. No horns, either.     Streamlined, huh? he said bitterly.     It's a little different for everybody, she said with unexpectedgentleness. It would have to be, wouldn't it?     Yeah, I guess so, he admitted slowly. Then he lost his momentary awe,and his posture grew tense again. He glanced down at his wrist. Sixhours, forty-seven minutes, and no days to go.     Who do I see?     She stared at him, bewildered at the sudden change in his voice. See?     About getting out of here! Come on, come on, he barked, snapping hisfingers impatiently. I haven't got much time.     She smiled sweetly. Oh, but you do.     Can it! Who's your Section boss? Get him down here. On the double. Comeon! His face was streaming with perspiration but his voice was firmwith the purpose that drove him.     Her lips closed into an angry line, and she jabbed a finger at a deskbutton. I'll call the Personnel Manager.     Thanks, he said sarcastically, and waited impatiently. Odd, the waythe Receptionist looked a little like Nan.      THE PERSONNEL Manager wore a perfectly-tailored suit. He strode acrossthe lobby floor toward Ish, his hand outstretched.     Martin Isherwood! he exclaimed enthusiastically. I'm      very     glad tomeet you!     I'll bet, Ish said dryly, giving the Personnel Manager's hand a shortshake. I've got other ideas. I want out.     That's all he's been saying for the past forty-five minutes, Sir, theReceptionist said from behind her desk.     The Personnel Manager frowned. Um. Yes. Well, that's not unprecedented.     But hardly usual, he added.     Ish found himself liking the man. He had a job to do, and after thepreliminary formality of the greeting had been passed, he was ready tobuckle down to it. Oh, he—shucks?—the Receptionist wasn't such a badgirl, either. He smiled at her. Sorry I lost my head, he said.     She smiled back. It happens.     He took time to give her one more smile and a half-wink, and swung backto the Personnel Manager.     Now. Let's get this thing straightened out. I've got— He stopped tolook at his watch. Six hours and a few minutes. They're fueling thebeast right now.     Do you know how much red tape you'd have to cut?     Ish shook his head. I don't want to sound nasty, but that's yourproblem.     The Personnel Manager hesitated. Look—you feel you've got a jobunfinished. Or, anyway, that's the way you'd put it. But, let's faceit—that's not really what's galling you. It's not really the job, isit? It's just that you think you've been cheated out of what you devotedyour life to.     Ish could feel his jaw muscles bunching. Don't put words in my mouth!he snapped. Just get me back, and we'll split hairs about it when I getaround this way again. Suddenly, he found himself pleading. All I needis a week, he said. It'll be a rough week—no picnic, no pleasures ofthe flesh. No smoking, no liquor. I certainly won't be breaking anylaws. One week. Get there, putter around for two days, and back again.Then, you can do anything you want to—as long as it doesn't look likethe trip's responsible, of course.     The Personnel Manager hesitated. Suppose— he began, but Ishinterrupted him.     Look, they need it, down there. They've got to have a target, someplaceto go. We're built for it. People have to have—but what am I telling      you     for. If you don't know, who does?     The Personnel Manager smiled. I was about to say something.     Ish stopped, abashed. Sorry.     He waved the apology away with a short movement of his hand. You've gotto understand that what you've been saying isn't a valid claim. If itwere, human history would be very different, wouldn't it?     Suppose I showed you something, first? Then, you could decide whetheryou want to stay, after all.     How long's it going to take? Ish flushed under the memory of havingactually begged for something.     Not long, the Personnel Manager said. He half-turned and pointed up atthe Earth, hanging just beyond the wall of the crater in which they weresuddenly standing.     Earth, the Personnel Manager said.     Somehow, Ish was not astonished. He looked up at the Earth, touched bycloud and sunlight, marked with ocean and continent, crowned with ice.The unblinking stars filled the night.     He looked around him. The Moon was silent—quiet, patient, waiting.Somewhere, a metal glint against the planet above, if it were only largeenough to be seen, was the Station, and the ship for which the Moon hadwaited.     Ish walked a short distance. He was leaving no tracks in the pumice theages had sown. But it was the way he had thought of it, nevertheless. Itwas the way the image had slowly built up in his mind, through theyears, through the training, through the work. It was what he had aimedthe      Navion     at, that day over the Everglades.     It's not the same, he said.     The Personnel Manager sighed.     Don't you see, Ish said, It      can't     be the same. I didn't push thebeast up here. There wasn't any      feel     to it. There wasn't any sound ofrockets.     The Personnel Manager sighed again. There wouldn't be, you know. Takingoff from the Station, landing here—vacuum.     Ish shook his head. There'd still be a sound. Maybe not for anybodyelse to hear—and, maybe, maybe there      would     be. There'd be people,back on Earth, who'd hear it.     All right, the Personnel Manager said. His face was grave, but hiseyes were shining a little.      ISH! HEY, Ish, wake up, will you! There was a hand on his shoulder.Will you get a      load     of this guy! the voice said to someone else. Anhour to go, and he's sleeping like the dead.     Ish willed his eyes to open. He felt his heart begin to move again, feltthe blood sluggishly beginning to surge into his veins. His hands andfeet were very cold.     Come on, Ish, the Crew Chief said.     All right, he mumbled. Okay. I'm up. He sat on the edge of his bunklooking down at his hands. They were blue under the fingernails. Hesighed, feeling the air moving down into his lungs.     Stiffly, he got to his feet and began to climb into his G suit.       The Moon opened its face to him. From where he lay, strapped into thecontrol seat in the forward bubble, he looked at it emotionlessly, andbegan to brake for a landing.       He looked for footprints in the crater, though he knew he hadn't leftany. Earth was a familiar sight over his right shoulder.     He brought the twin-bubble beast back to the station. They threwspotlights on it, for the TV pickups, and thrust microphones at him. Hecould see broad grins behind the faceplates of the suits the dockingcrew wore, and they were pounding his back. The interior of the Stationwas a babbling of voices, a tumult of congratulations. He looked at itall, dead-faced, his eyes empty.     It was easy, he said over a world-wide network, and pushed the pressrepresentatives out of his way.      MacKENZIE was waiting for him in the crew section. Ish flicked hisstolid eyes at him, shrugged, and stripped out of his clothes. He pulleda coverall out of a locker and climbed into it, then went over to hisbunk and lay down on his side, facing the bulkhead.     Ish.     It was MacKenzie, bending over him.     Ish grunted.     It wasn't any good was it? You'd done it all before; you'd been there.     He was past emotions. Yeah?     We couldn't take the chance. MacKenzie was trying desperately toexplain. You were the best there was—but you'd done something toyourself by becoming the best. You shut yourself off from your family.You had no close friends, no women. You had no other interests. You werea rocket pilot—nothing else. You've never read an adult book thatwasn't a text; you've never listened to a symphony except by accident.You don't know Rembrandt from Norman Rockwell. Nothing. No ties, noprops, nothing to sustain you if something went wrong.      We couldn't takethe chance, Ish!          So?     There was too much at stake. If we let you go, you might haveforgotten to come back. You might have just kept going.     He remembered the time with the      Navion     , and nodded. I might have.     I hypnotized you, MacKenzie said. You were never dead. I don't knowwhat the details of your hallucination were, but the important part camethrough, all right. You thought you'd been to the Moon before. It tookall the adventure out of the actual flight; it was just a workadaytrip.     I said it was easy, Ish said.     There was no other way to do it! I had to cancel out the thrill thatcomes from challenging the unknown. You knew what death was like, andyou knew what the Moon was like. Can you understand why I had to do it?     Yeah.      Now get out before I kill you.            He didn't live too long after that. He never entered a rocket again—hedied on the Station, and was buried in space, while a grateful worldmourned him. I wonder what it was like, in his mind, when he reallydied. But he spent the days he had, after the trip, just sitting at anobservatory port, cursing the traitor stars with his dead andpurposeless eyes.      TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES:     Obvious typographical errors have been corrected without note.     This etext was produced from Dynamic Science Fiction, January, 1954.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed.  ","The story follows the journey of Martin Isherwood, a man whose dream is to become a rocket pilot. Everything he does is to reach that dream. When he turns 17, he cuts away from his family and starts to follow his dream. He participates in different plane races in order to become a pilot. He continuously shows his determination to become a pilot to everyone he meets, and doesn’t care what they say. Mostly everyone tells Ish that he should quit on this path, that he has nothing to prove and that there is no reason to continue pursuing his dream. He doesn’t heed this advice and continues convincing people as to why he should be a rocket pilot. At the end, he manages to do the trip, but does it while thinking that he had already done it before, therefore taking out all the excitement that the first trip would have had. He ends up never driving a rocket again, and dies in the rocket station. "
"Who is Nan, and what happens to her? </s>    He had but one ambition, one desire: to pilot the first manned rocket to     the moon. And he was prepared as no man had ever prepared himself     before....      DESIRE NO MORE     by Algis Budrys     (      illustrated by Milton Luros     )           Desire no more than to thy lot may fall....          —Chaucer      THE SMALL young man looked at his father, and shook his head.     But you've      got     to learn a trade, his father said, exasperated. Ican't afford to send you to college; you know that.     I've got a trade, he answered.     His father smiled thinly. What? he asked patronizingly.     I'm a rocket pilot, the boy said, his thin jaw stretching the skin ofhis cheeks.     His father laughed in the way the boy had learned to anticipate andhate. Yeah, he said. He leaned back in his chair and laughed so hardthat the Sunday paper slipped off his wide lap and fell to the floorwith an unnoticed stiff rustle.     A      rocket     pilot! His father's derision hooted through the quietparlor. A ro—      oh, no!     —a rocket      pilot     !     The boy stared silently at the convulsed figure in the chair. His lipsfell into a set white bar, and the corners of his jaws bulged with thetension in their muscles. Suddenly, he turned on his heel and stalkedout of the parlor, through the hall, out the front door, to the porch.He stopped there, hesitating a little.           Marty!      His father's shout followed him out of the parlor. It seemedto act like a hand between the shoulder-blades, because the boy almostran as he got down the porch stairs.     What is it, Howard? Marty's mother asked in a worried voice as shecame in from the kitchen, her damp hands rubbing themselves dry againstthe sides of her housedress.     Crazy kid, Howard Isherwood muttered. He stared at the figure of hisson as the boy reached the end of the walk and turned off into thestreet.       Come back here!      he shouted. A      rocket     pilot, he cursedunder his breath. What's the kid been reading? Claiming he's a rocketpilot!     Margaret Isherwood's brow furrowed into a faint, bewildered frown.But—isn't he a little young? I know they're teaching some very oddthings in high schools these days, but it seems to me....     Oh, for Pete's sake, Marge, there aren't even any rockets yet!      Comeback here, you idiot!      Howard Isherwood was standing on his porch, hisclenched fists trembling at the ends of his stiffly-held arms.     Are you sure, Howard? his wife asked faintly.     Yes, I'm      sure     !     But, where's he going?           Stop that! Get off that bus! YOU hear me?     Marty?           Howard!     Stop acting like a child and      talk     to me! Where is that boygoing?     Howard Isherwood, stocky, red-faced, forty-seven, and defeated, turnedaway from the retreating bus and looked at his wife. I don't know, hetold her bitterly, between rushes of air into his jerkily heaving lungs.Maybe, the moon, he told her sarcastically.       Martin Isherwood, rocket pilot, weight 102, height 4', 11, had come ofage at seventeen.      THE SMALL man looked at his faculty advisor. No, he said. I am notinterested in working for a degree.     But— The faculty advisor unconsciously tapped the point of a yellowpencil against the fresh green of his desk blotter, leaving a rough arcof black flecks. Look, Ish, you've got to either deliver or get off thebasket. This program is just like the others you've followed for ninesemesters; nothing but math and engineering. You've taken just aboutevery undergrad course there is in those fields. How long are you goingto keep this up?     I'm signed up for Astronomy 101, Isherwood pointed out.     The faculty advisor snorted. A snap course. A breather, after you'vestudied the same stuff in Celestial Navigation. What's the matter, Ish?Scared of liberal arts?     Isherwood shook his head. Uh-unh. Not interested. No time. And thatAstronomy course isn't a breather. Different slant from Cee Nav—theywon't be talking about stars as check points, but as things inthemselves. Something seemed to flicker across his face as he said it.     The advisor missed it; he was too engrossed in his argument. Still asnap. What's the difference, how you look at a star?     Isherwood almost winced. Call it a hobby, he said. He looked down athis watch. Come on, Dave. You're not going to convince me. You haven'tconvinced me any of the other times, either, so you might as well giveup, don't you think? I've got a half hour before I go on the job. Let'sgo get some beer.     The advisor, not much older than Isherwood, shrugged, defeated. Crazy,he muttered. But it was a hot day, and he was as thirsty as the nextman.     The bar was air conditioned. The advisor shivered, half grinned, andsoftly quoted: Though I go bare, take ye no care,I am nothing a-cold;I stuff my skin so full withinOf jolly good ale and old.     Huh? Ish was wearing the look with which he always reacted to theunfamiliar.     The advisor lifted two fingers to the bartender and shrugged. It's apoem; about four hundred years old, as a matter of fact.     Oh.     Don't you give a damn? the advisor asked, with some peevishness.     Ish laughed shortly, without embarrassment. Sorry, Dave, but no. It'snot my racket.     The advisor cramped his hand a little too tightly around his glass.Strictly a specialist, huh?     Ish nodded. Call it that.     But      what     , for Pete's sake? What      is     this crazy specialty that blindsyou to all the fine things that man has done?     Ish took a swallow of his beer. Well, now, if I was a poet, I'd say itwas the finest thing that man has ever done.     The advisor's lips twisted in derision. That's pretty fanatical, isn'tit?     Uh-huh. Ish waved to the bartender for refills.      THE      NAVION     took a boiling thermal under its right wing and buckedupward suddenly, tilting at the same time, so that the pretty brunettegirl in the other half of the side-by-side was thrown against him. Ishlaughed, a sound that came out of his throat as turbulently as thatsudden gust of heated air had shot up out of the Everglades, andcorrected with a tilt of the wheel.     Relax, Nan, he said, his words colored by the lingering laughter.It's only air; nasty old air.     The girl patted her short hair back into place. I wish you wouldn't flythis low, she said, half-frightened.           Low?     Call      this     low? Ish teased. Here. Let's drop it a little, andyou'll      really     get an idea of how fast we're going. He nudged thewheel forward, and the      Navion     dipped its nose in a shallow dive,flattening out thirty feet above the mangrove. The swamp howled with thechug of the dancing pistons and the claw of the propeller at theprotesting air, and, from the cockpit, the Everglades resolved into adirty-green blur that rocketed backward into the slipstream.     Marty!     Ish chuckled again. He couldn't have held the ship down much longer,anyway. He tugged back on the wheel suddenly, targeting a cumulous bankwith his spinner. His lips peeled back from his teeth, and his jaw set.The      Navion     went up at the clouds, her engine turning over as fast asit could, her wings cushioned on the rising thrust of another thermal.     And, suddenly, it was as if there were no girl beside him, to be teased,and no air to rock the wings—there were no wings. His face lost allexpression. Faint beads of sweat broke out above his eyes and under hisnose. Up, he grunted through his clenched teeth. His fists locked onthe wheel. Up!     The      Navion     broke through the cloud, kept going. Up. If he listenedclosely, in just the right way, he could almost hear ...     Marty!     ... the rumble of a louder, prouder engine than the Earth had ever known.He sighed, the breath whispering through his parting teeth, and theaircraft leveled off as he pushed at the wheel with suddenly lax hands.Still half-lost, he turned and looked at the white-faced girl. Scareyou—? he asked gently.     She nodded. Her fingertips were trembling on his forearm.     Me too, he said. Lost my head. Sorry.      LOOK, HE told the girl, You got any idea of what it costs to maintaina racing-plane? Everything I own is tied up in the Foo, my ground crew,my trailer, and that scrummy old Ryan that should have been salvaged tenyears ago. I      can't     get married. Suppose I crack the Foo next week?You're dead broke, a widow, and with a funeral to pay for. The onlysmart thing to do is wait a while.     Nan's eyes clouded, and her lips trembled. That's what I've been tryingto say.      Why     do you have to win the Vandenberg Cup next week? Why can'tyou sell the Foo and go into some kind of business? You're a trainedpilot.     He had been standing in front of her with his body unconsciously tensefrom the strain of trying to make her understand. Now herelaxed—more—he slumped—and something began to die in his face, andthe first faint lines crept in to show that after it had died, it wouldnot return to life, but would fossilize, leaving his features in thealmost unreadable mask that the newspapers would come to know.     I'm a good bit more than a trained pilot, he said quietly. The Foo Isa means to an end. After I win the Vandenberg Cup, I can walk into anyplant in the States—Douglas, North American, Boeing—      any     of them—andpick up the Chief Test Pilot's job for the asking. A few of them have asgood as said so. After that— His voice had regained some of its formeranimation from this new source. Now he broke off, and shrugged. I'vetold you all this before.     The girl reached up, as if the physical touch could bring him back toher, and put her fingers around his wrist. Darling! she said. If it'sthat      rocket     pilot business again....     Somehow, his wrist was out of her encircling fingers. It's always 'that      rocket     pilot business,' he said, mimicking her voice. Damn it, I'mthe only trained rocket pilot in the world! I weigh a hundred andfifteen pounds, I'm five feet tall, and I know more navigation and maththan anybody the Air Force or Navy have! I can use words likebrennschluss and mass-ratio without running over to a copy of      Colliers     , and I— He stopped himself, half-smiled, and shruggedagain.     I guess I was kidding myself. After the Cup, there'll be the test job,and after that, there'll be the rockets. You would have had to wait along time.     All she could think of to say was, But, Darling, there      aren't     anyman-carrying rockets.     That's not my fault, he said, and walked away from her.       A week later, he took his stripped-down F-110 across the last line witha scream like that of a hawk that brings its prey safely to its nest.      HE BROUGHT the Mark VII out of her orbit after two days of running ringsaround the spinning Earth, and the world loved him. He climbed out ofthe crackling, pinging ship, bearded and dirty, with oil on his face andin his hair, with food stains all over his whipcord, red-eyed, andhuskily quiet as he said his few words into the network microphones. Andhe was not satisfied. There was no peace in his eyes, and his handsmoved even more sharply in their expressive gestures as he gave animpromptu report to the technicians who were walking back to thepersonnel bunker with him.     Nan could see that. Four years ago, he had been different. Four yearsago, if she had only known the right words, he wouldn't be so intent nowon throwing himself away to the sky.     She was a woman scorned. She had to lie to herself. She broke out of thepress section and ran over to him. Marty! She brushed past atechnician.     He looked at her with faint surprise on his face. Well, Nan! hemumbled. But he did not put his hand over her own where it touched hisshoulder.     I'm sorry, Marty, she said in a rush. I didn't understand. I couldn'tsee how much it all meant. Her face was flushed, and she spoke asrapidly as she could, not noticing that Ish had already gestured awaythe guards she was afraid would interrupt her.     But it's all right, now. You got your rockets. You've done it. Youtrained yourself for it, and now it's over. You've flown your rocket!     He looked up at her face and shook his head in quiet pity. One of theshocked technicians was trying to pull her away, and Ish made no move tostop him.     Suddenly, he was tired, there was something in him that was trying tobreak out against his will, and his reaction was that of a child whosecandy is being taken away from him after only one bite.     Rocket! he shouted into her terrified face.       Rocket!     Call that pileof tin a rocket? He pointed at the weary Mark VII with a trembling arm.Who cares about the bloody      machines     ! If I thought roller-skatingwould get me there, I would have gone to work in a      rink     when I wasseventeen! It's      getting there     that counts! Who gives a good goddam      how     it's done, or what with!     And he stood there, shaking like a leaf, outraged, while the guards cameand got her.      SIT DOWN, Ish, the Flight Surgeon said.       They always begin that way     , Isherwood thought. The standard medicalopening. Sit down. What for? Did somebody really believe that anythinghe might hear would make him faint? He smiled with as much expression ashe ever did, and chose a comfortable chair, rolling the white cylinderof a cigarette between his fingers. He glanced at his watch. Fourteenhours, thirty-six minutes, and four days to go.     How's it? the FS asked.     Ish grinned and shrugged. All right. But he didn't usually grin. Therealization disquieted him a little.     Think you'll make it?     Deliberately, rather than automatically, he fell back into his usualresponse-pattern. Don't know. That's what I'm being paid to find out.     Uh-      huh     . The FS tapped the eraser of his pencil against his teeth.Look—you want to talk to a man for a while?     What man? It didn't really matter. He had a feeling that anything hesaid or did now would have a bearing, somehow, on the trip. If theywanted him to do something for them, he was bloody well going to do it.     Fellow named MacKenzie. Big gun in the head-thumping racket. TheFlight Surgeon was trying to be as casual as he could. Air Forceinsisted on it, as a matter of fact, he said. Can't really blame them.After all, it's      their     beast.     Don't want any hole-heads denting it up on them, huh? Ish lit thecigarette and flipped his lighter shut with a snap of the lid. Sure.Bring him on.     The FS smiled. Good. He's—uh—he's in the next room. Okay to ask himin right now?     Sure. Something flickered in Isherwood's eyes. Amusement at the FlightSurgeon's discomfort was part of it. Worry was some of the rest.      MacKENZIE didn't seem to be taking any notes, or paying any specialattention to the answers Ish was giving to his casual questions. But thequestions fell into a pattern that was far from casual, and Ish couldsee the small button-mike of a portable tape-recorder nestling under theman's lapel.     Been working your own way for the last seventeen years, haven't you?MacKenzie seemed to mumble in a perfectly clear voice.     Ish nodded.     How's that?     The corners of Isherwood's mouth twitched, and he said Yes for therecorder's benefit.     Odd jobs, first of all?     Something like that. Anything I could get, the first few months. AfterI was halfway set up, I stuck to garages and repair shops.     Out at the airports around Miami, mostly, wasn't it?     Ahuh.     Took some of your pay in flying lessons.     Right.     MacKenzie's face passed no judgements—he simply hunched in his chair,seemingly dwarfed by the shoulders of his perfectly tailored suit, hisstubby fingers twiddling a Phi Beta Kappa key. He was a spare man—onlya step or two away from emaciation. Occasionally, he pushed a tiredstrand of washed-out hair away from his forehead.     Ish answered him truthfully, without more than ordinary reservations.This was the man who could ground him He was dangerous—red-letterdangerous—because of it.     No family.     Ish shrugged. Not that I know of. Cut out at seventeen. My father wasmaking good money. He had a pension plan, insurance policies. No need toworry about them.     Ish knew the normal reaction a statement like that should have brought.MacKenzie's face did not go into a blank of repression—but it stillpassed no judgements.     How's things between you and the opposite sex?     About normal.     No wife—no steady girl.     Not a very good idea, in my racket.     MacKenzie grunted. Suddenly, he sat bolt upright in his chair, and swungtoward Ish. His lean arm shot out, and his index finger was aimedbetween Isherwood's eyes. You can't go!     Ish was on his feet, his fists clenched, the blood throbbing in histemple veins. What! he roared.     MacKenzie seemed to collapse in his chair. The brief commanding burstwas over, and his face was apologetic, Sorry, he said. He seemedgenuinely abashed. Shotgun therapy. Works best, sometimes. You can go,all right; I just wanted to get a fast check on your reactions anddrives.     Ish could feel the anger that still ran through him—anger, and morefear than he wanted to admit. I'm due at a briefing, he said tautly.You through with me?     MacKenzie nodded, still embarrassed. Sorry.     Ish ignored the man's obvious feelings. He stopped at the door to send aparting stroke at the thing that had frightened him. Big gun in thepsychiatry racket, huh? Well, your professional lingo's slipping, Doc.They did put      some     learning in my head at college, you know. Therapy,hell! Testing maybe, but you sure didn't do anything to help me!     I don't know, MacKenzie said softly. I wish I did.     Ish slammed the door behind him. He stood in the corridor, jamming afresh cigarette in his mouth. He threw a glance at his watch. Twelvehours, twenty-two minutes, and four days to go.     Damn! He was late for the briefing. Odd—that fool psychiatrist hadn'tseemed to take up that much of his time.     He shrugged. What difference did it make? As he strode down the hall, helost his momentary puzzlement under the flood of realization thatnothing could stop him now, that the last hurdle was beaten. He wasgoing. He was going, and if there were faint echoes of Marty! ringingin the dark background of his mind, they only served to push him faster,as they always had. Nothing but death could stop him now.      ISH LOOKED up bitterly at the Receptionist. No, he said.     But      everybody     fills out an application, she protested.     No. I've      got     a job, he said as he had been saying for the last halfhour.     The Receptionist sighed. If you'll      only     read the literature I'vegiven you, you'll understand that all your previous commitments havebeen cancelled.     Look, Honey, I've seen company poop sheets before. Now, let's cut thisnonsense. I've got to get back.     But      nobody     goes back.     Goddam it, I don't know what kind of place this is, but— He stoppedat the Receptionist's wince, and looked around, his mouth open. Thereception desk was solid enough. There were IN and OUT and HOLD basketson the desk, and the Receptionist seemed to see nothing extraordinaryabout it. But the room—a big room, he realized—seemed to fade out atthe edges, rather than stop at walls. The lighting, too....     Let's see your back! he rapped out, his voice high.     She sighed in exasperation. If you'd read the      literature     ... Sheswiveled her chair slowly.     No wings, he said.     Of course not! she snapped. She brushed her hair away from herforehead without his telling her to. No horns, either.     Streamlined, huh? he said bitterly.     It's a little different for everybody, she said with unexpectedgentleness. It would have to be, wouldn't it?     Yeah, I guess so, he admitted slowly. Then he lost his momentary awe,and his posture grew tense again. He glanced down at his wrist. Sixhours, forty-seven minutes, and no days to go.     Who do I see?     She stared at him, bewildered at the sudden change in his voice. See?     About getting out of here! Come on, come on, he barked, snapping hisfingers impatiently. I haven't got much time.     She smiled sweetly. Oh, but you do.     Can it! Who's your Section boss? Get him down here. On the double. Comeon! His face was streaming with perspiration but his voice was firmwith the purpose that drove him.     Her lips closed into an angry line, and she jabbed a finger at a deskbutton. I'll call the Personnel Manager.     Thanks, he said sarcastically, and waited impatiently. Odd, the waythe Receptionist looked a little like Nan.      THE PERSONNEL Manager wore a perfectly-tailored suit. He strode acrossthe lobby floor toward Ish, his hand outstretched.     Martin Isherwood! he exclaimed enthusiastically. I'm      very     glad tomeet you!     I'll bet, Ish said dryly, giving the Personnel Manager's hand a shortshake. I've got other ideas. I want out.     That's all he's been saying for the past forty-five minutes, Sir, theReceptionist said from behind her desk.     The Personnel Manager frowned. Um. Yes. Well, that's not unprecedented.     But hardly usual, he added.     Ish found himself liking the man. He had a job to do, and after thepreliminary formality of the greeting had been passed, he was ready tobuckle down to it. Oh, he—shucks?—the Receptionist wasn't such a badgirl, either. He smiled at her. Sorry I lost my head, he said.     She smiled back. It happens.     He took time to give her one more smile and a half-wink, and swung backto the Personnel Manager.     Now. Let's get this thing straightened out. I've got— He stopped tolook at his watch. Six hours and a few minutes. They're fueling thebeast right now.     Do you know how much red tape you'd have to cut?     Ish shook his head. I don't want to sound nasty, but that's yourproblem.     The Personnel Manager hesitated. Look—you feel you've got a jobunfinished. Or, anyway, that's the way you'd put it. But, let's faceit—that's not really what's galling you. It's not really the job, isit? It's just that you think you've been cheated out of what you devotedyour life to.     Ish could feel his jaw muscles bunching. Don't put words in my mouth!he snapped. Just get me back, and we'll split hairs about it when I getaround this way again. Suddenly, he found himself pleading. All I needis a week, he said. It'll be a rough week—no picnic, no pleasures ofthe flesh. No smoking, no liquor. I certainly won't be breaking anylaws. One week. Get there, putter around for two days, and back again.Then, you can do anything you want to—as long as it doesn't look likethe trip's responsible, of course.     The Personnel Manager hesitated. Suppose— he began, but Ishinterrupted him.     Look, they need it, down there. They've got to have a target, someplaceto go. We're built for it. People have to have—but what am I telling      you     for. If you don't know, who does?     The Personnel Manager smiled. I was about to say something.     Ish stopped, abashed. Sorry.     He waved the apology away with a short movement of his hand. You've gotto understand that what you've been saying isn't a valid claim. If itwere, human history would be very different, wouldn't it?     Suppose I showed you something, first? Then, you could decide whetheryou want to stay, after all.     How long's it going to take? Ish flushed under the memory of havingactually begged for something.     Not long, the Personnel Manager said. He half-turned and pointed up atthe Earth, hanging just beyond the wall of the crater in which they weresuddenly standing.     Earth, the Personnel Manager said.     Somehow, Ish was not astonished. He looked up at the Earth, touched bycloud and sunlight, marked with ocean and continent, crowned with ice.The unblinking stars filled the night.     He looked around him. The Moon was silent—quiet, patient, waiting.Somewhere, a metal glint against the planet above, if it were only largeenough to be seen, was the Station, and the ship for which the Moon hadwaited.     Ish walked a short distance. He was leaving no tracks in the pumice theages had sown. But it was the way he had thought of it, nevertheless. Itwas the way the image had slowly built up in his mind, through theyears, through the training, through the work. It was what he had aimedthe      Navion     at, that day over the Everglades.     It's not the same, he said.     The Personnel Manager sighed.     Don't you see, Ish said, It      can't     be the same. I didn't push thebeast up here. There wasn't any      feel     to it. There wasn't any sound ofrockets.     The Personnel Manager sighed again. There wouldn't be, you know. Takingoff from the Station, landing here—vacuum.     Ish shook his head. There'd still be a sound. Maybe not for anybodyelse to hear—and, maybe, maybe there      would     be. There'd be people,back on Earth, who'd hear it.     All right, the Personnel Manager said. His face was grave, but hiseyes were shining a little.      ISH! HEY, Ish, wake up, will you! There was a hand on his shoulder.Will you get a      load     of this guy! the voice said to someone else. Anhour to go, and he's sleeping like the dead.     Ish willed his eyes to open. He felt his heart begin to move again, feltthe blood sluggishly beginning to surge into his veins. His hands andfeet were very cold.     Come on, Ish, the Crew Chief said.     All right, he mumbled. Okay. I'm up. He sat on the edge of his bunklooking down at his hands. They were blue under the fingernails. Hesighed, feeling the air moving down into his lungs.     Stiffly, he got to his feet and began to climb into his G suit.       The Moon opened its face to him. From where he lay, strapped into thecontrol seat in the forward bubble, he looked at it emotionlessly, andbegan to brake for a landing.       He looked for footprints in the crater, though he knew he hadn't leftany. Earth was a familiar sight over his right shoulder.     He brought the twin-bubble beast back to the station. They threwspotlights on it, for the TV pickups, and thrust microphones at him. Hecould see broad grins behind the faceplates of the suits the dockingcrew wore, and they were pounding his back. The interior of the Stationwas a babbling of voices, a tumult of congratulations. He looked at itall, dead-faced, his eyes empty.     It was easy, he said over a world-wide network, and pushed the pressrepresentatives out of his way.      MacKENZIE was waiting for him in the crew section. Ish flicked hisstolid eyes at him, shrugged, and stripped out of his clothes. He pulleda coverall out of a locker and climbed into it, then went over to hisbunk and lay down on his side, facing the bulkhead.     Ish.     It was MacKenzie, bending over him.     Ish grunted.     It wasn't any good was it? You'd done it all before; you'd been there.     He was past emotions. Yeah?     We couldn't take the chance. MacKenzie was trying desperately toexplain. You were the best there was—but you'd done something toyourself by becoming the best. You shut yourself off from your family.You had no close friends, no women. You had no other interests. You werea rocket pilot—nothing else. You've never read an adult book thatwasn't a text; you've never listened to a symphony except by accident.You don't know Rembrandt from Norman Rockwell. Nothing. No ties, noprops, nothing to sustain you if something went wrong.      We couldn't takethe chance, Ish!          So?     There was too much at stake. If we let you go, you might haveforgotten to come back. You might have just kept going.     He remembered the time with the      Navion     , and nodded. I might have.     I hypnotized you, MacKenzie said. You were never dead. I don't knowwhat the details of your hallucination were, but the important part camethrough, all right. You thought you'd been to the Moon before. It tookall the adventure out of the actual flight; it was just a workadaytrip.     I said it was easy, Ish said.     There was no other way to do it! I had to cancel out the thrill thatcomes from challenging the unknown. You knew what death was like, andyou knew what the Moon was like. Can you understand why I had to do it?     Yeah.      Now get out before I kill you.            He didn't live too long after that. He never entered a rocket again—hedied on the Station, and was buried in space, while a grateful worldmourned him. I wonder what it was like, in his mind, when he reallydied. But he spent the days he had, after the trip, just sitting at anobservatory port, cursing the traitor stars with his dead andpurposeless eyes.      TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES:     Obvious typographical errors have been corrected without note.     This etext was produced from Dynamic Science Fiction, January, 1954.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed.  ","Nan is a woman, who for a while is Martin Isherwood’s girlfriend. She owns a racing plane, which Ish uses to win a race and continue his plan to become a rocket pilot. When she and Ish go on a practice flight, Ish almost crashes them because for a second he wanted the plane all the way to the moon. For a while she wanted to get married to him, but he never reciprocated the feeling because he was too focused on flying to the moon, and ended up driving her away. The story insinuates that they broke up after Ish orbited the earth on a ship. "
"Who is Martin Isherwood, and what are his characteristics? </s>    He had but one ambition, one desire: to pilot the first manned rocket to     the moon. And he was prepared as no man had ever prepared himself     before....      DESIRE NO MORE     by Algis Budrys     (      illustrated by Milton Luros     )           Desire no more than to thy lot may fall....          —Chaucer      THE SMALL young man looked at his father, and shook his head.     But you've      got     to learn a trade, his father said, exasperated. Ican't afford to send you to college; you know that.     I've got a trade, he answered.     His father smiled thinly. What? he asked patronizingly.     I'm a rocket pilot, the boy said, his thin jaw stretching the skin ofhis cheeks.     His father laughed in the way the boy had learned to anticipate andhate. Yeah, he said. He leaned back in his chair and laughed so hardthat the Sunday paper slipped off his wide lap and fell to the floorwith an unnoticed stiff rustle.     A      rocket     pilot! His father's derision hooted through the quietparlor. A ro—      oh, no!     —a rocket      pilot     !     The boy stared silently at the convulsed figure in the chair. His lipsfell into a set white bar, and the corners of his jaws bulged with thetension in their muscles. Suddenly, he turned on his heel and stalkedout of the parlor, through the hall, out the front door, to the porch.He stopped there, hesitating a little.           Marty!      His father's shout followed him out of the parlor. It seemedto act like a hand between the shoulder-blades, because the boy almostran as he got down the porch stairs.     What is it, Howard? Marty's mother asked in a worried voice as shecame in from the kitchen, her damp hands rubbing themselves dry againstthe sides of her housedress.     Crazy kid, Howard Isherwood muttered. He stared at the figure of hisson as the boy reached the end of the walk and turned off into thestreet.       Come back here!      he shouted. A      rocket     pilot, he cursedunder his breath. What's the kid been reading? Claiming he's a rocketpilot!     Margaret Isherwood's brow furrowed into a faint, bewildered frown.But—isn't he a little young? I know they're teaching some very oddthings in high schools these days, but it seems to me....     Oh, for Pete's sake, Marge, there aren't even any rockets yet!      Comeback here, you idiot!      Howard Isherwood was standing on his porch, hisclenched fists trembling at the ends of his stiffly-held arms.     Are you sure, Howard? his wife asked faintly.     Yes, I'm      sure     !     But, where's he going?           Stop that! Get off that bus! YOU hear me?     Marty?           Howard!     Stop acting like a child and      talk     to me! Where is that boygoing?     Howard Isherwood, stocky, red-faced, forty-seven, and defeated, turnedaway from the retreating bus and looked at his wife. I don't know, hetold her bitterly, between rushes of air into his jerkily heaving lungs.Maybe, the moon, he told her sarcastically.       Martin Isherwood, rocket pilot, weight 102, height 4', 11, had come ofage at seventeen.      THE SMALL man looked at his faculty advisor. No, he said. I am notinterested in working for a degree.     But— The faculty advisor unconsciously tapped the point of a yellowpencil against the fresh green of his desk blotter, leaving a rough arcof black flecks. Look, Ish, you've got to either deliver or get off thebasket. This program is just like the others you've followed for ninesemesters; nothing but math and engineering. You've taken just aboutevery undergrad course there is in those fields. How long are you goingto keep this up?     I'm signed up for Astronomy 101, Isherwood pointed out.     The faculty advisor snorted. A snap course. A breather, after you'vestudied the same stuff in Celestial Navigation. What's the matter, Ish?Scared of liberal arts?     Isherwood shook his head. Uh-unh. Not interested. No time. And thatAstronomy course isn't a breather. Different slant from Cee Nav—theywon't be talking about stars as check points, but as things inthemselves. Something seemed to flicker across his face as he said it.     The advisor missed it; he was too engrossed in his argument. Still asnap. What's the difference, how you look at a star?     Isherwood almost winced. Call it a hobby, he said. He looked down athis watch. Come on, Dave. You're not going to convince me. You haven'tconvinced me any of the other times, either, so you might as well giveup, don't you think? I've got a half hour before I go on the job. Let'sgo get some beer.     The advisor, not much older than Isherwood, shrugged, defeated. Crazy,he muttered. But it was a hot day, and he was as thirsty as the nextman.     The bar was air conditioned. The advisor shivered, half grinned, andsoftly quoted: Though I go bare, take ye no care,I am nothing a-cold;I stuff my skin so full withinOf jolly good ale and old.     Huh? Ish was wearing the look with which he always reacted to theunfamiliar.     The advisor lifted two fingers to the bartender and shrugged. It's apoem; about four hundred years old, as a matter of fact.     Oh.     Don't you give a damn? the advisor asked, with some peevishness.     Ish laughed shortly, without embarrassment. Sorry, Dave, but no. It'snot my racket.     The advisor cramped his hand a little too tightly around his glass.Strictly a specialist, huh?     Ish nodded. Call it that.     But      what     , for Pete's sake? What      is     this crazy specialty that blindsyou to all the fine things that man has done?     Ish took a swallow of his beer. Well, now, if I was a poet, I'd say itwas the finest thing that man has ever done.     The advisor's lips twisted in derision. That's pretty fanatical, isn'tit?     Uh-huh. Ish waved to the bartender for refills.      THE      NAVION     took a boiling thermal under its right wing and buckedupward suddenly, tilting at the same time, so that the pretty brunettegirl in the other half of the side-by-side was thrown against him. Ishlaughed, a sound that came out of his throat as turbulently as thatsudden gust of heated air had shot up out of the Everglades, andcorrected with a tilt of the wheel.     Relax, Nan, he said, his words colored by the lingering laughter.It's only air; nasty old air.     The girl patted her short hair back into place. I wish you wouldn't flythis low, she said, half-frightened.           Low?     Call      this     low? Ish teased. Here. Let's drop it a little, andyou'll      really     get an idea of how fast we're going. He nudged thewheel forward, and the      Navion     dipped its nose in a shallow dive,flattening out thirty feet above the mangrove. The swamp howled with thechug of the dancing pistons and the claw of the propeller at theprotesting air, and, from the cockpit, the Everglades resolved into adirty-green blur that rocketed backward into the slipstream.     Marty!     Ish chuckled again. He couldn't have held the ship down much longer,anyway. He tugged back on the wheel suddenly, targeting a cumulous bankwith his spinner. His lips peeled back from his teeth, and his jaw set.The      Navion     went up at the clouds, her engine turning over as fast asit could, her wings cushioned on the rising thrust of another thermal.     And, suddenly, it was as if there were no girl beside him, to be teased,and no air to rock the wings—there were no wings. His face lost allexpression. Faint beads of sweat broke out above his eyes and under hisnose. Up, he grunted through his clenched teeth. His fists locked onthe wheel. Up!     The      Navion     broke through the cloud, kept going. Up. If he listenedclosely, in just the right way, he could almost hear ...     Marty!     ... the rumble of a louder, prouder engine than the Earth had ever known.He sighed, the breath whispering through his parting teeth, and theaircraft leveled off as he pushed at the wheel with suddenly lax hands.Still half-lost, he turned and looked at the white-faced girl. Scareyou—? he asked gently.     She nodded. Her fingertips were trembling on his forearm.     Me too, he said. Lost my head. Sorry.      LOOK, HE told the girl, You got any idea of what it costs to maintaina racing-plane? Everything I own is tied up in the Foo, my ground crew,my trailer, and that scrummy old Ryan that should have been salvaged tenyears ago. I      can't     get married. Suppose I crack the Foo next week?You're dead broke, a widow, and with a funeral to pay for. The onlysmart thing to do is wait a while.     Nan's eyes clouded, and her lips trembled. That's what I've been tryingto say.      Why     do you have to win the Vandenberg Cup next week? Why can'tyou sell the Foo and go into some kind of business? You're a trainedpilot.     He had been standing in front of her with his body unconsciously tensefrom the strain of trying to make her understand. Now herelaxed—more—he slumped—and something began to die in his face, andthe first faint lines crept in to show that after it had died, it wouldnot return to life, but would fossilize, leaving his features in thealmost unreadable mask that the newspapers would come to know.     I'm a good bit more than a trained pilot, he said quietly. The Foo Isa means to an end. After I win the Vandenberg Cup, I can walk into anyplant in the States—Douglas, North American, Boeing—      any     of them—andpick up the Chief Test Pilot's job for the asking. A few of them have asgood as said so. After that— His voice had regained some of its formeranimation from this new source. Now he broke off, and shrugged. I'vetold you all this before.     The girl reached up, as if the physical touch could bring him back toher, and put her fingers around his wrist. Darling! she said. If it'sthat      rocket     pilot business again....     Somehow, his wrist was out of her encircling fingers. It's always 'that      rocket     pilot business,' he said, mimicking her voice. Damn it, I'mthe only trained rocket pilot in the world! I weigh a hundred andfifteen pounds, I'm five feet tall, and I know more navigation and maththan anybody the Air Force or Navy have! I can use words likebrennschluss and mass-ratio without running over to a copy of      Colliers     , and I— He stopped himself, half-smiled, and shruggedagain.     I guess I was kidding myself. After the Cup, there'll be the test job,and after that, there'll be the rockets. You would have had to wait along time.     All she could think of to say was, But, Darling, there      aren't     anyman-carrying rockets.     That's not my fault, he said, and walked away from her.       A week later, he took his stripped-down F-110 across the last line witha scream like that of a hawk that brings its prey safely to its nest.      HE BROUGHT the Mark VII out of her orbit after two days of running ringsaround the spinning Earth, and the world loved him. He climbed out ofthe crackling, pinging ship, bearded and dirty, with oil on his face andin his hair, with food stains all over his whipcord, red-eyed, andhuskily quiet as he said his few words into the network microphones. Andhe was not satisfied. There was no peace in his eyes, and his handsmoved even more sharply in their expressive gestures as he gave animpromptu report to the technicians who were walking back to thepersonnel bunker with him.     Nan could see that. Four years ago, he had been different. Four yearsago, if she had only known the right words, he wouldn't be so intent nowon throwing himself away to the sky.     She was a woman scorned. She had to lie to herself. She broke out of thepress section and ran over to him. Marty! She brushed past atechnician.     He looked at her with faint surprise on his face. Well, Nan! hemumbled. But he did not put his hand over her own where it touched hisshoulder.     I'm sorry, Marty, she said in a rush. I didn't understand. I couldn'tsee how much it all meant. Her face was flushed, and she spoke asrapidly as she could, not noticing that Ish had already gestured awaythe guards she was afraid would interrupt her.     But it's all right, now. You got your rockets. You've done it. Youtrained yourself for it, and now it's over. You've flown your rocket!     He looked up at her face and shook his head in quiet pity. One of theshocked technicians was trying to pull her away, and Ish made no move tostop him.     Suddenly, he was tired, there was something in him that was trying tobreak out against his will, and his reaction was that of a child whosecandy is being taken away from him after only one bite.     Rocket! he shouted into her terrified face.       Rocket!     Call that pileof tin a rocket? He pointed at the weary Mark VII with a trembling arm.Who cares about the bloody      machines     ! If I thought roller-skatingwould get me there, I would have gone to work in a      rink     when I wasseventeen! It's      getting there     that counts! Who gives a good goddam      how     it's done, or what with!     And he stood there, shaking like a leaf, outraged, while the guards cameand got her.      SIT DOWN, Ish, the Flight Surgeon said.       They always begin that way     , Isherwood thought. The standard medicalopening. Sit down. What for? Did somebody really believe that anythinghe might hear would make him faint? He smiled with as much expression ashe ever did, and chose a comfortable chair, rolling the white cylinderof a cigarette between his fingers. He glanced at his watch. Fourteenhours, thirty-six minutes, and four days to go.     How's it? the FS asked.     Ish grinned and shrugged. All right. But he didn't usually grin. Therealization disquieted him a little.     Think you'll make it?     Deliberately, rather than automatically, he fell back into his usualresponse-pattern. Don't know. That's what I'm being paid to find out.     Uh-      huh     . The FS tapped the eraser of his pencil against his teeth.Look—you want to talk to a man for a while?     What man? It didn't really matter. He had a feeling that anything hesaid or did now would have a bearing, somehow, on the trip. If theywanted him to do something for them, he was bloody well going to do it.     Fellow named MacKenzie. Big gun in the head-thumping racket. TheFlight Surgeon was trying to be as casual as he could. Air Forceinsisted on it, as a matter of fact, he said. Can't really blame them.After all, it's      their     beast.     Don't want any hole-heads denting it up on them, huh? Ish lit thecigarette and flipped his lighter shut with a snap of the lid. Sure.Bring him on.     The FS smiled. Good. He's—uh—he's in the next room. Okay to ask himin right now?     Sure. Something flickered in Isherwood's eyes. Amusement at the FlightSurgeon's discomfort was part of it. Worry was some of the rest.      MacKENZIE didn't seem to be taking any notes, or paying any specialattention to the answers Ish was giving to his casual questions. But thequestions fell into a pattern that was far from casual, and Ish couldsee the small button-mike of a portable tape-recorder nestling under theman's lapel.     Been working your own way for the last seventeen years, haven't you?MacKenzie seemed to mumble in a perfectly clear voice.     Ish nodded.     How's that?     The corners of Isherwood's mouth twitched, and he said Yes for therecorder's benefit.     Odd jobs, first of all?     Something like that. Anything I could get, the first few months. AfterI was halfway set up, I stuck to garages and repair shops.     Out at the airports around Miami, mostly, wasn't it?     Ahuh.     Took some of your pay in flying lessons.     Right.     MacKenzie's face passed no judgements—he simply hunched in his chair,seemingly dwarfed by the shoulders of his perfectly tailored suit, hisstubby fingers twiddling a Phi Beta Kappa key. He was a spare man—onlya step or two away from emaciation. Occasionally, he pushed a tiredstrand of washed-out hair away from his forehead.     Ish answered him truthfully, without more than ordinary reservations.This was the man who could ground him He was dangerous—red-letterdangerous—because of it.     No family.     Ish shrugged. Not that I know of. Cut out at seventeen. My father wasmaking good money. He had a pension plan, insurance policies. No need toworry about them.     Ish knew the normal reaction a statement like that should have brought.MacKenzie's face did not go into a blank of repression—but it stillpassed no judgements.     How's things between you and the opposite sex?     About normal.     No wife—no steady girl.     Not a very good idea, in my racket.     MacKenzie grunted. Suddenly, he sat bolt upright in his chair, and swungtoward Ish. His lean arm shot out, and his index finger was aimedbetween Isherwood's eyes. You can't go!     Ish was on his feet, his fists clenched, the blood throbbing in histemple veins. What! he roared.     MacKenzie seemed to collapse in his chair. The brief commanding burstwas over, and his face was apologetic, Sorry, he said. He seemedgenuinely abashed. Shotgun therapy. Works best, sometimes. You can go,all right; I just wanted to get a fast check on your reactions anddrives.     Ish could feel the anger that still ran through him—anger, and morefear than he wanted to admit. I'm due at a briefing, he said tautly.You through with me?     MacKenzie nodded, still embarrassed. Sorry.     Ish ignored the man's obvious feelings. He stopped at the door to send aparting stroke at the thing that had frightened him. Big gun in thepsychiatry racket, huh? Well, your professional lingo's slipping, Doc.They did put      some     learning in my head at college, you know. Therapy,hell! Testing maybe, but you sure didn't do anything to help me!     I don't know, MacKenzie said softly. I wish I did.     Ish slammed the door behind him. He stood in the corridor, jamming afresh cigarette in his mouth. He threw a glance at his watch. Twelvehours, twenty-two minutes, and four days to go.     Damn! He was late for the briefing. Odd—that fool psychiatrist hadn'tseemed to take up that much of his time.     He shrugged. What difference did it make? As he strode down the hall, helost his momentary puzzlement under the flood of realization thatnothing could stop him now, that the last hurdle was beaten. He wasgoing. He was going, and if there were faint echoes of Marty! ringingin the dark background of his mind, they only served to push him faster,as they always had. Nothing but death could stop him now.      ISH LOOKED up bitterly at the Receptionist. No, he said.     But      everybody     fills out an application, she protested.     No. I've      got     a job, he said as he had been saying for the last halfhour.     The Receptionist sighed. If you'll      only     read the literature I'vegiven you, you'll understand that all your previous commitments havebeen cancelled.     Look, Honey, I've seen company poop sheets before. Now, let's cut thisnonsense. I've got to get back.     But      nobody     goes back.     Goddam it, I don't know what kind of place this is, but— He stoppedat the Receptionist's wince, and looked around, his mouth open. Thereception desk was solid enough. There were IN and OUT and HOLD basketson the desk, and the Receptionist seemed to see nothing extraordinaryabout it. But the room—a big room, he realized—seemed to fade out atthe edges, rather than stop at walls. The lighting, too....     Let's see your back! he rapped out, his voice high.     She sighed in exasperation. If you'd read the      literature     ... Sheswiveled her chair slowly.     No wings, he said.     Of course not! she snapped. She brushed her hair away from herforehead without his telling her to. No horns, either.     Streamlined, huh? he said bitterly.     It's a little different for everybody, she said with unexpectedgentleness. It would have to be, wouldn't it?     Yeah, I guess so, he admitted slowly. Then he lost his momentary awe,and his posture grew tense again. He glanced down at his wrist. Sixhours, forty-seven minutes, and no days to go.     Who do I see?     She stared at him, bewildered at the sudden change in his voice. See?     About getting out of here! Come on, come on, he barked, snapping hisfingers impatiently. I haven't got much time.     She smiled sweetly. Oh, but you do.     Can it! Who's your Section boss? Get him down here. On the double. Comeon! His face was streaming with perspiration but his voice was firmwith the purpose that drove him.     Her lips closed into an angry line, and she jabbed a finger at a deskbutton. I'll call the Personnel Manager.     Thanks, he said sarcastically, and waited impatiently. Odd, the waythe Receptionist looked a little like Nan.      THE PERSONNEL Manager wore a perfectly-tailored suit. He strode acrossthe lobby floor toward Ish, his hand outstretched.     Martin Isherwood! he exclaimed enthusiastically. I'm      very     glad tomeet you!     I'll bet, Ish said dryly, giving the Personnel Manager's hand a shortshake. I've got other ideas. I want out.     That's all he's been saying for the past forty-five minutes, Sir, theReceptionist said from behind her desk.     The Personnel Manager frowned. Um. Yes. Well, that's not unprecedented.     But hardly usual, he added.     Ish found himself liking the man. He had a job to do, and after thepreliminary formality of the greeting had been passed, he was ready tobuckle down to it. Oh, he—shucks?—the Receptionist wasn't such a badgirl, either. He smiled at her. Sorry I lost my head, he said.     She smiled back. It happens.     He took time to give her one more smile and a half-wink, and swung backto the Personnel Manager.     Now. Let's get this thing straightened out. I've got— He stopped tolook at his watch. Six hours and a few minutes. They're fueling thebeast right now.     Do you know how much red tape you'd have to cut?     Ish shook his head. I don't want to sound nasty, but that's yourproblem.     The Personnel Manager hesitated. Look—you feel you've got a jobunfinished. Or, anyway, that's the way you'd put it. But, let's faceit—that's not really what's galling you. It's not really the job, isit? It's just that you think you've been cheated out of what you devotedyour life to.     Ish could feel his jaw muscles bunching. Don't put words in my mouth!he snapped. Just get me back, and we'll split hairs about it when I getaround this way again. Suddenly, he found himself pleading. All I needis a week, he said. It'll be a rough week—no picnic, no pleasures ofthe flesh. No smoking, no liquor. I certainly won't be breaking anylaws. One week. Get there, putter around for two days, and back again.Then, you can do anything you want to—as long as it doesn't look likethe trip's responsible, of course.     The Personnel Manager hesitated. Suppose— he began, but Ishinterrupted him.     Look, they need it, down there. They've got to have a target, someplaceto go. We're built for it. People have to have—but what am I telling      you     for. If you don't know, who does?     The Personnel Manager smiled. I was about to say something.     Ish stopped, abashed. Sorry.     He waved the apology away with a short movement of his hand. You've gotto understand that what you've been saying isn't a valid claim. If itwere, human history would be very different, wouldn't it?     Suppose I showed you something, first? Then, you could decide whetheryou want to stay, after all.     How long's it going to take? Ish flushed under the memory of havingactually begged for something.     Not long, the Personnel Manager said. He half-turned and pointed up atthe Earth, hanging just beyond the wall of the crater in which they weresuddenly standing.     Earth, the Personnel Manager said.     Somehow, Ish was not astonished. He looked up at the Earth, touched bycloud and sunlight, marked with ocean and continent, crowned with ice.The unblinking stars filled the night.     He looked around him. The Moon was silent—quiet, patient, waiting.Somewhere, a metal glint against the planet above, if it were only largeenough to be seen, was the Station, and the ship for which the Moon hadwaited.     Ish walked a short distance. He was leaving no tracks in the pumice theages had sown. But it was the way he had thought of it, nevertheless. Itwas the way the image had slowly built up in his mind, through theyears, through the training, through the work. It was what he had aimedthe      Navion     at, that day over the Everglades.     It's not the same, he said.     The Personnel Manager sighed.     Don't you see, Ish said, It      can't     be the same. I didn't push thebeast up here. There wasn't any      feel     to it. There wasn't any sound ofrockets.     The Personnel Manager sighed again. There wouldn't be, you know. Takingoff from the Station, landing here—vacuum.     Ish shook his head. There'd still be a sound. Maybe not for anybodyelse to hear—and, maybe, maybe there      would     be. There'd be people,back on Earth, who'd hear it.     All right, the Personnel Manager said. His face was grave, but hiseyes were shining a little.      ISH! HEY, Ish, wake up, will you! There was a hand on his shoulder.Will you get a      load     of this guy! the voice said to someone else. Anhour to go, and he's sleeping like the dead.     Ish willed his eyes to open. He felt his heart begin to move again, feltthe blood sluggishly beginning to surge into his veins. His hands andfeet were very cold.     Come on, Ish, the Crew Chief said.     All right, he mumbled. Okay. I'm up. He sat on the edge of his bunklooking down at his hands. They were blue under the fingernails. Hesighed, feeling the air moving down into his lungs.     Stiffly, he got to his feet and began to climb into his G suit.       The Moon opened its face to him. From where he lay, strapped into thecontrol seat in the forward bubble, he looked at it emotionlessly, andbegan to brake for a landing.       He looked for footprints in the crater, though he knew he hadn't leftany. Earth was a familiar sight over his right shoulder.     He brought the twin-bubble beast back to the station. They threwspotlights on it, for the TV pickups, and thrust microphones at him. Hecould see broad grins behind the faceplates of the suits the dockingcrew wore, and they were pounding his back. The interior of the Stationwas a babbling of voices, a tumult of congratulations. He looked at itall, dead-faced, his eyes empty.     It was easy, he said over a world-wide network, and pushed the pressrepresentatives out of his way.      MacKENZIE was waiting for him in the crew section. Ish flicked hisstolid eyes at him, shrugged, and stripped out of his clothes. He pulleda coverall out of a locker and climbed into it, then went over to hisbunk and lay down on his side, facing the bulkhead.     Ish.     It was MacKenzie, bending over him.     Ish grunted.     It wasn't any good was it? You'd done it all before; you'd been there.     He was past emotions. Yeah?     We couldn't take the chance. MacKenzie was trying desperately toexplain. You were the best there was—but you'd done something toyourself by becoming the best. You shut yourself off from your family.You had no close friends, no women. You had no other interests. You werea rocket pilot—nothing else. You've never read an adult book thatwasn't a text; you've never listened to a symphony except by accident.You don't know Rembrandt from Norman Rockwell. Nothing. No ties, noprops, nothing to sustain you if something went wrong.      We couldn't takethe chance, Ish!          So?     There was too much at stake. If we let you go, you might haveforgotten to come back. You might have just kept going.     He remembered the time with the      Navion     , and nodded. I might have.     I hypnotized you, MacKenzie said. You were never dead. I don't knowwhat the details of your hallucination were, but the important part camethrough, all right. You thought you'd been to the Moon before. It tookall the adventure out of the actual flight; it was just a workadaytrip.     I said it was easy, Ish said.     There was no other way to do it! I had to cancel out the thrill thatcomes from challenging the unknown. You knew what death was like, andyou knew what the Moon was like. Can you understand why I had to do it?     Yeah.      Now get out before I kill you.            He didn't live too long after that. He never entered a rocket again—hedied on the Station, and was buried in space, while a grateful worldmourned him. I wonder what it was like, in his mind, when he reallydied. But he spent the days he had, after the trip, just sitting at anobservatory port, cursing the traitor stars with his dead andpurposeless eyes.      TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES:     Obvious typographical errors have been corrected without note.     This etext was produced from Dynamic Science Fiction, January, 1954.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed.  ","Martin Isherwood is the main character of the story. He only wants one thing in life, which is to drive a rocket to the moon. Everything he does in his life is to reach that goal, he pushes everyone away. He pushes away his parents and his girlfriend because they didn’t understand the dream he was trying to accomplish. He is described as very determined, as he only has one thing in mind. He is also very stubborn, doesn’t heed the advice of others and also is described as irritable. "
"Who is Mackenzie, and what happens to him? </s>    He had but one ambition, one desire: to pilot the first manned rocket to     the moon. And he was prepared as no man had ever prepared himself     before....      DESIRE NO MORE     by Algis Budrys     (      illustrated by Milton Luros     )           Desire no more than to thy lot may fall....          —Chaucer      THE SMALL young man looked at his father, and shook his head.     But you've      got     to learn a trade, his father said, exasperated. Ican't afford to send you to college; you know that.     I've got a trade, he answered.     His father smiled thinly. What? he asked patronizingly.     I'm a rocket pilot, the boy said, his thin jaw stretching the skin ofhis cheeks.     His father laughed in the way the boy had learned to anticipate andhate. Yeah, he said. He leaned back in his chair and laughed so hardthat the Sunday paper slipped off his wide lap and fell to the floorwith an unnoticed stiff rustle.     A      rocket     pilot! His father's derision hooted through the quietparlor. A ro—      oh, no!     —a rocket      pilot     !     The boy stared silently at the convulsed figure in the chair. His lipsfell into a set white bar, and the corners of his jaws bulged with thetension in their muscles. Suddenly, he turned on his heel and stalkedout of the parlor, through the hall, out the front door, to the porch.He stopped there, hesitating a little.           Marty!      His father's shout followed him out of the parlor. It seemedto act like a hand between the shoulder-blades, because the boy almostran as he got down the porch stairs.     What is it, Howard? Marty's mother asked in a worried voice as shecame in from the kitchen, her damp hands rubbing themselves dry againstthe sides of her housedress.     Crazy kid, Howard Isherwood muttered. He stared at the figure of hisson as the boy reached the end of the walk and turned off into thestreet.       Come back here!      he shouted. A      rocket     pilot, he cursedunder his breath. What's the kid been reading? Claiming he's a rocketpilot!     Margaret Isherwood's brow furrowed into a faint, bewildered frown.But—isn't he a little young? I know they're teaching some very oddthings in high schools these days, but it seems to me....     Oh, for Pete's sake, Marge, there aren't even any rockets yet!      Comeback here, you idiot!      Howard Isherwood was standing on his porch, hisclenched fists trembling at the ends of his stiffly-held arms.     Are you sure, Howard? his wife asked faintly.     Yes, I'm      sure     !     But, where's he going?           Stop that! Get off that bus! YOU hear me?     Marty?           Howard!     Stop acting like a child and      talk     to me! Where is that boygoing?     Howard Isherwood, stocky, red-faced, forty-seven, and defeated, turnedaway from the retreating bus and looked at his wife. I don't know, hetold her bitterly, between rushes of air into his jerkily heaving lungs.Maybe, the moon, he told her sarcastically.       Martin Isherwood, rocket pilot, weight 102, height 4', 11, had come ofage at seventeen.      THE SMALL man looked at his faculty advisor. No, he said. I am notinterested in working for a degree.     But— The faculty advisor unconsciously tapped the point of a yellowpencil against the fresh green of his desk blotter, leaving a rough arcof black flecks. Look, Ish, you've got to either deliver or get off thebasket. This program is just like the others you've followed for ninesemesters; nothing but math and engineering. You've taken just aboutevery undergrad course there is in those fields. How long are you goingto keep this up?     I'm signed up for Astronomy 101, Isherwood pointed out.     The faculty advisor snorted. A snap course. A breather, after you'vestudied the same stuff in Celestial Navigation. What's the matter, Ish?Scared of liberal arts?     Isherwood shook his head. Uh-unh. Not interested. No time. And thatAstronomy course isn't a breather. Different slant from Cee Nav—theywon't be talking about stars as check points, but as things inthemselves. Something seemed to flicker across his face as he said it.     The advisor missed it; he was too engrossed in his argument. Still asnap. What's the difference, how you look at a star?     Isherwood almost winced. Call it a hobby, he said. He looked down athis watch. Come on, Dave. You're not going to convince me. You haven'tconvinced me any of the other times, either, so you might as well giveup, don't you think? I've got a half hour before I go on the job. Let'sgo get some beer.     The advisor, not much older than Isherwood, shrugged, defeated. Crazy,he muttered. But it was a hot day, and he was as thirsty as the nextman.     The bar was air conditioned. The advisor shivered, half grinned, andsoftly quoted: Though I go bare, take ye no care,I am nothing a-cold;I stuff my skin so full withinOf jolly good ale and old.     Huh? Ish was wearing the look with which he always reacted to theunfamiliar.     The advisor lifted two fingers to the bartender and shrugged. It's apoem; about four hundred years old, as a matter of fact.     Oh.     Don't you give a damn? the advisor asked, with some peevishness.     Ish laughed shortly, without embarrassment. Sorry, Dave, but no. It'snot my racket.     The advisor cramped his hand a little too tightly around his glass.Strictly a specialist, huh?     Ish nodded. Call it that.     But      what     , for Pete's sake? What      is     this crazy specialty that blindsyou to all the fine things that man has done?     Ish took a swallow of his beer. Well, now, if I was a poet, I'd say itwas the finest thing that man has ever done.     The advisor's lips twisted in derision. That's pretty fanatical, isn'tit?     Uh-huh. Ish waved to the bartender for refills.      THE      NAVION     took a boiling thermal under its right wing and buckedupward suddenly, tilting at the same time, so that the pretty brunettegirl in the other half of the side-by-side was thrown against him. Ishlaughed, a sound that came out of his throat as turbulently as thatsudden gust of heated air had shot up out of the Everglades, andcorrected with a tilt of the wheel.     Relax, Nan, he said, his words colored by the lingering laughter.It's only air; nasty old air.     The girl patted her short hair back into place. I wish you wouldn't flythis low, she said, half-frightened.           Low?     Call      this     low? Ish teased. Here. Let's drop it a little, andyou'll      really     get an idea of how fast we're going. He nudged thewheel forward, and the      Navion     dipped its nose in a shallow dive,flattening out thirty feet above the mangrove. The swamp howled with thechug of the dancing pistons and the claw of the propeller at theprotesting air, and, from the cockpit, the Everglades resolved into adirty-green blur that rocketed backward into the slipstream.     Marty!     Ish chuckled again. He couldn't have held the ship down much longer,anyway. He tugged back on the wheel suddenly, targeting a cumulous bankwith his spinner. His lips peeled back from his teeth, and his jaw set.The      Navion     went up at the clouds, her engine turning over as fast asit could, her wings cushioned on the rising thrust of another thermal.     And, suddenly, it was as if there were no girl beside him, to be teased,and no air to rock the wings—there were no wings. His face lost allexpression. Faint beads of sweat broke out above his eyes and under hisnose. Up, he grunted through his clenched teeth. His fists locked onthe wheel. Up!     The      Navion     broke through the cloud, kept going. Up. If he listenedclosely, in just the right way, he could almost hear ...     Marty!     ... the rumble of a louder, prouder engine than the Earth had ever known.He sighed, the breath whispering through his parting teeth, and theaircraft leveled off as he pushed at the wheel with suddenly lax hands.Still half-lost, he turned and looked at the white-faced girl. Scareyou—? he asked gently.     She nodded. Her fingertips were trembling on his forearm.     Me too, he said. Lost my head. Sorry.      LOOK, HE told the girl, You got any idea of what it costs to maintaina racing-plane? Everything I own is tied up in the Foo, my ground crew,my trailer, and that scrummy old Ryan that should have been salvaged tenyears ago. I      can't     get married. Suppose I crack the Foo next week?You're dead broke, a widow, and with a funeral to pay for. The onlysmart thing to do is wait a while.     Nan's eyes clouded, and her lips trembled. That's what I've been tryingto say.      Why     do you have to win the Vandenberg Cup next week? Why can'tyou sell the Foo and go into some kind of business? You're a trainedpilot.     He had been standing in front of her with his body unconsciously tensefrom the strain of trying to make her understand. Now herelaxed—more—he slumped—and something began to die in his face, andthe first faint lines crept in to show that after it had died, it wouldnot return to life, but would fossilize, leaving his features in thealmost unreadable mask that the newspapers would come to know.     I'm a good bit more than a trained pilot, he said quietly. The Foo Isa means to an end. After I win the Vandenberg Cup, I can walk into anyplant in the States—Douglas, North American, Boeing—      any     of them—andpick up the Chief Test Pilot's job for the asking. A few of them have asgood as said so. After that— His voice had regained some of its formeranimation from this new source. Now he broke off, and shrugged. I'vetold you all this before.     The girl reached up, as if the physical touch could bring him back toher, and put her fingers around his wrist. Darling! she said. If it'sthat      rocket     pilot business again....     Somehow, his wrist was out of her encircling fingers. It's always 'that      rocket     pilot business,' he said, mimicking her voice. Damn it, I'mthe only trained rocket pilot in the world! I weigh a hundred andfifteen pounds, I'm five feet tall, and I know more navigation and maththan anybody the Air Force or Navy have! I can use words likebrennschluss and mass-ratio without running over to a copy of      Colliers     , and I— He stopped himself, half-smiled, and shruggedagain.     I guess I was kidding myself. After the Cup, there'll be the test job,and after that, there'll be the rockets. You would have had to wait along time.     All she could think of to say was, But, Darling, there      aren't     anyman-carrying rockets.     That's not my fault, he said, and walked away from her.       A week later, he took his stripped-down F-110 across the last line witha scream like that of a hawk that brings its prey safely to its nest.      HE BROUGHT the Mark VII out of her orbit after two days of running ringsaround the spinning Earth, and the world loved him. He climbed out ofthe crackling, pinging ship, bearded and dirty, with oil on his face andin his hair, with food stains all over his whipcord, red-eyed, andhuskily quiet as he said his few words into the network microphones. Andhe was not satisfied. There was no peace in his eyes, and his handsmoved even more sharply in their expressive gestures as he gave animpromptu report to the technicians who were walking back to thepersonnel bunker with him.     Nan could see that. Four years ago, he had been different. Four yearsago, if she had only known the right words, he wouldn't be so intent nowon throwing himself away to the sky.     She was a woman scorned. She had to lie to herself. She broke out of thepress section and ran over to him. Marty! She brushed past atechnician.     He looked at her with faint surprise on his face. Well, Nan! hemumbled. But he did not put his hand over her own where it touched hisshoulder.     I'm sorry, Marty, she said in a rush. I didn't understand. I couldn'tsee how much it all meant. Her face was flushed, and she spoke asrapidly as she could, not noticing that Ish had already gestured awaythe guards she was afraid would interrupt her.     But it's all right, now. You got your rockets. You've done it. Youtrained yourself for it, and now it's over. You've flown your rocket!     He looked up at her face and shook his head in quiet pity. One of theshocked technicians was trying to pull her away, and Ish made no move tostop him.     Suddenly, he was tired, there was something in him that was trying tobreak out against his will, and his reaction was that of a child whosecandy is being taken away from him after only one bite.     Rocket! he shouted into her terrified face.       Rocket!     Call that pileof tin a rocket? He pointed at the weary Mark VII with a trembling arm.Who cares about the bloody      machines     ! If I thought roller-skatingwould get me there, I would have gone to work in a      rink     when I wasseventeen! It's      getting there     that counts! Who gives a good goddam      how     it's done, or what with!     And he stood there, shaking like a leaf, outraged, while the guards cameand got her.      SIT DOWN, Ish, the Flight Surgeon said.       They always begin that way     , Isherwood thought. The standard medicalopening. Sit down. What for? Did somebody really believe that anythinghe might hear would make him faint? He smiled with as much expression ashe ever did, and chose a comfortable chair, rolling the white cylinderof a cigarette between his fingers. He glanced at his watch. Fourteenhours, thirty-six minutes, and four days to go.     How's it? the FS asked.     Ish grinned and shrugged. All right. But he didn't usually grin. Therealization disquieted him a little.     Think you'll make it?     Deliberately, rather than automatically, he fell back into his usualresponse-pattern. Don't know. That's what I'm being paid to find out.     Uh-      huh     . The FS tapped the eraser of his pencil against his teeth.Look—you want to talk to a man for a while?     What man? It didn't really matter. He had a feeling that anything hesaid or did now would have a bearing, somehow, on the trip. If theywanted him to do something for them, he was bloody well going to do it.     Fellow named MacKenzie. Big gun in the head-thumping racket. TheFlight Surgeon was trying to be as casual as he could. Air Forceinsisted on it, as a matter of fact, he said. Can't really blame them.After all, it's      their     beast.     Don't want any hole-heads denting it up on them, huh? Ish lit thecigarette and flipped his lighter shut with a snap of the lid. Sure.Bring him on.     The FS smiled. Good. He's—uh—he's in the next room. Okay to ask himin right now?     Sure. Something flickered in Isherwood's eyes. Amusement at the FlightSurgeon's discomfort was part of it. Worry was some of the rest.      MacKENZIE didn't seem to be taking any notes, or paying any specialattention to the answers Ish was giving to his casual questions. But thequestions fell into a pattern that was far from casual, and Ish couldsee the small button-mike of a portable tape-recorder nestling under theman's lapel.     Been working your own way for the last seventeen years, haven't you?MacKenzie seemed to mumble in a perfectly clear voice.     Ish nodded.     How's that?     The corners of Isherwood's mouth twitched, and he said Yes for therecorder's benefit.     Odd jobs, first of all?     Something like that. Anything I could get, the first few months. AfterI was halfway set up, I stuck to garages and repair shops.     Out at the airports around Miami, mostly, wasn't it?     Ahuh.     Took some of your pay in flying lessons.     Right.     MacKenzie's face passed no judgements—he simply hunched in his chair,seemingly dwarfed by the shoulders of his perfectly tailored suit, hisstubby fingers twiddling a Phi Beta Kappa key. He was a spare man—onlya step or two away from emaciation. Occasionally, he pushed a tiredstrand of washed-out hair away from his forehead.     Ish answered him truthfully, without more than ordinary reservations.This was the man who could ground him He was dangerous—red-letterdangerous—because of it.     No family.     Ish shrugged. Not that I know of. Cut out at seventeen. My father wasmaking good money. He had a pension plan, insurance policies. No need toworry about them.     Ish knew the normal reaction a statement like that should have brought.MacKenzie's face did not go into a blank of repression—but it stillpassed no judgements.     How's things between you and the opposite sex?     About normal.     No wife—no steady girl.     Not a very good idea, in my racket.     MacKenzie grunted. Suddenly, he sat bolt upright in his chair, and swungtoward Ish. His lean arm shot out, and his index finger was aimedbetween Isherwood's eyes. You can't go!     Ish was on his feet, his fists clenched, the blood throbbing in histemple veins. What! he roared.     MacKenzie seemed to collapse in his chair. The brief commanding burstwas over, and his face was apologetic, Sorry, he said. He seemedgenuinely abashed. Shotgun therapy. Works best, sometimes. You can go,all right; I just wanted to get a fast check on your reactions anddrives.     Ish could feel the anger that still ran through him—anger, and morefear than he wanted to admit. I'm due at a briefing, he said tautly.You through with me?     MacKenzie nodded, still embarrassed. Sorry.     Ish ignored the man's obvious feelings. He stopped at the door to send aparting stroke at the thing that had frightened him. Big gun in thepsychiatry racket, huh? Well, your professional lingo's slipping, Doc.They did put      some     learning in my head at college, you know. Therapy,hell! Testing maybe, but you sure didn't do anything to help me!     I don't know, MacKenzie said softly. I wish I did.     Ish slammed the door behind him. He stood in the corridor, jamming afresh cigarette in his mouth. He threw a glance at his watch. Twelvehours, twenty-two minutes, and four days to go.     Damn! He was late for the briefing. Odd—that fool psychiatrist hadn'tseemed to take up that much of his time.     He shrugged. What difference did it make? As he strode down the hall, helost his momentary puzzlement under the flood of realization thatnothing could stop him now, that the last hurdle was beaten. He wasgoing. He was going, and if there were faint echoes of Marty! ringingin the dark background of his mind, they only served to push him faster,as they always had. Nothing but death could stop him now.      ISH LOOKED up bitterly at the Receptionist. No, he said.     But      everybody     fills out an application, she protested.     No. I've      got     a job, he said as he had been saying for the last halfhour.     The Receptionist sighed. If you'll      only     read the literature I'vegiven you, you'll understand that all your previous commitments havebeen cancelled.     Look, Honey, I've seen company poop sheets before. Now, let's cut thisnonsense. I've got to get back.     But      nobody     goes back.     Goddam it, I don't know what kind of place this is, but— He stoppedat the Receptionist's wince, and looked around, his mouth open. Thereception desk was solid enough. There were IN and OUT and HOLD basketson the desk, and the Receptionist seemed to see nothing extraordinaryabout it. But the room—a big room, he realized—seemed to fade out atthe edges, rather than stop at walls. The lighting, too....     Let's see your back! he rapped out, his voice high.     She sighed in exasperation. If you'd read the      literature     ... Sheswiveled her chair slowly.     No wings, he said.     Of course not! she snapped. She brushed her hair away from herforehead without his telling her to. No horns, either.     Streamlined, huh? he said bitterly.     It's a little different for everybody, she said with unexpectedgentleness. It would have to be, wouldn't it?     Yeah, I guess so, he admitted slowly. Then he lost his momentary awe,and his posture grew tense again. He glanced down at his wrist. Sixhours, forty-seven minutes, and no days to go.     Who do I see?     She stared at him, bewildered at the sudden change in his voice. See?     About getting out of here! Come on, come on, he barked, snapping hisfingers impatiently. I haven't got much time.     She smiled sweetly. Oh, but you do.     Can it! Who's your Section boss? Get him down here. On the double. Comeon! His face was streaming with perspiration but his voice was firmwith the purpose that drove him.     Her lips closed into an angry line, and she jabbed a finger at a deskbutton. I'll call the Personnel Manager.     Thanks, he said sarcastically, and waited impatiently. Odd, the waythe Receptionist looked a little like Nan.      THE PERSONNEL Manager wore a perfectly-tailored suit. He strode acrossthe lobby floor toward Ish, his hand outstretched.     Martin Isherwood! he exclaimed enthusiastically. I'm      very     glad tomeet you!     I'll bet, Ish said dryly, giving the Personnel Manager's hand a shortshake. I've got other ideas. I want out.     That's all he's been saying for the past forty-five minutes, Sir, theReceptionist said from behind her desk.     The Personnel Manager frowned. Um. Yes. Well, that's not unprecedented.     But hardly usual, he added.     Ish found himself liking the man. He had a job to do, and after thepreliminary formality of the greeting had been passed, he was ready tobuckle down to it. Oh, he—shucks?—the Receptionist wasn't such a badgirl, either. He smiled at her. Sorry I lost my head, he said.     She smiled back. It happens.     He took time to give her one more smile and a half-wink, and swung backto the Personnel Manager.     Now. Let's get this thing straightened out. I've got— He stopped tolook at his watch. Six hours and a few minutes. They're fueling thebeast right now.     Do you know how much red tape you'd have to cut?     Ish shook his head. I don't want to sound nasty, but that's yourproblem.     The Personnel Manager hesitated. Look—you feel you've got a jobunfinished. Or, anyway, that's the way you'd put it. But, let's faceit—that's not really what's galling you. It's not really the job, isit? It's just that you think you've been cheated out of what you devotedyour life to.     Ish could feel his jaw muscles bunching. Don't put words in my mouth!he snapped. Just get me back, and we'll split hairs about it when I getaround this way again. Suddenly, he found himself pleading. All I needis a week, he said. It'll be a rough week—no picnic, no pleasures ofthe flesh. No smoking, no liquor. I certainly won't be breaking anylaws. One week. Get there, putter around for two days, and back again.Then, you can do anything you want to—as long as it doesn't look likethe trip's responsible, of course.     The Personnel Manager hesitated. Suppose— he began, but Ishinterrupted him.     Look, they need it, down there. They've got to have a target, someplaceto go. We're built for it. People have to have—but what am I telling      you     for. If you don't know, who does?     The Personnel Manager smiled. I was about to say something.     Ish stopped, abashed. Sorry.     He waved the apology away with a short movement of his hand. You've gotto understand that what you've been saying isn't a valid claim. If itwere, human history would be very different, wouldn't it?     Suppose I showed you something, first? Then, you could decide whetheryou want to stay, after all.     How long's it going to take? Ish flushed under the memory of havingactually begged for something.     Not long, the Personnel Manager said. He half-turned and pointed up atthe Earth, hanging just beyond the wall of the crater in which they weresuddenly standing.     Earth, the Personnel Manager said.     Somehow, Ish was not astonished. He looked up at the Earth, touched bycloud and sunlight, marked with ocean and continent, crowned with ice.The unblinking stars filled the night.     He looked around him. The Moon was silent—quiet, patient, waiting.Somewhere, a metal glint against the planet above, if it were only largeenough to be seen, was the Station, and the ship for which the Moon hadwaited.     Ish walked a short distance. He was leaving no tracks in the pumice theages had sown. But it was the way he had thought of it, nevertheless. Itwas the way the image had slowly built up in his mind, through theyears, through the training, through the work. It was what he had aimedthe      Navion     at, that day over the Everglades.     It's not the same, he said.     The Personnel Manager sighed.     Don't you see, Ish said, It      can't     be the same. I didn't push thebeast up here. There wasn't any      feel     to it. There wasn't any sound ofrockets.     The Personnel Manager sighed again. There wouldn't be, you know. Takingoff from the Station, landing here—vacuum.     Ish shook his head. There'd still be a sound. Maybe not for anybodyelse to hear—and, maybe, maybe there      would     be. There'd be people,back on Earth, who'd hear it.     All right, the Personnel Manager said. His face was grave, but hiseyes were shining a little.      ISH! HEY, Ish, wake up, will you! There was a hand on his shoulder.Will you get a      load     of this guy! the voice said to someone else. Anhour to go, and he's sleeping like the dead.     Ish willed his eyes to open. He felt his heart begin to move again, feltthe blood sluggishly beginning to surge into his veins. His hands andfeet were very cold.     Come on, Ish, the Crew Chief said.     All right, he mumbled. Okay. I'm up. He sat on the edge of his bunklooking down at his hands. They were blue under the fingernails. Hesighed, feeling the air moving down into his lungs.     Stiffly, he got to his feet and began to climb into his G suit.       The Moon opened its face to him. From where he lay, strapped into thecontrol seat in the forward bubble, he looked at it emotionlessly, andbegan to brake for a landing.       He looked for footprints in the crater, though he knew he hadn't leftany. Earth was a familiar sight over his right shoulder.     He brought the twin-bubble beast back to the station. They threwspotlights on it, for the TV pickups, and thrust microphones at him. Hecould see broad grins behind the faceplates of the suits the dockingcrew wore, and they were pounding his back. The interior of the Stationwas a babbling of voices, a tumult of congratulations. He looked at itall, dead-faced, his eyes empty.     It was easy, he said over a world-wide network, and pushed the pressrepresentatives out of his way.      MacKENZIE was waiting for him in the crew section. Ish flicked hisstolid eyes at him, shrugged, and stripped out of his clothes. He pulleda coverall out of a locker and climbed into it, then went over to hisbunk and lay down on his side, facing the bulkhead.     Ish.     It was MacKenzie, bending over him.     Ish grunted.     It wasn't any good was it? You'd done it all before; you'd been there.     He was past emotions. Yeah?     We couldn't take the chance. MacKenzie was trying desperately toexplain. You were the best there was—but you'd done something toyourself by becoming the best. You shut yourself off from your family.You had no close friends, no women. You had no other interests. You werea rocket pilot—nothing else. You've never read an adult book thatwasn't a text; you've never listened to a symphony except by accident.You don't know Rembrandt from Norman Rockwell. Nothing. No ties, noprops, nothing to sustain you if something went wrong.      We couldn't takethe chance, Ish!          So?     There was too much at stake. If we let you go, you might haveforgotten to come back. You might have just kept going.     He remembered the time with the      Navion     , and nodded. I might have.     I hypnotized you, MacKenzie said. You were never dead. I don't knowwhat the details of your hallucination were, but the important part camethrough, all right. You thought you'd been to the Moon before. It tookall the adventure out of the actual flight; it was just a workadaytrip.     I said it was easy, Ish said.     There was no other way to do it! I had to cancel out the thrill thatcomes from challenging the unknown. You knew what death was like, andyou knew what the Moon was like. Can you understand why I had to do it?     Yeah.      Now get out before I kill you.            He didn't live too long after that. He never entered a rocket again—hedied on the Station, and was buried in space, while a grateful worldmourned him. I wonder what it was like, in his mind, when he reallydied. But he spent the days he had, after the trip, just sitting at anobservatory port, cursing the traitor stars with his dead andpurposeless eyes.      TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES:     Obvious typographical errors have been corrected without note.     This etext was produced from Dynamic Science Fiction, January, 1954.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed.  ","Mackenzie is an army therapist who first meets Martin when he is asked to vet him before he goes on a trip for the airforce. Mackenzie tries to test Martin a lot, but ends up clearing him and allowing him to fly. At the end, it is also Mackenzie who tells Martin what had actually happened to him, and that what he thought was a routine trip was in fact Martin’s first trip to the moon. Mackenzie struggles with telling Martin this, but ends up doing it. This news ends up hurting Martin mentally, and it is insinuated that Martin holds a grudge forever against Mackenzie."
"What is the significance of other people's words about the rocket? </s>    He had but one ambition, one desire: to pilot the first manned rocket to     the moon. And he was prepared as no man had ever prepared himself     before....      DESIRE NO MORE     by Algis Budrys     (      illustrated by Milton Luros     )           Desire no more than to thy lot may fall....          —Chaucer      THE SMALL young man looked at his father, and shook his head.     But you've      got     to learn a trade, his father said, exasperated. Ican't afford to send you to college; you know that.     I've got a trade, he answered.     His father smiled thinly. What? he asked patronizingly.     I'm a rocket pilot, the boy said, his thin jaw stretching the skin ofhis cheeks.     His father laughed in the way the boy had learned to anticipate andhate. Yeah, he said. He leaned back in his chair and laughed so hardthat the Sunday paper slipped off his wide lap and fell to the floorwith an unnoticed stiff rustle.     A      rocket     pilot! His father's derision hooted through the quietparlor. A ro—      oh, no!     —a rocket      pilot     !     The boy stared silently at the convulsed figure in the chair. His lipsfell into a set white bar, and the corners of his jaws bulged with thetension in their muscles. Suddenly, he turned on his heel and stalkedout of the parlor, through the hall, out the front door, to the porch.He stopped there, hesitating a little.           Marty!      His father's shout followed him out of the parlor. It seemedto act like a hand between the shoulder-blades, because the boy almostran as he got down the porch stairs.     What is it, Howard? Marty's mother asked in a worried voice as shecame in from the kitchen, her damp hands rubbing themselves dry againstthe sides of her housedress.     Crazy kid, Howard Isherwood muttered. He stared at the figure of hisson as the boy reached the end of the walk and turned off into thestreet.       Come back here!      he shouted. A      rocket     pilot, he cursedunder his breath. What's the kid been reading? Claiming he's a rocketpilot!     Margaret Isherwood's brow furrowed into a faint, bewildered frown.But—isn't he a little young? I know they're teaching some very oddthings in high schools these days, but it seems to me....     Oh, for Pete's sake, Marge, there aren't even any rockets yet!      Comeback here, you idiot!      Howard Isherwood was standing on his porch, hisclenched fists trembling at the ends of his stiffly-held arms.     Are you sure, Howard? his wife asked faintly.     Yes, I'm      sure     !     But, where's he going?           Stop that! Get off that bus! YOU hear me?     Marty?           Howard!     Stop acting like a child and      talk     to me! Where is that boygoing?     Howard Isherwood, stocky, red-faced, forty-seven, and defeated, turnedaway from the retreating bus and looked at his wife. I don't know, hetold her bitterly, between rushes of air into his jerkily heaving lungs.Maybe, the moon, he told her sarcastically.       Martin Isherwood, rocket pilot, weight 102, height 4', 11, had come ofage at seventeen.      THE SMALL man looked at his faculty advisor. No, he said. I am notinterested in working for a degree.     But— The faculty advisor unconsciously tapped the point of a yellowpencil against the fresh green of his desk blotter, leaving a rough arcof black flecks. Look, Ish, you've got to either deliver or get off thebasket. This program is just like the others you've followed for ninesemesters; nothing but math and engineering. You've taken just aboutevery undergrad course there is in those fields. How long are you goingto keep this up?     I'm signed up for Astronomy 101, Isherwood pointed out.     The faculty advisor snorted. A snap course. A breather, after you'vestudied the same stuff in Celestial Navigation. What's the matter, Ish?Scared of liberal arts?     Isherwood shook his head. Uh-unh. Not interested. No time. And thatAstronomy course isn't a breather. Different slant from Cee Nav—theywon't be talking about stars as check points, but as things inthemselves. Something seemed to flicker across his face as he said it.     The advisor missed it; he was too engrossed in his argument. Still asnap. What's the difference, how you look at a star?     Isherwood almost winced. Call it a hobby, he said. He looked down athis watch. Come on, Dave. You're not going to convince me. You haven'tconvinced me any of the other times, either, so you might as well giveup, don't you think? I've got a half hour before I go on the job. Let'sgo get some beer.     The advisor, not much older than Isherwood, shrugged, defeated. Crazy,he muttered. But it was a hot day, and he was as thirsty as the nextman.     The bar was air conditioned. The advisor shivered, half grinned, andsoftly quoted: Though I go bare, take ye no care,I am nothing a-cold;I stuff my skin so full withinOf jolly good ale and old.     Huh? Ish was wearing the look with which he always reacted to theunfamiliar.     The advisor lifted two fingers to the bartender and shrugged. It's apoem; about four hundred years old, as a matter of fact.     Oh.     Don't you give a damn? the advisor asked, with some peevishness.     Ish laughed shortly, without embarrassment. Sorry, Dave, but no. It'snot my racket.     The advisor cramped his hand a little too tightly around his glass.Strictly a specialist, huh?     Ish nodded. Call it that.     But      what     , for Pete's sake? What      is     this crazy specialty that blindsyou to all the fine things that man has done?     Ish took a swallow of his beer. Well, now, if I was a poet, I'd say itwas the finest thing that man has ever done.     The advisor's lips twisted in derision. That's pretty fanatical, isn'tit?     Uh-huh. Ish waved to the bartender for refills.      THE      NAVION     took a boiling thermal under its right wing and buckedupward suddenly, tilting at the same time, so that the pretty brunettegirl in the other half of the side-by-side was thrown against him. Ishlaughed, a sound that came out of his throat as turbulently as thatsudden gust of heated air had shot up out of the Everglades, andcorrected with a tilt of the wheel.     Relax, Nan, he said, his words colored by the lingering laughter.It's only air; nasty old air.     The girl patted her short hair back into place. I wish you wouldn't flythis low, she said, half-frightened.           Low?     Call      this     low? Ish teased. Here. Let's drop it a little, andyou'll      really     get an idea of how fast we're going. He nudged thewheel forward, and the      Navion     dipped its nose in a shallow dive,flattening out thirty feet above the mangrove. The swamp howled with thechug of the dancing pistons and the claw of the propeller at theprotesting air, and, from the cockpit, the Everglades resolved into adirty-green blur that rocketed backward into the slipstream.     Marty!     Ish chuckled again. He couldn't have held the ship down much longer,anyway. He tugged back on the wheel suddenly, targeting a cumulous bankwith his spinner. His lips peeled back from his teeth, and his jaw set.The      Navion     went up at the clouds, her engine turning over as fast asit could, her wings cushioned on the rising thrust of another thermal.     And, suddenly, it was as if there were no girl beside him, to be teased,and no air to rock the wings—there were no wings. His face lost allexpression. Faint beads of sweat broke out above his eyes and under hisnose. Up, he grunted through his clenched teeth. His fists locked onthe wheel. Up!     The      Navion     broke through the cloud, kept going. Up. If he listenedclosely, in just the right way, he could almost hear ...     Marty!     ... the rumble of a louder, prouder engine than the Earth had ever known.He sighed, the breath whispering through his parting teeth, and theaircraft leveled off as he pushed at the wheel with suddenly lax hands.Still half-lost, he turned and looked at the white-faced girl. Scareyou—? he asked gently.     She nodded. Her fingertips were trembling on his forearm.     Me too, he said. Lost my head. Sorry.      LOOK, HE told the girl, You got any idea of what it costs to maintaina racing-plane? Everything I own is tied up in the Foo, my ground crew,my trailer, and that scrummy old Ryan that should have been salvaged tenyears ago. I      can't     get married. Suppose I crack the Foo next week?You're dead broke, a widow, and with a funeral to pay for. The onlysmart thing to do is wait a while.     Nan's eyes clouded, and her lips trembled. That's what I've been tryingto say.      Why     do you have to win the Vandenberg Cup next week? Why can'tyou sell the Foo and go into some kind of business? You're a trainedpilot.     He had been standing in front of her with his body unconsciously tensefrom the strain of trying to make her understand. Now herelaxed—more—he slumped—and something began to die in his face, andthe first faint lines crept in to show that after it had died, it wouldnot return to life, but would fossilize, leaving his features in thealmost unreadable mask that the newspapers would come to know.     I'm a good bit more than a trained pilot, he said quietly. The Foo Isa means to an end. After I win the Vandenberg Cup, I can walk into anyplant in the States—Douglas, North American, Boeing—      any     of them—andpick up the Chief Test Pilot's job for the asking. A few of them have asgood as said so. After that— His voice had regained some of its formeranimation from this new source. Now he broke off, and shrugged. I'vetold you all this before.     The girl reached up, as if the physical touch could bring him back toher, and put her fingers around his wrist. Darling! she said. If it'sthat      rocket     pilot business again....     Somehow, his wrist was out of her encircling fingers. It's always 'that      rocket     pilot business,' he said, mimicking her voice. Damn it, I'mthe only trained rocket pilot in the world! I weigh a hundred andfifteen pounds, I'm five feet tall, and I know more navigation and maththan anybody the Air Force or Navy have! I can use words likebrennschluss and mass-ratio without running over to a copy of      Colliers     , and I— He stopped himself, half-smiled, and shruggedagain.     I guess I was kidding myself. After the Cup, there'll be the test job,and after that, there'll be the rockets. You would have had to wait along time.     All she could think of to say was, But, Darling, there      aren't     anyman-carrying rockets.     That's not my fault, he said, and walked away from her.       A week later, he took his stripped-down F-110 across the last line witha scream like that of a hawk that brings its prey safely to its nest.      HE BROUGHT the Mark VII out of her orbit after two days of running ringsaround the spinning Earth, and the world loved him. He climbed out ofthe crackling, pinging ship, bearded and dirty, with oil on his face andin his hair, with food stains all over his whipcord, red-eyed, andhuskily quiet as he said his few words into the network microphones. Andhe was not satisfied. There was no peace in his eyes, and his handsmoved even more sharply in their expressive gestures as he gave animpromptu report to the technicians who were walking back to thepersonnel bunker with him.     Nan could see that. Four years ago, he had been different. Four yearsago, if she had only known the right words, he wouldn't be so intent nowon throwing himself away to the sky.     She was a woman scorned. She had to lie to herself. She broke out of thepress section and ran over to him. Marty! She brushed past atechnician.     He looked at her with faint surprise on his face. Well, Nan! hemumbled. But he did not put his hand over her own where it touched hisshoulder.     I'm sorry, Marty, she said in a rush. I didn't understand. I couldn'tsee how much it all meant. Her face was flushed, and she spoke asrapidly as she could, not noticing that Ish had already gestured awaythe guards she was afraid would interrupt her.     But it's all right, now. You got your rockets. You've done it. Youtrained yourself for it, and now it's over. You've flown your rocket!     He looked up at her face and shook his head in quiet pity. One of theshocked technicians was trying to pull her away, and Ish made no move tostop him.     Suddenly, he was tired, there was something in him that was trying tobreak out against his will, and his reaction was that of a child whosecandy is being taken away from him after only one bite.     Rocket! he shouted into her terrified face.       Rocket!     Call that pileof tin a rocket? He pointed at the weary Mark VII with a trembling arm.Who cares about the bloody      machines     ! If I thought roller-skatingwould get me there, I would have gone to work in a      rink     when I wasseventeen! It's      getting there     that counts! Who gives a good goddam      how     it's done, or what with!     And he stood there, shaking like a leaf, outraged, while the guards cameand got her.      SIT DOWN, Ish, the Flight Surgeon said.       They always begin that way     , Isherwood thought. The standard medicalopening. Sit down. What for? Did somebody really believe that anythinghe might hear would make him faint? He smiled with as much expression ashe ever did, and chose a comfortable chair, rolling the white cylinderof a cigarette between his fingers. He glanced at his watch. Fourteenhours, thirty-six minutes, and four days to go.     How's it? the FS asked.     Ish grinned and shrugged. All right. But he didn't usually grin. Therealization disquieted him a little.     Think you'll make it?     Deliberately, rather than automatically, he fell back into his usualresponse-pattern. Don't know. That's what I'm being paid to find out.     Uh-      huh     . The FS tapped the eraser of his pencil against his teeth.Look—you want to talk to a man for a while?     What man? It didn't really matter. He had a feeling that anything hesaid or did now would have a bearing, somehow, on the trip. If theywanted him to do something for them, he was bloody well going to do it.     Fellow named MacKenzie. Big gun in the head-thumping racket. TheFlight Surgeon was trying to be as casual as he could. Air Forceinsisted on it, as a matter of fact, he said. Can't really blame them.After all, it's      their     beast.     Don't want any hole-heads denting it up on them, huh? Ish lit thecigarette and flipped his lighter shut with a snap of the lid. Sure.Bring him on.     The FS smiled. Good. He's—uh—he's in the next room. Okay to ask himin right now?     Sure. Something flickered in Isherwood's eyes. Amusement at the FlightSurgeon's discomfort was part of it. Worry was some of the rest.      MacKENZIE didn't seem to be taking any notes, or paying any specialattention to the answers Ish was giving to his casual questions. But thequestions fell into a pattern that was far from casual, and Ish couldsee the small button-mike of a portable tape-recorder nestling under theman's lapel.     Been working your own way for the last seventeen years, haven't you?MacKenzie seemed to mumble in a perfectly clear voice.     Ish nodded.     How's that?     The corners of Isherwood's mouth twitched, and he said Yes for therecorder's benefit.     Odd jobs, first of all?     Something like that. Anything I could get, the first few months. AfterI was halfway set up, I stuck to garages and repair shops.     Out at the airports around Miami, mostly, wasn't it?     Ahuh.     Took some of your pay in flying lessons.     Right.     MacKenzie's face passed no judgements—he simply hunched in his chair,seemingly dwarfed by the shoulders of his perfectly tailored suit, hisstubby fingers twiddling a Phi Beta Kappa key. He was a spare man—onlya step or two away from emaciation. Occasionally, he pushed a tiredstrand of washed-out hair away from his forehead.     Ish answered him truthfully, without more than ordinary reservations.This was the man who could ground him He was dangerous—red-letterdangerous—because of it.     No family.     Ish shrugged. Not that I know of. Cut out at seventeen. My father wasmaking good money. He had a pension plan, insurance policies. No need toworry about them.     Ish knew the normal reaction a statement like that should have brought.MacKenzie's face did not go into a blank of repression—but it stillpassed no judgements.     How's things between you and the opposite sex?     About normal.     No wife—no steady girl.     Not a very good idea, in my racket.     MacKenzie grunted. Suddenly, he sat bolt upright in his chair, and swungtoward Ish. His lean arm shot out, and his index finger was aimedbetween Isherwood's eyes. You can't go!     Ish was on his feet, his fists clenched, the blood throbbing in histemple veins. What! he roared.     MacKenzie seemed to collapse in his chair. The brief commanding burstwas over, and his face was apologetic, Sorry, he said. He seemedgenuinely abashed. Shotgun therapy. Works best, sometimes. You can go,all right; I just wanted to get a fast check on your reactions anddrives.     Ish could feel the anger that still ran through him—anger, and morefear than he wanted to admit. I'm due at a briefing, he said tautly.You through with me?     MacKenzie nodded, still embarrassed. Sorry.     Ish ignored the man's obvious feelings. He stopped at the door to send aparting stroke at the thing that had frightened him. Big gun in thepsychiatry racket, huh? Well, your professional lingo's slipping, Doc.They did put      some     learning in my head at college, you know. Therapy,hell! Testing maybe, but you sure didn't do anything to help me!     I don't know, MacKenzie said softly. I wish I did.     Ish slammed the door behind him. He stood in the corridor, jamming afresh cigarette in his mouth. He threw a glance at his watch. Twelvehours, twenty-two minutes, and four days to go.     Damn! He was late for the briefing. Odd—that fool psychiatrist hadn'tseemed to take up that much of his time.     He shrugged. What difference did it make? As he strode down the hall, helost his momentary puzzlement under the flood of realization thatnothing could stop him now, that the last hurdle was beaten. He wasgoing. He was going, and if there were faint echoes of Marty! ringingin the dark background of his mind, they only served to push him faster,as they always had. Nothing but death could stop him now.      ISH LOOKED up bitterly at the Receptionist. No, he said.     But      everybody     fills out an application, she protested.     No. I've      got     a job, he said as he had been saying for the last halfhour.     The Receptionist sighed. If you'll      only     read the literature I'vegiven you, you'll understand that all your previous commitments havebeen cancelled.     Look, Honey, I've seen company poop sheets before. Now, let's cut thisnonsense. I've got to get back.     But      nobody     goes back.     Goddam it, I don't know what kind of place this is, but— He stoppedat the Receptionist's wince, and looked around, his mouth open. Thereception desk was solid enough. There were IN and OUT and HOLD basketson the desk, and the Receptionist seemed to see nothing extraordinaryabout it. But the room—a big room, he realized—seemed to fade out atthe edges, rather than stop at walls. The lighting, too....     Let's see your back! he rapped out, his voice high.     She sighed in exasperation. If you'd read the      literature     ... Sheswiveled her chair slowly.     No wings, he said.     Of course not! she snapped. She brushed her hair away from herforehead without his telling her to. No horns, either.     Streamlined, huh? he said bitterly.     It's a little different for everybody, she said with unexpectedgentleness. It would have to be, wouldn't it?     Yeah, I guess so, he admitted slowly. Then he lost his momentary awe,and his posture grew tense again. He glanced down at his wrist. Sixhours, forty-seven minutes, and no days to go.     Who do I see?     She stared at him, bewildered at the sudden change in his voice. See?     About getting out of here! Come on, come on, he barked, snapping hisfingers impatiently. I haven't got much time.     She smiled sweetly. Oh, but you do.     Can it! Who's your Section boss? Get him down here. On the double. Comeon! His face was streaming with perspiration but his voice was firmwith the purpose that drove him.     Her lips closed into an angry line, and she jabbed a finger at a deskbutton. I'll call the Personnel Manager.     Thanks, he said sarcastically, and waited impatiently. Odd, the waythe Receptionist looked a little like Nan.      THE PERSONNEL Manager wore a perfectly-tailored suit. He strode acrossthe lobby floor toward Ish, his hand outstretched.     Martin Isherwood! he exclaimed enthusiastically. I'm      very     glad tomeet you!     I'll bet, Ish said dryly, giving the Personnel Manager's hand a shortshake. I've got other ideas. I want out.     That's all he's been saying for the past forty-five minutes, Sir, theReceptionist said from behind her desk.     The Personnel Manager frowned. Um. Yes. Well, that's not unprecedented.     But hardly usual, he added.     Ish found himself liking the man. He had a job to do, and after thepreliminary formality of the greeting had been passed, he was ready tobuckle down to it. Oh, he—shucks?—the Receptionist wasn't such a badgirl, either. He smiled at her. Sorry I lost my head, he said.     She smiled back. It happens.     He took time to give her one more smile and a half-wink, and swung backto the Personnel Manager.     Now. Let's get this thing straightened out. I've got— He stopped tolook at his watch. Six hours and a few minutes. They're fueling thebeast right now.     Do you know how much red tape you'd have to cut?     Ish shook his head. I don't want to sound nasty, but that's yourproblem.     The Personnel Manager hesitated. Look—you feel you've got a jobunfinished. Or, anyway, that's the way you'd put it. But, let's faceit—that's not really what's galling you. It's not really the job, isit? It's just that you think you've been cheated out of what you devotedyour life to.     Ish could feel his jaw muscles bunching. Don't put words in my mouth!he snapped. Just get me back, and we'll split hairs about it when I getaround this way again. Suddenly, he found himself pleading. All I needis a week, he said. It'll be a rough week—no picnic, no pleasures ofthe flesh. No smoking, no liquor. I certainly won't be breaking anylaws. One week. Get there, putter around for two days, and back again.Then, you can do anything you want to—as long as it doesn't look likethe trip's responsible, of course.     The Personnel Manager hesitated. Suppose— he began, but Ishinterrupted him.     Look, they need it, down there. They've got to have a target, someplaceto go. We're built for it. People have to have—but what am I telling      you     for. If you don't know, who does?     The Personnel Manager smiled. I was about to say something.     Ish stopped, abashed. Sorry.     He waved the apology away with a short movement of his hand. You've gotto understand that what you've been saying isn't a valid claim. If itwere, human history would be very different, wouldn't it?     Suppose I showed you something, first? Then, you could decide whetheryou want to stay, after all.     How long's it going to take? Ish flushed under the memory of havingactually begged for something.     Not long, the Personnel Manager said. He half-turned and pointed up atthe Earth, hanging just beyond the wall of the crater in which they weresuddenly standing.     Earth, the Personnel Manager said.     Somehow, Ish was not astonished. He looked up at the Earth, touched bycloud and sunlight, marked with ocean and continent, crowned with ice.The unblinking stars filled the night.     He looked around him. The Moon was silent—quiet, patient, waiting.Somewhere, a metal glint against the planet above, if it were only largeenough to be seen, was the Station, and the ship for which the Moon hadwaited.     Ish walked a short distance. He was leaving no tracks in the pumice theages had sown. But it was the way he had thought of it, nevertheless. Itwas the way the image had slowly built up in his mind, through theyears, through the training, through the work. It was what he had aimedthe      Navion     at, that day over the Everglades.     It's not the same, he said.     The Personnel Manager sighed.     Don't you see, Ish said, It      can't     be the same. I didn't push thebeast up here. There wasn't any      feel     to it. There wasn't any sound ofrockets.     The Personnel Manager sighed again. There wouldn't be, you know. Takingoff from the Station, landing here—vacuum.     Ish shook his head. There'd still be a sound. Maybe not for anybodyelse to hear—and, maybe, maybe there      would     be. There'd be people,back on Earth, who'd hear it.     All right, the Personnel Manager said. His face was grave, but hiseyes were shining a little.      ISH! HEY, Ish, wake up, will you! There was a hand on his shoulder.Will you get a      load     of this guy! the voice said to someone else. Anhour to go, and he's sleeping like the dead.     Ish willed his eyes to open. He felt his heart begin to move again, feltthe blood sluggishly beginning to surge into his veins. His hands andfeet were very cold.     Come on, Ish, the Crew Chief said.     All right, he mumbled. Okay. I'm up. He sat on the edge of his bunklooking down at his hands. They were blue under the fingernails. Hesighed, feeling the air moving down into his lungs.     Stiffly, he got to his feet and began to climb into his G suit.       The Moon opened its face to him. From where he lay, strapped into thecontrol seat in the forward bubble, he looked at it emotionlessly, andbegan to brake for a landing.       He looked for footprints in the crater, though he knew he hadn't leftany. Earth was a familiar sight over his right shoulder.     He brought the twin-bubble beast back to the station. They threwspotlights on it, for the TV pickups, and thrust microphones at him. Hecould see broad grins behind the faceplates of the suits the dockingcrew wore, and they were pounding his back. The interior of the Stationwas a babbling of voices, a tumult of congratulations. He looked at itall, dead-faced, his eyes empty.     It was easy, he said over a world-wide network, and pushed the pressrepresentatives out of his way.      MacKENZIE was waiting for him in the crew section. Ish flicked hisstolid eyes at him, shrugged, and stripped out of his clothes. He pulleda coverall out of a locker and climbed into it, then went over to hisbunk and lay down on his side, facing the bulkhead.     Ish.     It was MacKenzie, bending over him.     Ish grunted.     It wasn't any good was it? You'd done it all before; you'd been there.     He was past emotions. Yeah?     We couldn't take the chance. MacKenzie was trying desperately toexplain. You were the best there was—but you'd done something toyourself by becoming the best. You shut yourself off from your family.You had no close friends, no women. You had no other interests. You werea rocket pilot—nothing else. You've never read an adult book thatwasn't a text; you've never listened to a symphony except by accident.You don't know Rembrandt from Norman Rockwell. Nothing. No ties, noprops, nothing to sustain you if something went wrong.      We couldn't takethe chance, Ish!          So?     There was too much at stake. If we let you go, you might haveforgotten to come back. You might have just kept going.     He remembered the time with the      Navion     , and nodded. I might have.     I hypnotized you, MacKenzie said. You were never dead. I don't knowwhat the details of your hallucination were, but the important part camethrough, all right. You thought you'd been to the Moon before. It tookall the adventure out of the actual flight; it was just a workadaytrip.     I said it was easy, Ish said.     There was no other way to do it! I had to cancel out the thrill thatcomes from challenging the unknown. You knew what death was like, andyou knew what the Moon was like. Can you understand why I had to do it?     Yeah.      Now get out before I kill you.            He didn't live too long after that. He never entered a rocket again—hedied on the Station, and was buried in space, while a grateful worldmourned him. I wonder what it was like, in his mind, when he reallydied. But he spent the days he had, after the trip, just sitting at anobservatory port, cursing the traitor stars with his dead andpurposeless eyes.      TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES:     Obvious typographical errors have been corrected without note.     This etext was produced from Dynamic Science Fiction, January, 1954.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed.  ","One of the greatest challenges that Martin faces in his journey to become a rocket pilot is the negativity that comes from other people. Almost everyone that Martin meets advises him that he is wasting his life, and that he should focus on something more realistic that can allow him to have a family. His parents, his girlfriend, and Mackenzie all tell him that he should settle for a plane pilot or should focus his career on something else, something less risky. These words only help to make Martin more determined to become a pilot, because he wants to prove everyone wrong. "
"What is the plot of the story? </s>    Any problem posed by one group ofhuman beings can be resolved by anyother group. That's what the Handbooksaid. But did that include primitivehumans? Or the Bees? Or a ...     CONTROL GROUP     By ROGER DEE    The  cool green disk of AlphardSix on the screen wasinfinitely welcome after the ariddesolation and stinking swamplandsof the inner planets, anairy jewel of a world that mighthave been designed specificallyfor the hard-earned month ofrest ahead. Navigator Farrell,youngest and certainly most impulsiveof the three-man TerranReclamations crew, would haveset the      Marco Four     down atonce but for the greater cautionof Stryker, nominally captain ofthe group, and of Gibson, engineer,and linguist. Xavier, theship's little mechanical, had—aswas usual and proper—no voicein the matter.     Reconnaissance spiral first,Arthur, Stryker said firmly. Hechuckled at Farrell's instantscowl, his little eyes twinklingand his naked paunch quakingover the belt of his shipboardshorts. Chapter One, SubsectionFive, Paragraph Twenty-seven:      No planetfall on an unreclaimedworld shall be deemedsafe without proper—          Farrell, as Stryker had expected,interrupted with characteristicimpatience. Do you      sleep     with that damned ReclamationsHandbook, Lee? Alphard Sixisn't an unreclaimed world—itwas never colonized before theHymenop invasion back in 3025,so why should it be inhabitednow?     Gibson, who for four hourshad not looked up from his interminablechess game withXavier, paused with a beleagueredknight in one blunt brownhand.     No point in taking chances,Gibson said in his neutral baritone.He shrugged thick bareshoulders, his humorless black-browedface unmoved, whenFarrell included him in hisscowl. We're two hundred twenty-sixlight-years from Sol, atthe old limits of Terran expansion,and there's no knowingwhat we may turn up here. Alphard'swas one of the first systemsthe Bees took over. It musthave been one of the last to beabandoned when they pulled backto 70 Ophiuchi.     And I think      you     live for theday, Farrell said acidly, whenwe'll stumble across a functioningdome of live, buzzing Hymenops.Damn it, Gib, the Beespulled out a hundred years ago,before you and I were born—neitherof us ever saw a Hymenop,and never will!     But I saw them, Strykersaid. I fought them for the betterpart of the century they werehere, and I learned there's nopredicting nor understandingthem. We never knew why theycame nor why they gave up andleft. How can we know whetherthey'd leave a rear-guard orbooby trap here?     He put a paternal hand onFarrell's shoulder, understandingthe younger man's eagernessand knowing that their close-knitteam would have been themore poorly balanced without it.     Gib's right, he said. Henearly added      as usual     . We're onrest leave at the moment, yes,but our mission is still to findTerran colonies enslaved andabandoned by the Bees, not torisk our necks and a valuableReorientations ship by landingblind on an unobserved planet.We're too close already. Cut inyour shields and find a reconnaissancespiral, will you?     Grumbling, Farrell punchedcoordinates on the Ringwaveboard that lifted the      Marco Four     out of her descent and restoredthe bluish enveloping haze ofher repellors.     Stryker's caution was justifiedon the instant. The speedingstreamlined shape that had flashedup unobserved from belowswerved sharply and exploded ina cataclysmic blaze of atomicfire that rocked the ship wildlyand flung the three men to thefloor in a jangling roar ofalarms.      So the Handbook tacticiansknew what they were about,Stryker said minutes later. Deliberatelyhe adopted the smugtone best calculated to sting Farrellout of his first self-reproach,and grinned when the navigatorbristled defensively. Some oftheir enjoinders seem a littlestuffy and obvious at times, butthey're eminently sensible.     When Farrell refused to bebaited Stryker turned to Gibson,who was busily assessing thedamage done to the ship's morefragile equipment, and to Xavier,who searched the planet'ssurface with the ship's magnoscanner.The      Marco Four     , Ringwavegenerators humming gently,hung at the moment justinside the orbit of Alphard Six'ssingle dun-colored moon.     Gibson put down a test meterwith an air of finality.     Nothing damaged but theZero Interval Transfer computer.I can realign that in a coupleof hours, but it'll have to bedone before we hit Transferagain.      Stryker looked dubious.What if the issue is forced beforethe ZIT unit is repaired?Suppose they come up after us?     I doubt that they can. Anyinstallation crudely enoughequipped to trust in guided missilesis hardly likely to have developedefficient space craft.     Stryker was not reassured.     That torpedo of theirs wasdeadly enough, he said. Andits nature reflects the nature ofthe people who made it. Any racevicious enough to use atomiccharges is too dangerous totrifle with. Worry made comicalcreases in his fat, good-humoredface. We'll have to findout who they are and whythey're here, you know.     They can't be Hymenops,Gibson said promptly. First,because the Bees pinned theirfaith on Ringwave energy fields,as we did, rather than on missiles.Second, because there's nodome on Six.     There were three emptydomes on Five, which is a desertplanet, Farrell pointed out.Why didn't they settle Six? It'sa more habitable world.     Gibson shrugged. I know theBees always erected domes onevery planet they colonized, Arthur,but precedent is a fallibletool. And it's even more firmlyestablished that there's no possibilityof our rationalizing themotivations of a culture as alienas the Hymenops'—we've beenover that argument a hundredtimes on other reclaimedworlds.     But this was never an unreclaimedworld, Farrell saidwith the faint malice of one toorecently caught in the wrong.Alphard Six was surveyed andseeded with Terran bacteriaaround the year 3000, but theBees invaded before we couldcolonize. And that means we'llhave to rule out any resurgentcolonial group down there, becauseSix never had a colony inthe beginning.     The Bees have been gone forover a hundred years, Strykersaid. Colonists might have migratedfrom another Terran-occupiedplanet.     Gibson disagreed.     We've touched at every inhabitedworld in this sector, Lee,and not one surviving colony hasdeveloped space travel on itsown. The Hymenops had a hundredyears to condition their humanslaves to ignorance ofeverything beyond their immediateenvironment—the motivesbehind that conditioning usuallyescape us, but that's beside thepoint—and they did a thoroughjob of it. The colonists have hadno more than a century of freedomsince the Bees pulled out,and four generations simplyisn't enough time for any subjugatedculture to climb fromslavery to interstellar flight.     Stryker made a padding turnabout the control room, tuggingunhappily at the scanty fringeof hair the years had left him.     If they're neither Hymenopsnor resurgent colonists, he said,then there's only one choice remaining—they'realiens from asystem we haven't reached yet,beyond the old sphere of Terranexploration. We always assumedthat we'd find other races outhere someday, and that they'dbe as different from us in formand motivation as the Hymenops.Why not now?     Gibson said seriously, Notprobable, Lee. The same objectionthat rules out the Bees appliesto any trans-Alphardianculture—they'd have to be beyondthe atomic fission stage,else they'd never have attemptedinterstellar flight. The Ringwavewith its Zero Interval Transferprinciple and instantaneous communicationsapplications is theonly answer to long-range travel,and if they'd had that theywouldn't have bothered withatomics.     Stryker turned on him almostangrily. If they're not Hymenopsor humans or aliens, thenwhat in God's name      are     they?      Aye, there's the rub, Farrellsaid, quoting a passagewhose aptness had somehow seenit through a dozen reorganizationsof insular tongue and afinal translation to universalTerran. If they're none of thosethree, we've only one conclusionleft. There's no one down thereat all—we're victims of the firstjoint hallucination in psychiatrichistory.     Stryker threw up his hands insurrender. We can't identifythem by theorizing, and thatbrings us down to the businessof first-hand investigation.Who's going to bell the cat thistime?     I'd like to go, Gibson saidat once. The ZIT computer canwait.     Stryker vetoed his offer aspromptly. No, the ZIT comesfirst. We may have to run for it,and we can't set up a Transferjump without the computer. It'sgot to be me or Arthur.     Farrell felt the familiar chillof uneasiness that inevitablypreceded this moment of decision.He was not lacking in courage,else the circumstances underwhich he had worked for thepast ten years—the sometimesperilous, sometimes downrightcharnel conditions left by thefleeing Hymenop conquerors—wouldhave broken him longago. But that same hard experiencehad honed rather thanblunted the edge of his imagination,and the prospect of a close-quartersstalking of an unknownand patently hostile force wasanything but attractive.     You two did the field workon the last location, he said.It's high time I took my turn—andGod knows I'd go mad ifI had to stay inship and listento Lee memorizing his Handbooksubsections or to Gib practicingdead languages with Xavier.     Stryker laughed for the firsttime since the explosion thathad so nearly wrecked the      MarcoFour     .     Good enough. Though itwouldn't be more diverting tolisten for hours to you improvisingenharmonic variations onthe      Lament for Old Terra     withyour accordion.     Gibson, characteristically, hada refinement to offer.     They'll be alerted down therefor a reconnaissance sally, hesaid. Why not let Xavier takethe scouter down for overt diversion,and drop Arthur off inthe helihopper for a low-levelcheck?     Stryker looked at Farrell. Allright, Arthur?     Good enough, Farrell said.And to Xavier, who had notmoved from his post at the magnoscanner:How does it look,Xav? Have you pinned downtheir base yet?     The mechanical answered himin a voice as smooth and clear—andas inflectionless—as a 'cellonote. The planet seems uninhabitedexcept for a large islandsome three hundred miles indiameter. There are twenty-sevensmall agrarian hamlets surroundedby cultivated fields.There is one city of perhaps athousand buildings with a centralsquare. In the square restsa grounded spaceship of approximatelyten times the bulkof the      Marco Four     .     They crowded about the visionscreen, jostling Xavier's jointedgray shape in their interest. Thecentral city lay in minutest detailbefore them, the batteredhulk of the grounded ship glintingrustily in the late afternoonsunlight. Streets radiated awayfrom the square in orderly succession,the whole so clearlydepicted that they could see thethrongs of people surging upand down, tiny foreshortenedfaces turned toward the sky.     At least they're human,Farrell said. Relief replaced insome measure his earlier uneasiness.Which means that they'reTerran, and can be dealt withaccording to Reclamations routine.Is that hulk spaceworthy,Xav?     Xavier's mellow drone assumedthe convention vibrato thatindicated stark puzzlement. Itsbreached hull makes the ship incapableof flight. Apparently itis used only to supply power tothe outlying hamlets.     The mechanical put a flexiblegray finger upon an indicatorgraph derived from a compositesection of detector meters. Thepower transmitted seems to begross electric current conveyedby metallic cables. It is generatedthrough a crudely governedprocess of continuous atomicfission.      Farrell, himself appalled bythe information, still found himselfable to chuckle at Stryker'sbellow of consternation.           Continuous fission?     GoodGod, only madmen would deliberatelyrun a risk like that!     Farrell prodded him withcheerful malice. Why say mad      men     ? Maybe they're humanoidaliens who thrive on hard radiationand look on the danger ofbeing blown to hell in the middleof the night as a satisfactoryrisk.     They're not alien, Gibsonsaid positively. Their architectureis Terran, and so is theirship. The ship is incrediblyprimitive, though; those batteriesof tubes at either end—     Are thrust reaction jets,Stryker finished in an awedvoice. Primitive isn't the word,Gib—the thing is prehistoric!Rocket propulsion hasn't beenused in spacecraft since—howlong, Xav?     Xavier supplied the informationwith mechanical infallibility.Since the year 2100 whenthe Ringwave propulsion-communicationprinciple was discovered.That principle has servedmen since.     Farrell stared in blank disbeliefat the anomalous craft onthe screen. Primitive, as Strykerhad said, was not the wordfor it: clumsily ovoid, studdedwith torpedo domes and turretsand bristling at either end withpropulsion tubes, it lay at thecenter of its square like a rustedrelic of a past largely destroyedand all but forgotten. What amagnificent disregard its buildersmust have had, he thought,for their lives and the geneticpurity of their posterity! Thesullen atomic fires banked inthat oxidizing hulk—     Stryker said plaintively, Ifyou're right, Gib, then we'remore in the dark than ever. Howcould a Terran-built ship elevenhundred years old get      here     ?     Gibson, absorbed in his chess-player'scontemplation of alternatives,seemed hardly to hearhim.     Logic or not-logic, Gibsonsaid. If it's a Terran artifact,we can discover the reason forits presence. If not—           Any problem posed by onegroup of human beings     , Strykerquoted his Handbook,       can beresolved by any other group, regardlessof ideology or conditioning,because the basicperceptive abilities of both mustbe the same through identicalheredity     .     If it's an imitation, and thisis another Hymenop experimentin condition ecology, then we'restumped to begin with, Gibsonfinished. Because we're notequipped to evaluate the psychologyof alien motivation. We'vegot to determine first which caseapplies here.      He waited for Farrell's expectedirony, and when thenavigator forestalled him by remaininggrimly quiet, continued.     The obvious premise is thata Terran ship must have beenbuilt by Terrans. Question: Wasit flown here, or built here?     It couldn't have been builthere, Stryker said. AlphardSix was surveyed just before theBees took over in 3025, and therewas nothing of the sort herethen. It couldn't have been builtduring the two and a quartercenturies since; it's obviouslymuch older than that. It wasflown here.     We progress, Farrell saiddryly. Now if you'll tell us      how     ,we're ready to move.     I think the ship was built onTerra during the Twenty-secondCentury, Gibson said calmly.The atomic wars during thatperiod destroyed practically allhistorical records along with thetechnology of the time, but I'veread well-authenticated reportsof atomic-driven ships leavingTerra before then for the nearerstars. The human race climbedout of its pit again during theTwenty-third Century and developedthe technology that gaveus the Ringwave. Certainly noatomic-powered ships were builtafter the wars—our records arecomplete from that time.     Farrell shook his head at theinference. I've read any numberof fanciful romances on thetheme, Gib, but it won't standup in practice. No shipboard societycould last through a thousand-yearspace voyage. It's aphysical and psychological impossibility.There's got to besome other explanation.      Gibson shrugged. We canonly eliminate the least likelyalternatives and accept the simplestone remaining.     Then we can eliminate thisone now, Farrell said flatly. Itentails a thousand-year voyage,which is an impossibility for anygross reaction drive; the applicationof suspended animationor longevity or a successive-generationprogram, and a finalpenetration of Hymenop-occupiedspace to set up a colony underthe very antennae of theBees. Longevity wasn't developeduntil around the year 3000—Leehere was one of the first toprofit by it, if you remember—andsuspended animation is stillto come. So there's one theoryyou can forget.     Arthur's right, Stryker saidreluctantly. An atomic-poweredship      couldn't     have made such atrip, Gib. And such a lineal-descendantproject couldn't havelasted through forty generations,speculative fiction to thecontrary—the later generationswould have been too far removedin ideology and intent fromtheir ancestors. They'd haveadapted to shipboard life as thenorm. They'd have atrophiedphysically, perhaps even havemutated—     And they'd never havefought past the Bees during theHymenop invasion and occupation,Farrell finished triumphantly.The Bees had betterdetection equipment than wehad. They'd have picked thisship up long before it reachedAlphard Six.     But the ship wasn't here in3000, Gibson said, and it isnow. Therefore it must have arrivedat some time during thetwo hundred years of Hymenopoccupation and evacuation.     Farrell, tangled in contradictions,swore bitterly. Butwhy should the Bees let themthrough? The three domes onFive are over two hundred yearsold, which means that the Beeswere here before the ship came.Why didn't they blast it or enslaveits crew?     We haven't touched on all thepossibilities, Gibson remindedhim. We haven't even establishedyet that these people werenever under Hymenop control.Precedent won't hold always, andthere's no predicting nor evaluatingthe motives of an alienrace. We never understood theHymenops because there's nocommon ground of logic betweenus. Why try to interpret theirintentions now?     Farrell threw up his hands indisgust. Next you'll say this isan ancient Terran expeditionthat actually succeeded! There'sonly one way to answer thequestions we've raised, andthat's to go down and see forourselves. Ready, Xav?      But uncertainty nagged uneasilyat him when Farrell foundhimself alone in the helihopperwith the forest flowing beneathlike a leafy river and Xavier'sscouter disappearing bulletlikeinto the dusk ahead.     We never found a colony soadvanced, Farrell thought. Supposethis is a Hymenop experimentthat really paid off? TheBees did some weird and wonderfulthings with humanguinea pigs—what if they'vecreated the ultimate booby traphere, and primed it with conditionedmyrmidons in our ownform?     Suppose, he thought—and deridedhimself for thinking it—oneof those suicidal old interstellarventures      did     succeed?     Xavier's voice, a mellowdrone from the helihopper'sRingwave-powered visicom, cutsharply into his musing. Theship has discovered the scouterand is training an electronicbeam upon it. My instrumentsrecord an electromagnetic vibrationpattern of low power butrapidly varying frequency. Theoperation seems pointless.     Stryker's voice followed, querulouswith worry: I'd betterpull Xav back. It may be somethinglethal.     Don't, Gibson's baritone advised.Surprisingly, there wasexcitement in the engineer'svoice. I think they're trying tocommunicate with us.     Farrell was on the point ofdemanding acidly to know howone went about communicatingby means of a fluctuating electricfield when the unexpectedcessation of forest diverted hisattention. The helihopper scuddedover a cultivated areaof considerable extent, fieldsstretching below in a vague randomcheckerboard of lighter anddarker earth, an undefined clusterof buildings at their center.There was a central bonfire thatburned like a wild red eyeagainst the lower gloom, and inits plunging ruddy glow he madeout an urgent scurrying of shadowyfigures.     I'm passing over a hamlet,Farrell reported. The one nearestthe city, I think. There'ssomething odd going ondown—     Catastrophe struck so suddenlythat he was caught completelyunprepared. The helihopper'sflimsy carriage bucked andcrumpled. There was a blindingflare of electric discharge, apungent stink of ozone and astunning shock that flung himheadlong into darkness.      He awoke slowly with a brutalheadache and a conviction ofnightmare heightened by theoutlandish tone of his surroundings.He lay on a narrow bed ina whitely antiseptic infirmary,an oblong metal cell clutteredwith a grimly utilitarian arrayof tables and lockers and chests.The lighting was harsh andoverbright and the air hungthick with pungent unfamiliarchemical odors. From somewhere,far off yet at the sametime as near as the bulkheadabove him, came the unceasingdrone of machinery.     Farrell sat up, groaning,when full consciousness made hisposition clear. He had been shotdown by God knew what sort ofdevastating unorthodox weaponand was a prisoner in thegrounded ship.     At his rising, a white-smockedfat man with anachronistic spectaclesand close-cropped grayhair came into the room, movingwith the professional assuranceof a medic. The man stoppedshort at Farrell's stare andspoke; his words were utterlyunintelligible, but his gesturewas unmistakable.     Farrell followed him dumblyout of the infirmary and downa bare corridor whose metalfloor rang coldly underfoot. Anopen port near the corridor's endrelieved the blankness of walland let in a flood of reddish Alphardiansunlight; Farrell slowedto look out, wondering howlong he had lain unconscious,and felt panic knife at himwhen he saw Xavier's scouter lying,port open and undefended,on the square outside.     The mechanical had been aseasily taken as himself, then.Stryker and Gibson, for all theirprofessional caution, would fareno better—they could not haveoverlooked the capture of Farrelland Xavier, and when theytried as a matter of course torescue them the      Marco     would bestruck down in turn by the sameweapon.     The fat medic turned andsaid something urgent in hisunintelligible tongue. Farrell,dazed by the enormity of whathad happened, followed withoutprotest into an intersecting waythat led through a bewilderingsuccession of storage rooms andhydroponics gardens, through asmall gymnasium fitted withphysical training equipment ingraduated sizes and finally intoa soundproofed place that couldhave been nothing but a nursery.     The implication behind itspresence stopped Farrell short.     A      creche     , he said, stunned.He had a wild vision of endlessgenerations of children growingup in this dim and stuffy room,to be taught from their firsttoddling steps the functions theymust fulfill before the ventureof which they were a part couldbe consummated.     One of those old ventures      had     succeeded, he thought, and wasawed by the daring of that thousand-yearodyssey. The realizationleft him more alarmed thanbefore—for what technical marvelsmight not an isolated groupof such dogged specialists havedeveloped during a millenniumof application?     Such a weapon as had broughtdown the helihopper and scouterwas patently beyond reach of hisown latter-day technology. Perhaps,he thought, its possessionexplained the presence of thesepeople here in the first strongholdof the Hymenops; perhapsthey had even fought and defeatedthe Bees on their own invadedground.     He followed his white-smockedguide through a power roomwhere great crude generatorswhirred ponderously, pouringout gross electric current intoarm-thick cables. They werenearing the bow of the shipwhen they passed by anotheropen port and Farrell, glancingout over the lowered rampway,saw that his fears for Strykerand Gibson had been wellgrounded.     The      Marco Four     , ports open,lay grounded outside.      Farrell could not have said,later, whether his next movewas planned or reflexive. Thewhole desperate issue seemed tohang suspended for a breathlessmoment upon a hair-fine edge ofdecision, and in that instant hemade his bid.     Without pausing in his stridehe sprang out and through theport and down the steep planeof the ramp. The rough stonepavement of the square drummedunderfoot; sore musclestore at him, and weakness waslike a weight about his neck. Heexpected momentarily to beblasted out of existence.     He reached the      Marco Four     with the startled shouts of hisguide ringing unintelligibly inhis ears. The port yawned; heplunged inside and stabbed atcontrols without waiting to seathimself. The ports swung shut.The ship darted up under hismanipulation and arrowed intospace with an acceleration thatsprung his knees and made hisvision swim blackly.     He was so weak with strainand with the success of his coupthat he all but fainted whenStryker, his scanty hair tousledand his fat face comical with bewilderment,stumbled out of hissleeping cubicle and bellowed athim.     What the hell are you doing,Arthur? Take us down!     Farrell gaped at him, speechless.     Stryker lumbered past himand took the controls, spiralingthe      Marco Four     down. Menswarmed outside the ports whenthe Reclamations craft settledgently to the square again. Gibsonand Xavier reached the shipfirst; Gibson came inside quickly,leaving the mechanical outsidemaking patient explanationsto an excited group of Alphardians.     Gibson put a reassuring handon Farrell's arm. It's all right,Arthur. There's no trouble.     Farrell said dumbly, I don'tunderstand. They didn't shootyou and Xav down too?     It was Gibson's turn to stare.     No one shot you down! Thesepeople are primitive enough touse metallic power lines tocarry electricity to their hamlets,an anachronism you forgotlast night. You piloted the helihopperinto one of those lines,and the crash put you out forthe rest of the night and mostof today. These Alphardians arefriendly, so desperately happy tobe found again that it's reallypathetic.           Friendly?     That torpedo—     It wasn't a torpedo at all,Stryker put in. Understandingof the error under which Farrellhad labored erased hisearlier irritation, and he chuckledcommiseratingly. They hadone small boat left for emergencymissions, and sent it up tocontact us in the fear that wemight overlook their settlementand move on. The boat wasatomic powered, and our shieldscreens set off its engines.     Farrell dropped into a chair atthe chart table, limp with reaction.He was suddenly exhausted,and his head ached dully.     We cracked the communicationsproblem early last night,Gibson said. These people usean ancient system of electromagneticwave propagation calledfrequency modulation, and onceLee and I rigged up a suitabletransceiver the rest was simple.Both Xav and I recognized theold language; the natives reportedyour accident, and we camedown at once.     They really came from Terra?They lived through a thousandyears of flight?     The ship left Terra forSirius in 2171, Gibson said.But not with these peopleaboard, or their ancestors. Thatexpedition perished after lessthan a light-year when itshydroponics system failed. TheHymenops found the ship derelictwhen they invaded us, andbrought it to Alphard Six inwhat was probably their first experimentwith human subjects.The ship's log shows clearlywhat happened to the originalcomplement. The rest is deduciblefrom the situation here.     Farrell put his hands to histemples and groaned. The crashmust have scrambled my wits.Gib, where      did     they come from?     From one of the first peripheralcolonies conquered by theBees, Gibson said patiently.The Hymenops were long-rangeplanners, remember, and mastersof hypnotic conditioning. Theystocked the ship with a captivecrew of Terrans conditioned tobelieve themselves descendantsof the original crew, andgrounded it here in disabledcondition. They left for AlphardFive then, to watch developments.     Succeeding generations ofcolonists grew up accepting thefact that their ship had missedSirius and made planetfall here—theystill don't know wherethey really are—by luck. Theynever knew about the Hymenops,and they've struggled alongwith an inadequate technology inthe hope that a later expeditionwould find them. They found thetruth hard to take, but they'reeager to enjoy the fruits of Terranassimilation.     Stryker, grinning, broughtFarrell a frosted drink that tinkledinvitingly. An unusuallyfortunate ending to a Hymenopexperiment, he said. Thesepeople progressed normally becausethey've been let alone. Reorientingthem will be a simplematter; they'll be properly spoiledcolonists within another generation.     Farrell sipped his drink appreciatively.     But I don't see why the Beesshould go to such trouble to deceivethese people. Why did theysit back and let them grow asthey pleased, Gib? It doesn'tmake sense!     But it does, for once, Gibsonsaid. The Bees set up thiscolony as a control unit to studythe species they were invading,and they had to give theirspecimens a normal—if obsolete—backgroundin order to determinetheir capabilities. The factthat their experiment didn't tellthem what they wanted to knowmay have had a direct bearingon their decision to pull out.     Farrell shook his head. It'sa reverse application, isn't it ofthe old saw about Terrans beingincapable of understanding analien culture?     Of course, said Gibson, surprised.It's obvious enough,surely—hard as they tried, theBees never understood useither.     THE END     Transcriber's Note:    This etext was produced from    Amazing Science Fiction Stories   January1960. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note.","The story is set in the fourth millennium, and humans have invented a technology - the Ringwave propulsion-communication principle -  that allows them to explore the neighboring cosmic systems. In the past, they were invaded by an alien species called Hymenops, or the Bees, who enslaved Terrans, and tried to colonize other planets but unexpectedly left years later. The crew members of the spaceship Marco Four are on a mission looking for the slave colonies that were abandoned by the Bees. Farrell, the navigator, is arguing with captain Stryker, Gibson - an engineer - and Xavier, the ship’s mechanic, and is trying to convince them to land on Alphard Six and claiming the planet is not inhabited. Stryker reminds him about the importance of vigilance on unexplored territories and tells Farrell to find a reconnaissance spiral. Something resembling an atomic torpedo explodes near the ship, rocking it. Later, the crew starts discussing who can possibly live on Alphard Six. They know that in the year 3000, there was no one on the planet. The ones who attacked them might be the Hymenopes or some Terrans enslaved by them, or even an unknown alien culture. The screen shows a town with a thousand buildings and a prehistoric ship with rocket propulsion. This ship seems to be eleven hundred years old, which is puzzling. This atomic-powered spaceship neither could’ve been constructed here nor could it have successfully traveled for hundreds of years. The area around Alphard Six was guarded by the Bees for several hundred years. So, it would be impossible for this ancient Terran ship to land on the planet without being detected by them. Farrell interrupts the discussion and suggests they go down and look. He gets on a helihopper, and Xavier quickly disappears in his scouter. The two other crew members left on the ship say that they just detected an electromagnetic vibration. Farrell notices a bonfire near the town. He is ready to report it when his helihopper suddenly jerks, a flare of electric discharge blinds him, and Farrell loses consciousness. He wakes up in an infirmary. A doctor speaks in unintelligible words and gestures to Farrell to follow him. While walking through the corridors of the ancient ship, he notices Xavier’s scouter, and later the Marco Four. Shocked, Farrell rapidly plunges inside the spaceship, and it darts up when suddenly Stryker appears from the sleeping cubicle and orders him to fly back. Gibson explains that Farrell piloted his helihopper into power lines and crashed. The Alphardians tried to communicate with the crew using an electromagnetic wave language and never attacked them. The Bees made the ancestors of these people believe that they were the descendants of an Earth expedition that perished a thousand years ago. The Alphardians don’t even know the Hymenops. Apparently, the Bees wanted to monitor the human species in a natural habitat. But they never understood human logic and after all, left all their colonies. "
"Who is Farrell and what happens to him throughout the story? </s>    Any problem posed by one group ofhuman beings can be resolved by anyother group. That's what the Handbooksaid. But did that include primitivehumans? Or the Bees? Or a ...     CONTROL GROUP     By ROGER DEE    The  cool green disk of AlphardSix on the screen wasinfinitely welcome after the ariddesolation and stinking swamplandsof the inner planets, anairy jewel of a world that mighthave been designed specificallyfor the hard-earned month ofrest ahead. Navigator Farrell,youngest and certainly most impulsiveof the three-man TerranReclamations crew, would haveset the      Marco Four     down atonce but for the greater cautionof Stryker, nominally captain ofthe group, and of Gibson, engineer,and linguist. Xavier, theship's little mechanical, had—aswas usual and proper—no voicein the matter.     Reconnaissance spiral first,Arthur, Stryker said firmly. Hechuckled at Farrell's instantscowl, his little eyes twinklingand his naked paunch quakingover the belt of his shipboardshorts. Chapter One, SubsectionFive, Paragraph Twenty-seven:      No planetfall on an unreclaimedworld shall be deemedsafe without proper—          Farrell, as Stryker had expected,interrupted with characteristicimpatience. Do you      sleep     with that damned ReclamationsHandbook, Lee? Alphard Sixisn't an unreclaimed world—itwas never colonized before theHymenop invasion back in 3025,so why should it be inhabitednow?     Gibson, who for four hourshad not looked up from his interminablechess game withXavier, paused with a beleagueredknight in one blunt brownhand.     No point in taking chances,Gibson said in his neutral baritone.He shrugged thick bareshoulders, his humorless black-browedface unmoved, whenFarrell included him in hisscowl. We're two hundred twenty-sixlight-years from Sol, atthe old limits of Terran expansion,and there's no knowingwhat we may turn up here. Alphard'swas one of the first systemsthe Bees took over. It musthave been one of the last to beabandoned when they pulled backto 70 Ophiuchi.     And I think      you     live for theday, Farrell said acidly, whenwe'll stumble across a functioningdome of live, buzzing Hymenops.Damn it, Gib, the Beespulled out a hundred years ago,before you and I were born—neitherof us ever saw a Hymenop,and never will!     But I saw them, Strykersaid. I fought them for the betterpart of the century they werehere, and I learned there's nopredicting nor understandingthem. We never knew why theycame nor why they gave up andleft. How can we know whetherthey'd leave a rear-guard orbooby trap here?     He put a paternal hand onFarrell's shoulder, understandingthe younger man's eagernessand knowing that their close-knitteam would have been themore poorly balanced without it.     Gib's right, he said. Henearly added      as usual     . We're onrest leave at the moment, yes,but our mission is still to findTerran colonies enslaved andabandoned by the Bees, not torisk our necks and a valuableReorientations ship by landingblind on an unobserved planet.We're too close already. Cut inyour shields and find a reconnaissancespiral, will you?     Grumbling, Farrell punchedcoordinates on the Ringwaveboard that lifted the      Marco Four     out of her descent and restoredthe bluish enveloping haze ofher repellors.     Stryker's caution was justifiedon the instant. The speedingstreamlined shape that had flashedup unobserved from belowswerved sharply and exploded ina cataclysmic blaze of atomicfire that rocked the ship wildlyand flung the three men to thefloor in a jangling roar ofalarms.      So the Handbook tacticiansknew what they were about,Stryker said minutes later. Deliberatelyhe adopted the smugtone best calculated to sting Farrellout of his first self-reproach,and grinned when the navigatorbristled defensively. Some oftheir enjoinders seem a littlestuffy and obvious at times, butthey're eminently sensible.     When Farrell refused to bebaited Stryker turned to Gibson,who was busily assessing thedamage done to the ship's morefragile equipment, and to Xavier,who searched the planet'ssurface with the ship's magnoscanner.The      Marco Four     , Ringwavegenerators humming gently,hung at the moment justinside the orbit of Alphard Six'ssingle dun-colored moon.     Gibson put down a test meterwith an air of finality.     Nothing damaged but theZero Interval Transfer computer.I can realign that in a coupleof hours, but it'll have to bedone before we hit Transferagain.      Stryker looked dubious.What if the issue is forced beforethe ZIT unit is repaired?Suppose they come up after us?     I doubt that they can. Anyinstallation crudely enoughequipped to trust in guided missilesis hardly likely to have developedefficient space craft.     Stryker was not reassured.     That torpedo of theirs wasdeadly enough, he said. Andits nature reflects the nature ofthe people who made it. Any racevicious enough to use atomiccharges is too dangerous totrifle with. Worry made comicalcreases in his fat, good-humoredface. We'll have to findout who they are and whythey're here, you know.     They can't be Hymenops,Gibson said promptly. First,because the Bees pinned theirfaith on Ringwave energy fields,as we did, rather than on missiles.Second, because there's nodome on Six.     There were three emptydomes on Five, which is a desertplanet, Farrell pointed out.Why didn't they settle Six? It'sa more habitable world.     Gibson shrugged. I know theBees always erected domes onevery planet they colonized, Arthur,but precedent is a fallibletool. And it's even more firmlyestablished that there's no possibilityof our rationalizing themotivations of a culture as alienas the Hymenops'—we've beenover that argument a hundredtimes on other reclaimedworlds.     But this was never an unreclaimedworld, Farrell saidwith the faint malice of one toorecently caught in the wrong.Alphard Six was surveyed andseeded with Terran bacteriaaround the year 3000, but theBees invaded before we couldcolonize. And that means we'llhave to rule out any resurgentcolonial group down there, becauseSix never had a colony inthe beginning.     The Bees have been gone forover a hundred years, Strykersaid. Colonists might have migratedfrom another Terran-occupiedplanet.     Gibson disagreed.     We've touched at every inhabitedworld in this sector, Lee,and not one surviving colony hasdeveloped space travel on itsown. The Hymenops had a hundredyears to condition their humanslaves to ignorance ofeverything beyond their immediateenvironment—the motivesbehind that conditioning usuallyescape us, but that's beside thepoint—and they did a thoroughjob of it. The colonists have hadno more than a century of freedomsince the Bees pulled out,and four generations simplyisn't enough time for any subjugatedculture to climb fromslavery to interstellar flight.     Stryker made a padding turnabout the control room, tuggingunhappily at the scanty fringeof hair the years had left him.     If they're neither Hymenopsnor resurgent colonists, he said,then there's only one choice remaining—they'realiens from asystem we haven't reached yet,beyond the old sphere of Terranexploration. We always assumedthat we'd find other races outhere someday, and that they'dbe as different from us in formand motivation as the Hymenops.Why not now?     Gibson said seriously, Notprobable, Lee. The same objectionthat rules out the Bees appliesto any trans-Alphardianculture—they'd have to be beyondthe atomic fission stage,else they'd never have attemptedinterstellar flight. The Ringwavewith its Zero Interval Transferprinciple and instantaneous communicationsapplications is theonly answer to long-range travel,and if they'd had that theywouldn't have bothered withatomics.     Stryker turned on him almostangrily. If they're not Hymenopsor humans or aliens, thenwhat in God's name      are     they?      Aye, there's the rub, Farrellsaid, quoting a passagewhose aptness had somehow seenit through a dozen reorganizationsof insular tongue and afinal translation to universalTerran. If they're none of thosethree, we've only one conclusionleft. There's no one down thereat all—we're victims of the firstjoint hallucination in psychiatrichistory.     Stryker threw up his hands insurrender. We can't identifythem by theorizing, and thatbrings us down to the businessof first-hand investigation.Who's going to bell the cat thistime?     I'd like to go, Gibson saidat once. The ZIT computer canwait.     Stryker vetoed his offer aspromptly. No, the ZIT comesfirst. We may have to run for it,and we can't set up a Transferjump without the computer. It'sgot to be me or Arthur.     Farrell felt the familiar chillof uneasiness that inevitablypreceded this moment of decision.He was not lacking in courage,else the circumstances underwhich he had worked for thepast ten years—the sometimesperilous, sometimes downrightcharnel conditions left by thefleeing Hymenop conquerors—wouldhave broken him longago. But that same hard experiencehad honed rather thanblunted the edge of his imagination,and the prospect of a close-quartersstalking of an unknownand patently hostile force wasanything but attractive.     You two did the field workon the last location, he said.It's high time I took my turn—andGod knows I'd go mad ifI had to stay inship and listento Lee memorizing his Handbooksubsections or to Gib practicingdead languages with Xavier.     Stryker laughed for the firsttime since the explosion thathad so nearly wrecked the      MarcoFour     .     Good enough. Though itwouldn't be more diverting tolisten for hours to you improvisingenharmonic variations onthe      Lament for Old Terra     withyour accordion.     Gibson, characteristically, hada refinement to offer.     They'll be alerted down therefor a reconnaissance sally, hesaid. Why not let Xavier takethe scouter down for overt diversion,and drop Arthur off inthe helihopper for a low-levelcheck?     Stryker looked at Farrell. Allright, Arthur?     Good enough, Farrell said.And to Xavier, who had notmoved from his post at the magnoscanner:How does it look,Xav? Have you pinned downtheir base yet?     The mechanical answered himin a voice as smooth and clear—andas inflectionless—as a 'cellonote. The planet seems uninhabitedexcept for a large islandsome three hundred miles indiameter. There are twenty-sevensmall agrarian hamlets surroundedby cultivated fields.There is one city of perhaps athousand buildings with a centralsquare. In the square restsa grounded spaceship of approximatelyten times the bulkof the      Marco Four     .     They crowded about the visionscreen, jostling Xavier's jointedgray shape in their interest. Thecentral city lay in minutest detailbefore them, the batteredhulk of the grounded ship glintingrustily in the late afternoonsunlight. Streets radiated awayfrom the square in orderly succession,the whole so clearlydepicted that they could see thethrongs of people surging upand down, tiny foreshortenedfaces turned toward the sky.     At least they're human,Farrell said. Relief replaced insome measure his earlier uneasiness.Which means that they'reTerran, and can be dealt withaccording to Reclamations routine.Is that hulk spaceworthy,Xav?     Xavier's mellow drone assumedthe convention vibrato thatindicated stark puzzlement. Itsbreached hull makes the ship incapableof flight. Apparently itis used only to supply power tothe outlying hamlets.     The mechanical put a flexiblegray finger upon an indicatorgraph derived from a compositesection of detector meters. Thepower transmitted seems to begross electric current conveyedby metallic cables. It is generatedthrough a crudely governedprocess of continuous atomicfission.      Farrell, himself appalled bythe information, still found himselfable to chuckle at Stryker'sbellow of consternation.           Continuous fission?     GoodGod, only madmen would deliberatelyrun a risk like that!     Farrell prodded him withcheerful malice. Why say mad      men     ? Maybe they're humanoidaliens who thrive on hard radiationand look on the danger ofbeing blown to hell in the middleof the night as a satisfactoryrisk.     They're not alien, Gibsonsaid positively. Their architectureis Terran, and so is theirship. The ship is incrediblyprimitive, though; those batteriesof tubes at either end—     Are thrust reaction jets,Stryker finished in an awedvoice. Primitive isn't the word,Gib—the thing is prehistoric!Rocket propulsion hasn't beenused in spacecraft since—howlong, Xav?     Xavier supplied the informationwith mechanical infallibility.Since the year 2100 whenthe Ringwave propulsion-communicationprinciple was discovered.That principle has servedmen since.     Farrell stared in blank disbeliefat the anomalous craft onthe screen. Primitive, as Strykerhad said, was not the wordfor it: clumsily ovoid, studdedwith torpedo domes and turretsand bristling at either end withpropulsion tubes, it lay at thecenter of its square like a rustedrelic of a past largely destroyedand all but forgotten. What amagnificent disregard its buildersmust have had, he thought,for their lives and the geneticpurity of their posterity! Thesullen atomic fires banked inthat oxidizing hulk—     Stryker said plaintively, Ifyou're right, Gib, then we'remore in the dark than ever. Howcould a Terran-built ship elevenhundred years old get      here     ?     Gibson, absorbed in his chess-player'scontemplation of alternatives,seemed hardly to hearhim.     Logic or not-logic, Gibsonsaid. If it's a Terran artifact,we can discover the reason forits presence. If not—           Any problem posed by onegroup of human beings     , Strykerquoted his Handbook,       can beresolved by any other group, regardlessof ideology or conditioning,because the basicperceptive abilities of both mustbe the same through identicalheredity     .     If it's an imitation, and thisis another Hymenop experimentin condition ecology, then we'restumped to begin with, Gibsonfinished. Because we're notequipped to evaluate the psychologyof alien motivation. We'vegot to determine first which caseapplies here.      He waited for Farrell's expectedirony, and when thenavigator forestalled him by remaininggrimly quiet, continued.     The obvious premise is thata Terran ship must have beenbuilt by Terrans. Question: Wasit flown here, or built here?     It couldn't have been builthere, Stryker said. AlphardSix was surveyed just before theBees took over in 3025, and therewas nothing of the sort herethen. It couldn't have been builtduring the two and a quartercenturies since; it's obviouslymuch older than that. It wasflown here.     We progress, Farrell saiddryly. Now if you'll tell us      how     ,we're ready to move.     I think the ship was built onTerra during the Twenty-secondCentury, Gibson said calmly.The atomic wars during thatperiod destroyed practically allhistorical records along with thetechnology of the time, but I'veread well-authenticated reportsof atomic-driven ships leavingTerra before then for the nearerstars. The human race climbedout of its pit again during theTwenty-third Century and developedthe technology that gaveus the Ringwave. Certainly noatomic-powered ships were builtafter the wars—our records arecomplete from that time.     Farrell shook his head at theinference. I've read any numberof fanciful romances on thetheme, Gib, but it won't standup in practice. No shipboard societycould last through a thousand-yearspace voyage. It's aphysical and psychological impossibility.There's got to besome other explanation.      Gibson shrugged. We canonly eliminate the least likelyalternatives and accept the simplestone remaining.     Then we can eliminate thisone now, Farrell said flatly. Itentails a thousand-year voyage,which is an impossibility for anygross reaction drive; the applicationof suspended animationor longevity or a successive-generationprogram, and a finalpenetration of Hymenop-occupiedspace to set up a colony underthe very antennae of theBees. Longevity wasn't developeduntil around the year 3000—Leehere was one of the first toprofit by it, if you remember—andsuspended animation is stillto come. So there's one theoryyou can forget.     Arthur's right, Stryker saidreluctantly. An atomic-poweredship      couldn't     have made such atrip, Gib. And such a lineal-descendantproject couldn't havelasted through forty generations,speculative fiction to thecontrary—the later generationswould have been too far removedin ideology and intent fromtheir ancestors. They'd haveadapted to shipboard life as thenorm. They'd have atrophiedphysically, perhaps even havemutated—     And they'd never havefought past the Bees during theHymenop invasion and occupation,Farrell finished triumphantly.The Bees had betterdetection equipment than wehad. They'd have picked thisship up long before it reachedAlphard Six.     But the ship wasn't here in3000, Gibson said, and it isnow. Therefore it must have arrivedat some time during thetwo hundred years of Hymenopoccupation and evacuation.     Farrell, tangled in contradictions,swore bitterly. Butwhy should the Bees let themthrough? The three domes onFive are over two hundred yearsold, which means that the Beeswere here before the ship came.Why didn't they blast it or enslaveits crew?     We haven't touched on all thepossibilities, Gibson remindedhim. We haven't even establishedyet that these people werenever under Hymenop control.Precedent won't hold always, andthere's no predicting nor evaluatingthe motives of an alienrace. We never understood theHymenops because there's nocommon ground of logic betweenus. Why try to interpret theirintentions now?     Farrell threw up his hands indisgust. Next you'll say this isan ancient Terran expeditionthat actually succeeded! There'sonly one way to answer thequestions we've raised, andthat's to go down and see forourselves. Ready, Xav?      But uncertainty nagged uneasilyat him when Farrell foundhimself alone in the helihopperwith the forest flowing beneathlike a leafy river and Xavier'sscouter disappearing bulletlikeinto the dusk ahead.     We never found a colony soadvanced, Farrell thought. Supposethis is a Hymenop experimentthat really paid off? TheBees did some weird and wonderfulthings with humanguinea pigs—what if they'vecreated the ultimate booby traphere, and primed it with conditionedmyrmidons in our ownform?     Suppose, he thought—and deridedhimself for thinking it—oneof those suicidal old interstellarventures      did     succeed?     Xavier's voice, a mellowdrone from the helihopper'sRingwave-powered visicom, cutsharply into his musing. Theship has discovered the scouterand is training an electronicbeam upon it. My instrumentsrecord an electromagnetic vibrationpattern of low power butrapidly varying frequency. Theoperation seems pointless.     Stryker's voice followed, querulouswith worry: I'd betterpull Xav back. It may be somethinglethal.     Don't, Gibson's baritone advised.Surprisingly, there wasexcitement in the engineer'svoice. I think they're trying tocommunicate with us.     Farrell was on the point ofdemanding acidly to know howone went about communicatingby means of a fluctuating electricfield when the unexpectedcessation of forest diverted hisattention. The helihopper scuddedover a cultivated areaof considerable extent, fieldsstretching below in a vague randomcheckerboard of lighter anddarker earth, an undefined clusterof buildings at their center.There was a central bonfire thatburned like a wild red eyeagainst the lower gloom, and inits plunging ruddy glow he madeout an urgent scurrying of shadowyfigures.     I'm passing over a hamlet,Farrell reported. The one nearestthe city, I think. There'ssomething odd going ondown—     Catastrophe struck so suddenlythat he was caught completelyunprepared. The helihopper'sflimsy carriage bucked andcrumpled. There was a blindingflare of electric discharge, apungent stink of ozone and astunning shock that flung himheadlong into darkness.      He awoke slowly with a brutalheadache and a conviction ofnightmare heightened by theoutlandish tone of his surroundings.He lay on a narrow bed ina whitely antiseptic infirmary,an oblong metal cell clutteredwith a grimly utilitarian arrayof tables and lockers and chests.The lighting was harsh andoverbright and the air hungthick with pungent unfamiliarchemical odors. From somewhere,far off yet at the sametime as near as the bulkheadabove him, came the unceasingdrone of machinery.     Farrell sat up, groaning,when full consciousness made hisposition clear. He had been shotdown by God knew what sort ofdevastating unorthodox weaponand was a prisoner in thegrounded ship.     At his rising, a white-smockedfat man with anachronistic spectaclesand close-cropped grayhair came into the room, movingwith the professional assuranceof a medic. The man stoppedshort at Farrell's stare andspoke; his words were utterlyunintelligible, but his gesturewas unmistakable.     Farrell followed him dumblyout of the infirmary and downa bare corridor whose metalfloor rang coldly underfoot. Anopen port near the corridor's endrelieved the blankness of walland let in a flood of reddish Alphardiansunlight; Farrell slowedto look out, wondering howlong he had lain unconscious,and felt panic knife at himwhen he saw Xavier's scouter lying,port open and undefended,on the square outside.     The mechanical had been aseasily taken as himself, then.Stryker and Gibson, for all theirprofessional caution, would fareno better—they could not haveoverlooked the capture of Farrelland Xavier, and when theytried as a matter of course torescue them the      Marco     would bestruck down in turn by the sameweapon.     The fat medic turned andsaid something urgent in hisunintelligible tongue. Farrell,dazed by the enormity of whathad happened, followed withoutprotest into an intersecting waythat led through a bewilderingsuccession of storage rooms andhydroponics gardens, through asmall gymnasium fitted withphysical training equipment ingraduated sizes and finally intoa soundproofed place that couldhave been nothing but a nursery.     The implication behind itspresence stopped Farrell short.     A      creche     , he said, stunned.He had a wild vision of endlessgenerations of children growingup in this dim and stuffy room,to be taught from their firsttoddling steps the functions theymust fulfill before the ventureof which they were a part couldbe consummated.     One of those old ventures      had     succeeded, he thought, and wasawed by the daring of that thousand-yearodyssey. The realizationleft him more alarmed thanbefore—for what technical marvelsmight not an isolated groupof such dogged specialists havedeveloped during a millenniumof application?     Such a weapon as had broughtdown the helihopper and scouterwas patently beyond reach of hisown latter-day technology. Perhaps,he thought, its possessionexplained the presence of thesepeople here in the first strongholdof the Hymenops; perhapsthey had even fought and defeatedthe Bees on their own invadedground.     He followed his white-smockedguide through a power roomwhere great crude generatorswhirred ponderously, pouringout gross electric current intoarm-thick cables. They werenearing the bow of the shipwhen they passed by anotheropen port and Farrell, glancingout over the lowered rampway,saw that his fears for Strykerand Gibson had been wellgrounded.     The      Marco Four     , ports open,lay grounded outside.      Farrell could not have said,later, whether his next movewas planned or reflexive. Thewhole desperate issue seemed tohang suspended for a breathlessmoment upon a hair-fine edge ofdecision, and in that instant hemade his bid.     Without pausing in his stridehe sprang out and through theport and down the steep planeof the ramp. The rough stonepavement of the square drummedunderfoot; sore musclestore at him, and weakness waslike a weight about his neck. Heexpected momentarily to beblasted out of existence.     He reached the      Marco Four     with the startled shouts of hisguide ringing unintelligibly inhis ears. The port yawned; heplunged inside and stabbed atcontrols without waiting to seathimself. The ports swung shut.The ship darted up under hismanipulation and arrowed intospace with an acceleration thatsprung his knees and made hisvision swim blackly.     He was so weak with strainand with the success of his coupthat he all but fainted whenStryker, his scanty hair tousledand his fat face comical with bewilderment,stumbled out of hissleeping cubicle and bellowed athim.     What the hell are you doing,Arthur? Take us down!     Farrell gaped at him, speechless.     Stryker lumbered past himand took the controls, spiralingthe      Marco Four     down. Menswarmed outside the ports whenthe Reclamations craft settledgently to the square again. Gibsonand Xavier reached the shipfirst; Gibson came inside quickly,leaving the mechanical outsidemaking patient explanationsto an excited group of Alphardians.     Gibson put a reassuring handon Farrell's arm. It's all right,Arthur. There's no trouble.     Farrell said dumbly, I don'tunderstand. They didn't shootyou and Xav down too?     It was Gibson's turn to stare.     No one shot you down! Thesepeople are primitive enough touse metallic power lines tocarry electricity to their hamlets,an anachronism you forgotlast night. You piloted the helihopperinto one of those lines,and the crash put you out forthe rest of the night and mostof today. These Alphardians arefriendly, so desperately happy tobe found again that it's reallypathetic.           Friendly?     That torpedo—     It wasn't a torpedo at all,Stryker put in. Understandingof the error under which Farrellhad labored erased hisearlier irritation, and he chuckledcommiseratingly. They hadone small boat left for emergencymissions, and sent it up tocontact us in the fear that wemight overlook their settlementand move on. The boat wasatomic powered, and our shieldscreens set off its engines.     Farrell dropped into a chair atthe chart table, limp with reaction.He was suddenly exhausted,and his head ached dully.     We cracked the communicationsproblem early last night,Gibson said. These people usean ancient system of electromagneticwave propagation calledfrequency modulation, and onceLee and I rigged up a suitabletransceiver the rest was simple.Both Xav and I recognized theold language; the natives reportedyour accident, and we camedown at once.     They really came from Terra?They lived through a thousandyears of flight?     The ship left Terra forSirius in 2171, Gibson said.But not with these peopleaboard, or their ancestors. Thatexpedition perished after lessthan a light-year when itshydroponics system failed. TheHymenops found the ship derelictwhen they invaded us, andbrought it to Alphard Six inwhat was probably their first experimentwith human subjects.The ship's log shows clearlywhat happened to the originalcomplement. The rest is deduciblefrom the situation here.     Farrell put his hands to histemples and groaned. The crashmust have scrambled my wits.Gib, where      did     they come from?     From one of the first peripheralcolonies conquered by theBees, Gibson said patiently.The Hymenops were long-rangeplanners, remember, and mastersof hypnotic conditioning. Theystocked the ship with a captivecrew of Terrans conditioned tobelieve themselves descendantsof the original crew, andgrounded it here in disabledcondition. They left for AlphardFive then, to watch developments.     Succeeding generations ofcolonists grew up accepting thefact that their ship had missedSirius and made planetfall here—theystill don't know wherethey really are—by luck. Theynever knew about the Hymenops,and they've struggled alongwith an inadequate technology inthe hope that a later expeditionwould find them. They found thetruth hard to take, but they'reeager to enjoy the fruits of Terranassimilation.     Stryker, grinning, broughtFarrell a frosted drink that tinkledinvitingly. An unusuallyfortunate ending to a Hymenopexperiment, he said. Thesepeople progressed normally becausethey've been let alone. Reorientingthem will be a simplematter; they'll be properly spoiledcolonists within another generation.     Farrell sipped his drink appreciatively.     But I don't see why the Beesshould go to such trouble to deceivethese people. Why did theysit back and let them grow asthey pleased, Gib? It doesn'tmake sense!     But it does, for once, Gibsonsaid. The Bees set up thiscolony as a control unit to studythe species they were invading,and they had to give theirspecimens a normal—if obsolete—backgroundin order to determinetheir capabilities. The factthat their experiment didn't tellthem what they wanted to knowmay have had a direct bearingon their decision to pull out.     Farrell shook his head. It'sa reverse application, isn't it ofthe old saw about Terrans beingincapable of understanding analien culture?     Of course, said Gibson, surprised.It's obvious enough,surely—hard as they tried, theBees never understood useither.     THE END     Transcriber's Note:    This etext was produced from    Amazing Science Fiction Stories   January1960. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note.","Arthur Farrell is the ship’s navigator, the youngest and most impulsive member of the crew. He tries to convince captain Stryker to land on Alphard Six, claiming that it cannot be inhabited. Stryker doesn’t agree and orders Farrell to find a reconnaissance spiral. After the torpedo explodes near the ship, they all discuss who the attackers could be. Farrell points out that there was no sign of life on Alphard Six around the year 3000, so the inhabitants appeared after this. Farrell agrees to be sent to the planet’s surface and explore. They continue talking and soon see an ancient ship in the center of the planet’s town. Farrell is quick to state that it couldn’t have come from Earth because it would've taken hundreds of years to travel here, and the ship’s ancient technology is not effective enough for such a voyage. Irritated, he interrupts the discussion and suggests he and Xavier go down and see who the inhabitants are. Farrell flies in a helihopper and notices a bonfire near the town. He starts reporting when the helihopper’s carriage crumples, an electric discharge blinds Farrell, and he momentarily loses consciousness. Later, he wakes up with a brutal headache in an infirmary inside the ancient ship. A medic with anachronistic spectacles and gray hair uses unintelligible words and gestures to Farrell to follow him. They pass several open ports, and he sees Xavier’s scouter and later the Marco Four. Shocked, he runs to the spaceship and takes off, when unexpectedly Stryker appears near him, ordering him to take the ship down. Soon Gibson explains that Farrell piloted into metallic power lines, and the crash put him out for almost a day. These Alphardians are incredibly friendly. The object the crew considered a torpedo was actually an emergency boat the inhabitants sent to the spaceship to make sure the people on board noticed their colony. Their spaceship’s technology set off the atomic engines of the boat, making it explode. Gibson and Xavier recognized an old language of frequency modulation the night before, heard about Farrell’s crash, and landed the ship to help. It turns out that the expedition that left Terra for Sirius in 2171 perished soon, and the Bees brought the spacecraft here. They also brought some people from their peripheral colonies conditioned to believe themselves descendants of the expedition. They have been let alone. Farrell understands that the Bees were trying to monitor this group and understand humans’ logic, but they never did. "
"Who is Stryker and what are his characteristics? </s>    Any problem posed by one group ofhuman beings can be resolved by anyother group. That's what the Handbooksaid. But did that include primitivehumans? Or the Bees? Or a ...     CONTROL GROUP     By ROGER DEE    The  cool green disk of AlphardSix on the screen wasinfinitely welcome after the ariddesolation and stinking swamplandsof the inner planets, anairy jewel of a world that mighthave been designed specificallyfor the hard-earned month ofrest ahead. Navigator Farrell,youngest and certainly most impulsiveof the three-man TerranReclamations crew, would haveset the      Marco Four     down atonce but for the greater cautionof Stryker, nominally captain ofthe group, and of Gibson, engineer,and linguist. Xavier, theship's little mechanical, had—aswas usual and proper—no voicein the matter.     Reconnaissance spiral first,Arthur, Stryker said firmly. Hechuckled at Farrell's instantscowl, his little eyes twinklingand his naked paunch quakingover the belt of his shipboardshorts. Chapter One, SubsectionFive, Paragraph Twenty-seven:      No planetfall on an unreclaimedworld shall be deemedsafe without proper—          Farrell, as Stryker had expected,interrupted with characteristicimpatience. Do you      sleep     with that damned ReclamationsHandbook, Lee? Alphard Sixisn't an unreclaimed world—itwas never colonized before theHymenop invasion back in 3025,so why should it be inhabitednow?     Gibson, who for four hourshad not looked up from his interminablechess game withXavier, paused with a beleagueredknight in one blunt brownhand.     No point in taking chances,Gibson said in his neutral baritone.He shrugged thick bareshoulders, his humorless black-browedface unmoved, whenFarrell included him in hisscowl. We're two hundred twenty-sixlight-years from Sol, atthe old limits of Terran expansion,and there's no knowingwhat we may turn up here. Alphard'swas one of the first systemsthe Bees took over. It musthave been one of the last to beabandoned when they pulled backto 70 Ophiuchi.     And I think      you     live for theday, Farrell said acidly, whenwe'll stumble across a functioningdome of live, buzzing Hymenops.Damn it, Gib, the Beespulled out a hundred years ago,before you and I were born—neitherof us ever saw a Hymenop,and never will!     But I saw them, Strykersaid. I fought them for the betterpart of the century they werehere, and I learned there's nopredicting nor understandingthem. We never knew why theycame nor why they gave up andleft. How can we know whetherthey'd leave a rear-guard orbooby trap here?     He put a paternal hand onFarrell's shoulder, understandingthe younger man's eagernessand knowing that their close-knitteam would have been themore poorly balanced without it.     Gib's right, he said. Henearly added      as usual     . We're onrest leave at the moment, yes,but our mission is still to findTerran colonies enslaved andabandoned by the Bees, not torisk our necks and a valuableReorientations ship by landingblind on an unobserved planet.We're too close already. Cut inyour shields and find a reconnaissancespiral, will you?     Grumbling, Farrell punchedcoordinates on the Ringwaveboard that lifted the      Marco Four     out of her descent and restoredthe bluish enveloping haze ofher repellors.     Stryker's caution was justifiedon the instant. The speedingstreamlined shape that had flashedup unobserved from belowswerved sharply and exploded ina cataclysmic blaze of atomicfire that rocked the ship wildlyand flung the three men to thefloor in a jangling roar ofalarms.      So the Handbook tacticiansknew what they were about,Stryker said minutes later. Deliberatelyhe adopted the smugtone best calculated to sting Farrellout of his first self-reproach,and grinned when the navigatorbristled defensively. Some oftheir enjoinders seem a littlestuffy and obvious at times, butthey're eminently sensible.     When Farrell refused to bebaited Stryker turned to Gibson,who was busily assessing thedamage done to the ship's morefragile equipment, and to Xavier,who searched the planet'ssurface with the ship's magnoscanner.The      Marco Four     , Ringwavegenerators humming gently,hung at the moment justinside the orbit of Alphard Six'ssingle dun-colored moon.     Gibson put down a test meterwith an air of finality.     Nothing damaged but theZero Interval Transfer computer.I can realign that in a coupleof hours, but it'll have to bedone before we hit Transferagain.      Stryker looked dubious.What if the issue is forced beforethe ZIT unit is repaired?Suppose they come up after us?     I doubt that they can. Anyinstallation crudely enoughequipped to trust in guided missilesis hardly likely to have developedefficient space craft.     Stryker was not reassured.     That torpedo of theirs wasdeadly enough, he said. Andits nature reflects the nature ofthe people who made it. Any racevicious enough to use atomiccharges is too dangerous totrifle with. Worry made comicalcreases in his fat, good-humoredface. We'll have to findout who they are and whythey're here, you know.     They can't be Hymenops,Gibson said promptly. First,because the Bees pinned theirfaith on Ringwave energy fields,as we did, rather than on missiles.Second, because there's nodome on Six.     There were three emptydomes on Five, which is a desertplanet, Farrell pointed out.Why didn't they settle Six? It'sa more habitable world.     Gibson shrugged. I know theBees always erected domes onevery planet they colonized, Arthur,but precedent is a fallibletool. And it's even more firmlyestablished that there's no possibilityof our rationalizing themotivations of a culture as alienas the Hymenops'—we've beenover that argument a hundredtimes on other reclaimedworlds.     But this was never an unreclaimedworld, Farrell saidwith the faint malice of one toorecently caught in the wrong.Alphard Six was surveyed andseeded with Terran bacteriaaround the year 3000, but theBees invaded before we couldcolonize. And that means we'llhave to rule out any resurgentcolonial group down there, becauseSix never had a colony inthe beginning.     The Bees have been gone forover a hundred years, Strykersaid. Colonists might have migratedfrom another Terran-occupiedplanet.     Gibson disagreed.     We've touched at every inhabitedworld in this sector, Lee,and not one surviving colony hasdeveloped space travel on itsown. The Hymenops had a hundredyears to condition their humanslaves to ignorance ofeverything beyond their immediateenvironment—the motivesbehind that conditioning usuallyescape us, but that's beside thepoint—and they did a thoroughjob of it. The colonists have hadno more than a century of freedomsince the Bees pulled out,and four generations simplyisn't enough time for any subjugatedculture to climb fromslavery to interstellar flight.     Stryker made a padding turnabout the control room, tuggingunhappily at the scanty fringeof hair the years had left him.     If they're neither Hymenopsnor resurgent colonists, he said,then there's only one choice remaining—they'realiens from asystem we haven't reached yet,beyond the old sphere of Terranexploration. We always assumedthat we'd find other races outhere someday, and that they'dbe as different from us in formand motivation as the Hymenops.Why not now?     Gibson said seriously, Notprobable, Lee. The same objectionthat rules out the Bees appliesto any trans-Alphardianculture—they'd have to be beyondthe atomic fission stage,else they'd never have attemptedinterstellar flight. The Ringwavewith its Zero Interval Transferprinciple and instantaneous communicationsapplications is theonly answer to long-range travel,and if they'd had that theywouldn't have bothered withatomics.     Stryker turned on him almostangrily. If they're not Hymenopsor humans or aliens, thenwhat in God's name      are     they?      Aye, there's the rub, Farrellsaid, quoting a passagewhose aptness had somehow seenit through a dozen reorganizationsof insular tongue and afinal translation to universalTerran. If they're none of thosethree, we've only one conclusionleft. There's no one down thereat all—we're victims of the firstjoint hallucination in psychiatrichistory.     Stryker threw up his hands insurrender. We can't identifythem by theorizing, and thatbrings us down to the businessof first-hand investigation.Who's going to bell the cat thistime?     I'd like to go, Gibson saidat once. The ZIT computer canwait.     Stryker vetoed his offer aspromptly. No, the ZIT comesfirst. We may have to run for it,and we can't set up a Transferjump without the computer. It'sgot to be me or Arthur.     Farrell felt the familiar chillof uneasiness that inevitablypreceded this moment of decision.He was not lacking in courage,else the circumstances underwhich he had worked for thepast ten years—the sometimesperilous, sometimes downrightcharnel conditions left by thefleeing Hymenop conquerors—wouldhave broken him longago. But that same hard experiencehad honed rather thanblunted the edge of his imagination,and the prospect of a close-quartersstalking of an unknownand patently hostile force wasanything but attractive.     You two did the field workon the last location, he said.It's high time I took my turn—andGod knows I'd go mad ifI had to stay inship and listento Lee memorizing his Handbooksubsections or to Gib practicingdead languages with Xavier.     Stryker laughed for the firsttime since the explosion thathad so nearly wrecked the      MarcoFour     .     Good enough. Though itwouldn't be more diverting tolisten for hours to you improvisingenharmonic variations onthe      Lament for Old Terra     withyour accordion.     Gibson, characteristically, hada refinement to offer.     They'll be alerted down therefor a reconnaissance sally, hesaid. Why not let Xavier takethe scouter down for overt diversion,and drop Arthur off inthe helihopper for a low-levelcheck?     Stryker looked at Farrell. Allright, Arthur?     Good enough, Farrell said.And to Xavier, who had notmoved from his post at the magnoscanner:How does it look,Xav? Have you pinned downtheir base yet?     The mechanical answered himin a voice as smooth and clear—andas inflectionless—as a 'cellonote. The planet seems uninhabitedexcept for a large islandsome three hundred miles indiameter. There are twenty-sevensmall agrarian hamlets surroundedby cultivated fields.There is one city of perhaps athousand buildings with a centralsquare. In the square restsa grounded spaceship of approximatelyten times the bulkof the      Marco Four     .     They crowded about the visionscreen, jostling Xavier's jointedgray shape in their interest. Thecentral city lay in minutest detailbefore them, the batteredhulk of the grounded ship glintingrustily in the late afternoonsunlight. Streets radiated awayfrom the square in orderly succession,the whole so clearlydepicted that they could see thethrongs of people surging upand down, tiny foreshortenedfaces turned toward the sky.     At least they're human,Farrell said. Relief replaced insome measure his earlier uneasiness.Which means that they'reTerran, and can be dealt withaccording to Reclamations routine.Is that hulk spaceworthy,Xav?     Xavier's mellow drone assumedthe convention vibrato thatindicated stark puzzlement. Itsbreached hull makes the ship incapableof flight. Apparently itis used only to supply power tothe outlying hamlets.     The mechanical put a flexiblegray finger upon an indicatorgraph derived from a compositesection of detector meters. Thepower transmitted seems to begross electric current conveyedby metallic cables. It is generatedthrough a crudely governedprocess of continuous atomicfission.      Farrell, himself appalled bythe information, still found himselfable to chuckle at Stryker'sbellow of consternation.           Continuous fission?     GoodGod, only madmen would deliberatelyrun a risk like that!     Farrell prodded him withcheerful malice. Why say mad      men     ? Maybe they're humanoidaliens who thrive on hard radiationand look on the danger ofbeing blown to hell in the middleof the night as a satisfactoryrisk.     They're not alien, Gibsonsaid positively. Their architectureis Terran, and so is theirship. The ship is incrediblyprimitive, though; those batteriesof tubes at either end—     Are thrust reaction jets,Stryker finished in an awedvoice. Primitive isn't the word,Gib—the thing is prehistoric!Rocket propulsion hasn't beenused in spacecraft since—howlong, Xav?     Xavier supplied the informationwith mechanical infallibility.Since the year 2100 whenthe Ringwave propulsion-communicationprinciple was discovered.That principle has servedmen since.     Farrell stared in blank disbeliefat the anomalous craft onthe screen. Primitive, as Strykerhad said, was not the wordfor it: clumsily ovoid, studdedwith torpedo domes and turretsand bristling at either end withpropulsion tubes, it lay at thecenter of its square like a rustedrelic of a past largely destroyedand all but forgotten. What amagnificent disregard its buildersmust have had, he thought,for their lives and the geneticpurity of their posterity! Thesullen atomic fires banked inthat oxidizing hulk—     Stryker said plaintively, Ifyou're right, Gib, then we'remore in the dark than ever. Howcould a Terran-built ship elevenhundred years old get      here     ?     Gibson, absorbed in his chess-player'scontemplation of alternatives,seemed hardly to hearhim.     Logic or not-logic, Gibsonsaid. If it's a Terran artifact,we can discover the reason forits presence. If not—           Any problem posed by onegroup of human beings     , Strykerquoted his Handbook,       can beresolved by any other group, regardlessof ideology or conditioning,because the basicperceptive abilities of both mustbe the same through identicalheredity     .     If it's an imitation, and thisis another Hymenop experimentin condition ecology, then we'restumped to begin with, Gibsonfinished. Because we're notequipped to evaluate the psychologyof alien motivation. We'vegot to determine first which caseapplies here.      He waited for Farrell's expectedirony, and when thenavigator forestalled him by remaininggrimly quiet, continued.     The obvious premise is thata Terran ship must have beenbuilt by Terrans. Question: Wasit flown here, or built here?     It couldn't have been builthere, Stryker said. AlphardSix was surveyed just before theBees took over in 3025, and therewas nothing of the sort herethen. It couldn't have been builtduring the two and a quartercenturies since; it's obviouslymuch older than that. It wasflown here.     We progress, Farrell saiddryly. Now if you'll tell us      how     ,we're ready to move.     I think the ship was built onTerra during the Twenty-secondCentury, Gibson said calmly.The atomic wars during thatperiod destroyed practically allhistorical records along with thetechnology of the time, but I'veread well-authenticated reportsof atomic-driven ships leavingTerra before then for the nearerstars. The human race climbedout of its pit again during theTwenty-third Century and developedthe technology that gaveus the Ringwave. Certainly noatomic-powered ships were builtafter the wars—our records arecomplete from that time.     Farrell shook his head at theinference. I've read any numberof fanciful romances on thetheme, Gib, but it won't standup in practice. No shipboard societycould last through a thousand-yearspace voyage. It's aphysical and psychological impossibility.There's got to besome other explanation.      Gibson shrugged. We canonly eliminate the least likelyalternatives and accept the simplestone remaining.     Then we can eliminate thisone now, Farrell said flatly. Itentails a thousand-year voyage,which is an impossibility for anygross reaction drive; the applicationof suspended animationor longevity or a successive-generationprogram, and a finalpenetration of Hymenop-occupiedspace to set up a colony underthe very antennae of theBees. Longevity wasn't developeduntil around the year 3000—Leehere was one of the first toprofit by it, if you remember—andsuspended animation is stillto come. So there's one theoryyou can forget.     Arthur's right, Stryker saidreluctantly. An atomic-poweredship      couldn't     have made such atrip, Gib. And such a lineal-descendantproject couldn't havelasted through forty generations,speculative fiction to thecontrary—the later generationswould have been too far removedin ideology and intent fromtheir ancestors. They'd haveadapted to shipboard life as thenorm. They'd have atrophiedphysically, perhaps even havemutated—     And they'd never havefought past the Bees during theHymenop invasion and occupation,Farrell finished triumphantly.The Bees had betterdetection equipment than wehad. They'd have picked thisship up long before it reachedAlphard Six.     But the ship wasn't here in3000, Gibson said, and it isnow. Therefore it must have arrivedat some time during thetwo hundred years of Hymenopoccupation and evacuation.     Farrell, tangled in contradictions,swore bitterly. Butwhy should the Bees let themthrough? The three domes onFive are over two hundred yearsold, which means that the Beeswere here before the ship came.Why didn't they blast it or enslaveits crew?     We haven't touched on all thepossibilities, Gibson remindedhim. We haven't even establishedyet that these people werenever under Hymenop control.Precedent won't hold always, andthere's no predicting nor evaluatingthe motives of an alienrace. We never understood theHymenops because there's nocommon ground of logic betweenus. Why try to interpret theirintentions now?     Farrell threw up his hands indisgust. Next you'll say this isan ancient Terran expeditionthat actually succeeded! There'sonly one way to answer thequestions we've raised, andthat's to go down and see forourselves. Ready, Xav?      But uncertainty nagged uneasilyat him when Farrell foundhimself alone in the helihopperwith the forest flowing beneathlike a leafy river and Xavier'sscouter disappearing bulletlikeinto the dusk ahead.     We never found a colony soadvanced, Farrell thought. Supposethis is a Hymenop experimentthat really paid off? TheBees did some weird and wonderfulthings with humanguinea pigs—what if they'vecreated the ultimate booby traphere, and primed it with conditionedmyrmidons in our ownform?     Suppose, he thought—and deridedhimself for thinking it—oneof those suicidal old interstellarventures      did     succeed?     Xavier's voice, a mellowdrone from the helihopper'sRingwave-powered visicom, cutsharply into his musing. Theship has discovered the scouterand is training an electronicbeam upon it. My instrumentsrecord an electromagnetic vibrationpattern of low power butrapidly varying frequency. Theoperation seems pointless.     Stryker's voice followed, querulouswith worry: I'd betterpull Xav back. It may be somethinglethal.     Don't, Gibson's baritone advised.Surprisingly, there wasexcitement in the engineer'svoice. I think they're trying tocommunicate with us.     Farrell was on the point ofdemanding acidly to know howone went about communicatingby means of a fluctuating electricfield when the unexpectedcessation of forest diverted hisattention. The helihopper scuddedover a cultivated areaof considerable extent, fieldsstretching below in a vague randomcheckerboard of lighter anddarker earth, an undefined clusterof buildings at their center.There was a central bonfire thatburned like a wild red eyeagainst the lower gloom, and inits plunging ruddy glow he madeout an urgent scurrying of shadowyfigures.     I'm passing over a hamlet,Farrell reported. The one nearestthe city, I think. There'ssomething odd going ondown—     Catastrophe struck so suddenlythat he was caught completelyunprepared. The helihopper'sflimsy carriage bucked andcrumpled. There was a blindingflare of electric discharge, apungent stink of ozone and astunning shock that flung himheadlong into darkness.      He awoke slowly with a brutalheadache and a conviction ofnightmare heightened by theoutlandish tone of his surroundings.He lay on a narrow bed ina whitely antiseptic infirmary,an oblong metal cell clutteredwith a grimly utilitarian arrayof tables and lockers and chests.The lighting was harsh andoverbright and the air hungthick with pungent unfamiliarchemical odors. From somewhere,far off yet at the sametime as near as the bulkheadabove him, came the unceasingdrone of machinery.     Farrell sat up, groaning,when full consciousness made hisposition clear. He had been shotdown by God knew what sort ofdevastating unorthodox weaponand was a prisoner in thegrounded ship.     At his rising, a white-smockedfat man with anachronistic spectaclesand close-cropped grayhair came into the room, movingwith the professional assuranceof a medic. The man stoppedshort at Farrell's stare andspoke; his words were utterlyunintelligible, but his gesturewas unmistakable.     Farrell followed him dumblyout of the infirmary and downa bare corridor whose metalfloor rang coldly underfoot. Anopen port near the corridor's endrelieved the blankness of walland let in a flood of reddish Alphardiansunlight; Farrell slowedto look out, wondering howlong he had lain unconscious,and felt panic knife at himwhen he saw Xavier's scouter lying,port open and undefended,on the square outside.     The mechanical had been aseasily taken as himself, then.Stryker and Gibson, for all theirprofessional caution, would fareno better—they could not haveoverlooked the capture of Farrelland Xavier, and when theytried as a matter of course torescue them the      Marco     would bestruck down in turn by the sameweapon.     The fat medic turned andsaid something urgent in hisunintelligible tongue. Farrell,dazed by the enormity of whathad happened, followed withoutprotest into an intersecting waythat led through a bewilderingsuccession of storage rooms andhydroponics gardens, through asmall gymnasium fitted withphysical training equipment ingraduated sizes and finally intoa soundproofed place that couldhave been nothing but a nursery.     The implication behind itspresence stopped Farrell short.     A      creche     , he said, stunned.He had a wild vision of endlessgenerations of children growingup in this dim and stuffy room,to be taught from their firsttoddling steps the functions theymust fulfill before the ventureof which they were a part couldbe consummated.     One of those old ventures      had     succeeded, he thought, and wasawed by the daring of that thousand-yearodyssey. The realizationleft him more alarmed thanbefore—for what technical marvelsmight not an isolated groupof such dogged specialists havedeveloped during a millenniumof application?     Such a weapon as had broughtdown the helihopper and scouterwas patently beyond reach of hisown latter-day technology. Perhaps,he thought, its possessionexplained the presence of thesepeople here in the first strongholdof the Hymenops; perhapsthey had even fought and defeatedthe Bees on their own invadedground.     He followed his white-smockedguide through a power roomwhere great crude generatorswhirred ponderously, pouringout gross electric current intoarm-thick cables. They werenearing the bow of the shipwhen they passed by anotheropen port and Farrell, glancingout over the lowered rampway,saw that his fears for Strykerand Gibson had been wellgrounded.     The      Marco Four     , ports open,lay grounded outside.      Farrell could not have said,later, whether his next movewas planned or reflexive. Thewhole desperate issue seemed tohang suspended for a breathlessmoment upon a hair-fine edge ofdecision, and in that instant hemade his bid.     Without pausing in his stridehe sprang out and through theport and down the steep planeof the ramp. The rough stonepavement of the square drummedunderfoot; sore musclestore at him, and weakness waslike a weight about his neck. Heexpected momentarily to beblasted out of existence.     He reached the      Marco Four     with the startled shouts of hisguide ringing unintelligibly inhis ears. The port yawned; heplunged inside and stabbed atcontrols without waiting to seathimself. The ports swung shut.The ship darted up under hismanipulation and arrowed intospace with an acceleration thatsprung his knees and made hisvision swim blackly.     He was so weak with strainand with the success of his coupthat he all but fainted whenStryker, his scanty hair tousledand his fat face comical with bewilderment,stumbled out of hissleeping cubicle and bellowed athim.     What the hell are you doing,Arthur? Take us down!     Farrell gaped at him, speechless.     Stryker lumbered past himand took the controls, spiralingthe      Marco Four     down. Menswarmed outside the ports whenthe Reclamations craft settledgently to the square again. Gibsonand Xavier reached the shipfirst; Gibson came inside quickly,leaving the mechanical outsidemaking patient explanationsto an excited group of Alphardians.     Gibson put a reassuring handon Farrell's arm. It's all right,Arthur. There's no trouble.     Farrell said dumbly, I don'tunderstand. They didn't shootyou and Xav down too?     It was Gibson's turn to stare.     No one shot you down! Thesepeople are primitive enough touse metallic power lines tocarry electricity to their hamlets,an anachronism you forgotlast night. You piloted the helihopperinto one of those lines,and the crash put you out forthe rest of the night and mostof today. These Alphardians arefriendly, so desperately happy tobe found again that it's reallypathetic.           Friendly?     That torpedo—     It wasn't a torpedo at all,Stryker put in. Understandingof the error under which Farrellhad labored erased hisearlier irritation, and he chuckledcommiseratingly. They hadone small boat left for emergencymissions, and sent it up tocontact us in the fear that wemight overlook their settlementand move on. The boat wasatomic powered, and our shieldscreens set off its engines.     Farrell dropped into a chair atthe chart table, limp with reaction.He was suddenly exhausted,and his head ached dully.     We cracked the communicationsproblem early last night,Gibson said. These people usean ancient system of electromagneticwave propagation calledfrequency modulation, and onceLee and I rigged up a suitabletransceiver the rest was simple.Both Xav and I recognized theold language; the natives reportedyour accident, and we camedown at once.     They really came from Terra?They lived through a thousandyears of flight?     The ship left Terra forSirius in 2171, Gibson said.But not with these peopleaboard, or their ancestors. Thatexpedition perished after lessthan a light-year when itshydroponics system failed. TheHymenops found the ship derelictwhen they invaded us, andbrought it to Alphard Six inwhat was probably their first experimentwith human subjects.The ship's log shows clearlywhat happened to the originalcomplement. The rest is deduciblefrom the situation here.     Farrell put his hands to histemples and groaned. The crashmust have scrambled my wits.Gib, where      did     they come from?     From one of the first peripheralcolonies conquered by theBees, Gibson said patiently.The Hymenops were long-rangeplanners, remember, and mastersof hypnotic conditioning. Theystocked the ship with a captivecrew of Terrans conditioned tobelieve themselves descendantsof the original crew, andgrounded it here in disabledcondition. They left for AlphardFive then, to watch developments.     Succeeding generations ofcolonists grew up accepting thefact that their ship had missedSirius and made planetfall here—theystill don't know wherethey really are—by luck. Theynever knew about the Hymenops,and they've struggled alongwith an inadequate technology inthe hope that a later expeditionwould find them. They found thetruth hard to take, but they'reeager to enjoy the fruits of Terranassimilation.     Stryker, grinning, broughtFarrell a frosted drink that tinkledinvitingly. An unusuallyfortunate ending to a Hymenopexperiment, he said. Thesepeople progressed normally becausethey've been let alone. Reorientingthem will be a simplematter; they'll be properly spoiledcolonists within another generation.     Farrell sipped his drink appreciatively.     But I don't see why the Beesshould go to such trouble to deceivethese people. Why did theysit back and let them grow asthey pleased, Gib? It doesn'tmake sense!     But it does, for once, Gibsonsaid. The Bees set up thiscolony as a control unit to studythe species they were invading,and they had to give theirspecimens a normal—if obsolete—backgroundin order to determinetheir capabilities. The factthat their experiment didn't tellthem what they wanted to knowmay have had a direct bearingon their decision to pull out.     Farrell shook his head. It'sa reverse application, isn't it ofthe old saw about Terrans beingincapable of understanding analien culture?     Of course, said Gibson, surprised.It's obvious enough,surely—hard as they tried, theBees never understood useither.     THE END     Transcriber's Note:    This etext was produced from    Amazing Science Fiction Stories   January1960. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note.","Stryker is a crew member of the Marco Four, nominally captain of the group sent on a mission to locate the Terran slaves that were abandoned by the Bees. He seems experienced, calm, and disciplined, always following the Reclamation Handbook. Stryker has fought the Hymenops and spent a lot of time trying to understand their behavior. He values his team and doesn’t want to risk them or their ship in the search for the unknown and, for example, was ready to pull Xavier back when they just detected the waves, fearing it could be something lethal. He appreciates Farrell’s eagerness to find the new and enjoys bantering with him; he also respects other crew members, like Gibson and Xavier, and attentively listens to them when they discuss the origin of the atomic-powered ship. Stryker is intelligent enough to determine that this ancient ship couldn’t have been constructed on this planet - it was brought from somewhere else."
"Describe the setting of the story. </s>    Any problem posed by one group ofhuman beings can be resolved by anyother group. That's what the Handbooksaid. But did that include primitivehumans? Or the Bees? Or a ...     CONTROL GROUP     By ROGER DEE    The  cool green disk of AlphardSix on the screen wasinfinitely welcome after the ariddesolation and stinking swamplandsof the inner planets, anairy jewel of a world that mighthave been designed specificallyfor the hard-earned month ofrest ahead. Navigator Farrell,youngest and certainly most impulsiveof the three-man TerranReclamations crew, would haveset the      Marco Four     down atonce but for the greater cautionof Stryker, nominally captain ofthe group, and of Gibson, engineer,and linguist. Xavier, theship's little mechanical, had—aswas usual and proper—no voicein the matter.     Reconnaissance spiral first,Arthur, Stryker said firmly. Hechuckled at Farrell's instantscowl, his little eyes twinklingand his naked paunch quakingover the belt of his shipboardshorts. Chapter One, SubsectionFive, Paragraph Twenty-seven:      No planetfall on an unreclaimedworld shall be deemedsafe without proper—          Farrell, as Stryker had expected,interrupted with characteristicimpatience. Do you      sleep     with that damned ReclamationsHandbook, Lee? Alphard Sixisn't an unreclaimed world—itwas never colonized before theHymenop invasion back in 3025,so why should it be inhabitednow?     Gibson, who for four hourshad not looked up from his interminablechess game withXavier, paused with a beleagueredknight in one blunt brownhand.     No point in taking chances,Gibson said in his neutral baritone.He shrugged thick bareshoulders, his humorless black-browedface unmoved, whenFarrell included him in hisscowl. We're two hundred twenty-sixlight-years from Sol, atthe old limits of Terran expansion,and there's no knowingwhat we may turn up here. Alphard'swas one of the first systemsthe Bees took over. It musthave been one of the last to beabandoned when they pulled backto 70 Ophiuchi.     And I think      you     live for theday, Farrell said acidly, whenwe'll stumble across a functioningdome of live, buzzing Hymenops.Damn it, Gib, the Beespulled out a hundred years ago,before you and I were born—neitherof us ever saw a Hymenop,and never will!     But I saw them, Strykersaid. I fought them for the betterpart of the century they werehere, and I learned there's nopredicting nor understandingthem. We never knew why theycame nor why they gave up andleft. How can we know whetherthey'd leave a rear-guard orbooby trap here?     He put a paternal hand onFarrell's shoulder, understandingthe younger man's eagernessand knowing that their close-knitteam would have been themore poorly balanced without it.     Gib's right, he said. Henearly added      as usual     . We're onrest leave at the moment, yes,but our mission is still to findTerran colonies enslaved andabandoned by the Bees, not torisk our necks and a valuableReorientations ship by landingblind on an unobserved planet.We're too close already. Cut inyour shields and find a reconnaissancespiral, will you?     Grumbling, Farrell punchedcoordinates on the Ringwaveboard that lifted the      Marco Four     out of her descent and restoredthe bluish enveloping haze ofher repellors.     Stryker's caution was justifiedon the instant. The speedingstreamlined shape that had flashedup unobserved from belowswerved sharply and exploded ina cataclysmic blaze of atomicfire that rocked the ship wildlyand flung the three men to thefloor in a jangling roar ofalarms.      So the Handbook tacticiansknew what they were about,Stryker said minutes later. Deliberatelyhe adopted the smugtone best calculated to sting Farrellout of his first self-reproach,and grinned when the navigatorbristled defensively. Some oftheir enjoinders seem a littlestuffy and obvious at times, butthey're eminently sensible.     When Farrell refused to bebaited Stryker turned to Gibson,who was busily assessing thedamage done to the ship's morefragile equipment, and to Xavier,who searched the planet'ssurface with the ship's magnoscanner.The      Marco Four     , Ringwavegenerators humming gently,hung at the moment justinside the orbit of Alphard Six'ssingle dun-colored moon.     Gibson put down a test meterwith an air of finality.     Nothing damaged but theZero Interval Transfer computer.I can realign that in a coupleof hours, but it'll have to bedone before we hit Transferagain.      Stryker looked dubious.What if the issue is forced beforethe ZIT unit is repaired?Suppose they come up after us?     I doubt that they can. Anyinstallation crudely enoughequipped to trust in guided missilesis hardly likely to have developedefficient space craft.     Stryker was not reassured.     That torpedo of theirs wasdeadly enough, he said. Andits nature reflects the nature ofthe people who made it. Any racevicious enough to use atomiccharges is too dangerous totrifle with. Worry made comicalcreases in his fat, good-humoredface. We'll have to findout who they are and whythey're here, you know.     They can't be Hymenops,Gibson said promptly. First,because the Bees pinned theirfaith on Ringwave energy fields,as we did, rather than on missiles.Second, because there's nodome on Six.     There were three emptydomes on Five, which is a desertplanet, Farrell pointed out.Why didn't they settle Six? It'sa more habitable world.     Gibson shrugged. I know theBees always erected domes onevery planet they colonized, Arthur,but precedent is a fallibletool. And it's even more firmlyestablished that there's no possibilityof our rationalizing themotivations of a culture as alienas the Hymenops'—we've beenover that argument a hundredtimes on other reclaimedworlds.     But this was never an unreclaimedworld, Farrell saidwith the faint malice of one toorecently caught in the wrong.Alphard Six was surveyed andseeded with Terran bacteriaaround the year 3000, but theBees invaded before we couldcolonize. And that means we'llhave to rule out any resurgentcolonial group down there, becauseSix never had a colony inthe beginning.     The Bees have been gone forover a hundred years, Strykersaid. Colonists might have migratedfrom another Terran-occupiedplanet.     Gibson disagreed.     We've touched at every inhabitedworld in this sector, Lee,and not one surviving colony hasdeveloped space travel on itsown. The Hymenops had a hundredyears to condition their humanslaves to ignorance ofeverything beyond their immediateenvironment—the motivesbehind that conditioning usuallyescape us, but that's beside thepoint—and they did a thoroughjob of it. The colonists have hadno more than a century of freedomsince the Bees pulled out,and four generations simplyisn't enough time for any subjugatedculture to climb fromslavery to interstellar flight.     Stryker made a padding turnabout the control room, tuggingunhappily at the scanty fringeof hair the years had left him.     If they're neither Hymenopsnor resurgent colonists, he said,then there's only one choice remaining—they'realiens from asystem we haven't reached yet,beyond the old sphere of Terranexploration. We always assumedthat we'd find other races outhere someday, and that they'dbe as different from us in formand motivation as the Hymenops.Why not now?     Gibson said seriously, Notprobable, Lee. The same objectionthat rules out the Bees appliesto any trans-Alphardianculture—they'd have to be beyondthe atomic fission stage,else they'd never have attemptedinterstellar flight. The Ringwavewith its Zero Interval Transferprinciple and instantaneous communicationsapplications is theonly answer to long-range travel,and if they'd had that theywouldn't have bothered withatomics.     Stryker turned on him almostangrily. If they're not Hymenopsor humans or aliens, thenwhat in God's name      are     they?      Aye, there's the rub, Farrellsaid, quoting a passagewhose aptness had somehow seenit through a dozen reorganizationsof insular tongue and afinal translation to universalTerran. If they're none of thosethree, we've only one conclusionleft. There's no one down thereat all—we're victims of the firstjoint hallucination in psychiatrichistory.     Stryker threw up his hands insurrender. We can't identifythem by theorizing, and thatbrings us down to the businessof first-hand investigation.Who's going to bell the cat thistime?     I'd like to go, Gibson saidat once. The ZIT computer canwait.     Stryker vetoed his offer aspromptly. No, the ZIT comesfirst. We may have to run for it,and we can't set up a Transferjump without the computer. It'sgot to be me or Arthur.     Farrell felt the familiar chillof uneasiness that inevitablypreceded this moment of decision.He was not lacking in courage,else the circumstances underwhich he had worked for thepast ten years—the sometimesperilous, sometimes downrightcharnel conditions left by thefleeing Hymenop conquerors—wouldhave broken him longago. But that same hard experiencehad honed rather thanblunted the edge of his imagination,and the prospect of a close-quartersstalking of an unknownand patently hostile force wasanything but attractive.     You two did the field workon the last location, he said.It's high time I took my turn—andGod knows I'd go mad ifI had to stay inship and listento Lee memorizing his Handbooksubsections or to Gib practicingdead languages with Xavier.     Stryker laughed for the firsttime since the explosion thathad so nearly wrecked the      MarcoFour     .     Good enough. Though itwouldn't be more diverting tolisten for hours to you improvisingenharmonic variations onthe      Lament for Old Terra     withyour accordion.     Gibson, characteristically, hada refinement to offer.     They'll be alerted down therefor a reconnaissance sally, hesaid. Why not let Xavier takethe scouter down for overt diversion,and drop Arthur off inthe helihopper for a low-levelcheck?     Stryker looked at Farrell. Allright, Arthur?     Good enough, Farrell said.And to Xavier, who had notmoved from his post at the magnoscanner:How does it look,Xav? Have you pinned downtheir base yet?     The mechanical answered himin a voice as smooth and clear—andas inflectionless—as a 'cellonote. The planet seems uninhabitedexcept for a large islandsome three hundred miles indiameter. There are twenty-sevensmall agrarian hamlets surroundedby cultivated fields.There is one city of perhaps athousand buildings with a centralsquare. In the square restsa grounded spaceship of approximatelyten times the bulkof the      Marco Four     .     They crowded about the visionscreen, jostling Xavier's jointedgray shape in their interest. Thecentral city lay in minutest detailbefore them, the batteredhulk of the grounded ship glintingrustily in the late afternoonsunlight. Streets radiated awayfrom the square in orderly succession,the whole so clearlydepicted that they could see thethrongs of people surging upand down, tiny foreshortenedfaces turned toward the sky.     At least they're human,Farrell said. Relief replaced insome measure his earlier uneasiness.Which means that they'reTerran, and can be dealt withaccording to Reclamations routine.Is that hulk spaceworthy,Xav?     Xavier's mellow drone assumedthe convention vibrato thatindicated stark puzzlement. Itsbreached hull makes the ship incapableof flight. Apparently itis used only to supply power tothe outlying hamlets.     The mechanical put a flexiblegray finger upon an indicatorgraph derived from a compositesection of detector meters. Thepower transmitted seems to begross electric current conveyedby metallic cables. It is generatedthrough a crudely governedprocess of continuous atomicfission.      Farrell, himself appalled bythe information, still found himselfable to chuckle at Stryker'sbellow of consternation.           Continuous fission?     GoodGod, only madmen would deliberatelyrun a risk like that!     Farrell prodded him withcheerful malice. Why say mad      men     ? Maybe they're humanoidaliens who thrive on hard radiationand look on the danger ofbeing blown to hell in the middleof the night as a satisfactoryrisk.     They're not alien, Gibsonsaid positively. Their architectureis Terran, and so is theirship. The ship is incrediblyprimitive, though; those batteriesof tubes at either end—     Are thrust reaction jets,Stryker finished in an awedvoice. Primitive isn't the word,Gib—the thing is prehistoric!Rocket propulsion hasn't beenused in spacecraft since—howlong, Xav?     Xavier supplied the informationwith mechanical infallibility.Since the year 2100 whenthe Ringwave propulsion-communicationprinciple was discovered.That principle has servedmen since.     Farrell stared in blank disbeliefat the anomalous craft onthe screen. Primitive, as Strykerhad said, was not the wordfor it: clumsily ovoid, studdedwith torpedo domes and turretsand bristling at either end withpropulsion tubes, it lay at thecenter of its square like a rustedrelic of a past largely destroyedand all but forgotten. What amagnificent disregard its buildersmust have had, he thought,for their lives and the geneticpurity of their posterity! Thesullen atomic fires banked inthat oxidizing hulk—     Stryker said plaintively, Ifyou're right, Gib, then we'remore in the dark than ever. Howcould a Terran-built ship elevenhundred years old get      here     ?     Gibson, absorbed in his chess-player'scontemplation of alternatives,seemed hardly to hearhim.     Logic or not-logic, Gibsonsaid. If it's a Terran artifact,we can discover the reason forits presence. If not—           Any problem posed by onegroup of human beings     , Strykerquoted his Handbook,       can beresolved by any other group, regardlessof ideology or conditioning,because the basicperceptive abilities of both mustbe the same through identicalheredity     .     If it's an imitation, and thisis another Hymenop experimentin condition ecology, then we'restumped to begin with, Gibsonfinished. Because we're notequipped to evaluate the psychologyof alien motivation. We'vegot to determine first which caseapplies here.      He waited for Farrell's expectedirony, and when thenavigator forestalled him by remaininggrimly quiet, continued.     The obvious premise is thata Terran ship must have beenbuilt by Terrans. Question: Wasit flown here, or built here?     It couldn't have been builthere, Stryker said. AlphardSix was surveyed just before theBees took over in 3025, and therewas nothing of the sort herethen. It couldn't have been builtduring the two and a quartercenturies since; it's obviouslymuch older than that. It wasflown here.     We progress, Farrell saiddryly. Now if you'll tell us      how     ,we're ready to move.     I think the ship was built onTerra during the Twenty-secondCentury, Gibson said calmly.The atomic wars during thatperiod destroyed practically allhistorical records along with thetechnology of the time, but I'veread well-authenticated reportsof atomic-driven ships leavingTerra before then for the nearerstars. The human race climbedout of its pit again during theTwenty-third Century and developedthe technology that gaveus the Ringwave. Certainly noatomic-powered ships were builtafter the wars—our records arecomplete from that time.     Farrell shook his head at theinference. I've read any numberof fanciful romances on thetheme, Gib, but it won't standup in practice. No shipboard societycould last through a thousand-yearspace voyage. It's aphysical and psychological impossibility.There's got to besome other explanation.      Gibson shrugged. We canonly eliminate the least likelyalternatives and accept the simplestone remaining.     Then we can eliminate thisone now, Farrell said flatly. Itentails a thousand-year voyage,which is an impossibility for anygross reaction drive; the applicationof suspended animationor longevity or a successive-generationprogram, and a finalpenetration of Hymenop-occupiedspace to set up a colony underthe very antennae of theBees. Longevity wasn't developeduntil around the year 3000—Leehere was one of the first toprofit by it, if you remember—andsuspended animation is stillto come. So there's one theoryyou can forget.     Arthur's right, Stryker saidreluctantly. An atomic-poweredship      couldn't     have made such atrip, Gib. And such a lineal-descendantproject couldn't havelasted through forty generations,speculative fiction to thecontrary—the later generationswould have been too far removedin ideology and intent fromtheir ancestors. They'd haveadapted to shipboard life as thenorm. They'd have atrophiedphysically, perhaps even havemutated—     And they'd never havefought past the Bees during theHymenop invasion and occupation,Farrell finished triumphantly.The Bees had betterdetection equipment than wehad. They'd have picked thisship up long before it reachedAlphard Six.     But the ship wasn't here in3000, Gibson said, and it isnow. Therefore it must have arrivedat some time during thetwo hundred years of Hymenopoccupation and evacuation.     Farrell, tangled in contradictions,swore bitterly. Butwhy should the Bees let themthrough? The three domes onFive are over two hundred yearsold, which means that the Beeswere here before the ship came.Why didn't they blast it or enslaveits crew?     We haven't touched on all thepossibilities, Gibson remindedhim. We haven't even establishedyet that these people werenever under Hymenop control.Precedent won't hold always, andthere's no predicting nor evaluatingthe motives of an alienrace. We never understood theHymenops because there's nocommon ground of logic betweenus. Why try to interpret theirintentions now?     Farrell threw up his hands indisgust. Next you'll say this isan ancient Terran expeditionthat actually succeeded! There'sonly one way to answer thequestions we've raised, andthat's to go down and see forourselves. Ready, Xav?      But uncertainty nagged uneasilyat him when Farrell foundhimself alone in the helihopperwith the forest flowing beneathlike a leafy river and Xavier'sscouter disappearing bulletlikeinto the dusk ahead.     We never found a colony soadvanced, Farrell thought. Supposethis is a Hymenop experimentthat really paid off? TheBees did some weird and wonderfulthings with humanguinea pigs—what if they'vecreated the ultimate booby traphere, and primed it with conditionedmyrmidons in our ownform?     Suppose, he thought—and deridedhimself for thinking it—oneof those suicidal old interstellarventures      did     succeed?     Xavier's voice, a mellowdrone from the helihopper'sRingwave-powered visicom, cutsharply into his musing. Theship has discovered the scouterand is training an electronicbeam upon it. My instrumentsrecord an electromagnetic vibrationpattern of low power butrapidly varying frequency. Theoperation seems pointless.     Stryker's voice followed, querulouswith worry: I'd betterpull Xav back. It may be somethinglethal.     Don't, Gibson's baritone advised.Surprisingly, there wasexcitement in the engineer'svoice. I think they're trying tocommunicate with us.     Farrell was on the point ofdemanding acidly to know howone went about communicatingby means of a fluctuating electricfield when the unexpectedcessation of forest diverted hisattention. The helihopper scuddedover a cultivated areaof considerable extent, fieldsstretching below in a vague randomcheckerboard of lighter anddarker earth, an undefined clusterof buildings at their center.There was a central bonfire thatburned like a wild red eyeagainst the lower gloom, and inits plunging ruddy glow he madeout an urgent scurrying of shadowyfigures.     I'm passing over a hamlet,Farrell reported. The one nearestthe city, I think. There'ssomething odd going ondown—     Catastrophe struck so suddenlythat he was caught completelyunprepared. The helihopper'sflimsy carriage bucked andcrumpled. There was a blindingflare of electric discharge, apungent stink of ozone and astunning shock that flung himheadlong into darkness.      He awoke slowly with a brutalheadache and a conviction ofnightmare heightened by theoutlandish tone of his surroundings.He lay on a narrow bed ina whitely antiseptic infirmary,an oblong metal cell clutteredwith a grimly utilitarian arrayof tables and lockers and chests.The lighting was harsh andoverbright and the air hungthick with pungent unfamiliarchemical odors. From somewhere,far off yet at the sametime as near as the bulkheadabove him, came the unceasingdrone of machinery.     Farrell sat up, groaning,when full consciousness made hisposition clear. He had been shotdown by God knew what sort ofdevastating unorthodox weaponand was a prisoner in thegrounded ship.     At his rising, a white-smockedfat man with anachronistic spectaclesand close-cropped grayhair came into the room, movingwith the professional assuranceof a medic. The man stoppedshort at Farrell's stare andspoke; his words were utterlyunintelligible, but his gesturewas unmistakable.     Farrell followed him dumblyout of the infirmary and downa bare corridor whose metalfloor rang coldly underfoot. Anopen port near the corridor's endrelieved the blankness of walland let in a flood of reddish Alphardiansunlight; Farrell slowedto look out, wondering howlong he had lain unconscious,and felt panic knife at himwhen he saw Xavier's scouter lying,port open and undefended,on the square outside.     The mechanical had been aseasily taken as himself, then.Stryker and Gibson, for all theirprofessional caution, would fareno better—they could not haveoverlooked the capture of Farrelland Xavier, and when theytried as a matter of course torescue them the      Marco     would bestruck down in turn by the sameweapon.     The fat medic turned andsaid something urgent in hisunintelligible tongue. Farrell,dazed by the enormity of whathad happened, followed withoutprotest into an intersecting waythat led through a bewilderingsuccession of storage rooms andhydroponics gardens, through asmall gymnasium fitted withphysical training equipment ingraduated sizes and finally intoa soundproofed place that couldhave been nothing but a nursery.     The implication behind itspresence stopped Farrell short.     A      creche     , he said, stunned.He had a wild vision of endlessgenerations of children growingup in this dim and stuffy room,to be taught from their firsttoddling steps the functions theymust fulfill before the ventureof which they were a part couldbe consummated.     One of those old ventures      had     succeeded, he thought, and wasawed by the daring of that thousand-yearodyssey. The realizationleft him more alarmed thanbefore—for what technical marvelsmight not an isolated groupof such dogged specialists havedeveloped during a millenniumof application?     Such a weapon as had broughtdown the helihopper and scouterwas patently beyond reach of hisown latter-day technology. Perhaps,he thought, its possessionexplained the presence of thesepeople here in the first strongholdof the Hymenops; perhapsthey had even fought and defeatedthe Bees on their own invadedground.     He followed his white-smockedguide through a power roomwhere great crude generatorswhirred ponderously, pouringout gross electric current intoarm-thick cables. They werenearing the bow of the shipwhen they passed by anotheropen port and Farrell, glancingout over the lowered rampway,saw that his fears for Strykerand Gibson had been wellgrounded.     The      Marco Four     , ports open,lay grounded outside.      Farrell could not have said,later, whether his next movewas planned or reflexive. Thewhole desperate issue seemed tohang suspended for a breathlessmoment upon a hair-fine edge ofdecision, and in that instant hemade his bid.     Without pausing in his stridehe sprang out and through theport and down the steep planeof the ramp. The rough stonepavement of the square drummedunderfoot; sore musclestore at him, and weakness waslike a weight about his neck. Heexpected momentarily to beblasted out of existence.     He reached the      Marco Four     with the startled shouts of hisguide ringing unintelligibly inhis ears. The port yawned; heplunged inside and stabbed atcontrols without waiting to seathimself. The ports swung shut.The ship darted up under hismanipulation and arrowed intospace with an acceleration thatsprung his knees and made hisvision swim blackly.     He was so weak with strainand with the success of his coupthat he all but fainted whenStryker, his scanty hair tousledand his fat face comical with bewilderment,stumbled out of hissleeping cubicle and bellowed athim.     What the hell are you doing,Arthur? Take us down!     Farrell gaped at him, speechless.     Stryker lumbered past himand took the controls, spiralingthe      Marco Four     down. Menswarmed outside the ports whenthe Reclamations craft settledgently to the square again. Gibsonand Xavier reached the shipfirst; Gibson came inside quickly,leaving the mechanical outsidemaking patient explanationsto an excited group of Alphardians.     Gibson put a reassuring handon Farrell's arm. It's all right,Arthur. There's no trouble.     Farrell said dumbly, I don'tunderstand. They didn't shootyou and Xav down too?     It was Gibson's turn to stare.     No one shot you down! Thesepeople are primitive enough touse metallic power lines tocarry electricity to their hamlets,an anachronism you forgotlast night. You piloted the helihopperinto one of those lines,and the crash put you out forthe rest of the night and mostof today. These Alphardians arefriendly, so desperately happy tobe found again that it's reallypathetic.           Friendly?     That torpedo—     It wasn't a torpedo at all,Stryker put in. Understandingof the error under which Farrellhad labored erased hisearlier irritation, and he chuckledcommiseratingly. They hadone small boat left for emergencymissions, and sent it up tocontact us in the fear that wemight overlook their settlementand move on. The boat wasatomic powered, and our shieldscreens set off its engines.     Farrell dropped into a chair atthe chart table, limp with reaction.He was suddenly exhausted,and his head ached dully.     We cracked the communicationsproblem early last night,Gibson said. These people usean ancient system of electromagneticwave propagation calledfrequency modulation, and onceLee and I rigged up a suitabletransceiver the rest was simple.Both Xav and I recognized theold language; the natives reportedyour accident, and we camedown at once.     They really came from Terra?They lived through a thousandyears of flight?     The ship left Terra forSirius in 2171, Gibson said.But not with these peopleaboard, or their ancestors. Thatexpedition perished after lessthan a light-year when itshydroponics system failed. TheHymenops found the ship derelictwhen they invaded us, andbrought it to Alphard Six inwhat was probably their first experimentwith human subjects.The ship's log shows clearlywhat happened to the originalcomplement. The rest is deduciblefrom the situation here.     Farrell put his hands to histemples and groaned. The crashmust have scrambled my wits.Gib, where      did     they come from?     From one of the first peripheralcolonies conquered by theBees, Gibson said patiently.The Hymenops were long-rangeplanners, remember, and mastersof hypnotic conditioning. Theystocked the ship with a captivecrew of Terrans conditioned tobelieve themselves descendantsof the original crew, andgrounded it here in disabledcondition. They left for AlphardFive then, to watch developments.     Succeeding generations ofcolonists grew up accepting thefact that their ship had missedSirius and made planetfall here—theystill don't know wherethey really are—by luck. Theynever knew about the Hymenops,and they've struggled alongwith an inadequate technology inthe hope that a later expeditionwould find them. They found thetruth hard to take, but they'reeager to enjoy the fruits of Terranassimilation.     Stryker, grinning, broughtFarrell a frosted drink that tinkledinvitingly. An unusuallyfortunate ending to a Hymenopexperiment, he said. Thesepeople progressed normally becausethey've been let alone. Reorientingthem will be a simplematter; they'll be properly spoiledcolonists within another generation.     Farrell sipped his drink appreciatively.     But I don't see why the Beesshould go to such trouble to deceivethese people. Why did theysit back and let them grow asthey pleased, Gib? It doesn'tmake sense!     But it does, for once, Gibsonsaid. The Bees set up thiscolony as a control unit to studythe species they were invading,and they had to give theirspecimens a normal—if obsolete—backgroundin order to determinetheir capabilities. The factthat their experiment didn't tellthem what they wanted to knowmay have had a direct bearingon their decision to pull out.     Farrell shook his head. It'sa reverse application, isn't it ofthe old saw about Terrans beingincapable of understanding analien culture?     Of course, said Gibson, surprised.It's obvious enough,surely—hard as they tried, theBees never understood useither.     THE END     Transcriber's Note:    This etext was produced from    Amazing Science Fiction Stories   January1960. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note.","The story begins on a spaceship called the Marco Four. It is working on Ringwave generators and hangs inside the orbit of a dun-colored moon of the green planet Alphard Six. This ship has several tools, including a magnoscanner, the Zero Interval Transfer computer, and a screen that shows the surface of the planet. Then Farrell gets on a helihopper and soon crashes. The next day he wakes up in an infirmary with white walls, tables, lockers, chests, and some unfamiliar chemical odor.  It is one of the rooms of the ancient ship located in the central square of the town on Alphard Six. Farrell then walks down a bare corridor with a metal floor and rare open ports that let in a flood of reddish sunlight. He goes through storage rooms, hydroponics gardens, a gymnasium, a nursery, and a power room. He also notices the Marco Four parked near the square."
"What is the significance of the Ringwave technology? </s>    Any problem posed by one group ofhuman beings can be resolved by anyother group. That's what the Handbooksaid. But did that include primitivehumans? Or the Bees? Or a ...     CONTROL GROUP     By ROGER DEE    The  cool green disk of AlphardSix on the screen wasinfinitely welcome after the ariddesolation and stinking swamplandsof the inner planets, anairy jewel of a world that mighthave been designed specificallyfor the hard-earned month ofrest ahead. Navigator Farrell,youngest and certainly most impulsiveof the three-man TerranReclamations crew, would haveset the      Marco Four     down atonce but for the greater cautionof Stryker, nominally captain ofthe group, and of Gibson, engineer,and linguist. Xavier, theship's little mechanical, had—aswas usual and proper—no voicein the matter.     Reconnaissance spiral first,Arthur, Stryker said firmly. Hechuckled at Farrell's instantscowl, his little eyes twinklingand his naked paunch quakingover the belt of his shipboardshorts. Chapter One, SubsectionFive, Paragraph Twenty-seven:      No planetfall on an unreclaimedworld shall be deemedsafe without proper—          Farrell, as Stryker had expected,interrupted with characteristicimpatience. Do you      sleep     with that damned ReclamationsHandbook, Lee? Alphard Sixisn't an unreclaimed world—itwas never colonized before theHymenop invasion back in 3025,so why should it be inhabitednow?     Gibson, who for four hourshad not looked up from his interminablechess game withXavier, paused with a beleagueredknight in one blunt brownhand.     No point in taking chances,Gibson said in his neutral baritone.He shrugged thick bareshoulders, his humorless black-browedface unmoved, whenFarrell included him in hisscowl. We're two hundred twenty-sixlight-years from Sol, atthe old limits of Terran expansion,and there's no knowingwhat we may turn up here. Alphard'swas one of the first systemsthe Bees took over. It musthave been one of the last to beabandoned when they pulled backto 70 Ophiuchi.     And I think      you     live for theday, Farrell said acidly, whenwe'll stumble across a functioningdome of live, buzzing Hymenops.Damn it, Gib, the Beespulled out a hundred years ago,before you and I were born—neitherof us ever saw a Hymenop,and never will!     But I saw them, Strykersaid. I fought them for the betterpart of the century they werehere, and I learned there's nopredicting nor understandingthem. We never knew why theycame nor why they gave up andleft. How can we know whetherthey'd leave a rear-guard orbooby trap here?     He put a paternal hand onFarrell's shoulder, understandingthe younger man's eagernessand knowing that their close-knitteam would have been themore poorly balanced without it.     Gib's right, he said. Henearly added      as usual     . We're onrest leave at the moment, yes,but our mission is still to findTerran colonies enslaved andabandoned by the Bees, not torisk our necks and a valuableReorientations ship by landingblind on an unobserved planet.We're too close already. Cut inyour shields and find a reconnaissancespiral, will you?     Grumbling, Farrell punchedcoordinates on the Ringwaveboard that lifted the      Marco Four     out of her descent and restoredthe bluish enveloping haze ofher repellors.     Stryker's caution was justifiedon the instant. The speedingstreamlined shape that had flashedup unobserved from belowswerved sharply and exploded ina cataclysmic blaze of atomicfire that rocked the ship wildlyand flung the three men to thefloor in a jangling roar ofalarms.      So the Handbook tacticiansknew what they were about,Stryker said minutes later. Deliberatelyhe adopted the smugtone best calculated to sting Farrellout of his first self-reproach,and grinned when the navigatorbristled defensively. Some oftheir enjoinders seem a littlestuffy and obvious at times, butthey're eminently sensible.     When Farrell refused to bebaited Stryker turned to Gibson,who was busily assessing thedamage done to the ship's morefragile equipment, and to Xavier,who searched the planet'ssurface with the ship's magnoscanner.The      Marco Four     , Ringwavegenerators humming gently,hung at the moment justinside the orbit of Alphard Six'ssingle dun-colored moon.     Gibson put down a test meterwith an air of finality.     Nothing damaged but theZero Interval Transfer computer.I can realign that in a coupleof hours, but it'll have to bedone before we hit Transferagain.      Stryker looked dubious.What if the issue is forced beforethe ZIT unit is repaired?Suppose they come up after us?     I doubt that they can. Anyinstallation crudely enoughequipped to trust in guided missilesis hardly likely to have developedefficient space craft.     Stryker was not reassured.     That torpedo of theirs wasdeadly enough, he said. Andits nature reflects the nature ofthe people who made it. Any racevicious enough to use atomiccharges is too dangerous totrifle with. Worry made comicalcreases in his fat, good-humoredface. We'll have to findout who they are and whythey're here, you know.     They can't be Hymenops,Gibson said promptly. First,because the Bees pinned theirfaith on Ringwave energy fields,as we did, rather than on missiles.Second, because there's nodome on Six.     There were three emptydomes on Five, which is a desertplanet, Farrell pointed out.Why didn't they settle Six? It'sa more habitable world.     Gibson shrugged. I know theBees always erected domes onevery planet they colonized, Arthur,but precedent is a fallibletool. And it's even more firmlyestablished that there's no possibilityof our rationalizing themotivations of a culture as alienas the Hymenops'—we've beenover that argument a hundredtimes on other reclaimedworlds.     But this was never an unreclaimedworld, Farrell saidwith the faint malice of one toorecently caught in the wrong.Alphard Six was surveyed andseeded with Terran bacteriaaround the year 3000, but theBees invaded before we couldcolonize. And that means we'llhave to rule out any resurgentcolonial group down there, becauseSix never had a colony inthe beginning.     The Bees have been gone forover a hundred years, Strykersaid. Colonists might have migratedfrom another Terran-occupiedplanet.     Gibson disagreed.     We've touched at every inhabitedworld in this sector, Lee,and not one surviving colony hasdeveloped space travel on itsown. The Hymenops had a hundredyears to condition their humanslaves to ignorance ofeverything beyond their immediateenvironment—the motivesbehind that conditioning usuallyescape us, but that's beside thepoint—and they did a thoroughjob of it. The colonists have hadno more than a century of freedomsince the Bees pulled out,and four generations simplyisn't enough time for any subjugatedculture to climb fromslavery to interstellar flight.     Stryker made a padding turnabout the control room, tuggingunhappily at the scanty fringeof hair the years had left him.     If they're neither Hymenopsnor resurgent colonists, he said,then there's only one choice remaining—they'realiens from asystem we haven't reached yet,beyond the old sphere of Terranexploration. We always assumedthat we'd find other races outhere someday, and that they'dbe as different from us in formand motivation as the Hymenops.Why not now?     Gibson said seriously, Notprobable, Lee. The same objectionthat rules out the Bees appliesto any trans-Alphardianculture—they'd have to be beyondthe atomic fission stage,else they'd never have attemptedinterstellar flight. The Ringwavewith its Zero Interval Transferprinciple and instantaneous communicationsapplications is theonly answer to long-range travel,and if they'd had that theywouldn't have bothered withatomics.     Stryker turned on him almostangrily. If they're not Hymenopsor humans or aliens, thenwhat in God's name      are     they?      Aye, there's the rub, Farrellsaid, quoting a passagewhose aptness had somehow seenit through a dozen reorganizationsof insular tongue and afinal translation to universalTerran. If they're none of thosethree, we've only one conclusionleft. There's no one down thereat all—we're victims of the firstjoint hallucination in psychiatrichistory.     Stryker threw up his hands insurrender. We can't identifythem by theorizing, and thatbrings us down to the businessof first-hand investigation.Who's going to bell the cat thistime?     I'd like to go, Gibson saidat once. The ZIT computer canwait.     Stryker vetoed his offer aspromptly. No, the ZIT comesfirst. We may have to run for it,and we can't set up a Transferjump without the computer. It'sgot to be me or Arthur.     Farrell felt the familiar chillof uneasiness that inevitablypreceded this moment of decision.He was not lacking in courage,else the circumstances underwhich he had worked for thepast ten years—the sometimesperilous, sometimes downrightcharnel conditions left by thefleeing Hymenop conquerors—wouldhave broken him longago. But that same hard experiencehad honed rather thanblunted the edge of his imagination,and the prospect of a close-quartersstalking of an unknownand patently hostile force wasanything but attractive.     You two did the field workon the last location, he said.It's high time I took my turn—andGod knows I'd go mad ifI had to stay inship and listento Lee memorizing his Handbooksubsections or to Gib practicingdead languages with Xavier.     Stryker laughed for the firsttime since the explosion thathad so nearly wrecked the      MarcoFour     .     Good enough. Though itwouldn't be more diverting tolisten for hours to you improvisingenharmonic variations onthe      Lament for Old Terra     withyour accordion.     Gibson, characteristically, hada refinement to offer.     They'll be alerted down therefor a reconnaissance sally, hesaid. Why not let Xavier takethe scouter down for overt diversion,and drop Arthur off inthe helihopper for a low-levelcheck?     Stryker looked at Farrell. Allright, Arthur?     Good enough, Farrell said.And to Xavier, who had notmoved from his post at the magnoscanner:How does it look,Xav? Have you pinned downtheir base yet?     The mechanical answered himin a voice as smooth and clear—andas inflectionless—as a 'cellonote. The planet seems uninhabitedexcept for a large islandsome three hundred miles indiameter. There are twenty-sevensmall agrarian hamlets surroundedby cultivated fields.There is one city of perhaps athousand buildings with a centralsquare. In the square restsa grounded spaceship of approximatelyten times the bulkof the      Marco Four     .     They crowded about the visionscreen, jostling Xavier's jointedgray shape in their interest. Thecentral city lay in minutest detailbefore them, the batteredhulk of the grounded ship glintingrustily in the late afternoonsunlight. Streets radiated awayfrom the square in orderly succession,the whole so clearlydepicted that they could see thethrongs of people surging upand down, tiny foreshortenedfaces turned toward the sky.     At least they're human,Farrell said. Relief replaced insome measure his earlier uneasiness.Which means that they'reTerran, and can be dealt withaccording to Reclamations routine.Is that hulk spaceworthy,Xav?     Xavier's mellow drone assumedthe convention vibrato thatindicated stark puzzlement. Itsbreached hull makes the ship incapableof flight. Apparently itis used only to supply power tothe outlying hamlets.     The mechanical put a flexiblegray finger upon an indicatorgraph derived from a compositesection of detector meters. Thepower transmitted seems to begross electric current conveyedby metallic cables. It is generatedthrough a crudely governedprocess of continuous atomicfission.      Farrell, himself appalled bythe information, still found himselfable to chuckle at Stryker'sbellow of consternation.           Continuous fission?     GoodGod, only madmen would deliberatelyrun a risk like that!     Farrell prodded him withcheerful malice. Why say mad      men     ? Maybe they're humanoidaliens who thrive on hard radiationand look on the danger ofbeing blown to hell in the middleof the night as a satisfactoryrisk.     They're not alien, Gibsonsaid positively. Their architectureis Terran, and so is theirship. The ship is incrediblyprimitive, though; those batteriesof tubes at either end—     Are thrust reaction jets,Stryker finished in an awedvoice. Primitive isn't the word,Gib—the thing is prehistoric!Rocket propulsion hasn't beenused in spacecraft since—howlong, Xav?     Xavier supplied the informationwith mechanical infallibility.Since the year 2100 whenthe Ringwave propulsion-communicationprinciple was discovered.That principle has servedmen since.     Farrell stared in blank disbeliefat the anomalous craft onthe screen. Primitive, as Strykerhad said, was not the wordfor it: clumsily ovoid, studdedwith torpedo domes and turretsand bristling at either end withpropulsion tubes, it lay at thecenter of its square like a rustedrelic of a past largely destroyedand all but forgotten. What amagnificent disregard its buildersmust have had, he thought,for their lives and the geneticpurity of their posterity! Thesullen atomic fires banked inthat oxidizing hulk—     Stryker said plaintively, Ifyou're right, Gib, then we'remore in the dark than ever. Howcould a Terran-built ship elevenhundred years old get      here     ?     Gibson, absorbed in his chess-player'scontemplation of alternatives,seemed hardly to hearhim.     Logic or not-logic, Gibsonsaid. If it's a Terran artifact,we can discover the reason forits presence. If not—           Any problem posed by onegroup of human beings     , Strykerquoted his Handbook,       can beresolved by any other group, regardlessof ideology or conditioning,because the basicperceptive abilities of both mustbe the same through identicalheredity     .     If it's an imitation, and thisis another Hymenop experimentin condition ecology, then we'restumped to begin with, Gibsonfinished. Because we're notequipped to evaluate the psychologyof alien motivation. We'vegot to determine first which caseapplies here.      He waited for Farrell's expectedirony, and when thenavigator forestalled him by remaininggrimly quiet, continued.     The obvious premise is thata Terran ship must have beenbuilt by Terrans. Question: Wasit flown here, or built here?     It couldn't have been builthere, Stryker said. AlphardSix was surveyed just before theBees took over in 3025, and therewas nothing of the sort herethen. It couldn't have been builtduring the two and a quartercenturies since; it's obviouslymuch older than that. It wasflown here.     We progress, Farrell saiddryly. Now if you'll tell us      how     ,we're ready to move.     I think the ship was built onTerra during the Twenty-secondCentury, Gibson said calmly.The atomic wars during thatperiod destroyed practically allhistorical records along with thetechnology of the time, but I'veread well-authenticated reportsof atomic-driven ships leavingTerra before then for the nearerstars. The human race climbedout of its pit again during theTwenty-third Century and developedthe technology that gaveus the Ringwave. Certainly noatomic-powered ships were builtafter the wars—our records arecomplete from that time.     Farrell shook his head at theinference. I've read any numberof fanciful romances on thetheme, Gib, but it won't standup in practice. No shipboard societycould last through a thousand-yearspace voyage. It's aphysical and psychological impossibility.There's got to besome other explanation.      Gibson shrugged. We canonly eliminate the least likelyalternatives and accept the simplestone remaining.     Then we can eliminate thisone now, Farrell said flatly. Itentails a thousand-year voyage,which is an impossibility for anygross reaction drive; the applicationof suspended animationor longevity or a successive-generationprogram, and a finalpenetration of Hymenop-occupiedspace to set up a colony underthe very antennae of theBees. Longevity wasn't developeduntil around the year 3000—Leehere was one of the first toprofit by it, if you remember—andsuspended animation is stillto come. So there's one theoryyou can forget.     Arthur's right, Stryker saidreluctantly. An atomic-poweredship      couldn't     have made such atrip, Gib. And such a lineal-descendantproject couldn't havelasted through forty generations,speculative fiction to thecontrary—the later generationswould have been too far removedin ideology and intent fromtheir ancestors. They'd haveadapted to shipboard life as thenorm. They'd have atrophiedphysically, perhaps even havemutated—     And they'd never havefought past the Bees during theHymenop invasion and occupation,Farrell finished triumphantly.The Bees had betterdetection equipment than wehad. They'd have picked thisship up long before it reachedAlphard Six.     But the ship wasn't here in3000, Gibson said, and it isnow. Therefore it must have arrivedat some time during thetwo hundred years of Hymenopoccupation and evacuation.     Farrell, tangled in contradictions,swore bitterly. Butwhy should the Bees let themthrough? The three domes onFive are over two hundred yearsold, which means that the Beeswere here before the ship came.Why didn't they blast it or enslaveits crew?     We haven't touched on all thepossibilities, Gibson remindedhim. We haven't even establishedyet that these people werenever under Hymenop control.Precedent won't hold always, andthere's no predicting nor evaluatingthe motives of an alienrace. We never understood theHymenops because there's nocommon ground of logic betweenus. Why try to interpret theirintentions now?     Farrell threw up his hands indisgust. Next you'll say this isan ancient Terran expeditionthat actually succeeded! There'sonly one way to answer thequestions we've raised, andthat's to go down and see forourselves. Ready, Xav?      But uncertainty nagged uneasilyat him when Farrell foundhimself alone in the helihopperwith the forest flowing beneathlike a leafy river and Xavier'sscouter disappearing bulletlikeinto the dusk ahead.     We never found a colony soadvanced, Farrell thought. Supposethis is a Hymenop experimentthat really paid off? TheBees did some weird and wonderfulthings with humanguinea pigs—what if they'vecreated the ultimate booby traphere, and primed it with conditionedmyrmidons in our ownform?     Suppose, he thought—and deridedhimself for thinking it—oneof those suicidal old interstellarventures      did     succeed?     Xavier's voice, a mellowdrone from the helihopper'sRingwave-powered visicom, cutsharply into his musing. Theship has discovered the scouterand is training an electronicbeam upon it. My instrumentsrecord an electromagnetic vibrationpattern of low power butrapidly varying frequency. Theoperation seems pointless.     Stryker's voice followed, querulouswith worry: I'd betterpull Xav back. It may be somethinglethal.     Don't, Gibson's baritone advised.Surprisingly, there wasexcitement in the engineer'svoice. I think they're trying tocommunicate with us.     Farrell was on the point ofdemanding acidly to know howone went about communicatingby means of a fluctuating electricfield when the unexpectedcessation of forest diverted hisattention. The helihopper scuddedover a cultivated areaof considerable extent, fieldsstretching below in a vague randomcheckerboard of lighter anddarker earth, an undefined clusterof buildings at their center.There was a central bonfire thatburned like a wild red eyeagainst the lower gloom, and inits plunging ruddy glow he madeout an urgent scurrying of shadowyfigures.     I'm passing over a hamlet,Farrell reported. The one nearestthe city, I think. There'ssomething odd going ondown—     Catastrophe struck so suddenlythat he was caught completelyunprepared. The helihopper'sflimsy carriage bucked andcrumpled. There was a blindingflare of electric discharge, apungent stink of ozone and astunning shock that flung himheadlong into darkness.      He awoke slowly with a brutalheadache and a conviction ofnightmare heightened by theoutlandish tone of his surroundings.He lay on a narrow bed ina whitely antiseptic infirmary,an oblong metal cell clutteredwith a grimly utilitarian arrayof tables and lockers and chests.The lighting was harsh andoverbright and the air hungthick with pungent unfamiliarchemical odors. From somewhere,far off yet at the sametime as near as the bulkheadabove him, came the unceasingdrone of machinery.     Farrell sat up, groaning,when full consciousness made hisposition clear. He had been shotdown by God knew what sort ofdevastating unorthodox weaponand was a prisoner in thegrounded ship.     At his rising, a white-smockedfat man with anachronistic spectaclesand close-cropped grayhair came into the room, movingwith the professional assuranceof a medic. The man stoppedshort at Farrell's stare andspoke; his words were utterlyunintelligible, but his gesturewas unmistakable.     Farrell followed him dumblyout of the infirmary and downa bare corridor whose metalfloor rang coldly underfoot. Anopen port near the corridor's endrelieved the blankness of walland let in a flood of reddish Alphardiansunlight; Farrell slowedto look out, wondering howlong he had lain unconscious,and felt panic knife at himwhen he saw Xavier's scouter lying,port open and undefended,on the square outside.     The mechanical had been aseasily taken as himself, then.Stryker and Gibson, for all theirprofessional caution, would fareno better—they could not haveoverlooked the capture of Farrelland Xavier, and when theytried as a matter of course torescue them the      Marco     would bestruck down in turn by the sameweapon.     The fat medic turned andsaid something urgent in hisunintelligible tongue. Farrell,dazed by the enormity of whathad happened, followed withoutprotest into an intersecting waythat led through a bewilderingsuccession of storage rooms andhydroponics gardens, through asmall gymnasium fitted withphysical training equipment ingraduated sizes and finally intoa soundproofed place that couldhave been nothing but a nursery.     The implication behind itspresence stopped Farrell short.     A      creche     , he said, stunned.He had a wild vision of endlessgenerations of children growingup in this dim and stuffy room,to be taught from their firsttoddling steps the functions theymust fulfill before the ventureof which they were a part couldbe consummated.     One of those old ventures      had     succeeded, he thought, and wasawed by the daring of that thousand-yearodyssey. The realizationleft him more alarmed thanbefore—for what technical marvelsmight not an isolated groupof such dogged specialists havedeveloped during a millenniumof application?     Such a weapon as had broughtdown the helihopper and scouterwas patently beyond reach of hisown latter-day technology. Perhaps,he thought, its possessionexplained the presence of thesepeople here in the first strongholdof the Hymenops; perhapsthey had even fought and defeatedthe Bees on their own invadedground.     He followed his white-smockedguide through a power roomwhere great crude generatorswhirred ponderously, pouringout gross electric current intoarm-thick cables. They werenearing the bow of the shipwhen they passed by anotheropen port and Farrell, glancingout over the lowered rampway,saw that his fears for Strykerand Gibson had been wellgrounded.     The      Marco Four     , ports open,lay grounded outside.      Farrell could not have said,later, whether his next movewas planned or reflexive. Thewhole desperate issue seemed tohang suspended for a breathlessmoment upon a hair-fine edge ofdecision, and in that instant hemade his bid.     Without pausing in his stridehe sprang out and through theport and down the steep planeof the ramp. The rough stonepavement of the square drummedunderfoot; sore musclestore at him, and weakness waslike a weight about his neck. Heexpected momentarily to beblasted out of existence.     He reached the      Marco Four     with the startled shouts of hisguide ringing unintelligibly inhis ears. The port yawned; heplunged inside and stabbed atcontrols without waiting to seathimself. The ports swung shut.The ship darted up under hismanipulation and arrowed intospace with an acceleration thatsprung his knees and made hisvision swim blackly.     He was so weak with strainand with the success of his coupthat he all but fainted whenStryker, his scanty hair tousledand his fat face comical with bewilderment,stumbled out of hissleeping cubicle and bellowed athim.     What the hell are you doing,Arthur? Take us down!     Farrell gaped at him, speechless.     Stryker lumbered past himand took the controls, spiralingthe      Marco Four     down. Menswarmed outside the ports whenthe Reclamations craft settledgently to the square again. Gibsonand Xavier reached the shipfirst; Gibson came inside quickly,leaving the mechanical outsidemaking patient explanationsto an excited group of Alphardians.     Gibson put a reassuring handon Farrell's arm. It's all right,Arthur. There's no trouble.     Farrell said dumbly, I don'tunderstand. They didn't shootyou and Xav down too?     It was Gibson's turn to stare.     No one shot you down! Thesepeople are primitive enough touse metallic power lines tocarry electricity to their hamlets,an anachronism you forgotlast night. You piloted the helihopperinto one of those lines,and the crash put you out forthe rest of the night and mostof today. These Alphardians arefriendly, so desperately happy tobe found again that it's reallypathetic.           Friendly?     That torpedo—     It wasn't a torpedo at all,Stryker put in. Understandingof the error under which Farrellhad labored erased hisearlier irritation, and he chuckledcommiseratingly. They hadone small boat left for emergencymissions, and sent it up tocontact us in the fear that wemight overlook their settlementand move on. The boat wasatomic powered, and our shieldscreens set off its engines.     Farrell dropped into a chair atthe chart table, limp with reaction.He was suddenly exhausted,and his head ached dully.     We cracked the communicationsproblem early last night,Gibson said. These people usean ancient system of electromagneticwave propagation calledfrequency modulation, and onceLee and I rigged up a suitabletransceiver the rest was simple.Both Xav and I recognized theold language; the natives reportedyour accident, and we camedown at once.     They really came from Terra?They lived through a thousandyears of flight?     The ship left Terra forSirius in 2171, Gibson said.But not with these peopleaboard, or their ancestors. Thatexpedition perished after lessthan a light-year when itshydroponics system failed. TheHymenops found the ship derelictwhen they invaded us, andbrought it to Alphard Six inwhat was probably their first experimentwith human subjects.The ship's log shows clearlywhat happened to the originalcomplement. The rest is deduciblefrom the situation here.     Farrell put his hands to histemples and groaned. The crashmust have scrambled my wits.Gib, where      did     they come from?     From one of the first peripheralcolonies conquered by theBees, Gibson said patiently.The Hymenops were long-rangeplanners, remember, and mastersof hypnotic conditioning. Theystocked the ship with a captivecrew of Terrans conditioned tobelieve themselves descendantsof the original crew, andgrounded it here in disabledcondition. They left for AlphardFive then, to watch developments.     Succeeding generations ofcolonists grew up accepting thefact that their ship had missedSirius and made planetfall here—theystill don't know wherethey really are—by luck. Theynever knew about the Hymenops,and they've struggled alongwith an inadequate technology inthe hope that a later expeditionwould find them. They found thetruth hard to take, but they'reeager to enjoy the fruits of Terranassimilation.     Stryker, grinning, broughtFarrell a frosted drink that tinkledinvitingly. An unusuallyfortunate ending to a Hymenopexperiment, he said. Thesepeople progressed normally becausethey've been let alone. Reorientingthem will be a simplematter; they'll be properly spoiledcolonists within another generation.     Farrell sipped his drink appreciatively.     But I don't see why the Beesshould go to such trouble to deceivethese people. Why did theysit back and let them grow asthey pleased, Gib? It doesn'tmake sense!     But it does, for once, Gibsonsaid. The Bees set up thiscolony as a control unit to studythe species they were invading,and they had to give theirspecimens a normal—if obsolete—backgroundin order to determinetheir capabilities. The factthat their experiment didn't tellthem what they wanted to knowmay have had a direct bearingon their decision to pull out.     Farrell shook his head. It'sa reverse application, isn't it ofthe old saw about Terrans beingincapable of understanding analien culture?     Of course, said Gibson, surprised.It's obvious enough,surely—hard as they tried, theBees never understood useither.     THE END     Transcriber's Note:    This etext was produced from    Amazing Science Fiction Stories   January1960. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note.","The Ringwave technology allowed humans to explore the neighboring systems of planets, find new habitable territories, and colonize them. It also partially leads to the invasion of the Bees and allows humans to fight with them. The knowledge about the history of the Ringwave propulsion-communication principle, especially the fact that it was discovered in 2100, also helps the crew realize that the spaceship on planet Alphard Six is atomic-powered and thus prehistoric. It’s eleven hundred years old, also Terran, and was brought here from somewhere else. "
"What is the plot of the story? </s>    ACID BATH     By VASELEOS GARSON         The starways' Lone Watcher had expected some odd developmentsin his singular, nerve-fraught job on the asteroid. But nothing like theweird twenty-one-day liquid test devised by the invading Steel-Blues.        Jon Karyl  was bolting in a new baffleplate on the stationary rocket engine.It was a tedious job and took all hisconcentration. So he wasn't paying too muchattention to what was going on in otherparts of the little asteroid.     He didn't see the peculiar blue spaceship, its rockets throttled down, as it driftedto land only a few hundred yards away fromhis plastic igloo.     Nor did he see the half-dozen steel-bluecreatures slide out of the peculiar vessel'sairlock.     It was only as he crawled out of thedepths of the rocket power plant that herealized something was wrong.     By then it was almost too late. The sixblue figures were only fifty feet away, approachinghim at a lope.     Jon Karyl took one look and went boundingover the asteroid's rocky slopes in fifty-footbounds.     When you're a Lone Watcher, andstrangers catch you unawares, you don'tstand still. You move fast. It's the Watcher'sfirst rule. Stay alive. An Earthship may dependupon your life.     As he fled, Jon Karyl cursed softly underhis breath. The automatic alarm should haveshrilled out a warning.     Then he saved as much of his breath ashe could as some sort of power wave toreup the rocky sward to his left. He twistedand zig-zagged in his flight, trying to getout of sight of the strangers.     Once hidden from their eyes, he could cutback and head for the underground entranceto the service station.     He glanced back finally.     Two of the steel-blue creatures were jack-rabbitingafter him, and rapidly closing thedistance.     Jon Karyl unsheathed the stubray pistolat his side, turned the oxygen dial up forgreater exertion, increased the gravity pullin his space-suit boots as he neared theravine he'd been racing for.     The oxygen was just taking hold whenhe hit the lip of the ravine and begansprinting through its man-high bush-strewncourse.     The power ray from behind ripped outgreat gobs of the sheltering bushes. Butrunning naturally, bent close to the bottomof the ravine, Jon Karyl dodged the barespots. The oxygen made the tremendousexertion easy for his lungs as he sped downthe dim trail, hidden from the two steel-bluestalkers.     He'd eluded them, temporarily at least,Jon Karyl decided when he finally edged offthe dim trail and watched for movementalong the route behind him.     He stood up, finally, pushed aside theleafy overhang of a bush and looked forlandmarks along the edge of the ravine.     He found one, a stubby bush, shaped likea Maltese cross, clinging to the lip of theravine. The hidden entrance to the servicestation wasn't far off.     His pistol held ready, he moved quietlyon down the ravine until the old watercourse made an abrupt hairpin turn.     Instead of following around the sharpbend, Jon Karyl moved straight aheadthrough the overhanging bushes until hecame to a dense thicket. Dropping to hishands and knees he worked his way underthe edge of the thicket into a hollowed-outspace in the center.     There  , just ahead of him, was the lockleading into the service station. Slippinga key out of a leg pouch on the space suit,he jabbed it into the center of the lock,opening the lever housing.     He pulled strongly on the lever. With ahiss of escaping air, the lock swung open.Jon Karyl darted inside, the door closingsoftly behind.     At the end of the long tunnel he steppedto the televisor which was fixed on the areasurrounding the station.     Jon Karyl saw none of the steel-blue creatures.But he saw their ship. It squattedlike a smashed-down kid's top, its lock shuttight.     He tuned the televisor to its widest rangeand finally spotted one of the Steel-Blues.He was looking into the stationary rocketengine.     As Karyl watched, a second Steel-Bluecame crawling out of the ship.     The two Steel-Blues moved toward thecenter of the televisor range. They're comingtoward the station, Karyl thought grimly.     Karyl examined the two creatures. Theywere of the steel-blue color from the crownof their egg-shaped heads to the tips oftheir walking appendages.     They were about the height of Karyl—sixfeet. But where he tapered from broadshoulders to flat hips, they were straight upand down. They had no legs, just appendages,many-jointed that stretched andshrank independent of the other, but keepingthe cylindrical body with its four pairsof tentacles on a level balance.     Where their eyes would have been wasan elliptical-shaped lens, covering half theegg-head, with its converging ends curvingaround the sides of the head.     Robots! Jon gauged immediately. Butwhere were their masters?     The Steel-Blues moved out of the rangeof the televisor. A minute later Jon hearda pounding from the station upstairs.     He chuckled. They were like the wolf ofpre-atomic days who huffed and puffed toblow the house down.     The outer shell of the station was formedfrom stelrylite, the toughest metal in thesolar system. With the self-sealing lock ofthe same resistant material, a mere poundingwas nothing.     Jon thought he'd have a look-see anyway.He went up the steel ladder leading to thestation's power plant and the televisor thatcould look into every room within thestation.     He heaved a slight sigh when he reachedthe power room, for right at his hand wereweapons to blast the ship from the asteroid.     Jon adjusted one televisor to take in thelock to the station. His teeth suddenlyclamped down on his lower lip.     Those Steel-Blues were pounding holesinto the stelrylite with round-headed metalclubs. But it was impossible. Stelrylite didn'tbreak up that easily.     Jon leaped to a row of studs, lining upthe revolving turret which capped the stationso that its thin fin pointed at thesquat ship of the invaders.     Then he went to the atomic cannon'sfiring buttons.     He pressed first the yellow, then the bluebutton. Finally the red one.     The thin fin—the cannon's sight—split inhalf as the turret opened and the coiled noseof the cannon protruded. There was asoundless flash. Then a sharp crack.     Jon was dumbfounded when he saw thebolt ricochet off the ship. This was no shipof the solar system. There was nothing thatcould withstand even the slight jolt of powergiven by the station cannon on any of theSun's worlds. But what was this? A piece ofthe ship had changed. A bubble of metal,like a huge drop of blue wax, dripped offthe vessel and struck the rocket of theasteroid. It steamed and ran in rivulets.     He pressed the red button again.     Then abruptly he was on the floor of thepower room, his legs strangely cut out fromunder him. He tried to move them. They layflaccid. His arms seemed all right and triedto lever himself to an upright position.     Damn it, he seemed as if he were paralyzedfrom the waist down. But it couldn'thappen that suddenly.     He turned his head.     A Steel-Blue stood facing him. A forkedtentacle held a square black box.     Jon could read nothing in that metallicface. He said, voice muffled by the confinesof the plastic helmet, Who are you?     I am—there was a rising inflection inthe answer—a Steel-Blue.     There were no lips on the Steel-Blue'sface to move. That is what I have namedyou, Jon Karyl said. But what are you?     A robot, came the immediate answer.Jon was quite sure then that the Steel-Bluewas telepathic. Yes, the Steel-Blue answered.We talk in the language of themind. Come! he said peremptorily, motioningwith the square black box.     The paralysis left Karyl's legs. He followedthe Steel-Blue, aware that the lenshe'd seen on the creature's face had acounterpart on the back of the egg-head.     Eyes in the back of his head, Jon thought.That's quite an innovation. Thank you,Steel-Blue said.     There wasn't much fear in Jon Karyl'smind. Psychiatrists had proved that when hehad applied for this high-paying but man-killingjob as a Lone Watcher on the SolarSystem's starways.     He had little fear now, only curiosity.These Steel-Blues didn't seem inimical.They could have snuffed out my life verysimply. Perhaps they and Solarians can befriends.     Steel-Blue chuckled.     Jon  followed him through the sunderedlock of the station. Karyl stopped for amoment to examine the wreckage of thelock. It had been punched full of holes asif it had been some soft cheese instead of ametal which Earthmen had spent nearly acentury perfecting.     We appreciate your compliment, Steel-Bluesaid. But that metal also is found onour world. It's probably the softest and mostmalleable we have. We were surprised you—earthmen,is it?—use it as protectivemetal.     Why are you in this system? Jon asked,hardly expecting an answer.     It came anyway. For the same reason youEarthmen are reaching out farther into yoursystem. We need living room. You havestrategically placed planets for our use. Wewill use them.     Jon sighed. For 400 years scientists hadbeen preaching preparedness as Earth flungher ships into the reaches of the solar system,taking the first long step toward theconquest of space.     There are other races somewhere, theyargued. As strong and smart as man, manyof them so transcending man in mental andinventive power that we must be prepared tostrike the minute danger shows.     Now here was the answer to the scientists'warning. Invasion by extra-terrestrials.     What did you say? asked Steel-Blue.I couldn't understand.     Just thinking to myself, Jon answered.It was a welcome surprise. Apparently histhoughts had to be directed outward, ratherthan inward, in order for the Steel-Blues toread it.     He followed the Steel-Blue into the gapinglock of the invaders' space ship wonderinghow he could warn Earth. The SpacePatrol cruiser was due in for refueling athis service station in 21 days. But by thattime he probably would be mouldering inthe rocky dust of the asteroid.     It was pitch dark within the ship but theSteel-Blue seemed to have no trouble at allmaneuvering through the maze of corridors.Jon followed him, attached to one tentacle.     Finally Jon and his guide entered a circularroom, bright with light streaming froma glass-like, bulging skylight. They apparentlywere near topside of the vessel.     A Steel-Blue, more massive than hisguide and with four more pair of tentacles,including two short ones that grew from thetop of its head, spoke out.     This is the violator? Jon's Steel-Bluenodded.     You know the penalty? Carry it out.     He also is an inhabitant of this system,Jon's guide added.     Examine him first, then give him thedeath.     Jon Karyl shrugged as he was led fromthe lighted room through more corridors.If it got too bad he still had the stubraypistol.     Anyway, he was curious. He'd taken onthe lonely, nerve-wracking job of servicestation attendant just to see what it offered.     Here was a part of it, and it was certainlysomething new.     This is the examination room, hisSteel-Blue said, almost contemptuously.     A green effulgence surrounded him.     There  was a hiss. Simultaneously, as thetiny microphone on the outside of hissuit picked up the hiss, he felt a chill gothrough his body. Then it seemed as if ahalf dozen hands were inside him, examininghis internal organs. His stomach contracted.He felt a squeeze on his heart. Hislungs tickled.     There were several more queer motionsinside his body.     Then another Steel-Blue voice said:     He is a soft-metal creature, made up ofmetals that melt at a very low temperature.He also contains a liquid whose makeup Icannot ascertain by ray-probe. Bring himback when the torture is done.     Jon Karyl grinned a trifle wryly. Whatkind of torture could this be?     Would it last 21 days? He glanced at thechronometer on his wrist.     Jon's Steel-Blue led him out of the alienship and halted expectantly just outside theship's lock.     Jon Karyl waited, too. He thought of thestubray pistol holstered at his hip. Shoot myway out? It'd be fun while it lasted. But hetoted up the disadvantages.     He either would have to find a hidingplace on the asteroid, and if the Steel-Blueswanted him bad enough they could tear thewhole place to pieces, or somehow getaboard the little life ship hidden in theservice station.     In that he would be just a sitting duck.     He shrugged off the slight temptation touse the pistol. He was still curious.     And he was interested in staying alive aslong as possible. There was a remote chancehe might warn the SP ship. Unconsciously,he glanced toward his belt to see the littlepower pack which, if under ideal conditions,could finger out fifty thousand miles intospace.     If he could somehow stay alive the 21days he might be able to warn the patrol.He couldn't do it by attempting to flee, forhis life would be snuffed out immediately.     The Steel-Blue said quietly:     It might be ironical to let you warnthat SP ship you keep thinking about. Butwe know your weapon now. Already ourship is equipped with a force field designedespecially to deflect your atomic guns.     Jon Karyl covered up his thoughtsquickly. They can delve deeper than thesurface of the mind. Or wasn't I keeping aleash on my thoughts?     The Steel-Blue chuckled. You get—absent-minded,is it?—every once in awhile.     Just then four other Steel-Blues appearedlugging great sheets of plastic and variousother equipment.     They dumped their loads and began unbundlingthem.     Working swiftly, they built a plasticigloo, smaller than the living room in thelarger service station igloo. They ranged instrumentsinside—one of them Jon Karylrecognized as an air pump from within thestation—and they laid out a pallet.     When they were done Jon saw a miniaturereproduction of the service station, lackingonly the cannon cap and fin, and with clearplastic walls instead of the opaqueness of theother.     His Steel-Blue said: We have reproducedthe atmosphere of your station so that yoube watched while you undergo the tortureunder the normal conditions of your life.     What is this torture? Jon Karyl asked.     The answer was almost caressing: It isa liquid we use to dissolve metals. It causesjoints to harden if even so much as a dropremains on it long. It eats away the metal,leaving a scaly residue which crumbleseventually into dust.     We will dilute it with a harmless liquidfor you since No. 1 does not wish you to dieinstantly.     Enter your—the Steel-Blue hesitated—mausoleum.You die in your own atmosphere.However, we took the liberty of purifyingit. There were dangerous elements init.     Jon walked into the little igloo. TheSteel-Blues sealed the lock, fingered dialsand switches on the outside. Jon's space suitdeflated. Pressure was building up in theigloo.     He took a sample of the air, found thatit was good, although quite rich in oxygencompared with what he'd been using in theservice station and in his suit.     With a sigh of relief he took off his helmetand gulped huge draughts of the air.     He sat down on the pallet and waitedfor the torture to begin.     The Steel Blues crowded about the igloo,staring at him through elliptical eyes.     Apparently, they too, were waiting for thetorture to begin.     Jon thought the excess of oxygen wasmaking him light-headed.     He stared at a cylinder which was beginningto sprout tentacles from the circle.He rubbed his eyes and looked again. Anopening, like the adjustable eye-piece of aspacescope, was appearing in the center ofthe cylinder.     A square, glass-like tumbler sat in theopening disclosed in the four-foot cylinderthat had sprouted tentacles. It contained ayellowish liquid.     One of the tentacles reached into theopening and clasped the glass. The openingclosed and the cylinder, propelled by locomotorappendages, moved toward Jon.     He didn't like the looks of the liquid inthe tumbler. It looked like an acid of somesort. He raised to his feet.     He unsheathed the stubray gun and preparedto blast the cylinder.     The  cylinder moved so fast Jon felt hiseyes jump in his head. He brought thestubray gun up—but he was helpless. Thepistol kept on going up. With a deft movement,one of the tentacles had speared itfrom his hand and was holding it out ofhis reach.     Jon kicked at the glass in the cylinder'shand. But he was too slow. Two tentaclesgripped the kicking leg. Another struck himin the chest, knocking him to the pallet. Thesame tentacle, assisted by a new one,pinioned his shoulders.     Four tentacles held him supine. The cylinderlifted a glass-like cap from the tumblerof liquid.     Lying there helplessly, Jon was rememberingan old fairy tale he'd read as a kid.Something about a fellow named Socrateswho was given a cup of hemlock to drink.It was the finis for Socrates. But the oldhero had been nonchalant and calm aboutthe whole thing.     With a sigh, Jon Karyl, who was curiousunto death, relaxed and said, All right,bub, you don't have to force-feed me. I'lltake it like a man.     The cylinder apparently understood him,for it handed him the tumbler. It even reholsteredhis stubray pistol.     Jon brought the glass of liquid under hisnose. The fumes of the liquid were pungent.It brought tears to his eyes.     He looked at the cylinder, then at theSteel-Blues crowding around the plasticigloo. He waved the glass at the audience.     To Earth, ever triumphant, he toasted.Then he drained the glass at a gulp.     Its taste was bitter, and he felt hotprickles jab at his scalp. It was like eatingvery hot peppers. His eyes filled with tears.He coughed as the stuff went down.     But he was still alive, he thought inamazement. He'd drunk the hemlock andwas still alive.     The reaction set in quickly. He hadn'tknown until then how tense he'd been. Nowwith the torture ordeal over, he relaxed. Helaid down on the pallet and went to sleep.     There was one lone Steel-Blue watchinghim when he rubbed the sleep out of hiseyes and sat up.     He vanished almost instantly. He, or anotherlike him, returned immediately accompaniedby a half-dozen others, includingthe multi-tentacled creature known as No. 1.     One said,     You are alive. The thought registeredamazement. When you lost consciousness,we thought you had—there was a hesitation—asyou say, died.     No, Jon Karyl said. I didn't die. Iwas just plain dead-beat so I went to sleep.The Steel-Blues apparently didn't understand.     Good it is that you live. The torturewill continue, spoke No. 1 before lopingaway.     The cylinder business began again. Thistime, Jon drank the bitter liquid slowly, tryingto figure out what it was. It had afamiliar, tantalizing taste but he couldn'tquite put a taste-finger on it.     His belly said he was hungry. He glancedat his chronometer. Only 20 days left beforethe SP ship arrived.     Would this torture—he chuckled—lastuntil then? But he was growing more andmore conscious that his belly was screamingfor hunger. The liquid had taken the edgeoff his thirst.     It was on the fifth day of his torture thatJon Karyl decided that he was going to getsomething to eat or perish in the attempt.     The cylinder sat passively in its niche inthe circle. A dozen Steel-Blues were watchingas Jon put on his helmet and unsheathedhis stubray.     They merely watched as he pressed thestubray's firing stud. Invisible rays lickedout of the bulbous muzzle of the pistol.The plastic splintered.     Jon was out of his goldfish bowl andstriding toward his own igloo adjacent tothe service station when a Steel-Blueaccosted him.     Out of my way, grunted Jon, wavingthe stubray. I'm hungry.     I'm the first Steel-Blue you met, saidthe creature who barred his way. Go backto your torture.     But I'm so hungry I'll chew off one ofyour tentacles and eat it without seasoning.     Eat? The Steel-Blue sounded puzzled.     I want to refuel. I've got to have foodto keep my engine going.     Steel-Blue chuckled. So the hemlock, asyou call it, is beginning to affect you atlast? Back to the torture room.     Like R-dust, Jon growled. He pressedthe firing stud on the stubray gun. One ofSteel-Blue's tentacles broke off and fell tothe rocky sward.     Steel-Blue jerked out the box he'd usedonce before. A tentacle danced over it.     Abruptly Jon found himself standing ona pinnacle of rock. Steel-Blue had cut aswath around him 15 feet deep and five feetwide.     Back to the room, Steel-Blue commanded.     Jon resheathed the stubray pistol,shrugged non-committally and leaped thetrench. He walked slowly back and reenteredthe torture chamber.     The Steel-Blues rapidly repaired the damagehe'd done.     As he watched them, Jon was still curious,but he was getting mad underneath atthe cold egoism of the Steel-Blues.     By the shimmering clouds of Earth, byher green fields, and dark forests, he'dstay alive to warn the SP ship.     Yes, he'd stay alive till then. And sendthe story of the Steel-Blues' corrosive acidto it. Then hundreds of Earth's ships couldequip themselves with spray guns and squirtcitric acid and watch the Steel-Blues fadeaway.     It sounded almost silly to Jon Karyl. Thefruit acid of Earth to repel these invaders—itdoesn't sound possible. That couldn't bethe answer.     Citric acid wasn't the answer, Jon Karyldiscovered a week later.     The Steel-Blue who had captured him inthe power room of the service station camein to examine him.     You're still holding out, I see, he observedafter poking Jon in every sensitivepart of his body.     I'll suggest to No. 1 that we increasethe power of the—ah—hemlock. How doyou feel?     Between the rich oxygen and the dizzinessof hunger, Jon was a bit delirious. But heanswered honestly enough: My guts feel asif they're chewing each other up. My bonesache. My joints creak. I can't coordinate I'mso hungry.     That is the hemlock, Steel-Blue said.     It was when he quaffed the new andstronger draught that Jon knew that hishope that it was citric acid was squelched.     The acid taste was weaker which meantthat the citric acid was the diluting liquid.It was the liquid he couldn't taste beneaththe tang of the citric acid that was the corrosiveacid.     On the fourteenth day, Jon was so weakhe didn't feel much like moving around. Helet the cylinder feed him the hemlock.     No. 1 came again to see him, and wentaway chuckling, Decrease the dilution.This Earthman at last is beginning tosuffer.     Staying  alive had now become a fetishwith Jon.     On the sixteenth day, the Earthman realizedthat the Steel-Blues also were waitingfor the SP ship.     The extra-terrestrials had repaired theblue ship where the service station atomicray had struck. And they were doing a littletarget practice with plastic bubbles only afew miles above the asteroid.     When his chronometer clocked off thebeginning of the twenty-first day, Jon receiveda tumbler of the hemlock from thehands of No. 1 himself.     It is the hemlock, he chuckled, undiluted.Drink it and your torture is over.You will die before your SP ship is destroyed.     We have played with you long enough.Today we begin to toy with your SP ship.Drink up, Earthman, drink to enslavement.     Weak though he was Jon lunged to hisfeet, spilling the tumbler of liquid. It rancool along the plastic arm of his space suit.He changed his mind about throwing thecontents on No. 1.     With a smile he set the glass at his lipsand drank. Then he laughed at No. 1.     The SP ship will turn your ship intojelly.     No. 1 swept out, chuckling. Boast if youwill, Earthman, it's your last chance.     There was an exultation in Jon's heartthat deadened the hunger and washed awaythe nausea.     At last he knew what the hemlock was.     He sat on the pallet adjusting the littlepower-pack radio. The SP ship should nowbe within range of the set. The space patrolwas notorious for its accuracy in keeping toschedule. Seconds counted like years. Theyhad to be on the nose, or it meant disasteror death.     He sent out the call letters.     AX to SP-101 ... AX to SP-101 ... AXto SP-101 ...     Three times he sent the call, then begansending his message, hoping that his signalwas reaching the ship. He couldn't know ifthey answered. Though the power packcould get out a message over a vast distance,it could not pick up messages evenwhen backed by an SP ship's power unlessthe ship was only a few hundred milesaway.     The power pack was strictly a distresssignal.     He didn't know how long he'd beensending, nor how many times his wearyvoice had repeated the short but desperatemessage.     He kept watching the heavens and hoping.     Abruptly he knew the SP ship was coming,for the blue ship of the Steel-Blues wasrising silently from the asteroid.     Up and up it rose, then flames flickeredin a circle about its curious shape. The shipdisappeared, suddenly accelerating.     Jon Karyl strained his eyes.     Finally he looked away from the heavensto the two Steel-Blues who stood negligentlyoutside the goldfish bowl.     Once more, Jon used the stubray pistol.He marched out of the plastic igloo and rantoward the service station.     He didn't know how weak he was untilhe stumbled and fell only a few feet fromhis prison.     The Steel-Blues just watched him.     He crawled on, around the circular pit inthe sward of the asteroid where one Steel-Bluehad shown him the power of hisweapon.     He'd been crawling through a nightmarefor years when the quiet voice penetratedhis dulled mind.     Take it easy, Karyl. You're amongfriends.     He pried open his eyes with his will. Hesaw the blue and gold of a space guard'suniform. He sighed and drifted into unconsciousness.     He was  still weak days later whenCapt. Ron Small of SP-101 said,     Yes, Karyl, it's ironical. They fed youwhat they thought was sure death, and it'sthe only thing that kept you going longenough to warn us.     I was dumb for a long time, Karyl said.I thought that it was the acid, almost tothe very last. But when I drank that lastglass, I knew they didn't have a chance.     They were metal monsters. No wonderthey feared that liquid. It would rust theirjoints, short their wiring, and kill them.No wonder they stared when I kept aliveafter drinking enough to completely annihilatea half-dozen of them.     But what happened when you met theship?     The space captain grinned.     Not much. Our crew was busy creatinga hollow shell filled with      water     to be shotout of a rocket tube converted into a projectilethrower.     These Steel-Blues, as you call them, puttraction beams on us and started tugging ustoward the asteroid. We tried a couple ofatomic shots but when they just glanced off,we gave up.     They weren't expecting the shell ofwater. When it hit that blue ship, you couldalmost see it oxidize before your eyes.     I guess they knew what was wrong rightaway. They let go the traction beams andtried to get away. They forgot about theforce field, so we just poured atomic fireinto the weakening ship. It just meltedaway.     Jon Karyl got up from the divan wherehe'd been lying. They thought I was ametal creature, too. But where do you supposethey came from?     The captain shrugged. Who knows?     Jon set two glasses on the table.     Have a drink of the best damn water inthe solar system? He asked Capt. Small.     Don't mind if I do.     The water twinkled in the two glasses,winking as if it knew just what it haddone.     Transcriber's Note:   This etext was produced from    Planet Stories   July 1952.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note.","Jon Karyl is bolting a new baffle plate on the stationary rocket engine and ignores what happens around other parts of the little asteroid. A peculiar spaceship lands a few hundred yards away from his plastic igloo, and a half-dozen steel-blue creatures slide out of the airlock. When he climbs up again and sees the creatures, Jon runs for the rocky slopes. Jon brings out his stubray pistol and turns up the oxygen dial for greater exertion as two of the creatures continue to chase him. He manages to elude them by going down a dim trail temporarily. Once Jon finds the stubby bush shaped like a Maltese cross, he keeps going until he reaches the hollowed-out space. He observes the steel-blue creatures from the televisor, noting how they head towards the station to try and destroy it. Although the station is not supposed to break because it is made out of stelrylite, the creatures pound holes into the station with round-headed metal clubs. He presses the atomic cannon’s firing buttons and finds that it is impossible to damage the ship. Suddenly, a Steel-Blue paralyzes him from the waist down and tells him to come with them. Once outside, the Steel-Blue explains to Jon that the most protective metal they use is the softest one in their world. He follows the Steel-Blue into the ship, where a more massive one tells Jon’s Steel-Blue to examine him and give him death. The Steel-Blue brings him to the examination room, where Jon is curious about this whole interaction. He thinks about warning the SP patrol and using his weapon, but his Steel-Blue tells him they are already aware of it. The other Steel-Blues begin reproducing the service station, and Jon’s Steel-Blue tells him that his torture will be dissolved in a liquid they have prepared. When he goes inside, he prepares to blast at the cylinder with his gun. However, the tentacles take it away from him and bring him a glass-like cup filled with liquid. Jon toasts to Earth and drinks the liquid, going to sleep shortly after. When he awakes again, the Steel-Blues are amazed that he is still alive. On the fifth day, Jon breaks out of his plastic bowl with his subray because he is hungry. The Steel-Blues try to torture him more with the poison, and Jon has now made it a fetish to stay alive. When Jon takes the drink from No. 1, it tells him that the SP ship will be destroyed. Jon tries to send a distress signal, and he watches as the SP ship begins to come abruptly. The Steel-Blues watch as he tries to escape, only to be greeted by the voice of a space guard. Captain Ron Small of SP-101 tells him later that the Steel-Blues fed him a liquid they feared. The Steel-Blues tried to fight back, but the SP ship just shot a water rocket and set it on atomic fire. Captain Small and Jon then toast to water. "
"What are the physical features of the Steel-Blue creatures? </s>    ACID BATH     By VASELEOS GARSON         The starways' Lone Watcher had expected some odd developmentsin his singular, nerve-fraught job on the asteroid. But nothing like theweird twenty-one-day liquid test devised by the invading Steel-Blues.        Jon Karyl  was bolting in a new baffleplate on the stationary rocket engine.It was a tedious job and took all hisconcentration. So he wasn't paying too muchattention to what was going on in otherparts of the little asteroid.     He didn't see the peculiar blue spaceship, its rockets throttled down, as it driftedto land only a few hundred yards away fromhis plastic igloo.     Nor did he see the half-dozen steel-bluecreatures slide out of the peculiar vessel'sairlock.     It was only as he crawled out of thedepths of the rocket power plant that herealized something was wrong.     By then it was almost too late. The sixblue figures were only fifty feet away, approachinghim at a lope.     Jon Karyl took one look and went boundingover the asteroid's rocky slopes in fifty-footbounds.     When you're a Lone Watcher, andstrangers catch you unawares, you don'tstand still. You move fast. It's the Watcher'sfirst rule. Stay alive. An Earthship may dependupon your life.     As he fled, Jon Karyl cursed softly underhis breath. The automatic alarm should haveshrilled out a warning.     Then he saved as much of his breath ashe could as some sort of power wave toreup the rocky sward to his left. He twistedand zig-zagged in his flight, trying to getout of sight of the strangers.     Once hidden from their eyes, he could cutback and head for the underground entranceto the service station.     He glanced back finally.     Two of the steel-blue creatures were jack-rabbitingafter him, and rapidly closing thedistance.     Jon Karyl unsheathed the stubray pistolat his side, turned the oxygen dial up forgreater exertion, increased the gravity pullin his space-suit boots as he neared theravine he'd been racing for.     The oxygen was just taking hold whenhe hit the lip of the ravine and begansprinting through its man-high bush-strewncourse.     The power ray from behind ripped outgreat gobs of the sheltering bushes. Butrunning naturally, bent close to the bottomof the ravine, Jon Karyl dodged the barespots. The oxygen made the tremendousexertion easy for his lungs as he sped downthe dim trail, hidden from the two steel-bluestalkers.     He'd eluded them, temporarily at least,Jon Karyl decided when he finally edged offthe dim trail and watched for movementalong the route behind him.     He stood up, finally, pushed aside theleafy overhang of a bush and looked forlandmarks along the edge of the ravine.     He found one, a stubby bush, shaped likea Maltese cross, clinging to the lip of theravine. The hidden entrance to the servicestation wasn't far off.     His pistol held ready, he moved quietlyon down the ravine until the old watercourse made an abrupt hairpin turn.     Instead of following around the sharpbend, Jon Karyl moved straight aheadthrough the overhanging bushes until hecame to a dense thicket. Dropping to hishands and knees he worked his way underthe edge of the thicket into a hollowed-outspace in the center.     There  , just ahead of him, was the lockleading into the service station. Slippinga key out of a leg pouch on the space suit,he jabbed it into the center of the lock,opening the lever housing.     He pulled strongly on the lever. With ahiss of escaping air, the lock swung open.Jon Karyl darted inside, the door closingsoftly behind.     At the end of the long tunnel he steppedto the televisor which was fixed on the areasurrounding the station.     Jon Karyl saw none of the steel-blue creatures.But he saw their ship. It squattedlike a smashed-down kid's top, its lock shuttight.     He tuned the televisor to its widest rangeand finally spotted one of the Steel-Blues.He was looking into the stationary rocketengine.     As Karyl watched, a second Steel-Bluecame crawling out of the ship.     The two Steel-Blues moved toward thecenter of the televisor range. They're comingtoward the station, Karyl thought grimly.     Karyl examined the two creatures. Theywere of the steel-blue color from the crownof their egg-shaped heads to the tips oftheir walking appendages.     They were about the height of Karyl—sixfeet. But where he tapered from broadshoulders to flat hips, they were straight upand down. They had no legs, just appendages,many-jointed that stretched andshrank independent of the other, but keepingthe cylindrical body with its four pairsof tentacles on a level balance.     Where their eyes would have been wasan elliptical-shaped lens, covering half theegg-head, with its converging ends curvingaround the sides of the head.     Robots! Jon gauged immediately. Butwhere were their masters?     The Steel-Blues moved out of the rangeof the televisor. A minute later Jon hearda pounding from the station upstairs.     He chuckled. They were like the wolf ofpre-atomic days who huffed and puffed toblow the house down.     The outer shell of the station was formedfrom stelrylite, the toughest metal in thesolar system. With the self-sealing lock ofthe same resistant material, a mere poundingwas nothing.     Jon thought he'd have a look-see anyway.He went up the steel ladder leading to thestation's power plant and the televisor thatcould look into every room within thestation.     He heaved a slight sigh when he reachedthe power room, for right at his hand wereweapons to blast the ship from the asteroid.     Jon adjusted one televisor to take in thelock to the station. His teeth suddenlyclamped down on his lower lip.     Those Steel-Blues were pounding holesinto the stelrylite with round-headed metalclubs. But it was impossible. Stelrylite didn'tbreak up that easily.     Jon leaped to a row of studs, lining upthe revolving turret which capped the stationso that its thin fin pointed at thesquat ship of the invaders.     Then he went to the atomic cannon'sfiring buttons.     He pressed first the yellow, then the bluebutton. Finally the red one.     The thin fin—the cannon's sight—split inhalf as the turret opened and the coiled noseof the cannon protruded. There was asoundless flash. Then a sharp crack.     Jon was dumbfounded when he saw thebolt ricochet off the ship. This was no shipof the solar system. There was nothing thatcould withstand even the slight jolt of powergiven by the station cannon on any of theSun's worlds. But what was this? A piece ofthe ship had changed. A bubble of metal,like a huge drop of blue wax, dripped offthe vessel and struck the rocket of theasteroid. It steamed and ran in rivulets.     He pressed the red button again.     Then abruptly he was on the floor of thepower room, his legs strangely cut out fromunder him. He tried to move them. They layflaccid. His arms seemed all right and triedto lever himself to an upright position.     Damn it, he seemed as if he were paralyzedfrom the waist down. But it couldn'thappen that suddenly.     He turned his head.     A Steel-Blue stood facing him. A forkedtentacle held a square black box.     Jon could read nothing in that metallicface. He said, voice muffled by the confinesof the plastic helmet, Who are you?     I am—there was a rising inflection inthe answer—a Steel-Blue.     There were no lips on the Steel-Blue'sface to move. That is what I have namedyou, Jon Karyl said. But what are you?     A robot, came the immediate answer.Jon was quite sure then that the Steel-Bluewas telepathic. Yes, the Steel-Blue answered.We talk in the language of themind. Come! he said peremptorily, motioningwith the square black box.     The paralysis left Karyl's legs. He followedthe Steel-Blue, aware that the lenshe'd seen on the creature's face had acounterpart on the back of the egg-head.     Eyes in the back of his head, Jon thought.That's quite an innovation. Thank you,Steel-Blue said.     There wasn't much fear in Jon Karyl'smind. Psychiatrists had proved that when hehad applied for this high-paying but man-killingjob as a Lone Watcher on the SolarSystem's starways.     He had little fear now, only curiosity.These Steel-Blues didn't seem inimical.They could have snuffed out my life verysimply. Perhaps they and Solarians can befriends.     Steel-Blue chuckled.     Jon  followed him through the sunderedlock of the station. Karyl stopped for amoment to examine the wreckage of thelock. It had been punched full of holes asif it had been some soft cheese instead of ametal which Earthmen had spent nearly acentury perfecting.     We appreciate your compliment, Steel-Bluesaid. But that metal also is found onour world. It's probably the softest and mostmalleable we have. We were surprised you—earthmen,is it?—use it as protectivemetal.     Why are you in this system? Jon asked,hardly expecting an answer.     It came anyway. For the same reason youEarthmen are reaching out farther into yoursystem. We need living room. You havestrategically placed planets for our use. Wewill use them.     Jon sighed. For 400 years scientists hadbeen preaching preparedness as Earth flungher ships into the reaches of the solar system,taking the first long step toward theconquest of space.     There are other races somewhere, theyargued. As strong and smart as man, manyof them so transcending man in mental andinventive power that we must be prepared tostrike the minute danger shows.     Now here was the answer to the scientists'warning. Invasion by extra-terrestrials.     What did you say? asked Steel-Blue.I couldn't understand.     Just thinking to myself, Jon answered.It was a welcome surprise. Apparently histhoughts had to be directed outward, ratherthan inward, in order for the Steel-Blues toread it.     He followed the Steel-Blue into the gapinglock of the invaders' space ship wonderinghow he could warn Earth. The SpacePatrol cruiser was due in for refueling athis service station in 21 days. But by thattime he probably would be mouldering inthe rocky dust of the asteroid.     It was pitch dark within the ship but theSteel-Blue seemed to have no trouble at allmaneuvering through the maze of corridors.Jon followed him, attached to one tentacle.     Finally Jon and his guide entered a circularroom, bright with light streaming froma glass-like, bulging skylight. They apparentlywere near topside of the vessel.     A Steel-Blue, more massive than hisguide and with four more pair of tentacles,including two short ones that grew from thetop of its head, spoke out.     This is the violator? Jon's Steel-Bluenodded.     You know the penalty? Carry it out.     He also is an inhabitant of this system,Jon's guide added.     Examine him first, then give him thedeath.     Jon Karyl shrugged as he was led fromthe lighted room through more corridors.If it got too bad he still had the stubraypistol.     Anyway, he was curious. He'd taken onthe lonely, nerve-wracking job of servicestation attendant just to see what it offered.     Here was a part of it, and it was certainlysomething new.     This is the examination room, hisSteel-Blue said, almost contemptuously.     A green effulgence surrounded him.     There  was a hiss. Simultaneously, as thetiny microphone on the outside of hissuit picked up the hiss, he felt a chill gothrough his body. Then it seemed as if ahalf dozen hands were inside him, examininghis internal organs. His stomach contracted.He felt a squeeze on his heart. Hislungs tickled.     There were several more queer motionsinside his body.     Then another Steel-Blue voice said:     He is a soft-metal creature, made up ofmetals that melt at a very low temperature.He also contains a liquid whose makeup Icannot ascertain by ray-probe. Bring himback when the torture is done.     Jon Karyl grinned a trifle wryly. Whatkind of torture could this be?     Would it last 21 days? He glanced at thechronometer on his wrist.     Jon's Steel-Blue led him out of the alienship and halted expectantly just outside theship's lock.     Jon Karyl waited, too. He thought of thestubray pistol holstered at his hip. Shoot myway out? It'd be fun while it lasted. But hetoted up the disadvantages.     He either would have to find a hidingplace on the asteroid, and if the Steel-Blueswanted him bad enough they could tear thewhole place to pieces, or somehow getaboard the little life ship hidden in theservice station.     In that he would be just a sitting duck.     He shrugged off the slight temptation touse the pistol. He was still curious.     And he was interested in staying alive aslong as possible. There was a remote chancehe might warn the SP ship. Unconsciously,he glanced toward his belt to see the littlepower pack which, if under ideal conditions,could finger out fifty thousand miles intospace.     If he could somehow stay alive the 21days he might be able to warn the patrol.He couldn't do it by attempting to flee, forhis life would be snuffed out immediately.     The Steel-Blue said quietly:     It might be ironical to let you warnthat SP ship you keep thinking about. Butwe know your weapon now. Already ourship is equipped with a force field designedespecially to deflect your atomic guns.     Jon Karyl covered up his thoughtsquickly. They can delve deeper than thesurface of the mind. Or wasn't I keeping aleash on my thoughts?     The Steel-Blue chuckled. You get—absent-minded,is it?—every once in awhile.     Just then four other Steel-Blues appearedlugging great sheets of plastic and variousother equipment.     They dumped their loads and began unbundlingthem.     Working swiftly, they built a plasticigloo, smaller than the living room in thelarger service station igloo. They ranged instrumentsinside—one of them Jon Karylrecognized as an air pump from within thestation—and they laid out a pallet.     When they were done Jon saw a miniaturereproduction of the service station, lackingonly the cannon cap and fin, and with clearplastic walls instead of the opaqueness of theother.     His Steel-Blue said: We have reproducedthe atmosphere of your station so that yoube watched while you undergo the tortureunder the normal conditions of your life.     What is this torture? Jon Karyl asked.     The answer was almost caressing: It isa liquid we use to dissolve metals. It causesjoints to harden if even so much as a dropremains on it long. It eats away the metal,leaving a scaly residue which crumbleseventually into dust.     We will dilute it with a harmless liquidfor you since No. 1 does not wish you to dieinstantly.     Enter your—the Steel-Blue hesitated—mausoleum.You die in your own atmosphere.However, we took the liberty of purifyingit. There were dangerous elements init.     Jon walked into the little igloo. TheSteel-Blues sealed the lock, fingered dialsand switches on the outside. Jon's space suitdeflated. Pressure was building up in theigloo.     He took a sample of the air, found thatit was good, although quite rich in oxygencompared with what he'd been using in theservice station and in his suit.     With a sigh of relief he took off his helmetand gulped huge draughts of the air.     He sat down on the pallet and waitedfor the torture to begin.     The Steel Blues crowded about the igloo,staring at him through elliptical eyes.     Apparently, they too, were waiting for thetorture to begin.     Jon thought the excess of oxygen wasmaking him light-headed.     He stared at a cylinder which was beginningto sprout tentacles from the circle.He rubbed his eyes and looked again. Anopening, like the adjustable eye-piece of aspacescope, was appearing in the center ofthe cylinder.     A square, glass-like tumbler sat in theopening disclosed in the four-foot cylinderthat had sprouted tentacles. It contained ayellowish liquid.     One of the tentacles reached into theopening and clasped the glass. The openingclosed and the cylinder, propelled by locomotorappendages, moved toward Jon.     He didn't like the looks of the liquid inthe tumbler. It looked like an acid of somesort. He raised to his feet.     He unsheathed the stubray gun and preparedto blast the cylinder.     The  cylinder moved so fast Jon felt hiseyes jump in his head. He brought thestubray gun up—but he was helpless. Thepistol kept on going up. With a deft movement,one of the tentacles had speared itfrom his hand and was holding it out ofhis reach.     Jon kicked at the glass in the cylinder'shand. But he was too slow. Two tentaclesgripped the kicking leg. Another struck himin the chest, knocking him to the pallet. Thesame tentacle, assisted by a new one,pinioned his shoulders.     Four tentacles held him supine. The cylinderlifted a glass-like cap from the tumblerof liquid.     Lying there helplessly, Jon was rememberingan old fairy tale he'd read as a kid.Something about a fellow named Socrateswho was given a cup of hemlock to drink.It was the finis for Socrates. But the oldhero had been nonchalant and calm aboutthe whole thing.     With a sigh, Jon Karyl, who was curiousunto death, relaxed and said, All right,bub, you don't have to force-feed me. I'lltake it like a man.     The cylinder apparently understood him,for it handed him the tumbler. It even reholsteredhis stubray pistol.     Jon brought the glass of liquid under hisnose. The fumes of the liquid were pungent.It brought tears to his eyes.     He looked at the cylinder, then at theSteel-Blues crowding around the plasticigloo. He waved the glass at the audience.     To Earth, ever triumphant, he toasted.Then he drained the glass at a gulp.     Its taste was bitter, and he felt hotprickles jab at his scalp. It was like eatingvery hot peppers. His eyes filled with tears.He coughed as the stuff went down.     But he was still alive, he thought inamazement. He'd drunk the hemlock andwas still alive.     The reaction set in quickly. He hadn'tknown until then how tense he'd been. Nowwith the torture ordeal over, he relaxed. Helaid down on the pallet and went to sleep.     There was one lone Steel-Blue watchinghim when he rubbed the sleep out of hiseyes and sat up.     He vanished almost instantly. He, or anotherlike him, returned immediately accompaniedby a half-dozen others, includingthe multi-tentacled creature known as No. 1.     One said,     You are alive. The thought registeredamazement. When you lost consciousness,we thought you had—there was a hesitation—asyou say, died.     No, Jon Karyl said. I didn't die. Iwas just plain dead-beat so I went to sleep.The Steel-Blues apparently didn't understand.     Good it is that you live. The torturewill continue, spoke No. 1 before lopingaway.     The cylinder business began again. Thistime, Jon drank the bitter liquid slowly, tryingto figure out what it was. It had afamiliar, tantalizing taste but he couldn'tquite put a taste-finger on it.     His belly said he was hungry. He glancedat his chronometer. Only 20 days left beforethe SP ship arrived.     Would this torture—he chuckled—lastuntil then? But he was growing more andmore conscious that his belly was screamingfor hunger. The liquid had taken the edgeoff his thirst.     It was on the fifth day of his torture thatJon Karyl decided that he was going to getsomething to eat or perish in the attempt.     The cylinder sat passively in its niche inthe circle. A dozen Steel-Blues were watchingas Jon put on his helmet and unsheathedhis stubray.     They merely watched as he pressed thestubray's firing stud. Invisible rays lickedout of the bulbous muzzle of the pistol.The plastic splintered.     Jon was out of his goldfish bowl andstriding toward his own igloo adjacent tothe service station when a Steel-Blueaccosted him.     Out of my way, grunted Jon, wavingthe stubray. I'm hungry.     I'm the first Steel-Blue you met, saidthe creature who barred his way. Go backto your torture.     But I'm so hungry I'll chew off one ofyour tentacles and eat it without seasoning.     Eat? The Steel-Blue sounded puzzled.     I want to refuel. I've got to have foodto keep my engine going.     Steel-Blue chuckled. So the hemlock, asyou call it, is beginning to affect you atlast? Back to the torture room.     Like R-dust, Jon growled. He pressedthe firing stud on the stubray gun. One ofSteel-Blue's tentacles broke off and fell tothe rocky sward.     Steel-Blue jerked out the box he'd usedonce before. A tentacle danced over it.     Abruptly Jon found himself standing ona pinnacle of rock. Steel-Blue had cut aswath around him 15 feet deep and five feetwide.     Back to the room, Steel-Blue commanded.     Jon resheathed the stubray pistol,shrugged non-committally and leaped thetrench. He walked slowly back and reenteredthe torture chamber.     The Steel-Blues rapidly repaired the damagehe'd done.     As he watched them, Jon was still curious,but he was getting mad underneath atthe cold egoism of the Steel-Blues.     By the shimmering clouds of Earth, byher green fields, and dark forests, he'dstay alive to warn the SP ship.     Yes, he'd stay alive till then. And sendthe story of the Steel-Blues' corrosive acidto it. Then hundreds of Earth's ships couldequip themselves with spray guns and squirtcitric acid and watch the Steel-Blues fadeaway.     It sounded almost silly to Jon Karyl. Thefruit acid of Earth to repel these invaders—itdoesn't sound possible. That couldn't bethe answer.     Citric acid wasn't the answer, Jon Karyldiscovered a week later.     The Steel-Blue who had captured him inthe power room of the service station camein to examine him.     You're still holding out, I see, he observedafter poking Jon in every sensitivepart of his body.     I'll suggest to No. 1 that we increasethe power of the—ah—hemlock. How doyou feel?     Between the rich oxygen and the dizzinessof hunger, Jon was a bit delirious. But heanswered honestly enough: My guts feel asif they're chewing each other up. My bonesache. My joints creak. I can't coordinate I'mso hungry.     That is the hemlock, Steel-Blue said.     It was when he quaffed the new andstronger draught that Jon knew that hishope that it was citric acid was squelched.     The acid taste was weaker which meantthat the citric acid was the diluting liquid.It was the liquid he couldn't taste beneaththe tang of the citric acid that was the corrosiveacid.     On the fourteenth day, Jon was so weakhe didn't feel much like moving around. Helet the cylinder feed him the hemlock.     No. 1 came again to see him, and wentaway chuckling, Decrease the dilution.This Earthman at last is beginning tosuffer.     Staying  alive had now become a fetishwith Jon.     On the sixteenth day, the Earthman realizedthat the Steel-Blues also were waitingfor the SP ship.     The extra-terrestrials had repaired theblue ship where the service station atomicray had struck. And they were doing a littletarget practice with plastic bubbles only afew miles above the asteroid.     When his chronometer clocked off thebeginning of the twenty-first day, Jon receiveda tumbler of the hemlock from thehands of No. 1 himself.     It is the hemlock, he chuckled, undiluted.Drink it and your torture is over.You will die before your SP ship is destroyed.     We have played with you long enough.Today we begin to toy with your SP ship.Drink up, Earthman, drink to enslavement.     Weak though he was Jon lunged to hisfeet, spilling the tumbler of liquid. It rancool along the plastic arm of his space suit.He changed his mind about throwing thecontents on No. 1.     With a smile he set the glass at his lipsand drank. Then he laughed at No. 1.     The SP ship will turn your ship intojelly.     No. 1 swept out, chuckling. Boast if youwill, Earthman, it's your last chance.     There was an exultation in Jon's heartthat deadened the hunger and washed awaythe nausea.     At last he knew what the hemlock was.     He sat on the pallet adjusting the littlepower-pack radio. The SP ship should nowbe within range of the set. The space patrolwas notorious for its accuracy in keeping toschedule. Seconds counted like years. Theyhad to be on the nose, or it meant disasteror death.     He sent out the call letters.     AX to SP-101 ... AX to SP-101 ... AXto SP-101 ...     Three times he sent the call, then begansending his message, hoping that his signalwas reaching the ship. He couldn't know ifthey answered. Though the power packcould get out a message over a vast distance,it could not pick up messages evenwhen backed by an SP ship's power unlessthe ship was only a few hundred milesaway.     The power pack was strictly a distresssignal.     He didn't know how long he'd beensending, nor how many times his wearyvoice had repeated the short but desperatemessage.     He kept watching the heavens and hoping.     Abruptly he knew the SP ship was coming,for the blue ship of the Steel-Blues wasrising silently from the asteroid.     Up and up it rose, then flames flickeredin a circle about its curious shape. The shipdisappeared, suddenly accelerating.     Jon Karyl strained his eyes.     Finally he looked away from the heavensto the two Steel-Blues who stood negligentlyoutside the goldfish bowl.     Once more, Jon used the stubray pistol.He marched out of the plastic igloo and rantoward the service station.     He didn't know how weak he was untilhe stumbled and fell only a few feet fromhis prison.     The Steel-Blues just watched him.     He crawled on, around the circular pit inthe sward of the asteroid where one Steel-Bluehad shown him the power of hisweapon.     He'd been crawling through a nightmarefor years when the quiet voice penetratedhis dulled mind.     Take it easy, Karyl. You're amongfriends.     He pried open his eyes with his will. Hesaw the blue and gold of a space guard'suniform. He sighed and drifted into unconsciousness.     He was  still weak days later whenCapt. Ron Small of SP-101 said,     Yes, Karyl, it's ironical. They fed youwhat they thought was sure death, and it'sthe only thing that kept you going longenough to warn us.     I was dumb for a long time, Karyl said.I thought that it was the acid, almost tothe very last. But when I drank that lastglass, I knew they didn't have a chance.     They were metal monsters. No wonderthey feared that liquid. It would rust theirjoints, short their wiring, and kill them.No wonder they stared when I kept aliveafter drinking enough to completely annihilatea half-dozen of them.     But what happened when you met theship?     The space captain grinned.     Not much. Our crew was busy creatinga hollow shell filled with      water     to be shotout of a rocket tube converted into a projectilethrower.     These Steel-Blues, as you call them, puttraction beams on us and started tugging ustoward the asteroid. We tried a couple ofatomic shots but when they just glanced off,we gave up.     They weren't expecting the shell ofwater. When it hit that blue ship, you couldalmost see it oxidize before your eyes.     I guess they knew what was wrong rightaway. They let go the traction beams andtried to get away. They forgot about theforce field, so we just poured atomic fireinto the weakening ship. It just meltedaway.     Jon Karyl got up from the divan wherehe'd been lying. They thought I was ametal creature, too. But where do you supposethey came from?     The captain shrugged. Who knows?     Jon set two glasses on the table.     Have a drink of the best damn water inthe solar system? He asked Capt. Small.     Don't mind if I do.     The water twinkled in the two glasses,winking as if it knew just what it haddone.     Transcriber's Note:   This etext was produced from    Planet Stories   July 1952.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note.","The Steel-Blue creatures are described to be steel-blue in color. They have egg-shaped heads and walking appendages. The Steel-Blues are also around the height of Jon at six feet, and their appendages are many-jointed. These appendages also stretch and shrink independent of each other, but the cylindrical body and tentacles are kept on a level balance. Instead of eyes, the Steel-Blues have elliptical-shaped lenses that cover half of the head and converge around the sides of the head. Jon notes that they are robots without masters. When Jon follows the Steel-Blue later, he notes that it has a lens on the back of its head as well. The massive steel-blue creature that Jon meets has four more tentacles, including two short ones that grow out of its head. "
"Describe the setting of the story. </s>    ACID BATH     By VASELEOS GARSON         The starways' Lone Watcher had expected some odd developmentsin his singular, nerve-fraught job on the asteroid. But nothing like theweird twenty-one-day liquid test devised by the invading Steel-Blues.        Jon Karyl  was bolting in a new baffleplate on the stationary rocket engine.It was a tedious job and took all hisconcentration. So he wasn't paying too muchattention to what was going on in otherparts of the little asteroid.     He didn't see the peculiar blue spaceship, its rockets throttled down, as it driftedto land only a few hundred yards away fromhis plastic igloo.     Nor did he see the half-dozen steel-bluecreatures slide out of the peculiar vessel'sairlock.     It was only as he crawled out of thedepths of the rocket power plant that herealized something was wrong.     By then it was almost too late. The sixblue figures were only fifty feet away, approachinghim at a lope.     Jon Karyl took one look and went boundingover the asteroid's rocky slopes in fifty-footbounds.     When you're a Lone Watcher, andstrangers catch you unawares, you don'tstand still. You move fast. It's the Watcher'sfirst rule. Stay alive. An Earthship may dependupon your life.     As he fled, Jon Karyl cursed softly underhis breath. The automatic alarm should haveshrilled out a warning.     Then he saved as much of his breath ashe could as some sort of power wave toreup the rocky sward to his left. He twistedand zig-zagged in his flight, trying to getout of sight of the strangers.     Once hidden from their eyes, he could cutback and head for the underground entranceto the service station.     He glanced back finally.     Two of the steel-blue creatures were jack-rabbitingafter him, and rapidly closing thedistance.     Jon Karyl unsheathed the stubray pistolat his side, turned the oxygen dial up forgreater exertion, increased the gravity pullin his space-suit boots as he neared theravine he'd been racing for.     The oxygen was just taking hold whenhe hit the lip of the ravine and begansprinting through its man-high bush-strewncourse.     The power ray from behind ripped outgreat gobs of the sheltering bushes. Butrunning naturally, bent close to the bottomof the ravine, Jon Karyl dodged the barespots. The oxygen made the tremendousexertion easy for his lungs as he sped downthe dim trail, hidden from the two steel-bluestalkers.     He'd eluded them, temporarily at least,Jon Karyl decided when he finally edged offthe dim trail and watched for movementalong the route behind him.     He stood up, finally, pushed aside theleafy overhang of a bush and looked forlandmarks along the edge of the ravine.     He found one, a stubby bush, shaped likea Maltese cross, clinging to the lip of theravine. The hidden entrance to the servicestation wasn't far off.     His pistol held ready, he moved quietlyon down the ravine until the old watercourse made an abrupt hairpin turn.     Instead of following around the sharpbend, Jon Karyl moved straight aheadthrough the overhanging bushes until hecame to a dense thicket. Dropping to hishands and knees he worked his way underthe edge of the thicket into a hollowed-outspace in the center.     There  , just ahead of him, was the lockleading into the service station. Slippinga key out of a leg pouch on the space suit,he jabbed it into the center of the lock,opening the lever housing.     He pulled strongly on the lever. With ahiss of escaping air, the lock swung open.Jon Karyl darted inside, the door closingsoftly behind.     At the end of the long tunnel he steppedto the televisor which was fixed on the areasurrounding the station.     Jon Karyl saw none of the steel-blue creatures.But he saw their ship. It squattedlike a smashed-down kid's top, its lock shuttight.     He tuned the televisor to its widest rangeand finally spotted one of the Steel-Blues.He was looking into the stationary rocketengine.     As Karyl watched, a second Steel-Bluecame crawling out of the ship.     The two Steel-Blues moved toward thecenter of the televisor range. They're comingtoward the station, Karyl thought grimly.     Karyl examined the two creatures. Theywere of the steel-blue color from the crownof their egg-shaped heads to the tips oftheir walking appendages.     They were about the height of Karyl—sixfeet. But where he tapered from broadshoulders to flat hips, they were straight upand down. They had no legs, just appendages,many-jointed that stretched andshrank independent of the other, but keepingthe cylindrical body with its four pairsof tentacles on a level balance.     Where their eyes would have been wasan elliptical-shaped lens, covering half theegg-head, with its converging ends curvingaround the sides of the head.     Robots! Jon gauged immediately. Butwhere were their masters?     The Steel-Blues moved out of the rangeof the televisor. A minute later Jon hearda pounding from the station upstairs.     He chuckled. They were like the wolf ofpre-atomic days who huffed and puffed toblow the house down.     The outer shell of the station was formedfrom stelrylite, the toughest metal in thesolar system. With the self-sealing lock ofthe same resistant material, a mere poundingwas nothing.     Jon thought he'd have a look-see anyway.He went up the steel ladder leading to thestation's power plant and the televisor thatcould look into every room within thestation.     He heaved a slight sigh when he reachedthe power room, for right at his hand wereweapons to blast the ship from the asteroid.     Jon adjusted one televisor to take in thelock to the station. His teeth suddenlyclamped down on his lower lip.     Those Steel-Blues were pounding holesinto the stelrylite with round-headed metalclubs. But it was impossible. Stelrylite didn'tbreak up that easily.     Jon leaped to a row of studs, lining upthe revolving turret which capped the stationso that its thin fin pointed at thesquat ship of the invaders.     Then he went to the atomic cannon'sfiring buttons.     He pressed first the yellow, then the bluebutton. Finally the red one.     The thin fin—the cannon's sight—split inhalf as the turret opened and the coiled noseof the cannon protruded. There was asoundless flash. Then a sharp crack.     Jon was dumbfounded when he saw thebolt ricochet off the ship. This was no shipof the solar system. There was nothing thatcould withstand even the slight jolt of powergiven by the station cannon on any of theSun's worlds. But what was this? A piece ofthe ship had changed. A bubble of metal,like a huge drop of blue wax, dripped offthe vessel and struck the rocket of theasteroid. It steamed and ran in rivulets.     He pressed the red button again.     Then abruptly he was on the floor of thepower room, his legs strangely cut out fromunder him. He tried to move them. They layflaccid. His arms seemed all right and triedto lever himself to an upright position.     Damn it, he seemed as if he were paralyzedfrom the waist down. But it couldn'thappen that suddenly.     He turned his head.     A Steel-Blue stood facing him. A forkedtentacle held a square black box.     Jon could read nothing in that metallicface. He said, voice muffled by the confinesof the plastic helmet, Who are you?     I am—there was a rising inflection inthe answer—a Steel-Blue.     There were no lips on the Steel-Blue'sface to move. That is what I have namedyou, Jon Karyl said. But what are you?     A robot, came the immediate answer.Jon was quite sure then that the Steel-Bluewas telepathic. Yes, the Steel-Blue answered.We talk in the language of themind. Come! he said peremptorily, motioningwith the square black box.     The paralysis left Karyl's legs. He followedthe Steel-Blue, aware that the lenshe'd seen on the creature's face had acounterpart on the back of the egg-head.     Eyes in the back of his head, Jon thought.That's quite an innovation. Thank you,Steel-Blue said.     There wasn't much fear in Jon Karyl'smind. Psychiatrists had proved that when hehad applied for this high-paying but man-killingjob as a Lone Watcher on the SolarSystem's starways.     He had little fear now, only curiosity.These Steel-Blues didn't seem inimical.They could have snuffed out my life verysimply. Perhaps they and Solarians can befriends.     Steel-Blue chuckled.     Jon  followed him through the sunderedlock of the station. Karyl stopped for amoment to examine the wreckage of thelock. It had been punched full of holes asif it had been some soft cheese instead of ametal which Earthmen had spent nearly acentury perfecting.     We appreciate your compliment, Steel-Bluesaid. But that metal also is found onour world. It's probably the softest and mostmalleable we have. We were surprised you—earthmen,is it?—use it as protectivemetal.     Why are you in this system? Jon asked,hardly expecting an answer.     It came anyway. For the same reason youEarthmen are reaching out farther into yoursystem. We need living room. You havestrategically placed planets for our use. Wewill use them.     Jon sighed. For 400 years scientists hadbeen preaching preparedness as Earth flungher ships into the reaches of the solar system,taking the first long step toward theconquest of space.     There are other races somewhere, theyargued. As strong and smart as man, manyof them so transcending man in mental andinventive power that we must be prepared tostrike the minute danger shows.     Now here was the answer to the scientists'warning. Invasion by extra-terrestrials.     What did you say? asked Steel-Blue.I couldn't understand.     Just thinking to myself, Jon answered.It was a welcome surprise. Apparently histhoughts had to be directed outward, ratherthan inward, in order for the Steel-Blues toread it.     He followed the Steel-Blue into the gapinglock of the invaders' space ship wonderinghow he could warn Earth. The SpacePatrol cruiser was due in for refueling athis service station in 21 days. But by thattime he probably would be mouldering inthe rocky dust of the asteroid.     It was pitch dark within the ship but theSteel-Blue seemed to have no trouble at allmaneuvering through the maze of corridors.Jon followed him, attached to one tentacle.     Finally Jon and his guide entered a circularroom, bright with light streaming froma glass-like, bulging skylight. They apparentlywere near topside of the vessel.     A Steel-Blue, more massive than hisguide and with four more pair of tentacles,including two short ones that grew from thetop of its head, spoke out.     This is the violator? Jon's Steel-Bluenodded.     You know the penalty? Carry it out.     He also is an inhabitant of this system,Jon's guide added.     Examine him first, then give him thedeath.     Jon Karyl shrugged as he was led fromthe lighted room through more corridors.If it got too bad he still had the stubraypistol.     Anyway, he was curious. He'd taken onthe lonely, nerve-wracking job of servicestation attendant just to see what it offered.     Here was a part of it, and it was certainlysomething new.     This is the examination room, hisSteel-Blue said, almost contemptuously.     A green effulgence surrounded him.     There  was a hiss. Simultaneously, as thetiny microphone on the outside of hissuit picked up the hiss, he felt a chill gothrough his body. Then it seemed as if ahalf dozen hands were inside him, examininghis internal organs. His stomach contracted.He felt a squeeze on his heart. Hislungs tickled.     There were several more queer motionsinside his body.     Then another Steel-Blue voice said:     He is a soft-metal creature, made up ofmetals that melt at a very low temperature.He also contains a liquid whose makeup Icannot ascertain by ray-probe. Bring himback when the torture is done.     Jon Karyl grinned a trifle wryly. Whatkind of torture could this be?     Would it last 21 days? He glanced at thechronometer on his wrist.     Jon's Steel-Blue led him out of the alienship and halted expectantly just outside theship's lock.     Jon Karyl waited, too. He thought of thestubray pistol holstered at his hip. Shoot myway out? It'd be fun while it lasted. But hetoted up the disadvantages.     He either would have to find a hidingplace on the asteroid, and if the Steel-Blueswanted him bad enough they could tear thewhole place to pieces, or somehow getaboard the little life ship hidden in theservice station.     In that he would be just a sitting duck.     He shrugged off the slight temptation touse the pistol. He was still curious.     And he was interested in staying alive aslong as possible. There was a remote chancehe might warn the SP ship. Unconsciously,he glanced toward his belt to see the littlepower pack which, if under ideal conditions,could finger out fifty thousand miles intospace.     If he could somehow stay alive the 21days he might be able to warn the patrol.He couldn't do it by attempting to flee, forhis life would be snuffed out immediately.     The Steel-Blue said quietly:     It might be ironical to let you warnthat SP ship you keep thinking about. Butwe know your weapon now. Already ourship is equipped with a force field designedespecially to deflect your atomic guns.     Jon Karyl covered up his thoughtsquickly. They can delve deeper than thesurface of the mind. Or wasn't I keeping aleash on my thoughts?     The Steel-Blue chuckled. You get—absent-minded,is it?—every once in awhile.     Just then four other Steel-Blues appearedlugging great sheets of plastic and variousother equipment.     They dumped their loads and began unbundlingthem.     Working swiftly, they built a plasticigloo, smaller than the living room in thelarger service station igloo. They ranged instrumentsinside—one of them Jon Karylrecognized as an air pump from within thestation—and they laid out a pallet.     When they were done Jon saw a miniaturereproduction of the service station, lackingonly the cannon cap and fin, and with clearplastic walls instead of the opaqueness of theother.     His Steel-Blue said: We have reproducedthe atmosphere of your station so that yoube watched while you undergo the tortureunder the normal conditions of your life.     What is this torture? Jon Karyl asked.     The answer was almost caressing: It isa liquid we use to dissolve metals. It causesjoints to harden if even so much as a dropremains on it long. It eats away the metal,leaving a scaly residue which crumbleseventually into dust.     We will dilute it with a harmless liquidfor you since No. 1 does not wish you to dieinstantly.     Enter your—the Steel-Blue hesitated—mausoleum.You die in your own atmosphere.However, we took the liberty of purifyingit. There were dangerous elements init.     Jon walked into the little igloo. TheSteel-Blues sealed the lock, fingered dialsand switches on the outside. Jon's space suitdeflated. Pressure was building up in theigloo.     He took a sample of the air, found thatit was good, although quite rich in oxygencompared with what he'd been using in theservice station and in his suit.     With a sigh of relief he took off his helmetand gulped huge draughts of the air.     He sat down on the pallet and waitedfor the torture to begin.     The Steel Blues crowded about the igloo,staring at him through elliptical eyes.     Apparently, they too, were waiting for thetorture to begin.     Jon thought the excess of oxygen wasmaking him light-headed.     He stared at a cylinder which was beginningto sprout tentacles from the circle.He rubbed his eyes and looked again. Anopening, like the adjustable eye-piece of aspacescope, was appearing in the center ofthe cylinder.     A square, glass-like tumbler sat in theopening disclosed in the four-foot cylinderthat had sprouted tentacles. It contained ayellowish liquid.     One of the tentacles reached into theopening and clasped the glass. The openingclosed and the cylinder, propelled by locomotorappendages, moved toward Jon.     He didn't like the looks of the liquid inthe tumbler. It looked like an acid of somesort. He raised to his feet.     He unsheathed the stubray gun and preparedto blast the cylinder.     The  cylinder moved so fast Jon felt hiseyes jump in his head. He brought thestubray gun up—but he was helpless. Thepistol kept on going up. With a deft movement,one of the tentacles had speared itfrom his hand and was holding it out ofhis reach.     Jon kicked at the glass in the cylinder'shand. But he was too slow. Two tentaclesgripped the kicking leg. Another struck himin the chest, knocking him to the pallet. Thesame tentacle, assisted by a new one,pinioned his shoulders.     Four tentacles held him supine. The cylinderlifted a glass-like cap from the tumblerof liquid.     Lying there helplessly, Jon was rememberingan old fairy tale he'd read as a kid.Something about a fellow named Socrateswho was given a cup of hemlock to drink.It was the finis for Socrates. But the oldhero had been nonchalant and calm aboutthe whole thing.     With a sigh, Jon Karyl, who was curiousunto death, relaxed and said, All right,bub, you don't have to force-feed me. I'lltake it like a man.     The cylinder apparently understood him,for it handed him the tumbler. It even reholsteredhis stubray pistol.     Jon brought the glass of liquid under hisnose. The fumes of the liquid were pungent.It brought tears to his eyes.     He looked at the cylinder, then at theSteel-Blues crowding around the plasticigloo. He waved the glass at the audience.     To Earth, ever triumphant, he toasted.Then he drained the glass at a gulp.     Its taste was bitter, and he felt hotprickles jab at his scalp. It was like eatingvery hot peppers. His eyes filled with tears.He coughed as the stuff went down.     But he was still alive, he thought inamazement. He'd drunk the hemlock andwas still alive.     The reaction set in quickly. He hadn'tknown until then how tense he'd been. Nowwith the torture ordeal over, he relaxed. Helaid down on the pallet and went to sleep.     There was one lone Steel-Blue watchinghim when he rubbed the sleep out of hiseyes and sat up.     He vanished almost instantly. He, or anotherlike him, returned immediately accompaniedby a half-dozen others, includingthe multi-tentacled creature known as No. 1.     One said,     You are alive. The thought registeredamazement. When you lost consciousness,we thought you had—there was a hesitation—asyou say, died.     No, Jon Karyl said. I didn't die. Iwas just plain dead-beat so I went to sleep.The Steel-Blues apparently didn't understand.     Good it is that you live. The torturewill continue, spoke No. 1 before lopingaway.     The cylinder business began again. Thistime, Jon drank the bitter liquid slowly, tryingto figure out what it was. It had afamiliar, tantalizing taste but he couldn'tquite put a taste-finger on it.     His belly said he was hungry. He glancedat his chronometer. Only 20 days left beforethe SP ship arrived.     Would this torture—he chuckled—lastuntil then? But he was growing more andmore conscious that his belly was screamingfor hunger. The liquid had taken the edgeoff his thirst.     It was on the fifth day of his torture thatJon Karyl decided that he was going to getsomething to eat or perish in the attempt.     The cylinder sat passively in its niche inthe circle. A dozen Steel-Blues were watchingas Jon put on his helmet and unsheathedhis stubray.     They merely watched as he pressed thestubray's firing stud. Invisible rays lickedout of the bulbous muzzle of the pistol.The plastic splintered.     Jon was out of his goldfish bowl andstriding toward his own igloo adjacent tothe service station when a Steel-Blueaccosted him.     Out of my way, grunted Jon, wavingthe stubray. I'm hungry.     I'm the first Steel-Blue you met, saidthe creature who barred his way. Go backto your torture.     But I'm so hungry I'll chew off one ofyour tentacles and eat it without seasoning.     Eat? The Steel-Blue sounded puzzled.     I want to refuel. I've got to have foodto keep my engine going.     Steel-Blue chuckled. So the hemlock, asyou call it, is beginning to affect you atlast? Back to the torture room.     Like R-dust, Jon growled. He pressedthe firing stud on the stubray gun. One ofSteel-Blue's tentacles broke off and fell tothe rocky sward.     Steel-Blue jerked out the box he'd usedonce before. A tentacle danced over it.     Abruptly Jon found himself standing ona pinnacle of rock. Steel-Blue had cut aswath around him 15 feet deep and five feetwide.     Back to the room, Steel-Blue commanded.     Jon resheathed the stubray pistol,shrugged non-committally and leaped thetrench. He walked slowly back and reenteredthe torture chamber.     The Steel-Blues rapidly repaired the damagehe'd done.     As he watched them, Jon was still curious,but he was getting mad underneath atthe cold egoism of the Steel-Blues.     By the shimmering clouds of Earth, byher green fields, and dark forests, he'dstay alive to warn the SP ship.     Yes, he'd stay alive till then. And sendthe story of the Steel-Blues' corrosive acidto it. Then hundreds of Earth's ships couldequip themselves with spray guns and squirtcitric acid and watch the Steel-Blues fadeaway.     It sounded almost silly to Jon Karyl. Thefruit acid of Earth to repel these invaders—itdoesn't sound possible. That couldn't bethe answer.     Citric acid wasn't the answer, Jon Karyldiscovered a week later.     The Steel-Blue who had captured him inthe power room of the service station camein to examine him.     You're still holding out, I see, he observedafter poking Jon in every sensitivepart of his body.     I'll suggest to No. 1 that we increasethe power of the—ah—hemlock. How doyou feel?     Between the rich oxygen and the dizzinessof hunger, Jon was a bit delirious. But heanswered honestly enough: My guts feel asif they're chewing each other up. My bonesache. My joints creak. I can't coordinate I'mso hungry.     That is the hemlock, Steel-Blue said.     It was when he quaffed the new andstronger draught that Jon knew that hishope that it was citric acid was squelched.     The acid taste was weaker which meantthat the citric acid was the diluting liquid.It was the liquid he couldn't taste beneaththe tang of the citric acid that was the corrosiveacid.     On the fourteenth day, Jon was so weakhe didn't feel much like moving around. Helet the cylinder feed him the hemlock.     No. 1 came again to see him, and wentaway chuckling, Decrease the dilution.This Earthman at last is beginning tosuffer.     Staying  alive had now become a fetishwith Jon.     On the sixteenth day, the Earthman realizedthat the Steel-Blues also were waitingfor the SP ship.     The extra-terrestrials had repaired theblue ship where the service station atomicray had struck. And they were doing a littletarget practice with plastic bubbles only afew miles above the asteroid.     When his chronometer clocked off thebeginning of the twenty-first day, Jon receiveda tumbler of the hemlock from thehands of No. 1 himself.     It is the hemlock, he chuckled, undiluted.Drink it and your torture is over.You will die before your SP ship is destroyed.     We have played with you long enough.Today we begin to toy with your SP ship.Drink up, Earthman, drink to enslavement.     Weak though he was Jon lunged to hisfeet, spilling the tumbler of liquid. It rancool along the plastic arm of his space suit.He changed his mind about throwing thecontents on No. 1.     With a smile he set the glass at his lipsand drank. Then he laughed at No. 1.     The SP ship will turn your ship intojelly.     No. 1 swept out, chuckling. Boast if youwill, Earthman, it's your last chance.     There was an exultation in Jon's heartthat deadened the hunger and washed awaythe nausea.     At last he knew what the hemlock was.     He sat on the pallet adjusting the littlepower-pack radio. The SP ship should nowbe within range of the set. The space patrolwas notorious for its accuracy in keeping toschedule. Seconds counted like years. Theyhad to be on the nose, or it meant disasteror death.     He sent out the call letters.     AX to SP-101 ... AX to SP-101 ... AXto SP-101 ...     Three times he sent the call, then begansending his message, hoping that his signalwas reaching the ship. He couldn't know ifthey answered. Though the power packcould get out a message over a vast distance,it could not pick up messages evenwhen backed by an SP ship's power unlessthe ship was only a few hundred milesaway.     The power pack was strictly a distresssignal.     He didn't know how long he'd beensending, nor how many times his wearyvoice had repeated the short but desperatemessage.     He kept watching the heavens and hoping.     Abruptly he knew the SP ship was coming,for the blue ship of the Steel-Blues wasrising silently from the asteroid.     Up and up it rose, then flames flickeredin a circle about its curious shape. The shipdisappeared, suddenly accelerating.     Jon Karyl strained his eyes.     Finally he looked away from the heavensto the two Steel-Blues who stood negligentlyoutside the goldfish bowl.     Once more, Jon used the stubray pistol.He marched out of the plastic igloo and rantoward the service station.     He didn't know how weak he was untilhe stumbled and fell only a few feet fromhis prison.     The Steel-Blues just watched him.     He crawled on, around the circular pit inthe sward of the asteroid where one Steel-Bluehad shown him the power of hisweapon.     He'd been crawling through a nightmarefor years when the quiet voice penetratedhis dulled mind.     Take it easy, Karyl. You're amongfriends.     He pried open his eyes with his will. Hesaw the blue and gold of a space guard'suniform. He sighed and drifted into unconsciousness.     He was  still weak days later whenCapt. Ron Small of SP-101 said,     Yes, Karyl, it's ironical. They fed youwhat they thought was sure death, and it'sthe only thing that kept you going longenough to warn us.     I was dumb for a long time, Karyl said.I thought that it was the acid, almost tothe very last. But when I drank that lastglass, I knew they didn't have a chance.     They were metal monsters. No wonderthey feared that liquid. It would rust theirjoints, short their wiring, and kill them.No wonder they stared when I kept aliveafter drinking enough to completely annihilatea half-dozen of them.     But what happened when you met theship?     The space captain grinned.     Not much. Our crew was busy creatinga hollow shell filled with      water     to be shotout of a rocket tube converted into a projectilethrower.     These Steel-Blues, as you call them, puttraction beams on us and started tugging ustoward the asteroid. We tried a couple ofatomic shots but when they just glanced off,we gave up.     They weren't expecting the shell ofwater. When it hit that blue ship, you couldalmost see it oxidize before your eyes.     I guess they knew what was wrong rightaway. They let go the traction beams andtried to get away. They forgot about theforce field, so we just poured atomic fireinto the weakening ship. It just meltedaway.     Jon Karyl got up from the divan wherehe'd been lying. They thought I was ametal creature, too. But where do you supposethey came from?     The captain shrugged. Who knows?     Jon set two glasses on the table.     Have a drink of the best damn water inthe solar system? He asked Capt. Small.     Don't mind if I do.     The water twinkled in the two glasses,winking as if it knew just what it haddone.     Transcriber's Note:   This etext was produced from    Planet Stories   July 1952.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note.","The story is initially set on an asteroid, where a stationary rocket station is. Jon has a blue plastic igloo to live in. There is also a ravine where he runs to in an attempt to elude the Steel-Blues. There are bushes, water, and dense thicket that he must go through before getting to the hollowed-out space in the center. At the station, there is a lock for his key to go through. The lever then opens to a long tunnel, and there is a televisor that fixes on the area. The station is made out of stelrylite, but it becomes riddled with holes after the Steel-Blues attack. The station also has a row of studs and a revolving turret that fires atomic cannons. There is a yellow, blue, and red button to fire. The Blue Steels’ spaceship can change its part to a bubble-like metal. The spaceship of the invaders is pitch-black and is a maze-like corridor. At the end, there is a circular room with bright light streaming from a glass-like and bulging skylight. In the examination room, the Steel-Blues build a miniature reproduction of the space station with plastic walls. There is a small opening in the four foot cylinder that brings him a strange liquid. Although the Steel-Blues are always present, the tank they keep him in is fairly easy to break out of. "
"What are some of the equipment used in the story? </s>    ACID BATH     By VASELEOS GARSON         The starways' Lone Watcher had expected some odd developmentsin his singular, nerve-fraught job on the asteroid. But nothing like theweird twenty-one-day liquid test devised by the invading Steel-Blues.        Jon Karyl  was bolting in a new baffleplate on the stationary rocket engine.It was a tedious job and took all hisconcentration. So he wasn't paying too muchattention to what was going on in otherparts of the little asteroid.     He didn't see the peculiar blue spaceship, its rockets throttled down, as it driftedto land only a few hundred yards away fromhis plastic igloo.     Nor did he see the half-dozen steel-bluecreatures slide out of the peculiar vessel'sairlock.     It was only as he crawled out of thedepths of the rocket power plant that herealized something was wrong.     By then it was almost too late. The sixblue figures were only fifty feet away, approachinghim at a lope.     Jon Karyl took one look and went boundingover the asteroid's rocky slopes in fifty-footbounds.     When you're a Lone Watcher, andstrangers catch you unawares, you don'tstand still. You move fast. It's the Watcher'sfirst rule. Stay alive. An Earthship may dependupon your life.     As he fled, Jon Karyl cursed softly underhis breath. The automatic alarm should haveshrilled out a warning.     Then he saved as much of his breath ashe could as some sort of power wave toreup the rocky sward to his left. He twistedand zig-zagged in his flight, trying to getout of sight of the strangers.     Once hidden from their eyes, he could cutback and head for the underground entranceto the service station.     He glanced back finally.     Two of the steel-blue creatures were jack-rabbitingafter him, and rapidly closing thedistance.     Jon Karyl unsheathed the stubray pistolat his side, turned the oxygen dial up forgreater exertion, increased the gravity pullin his space-suit boots as he neared theravine he'd been racing for.     The oxygen was just taking hold whenhe hit the lip of the ravine and begansprinting through its man-high bush-strewncourse.     The power ray from behind ripped outgreat gobs of the sheltering bushes. Butrunning naturally, bent close to the bottomof the ravine, Jon Karyl dodged the barespots. The oxygen made the tremendousexertion easy for his lungs as he sped downthe dim trail, hidden from the two steel-bluestalkers.     He'd eluded them, temporarily at least,Jon Karyl decided when he finally edged offthe dim trail and watched for movementalong the route behind him.     He stood up, finally, pushed aside theleafy overhang of a bush and looked forlandmarks along the edge of the ravine.     He found one, a stubby bush, shaped likea Maltese cross, clinging to the lip of theravine. The hidden entrance to the servicestation wasn't far off.     His pistol held ready, he moved quietlyon down the ravine until the old watercourse made an abrupt hairpin turn.     Instead of following around the sharpbend, Jon Karyl moved straight aheadthrough the overhanging bushes until hecame to a dense thicket. Dropping to hishands and knees he worked his way underthe edge of the thicket into a hollowed-outspace in the center.     There  , just ahead of him, was the lockleading into the service station. Slippinga key out of a leg pouch on the space suit,he jabbed it into the center of the lock,opening the lever housing.     He pulled strongly on the lever. With ahiss of escaping air, the lock swung open.Jon Karyl darted inside, the door closingsoftly behind.     At the end of the long tunnel he steppedto the televisor which was fixed on the areasurrounding the station.     Jon Karyl saw none of the steel-blue creatures.But he saw their ship. It squattedlike a smashed-down kid's top, its lock shuttight.     He tuned the televisor to its widest rangeand finally spotted one of the Steel-Blues.He was looking into the stationary rocketengine.     As Karyl watched, a second Steel-Bluecame crawling out of the ship.     The two Steel-Blues moved toward thecenter of the televisor range. They're comingtoward the station, Karyl thought grimly.     Karyl examined the two creatures. Theywere of the steel-blue color from the crownof their egg-shaped heads to the tips oftheir walking appendages.     They were about the height of Karyl—sixfeet. But where he tapered from broadshoulders to flat hips, they were straight upand down. They had no legs, just appendages,many-jointed that stretched andshrank independent of the other, but keepingthe cylindrical body with its four pairsof tentacles on a level balance.     Where their eyes would have been wasan elliptical-shaped lens, covering half theegg-head, with its converging ends curvingaround the sides of the head.     Robots! Jon gauged immediately. Butwhere were their masters?     The Steel-Blues moved out of the rangeof the televisor. A minute later Jon hearda pounding from the station upstairs.     He chuckled. They were like the wolf ofpre-atomic days who huffed and puffed toblow the house down.     The outer shell of the station was formedfrom stelrylite, the toughest metal in thesolar system. With the self-sealing lock ofthe same resistant material, a mere poundingwas nothing.     Jon thought he'd have a look-see anyway.He went up the steel ladder leading to thestation's power plant and the televisor thatcould look into every room within thestation.     He heaved a slight sigh when he reachedthe power room, for right at his hand wereweapons to blast the ship from the asteroid.     Jon adjusted one televisor to take in thelock to the station. His teeth suddenlyclamped down on his lower lip.     Those Steel-Blues were pounding holesinto the stelrylite with round-headed metalclubs. But it was impossible. Stelrylite didn'tbreak up that easily.     Jon leaped to a row of studs, lining upthe revolving turret which capped the stationso that its thin fin pointed at thesquat ship of the invaders.     Then he went to the atomic cannon'sfiring buttons.     He pressed first the yellow, then the bluebutton. Finally the red one.     The thin fin—the cannon's sight—split inhalf as the turret opened and the coiled noseof the cannon protruded. There was asoundless flash. Then a sharp crack.     Jon was dumbfounded when he saw thebolt ricochet off the ship. This was no shipof the solar system. There was nothing thatcould withstand even the slight jolt of powergiven by the station cannon on any of theSun's worlds. But what was this? A piece ofthe ship had changed. A bubble of metal,like a huge drop of blue wax, dripped offthe vessel and struck the rocket of theasteroid. It steamed and ran in rivulets.     He pressed the red button again.     Then abruptly he was on the floor of thepower room, his legs strangely cut out fromunder him. He tried to move them. They layflaccid. His arms seemed all right and triedto lever himself to an upright position.     Damn it, he seemed as if he were paralyzedfrom the waist down. But it couldn'thappen that suddenly.     He turned his head.     A Steel-Blue stood facing him. A forkedtentacle held a square black box.     Jon could read nothing in that metallicface. He said, voice muffled by the confinesof the plastic helmet, Who are you?     I am—there was a rising inflection inthe answer—a Steel-Blue.     There were no lips on the Steel-Blue'sface to move. That is what I have namedyou, Jon Karyl said. But what are you?     A robot, came the immediate answer.Jon was quite sure then that the Steel-Bluewas telepathic. Yes, the Steel-Blue answered.We talk in the language of themind. Come! he said peremptorily, motioningwith the square black box.     The paralysis left Karyl's legs. He followedthe Steel-Blue, aware that the lenshe'd seen on the creature's face had acounterpart on the back of the egg-head.     Eyes in the back of his head, Jon thought.That's quite an innovation. Thank you,Steel-Blue said.     There wasn't much fear in Jon Karyl'smind. Psychiatrists had proved that when hehad applied for this high-paying but man-killingjob as a Lone Watcher on the SolarSystem's starways.     He had little fear now, only curiosity.These Steel-Blues didn't seem inimical.They could have snuffed out my life verysimply. Perhaps they and Solarians can befriends.     Steel-Blue chuckled.     Jon  followed him through the sunderedlock of the station. Karyl stopped for amoment to examine the wreckage of thelock. It had been punched full of holes asif it had been some soft cheese instead of ametal which Earthmen had spent nearly acentury perfecting.     We appreciate your compliment, Steel-Bluesaid. But that metal also is found onour world. It's probably the softest and mostmalleable we have. We were surprised you—earthmen,is it?—use it as protectivemetal.     Why are you in this system? Jon asked,hardly expecting an answer.     It came anyway. For the same reason youEarthmen are reaching out farther into yoursystem. We need living room. You havestrategically placed planets for our use. Wewill use them.     Jon sighed. For 400 years scientists hadbeen preaching preparedness as Earth flungher ships into the reaches of the solar system,taking the first long step toward theconquest of space.     There are other races somewhere, theyargued. As strong and smart as man, manyof them so transcending man in mental andinventive power that we must be prepared tostrike the minute danger shows.     Now here was the answer to the scientists'warning. Invasion by extra-terrestrials.     What did you say? asked Steel-Blue.I couldn't understand.     Just thinking to myself, Jon answered.It was a welcome surprise. Apparently histhoughts had to be directed outward, ratherthan inward, in order for the Steel-Blues toread it.     He followed the Steel-Blue into the gapinglock of the invaders' space ship wonderinghow he could warn Earth. The SpacePatrol cruiser was due in for refueling athis service station in 21 days. But by thattime he probably would be mouldering inthe rocky dust of the asteroid.     It was pitch dark within the ship but theSteel-Blue seemed to have no trouble at allmaneuvering through the maze of corridors.Jon followed him, attached to one tentacle.     Finally Jon and his guide entered a circularroom, bright with light streaming froma glass-like, bulging skylight. They apparentlywere near topside of the vessel.     A Steel-Blue, more massive than hisguide and with four more pair of tentacles,including two short ones that grew from thetop of its head, spoke out.     This is the violator? Jon's Steel-Bluenodded.     You know the penalty? Carry it out.     He also is an inhabitant of this system,Jon's guide added.     Examine him first, then give him thedeath.     Jon Karyl shrugged as he was led fromthe lighted room through more corridors.If it got too bad he still had the stubraypistol.     Anyway, he was curious. He'd taken onthe lonely, nerve-wracking job of servicestation attendant just to see what it offered.     Here was a part of it, and it was certainlysomething new.     This is the examination room, hisSteel-Blue said, almost contemptuously.     A green effulgence surrounded him.     There  was a hiss. Simultaneously, as thetiny microphone on the outside of hissuit picked up the hiss, he felt a chill gothrough his body. Then it seemed as if ahalf dozen hands were inside him, examininghis internal organs. His stomach contracted.He felt a squeeze on his heart. Hislungs tickled.     There were several more queer motionsinside his body.     Then another Steel-Blue voice said:     He is a soft-metal creature, made up ofmetals that melt at a very low temperature.He also contains a liquid whose makeup Icannot ascertain by ray-probe. Bring himback when the torture is done.     Jon Karyl grinned a trifle wryly. Whatkind of torture could this be?     Would it last 21 days? He glanced at thechronometer on his wrist.     Jon's Steel-Blue led him out of the alienship and halted expectantly just outside theship's lock.     Jon Karyl waited, too. He thought of thestubray pistol holstered at his hip. Shoot myway out? It'd be fun while it lasted. But hetoted up the disadvantages.     He either would have to find a hidingplace on the asteroid, and if the Steel-Blueswanted him bad enough they could tear thewhole place to pieces, or somehow getaboard the little life ship hidden in theservice station.     In that he would be just a sitting duck.     He shrugged off the slight temptation touse the pistol. He was still curious.     And he was interested in staying alive aslong as possible. There was a remote chancehe might warn the SP ship. Unconsciously,he glanced toward his belt to see the littlepower pack which, if under ideal conditions,could finger out fifty thousand miles intospace.     If he could somehow stay alive the 21days he might be able to warn the patrol.He couldn't do it by attempting to flee, forhis life would be snuffed out immediately.     The Steel-Blue said quietly:     It might be ironical to let you warnthat SP ship you keep thinking about. Butwe know your weapon now. Already ourship is equipped with a force field designedespecially to deflect your atomic guns.     Jon Karyl covered up his thoughtsquickly. They can delve deeper than thesurface of the mind. Or wasn't I keeping aleash on my thoughts?     The Steel-Blue chuckled. You get—absent-minded,is it?—every once in awhile.     Just then four other Steel-Blues appearedlugging great sheets of plastic and variousother equipment.     They dumped their loads and began unbundlingthem.     Working swiftly, they built a plasticigloo, smaller than the living room in thelarger service station igloo. They ranged instrumentsinside—one of them Jon Karylrecognized as an air pump from within thestation—and they laid out a pallet.     When they were done Jon saw a miniaturereproduction of the service station, lackingonly the cannon cap and fin, and with clearplastic walls instead of the opaqueness of theother.     His Steel-Blue said: We have reproducedthe atmosphere of your station so that yoube watched while you undergo the tortureunder the normal conditions of your life.     What is this torture? Jon Karyl asked.     The answer was almost caressing: It isa liquid we use to dissolve metals. It causesjoints to harden if even so much as a dropremains on it long. It eats away the metal,leaving a scaly residue which crumbleseventually into dust.     We will dilute it with a harmless liquidfor you since No. 1 does not wish you to dieinstantly.     Enter your—the Steel-Blue hesitated—mausoleum.You die in your own atmosphere.However, we took the liberty of purifyingit. There were dangerous elements init.     Jon walked into the little igloo. TheSteel-Blues sealed the lock, fingered dialsand switches on the outside. Jon's space suitdeflated. Pressure was building up in theigloo.     He took a sample of the air, found thatit was good, although quite rich in oxygencompared with what he'd been using in theservice station and in his suit.     With a sigh of relief he took off his helmetand gulped huge draughts of the air.     He sat down on the pallet and waitedfor the torture to begin.     The Steel Blues crowded about the igloo,staring at him through elliptical eyes.     Apparently, they too, were waiting for thetorture to begin.     Jon thought the excess of oxygen wasmaking him light-headed.     He stared at a cylinder which was beginningto sprout tentacles from the circle.He rubbed his eyes and looked again. Anopening, like the adjustable eye-piece of aspacescope, was appearing in the center ofthe cylinder.     A square, glass-like tumbler sat in theopening disclosed in the four-foot cylinderthat had sprouted tentacles. It contained ayellowish liquid.     One of the tentacles reached into theopening and clasped the glass. The openingclosed and the cylinder, propelled by locomotorappendages, moved toward Jon.     He didn't like the looks of the liquid inthe tumbler. It looked like an acid of somesort. He raised to his feet.     He unsheathed the stubray gun and preparedto blast the cylinder.     The  cylinder moved so fast Jon felt hiseyes jump in his head. He brought thestubray gun up—but he was helpless. Thepistol kept on going up. With a deft movement,one of the tentacles had speared itfrom his hand and was holding it out ofhis reach.     Jon kicked at the glass in the cylinder'shand. But he was too slow. Two tentaclesgripped the kicking leg. Another struck himin the chest, knocking him to the pallet. Thesame tentacle, assisted by a new one,pinioned his shoulders.     Four tentacles held him supine. The cylinderlifted a glass-like cap from the tumblerof liquid.     Lying there helplessly, Jon was rememberingan old fairy tale he'd read as a kid.Something about a fellow named Socrateswho was given a cup of hemlock to drink.It was the finis for Socrates. But the oldhero had been nonchalant and calm aboutthe whole thing.     With a sigh, Jon Karyl, who was curiousunto death, relaxed and said, All right,bub, you don't have to force-feed me. I'lltake it like a man.     The cylinder apparently understood him,for it handed him the tumbler. It even reholsteredhis stubray pistol.     Jon brought the glass of liquid under hisnose. The fumes of the liquid were pungent.It brought tears to his eyes.     He looked at the cylinder, then at theSteel-Blues crowding around the plasticigloo. He waved the glass at the audience.     To Earth, ever triumphant, he toasted.Then he drained the glass at a gulp.     Its taste was bitter, and he felt hotprickles jab at his scalp. It was like eatingvery hot peppers. His eyes filled with tears.He coughed as the stuff went down.     But he was still alive, he thought inamazement. He'd drunk the hemlock andwas still alive.     The reaction set in quickly. He hadn'tknown until then how tense he'd been. Nowwith the torture ordeal over, he relaxed. Helaid down on the pallet and went to sleep.     There was one lone Steel-Blue watchinghim when he rubbed the sleep out of hiseyes and sat up.     He vanished almost instantly. He, or anotherlike him, returned immediately accompaniedby a half-dozen others, includingthe multi-tentacled creature known as No. 1.     One said,     You are alive. The thought registeredamazement. When you lost consciousness,we thought you had—there was a hesitation—asyou say, died.     No, Jon Karyl said. I didn't die. Iwas just plain dead-beat so I went to sleep.The Steel-Blues apparently didn't understand.     Good it is that you live. The torturewill continue, spoke No. 1 before lopingaway.     The cylinder business began again. Thistime, Jon drank the bitter liquid slowly, tryingto figure out what it was. It had afamiliar, tantalizing taste but he couldn'tquite put a taste-finger on it.     His belly said he was hungry. He glancedat his chronometer. Only 20 days left beforethe SP ship arrived.     Would this torture—he chuckled—lastuntil then? But he was growing more andmore conscious that his belly was screamingfor hunger. The liquid had taken the edgeoff his thirst.     It was on the fifth day of his torture thatJon Karyl decided that he was going to getsomething to eat or perish in the attempt.     The cylinder sat passively in its niche inthe circle. A dozen Steel-Blues were watchingas Jon put on his helmet and unsheathedhis stubray.     They merely watched as he pressed thestubray's firing stud. Invisible rays lickedout of the bulbous muzzle of the pistol.The plastic splintered.     Jon was out of his goldfish bowl andstriding toward his own igloo adjacent tothe service station when a Steel-Blueaccosted him.     Out of my way, grunted Jon, wavingthe stubray. I'm hungry.     I'm the first Steel-Blue you met, saidthe creature who barred his way. Go backto your torture.     But I'm so hungry I'll chew off one ofyour tentacles and eat it without seasoning.     Eat? The Steel-Blue sounded puzzled.     I want to refuel. I've got to have foodto keep my engine going.     Steel-Blue chuckled. So the hemlock, asyou call it, is beginning to affect you atlast? Back to the torture room.     Like R-dust, Jon growled. He pressedthe firing stud on the stubray gun. One ofSteel-Blue's tentacles broke off and fell tothe rocky sward.     Steel-Blue jerked out the box he'd usedonce before. A tentacle danced over it.     Abruptly Jon found himself standing ona pinnacle of rock. Steel-Blue had cut aswath around him 15 feet deep and five feetwide.     Back to the room, Steel-Blue commanded.     Jon resheathed the stubray pistol,shrugged non-committally and leaped thetrench. He walked slowly back and reenteredthe torture chamber.     The Steel-Blues rapidly repaired the damagehe'd done.     As he watched them, Jon was still curious,but he was getting mad underneath atthe cold egoism of the Steel-Blues.     By the shimmering clouds of Earth, byher green fields, and dark forests, he'dstay alive to warn the SP ship.     Yes, he'd stay alive till then. And sendthe story of the Steel-Blues' corrosive acidto it. Then hundreds of Earth's ships couldequip themselves with spray guns and squirtcitric acid and watch the Steel-Blues fadeaway.     It sounded almost silly to Jon Karyl. Thefruit acid of Earth to repel these invaders—itdoesn't sound possible. That couldn't bethe answer.     Citric acid wasn't the answer, Jon Karyldiscovered a week later.     The Steel-Blue who had captured him inthe power room of the service station camein to examine him.     You're still holding out, I see, he observedafter poking Jon in every sensitivepart of his body.     I'll suggest to No. 1 that we increasethe power of the—ah—hemlock. How doyou feel?     Between the rich oxygen and the dizzinessof hunger, Jon was a bit delirious. But heanswered honestly enough: My guts feel asif they're chewing each other up. My bonesache. My joints creak. I can't coordinate I'mso hungry.     That is the hemlock, Steel-Blue said.     It was when he quaffed the new andstronger draught that Jon knew that hishope that it was citric acid was squelched.     The acid taste was weaker which meantthat the citric acid was the diluting liquid.It was the liquid he couldn't taste beneaththe tang of the citric acid that was the corrosiveacid.     On the fourteenth day, Jon was so weakhe didn't feel much like moving around. Helet the cylinder feed him the hemlock.     No. 1 came again to see him, and wentaway chuckling, Decrease the dilution.This Earthman at last is beginning tosuffer.     Staying  alive had now become a fetishwith Jon.     On the sixteenth day, the Earthman realizedthat the Steel-Blues also were waitingfor the SP ship.     The extra-terrestrials had repaired theblue ship where the service station atomicray had struck. And they were doing a littletarget practice with plastic bubbles only afew miles above the asteroid.     When his chronometer clocked off thebeginning of the twenty-first day, Jon receiveda tumbler of the hemlock from thehands of No. 1 himself.     It is the hemlock, he chuckled, undiluted.Drink it and your torture is over.You will die before your SP ship is destroyed.     We have played with you long enough.Today we begin to toy with your SP ship.Drink up, Earthman, drink to enslavement.     Weak though he was Jon lunged to hisfeet, spilling the tumbler of liquid. It rancool along the plastic arm of his space suit.He changed his mind about throwing thecontents on No. 1.     With a smile he set the glass at his lipsand drank. Then he laughed at No. 1.     The SP ship will turn your ship intojelly.     No. 1 swept out, chuckling. Boast if youwill, Earthman, it's your last chance.     There was an exultation in Jon's heartthat deadened the hunger and washed awaythe nausea.     At last he knew what the hemlock was.     He sat on the pallet adjusting the littlepower-pack radio. The SP ship should nowbe within range of the set. The space patrolwas notorious for its accuracy in keeping toschedule. Seconds counted like years. Theyhad to be on the nose, or it meant disasteror death.     He sent out the call letters.     AX to SP-101 ... AX to SP-101 ... AXto SP-101 ...     Three times he sent the call, then begansending his message, hoping that his signalwas reaching the ship. He couldn't know ifthey answered. Though the power packcould get out a message over a vast distance,it could not pick up messages evenwhen backed by an SP ship's power unlessthe ship was only a few hundred milesaway.     The power pack was strictly a distresssignal.     He didn't know how long he'd beensending, nor how many times his wearyvoice had repeated the short but desperatemessage.     He kept watching the heavens and hoping.     Abruptly he knew the SP ship was coming,for the blue ship of the Steel-Blues wasrising silently from the asteroid.     Up and up it rose, then flames flickeredin a circle about its curious shape. The shipdisappeared, suddenly accelerating.     Jon Karyl strained his eyes.     Finally he looked away from the heavensto the two Steel-Blues who stood negligentlyoutside the goldfish bowl.     Once more, Jon used the stubray pistol.He marched out of the plastic igloo and rantoward the service station.     He didn't know how weak he was untilhe stumbled and fell only a few feet fromhis prison.     The Steel-Blues just watched him.     He crawled on, around the circular pit inthe sward of the asteroid where one Steel-Bluehad shown him the power of hisweapon.     He'd been crawling through a nightmarefor years when the quiet voice penetratedhis dulled mind.     Take it easy, Karyl. You're amongfriends.     He pried open his eyes with his will. Hesaw the blue and gold of a space guard'suniform. He sighed and drifted into unconsciousness.     He was  still weak days later whenCapt. Ron Small of SP-101 said,     Yes, Karyl, it's ironical. They fed youwhat they thought was sure death, and it'sthe only thing that kept you going longenough to warn us.     I was dumb for a long time, Karyl said.I thought that it was the acid, almost tothe very last. But when I drank that lastglass, I knew they didn't have a chance.     They were metal monsters. No wonderthey feared that liquid. It would rust theirjoints, short their wiring, and kill them.No wonder they stared when I kept aliveafter drinking enough to completely annihilatea half-dozen of them.     But what happened when you met theship?     The space captain grinned.     Not much. Our crew was busy creatinga hollow shell filled with      water     to be shotout of a rocket tube converted into a projectilethrower.     These Steel-Blues, as you call them, puttraction beams on us and started tugging ustoward the asteroid. We tried a couple ofatomic shots but when they just glanced off,we gave up.     They weren't expecting the shell ofwater. When it hit that blue ship, you couldalmost see it oxidize before your eyes.     I guess they knew what was wrong rightaway. They let go the traction beams andtried to get away. They forgot about theforce field, so we just poured atomic fireinto the weakening ship. It just meltedaway.     Jon Karyl got up from the divan wherehe'd been lying. They thought I was ametal creature, too. But where do you supposethey came from?     The captain shrugged. Who knows?     Jon set two glasses on the table.     Have a drink of the best damn water inthe solar system? He asked Capt. Small.     Don't mind if I do.     The water twinkled in the two glasses,winking as if it knew just what it haddone.     Transcriber's Note:   This etext was produced from    Planet Stories   July 1952.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note.","Jon uses a stubray pistol that he keeps on him at all times. The space station itself is fairly equipped, with a thin turret that can fire atomic cannons. The ship that the Steel Blues arrive in is very advanced as well, and it is capable of recovering from the cannon. The Steel Blue’s build his habitat out of plastic and other material that they have in possession. When the Steel Blue’s begin Jon’s torture, they feed him a drink that he thinks is hemlock. Later, Jon also uses his little power-pack radio to send a distress signal to the SP ship. When the SP ship defeats the Steel Blues, they use a rocket tube to shoot water and then atomic fire. "
"What is the relationship between Jon Karyl and his Steel-Blue (the one that he initially meets)? </s>    ACID BATH     By VASELEOS GARSON         The starways' Lone Watcher had expected some odd developmentsin his singular, nerve-fraught job on the asteroid. But nothing like theweird twenty-one-day liquid test devised by the invading Steel-Blues.        Jon Karyl  was bolting in a new baffleplate on the stationary rocket engine.It was a tedious job and took all hisconcentration. So he wasn't paying too muchattention to what was going on in otherparts of the little asteroid.     He didn't see the peculiar blue spaceship, its rockets throttled down, as it driftedto land only a few hundred yards away fromhis plastic igloo.     Nor did he see the half-dozen steel-bluecreatures slide out of the peculiar vessel'sairlock.     It was only as he crawled out of thedepths of the rocket power plant that herealized something was wrong.     By then it was almost too late. The sixblue figures were only fifty feet away, approachinghim at a lope.     Jon Karyl took one look and went boundingover the asteroid's rocky slopes in fifty-footbounds.     When you're a Lone Watcher, andstrangers catch you unawares, you don'tstand still. You move fast. It's the Watcher'sfirst rule. Stay alive. An Earthship may dependupon your life.     As he fled, Jon Karyl cursed softly underhis breath. The automatic alarm should haveshrilled out a warning.     Then he saved as much of his breath ashe could as some sort of power wave toreup the rocky sward to his left. He twistedand zig-zagged in his flight, trying to getout of sight of the strangers.     Once hidden from their eyes, he could cutback and head for the underground entranceto the service station.     He glanced back finally.     Two of the steel-blue creatures were jack-rabbitingafter him, and rapidly closing thedistance.     Jon Karyl unsheathed the stubray pistolat his side, turned the oxygen dial up forgreater exertion, increased the gravity pullin his space-suit boots as he neared theravine he'd been racing for.     The oxygen was just taking hold whenhe hit the lip of the ravine and begansprinting through its man-high bush-strewncourse.     The power ray from behind ripped outgreat gobs of the sheltering bushes. Butrunning naturally, bent close to the bottomof the ravine, Jon Karyl dodged the barespots. The oxygen made the tremendousexertion easy for his lungs as he sped downthe dim trail, hidden from the two steel-bluestalkers.     He'd eluded them, temporarily at least,Jon Karyl decided when he finally edged offthe dim trail and watched for movementalong the route behind him.     He stood up, finally, pushed aside theleafy overhang of a bush and looked forlandmarks along the edge of the ravine.     He found one, a stubby bush, shaped likea Maltese cross, clinging to the lip of theravine. The hidden entrance to the servicestation wasn't far off.     His pistol held ready, he moved quietlyon down the ravine until the old watercourse made an abrupt hairpin turn.     Instead of following around the sharpbend, Jon Karyl moved straight aheadthrough the overhanging bushes until hecame to a dense thicket. Dropping to hishands and knees he worked his way underthe edge of the thicket into a hollowed-outspace in the center.     There  , just ahead of him, was the lockleading into the service station. Slippinga key out of a leg pouch on the space suit,he jabbed it into the center of the lock,opening the lever housing.     He pulled strongly on the lever. With ahiss of escaping air, the lock swung open.Jon Karyl darted inside, the door closingsoftly behind.     At the end of the long tunnel he steppedto the televisor which was fixed on the areasurrounding the station.     Jon Karyl saw none of the steel-blue creatures.But he saw their ship. It squattedlike a smashed-down kid's top, its lock shuttight.     He tuned the televisor to its widest rangeand finally spotted one of the Steel-Blues.He was looking into the stationary rocketengine.     As Karyl watched, a second Steel-Bluecame crawling out of the ship.     The two Steel-Blues moved toward thecenter of the televisor range. They're comingtoward the station, Karyl thought grimly.     Karyl examined the two creatures. Theywere of the steel-blue color from the crownof their egg-shaped heads to the tips oftheir walking appendages.     They were about the height of Karyl—sixfeet. But where he tapered from broadshoulders to flat hips, they were straight upand down. They had no legs, just appendages,many-jointed that stretched andshrank independent of the other, but keepingthe cylindrical body with its four pairsof tentacles on a level balance.     Where their eyes would have been wasan elliptical-shaped lens, covering half theegg-head, with its converging ends curvingaround the sides of the head.     Robots! Jon gauged immediately. Butwhere were their masters?     The Steel-Blues moved out of the rangeof the televisor. A minute later Jon hearda pounding from the station upstairs.     He chuckled. They were like the wolf ofpre-atomic days who huffed and puffed toblow the house down.     The outer shell of the station was formedfrom stelrylite, the toughest metal in thesolar system. With the self-sealing lock ofthe same resistant material, a mere poundingwas nothing.     Jon thought he'd have a look-see anyway.He went up the steel ladder leading to thestation's power plant and the televisor thatcould look into every room within thestation.     He heaved a slight sigh when he reachedthe power room, for right at his hand wereweapons to blast the ship from the asteroid.     Jon adjusted one televisor to take in thelock to the station. His teeth suddenlyclamped down on his lower lip.     Those Steel-Blues were pounding holesinto the stelrylite with round-headed metalclubs. But it was impossible. Stelrylite didn'tbreak up that easily.     Jon leaped to a row of studs, lining upthe revolving turret which capped the stationso that its thin fin pointed at thesquat ship of the invaders.     Then he went to the atomic cannon'sfiring buttons.     He pressed first the yellow, then the bluebutton. Finally the red one.     The thin fin—the cannon's sight—split inhalf as the turret opened and the coiled noseof the cannon protruded. There was asoundless flash. Then a sharp crack.     Jon was dumbfounded when he saw thebolt ricochet off the ship. This was no shipof the solar system. There was nothing thatcould withstand even the slight jolt of powergiven by the station cannon on any of theSun's worlds. But what was this? A piece ofthe ship had changed. A bubble of metal,like a huge drop of blue wax, dripped offthe vessel and struck the rocket of theasteroid. It steamed and ran in rivulets.     He pressed the red button again.     Then abruptly he was on the floor of thepower room, his legs strangely cut out fromunder him. He tried to move them. They layflaccid. His arms seemed all right and triedto lever himself to an upright position.     Damn it, he seemed as if he were paralyzedfrom the waist down. But it couldn'thappen that suddenly.     He turned his head.     A Steel-Blue stood facing him. A forkedtentacle held a square black box.     Jon could read nothing in that metallicface. He said, voice muffled by the confinesof the plastic helmet, Who are you?     I am—there was a rising inflection inthe answer—a Steel-Blue.     There were no lips on the Steel-Blue'sface to move. That is what I have namedyou, Jon Karyl said. But what are you?     A robot, came the immediate answer.Jon was quite sure then that the Steel-Bluewas telepathic. Yes, the Steel-Blue answered.We talk in the language of themind. Come! he said peremptorily, motioningwith the square black box.     The paralysis left Karyl's legs. He followedthe Steel-Blue, aware that the lenshe'd seen on the creature's face had acounterpart on the back of the egg-head.     Eyes in the back of his head, Jon thought.That's quite an innovation. Thank you,Steel-Blue said.     There wasn't much fear in Jon Karyl'smind. Psychiatrists had proved that when hehad applied for this high-paying but man-killingjob as a Lone Watcher on the SolarSystem's starways.     He had little fear now, only curiosity.These Steel-Blues didn't seem inimical.They could have snuffed out my life verysimply. Perhaps they and Solarians can befriends.     Steel-Blue chuckled.     Jon  followed him through the sunderedlock of the station. Karyl stopped for amoment to examine the wreckage of thelock. It had been punched full of holes asif it had been some soft cheese instead of ametal which Earthmen had spent nearly acentury perfecting.     We appreciate your compliment, Steel-Bluesaid. But that metal also is found onour world. It's probably the softest and mostmalleable we have. We were surprised you—earthmen,is it?—use it as protectivemetal.     Why are you in this system? Jon asked,hardly expecting an answer.     It came anyway. For the same reason youEarthmen are reaching out farther into yoursystem. We need living room. You havestrategically placed planets for our use. Wewill use them.     Jon sighed. For 400 years scientists hadbeen preaching preparedness as Earth flungher ships into the reaches of the solar system,taking the first long step toward theconquest of space.     There are other races somewhere, theyargued. As strong and smart as man, manyof them so transcending man in mental andinventive power that we must be prepared tostrike the minute danger shows.     Now here was the answer to the scientists'warning. Invasion by extra-terrestrials.     What did you say? asked Steel-Blue.I couldn't understand.     Just thinking to myself, Jon answered.It was a welcome surprise. Apparently histhoughts had to be directed outward, ratherthan inward, in order for the Steel-Blues toread it.     He followed the Steel-Blue into the gapinglock of the invaders' space ship wonderinghow he could warn Earth. The SpacePatrol cruiser was due in for refueling athis service station in 21 days. But by thattime he probably would be mouldering inthe rocky dust of the asteroid.     It was pitch dark within the ship but theSteel-Blue seemed to have no trouble at allmaneuvering through the maze of corridors.Jon followed him, attached to one tentacle.     Finally Jon and his guide entered a circularroom, bright with light streaming froma glass-like, bulging skylight. They apparentlywere near topside of the vessel.     A Steel-Blue, more massive than hisguide and with four more pair of tentacles,including two short ones that grew from thetop of its head, spoke out.     This is the violator? Jon's Steel-Bluenodded.     You know the penalty? Carry it out.     He also is an inhabitant of this system,Jon's guide added.     Examine him first, then give him thedeath.     Jon Karyl shrugged as he was led fromthe lighted room through more corridors.If it got too bad he still had the stubraypistol.     Anyway, he was curious. He'd taken onthe lonely, nerve-wracking job of servicestation attendant just to see what it offered.     Here was a part of it, and it was certainlysomething new.     This is the examination room, hisSteel-Blue said, almost contemptuously.     A green effulgence surrounded him.     There  was a hiss. Simultaneously, as thetiny microphone on the outside of hissuit picked up the hiss, he felt a chill gothrough his body. Then it seemed as if ahalf dozen hands were inside him, examininghis internal organs. His stomach contracted.He felt a squeeze on his heart. Hislungs tickled.     There were several more queer motionsinside his body.     Then another Steel-Blue voice said:     He is a soft-metal creature, made up ofmetals that melt at a very low temperature.He also contains a liquid whose makeup Icannot ascertain by ray-probe. Bring himback when the torture is done.     Jon Karyl grinned a trifle wryly. Whatkind of torture could this be?     Would it last 21 days? He glanced at thechronometer on his wrist.     Jon's Steel-Blue led him out of the alienship and halted expectantly just outside theship's lock.     Jon Karyl waited, too. He thought of thestubray pistol holstered at his hip. Shoot myway out? It'd be fun while it lasted. But hetoted up the disadvantages.     He either would have to find a hidingplace on the asteroid, and if the Steel-Blueswanted him bad enough they could tear thewhole place to pieces, or somehow getaboard the little life ship hidden in theservice station.     In that he would be just a sitting duck.     He shrugged off the slight temptation touse the pistol. He was still curious.     And he was interested in staying alive aslong as possible. There was a remote chancehe might warn the SP ship. Unconsciously,he glanced toward his belt to see the littlepower pack which, if under ideal conditions,could finger out fifty thousand miles intospace.     If he could somehow stay alive the 21days he might be able to warn the patrol.He couldn't do it by attempting to flee, forhis life would be snuffed out immediately.     The Steel-Blue said quietly:     It might be ironical to let you warnthat SP ship you keep thinking about. Butwe know your weapon now. Already ourship is equipped with a force field designedespecially to deflect your atomic guns.     Jon Karyl covered up his thoughtsquickly. They can delve deeper than thesurface of the mind. Or wasn't I keeping aleash on my thoughts?     The Steel-Blue chuckled. You get—absent-minded,is it?—every once in awhile.     Just then four other Steel-Blues appearedlugging great sheets of plastic and variousother equipment.     They dumped their loads and began unbundlingthem.     Working swiftly, they built a plasticigloo, smaller than the living room in thelarger service station igloo. They ranged instrumentsinside—one of them Jon Karylrecognized as an air pump from within thestation—and they laid out a pallet.     When they were done Jon saw a miniaturereproduction of the service station, lackingonly the cannon cap and fin, and with clearplastic walls instead of the opaqueness of theother.     His Steel-Blue said: We have reproducedthe atmosphere of your station so that yoube watched while you undergo the tortureunder the normal conditions of your life.     What is this torture? Jon Karyl asked.     The answer was almost caressing: It isa liquid we use to dissolve metals. It causesjoints to harden if even so much as a dropremains on it long. It eats away the metal,leaving a scaly residue which crumbleseventually into dust.     We will dilute it with a harmless liquidfor you since No. 1 does not wish you to dieinstantly.     Enter your—the Steel-Blue hesitated—mausoleum.You die in your own atmosphere.However, we took the liberty of purifyingit. There were dangerous elements init.     Jon walked into the little igloo. TheSteel-Blues sealed the lock, fingered dialsand switches on the outside. Jon's space suitdeflated. Pressure was building up in theigloo.     He took a sample of the air, found thatit was good, although quite rich in oxygencompared with what he'd been using in theservice station and in his suit.     With a sigh of relief he took off his helmetand gulped huge draughts of the air.     He sat down on the pallet and waitedfor the torture to begin.     The Steel Blues crowded about the igloo,staring at him through elliptical eyes.     Apparently, they too, were waiting for thetorture to begin.     Jon thought the excess of oxygen wasmaking him light-headed.     He stared at a cylinder which was beginningto sprout tentacles from the circle.He rubbed his eyes and looked again. Anopening, like the adjustable eye-piece of aspacescope, was appearing in the center ofthe cylinder.     A square, glass-like tumbler sat in theopening disclosed in the four-foot cylinderthat had sprouted tentacles. It contained ayellowish liquid.     One of the tentacles reached into theopening and clasped the glass. The openingclosed and the cylinder, propelled by locomotorappendages, moved toward Jon.     He didn't like the looks of the liquid inthe tumbler. It looked like an acid of somesort. He raised to his feet.     He unsheathed the stubray gun and preparedto blast the cylinder.     The  cylinder moved so fast Jon felt hiseyes jump in his head. He brought thestubray gun up—but he was helpless. Thepistol kept on going up. With a deft movement,one of the tentacles had speared itfrom his hand and was holding it out ofhis reach.     Jon kicked at the glass in the cylinder'shand. But he was too slow. Two tentaclesgripped the kicking leg. Another struck himin the chest, knocking him to the pallet. Thesame tentacle, assisted by a new one,pinioned his shoulders.     Four tentacles held him supine. The cylinderlifted a glass-like cap from the tumblerof liquid.     Lying there helplessly, Jon was rememberingan old fairy tale he'd read as a kid.Something about a fellow named Socrateswho was given a cup of hemlock to drink.It was the finis for Socrates. But the oldhero had been nonchalant and calm aboutthe whole thing.     With a sigh, Jon Karyl, who was curiousunto death, relaxed and said, All right,bub, you don't have to force-feed me. I'lltake it like a man.     The cylinder apparently understood him,for it handed him the tumbler. It even reholsteredhis stubray pistol.     Jon brought the glass of liquid under hisnose. The fumes of the liquid were pungent.It brought tears to his eyes.     He looked at the cylinder, then at theSteel-Blues crowding around the plasticigloo. He waved the glass at the audience.     To Earth, ever triumphant, he toasted.Then he drained the glass at a gulp.     Its taste was bitter, and he felt hotprickles jab at his scalp. It was like eatingvery hot peppers. His eyes filled with tears.He coughed as the stuff went down.     But he was still alive, he thought inamazement. He'd drunk the hemlock andwas still alive.     The reaction set in quickly. He hadn'tknown until then how tense he'd been. Nowwith the torture ordeal over, he relaxed. Helaid down on the pallet and went to sleep.     There was one lone Steel-Blue watchinghim when he rubbed the sleep out of hiseyes and sat up.     He vanished almost instantly. He, or anotherlike him, returned immediately accompaniedby a half-dozen others, includingthe multi-tentacled creature known as No. 1.     One said,     You are alive. The thought registeredamazement. When you lost consciousness,we thought you had—there was a hesitation—asyou say, died.     No, Jon Karyl said. I didn't die. Iwas just plain dead-beat so I went to sleep.The Steel-Blues apparently didn't understand.     Good it is that you live. The torturewill continue, spoke No. 1 before lopingaway.     The cylinder business began again. Thistime, Jon drank the bitter liquid slowly, tryingto figure out what it was. It had afamiliar, tantalizing taste but he couldn'tquite put a taste-finger on it.     His belly said he was hungry. He glancedat his chronometer. Only 20 days left beforethe SP ship arrived.     Would this torture—he chuckled—lastuntil then? But he was growing more andmore conscious that his belly was screamingfor hunger. The liquid had taken the edgeoff his thirst.     It was on the fifth day of his torture thatJon Karyl decided that he was going to getsomething to eat or perish in the attempt.     The cylinder sat passively in its niche inthe circle. A dozen Steel-Blues were watchingas Jon put on his helmet and unsheathedhis stubray.     They merely watched as he pressed thestubray's firing stud. Invisible rays lickedout of the bulbous muzzle of the pistol.The plastic splintered.     Jon was out of his goldfish bowl andstriding toward his own igloo adjacent tothe service station when a Steel-Blueaccosted him.     Out of my way, grunted Jon, wavingthe stubray. I'm hungry.     I'm the first Steel-Blue you met, saidthe creature who barred his way. Go backto your torture.     But I'm so hungry I'll chew off one ofyour tentacles and eat it without seasoning.     Eat? The Steel-Blue sounded puzzled.     I want to refuel. I've got to have foodto keep my engine going.     Steel-Blue chuckled. So the hemlock, asyou call it, is beginning to affect you atlast? Back to the torture room.     Like R-dust, Jon growled. He pressedthe firing stud on the stubray gun. One ofSteel-Blue's tentacles broke off and fell tothe rocky sward.     Steel-Blue jerked out the box he'd usedonce before. A tentacle danced over it.     Abruptly Jon found himself standing ona pinnacle of rock. Steel-Blue had cut aswath around him 15 feet deep and five feetwide.     Back to the room, Steel-Blue commanded.     Jon resheathed the stubray pistol,shrugged non-committally and leaped thetrench. He walked slowly back and reenteredthe torture chamber.     The Steel-Blues rapidly repaired the damagehe'd done.     As he watched them, Jon was still curious,but he was getting mad underneath atthe cold egoism of the Steel-Blues.     By the shimmering clouds of Earth, byher green fields, and dark forests, he'dstay alive to warn the SP ship.     Yes, he'd stay alive till then. And sendthe story of the Steel-Blues' corrosive acidto it. Then hundreds of Earth's ships couldequip themselves with spray guns and squirtcitric acid and watch the Steel-Blues fadeaway.     It sounded almost silly to Jon Karyl. Thefruit acid of Earth to repel these invaders—itdoesn't sound possible. That couldn't bethe answer.     Citric acid wasn't the answer, Jon Karyldiscovered a week later.     The Steel-Blue who had captured him inthe power room of the service station camein to examine him.     You're still holding out, I see, he observedafter poking Jon in every sensitivepart of his body.     I'll suggest to No. 1 that we increasethe power of the—ah—hemlock. How doyou feel?     Between the rich oxygen and the dizzinessof hunger, Jon was a bit delirious. But heanswered honestly enough: My guts feel asif they're chewing each other up. My bonesache. My joints creak. I can't coordinate I'mso hungry.     That is the hemlock, Steel-Blue said.     It was when he quaffed the new andstronger draught that Jon knew that hishope that it was citric acid was squelched.     The acid taste was weaker which meantthat the citric acid was the diluting liquid.It was the liquid he couldn't taste beneaththe tang of the citric acid that was the corrosiveacid.     On the fourteenth day, Jon was so weakhe didn't feel much like moving around. Helet the cylinder feed him the hemlock.     No. 1 came again to see him, and wentaway chuckling, Decrease the dilution.This Earthman at last is beginning tosuffer.     Staying  alive had now become a fetishwith Jon.     On the sixteenth day, the Earthman realizedthat the Steel-Blues also were waitingfor the SP ship.     The extra-terrestrials had repaired theblue ship where the service station atomicray had struck. And they were doing a littletarget practice with plastic bubbles only afew miles above the asteroid.     When his chronometer clocked off thebeginning of the twenty-first day, Jon receiveda tumbler of the hemlock from thehands of No. 1 himself.     It is the hemlock, he chuckled, undiluted.Drink it and your torture is over.You will die before your SP ship is destroyed.     We have played with you long enough.Today we begin to toy with your SP ship.Drink up, Earthman, drink to enslavement.     Weak though he was Jon lunged to hisfeet, spilling the tumbler of liquid. It rancool along the plastic arm of his space suit.He changed his mind about throwing thecontents on No. 1.     With a smile he set the glass at his lipsand drank. Then he laughed at No. 1.     The SP ship will turn your ship intojelly.     No. 1 swept out, chuckling. Boast if youwill, Earthman, it's your last chance.     There was an exultation in Jon's heartthat deadened the hunger and washed awaythe nausea.     At last he knew what the hemlock was.     He sat on the pallet adjusting the littlepower-pack radio. The SP ship should nowbe within range of the set. The space patrolwas notorious for its accuracy in keeping toschedule. Seconds counted like years. Theyhad to be on the nose, or it meant disasteror death.     He sent out the call letters.     AX to SP-101 ... AX to SP-101 ... AXto SP-101 ...     Three times he sent the call, then begansending his message, hoping that his signalwas reaching the ship. He couldn't know ifthey answered. Though the power packcould get out a message over a vast distance,it could not pick up messages evenwhen backed by an SP ship's power unlessthe ship was only a few hundred milesaway.     The power pack was strictly a distresssignal.     He didn't know how long he'd beensending, nor how many times his wearyvoice had repeated the short but desperatemessage.     He kept watching the heavens and hoping.     Abruptly he knew the SP ship was coming,for the blue ship of the Steel-Blues wasrising silently from the asteroid.     Up and up it rose, then flames flickeredin a circle about its curious shape. The shipdisappeared, suddenly accelerating.     Jon Karyl strained his eyes.     Finally he looked away from the heavensto the two Steel-Blues who stood negligentlyoutside the goldfish bowl.     Once more, Jon used the stubray pistol.He marched out of the plastic igloo and rantoward the service station.     He didn't know how weak he was untilhe stumbled and fell only a few feet fromhis prison.     The Steel-Blues just watched him.     He crawled on, around the circular pit inthe sward of the asteroid where one Steel-Bluehad shown him the power of hisweapon.     He'd been crawling through a nightmarefor years when the quiet voice penetratedhis dulled mind.     Take it easy, Karyl. You're amongfriends.     He pried open his eyes with his will. Hesaw the blue and gold of a space guard'suniform. He sighed and drifted into unconsciousness.     He was  still weak days later whenCapt. Ron Small of SP-101 said,     Yes, Karyl, it's ironical. They fed youwhat they thought was sure death, and it'sthe only thing that kept you going longenough to warn us.     I was dumb for a long time, Karyl said.I thought that it was the acid, almost tothe very last. But when I drank that lastglass, I knew they didn't have a chance.     They were metal monsters. No wonderthey feared that liquid. It would rust theirjoints, short their wiring, and kill them.No wonder they stared when I kept aliveafter drinking enough to completely annihilatea half-dozen of them.     But what happened when you met theship?     The space captain grinned.     Not much. Our crew was busy creatinga hollow shell filled with      water     to be shotout of a rocket tube converted into a projectilethrower.     These Steel-Blues, as you call them, puttraction beams on us and started tugging ustoward the asteroid. We tried a couple ofatomic shots but when they just glanced off,we gave up.     They weren't expecting the shell ofwater. When it hit that blue ship, you couldalmost see it oxidize before your eyes.     I guess they knew what was wrong rightaway. They let go the traction beams andtried to get away. They forgot about theforce field, so we just poured atomic fireinto the weakening ship. It just meltedaway.     Jon Karyl got up from the divan wherehe'd been lying. They thought I was ametal creature, too. But where do you supposethey came from?     The captain shrugged. Who knows?     Jon set two glasses on the table.     Have a drink of the best damn water inthe solar system? He asked Capt. Small.     Don't mind if I do.     The water twinkled in the two glasses,winking as if it knew just what it haddone.     Transcriber's Note:   This etext was produced from    Planet Stories   July 1952.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note.","Jon is initially curious about the Steel-Blue that he first meets in the space station. When he notices that it has eyes on the back of its head, it even says “Thank you” to him. It also tells him that its species can read his mind. The Steel-Blue also explains to him that the metal they use at the station is considered to be the softest one from where the Space Blue’s come from. It is not openly hostile towards him, but it does speak almost contemptuously when they go to the examination room. Although his Steel Blue initially did not show much hostility, it does warn him to not even think about contacting the SP ship or using his weapon. However, it does tease him and say that he gets absent-minded at times. When it tells him about the torture, his Blue Steel speaks in an almost-caressing way as well. When Jon breaks out of his tank to find food, his Steel-Blue tells him that it is the first of the creatures that he has met. It commands him to go back to the tank. Although it seems friendly at first, Jon and the Steel-Blue do not have any sort of positive relationship. The Steel-Blue wishes to see him suffer, while Jon wants to survive and get out of the torture room. "
"What is the plot of the story? </s>      A wayfarer's return from a far country to his wife and family may be ashining experience, a kind of second honeymoon. Or it may be so shadowedby Time's relentless tyranny that the changes which have occurred in hisabsence can lead only to tragedy and despair. This rarely discerning, warmlyhuman story by a brilliant newcomer to the science fantasy field is toldwith no pulling of punches, and its adroit unfolding will astound you.         the       hoofer         by ... Walter M. Miller, Jr.         A space rover has no business with a family. But what can a manin the full vigor of youth do—if his heart cries out for a home?      They all  knew he was a spacerbecause of the white goggle markson his sun-scorched face, and sothey tolerated him and helped him.They even made allowances for himwhen he staggered and fell in theaisle of the bus while pursuing theharassed little housewife from seatto seat and cajoling her to sit andtalk with him.     Having fallen, he decided tosleep in the aisle. Two men helpedhim to the back of the bus, dumpedhim on the rear seat, and tucked hisgin bottle safely out of sight. Afterall, he had not seen Earth for ninemonths, and judging by the crustedmatter about his eyelids, he couldn'thave seen it too well now, even ifhe had been sober. Glare-blindness,gravity-legs, and agoraphobia wereexcuses for a lot of things, when aman was just back from Big Bottomless.And who could blame aman for acting strangely?     Minutes later, he was back up theaisle and swaying giddily over thelittle housewife. How! he said.Me Chief Broken Wing. Youwanta Indian wrestle?     The girl, who sat nervously staringat him, smiled wanly, andshook her head.     Quiet li'l pigeon, aren'tcha? heburbled affectionately, crashing intothe seat beside her.     The two men slid out of theirseats, and a hand clamped his shoulder.Come on, Broken Wing, let'sgo back to bed.     My name's Hogey, he said.Big Hogey Parker. I was just kiddingabout being a Indian.     Yeah. Come on, let's go have adrink. They got him on his feet,and led him stumbling back downthe aisle.     My ma was half Cherokee, see?That's how come I said it. Youwanta hear a war whoop? Realstuff.     Never mind.     He cupped his hands to hismouth and favored them with ablood-curdling proof of his ancestry,while the female passengersstirred restlessly and hunched intheir seats. The driver stopped thebus and went back to warn himagainst any further display. Thedriver flashed a deputy's badge andthreatened to turn him over to aconstable.     I gotta get home, Big Hogeytold him. I got me a son now,that's why. You know? A littlebaby pigeon of a son. Haven't seenhim yet.     Will you just sit still and bequiet then, eh?     Big Hogey nodded emphatically.Shorry, officer, I didn't mean tomake any trouble.     When the bus started again, hefell on his side and lay still. Hemade retching sounds for a time,then rested, snoring softly. The busdriver woke him again at Caine'sjunction, retrieved his gin bottlefrom behind the seat, and helpedhim down the aisle and out of thebus.     Big Hogey stumbled about for amoment, then sat down hard in thegravel at the shoulder of the road.The driver paused with one foot onthe step, looking around. There wasnot even a store at the road junction,but only a freight buildingnext to the railroad track, a coupleof farmhouses at the edge of a side-road,and, just across the way, a desertedfilling station with a saggingroof. The land was Great Plainscountry, treeless, barren, and rolling.     Big Hogey got up and staggeredaround in front of the bus, clutchingat it for support, losing hisduffle bag.     Hey, watch the traffic! Thedriver warned. With a surge of unwelcomecompassion he trottedaround after his troublesome passenger,taking his arm as he saggedagain. You crossing?     Yah, Hogey muttered. Lemmealone, I'm okay.     The driver started across thehighway with him. The traffic wassparse, but fast and dangerous inthe central ninety-mile lane.     I'm okay, Hogey kept protesting.I'm a tumbler, ya know?Gravity's got me. Damn gravity.I'm not used to gravity, ya know? Iused to be a tumbler—      huk!     —onlynow I gotta be a hoofer. 'Countof li'l Hogey. You know about li'lHogey?     Yeah. Your son. Come on.     Say, you gotta son? I bet yougotta son.     Two kids, said the driver,catching Hogey's bag as it slippedfrom his shoulder. Both girls.     Say, you oughta be home withthem kids. Man oughta stick withhis family. You oughta get anotherjob. Hogey eyed him owlishly,waggled a moralistic finger, skiddedon the gravel as they steppedonto the opposite shoulder, andsprawled again.     The driver blew a weary breath,looked down at him, and shook hishead. Maybe it'd be kinder to finda constable after all. This guy couldget himself killed, wanderingaround loose.     Somebody supposed to meetyou? he asked, squinting aroundat the dusty hills.           Huk!     —who, me? Hogey giggled,belched, and shook his head.Nope. Nobody knows I'm coming.S'prise. I'm supposed to be here aweek ago. He looked up at thedriver with a pained expression.Week late, ya know? Marie'sgonna be sore—woo-      hoo     !—is shegonna be sore! He waggled hishead severely at the ground.     Which way are you going? thedriver grunted impatiently.     Hogey pointed down the side-roadthat led back into the hills.Marie's pop's place. You knowwhere? 'Bout three miles fromhere. Gotta walk, I guess.     Don't, the driver warned.You sit there by the culvert tillyou get a ride. Okay?     Hogey nodded forlornly.     Now stay out of the road, thedriver warned, then hurried backacross the highway. Moments later,the atomic battery-driven motorsdroned mournfully, and the buspulled away.     Big Hogey blinked after it, rubbingthe back of his neck. Nicepeople, he said. Nice buncha people.All hoofers.     With a grunt and a lurch, he gotto his feet, but his legs wouldn'twork right. With his tumbler's reflexes,he fought to right himselfwith frantic arm motions, but gravityclaimed him, and he went stumblinginto the ditch.     Damn legs, damn crazy legs!he cried.     The bottom of the ditch was wet,and he crawled up the embankmentwith mud-soaked knees, and sat onthe shoulder again. The gin bottlewas still intact. He had himself along fiery drink, and it warmed himdeep down. He blinked around atthe gaunt and treeless land.     The sun was almost down, forge-redon a dusty horizon. The blood-streakedsky faded into sulphurousyellow toward the zenith, and thevery air that hung over the landseemed full of yellow smoke, theomnipresent dust of the plains.     A farm truck turned onto theside-road and moaned away, itsdriver hardly glancing at the darkyoung man who sat swaying on hisduffle bag near the culvert. Hogeyscarcely noticed the vehicle. He justkept staring at the crazy sun.     He shook his head. It wasn't reallythe sun. The sun, the real sun,was a hateful eye-sizzling horror inthe dead black pit. It painted everythingwith pure white pain, and yousaw things by the reflected pain-light.The fat red sun was strictly aphoney, and it didn't fool him any.He hated it for what he knew it wasbehind the gory mask, and for whatit had done to his eyes.      With a grunt, he got to his feet,managed to shoulder the duffle bag,and started off down the middle ofthe farm road, lurching from sideto side, and keeping his eyes on therolling distances. Another car turnedonto the side-road, honking angrily.     Hogey tried to turn around tolook at it, but he forgot to shift hisfooting. He staggered and wentdown on the pavement. The car'stires screeched on the hot asphalt.Hogey lay there for a moment,groaning. That one had hurt hiship. A car door slammed and a bigman with a florid face got out andstalked toward him, looking angry.     What the hell's the matter withyou, fella? he drawled. Yousoused? Man, you've really got aload.     Hogey got up doggedly, shakinghis head to clear it. Space legs, heprevaricated. Got space legs. Can'tstand the gravity.     The burly farmer retrieved hisgin bottle for him, still miraculouslyunbroken. Here's your gravity,he grunted. Listen, fella, you betterget home pronto.     Pronto? Hey, I'm no Mex. Honest,I'm just space burned. Youknow?     Yeah. Say, who are you, anyway?Do you live around here?     It was obvious that the big manhad taken him for a hobo or atramp. Hogey pulled himself together.Goin' to the Hauptman'splace. Marie. You know Marie?     The farmer's eyebrows went up.Marie Hauptman? Sure I knowher. Only she's Marie Parker now.Has been, nigh on six years. Say—He paused, then gaped. You ain'ther husband by any chance?     Hogey, that's me. Big HogeyParker.     Well, I'll be—! Get in the car.I'm going right past John Hauptman'splace. Boy, you're in noshape to walk it.     He grinned wryly, waggled hishead, and helped Hogey and hisbag into the back seat. A womanwith a sun-wrinkled neck sat rigidlybeside the farmer in the front,and she neither greeted the passengernor looked around.     They don't make cars like thisanymore, the farmer called overthe growl of the ancient gasolineengine and the grind of gears.You can have them new atomicswith their loads of hot isotopesunder the seat. Ain't safe, I say—eh,Martha?     The woman with the sun-bakedneck quivered her head slightly.A car like this was good enoughfor Pa, an' I reckon it's goodenough for us, she drawled mournfully.     Five minutes later the car drewin to the side of the road. Reckonyou can walk it from here, thefarmer said. That's Hauptman'sroad just up ahead.     He helped Hogey out of the carand drove away without lookingback to see if Hogey stayed on hisfeet. The woman with the sun-bakedneck was suddenly talkinggarrulously in his direction.     It was twilight. The sun had set,and the yellow sky was turninggray. Hogey was too tired to go on,and his legs would no longer holdhim. He blinked around at the land,got his eyes focused, and foundwhat looked like Hauptman's placeon a distant hillside. It was a bigframe house surrounded by a wheatfield,and a few scrawny trees. Havinglocated it, he stretched out inthe tall grass beyond the ditch totake a little rest.     Somewhere dogs were barking,and a cricket sang creaking monotonyin the grass. Once there was thedistant thunder of a rocket blastfrom the launching station six milesto the west, but it faded quickly. AnA-motored convertible whined paston the road, but Hogey went unseen.     When he awoke, it was night,and he was shivering. His stomachwas screeching, and his nerves dancingwith high voltages. He sat upand groped for his watch, then rememberedhe had pawned it afterthe poker game. Remembering thegame and the results of the gamemade him wince and bite his lipand grope for the bottle again.     He sat breathing heavily for amoment after the stiff drink. Equatingtime to position had becomesecond nature with him, but he hadto think for a moment because hisdefective vision prevented him fromseeing the Earth-crescent.     Vega was almost straight abovehim in the late August sky, so heknew it wasn't much after sundown—probablyabout eight o'clock. Hebraced himself with another swallowof gin, picked himself up andgot back to the road, feeling a littlesobered after the nap.     He limped on up the pavementand turned left at the narrow drivethat led between barbed-wire fencestoward the Hauptman farmhouse,five hundred yards or so from thefarm road. The fields on his leftbelonged to Marie's father, heknew. He was getting close—closeto home and woman and child.     He dropped the bag suddenlyand leaned against a fence post,rolling his head on his forearmsand choking in spasms of air. Hewas shaking all over, and his bellywrithed. He wanted to turn andrun. He wanted to crawl out in thegrass and hide.     What were they going to say?And Marie, Marie most of all.How was he going to tell her aboutthe money?     Six hitches in space, and everytime the promise had been thesame:      One more tour, baby, andwe'll have enough dough, and thenI'll quit for good. One more time,and we'll have our stake—enoughto open a little business, or buy ahouse with a mortgage and get ajob.       And she had waited, but themoney had never been quite enoughuntil this time. This time the tourhad lasted nine months, and he hadsigned on for every run from stationto moon-base to pick up thebonuses. And this time he'd madeit. Two weeks ago, there had beenforty-eight hundred in the bank.And now ...           Why?      he groaned, striking hisforehead against his forearms. Hisarm slipped, and his head hit thetop of the fencepost, and the painblinded him for a moment. He staggeredback into the road with alow roar, wiped blood from hisforehead, and savagely kicked hisbag.     It rolled a couple of yards up theroad. He leaped after it and kickedit again. When he had finishedwith it, he stood panting and angry,but feeling better. He shoulderedthe bag and hiked on toward thefarmhouse.     They're hoofers, that's all—justan Earth-chained bunch of hoofers,even Marie. And I'm a tumbler. Aborn tumbler. Know what thatmeans? It means—God, what doesit mean? It means out in Big Bottomless,where Earth's like a fatmoon with fuzzy mold growing onit. Mold, that's all you are, justmold.     A dog barked, and he wonderedif he had been muttering aloud. Hecame to a fence-gap and paused inthe darkness. The road woundaround and came up the hill infront of the house. Maybe they weresitting on the porch. Maybe they'dalready heard him coming. Maybe ...     He was trembling again. Hefished the fifth of gin out of hiscoat pocket and sloshed it. Still overhalf a pint. He decided to kill it. Itwouldn't do to go home with abottle sticking out of his pocket.He stood there in the night wind,sipping at it, and watching the reddishmoon come up in the east. Themoon looked as phoney as thesetting sun.     He straightened in sudden determination.It had to be sometime.Get it over with, get it over withnow. He opened the fence-gap, slippedthrough, and closed it firmlybehind him. He retrieved his bag,and waded quietly through the tallgrass until he reached the hedgewhich divided an area of sicklypeach trees from the field. He gotover the hedge somehow, and startedthrough the trees toward thehouse. He stumbled over some oldboards, and they clattered.           Shhh!      he hissed, and movedon.     The dogs were barking angrily,and he heard a screen door slam.He stopped.     Ho there! a male voice calledexperimentally from the house.     One of Marie's brothers. Hogeystood frozen in the shadow of apeach tree, waiting.     Anybody out there? the mancalled again.     Hogey waited, then heard theman muttering, Sic 'im, boy, sic'im.     The hound's bark became eager.The animal came chasing down theslope, and stopped ten feet away tocrouch and bark frantically at theshadow in the gloom. He knew thedog.     Hooky! he whispered. Hookyboy—here!     The dog stopped barking, sniffed,trotted closer, and went      Rrrooff!      Then he started sniffingsuspiciously again.     Easy, Hooky, here boy! hewhispered.     The dog came forward silently,sniffed his hand, and whined inrecognition. Then he trotted aroundHogey, panting doggy affection anddancing an invitation to romp. Theman whistled from the porch. Thedog froze, then trotted quickly backup the slope.     Nothing, eh, Hooky? theman on the porch said. Chasin'armadillos again, eh?     The screen door slammed again,and the porch light went out.Hogey stood there staring, unableto think. Somewhere beyond thewindow lights were—his woman,his son.     What the hell was a tumbler doingwith a woman and a son?     After perhaps a minute, he steppedforward again. He tripped overa shovel, and his foot plunged intosomething that went      squelch     andswallowed the foot past the ankle.He fell forward into a heap ofsand, and his foot went deeper intothe sloppy wetness.     He lay there with his stingingforehead on his arms, cursing softlyand crying. Finally he rolledover, pulled his foot out of themess, and took off his shoes. Theywere full of mud—sticky sandymud.     The dark world was reelingabout him, and the wind was draggingat his breath. He fell backagainst the sand pile and let hisfeet sink in the mud hole and wriggledhis toes. He was laughingsoundlessly, and his face was wetin the wind. He couldn't think. Hecouldn't remember where he wasand why, and he stopped caring,and after a while he felt better.     The stars were swimming overhim, dancing crazily, and the mudcooled his feet, and the sand wassoft behind him. He saw a rocketgo up on a tail of flame from thestation, and waited for the sound ofits blast, but he was already asleepwhen it came.     It was far past midnight when hebecame conscious of the dog lickingwetly at his ear and cheek. Hepushed the animal away with a lowcurse and mopped at the side of hisface. He stirred, and groaned. Hisfeet were burning up! He tried topull them toward him, but theywouldn't budge. There was somethingwrong with his legs.     For an instant he stared wildlyaround in the night. Then he rememberedwhere he was, closed hiseyes and shuddered. When heopened them again, the moon hademerged from behind a cloud, andhe could see clearly the cruel trapinto which he had accidentallystumbled. A pile of old boards, acareful stack of new lumber, apick and shovel, a sand-pile, heapsof fresh-turned earth, and a concretemixer—well, it added up.     He gripped his ankles and pulled,but his feet wouldn't budge. Insudden terror, he tried to stand up,but his ankles were clutched by theconcrete too, and he fell back inthe sand with a low moan. He laystill for several minutes, consideringcarefully.     He pulled at his left foot. It waslocked in a vise. He tugged evenmore desperately at his right foot.It was equally immovable.     He sat up with a whimper andclawed at the rough concrete untilhis nails tore and his fingertipsbled. The surface still felt damp,but it had hardened while he slept.     He sat there stunned until Hookybegan licking at his scuffed fingers.He shouldered the dog away, anddug his hands into the sand-pile tostop the bleeding. Hooky licked athis face, panting love.     Get away! he croaked savagely.     The dog whined softly, trotteda short distance away, circled, andcame back to crouch down in thesand directly before Hogey, inchingforward experimentally.     Hogey gripped fistfuls of the drysand and cursed between his teeth,while his eyes wandered over thesky. They came to rest on the sliverof light—the space station—risingin the west, floating out in Big Bottomlesswhere the gang was—Nicholsand Guerrera and Lavrentiand Fats. And he wasn't forgettingKeesey, the rookie who'd replacedhim.     Keesey would have a rough timefor a while—rough as a cob. The pitwas no playground. The first timeyou went out of the station in asuit, the pit got you. Everythingwas falling, and you fell, with it.Everything. The skeletons of steel,the tire-shaped station, the spheresand docks and nightmare shapes—alltied together by umbilical cablesand flexible tubes. Like some crazysea-thing they seemed, floating in ablack ocean with its tentacles boundtogether by drifting strands in thedark tide that bore it.      Everything was pain-bright ordead black, and it wheeled aroundyou, and you went nuts trying tofigure which way was down. In fact,it took you months to teach yourbody that      all     ways were down andthat the pit was bottomless.     He became conscious of a plaintivesound in the wind, and froze tolisten.     It was a baby crying.     It was nearly a minute before hegot the significance of it. It hit himwhere he lived, and he began jerkingfrantically at his encased feetand sobbing low in his throat.They'd hear him if he kept that up.He stopped and covered his ears toclose out the cry of his firstborn. Alight went on in the house, andwhen it went off again, the infant'scry had ceased.     Another rocket went up from thestation, and he cursed it. Space wasa disease, and he had it.     Help! he cried out suddenly.I'm stuck! Help me, help me!     He knew he was yelling hystericallyat the sky and fighting the relentlessconcrete that clutched hisfeet, and after a moment he stopped.     The light was on in the houseagain, and he heard faint sounds.The stirring-about woke the babyagain, and once more the infant'swail came on the breeze.       Make the kid shut up, make thekid shut up ...       But that was no good. It wasn'tthe kid's fault. It wasn't Marie'sfault. No fathers allowed in space,they said, but it wasn't their faulteither. They were right, and he hadonly himself to blame. The kid wasan accident, but that didn't changeanything. Not a thing in the world.It remained a tragedy.     A tumbler had no business with afamily, but what was a man goingto do? Take a skinning knife, boy,and make yourself a eunuch. Butthat was no good either. They neededbulls out there in the pit, notsteers. And when a man came downfrom a year's hitch, what was hegoing to do? Live in a lonely shackand read books for kicks? Becauseyou were a man, you sought out awoman. And because she was awoman, she got a kid, and that wasthe end of it. It was nobody's fault,nobody's at all.     He stared at the red eye of Marslow in the southwest. They wererunning out there now, and nextyear he would have been on thelong long run ...     But there was no use thinkingabout it. Next year and the yearsafter belonged to      little     Hogey.     He sat there with his feet lockedin the solid concrete of the footing,staring out into Big Bottomlesswhile his son's cry came from thehouse and the Hauptman menfolkcame wading through the tall grassin search of someone who had criedout. His feet were stuck tight, andhe wouldn't ever get them out. Hewas sobbing softly when they foundhim.     Transcriber's Note:   This etext was produced from    Fantastic Universe   September 1955.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note.","This story follows the protagonist, Hogey Parker’s, journey in heading back home after a long stint in space. His identity leans heavily on being a spacer - or a tumbler - with distinguishing sunburned marks and glare-blinded eyes. Parker is accompanied by a bottle of gin, and with it, stumbles onto a bus. In his drunken ramblings and stumblings - attributed by himself to him being a spaceman - Hogey creates a ruckus on the bus and disturbs its passengers. Fellow passengers give him allowances as he’s a spaceman and help him out. Throughout his journey, he is helped by various characters who further progress his journey back home. After being dropped off, the bus driver helps him across the road, where he is later then picked up by a farmer who drops Hogey off even closer to his farmhouse. In between, Hogey constantly looks up at the Big Bottomless space and thinks about his time in space with particular feelings of resentment and anger - one towards the sun for blinding him and another towards the rookie that replaced him. After finally making it close to his farmhouse, he sneaks through the grass past the fence and encounters the dog, who he quickly shushes when one of his wife’s brothers comes out to investigate the noise. Staring at his wife and son through the house, he stumbles into wet concrete and quickly becomes stuck in the sand as it dries. Despite his best efforts he is unable to claw himself out. At the end of the story, his cries at being stuck in the concrete echo at the same time the cries of his son as the Hauptmann men find him, stuck. "
"What is the significance of Hogey’s feet being stuck in concrete? </s>      A wayfarer's return from a far country to his wife and family may be ashining experience, a kind of second honeymoon. Or it may be so shadowedby Time's relentless tyranny that the changes which have occurred in hisabsence can lead only to tragedy and despair. This rarely discerning, warmlyhuman story by a brilliant newcomer to the science fantasy field is toldwith no pulling of punches, and its adroit unfolding will astound you.         the       hoofer         by ... Walter M. Miller, Jr.         A space rover has no business with a family. But what can a manin the full vigor of youth do—if his heart cries out for a home?      They all  knew he was a spacerbecause of the white goggle markson his sun-scorched face, and sothey tolerated him and helped him.They even made allowances for himwhen he staggered and fell in theaisle of the bus while pursuing theharassed little housewife from seatto seat and cajoling her to sit andtalk with him.     Having fallen, he decided tosleep in the aisle. Two men helpedhim to the back of the bus, dumpedhim on the rear seat, and tucked hisgin bottle safely out of sight. Afterall, he had not seen Earth for ninemonths, and judging by the crustedmatter about his eyelids, he couldn'thave seen it too well now, even ifhe had been sober. Glare-blindness,gravity-legs, and agoraphobia wereexcuses for a lot of things, when aman was just back from Big Bottomless.And who could blame aman for acting strangely?     Minutes later, he was back up theaisle and swaying giddily over thelittle housewife. How! he said.Me Chief Broken Wing. Youwanta Indian wrestle?     The girl, who sat nervously staringat him, smiled wanly, andshook her head.     Quiet li'l pigeon, aren'tcha? heburbled affectionately, crashing intothe seat beside her.     The two men slid out of theirseats, and a hand clamped his shoulder.Come on, Broken Wing, let'sgo back to bed.     My name's Hogey, he said.Big Hogey Parker. I was just kiddingabout being a Indian.     Yeah. Come on, let's go have adrink. They got him on his feet,and led him stumbling back downthe aisle.     My ma was half Cherokee, see?That's how come I said it. Youwanta hear a war whoop? Realstuff.     Never mind.     He cupped his hands to hismouth and favored them with ablood-curdling proof of his ancestry,while the female passengersstirred restlessly and hunched intheir seats. The driver stopped thebus and went back to warn himagainst any further display. Thedriver flashed a deputy's badge andthreatened to turn him over to aconstable.     I gotta get home, Big Hogeytold him. I got me a son now,that's why. You know? A littlebaby pigeon of a son. Haven't seenhim yet.     Will you just sit still and bequiet then, eh?     Big Hogey nodded emphatically.Shorry, officer, I didn't mean tomake any trouble.     When the bus started again, hefell on his side and lay still. Hemade retching sounds for a time,then rested, snoring softly. The busdriver woke him again at Caine'sjunction, retrieved his gin bottlefrom behind the seat, and helpedhim down the aisle and out of thebus.     Big Hogey stumbled about for amoment, then sat down hard in thegravel at the shoulder of the road.The driver paused with one foot onthe step, looking around. There wasnot even a store at the road junction,but only a freight buildingnext to the railroad track, a coupleof farmhouses at the edge of a side-road,and, just across the way, a desertedfilling station with a saggingroof. The land was Great Plainscountry, treeless, barren, and rolling.     Big Hogey got up and staggeredaround in front of the bus, clutchingat it for support, losing hisduffle bag.     Hey, watch the traffic! Thedriver warned. With a surge of unwelcomecompassion he trottedaround after his troublesome passenger,taking his arm as he saggedagain. You crossing?     Yah, Hogey muttered. Lemmealone, I'm okay.     The driver started across thehighway with him. The traffic wassparse, but fast and dangerous inthe central ninety-mile lane.     I'm okay, Hogey kept protesting.I'm a tumbler, ya know?Gravity's got me. Damn gravity.I'm not used to gravity, ya know? Iused to be a tumbler—      huk!     —onlynow I gotta be a hoofer. 'Countof li'l Hogey. You know about li'lHogey?     Yeah. Your son. Come on.     Say, you gotta son? I bet yougotta son.     Two kids, said the driver,catching Hogey's bag as it slippedfrom his shoulder. Both girls.     Say, you oughta be home withthem kids. Man oughta stick withhis family. You oughta get anotherjob. Hogey eyed him owlishly,waggled a moralistic finger, skiddedon the gravel as they steppedonto the opposite shoulder, andsprawled again.     The driver blew a weary breath,looked down at him, and shook hishead. Maybe it'd be kinder to finda constable after all. This guy couldget himself killed, wanderingaround loose.     Somebody supposed to meetyou? he asked, squinting aroundat the dusty hills.           Huk!     —who, me? Hogey giggled,belched, and shook his head.Nope. Nobody knows I'm coming.S'prise. I'm supposed to be here aweek ago. He looked up at thedriver with a pained expression.Week late, ya know? Marie'sgonna be sore—woo-      hoo     !—is shegonna be sore! He waggled hishead severely at the ground.     Which way are you going? thedriver grunted impatiently.     Hogey pointed down the side-roadthat led back into the hills.Marie's pop's place. You knowwhere? 'Bout three miles fromhere. Gotta walk, I guess.     Don't, the driver warned.You sit there by the culvert tillyou get a ride. Okay?     Hogey nodded forlornly.     Now stay out of the road, thedriver warned, then hurried backacross the highway. Moments later,the atomic battery-driven motorsdroned mournfully, and the buspulled away.     Big Hogey blinked after it, rubbingthe back of his neck. Nicepeople, he said. Nice buncha people.All hoofers.     With a grunt and a lurch, he gotto his feet, but his legs wouldn'twork right. With his tumbler's reflexes,he fought to right himselfwith frantic arm motions, but gravityclaimed him, and he went stumblinginto the ditch.     Damn legs, damn crazy legs!he cried.     The bottom of the ditch was wet,and he crawled up the embankmentwith mud-soaked knees, and sat onthe shoulder again. The gin bottlewas still intact. He had himself along fiery drink, and it warmed himdeep down. He blinked around atthe gaunt and treeless land.     The sun was almost down, forge-redon a dusty horizon. The blood-streakedsky faded into sulphurousyellow toward the zenith, and thevery air that hung over the landseemed full of yellow smoke, theomnipresent dust of the plains.     A farm truck turned onto theside-road and moaned away, itsdriver hardly glancing at the darkyoung man who sat swaying on hisduffle bag near the culvert. Hogeyscarcely noticed the vehicle. He justkept staring at the crazy sun.     He shook his head. It wasn't reallythe sun. The sun, the real sun,was a hateful eye-sizzling horror inthe dead black pit. It painted everythingwith pure white pain, and yousaw things by the reflected pain-light.The fat red sun was strictly aphoney, and it didn't fool him any.He hated it for what he knew it wasbehind the gory mask, and for whatit had done to his eyes.      With a grunt, he got to his feet,managed to shoulder the duffle bag,and started off down the middle ofthe farm road, lurching from sideto side, and keeping his eyes on therolling distances. Another car turnedonto the side-road, honking angrily.     Hogey tried to turn around tolook at it, but he forgot to shift hisfooting. He staggered and wentdown on the pavement. The car'stires screeched on the hot asphalt.Hogey lay there for a moment,groaning. That one had hurt hiship. A car door slammed and a bigman with a florid face got out andstalked toward him, looking angry.     What the hell's the matter withyou, fella? he drawled. Yousoused? Man, you've really got aload.     Hogey got up doggedly, shakinghis head to clear it. Space legs, heprevaricated. Got space legs. Can'tstand the gravity.     The burly farmer retrieved hisgin bottle for him, still miraculouslyunbroken. Here's your gravity,he grunted. Listen, fella, you betterget home pronto.     Pronto? Hey, I'm no Mex. Honest,I'm just space burned. Youknow?     Yeah. Say, who are you, anyway?Do you live around here?     It was obvious that the big manhad taken him for a hobo or atramp. Hogey pulled himself together.Goin' to the Hauptman'splace. Marie. You know Marie?     The farmer's eyebrows went up.Marie Hauptman? Sure I knowher. Only she's Marie Parker now.Has been, nigh on six years. Say—He paused, then gaped. You ain'ther husband by any chance?     Hogey, that's me. Big HogeyParker.     Well, I'll be—! Get in the car.I'm going right past John Hauptman'splace. Boy, you're in noshape to walk it.     He grinned wryly, waggled hishead, and helped Hogey and hisbag into the back seat. A womanwith a sun-wrinkled neck sat rigidlybeside the farmer in the front,and she neither greeted the passengernor looked around.     They don't make cars like thisanymore, the farmer called overthe growl of the ancient gasolineengine and the grind of gears.You can have them new atomicswith their loads of hot isotopesunder the seat. Ain't safe, I say—eh,Martha?     The woman with the sun-bakedneck quivered her head slightly.A car like this was good enoughfor Pa, an' I reckon it's goodenough for us, she drawled mournfully.     Five minutes later the car drewin to the side of the road. Reckonyou can walk it from here, thefarmer said. That's Hauptman'sroad just up ahead.     He helped Hogey out of the carand drove away without lookingback to see if Hogey stayed on hisfeet. The woman with the sun-bakedneck was suddenly talkinggarrulously in his direction.     It was twilight. The sun had set,and the yellow sky was turninggray. Hogey was too tired to go on,and his legs would no longer holdhim. He blinked around at the land,got his eyes focused, and foundwhat looked like Hauptman's placeon a distant hillside. It was a bigframe house surrounded by a wheatfield,and a few scrawny trees. Havinglocated it, he stretched out inthe tall grass beyond the ditch totake a little rest.     Somewhere dogs were barking,and a cricket sang creaking monotonyin the grass. Once there was thedistant thunder of a rocket blastfrom the launching station six milesto the west, but it faded quickly. AnA-motored convertible whined paston the road, but Hogey went unseen.     When he awoke, it was night,and he was shivering. His stomachwas screeching, and his nerves dancingwith high voltages. He sat upand groped for his watch, then rememberedhe had pawned it afterthe poker game. Remembering thegame and the results of the gamemade him wince and bite his lipand grope for the bottle again.     He sat breathing heavily for amoment after the stiff drink. Equatingtime to position had becomesecond nature with him, but he hadto think for a moment because hisdefective vision prevented him fromseeing the Earth-crescent.     Vega was almost straight abovehim in the late August sky, so heknew it wasn't much after sundown—probablyabout eight o'clock. Hebraced himself with another swallowof gin, picked himself up andgot back to the road, feeling a littlesobered after the nap.     He limped on up the pavementand turned left at the narrow drivethat led between barbed-wire fencestoward the Hauptman farmhouse,five hundred yards or so from thefarm road. The fields on his leftbelonged to Marie's father, heknew. He was getting close—closeto home and woman and child.     He dropped the bag suddenlyand leaned against a fence post,rolling his head on his forearmsand choking in spasms of air. Hewas shaking all over, and his bellywrithed. He wanted to turn andrun. He wanted to crawl out in thegrass and hide.     What were they going to say?And Marie, Marie most of all.How was he going to tell her aboutthe money?     Six hitches in space, and everytime the promise had been thesame:      One more tour, baby, andwe'll have enough dough, and thenI'll quit for good. One more time,and we'll have our stake—enoughto open a little business, or buy ahouse with a mortgage and get ajob.       And she had waited, but themoney had never been quite enoughuntil this time. This time the tourhad lasted nine months, and he hadsigned on for every run from stationto moon-base to pick up thebonuses. And this time he'd madeit. Two weeks ago, there had beenforty-eight hundred in the bank.And now ...           Why?      he groaned, striking hisforehead against his forearms. Hisarm slipped, and his head hit thetop of the fencepost, and the painblinded him for a moment. He staggeredback into the road with alow roar, wiped blood from hisforehead, and savagely kicked hisbag.     It rolled a couple of yards up theroad. He leaped after it and kickedit again. When he had finishedwith it, he stood panting and angry,but feeling better. He shoulderedthe bag and hiked on toward thefarmhouse.     They're hoofers, that's all—justan Earth-chained bunch of hoofers,even Marie. And I'm a tumbler. Aborn tumbler. Know what thatmeans? It means—God, what doesit mean? It means out in Big Bottomless,where Earth's like a fatmoon with fuzzy mold growing onit. Mold, that's all you are, justmold.     A dog barked, and he wonderedif he had been muttering aloud. Hecame to a fence-gap and paused inthe darkness. The road woundaround and came up the hill infront of the house. Maybe they weresitting on the porch. Maybe they'dalready heard him coming. Maybe ...     He was trembling again. Hefished the fifth of gin out of hiscoat pocket and sloshed it. Still overhalf a pint. He decided to kill it. Itwouldn't do to go home with abottle sticking out of his pocket.He stood there in the night wind,sipping at it, and watching the reddishmoon come up in the east. Themoon looked as phoney as thesetting sun.     He straightened in sudden determination.It had to be sometime.Get it over with, get it over withnow. He opened the fence-gap, slippedthrough, and closed it firmlybehind him. He retrieved his bag,and waded quietly through the tallgrass until he reached the hedgewhich divided an area of sicklypeach trees from the field. He gotover the hedge somehow, and startedthrough the trees toward thehouse. He stumbled over some oldboards, and they clattered.           Shhh!      he hissed, and movedon.     The dogs were barking angrily,and he heard a screen door slam.He stopped.     Ho there! a male voice calledexperimentally from the house.     One of Marie's brothers. Hogeystood frozen in the shadow of apeach tree, waiting.     Anybody out there? the mancalled again.     Hogey waited, then heard theman muttering, Sic 'im, boy, sic'im.     The hound's bark became eager.The animal came chasing down theslope, and stopped ten feet away tocrouch and bark frantically at theshadow in the gloom. He knew thedog.     Hooky! he whispered. Hookyboy—here!     The dog stopped barking, sniffed,trotted closer, and went      Rrrooff!      Then he started sniffingsuspiciously again.     Easy, Hooky, here boy! hewhispered.     The dog came forward silently,sniffed his hand, and whined inrecognition. Then he trotted aroundHogey, panting doggy affection anddancing an invitation to romp. Theman whistled from the porch. Thedog froze, then trotted quickly backup the slope.     Nothing, eh, Hooky? theman on the porch said. Chasin'armadillos again, eh?     The screen door slammed again,and the porch light went out.Hogey stood there staring, unableto think. Somewhere beyond thewindow lights were—his woman,his son.     What the hell was a tumbler doingwith a woman and a son?     After perhaps a minute, he steppedforward again. He tripped overa shovel, and his foot plunged intosomething that went      squelch     andswallowed the foot past the ankle.He fell forward into a heap ofsand, and his foot went deeper intothe sloppy wetness.     He lay there with his stingingforehead on his arms, cursing softlyand crying. Finally he rolledover, pulled his foot out of themess, and took off his shoes. Theywere full of mud—sticky sandymud.     The dark world was reelingabout him, and the wind was draggingat his breath. He fell backagainst the sand pile and let hisfeet sink in the mud hole and wriggledhis toes. He was laughingsoundlessly, and his face was wetin the wind. He couldn't think. Hecouldn't remember where he wasand why, and he stopped caring,and after a while he felt better.     The stars were swimming overhim, dancing crazily, and the mudcooled his feet, and the sand wassoft behind him. He saw a rocketgo up on a tail of flame from thestation, and waited for the sound ofits blast, but he was already asleepwhen it came.     It was far past midnight when hebecame conscious of the dog lickingwetly at his ear and cheek. Hepushed the animal away with a lowcurse and mopped at the side of hisface. He stirred, and groaned. Hisfeet were burning up! He tried topull them toward him, but theywouldn't budge. There was somethingwrong with his legs.     For an instant he stared wildlyaround in the night. Then he rememberedwhere he was, closed hiseyes and shuddered. When heopened them again, the moon hademerged from behind a cloud, andhe could see clearly the cruel trapinto which he had accidentallystumbled. A pile of old boards, acareful stack of new lumber, apick and shovel, a sand-pile, heapsof fresh-turned earth, and a concretemixer—well, it added up.     He gripped his ankles and pulled,but his feet wouldn't budge. Insudden terror, he tried to stand up,but his ankles were clutched by theconcrete too, and he fell back inthe sand with a low moan. He laystill for several minutes, consideringcarefully.     He pulled at his left foot. It waslocked in a vise. He tugged evenmore desperately at his right foot.It was equally immovable.     He sat up with a whimper andclawed at the rough concrete untilhis nails tore and his fingertipsbled. The surface still felt damp,but it had hardened while he slept.     He sat there stunned until Hookybegan licking at his scuffed fingers.He shouldered the dog away, anddug his hands into the sand-pile tostop the bleeding. Hooky licked athis face, panting love.     Get away! he croaked savagely.     The dog whined softly, trotteda short distance away, circled, andcame back to crouch down in thesand directly before Hogey, inchingforward experimentally.     Hogey gripped fistfuls of the drysand and cursed between his teeth,while his eyes wandered over thesky. They came to rest on the sliverof light—the space station—risingin the west, floating out in Big Bottomlesswhere the gang was—Nicholsand Guerrera and Lavrentiand Fats. And he wasn't forgettingKeesey, the rookie who'd replacedhim.     Keesey would have a rough timefor a while—rough as a cob. The pitwas no playground. The first timeyou went out of the station in asuit, the pit got you. Everythingwas falling, and you fell, with it.Everything. The skeletons of steel,the tire-shaped station, the spheresand docks and nightmare shapes—alltied together by umbilical cablesand flexible tubes. Like some crazysea-thing they seemed, floating in ablack ocean with its tentacles boundtogether by drifting strands in thedark tide that bore it.      Everything was pain-bright ordead black, and it wheeled aroundyou, and you went nuts trying tofigure which way was down. In fact,it took you months to teach yourbody that      all     ways were down andthat the pit was bottomless.     He became conscious of a plaintivesound in the wind, and froze tolisten.     It was a baby crying.     It was nearly a minute before hegot the significance of it. It hit himwhere he lived, and he began jerkingfrantically at his encased feetand sobbing low in his throat.They'd hear him if he kept that up.He stopped and covered his ears toclose out the cry of his firstborn. Alight went on in the house, andwhen it went off again, the infant'scry had ceased.     Another rocket went up from thestation, and he cursed it. Space wasa disease, and he had it.     Help! he cried out suddenly.I'm stuck! Help me, help me!     He knew he was yelling hystericallyat the sky and fighting the relentlessconcrete that clutched hisfeet, and after a moment he stopped.     The light was on in the houseagain, and he heard faint sounds.The stirring-about woke the babyagain, and once more the infant'swail came on the breeze.       Make the kid shut up, make thekid shut up ...       But that was no good. It wasn'tthe kid's fault. It wasn't Marie'sfault. No fathers allowed in space,they said, but it wasn't their faulteither. They were right, and he hadonly himself to blame. The kid wasan accident, but that didn't changeanything. Not a thing in the world.It remained a tragedy.     A tumbler had no business with afamily, but what was a man goingto do? Take a skinning knife, boy,and make yourself a eunuch. Butthat was no good either. They neededbulls out there in the pit, notsteers. And when a man came downfrom a year's hitch, what was hegoing to do? Live in a lonely shackand read books for kicks? Becauseyou were a man, you sought out awoman. And because she was awoman, she got a kid, and that wasthe end of it. It was nobody's fault,nobody's at all.     He stared at the red eye of Marslow in the southwest. They wererunning out there now, and nextyear he would have been on thelong long run ...     But there was no use thinkingabout it. Next year and the yearsafter belonged to      little     Hogey.     He sat there with his feet lockedin the solid concrete of the footing,staring out into Big Bottomlesswhile his son's cry came from thehouse and the Hauptman menfolkcame wading through the tall grassin search of someone who had criedout. His feet were stuck tight, andhe wouldn't ever get them out. Hewas sobbing softly when they foundhim.     Transcriber's Note:   This etext was produced from    Fantastic Universe   September 1955.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note.","There is an ironic significance in Hogey’s feet being stuck in concrete. Throughout the story, Hogey’s identity is tied to being a tumbler - a spaceman. Not only does he physically look like a spacer with his sun-burned marks from his goggles, he has also been blinded by the sun’s glare. It is only due to these characteristics that other people give him allowances while Hogey is in a drunken stupor. Hogey constantly speaks to separate himself from everyone else - even his wife - by identifying as a tumbler and them as hoofers. He insists that he was born as a tumbler and belongs in space, and hence blames his drunken inability to walk as due to a difficulty in adjusting to the gravity on Earth. He insists that he has to become a hoofer, but refuses to, and at the end of the story even denounces his wife and child. It is ironic then, that by Hogey’s feet being stuck in the concrete, he has reluctantly become a hoofer as his feet are literally encased in the Earth. "
"How do the other humans (hoofers) help Hogey get home? </s>      A wayfarer's return from a far country to his wife and family may be ashining experience, a kind of second honeymoon. Or it may be so shadowedby Time's relentless tyranny that the changes which have occurred in hisabsence can lead only to tragedy and despair. This rarely discerning, warmlyhuman story by a brilliant newcomer to the science fantasy field is toldwith no pulling of punches, and its adroit unfolding will astound you.         the       hoofer         by ... Walter M. Miller, Jr.         A space rover has no business with a family. But what can a manin the full vigor of youth do—if his heart cries out for a home?      They all  knew he was a spacerbecause of the white goggle markson his sun-scorched face, and sothey tolerated him and helped him.They even made allowances for himwhen he staggered and fell in theaisle of the bus while pursuing theharassed little housewife from seatto seat and cajoling her to sit andtalk with him.     Having fallen, he decided tosleep in the aisle. Two men helpedhim to the back of the bus, dumpedhim on the rear seat, and tucked hisgin bottle safely out of sight. Afterall, he had not seen Earth for ninemonths, and judging by the crustedmatter about his eyelids, he couldn'thave seen it too well now, even ifhe had been sober. Glare-blindness,gravity-legs, and agoraphobia wereexcuses for a lot of things, when aman was just back from Big Bottomless.And who could blame aman for acting strangely?     Minutes later, he was back up theaisle and swaying giddily over thelittle housewife. How! he said.Me Chief Broken Wing. Youwanta Indian wrestle?     The girl, who sat nervously staringat him, smiled wanly, andshook her head.     Quiet li'l pigeon, aren'tcha? heburbled affectionately, crashing intothe seat beside her.     The two men slid out of theirseats, and a hand clamped his shoulder.Come on, Broken Wing, let'sgo back to bed.     My name's Hogey, he said.Big Hogey Parker. I was just kiddingabout being a Indian.     Yeah. Come on, let's go have adrink. They got him on his feet,and led him stumbling back downthe aisle.     My ma was half Cherokee, see?That's how come I said it. Youwanta hear a war whoop? Realstuff.     Never mind.     He cupped his hands to hismouth and favored them with ablood-curdling proof of his ancestry,while the female passengersstirred restlessly and hunched intheir seats. The driver stopped thebus and went back to warn himagainst any further display. Thedriver flashed a deputy's badge andthreatened to turn him over to aconstable.     I gotta get home, Big Hogeytold him. I got me a son now,that's why. You know? A littlebaby pigeon of a son. Haven't seenhim yet.     Will you just sit still and bequiet then, eh?     Big Hogey nodded emphatically.Shorry, officer, I didn't mean tomake any trouble.     When the bus started again, hefell on his side and lay still. Hemade retching sounds for a time,then rested, snoring softly. The busdriver woke him again at Caine'sjunction, retrieved his gin bottlefrom behind the seat, and helpedhim down the aisle and out of thebus.     Big Hogey stumbled about for amoment, then sat down hard in thegravel at the shoulder of the road.The driver paused with one foot onthe step, looking around. There wasnot even a store at the road junction,but only a freight buildingnext to the railroad track, a coupleof farmhouses at the edge of a side-road,and, just across the way, a desertedfilling station with a saggingroof. The land was Great Plainscountry, treeless, barren, and rolling.     Big Hogey got up and staggeredaround in front of the bus, clutchingat it for support, losing hisduffle bag.     Hey, watch the traffic! Thedriver warned. With a surge of unwelcomecompassion he trottedaround after his troublesome passenger,taking his arm as he saggedagain. You crossing?     Yah, Hogey muttered. Lemmealone, I'm okay.     The driver started across thehighway with him. The traffic wassparse, but fast and dangerous inthe central ninety-mile lane.     I'm okay, Hogey kept protesting.I'm a tumbler, ya know?Gravity's got me. Damn gravity.I'm not used to gravity, ya know? Iused to be a tumbler—      huk!     —onlynow I gotta be a hoofer. 'Countof li'l Hogey. You know about li'lHogey?     Yeah. Your son. Come on.     Say, you gotta son? I bet yougotta son.     Two kids, said the driver,catching Hogey's bag as it slippedfrom his shoulder. Both girls.     Say, you oughta be home withthem kids. Man oughta stick withhis family. You oughta get anotherjob. Hogey eyed him owlishly,waggled a moralistic finger, skiddedon the gravel as they steppedonto the opposite shoulder, andsprawled again.     The driver blew a weary breath,looked down at him, and shook hishead. Maybe it'd be kinder to finda constable after all. This guy couldget himself killed, wanderingaround loose.     Somebody supposed to meetyou? he asked, squinting aroundat the dusty hills.           Huk!     —who, me? Hogey giggled,belched, and shook his head.Nope. Nobody knows I'm coming.S'prise. I'm supposed to be here aweek ago. He looked up at thedriver with a pained expression.Week late, ya know? Marie'sgonna be sore—woo-      hoo     !—is shegonna be sore! He waggled hishead severely at the ground.     Which way are you going? thedriver grunted impatiently.     Hogey pointed down the side-roadthat led back into the hills.Marie's pop's place. You knowwhere? 'Bout three miles fromhere. Gotta walk, I guess.     Don't, the driver warned.You sit there by the culvert tillyou get a ride. Okay?     Hogey nodded forlornly.     Now stay out of the road, thedriver warned, then hurried backacross the highway. Moments later,the atomic battery-driven motorsdroned mournfully, and the buspulled away.     Big Hogey blinked after it, rubbingthe back of his neck. Nicepeople, he said. Nice buncha people.All hoofers.     With a grunt and a lurch, he gotto his feet, but his legs wouldn'twork right. With his tumbler's reflexes,he fought to right himselfwith frantic arm motions, but gravityclaimed him, and he went stumblinginto the ditch.     Damn legs, damn crazy legs!he cried.     The bottom of the ditch was wet,and he crawled up the embankmentwith mud-soaked knees, and sat onthe shoulder again. The gin bottlewas still intact. He had himself along fiery drink, and it warmed himdeep down. He blinked around atthe gaunt and treeless land.     The sun was almost down, forge-redon a dusty horizon. The blood-streakedsky faded into sulphurousyellow toward the zenith, and thevery air that hung over the landseemed full of yellow smoke, theomnipresent dust of the plains.     A farm truck turned onto theside-road and moaned away, itsdriver hardly glancing at the darkyoung man who sat swaying on hisduffle bag near the culvert. Hogeyscarcely noticed the vehicle. He justkept staring at the crazy sun.     He shook his head. It wasn't reallythe sun. The sun, the real sun,was a hateful eye-sizzling horror inthe dead black pit. It painted everythingwith pure white pain, and yousaw things by the reflected pain-light.The fat red sun was strictly aphoney, and it didn't fool him any.He hated it for what he knew it wasbehind the gory mask, and for whatit had done to his eyes.      With a grunt, he got to his feet,managed to shoulder the duffle bag,and started off down the middle ofthe farm road, lurching from sideto side, and keeping his eyes on therolling distances. Another car turnedonto the side-road, honking angrily.     Hogey tried to turn around tolook at it, but he forgot to shift hisfooting. He staggered and wentdown on the pavement. The car'stires screeched on the hot asphalt.Hogey lay there for a moment,groaning. That one had hurt hiship. A car door slammed and a bigman with a florid face got out andstalked toward him, looking angry.     What the hell's the matter withyou, fella? he drawled. Yousoused? Man, you've really got aload.     Hogey got up doggedly, shakinghis head to clear it. Space legs, heprevaricated. Got space legs. Can'tstand the gravity.     The burly farmer retrieved hisgin bottle for him, still miraculouslyunbroken. Here's your gravity,he grunted. Listen, fella, you betterget home pronto.     Pronto? Hey, I'm no Mex. Honest,I'm just space burned. Youknow?     Yeah. Say, who are you, anyway?Do you live around here?     It was obvious that the big manhad taken him for a hobo or atramp. Hogey pulled himself together.Goin' to the Hauptman'splace. Marie. You know Marie?     The farmer's eyebrows went up.Marie Hauptman? Sure I knowher. Only she's Marie Parker now.Has been, nigh on six years. Say—He paused, then gaped. You ain'ther husband by any chance?     Hogey, that's me. Big HogeyParker.     Well, I'll be—! Get in the car.I'm going right past John Hauptman'splace. Boy, you're in noshape to walk it.     He grinned wryly, waggled hishead, and helped Hogey and hisbag into the back seat. A womanwith a sun-wrinkled neck sat rigidlybeside the farmer in the front,and she neither greeted the passengernor looked around.     They don't make cars like thisanymore, the farmer called overthe growl of the ancient gasolineengine and the grind of gears.You can have them new atomicswith their loads of hot isotopesunder the seat. Ain't safe, I say—eh,Martha?     The woman with the sun-bakedneck quivered her head slightly.A car like this was good enoughfor Pa, an' I reckon it's goodenough for us, she drawled mournfully.     Five minutes later the car drewin to the side of the road. Reckonyou can walk it from here, thefarmer said. That's Hauptman'sroad just up ahead.     He helped Hogey out of the carand drove away without lookingback to see if Hogey stayed on hisfeet. The woman with the sun-bakedneck was suddenly talkinggarrulously in his direction.     It was twilight. The sun had set,and the yellow sky was turninggray. Hogey was too tired to go on,and his legs would no longer holdhim. He blinked around at the land,got his eyes focused, and foundwhat looked like Hauptman's placeon a distant hillside. It was a bigframe house surrounded by a wheatfield,and a few scrawny trees. Havinglocated it, he stretched out inthe tall grass beyond the ditch totake a little rest.     Somewhere dogs were barking,and a cricket sang creaking monotonyin the grass. Once there was thedistant thunder of a rocket blastfrom the launching station six milesto the west, but it faded quickly. AnA-motored convertible whined paston the road, but Hogey went unseen.     When he awoke, it was night,and he was shivering. His stomachwas screeching, and his nerves dancingwith high voltages. He sat upand groped for his watch, then rememberedhe had pawned it afterthe poker game. Remembering thegame and the results of the gamemade him wince and bite his lipand grope for the bottle again.     He sat breathing heavily for amoment after the stiff drink. Equatingtime to position had becomesecond nature with him, but he hadto think for a moment because hisdefective vision prevented him fromseeing the Earth-crescent.     Vega was almost straight abovehim in the late August sky, so heknew it wasn't much after sundown—probablyabout eight o'clock. Hebraced himself with another swallowof gin, picked himself up andgot back to the road, feeling a littlesobered after the nap.     He limped on up the pavementand turned left at the narrow drivethat led between barbed-wire fencestoward the Hauptman farmhouse,five hundred yards or so from thefarm road. The fields on his leftbelonged to Marie's father, heknew. He was getting close—closeto home and woman and child.     He dropped the bag suddenlyand leaned against a fence post,rolling his head on his forearmsand choking in spasms of air. Hewas shaking all over, and his bellywrithed. He wanted to turn andrun. He wanted to crawl out in thegrass and hide.     What were they going to say?And Marie, Marie most of all.How was he going to tell her aboutthe money?     Six hitches in space, and everytime the promise had been thesame:      One more tour, baby, andwe'll have enough dough, and thenI'll quit for good. One more time,and we'll have our stake—enoughto open a little business, or buy ahouse with a mortgage and get ajob.       And she had waited, but themoney had never been quite enoughuntil this time. This time the tourhad lasted nine months, and he hadsigned on for every run from stationto moon-base to pick up thebonuses. And this time he'd madeit. Two weeks ago, there had beenforty-eight hundred in the bank.And now ...           Why?      he groaned, striking hisforehead against his forearms. Hisarm slipped, and his head hit thetop of the fencepost, and the painblinded him for a moment. He staggeredback into the road with alow roar, wiped blood from hisforehead, and savagely kicked hisbag.     It rolled a couple of yards up theroad. He leaped after it and kickedit again. When he had finishedwith it, he stood panting and angry,but feeling better. He shoulderedthe bag and hiked on toward thefarmhouse.     They're hoofers, that's all—justan Earth-chained bunch of hoofers,even Marie. And I'm a tumbler. Aborn tumbler. Know what thatmeans? It means—God, what doesit mean? It means out in Big Bottomless,where Earth's like a fatmoon with fuzzy mold growing onit. Mold, that's all you are, justmold.     A dog barked, and he wonderedif he had been muttering aloud. Hecame to a fence-gap and paused inthe darkness. The road woundaround and came up the hill infront of the house. Maybe they weresitting on the porch. Maybe they'dalready heard him coming. Maybe ...     He was trembling again. Hefished the fifth of gin out of hiscoat pocket and sloshed it. Still overhalf a pint. He decided to kill it. Itwouldn't do to go home with abottle sticking out of his pocket.He stood there in the night wind,sipping at it, and watching the reddishmoon come up in the east. Themoon looked as phoney as thesetting sun.     He straightened in sudden determination.It had to be sometime.Get it over with, get it over withnow. He opened the fence-gap, slippedthrough, and closed it firmlybehind him. He retrieved his bag,and waded quietly through the tallgrass until he reached the hedgewhich divided an area of sicklypeach trees from the field. He gotover the hedge somehow, and startedthrough the trees toward thehouse. He stumbled over some oldboards, and they clattered.           Shhh!      he hissed, and movedon.     The dogs were barking angrily,and he heard a screen door slam.He stopped.     Ho there! a male voice calledexperimentally from the house.     One of Marie's brothers. Hogeystood frozen in the shadow of apeach tree, waiting.     Anybody out there? the mancalled again.     Hogey waited, then heard theman muttering, Sic 'im, boy, sic'im.     The hound's bark became eager.The animal came chasing down theslope, and stopped ten feet away tocrouch and bark frantically at theshadow in the gloom. He knew thedog.     Hooky! he whispered. Hookyboy—here!     The dog stopped barking, sniffed,trotted closer, and went      Rrrooff!      Then he started sniffingsuspiciously again.     Easy, Hooky, here boy! hewhispered.     The dog came forward silently,sniffed his hand, and whined inrecognition. Then he trotted aroundHogey, panting doggy affection anddancing an invitation to romp. Theman whistled from the porch. Thedog froze, then trotted quickly backup the slope.     Nothing, eh, Hooky? theman on the porch said. Chasin'armadillos again, eh?     The screen door slammed again,and the porch light went out.Hogey stood there staring, unableto think. Somewhere beyond thewindow lights were—his woman,his son.     What the hell was a tumbler doingwith a woman and a son?     After perhaps a minute, he steppedforward again. He tripped overa shovel, and his foot plunged intosomething that went      squelch     andswallowed the foot past the ankle.He fell forward into a heap ofsand, and his foot went deeper intothe sloppy wetness.     He lay there with his stingingforehead on his arms, cursing softlyand crying. Finally he rolledover, pulled his foot out of themess, and took off his shoes. Theywere full of mud—sticky sandymud.     The dark world was reelingabout him, and the wind was draggingat his breath. He fell backagainst the sand pile and let hisfeet sink in the mud hole and wriggledhis toes. He was laughingsoundlessly, and his face was wetin the wind. He couldn't think. Hecouldn't remember where he wasand why, and he stopped caring,and after a while he felt better.     The stars were swimming overhim, dancing crazily, and the mudcooled his feet, and the sand wassoft behind him. He saw a rocketgo up on a tail of flame from thestation, and waited for the sound ofits blast, but he was already asleepwhen it came.     It was far past midnight when hebecame conscious of the dog lickingwetly at his ear and cheek. Hepushed the animal away with a lowcurse and mopped at the side of hisface. He stirred, and groaned. Hisfeet were burning up! He tried topull them toward him, but theywouldn't budge. There was somethingwrong with his legs.     For an instant he stared wildlyaround in the night. Then he rememberedwhere he was, closed hiseyes and shuddered. When heopened them again, the moon hademerged from behind a cloud, andhe could see clearly the cruel trapinto which he had accidentallystumbled. A pile of old boards, acareful stack of new lumber, apick and shovel, a sand-pile, heapsof fresh-turned earth, and a concretemixer—well, it added up.     He gripped his ankles and pulled,but his feet wouldn't budge. Insudden terror, he tried to stand up,but his ankles were clutched by theconcrete too, and he fell back inthe sand with a low moan. He laystill for several minutes, consideringcarefully.     He pulled at his left foot. It waslocked in a vise. He tugged evenmore desperately at his right foot.It was equally immovable.     He sat up with a whimper andclawed at the rough concrete untilhis nails tore and his fingertipsbled. The surface still felt damp,but it had hardened while he slept.     He sat there stunned until Hookybegan licking at his scuffed fingers.He shouldered the dog away, anddug his hands into the sand-pile tostop the bleeding. Hooky licked athis face, panting love.     Get away! he croaked savagely.     The dog whined softly, trotteda short distance away, circled, andcame back to crouch down in thesand directly before Hogey, inchingforward experimentally.     Hogey gripped fistfuls of the drysand and cursed between his teeth,while his eyes wandered over thesky. They came to rest on the sliverof light—the space station—risingin the west, floating out in Big Bottomlesswhere the gang was—Nicholsand Guerrera and Lavrentiand Fats. And he wasn't forgettingKeesey, the rookie who'd replacedhim.     Keesey would have a rough timefor a while—rough as a cob. The pitwas no playground. The first timeyou went out of the station in asuit, the pit got you. Everythingwas falling, and you fell, with it.Everything. The skeletons of steel,the tire-shaped station, the spheresand docks and nightmare shapes—alltied together by umbilical cablesand flexible tubes. Like some crazysea-thing they seemed, floating in ablack ocean with its tentacles boundtogether by drifting strands in thedark tide that bore it.      Everything was pain-bright ordead black, and it wheeled aroundyou, and you went nuts trying tofigure which way was down. In fact,it took you months to teach yourbody that      all     ways were down andthat the pit was bottomless.     He became conscious of a plaintivesound in the wind, and froze tolisten.     It was a baby crying.     It was nearly a minute before hegot the significance of it. It hit himwhere he lived, and he began jerkingfrantically at his encased feetand sobbing low in his throat.They'd hear him if he kept that up.He stopped and covered his ears toclose out the cry of his firstborn. Alight went on in the house, andwhen it went off again, the infant'scry had ceased.     Another rocket went up from thestation, and he cursed it. Space wasa disease, and he had it.     Help! he cried out suddenly.I'm stuck! Help me, help me!     He knew he was yelling hystericallyat the sky and fighting the relentlessconcrete that clutched hisfeet, and after a moment he stopped.     The light was on in the houseagain, and he heard faint sounds.The stirring-about woke the babyagain, and once more the infant'swail came on the breeze.       Make the kid shut up, make thekid shut up ...       But that was no good. It wasn'tthe kid's fault. It wasn't Marie'sfault. No fathers allowed in space,they said, but it wasn't their faulteither. They were right, and he hadonly himself to blame. The kid wasan accident, but that didn't changeanything. Not a thing in the world.It remained a tragedy.     A tumbler had no business with afamily, but what was a man goingto do? Take a skinning knife, boy,and make yourself a eunuch. Butthat was no good either. They neededbulls out there in the pit, notsteers. And when a man came downfrom a year's hitch, what was hegoing to do? Live in a lonely shackand read books for kicks? Becauseyou were a man, you sought out awoman. And because she was awoman, she got a kid, and that wasthe end of it. It was nobody's fault,nobody's at all.     He stared at the red eye of Marslow in the southwest. They wererunning out there now, and nextyear he would have been on thelong long run ...     But there was no use thinkingabout it. Next year and the yearsafter belonged to      little     Hogey.     He sat there with his feet lockedin the solid concrete of the footing,staring out into Big Bottomlesswhile his son's cry came from thehouse and the Hauptman menfolkcame wading through the tall grassin search of someone who had criedout. His feet were stuck tight, andhe wouldn't ever get them out. Hewas sobbing softly when they foundhim.     Transcriber's Note:   This etext was produced from    Fantastic Universe   September 1955.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note.","Hogey gets home through the kindness of the hoofers, who all know him to be a spacer due to the white marks on his face. As such, when Hogey becomes rowdy and drunk on the bus, they gracefully pick him up and seat him down at the back of the bus. After getting off the bus, Hogey has trouble crossing the highway with all the passing cars and the bus driver compassionately helps him across the road. The driver even inquired about someone picking him up, before warning Hogey not to traipse through the hills alone and instead, wait for someone to come along. As Hogey staggers down the pavement, he stumbles in front of a farmer’s truck. Since the farmer recognizes Hogey’s residence and identity, he helps Hogey get closer to his destination and drops him off right on the road in front of Hauptman’s place. "
"Describe the difference between a tumbler and a hoofer. </s>      A wayfarer's return from a far country to his wife and family may be ashining experience, a kind of second honeymoon. Or it may be so shadowedby Time's relentless tyranny that the changes which have occurred in hisabsence can lead only to tragedy and despair. This rarely discerning, warmlyhuman story by a brilliant newcomer to the science fantasy field is toldwith no pulling of punches, and its adroit unfolding will astound you.         the       hoofer         by ... Walter M. Miller, Jr.         A space rover has no business with a family. But what can a manin the full vigor of youth do—if his heart cries out for a home?      They all  knew he was a spacerbecause of the white goggle markson his sun-scorched face, and sothey tolerated him and helped him.They even made allowances for himwhen he staggered and fell in theaisle of the bus while pursuing theharassed little housewife from seatto seat and cajoling her to sit andtalk with him.     Having fallen, he decided tosleep in the aisle. Two men helpedhim to the back of the bus, dumpedhim on the rear seat, and tucked hisgin bottle safely out of sight. Afterall, he had not seen Earth for ninemonths, and judging by the crustedmatter about his eyelids, he couldn'thave seen it too well now, even ifhe had been sober. Glare-blindness,gravity-legs, and agoraphobia wereexcuses for a lot of things, when aman was just back from Big Bottomless.And who could blame aman for acting strangely?     Minutes later, he was back up theaisle and swaying giddily over thelittle housewife. How! he said.Me Chief Broken Wing. Youwanta Indian wrestle?     The girl, who sat nervously staringat him, smiled wanly, andshook her head.     Quiet li'l pigeon, aren'tcha? heburbled affectionately, crashing intothe seat beside her.     The two men slid out of theirseats, and a hand clamped his shoulder.Come on, Broken Wing, let'sgo back to bed.     My name's Hogey, he said.Big Hogey Parker. I was just kiddingabout being a Indian.     Yeah. Come on, let's go have adrink. They got him on his feet,and led him stumbling back downthe aisle.     My ma was half Cherokee, see?That's how come I said it. Youwanta hear a war whoop? Realstuff.     Never mind.     He cupped his hands to hismouth and favored them with ablood-curdling proof of his ancestry,while the female passengersstirred restlessly and hunched intheir seats. The driver stopped thebus and went back to warn himagainst any further display. Thedriver flashed a deputy's badge andthreatened to turn him over to aconstable.     I gotta get home, Big Hogeytold him. I got me a son now,that's why. You know? A littlebaby pigeon of a son. Haven't seenhim yet.     Will you just sit still and bequiet then, eh?     Big Hogey nodded emphatically.Shorry, officer, I didn't mean tomake any trouble.     When the bus started again, hefell on his side and lay still. Hemade retching sounds for a time,then rested, snoring softly. The busdriver woke him again at Caine'sjunction, retrieved his gin bottlefrom behind the seat, and helpedhim down the aisle and out of thebus.     Big Hogey stumbled about for amoment, then sat down hard in thegravel at the shoulder of the road.The driver paused with one foot onthe step, looking around. There wasnot even a store at the road junction,but only a freight buildingnext to the railroad track, a coupleof farmhouses at the edge of a side-road,and, just across the way, a desertedfilling station with a saggingroof. The land was Great Plainscountry, treeless, barren, and rolling.     Big Hogey got up and staggeredaround in front of the bus, clutchingat it for support, losing hisduffle bag.     Hey, watch the traffic! Thedriver warned. With a surge of unwelcomecompassion he trottedaround after his troublesome passenger,taking his arm as he saggedagain. You crossing?     Yah, Hogey muttered. Lemmealone, I'm okay.     The driver started across thehighway with him. The traffic wassparse, but fast and dangerous inthe central ninety-mile lane.     I'm okay, Hogey kept protesting.I'm a tumbler, ya know?Gravity's got me. Damn gravity.I'm not used to gravity, ya know? Iused to be a tumbler—      huk!     —onlynow I gotta be a hoofer. 'Countof li'l Hogey. You know about li'lHogey?     Yeah. Your son. Come on.     Say, you gotta son? I bet yougotta son.     Two kids, said the driver,catching Hogey's bag as it slippedfrom his shoulder. Both girls.     Say, you oughta be home withthem kids. Man oughta stick withhis family. You oughta get anotherjob. Hogey eyed him owlishly,waggled a moralistic finger, skiddedon the gravel as they steppedonto the opposite shoulder, andsprawled again.     The driver blew a weary breath,looked down at him, and shook hishead. Maybe it'd be kinder to finda constable after all. This guy couldget himself killed, wanderingaround loose.     Somebody supposed to meetyou? he asked, squinting aroundat the dusty hills.           Huk!     —who, me? Hogey giggled,belched, and shook his head.Nope. Nobody knows I'm coming.S'prise. I'm supposed to be here aweek ago. He looked up at thedriver with a pained expression.Week late, ya know? Marie'sgonna be sore—woo-      hoo     !—is shegonna be sore! He waggled hishead severely at the ground.     Which way are you going? thedriver grunted impatiently.     Hogey pointed down the side-roadthat led back into the hills.Marie's pop's place. You knowwhere? 'Bout three miles fromhere. Gotta walk, I guess.     Don't, the driver warned.You sit there by the culvert tillyou get a ride. Okay?     Hogey nodded forlornly.     Now stay out of the road, thedriver warned, then hurried backacross the highway. Moments later,the atomic battery-driven motorsdroned mournfully, and the buspulled away.     Big Hogey blinked after it, rubbingthe back of his neck. Nicepeople, he said. Nice buncha people.All hoofers.     With a grunt and a lurch, he gotto his feet, but his legs wouldn'twork right. With his tumbler's reflexes,he fought to right himselfwith frantic arm motions, but gravityclaimed him, and he went stumblinginto the ditch.     Damn legs, damn crazy legs!he cried.     The bottom of the ditch was wet,and he crawled up the embankmentwith mud-soaked knees, and sat onthe shoulder again. The gin bottlewas still intact. He had himself along fiery drink, and it warmed himdeep down. He blinked around atthe gaunt and treeless land.     The sun was almost down, forge-redon a dusty horizon. The blood-streakedsky faded into sulphurousyellow toward the zenith, and thevery air that hung over the landseemed full of yellow smoke, theomnipresent dust of the plains.     A farm truck turned onto theside-road and moaned away, itsdriver hardly glancing at the darkyoung man who sat swaying on hisduffle bag near the culvert. Hogeyscarcely noticed the vehicle. He justkept staring at the crazy sun.     He shook his head. It wasn't reallythe sun. The sun, the real sun,was a hateful eye-sizzling horror inthe dead black pit. It painted everythingwith pure white pain, and yousaw things by the reflected pain-light.The fat red sun was strictly aphoney, and it didn't fool him any.He hated it for what he knew it wasbehind the gory mask, and for whatit had done to his eyes.      With a grunt, he got to his feet,managed to shoulder the duffle bag,and started off down the middle ofthe farm road, lurching from sideto side, and keeping his eyes on therolling distances. Another car turnedonto the side-road, honking angrily.     Hogey tried to turn around tolook at it, but he forgot to shift hisfooting. He staggered and wentdown on the pavement. The car'stires screeched on the hot asphalt.Hogey lay there for a moment,groaning. That one had hurt hiship. A car door slammed and a bigman with a florid face got out andstalked toward him, looking angry.     What the hell's the matter withyou, fella? he drawled. Yousoused? Man, you've really got aload.     Hogey got up doggedly, shakinghis head to clear it. Space legs, heprevaricated. Got space legs. Can'tstand the gravity.     The burly farmer retrieved hisgin bottle for him, still miraculouslyunbroken. Here's your gravity,he grunted. Listen, fella, you betterget home pronto.     Pronto? Hey, I'm no Mex. Honest,I'm just space burned. Youknow?     Yeah. Say, who are you, anyway?Do you live around here?     It was obvious that the big manhad taken him for a hobo or atramp. Hogey pulled himself together.Goin' to the Hauptman'splace. Marie. You know Marie?     The farmer's eyebrows went up.Marie Hauptman? Sure I knowher. Only she's Marie Parker now.Has been, nigh on six years. Say—He paused, then gaped. You ain'ther husband by any chance?     Hogey, that's me. Big HogeyParker.     Well, I'll be—! Get in the car.I'm going right past John Hauptman'splace. Boy, you're in noshape to walk it.     He grinned wryly, waggled hishead, and helped Hogey and hisbag into the back seat. A womanwith a sun-wrinkled neck sat rigidlybeside the farmer in the front,and she neither greeted the passengernor looked around.     They don't make cars like thisanymore, the farmer called overthe growl of the ancient gasolineengine and the grind of gears.You can have them new atomicswith their loads of hot isotopesunder the seat. Ain't safe, I say—eh,Martha?     The woman with the sun-bakedneck quivered her head slightly.A car like this was good enoughfor Pa, an' I reckon it's goodenough for us, she drawled mournfully.     Five minutes later the car drewin to the side of the road. Reckonyou can walk it from here, thefarmer said. That's Hauptman'sroad just up ahead.     He helped Hogey out of the carand drove away without lookingback to see if Hogey stayed on hisfeet. The woman with the sun-bakedneck was suddenly talkinggarrulously in his direction.     It was twilight. The sun had set,and the yellow sky was turninggray. Hogey was too tired to go on,and his legs would no longer holdhim. He blinked around at the land,got his eyes focused, and foundwhat looked like Hauptman's placeon a distant hillside. It was a bigframe house surrounded by a wheatfield,and a few scrawny trees. Havinglocated it, he stretched out inthe tall grass beyond the ditch totake a little rest.     Somewhere dogs were barking,and a cricket sang creaking monotonyin the grass. Once there was thedistant thunder of a rocket blastfrom the launching station six milesto the west, but it faded quickly. AnA-motored convertible whined paston the road, but Hogey went unseen.     When he awoke, it was night,and he was shivering. His stomachwas screeching, and his nerves dancingwith high voltages. He sat upand groped for his watch, then rememberedhe had pawned it afterthe poker game. Remembering thegame and the results of the gamemade him wince and bite his lipand grope for the bottle again.     He sat breathing heavily for amoment after the stiff drink. Equatingtime to position had becomesecond nature with him, but he hadto think for a moment because hisdefective vision prevented him fromseeing the Earth-crescent.     Vega was almost straight abovehim in the late August sky, so heknew it wasn't much after sundown—probablyabout eight o'clock. Hebraced himself with another swallowof gin, picked himself up andgot back to the road, feeling a littlesobered after the nap.     He limped on up the pavementand turned left at the narrow drivethat led between barbed-wire fencestoward the Hauptman farmhouse,five hundred yards or so from thefarm road. The fields on his leftbelonged to Marie's father, heknew. He was getting close—closeto home and woman and child.     He dropped the bag suddenlyand leaned against a fence post,rolling his head on his forearmsand choking in spasms of air. Hewas shaking all over, and his bellywrithed. He wanted to turn andrun. He wanted to crawl out in thegrass and hide.     What were they going to say?And Marie, Marie most of all.How was he going to tell her aboutthe money?     Six hitches in space, and everytime the promise had been thesame:      One more tour, baby, andwe'll have enough dough, and thenI'll quit for good. One more time,and we'll have our stake—enoughto open a little business, or buy ahouse with a mortgage and get ajob.       And she had waited, but themoney had never been quite enoughuntil this time. This time the tourhad lasted nine months, and he hadsigned on for every run from stationto moon-base to pick up thebonuses. And this time he'd madeit. Two weeks ago, there had beenforty-eight hundred in the bank.And now ...           Why?      he groaned, striking hisforehead against his forearms. Hisarm slipped, and his head hit thetop of the fencepost, and the painblinded him for a moment. He staggeredback into the road with alow roar, wiped blood from hisforehead, and savagely kicked hisbag.     It rolled a couple of yards up theroad. He leaped after it and kickedit again. When he had finishedwith it, he stood panting and angry,but feeling better. He shoulderedthe bag and hiked on toward thefarmhouse.     They're hoofers, that's all—justan Earth-chained bunch of hoofers,even Marie. And I'm a tumbler. Aborn tumbler. Know what thatmeans? It means—God, what doesit mean? It means out in Big Bottomless,where Earth's like a fatmoon with fuzzy mold growing onit. Mold, that's all you are, justmold.     A dog barked, and he wonderedif he had been muttering aloud. Hecame to a fence-gap and paused inthe darkness. The road woundaround and came up the hill infront of the house. Maybe they weresitting on the porch. Maybe they'dalready heard him coming. Maybe ...     He was trembling again. Hefished the fifth of gin out of hiscoat pocket and sloshed it. Still overhalf a pint. He decided to kill it. Itwouldn't do to go home with abottle sticking out of his pocket.He stood there in the night wind,sipping at it, and watching the reddishmoon come up in the east. Themoon looked as phoney as thesetting sun.     He straightened in sudden determination.It had to be sometime.Get it over with, get it over withnow. He opened the fence-gap, slippedthrough, and closed it firmlybehind him. He retrieved his bag,and waded quietly through the tallgrass until he reached the hedgewhich divided an area of sicklypeach trees from the field. He gotover the hedge somehow, and startedthrough the trees toward thehouse. He stumbled over some oldboards, and they clattered.           Shhh!      he hissed, and movedon.     The dogs were barking angrily,and he heard a screen door slam.He stopped.     Ho there! a male voice calledexperimentally from the house.     One of Marie's brothers. Hogeystood frozen in the shadow of apeach tree, waiting.     Anybody out there? the mancalled again.     Hogey waited, then heard theman muttering, Sic 'im, boy, sic'im.     The hound's bark became eager.The animal came chasing down theslope, and stopped ten feet away tocrouch and bark frantically at theshadow in the gloom. He knew thedog.     Hooky! he whispered. Hookyboy—here!     The dog stopped barking, sniffed,trotted closer, and went      Rrrooff!      Then he started sniffingsuspiciously again.     Easy, Hooky, here boy! hewhispered.     The dog came forward silently,sniffed his hand, and whined inrecognition. Then he trotted aroundHogey, panting doggy affection anddancing an invitation to romp. Theman whistled from the porch. Thedog froze, then trotted quickly backup the slope.     Nothing, eh, Hooky? theman on the porch said. Chasin'armadillos again, eh?     The screen door slammed again,and the porch light went out.Hogey stood there staring, unableto think. Somewhere beyond thewindow lights were—his woman,his son.     What the hell was a tumbler doingwith a woman and a son?     After perhaps a minute, he steppedforward again. He tripped overa shovel, and his foot plunged intosomething that went      squelch     andswallowed the foot past the ankle.He fell forward into a heap ofsand, and his foot went deeper intothe sloppy wetness.     He lay there with his stingingforehead on his arms, cursing softlyand crying. Finally he rolledover, pulled his foot out of themess, and took off his shoes. Theywere full of mud—sticky sandymud.     The dark world was reelingabout him, and the wind was draggingat his breath. He fell backagainst the sand pile and let hisfeet sink in the mud hole and wriggledhis toes. He was laughingsoundlessly, and his face was wetin the wind. He couldn't think. Hecouldn't remember where he wasand why, and he stopped caring,and after a while he felt better.     The stars were swimming overhim, dancing crazily, and the mudcooled his feet, and the sand wassoft behind him. He saw a rocketgo up on a tail of flame from thestation, and waited for the sound ofits blast, but he was already asleepwhen it came.     It was far past midnight when hebecame conscious of the dog lickingwetly at his ear and cheek. Hepushed the animal away with a lowcurse and mopped at the side of hisface. He stirred, and groaned. Hisfeet were burning up! He tried topull them toward him, but theywouldn't budge. There was somethingwrong with his legs.     For an instant he stared wildlyaround in the night. Then he rememberedwhere he was, closed hiseyes and shuddered. When heopened them again, the moon hademerged from behind a cloud, andhe could see clearly the cruel trapinto which he had accidentallystumbled. A pile of old boards, acareful stack of new lumber, apick and shovel, a sand-pile, heapsof fresh-turned earth, and a concretemixer—well, it added up.     He gripped his ankles and pulled,but his feet wouldn't budge. Insudden terror, he tried to stand up,but his ankles were clutched by theconcrete too, and he fell back inthe sand with a low moan. He laystill for several minutes, consideringcarefully.     He pulled at his left foot. It waslocked in a vise. He tugged evenmore desperately at his right foot.It was equally immovable.     He sat up with a whimper andclawed at the rough concrete untilhis nails tore and his fingertipsbled. The surface still felt damp,but it had hardened while he slept.     He sat there stunned until Hookybegan licking at his scuffed fingers.He shouldered the dog away, anddug his hands into the sand-pile tostop the bleeding. Hooky licked athis face, panting love.     Get away! he croaked savagely.     The dog whined softly, trotteda short distance away, circled, andcame back to crouch down in thesand directly before Hogey, inchingforward experimentally.     Hogey gripped fistfuls of the drysand and cursed between his teeth,while his eyes wandered over thesky. They came to rest on the sliverof light—the space station—risingin the west, floating out in Big Bottomlesswhere the gang was—Nicholsand Guerrera and Lavrentiand Fats. And he wasn't forgettingKeesey, the rookie who'd replacedhim.     Keesey would have a rough timefor a while—rough as a cob. The pitwas no playground. The first timeyou went out of the station in asuit, the pit got you. Everythingwas falling, and you fell, with it.Everything. The skeletons of steel,the tire-shaped station, the spheresand docks and nightmare shapes—alltied together by umbilical cablesand flexible tubes. Like some crazysea-thing they seemed, floating in ablack ocean with its tentacles boundtogether by drifting strands in thedark tide that bore it.      Everything was pain-bright ordead black, and it wheeled aroundyou, and you went nuts trying tofigure which way was down. In fact,it took you months to teach yourbody that      all     ways were down andthat the pit was bottomless.     He became conscious of a plaintivesound in the wind, and froze tolisten.     It was a baby crying.     It was nearly a minute before hegot the significance of it. It hit himwhere he lived, and he began jerkingfrantically at his encased feetand sobbing low in his throat.They'd hear him if he kept that up.He stopped and covered his ears toclose out the cry of his firstborn. Alight went on in the house, andwhen it went off again, the infant'scry had ceased.     Another rocket went up from thestation, and he cursed it. Space wasa disease, and he had it.     Help! he cried out suddenly.I'm stuck! Help me, help me!     He knew he was yelling hystericallyat the sky and fighting the relentlessconcrete that clutched hisfeet, and after a moment he stopped.     The light was on in the houseagain, and he heard faint sounds.The stirring-about woke the babyagain, and once more the infant'swail came on the breeze.       Make the kid shut up, make thekid shut up ...       But that was no good. It wasn'tthe kid's fault. It wasn't Marie'sfault. No fathers allowed in space,they said, but it wasn't their faulteither. They were right, and he hadonly himself to blame. The kid wasan accident, but that didn't changeanything. Not a thing in the world.It remained a tragedy.     A tumbler had no business with afamily, but what was a man goingto do? Take a skinning knife, boy,and make yourself a eunuch. Butthat was no good either. They neededbulls out there in the pit, notsteers. And when a man came downfrom a year's hitch, what was hegoing to do? Live in a lonely shackand read books for kicks? Becauseyou were a man, you sought out awoman. And because she was awoman, she got a kid, and that wasthe end of it. It was nobody's fault,nobody's at all.     He stared at the red eye of Marslow in the southwest. They wererunning out there now, and nextyear he would have been on thelong long run ...     But there was no use thinkingabout it. Next year and the yearsafter belonged to      little     Hogey.     He sat there with his feet lockedin the solid concrete of the footing,staring out into Big Bottomlesswhile his son's cry came from thehouse and the Hauptman menfolkcame wading through the tall grassin search of someone who had criedout. His feet were stuck tight, andhe wouldn't ever get them out. Hewas sobbing softly when they foundhim.     Transcriber's Note:   This etext was produced from    Fantastic Universe   September 1955.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note.","A tumbler and a hoofer are considered to be two types of people, as described by Hogey’s drunken ramblings. A tumbler is someone who lives in space and never interacts with gravity. As such, a tumbler is often clumsy and has limbs that flail about. In addition, a tumbler is not meant to be a family man, and should neither have a wife nor children. Therefore, a hoofer is a person who lives on Earth and is rooted to the ground by gravity, as they have never traveled to space. By contrast, they would have a family, like Marie Parker does with her son. In addition, the hoofers in this story are stable and kind, like the farmer and the bus driver, who all help Hogey when his limbs and center of gravity fail him. "
"Describe the setting of this story. </s>      A wayfarer's return from a far country to his wife and family may be ashining experience, a kind of second honeymoon. Or it may be so shadowedby Time's relentless tyranny that the changes which have occurred in hisabsence can lead only to tragedy and despair. This rarely discerning, warmlyhuman story by a brilliant newcomer to the science fantasy field is toldwith no pulling of punches, and its adroit unfolding will astound you.         the       hoofer         by ... Walter M. Miller, Jr.         A space rover has no business with a family. But what can a manin the full vigor of youth do—if his heart cries out for a home?      They all  knew he was a spacerbecause of the white goggle markson his sun-scorched face, and sothey tolerated him and helped him.They even made allowances for himwhen he staggered and fell in theaisle of the bus while pursuing theharassed little housewife from seatto seat and cajoling her to sit andtalk with him.     Having fallen, he decided tosleep in the aisle. Two men helpedhim to the back of the bus, dumpedhim on the rear seat, and tucked hisgin bottle safely out of sight. Afterall, he had not seen Earth for ninemonths, and judging by the crustedmatter about his eyelids, he couldn'thave seen it too well now, even ifhe had been sober. Glare-blindness,gravity-legs, and agoraphobia wereexcuses for a lot of things, when aman was just back from Big Bottomless.And who could blame aman for acting strangely?     Minutes later, he was back up theaisle and swaying giddily over thelittle housewife. How! he said.Me Chief Broken Wing. Youwanta Indian wrestle?     The girl, who sat nervously staringat him, smiled wanly, andshook her head.     Quiet li'l pigeon, aren'tcha? heburbled affectionately, crashing intothe seat beside her.     The two men slid out of theirseats, and a hand clamped his shoulder.Come on, Broken Wing, let'sgo back to bed.     My name's Hogey, he said.Big Hogey Parker. I was just kiddingabout being a Indian.     Yeah. Come on, let's go have adrink. They got him on his feet,and led him stumbling back downthe aisle.     My ma was half Cherokee, see?That's how come I said it. Youwanta hear a war whoop? Realstuff.     Never mind.     He cupped his hands to hismouth and favored them with ablood-curdling proof of his ancestry,while the female passengersstirred restlessly and hunched intheir seats. The driver stopped thebus and went back to warn himagainst any further display. Thedriver flashed a deputy's badge andthreatened to turn him over to aconstable.     I gotta get home, Big Hogeytold him. I got me a son now,that's why. You know? A littlebaby pigeon of a son. Haven't seenhim yet.     Will you just sit still and bequiet then, eh?     Big Hogey nodded emphatically.Shorry, officer, I didn't mean tomake any trouble.     When the bus started again, hefell on his side and lay still. Hemade retching sounds for a time,then rested, snoring softly. The busdriver woke him again at Caine'sjunction, retrieved his gin bottlefrom behind the seat, and helpedhim down the aisle and out of thebus.     Big Hogey stumbled about for amoment, then sat down hard in thegravel at the shoulder of the road.The driver paused with one foot onthe step, looking around. There wasnot even a store at the road junction,but only a freight buildingnext to the railroad track, a coupleof farmhouses at the edge of a side-road,and, just across the way, a desertedfilling station with a saggingroof. The land was Great Plainscountry, treeless, barren, and rolling.     Big Hogey got up and staggeredaround in front of the bus, clutchingat it for support, losing hisduffle bag.     Hey, watch the traffic! Thedriver warned. With a surge of unwelcomecompassion he trottedaround after his troublesome passenger,taking his arm as he saggedagain. You crossing?     Yah, Hogey muttered. Lemmealone, I'm okay.     The driver started across thehighway with him. The traffic wassparse, but fast and dangerous inthe central ninety-mile lane.     I'm okay, Hogey kept protesting.I'm a tumbler, ya know?Gravity's got me. Damn gravity.I'm not used to gravity, ya know? Iused to be a tumbler—      huk!     —onlynow I gotta be a hoofer. 'Countof li'l Hogey. You know about li'lHogey?     Yeah. Your son. Come on.     Say, you gotta son? I bet yougotta son.     Two kids, said the driver,catching Hogey's bag as it slippedfrom his shoulder. Both girls.     Say, you oughta be home withthem kids. Man oughta stick withhis family. You oughta get anotherjob. Hogey eyed him owlishly,waggled a moralistic finger, skiddedon the gravel as they steppedonto the opposite shoulder, andsprawled again.     The driver blew a weary breath,looked down at him, and shook hishead. Maybe it'd be kinder to finda constable after all. This guy couldget himself killed, wanderingaround loose.     Somebody supposed to meetyou? he asked, squinting aroundat the dusty hills.           Huk!     —who, me? Hogey giggled,belched, and shook his head.Nope. Nobody knows I'm coming.S'prise. I'm supposed to be here aweek ago. He looked up at thedriver with a pained expression.Week late, ya know? Marie'sgonna be sore—woo-      hoo     !—is shegonna be sore! He waggled hishead severely at the ground.     Which way are you going? thedriver grunted impatiently.     Hogey pointed down the side-roadthat led back into the hills.Marie's pop's place. You knowwhere? 'Bout three miles fromhere. Gotta walk, I guess.     Don't, the driver warned.You sit there by the culvert tillyou get a ride. Okay?     Hogey nodded forlornly.     Now stay out of the road, thedriver warned, then hurried backacross the highway. Moments later,the atomic battery-driven motorsdroned mournfully, and the buspulled away.     Big Hogey blinked after it, rubbingthe back of his neck. Nicepeople, he said. Nice buncha people.All hoofers.     With a grunt and a lurch, he gotto his feet, but his legs wouldn'twork right. With his tumbler's reflexes,he fought to right himselfwith frantic arm motions, but gravityclaimed him, and he went stumblinginto the ditch.     Damn legs, damn crazy legs!he cried.     The bottom of the ditch was wet,and he crawled up the embankmentwith mud-soaked knees, and sat onthe shoulder again. The gin bottlewas still intact. He had himself along fiery drink, and it warmed himdeep down. He blinked around atthe gaunt and treeless land.     The sun was almost down, forge-redon a dusty horizon. The blood-streakedsky faded into sulphurousyellow toward the zenith, and thevery air that hung over the landseemed full of yellow smoke, theomnipresent dust of the plains.     A farm truck turned onto theside-road and moaned away, itsdriver hardly glancing at the darkyoung man who sat swaying on hisduffle bag near the culvert. Hogeyscarcely noticed the vehicle. He justkept staring at the crazy sun.     He shook his head. It wasn't reallythe sun. The sun, the real sun,was a hateful eye-sizzling horror inthe dead black pit. It painted everythingwith pure white pain, and yousaw things by the reflected pain-light.The fat red sun was strictly aphoney, and it didn't fool him any.He hated it for what he knew it wasbehind the gory mask, and for whatit had done to his eyes.      With a grunt, he got to his feet,managed to shoulder the duffle bag,and started off down the middle ofthe farm road, lurching from sideto side, and keeping his eyes on therolling distances. Another car turnedonto the side-road, honking angrily.     Hogey tried to turn around tolook at it, but he forgot to shift hisfooting. He staggered and wentdown on the pavement. The car'stires screeched on the hot asphalt.Hogey lay there for a moment,groaning. That one had hurt hiship. A car door slammed and a bigman with a florid face got out andstalked toward him, looking angry.     What the hell's the matter withyou, fella? he drawled. Yousoused? Man, you've really got aload.     Hogey got up doggedly, shakinghis head to clear it. Space legs, heprevaricated. Got space legs. Can'tstand the gravity.     The burly farmer retrieved hisgin bottle for him, still miraculouslyunbroken. Here's your gravity,he grunted. Listen, fella, you betterget home pronto.     Pronto? Hey, I'm no Mex. Honest,I'm just space burned. Youknow?     Yeah. Say, who are you, anyway?Do you live around here?     It was obvious that the big manhad taken him for a hobo or atramp. Hogey pulled himself together.Goin' to the Hauptman'splace. Marie. You know Marie?     The farmer's eyebrows went up.Marie Hauptman? Sure I knowher. Only she's Marie Parker now.Has been, nigh on six years. Say—He paused, then gaped. You ain'ther husband by any chance?     Hogey, that's me. Big HogeyParker.     Well, I'll be—! Get in the car.I'm going right past John Hauptman'splace. Boy, you're in noshape to walk it.     He grinned wryly, waggled hishead, and helped Hogey and hisbag into the back seat. A womanwith a sun-wrinkled neck sat rigidlybeside the farmer in the front,and she neither greeted the passengernor looked around.     They don't make cars like thisanymore, the farmer called overthe growl of the ancient gasolineengine and the grind of gears.You can have them new atomicswith their loads of hot isotopesunder the seat. Ain't safe, I say—eh,Martha?     The woman with the sun-bakedneck quivered her head slightly.A car like this was good enoughfor Pa, an' I reckon it's goodenough for us, she drawled mournfully.     Five minutes later the car drewin to the side of the road. Reckonyou can walk it from here, thefarmer said. That's Hauptman'sroad just up ahead.     He helped Hogey out of the carand drove away without lookingback to see if Hogey stayed on hisfeet. The woman with the sun-bakedneck was suddenly talkinggarrulously in his direction.     It was twilight. The sun had set,and the yellow sky was turninggray. Hogey was too tired to go on,and his legs would no longer holdhim. He blinked around at the land,got his eyes focused, and foundwhat looked like Hauptman's placeon a distant hillside. It was a bigframe house surrounded by a wheatfield,and a few scrawny trees. Havinglocated it, he stretched out inthe tall grass beyond the ditch totake a little rest.     Somewhere dogs were barking,and a cricket sang creaking monotonyin the grass. Once there was thedistant thunder of a rocket blastfrom the launching station six milesto the west, but it faded quickly. AnA-motored convertible whined paston the road, but Hogey went unseen.     When he awoke, it was night,and he was shivering. His stomachwas screeching, and his nerves dancingwith high voltages. He sat upand groped for his watch, then rememberedhe had pawned it afterthe poker game. Remembering thegame and the results of the gamemade him wince and bite his lipand grope for the bottle again.     He sat breathing heavily for amoment after the stiff drink. Equatingtime to position had becomesecond nature with him, but he hadto think for a moment because hisdefective vision prevented him fromseeing the Earth-crescent.     Vega was almost straight abovehim in the late August sky, so heknew it wasn't much after sundown—probablyabout eight o'clock. Hebraced himself with another swallowof gin, picked himself up andgot back to the road, feeling a littlesobered after the nap.     He limped on up the pavementand turned left at the narrow drivethat led between barbed-wire fencestoward the Hauptman farmhouse,five hundred yards or so from thefarm road. The fields on his leftbelonged to Marie's father, heknew. He was getting close—closeto home and woman and child.     He dropped the bag suddenlyand leaned against a fence post,rolling his head on his forearmsand choking in spasms of air. Hewas shaking all over, and his bellywrithed. He wanted to turn andrun. He wanted to crawl out in thegrass and hide.     What were they going to say?And Marie, Marie most of all.How was he going to tell her aboutthe money?     Six hitches in space, and everytime the promise had been thesame:      One more tour, baby, andwe'll have enough dough, and thenI'll quit for good. One more time,and we'll have our stake—enoughto open a little business, or buy ahouse with a mortgage and get ajob.       And she had waited, but themoney had never been quite enoughuntil this time. This time the tourhad lasted nine months, and he hadsigned on for every run from stationto moon-base to pick up thebonuses. And this time he'd madeit. Two weeks ago, there had beenforty-eight hundred in the bank.And now ...           Why?      he groaned, striking hisforehead against his forearms. Hisarm slipped, and his head hit thetop of the fencepost, and the painblinded him for a moment. He staggeredback into the road with alow roar, wiped blood from hisforehead, and savagely kicked hisbag.     It rolled a couple of yards up theroad. He leaped after it and kickedit again. When he had finishedwith it, he stood panting and angry,but feeling better. He shoulderedthe bag and hiked on toward thefarmhouse.     They're hoofers, that's all—justan Earth-chained bunch of hoofers,even Marie. And I'm a tumbler. Aborn tumbler. Know what thatmeans? It means—God, what doesit mean? It means out in Big Bottomless,where Earth's like a fatmoon with fuzzy mold growing onit. Mold, that's all you are, justmold.     A dog barked, and he wonderedif he had been muttering aloud. Hecame to a fence-gap and paused inthe darkness. The road woundaround and came up the hill infront of the house. Maybe they weresitting on the porch. Maybe they'dalready heard him coming. Maybe ...     He was trembling again. Hefished the fifth of gin out of hiscoat pocket and sloshed it. Still overhalf a pint. He decided to kill it. Itwouldn't do to go home with abottle sticking out of his pocket.He stood there in the night wind,sipping at it, and watching the reddishmoon come up in the east. Themoon looked as phoney as thesetting sun.     He straightened in sudden determination.It had to be sometime.Get it over with, get it over withnow. He opened the fence-gap, slippedthrough, and closed it firmlybehind him. He retrieved his bag,and waded quietly through the tallgrass until he reached the hedgewhich divided an area of sicklypeach trees from the field. He gotover the hedge somehow, and startedthrough the trees toward thehouse. He stumbled over some oldboards, and they clattered.           Shhh!      he hissed, and movedon.     The dogs were barking angrily,and he heard a screen door slam.He stopped.     Ho there! a male voice calledexperimentally from the house.     One of Marie's brothers. Hogeystood frozen in the shadow of apeach tree, waiting.     Anybody out there? the mancalled again.     Hogey waited, then heard theman muttering, Sic 'im, boy, sic'im.     The hound's bark became eager.The animal came chasing down theslope, and stopped ten feet away tocrouch and bark frantically at theshadow in the gloom. He knew thedog.     Hooky! he whispered. Hookyboy—here!     The dog stopped barking, sniffed,trotted closer, and went      Rrrooff!      Then he started sniffingsuspiciously again.     Easy, Hooky, here boy! hewhispered.     The dog came forward silently,sniffed his hand, and whined inrecognition. Then he trotted aroundHogey, panting doggy affection anddancing an invitation to romp. Theman whistled from the porch. Thedog froze, then trotted quickly backup the slope.     Nothing, eh, Hooky? theman on the porch said. Chasin'armadillos again, eh?     The screen door slammed again,and the porch light went out.Hogey stood there staring, unableto think. Somewhere beyond thewindow lights were—his woman,his son.     What the hell was a tumbler doingwith a woman and a son?     After perhaps a minute, he steppedforward again. He tripped overa shovel, and his foot plunged intosomething that went      squelch     andswallowed the foot past the ankle.He fell forward into a heap ofsand, and his foot went deeper intothe sloppy wetness.     He lay there with his stingingforehead on his arms, cursing softlyand crying. Finally he rolledover, pulled his foot out of themess, and took off his shoes. Theywere full of mud—sticky sandymud.     The dark world was reelingabout him, and the wind was draggingat his breath. He fell backagainst the sand pile and let hisfeet sink in the mud hole and wriggledhis toes. He was laughingsoundlessly, and his face was wetin the wind. He couldn't think. Hecouldn't remember where he wasand why, and he stopped caring,and after a while he felt better.     The stars were swimming overhim, dancing crazily, and the mudcooled his feet, and the sand wassoft behind him. He saw a rocketgo up on a tail of flame from thestation, and waited for the sound ofits blast, but he was already asleepwhen it came.     It was far past midnight when hebecame conscious of the dog lickingwetly at his ear and cheek. Hepushed the animal away with a lowcurse and mopped at the side of hisface. He stirred, and groaned. Hisfeet were burning up! He tried topull them toward him, but theywouldn't budge. There was somethingwrong with his legs.     For an instant he stared wildlyaround in the night. Then he rememberedwhere he was, closed hiseyes and shuddered. When heopened them again, the moon hademerged from behind a cloud, andhe could see clearly the cruel trapinto which he had accidentallystumbled. A pile of old boards, acareful stack of new lumber, apick and shovel, a sand-pile, heapsof fresh-turned earth, and a concretemixer—well, it added up.     He gripped his ankles and pulled,but his feet wouldn't budge. Insudden terror, he tried to stand up,but his ankles were clutched by theconcrete too, and he fell back inthe sand with a low moan. He laystill for several minutes, consideringcarefully.     He pulled at his left foot. It waslocked in a vise. He tugged evenmore desperately at his right foot.It was equally immovable.     He sat up with a whimper andclawed at the rough concrete untilhis nails tore and his fingertipsbled. The surface still felt damp,but it had hardened while he slept.     He sat there stunned until Hookybegan licking at his scuffed fingers.He shouldered the dog away, anddug his hands into the sand-pile tostop the bleeding. Hooky licked athis face, panting love.     Get away! he croaked savagely.     The dog whined softly, trotteda short distance away, circled, andcame back to crouch down in thesand directly before Hogey, inchingforward experimentally.     Hogey gripped fistfuls of the drysand and cursed between his teeth,while his eyes wandered over thesky. They came to rest on the sliverof light—the space station—risingin the west, floating out in Big Bottomlesswhere the gang was—Nicholsand Guerrera and Lavrentiand Fats. And he wasn't forgettingKeesey, the rookie who'd replacedhim.     Keesey would have a rough timefor a while—rough as a cob. The pitwas no playground. The first timeyou went out of the station in asuit, the pit got you. Everythingwas falling, and you fell, with it.Everything. The skeletons of steel,the tire-shaped station, the spheresand docks and nightmare shapes—alltied together by umbilical cablesand flexible tubes. Like some crazysea-thing they seemed, floating in ablack ocean with its tentacles boundtogether by drifting strands in thedark tide that bore it.      Everything was pain-bright ordead black, and it wheeled aroundyou, and you went nuts trying tofigure which way was down. In fact,it took you months to teach yourbody that      all     ways were down andthat the pit was bottomless.     He became conscious of a plaintivesound in the wind, and froze tolisten.     It was a baby crying.     It was nearly a minute before hegot the significance of it. It hit himwhere he lived, and he began jerkingfrantically at his encased feetand sobbing low in his throat.They'd hear him if he kept that up.He stopped and covered his ears toclose out the cry of his firstborn. Alight went on in the house, andwhen it went off again, the infant'scry had ceased.     Another rocket went up from thestation, and he cursed it. Space wasa disease, and he had it.     Help! he cried out suddenly.I'm stuck! Help me, help me!     He knew he was yelling hystericallyat the sky and fighting the relentlessconcrete that clutched hisfeet, and after a moment he stopped.     The light was on in the houseagain, and he heard faint sounds.The stirring-about woke the babyagain, and once more the infant'swail came on the breeze.       Make the kid shut up, make thekid shut up ...       But that was no good. It wasn'tthe kid's fault. It wasn't Marie'sfault. No fathers allowed in space,they said, but it wasn't their faulteither. They were right, and he hadonly himself to blame. The kid wasan accident, but that didn't changeanything. Not a thing in the world.It remained a tragedy.     A tumbler had no business with afamily, but what was a man goingto do? Take a skinning knife, boy,and make yourself a eunuch. Butthat was no good either. They neededbulls out there in the pit, notsteers. And when a man came downfrom a year's hitch, what was hegoing to do? Live in a lonely shackand read books for kicks? Becauseyou were a man, you sought out awoman. And because she was awoman, she got a kid, and that wasthe end of it. It was nobody's fault,nobody's at all.     He stared at the red eye of Marslow in the southwest. They wererunning out there now, and nextyear he would have been on thelong long run ...     But there was no use thinkingabout it. Next year and the yearsafter belonged to      little     Hogey.     He sat there with his feet lockedin the solid concrete of the footing,staring out into Big Bottomlesswhile his son's cry came from thehouse and the Hauptman menfolkcame wading through the tall grassin search of someone who had criedout. His feet were stuck tight, andhe wouldn't ever get them out. Hewas sobbing softly when they foundhim.     Transcriber's Note:   This etext was produced from    Fantastic Universe   September 1955.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note.","This story takes place on Earth. As we are following the protagonist’s journey home, the setting constantly changes in terms of transportation mode and the landscape. First, we can identify the setting as a public bus, where Hogey occupies the back seats of the bus as he falls asleep clutching his gin. Hogey gets off at his stop - Caine’s junction - which is a road junction with just a few farmhouses at the side and a derelict filling station. There is also a ditch, which he promptly stumbles into. The landscape reveals the Great Plains country, with descriptions of the setting being treeless and barren, and instead being full of rolling hills and fields of grass.Towards the end of the story, the setting changes to the Hauptman’s place where the farmhouse sits off the side of the road with a barbed-wire fence. Within the tall grass of the farmhouse also lies a sloppy heap of sand - concrete. "
"What is the plot of the story? </s>     THE HANGING STRANGER     BY PHILIP K. DICK     ILLUSTRATED BY SMITH     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Science FictionAdventures Magazine December 1953. Extensive research did not uncoverany evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]     Ed had always been a practical man, when he saw something waswrong he tried to correct it. Then one day he saw    it   hanging in thetown square.    Five o'clock Ed Loyce washed up, tossed on his hat and coat, got his carout and headed across town toward his TV sales store. He was tired. Hisback and shoulders ached from digging dirt out of the basement andwheeling it into the back yard. But for a forty-year-old man he had doneokay. Janet could get a new vase with the money he had saved; and heliked the idea of repairing the foundations himself!     It was getting dark. The setting sun cast long rays over the scurryingcommuters, tired and grim-faced, women loaded down with bundles andpackages, students swarming home from the university, mixing with clerksand businessmen and drab secretaries. He stopped his Packard for a redlight and then started it up again. The store had been open without him;he'd arrive just in time to spell the help for dinner, go over therecords of the day, maybe even close a couple of sales himself. He droveslowly past the small square of green in the center of the street, thetown park. There were no parking places in front of LOYCE TV SALES ANDSERVICE. He cursed under his breath and swung the car in a U-turn. Againhe passed the little square of green with its lonely drinking fountainand bench and single lamppost.     From the lamppost something was hanging. A shapeless dark bundle,swinging a little with the wind. Like a dummy of some sort. Loyce rolleddown his window and peered out. What the hell was it? A display ofsome kind? Sometimes the Chamber of Commerce put up displays in thesquare.     Again he made a U-turn and brought his car around. He passed the parkand concentrated on the dark bundle. It wasn't a dummy. And if it was adisplay it was a strange kind. The hackles on his neck rose and heswallowed uneasily. Sweat slid out on his face and hands.     It was a body. A human body.  Look at it! Loyce snapped. Come on out here!     Don Fergusson came slowly out of the store, buttoning his pin-stripecoat with dignity. This is a big deal, Ed. I can't just leave the guystanding there.     See it? Ed pointed into the gathering gloom. The lamppost jutted upagainst the sky—the post and the bundle swinging from it. There it is.How the hell long has it been there? His voice rose excitedly. What'swrong with everybody? They just walk on past!     Don Fergusson lit a cigarette slowly. Take it easy, old man. There mustbe a good reason, or it wouldn't be there.     A reason! What kind of a reason?     Fergusson shrugged. Like the time the Traffic Safety Council put thatwrecked Buick there. Some sort of civic thing. How would I know?     Jack Potter from the shoe shop joined them. What's up, boys?     There's a body hanging from the lamppost, Loyce said. I'm going tocall the cops.     They must know about it, Potter said. Or otherwise it wouldn't bethere.     I got to get back in. Fergusson headed back into the store. Businessbefore pleasure.     Loyce began to get hysterical. You see it? You see it hanging there? Aman's body! A dead man!     Sure, Ed. I saw it this afternoon when I went out for coffee.     You mean it's been there all afternoon?     Sure. What's the matter? Potter glanced at his watch. Have to run.See you later, Ed.     Potter hurried off, joining the flow of people moving along thesidewalk. Men and women, passing by the park. A few glanced up curiouslyat the dark bundle—and then went on. Nobody stopped. Nobody paid anyattention.     I'm going nuts, Loyce whispered. He made his way to the curb andcrossed out into traffic, among the cars. Horns honked angrily at him.He gained the curb and stepped up onto the little square of green.     The man had been middle-aged. His clothing was ripped and torn, a graysuit, splashed and caked with dried mud. A stranger. Loyce had neverseen him before. Not a local man. His face was partly turned, away, andin the evening wind he spun a little, turning gently, silently. His skinwas gouged and cut. Red gashes, deep scratches of congealed blood. Apair of steel-rimmed glasses hung from one ear, dangling foolishly. Hiseyes bulged. His mouth was open, tongue thick and ugly blue.     For Heaven's sake, Loyce muttered, sickened. He pushed down his nauseaand made his way back to the sidewalk. He was shaking all over, withrevulsion—and fear.       Why?     Who was the man? Why was he hanging there? What did it mean?     And—why didn't anybody notice?     He bumped into a small man hurrying along the sidewalk. Watch it! theman grated, Oh, it's you, Ed.     Ed nodded dazedly. Hello, Jenkins.     What's the matter? The stationery clerk caught Ed's arm. You looksick.     The body. There in the park.     Sure, Ed. Jenkins led him into the alcove of LOYCE TV SALES ANDSERVICE. Take it easy.     Margaret Henderson from the jewelry store joined them. Somethingwrong?     Ed's not feeling well.     Loyce yanked himself free. How can you stand here? Don't you see it?For God's sake—     What's he talking about? Margaret asked nervously.     The body! Ed shouted. The body hanging there!     More people collected. Is he sick? It's Ed Loyce. You okay, Ed?     The body! Loyce screamed, struggling to get past them. Hands caught athim. He tore loose. Let me go! The police! Get the police!     Ed—     Better get a doctor!     He must be sick.     Or drunk.     Loyce fought his way through the people. He stumbled and half fell.Through a blur he saw rows of faces, curious, concerned, anxious. Menand women halting to see what the disturbance was. He fought past themtoward his store. He could see Fergusson inside talking to a man,showing him an Emerson TV set. Pete Foley in the back at the servicecounter, setting up a new Philco. Loyce shouted at them frantically.His voice was lost in the roar of traffic and the murmur around him.     Do something! he screamed. Don't stand there! Do something!Something's wrong! Something's happened! Things are going on!     The crowd melted respectfully for the two heavy-set cops movingefficiently toward Loyce.  Name? the cop with the notebook murmured.     Loyce. He mopped his forehead wearily. Edward C. Loyce. Listen to me.Back there—     Address? the cop demanded. The police car moved swiftly throughtraffic, shooting among the cars and buses. Loyce sagged against theseat, exhausted and confused. He took a deep shuddering breath.     1368 Hurst Road.     That's here in Pikeville?     That's right. Loyce pulled himself up with a violent effort. Listento me. Back there. In the square. Hanging from the lamppost—     Where were you today? the cop behind the wheel demanded.     Where? Loyce echoed.     You weren't in your shop, were you?     No. He shook his head. No, I was home. Down in the basement.     In the      basement     ?     Digging. A new foundation. Getting out the dirt to pour a cement frame.Why? What has that to do with—     Was anybody else down there with you?     No. My wife was downtown. My kids were at school. Loyce looked fromone heavy-set cop to the other. Hope flicked across his face, wild hope.You mean because I was down there I missed—the explanation? I didn'tget in on it? Like everybody else?     After a pause the cop with the notebook said: That's right. You missedthe explanation.     Then it's official? The body—it's      supposed     to be hanging there?     It's supposed to be hanging there. For everybody to see.     Ed Loyce grinned weakly. Good Lord. I guess I sort of went off the deepend. I thought maybe something had happened. You know, something likethe Ku Klux Klan. Some kind of violence. Communists or Fascists takingover. He wiped his face with his breast-pocket handkerchief, his handsshaking. I'm glad to know it's on the level.     It's on the level. The police car was getting near the Hall ofJustice. The sun had set. The streets were gloomy and dark. The lightshad not yet come on.     I feel better, Loyce said. I was pretty excited there, for a minute.I guess I got all stirred up. Now that I understand, there's no need totake me in, is there?     The two cops said nothing.     I should be back at my store. The boys haven't had dinner. I'm allright, now. No more trouble. Is there any need of—     This won't take long, the cop behind the wheel interrupted. A shortprocess. Only a few minutes.     I hope it's short, Loyce muttered. The car slowed down for astoplight. I guess I sort of disturbed the peace. Funny, gettingexcited like that and—     Loyce yanked the door open. He sprawled out into the street and rolledto his feet. Cars were moving all around him, gaining speed as the lightchanged. Loyce leaped onto the curb and raced among the people,burrowing into the swarming crowds. Behind him he heard sounds, shouts,people running.     They weren't cops. He had realized that right away. He knew every cop inPikeville. A man couldn't own a store, operate a business in a smalltown for twenty-five years without getting to know all the cops.     They weren't cops—and there hadn't been any explanation. Potter,Fergusson, Jenkins, none of them knew why it was there. They didn'tknow—and they didn't care.      That     was the strange part.     Loyce ducked into a hardware store. He raced toward the back, past thestartled clerks and customers, into the shipping room and through theback door. He tripped over a garbage can and ran up a flight of concretesteps. He climbed over a fence and jumped down on the other side,gasping and panting.     There was no sound behind him. He had got away.     He was at the entrance of an alley, dark and strewn with boards andruined boxes and tires. He could see the street at the far end. A streetlight wavered and came on. Men and women. Stores. Neon signs. Cars.     And to his right—the police station.     He was close, terribly close. Past the loading platform of a grocerystore rose the white concrete side of the Hall of Justice. Barredwindows. The police antenna. A great concrete wall rising up in thedarkness. A bad place for him to be near. He was too close. He had tokeep moving, get farther away from them.       Them?       Loyce moved cautiously down the alley. Beyond the police station was theCity Hall, the old-fashioned yellow structure of wood and gilded brassand broad cement steps. He could see the endless rows of offices, darkwindows, the cedars and beds of flowers on each side of the entrance.     And—something else.     Above the City Hall was a patch of darkness, a cone of gloom denser thanthe surrounding night. A prism of black that spread out and was lostinto the sky.     He listened. Good God, he could hear something. Something that made himstruggle frantically to close his ears, his mind, to shut out the sound.A buzzing. A distant, muted hum like a great swarm of bees.     Loyce gazed up, rigid with horror. The splotch of darkness, hanging overthe City Hall. Darkness so thick it seemed almost solid.      In the vortexsomething moved.     Flickering shapes. Things, descending from the sky,pausing momentarily above the City Hall, fluttering over it in a denseswarm and then dropping silently onto the roof.     Shapes. Fluttering shapes from the sky. From the crack of darkness thathung above him.     He was seeing—them.  For a long time Loyce watched, crouched behind a sagging fence in a poolof scummy water.     They were landing. Coming down in groups, landing on the roof of theCity Hall and disappearing inside. They had wings. Like giant insects ofsome kind. They flew and fluttered and came to rest—and then crawledcrab-fashion, sideways, across the roof and into the building.     He was sickened. And fascinated. Cold night wind blew around him and heshuddered. He was tired, dazed with shock. On the front steps of theCity Hall were men, standing here and there. Groups of men coming out ofthe building and halting for a moment before going on.     Were there more of them?     It didn't seem possible. What he saw descending from the black chasmweren't men. They were alien—from some other world, some otherdimension. Sliding through this slit, this break in the shell of theuniverse. Entering through this gap, winged insects from another realmof being.     On the steps of the City Hall a group of men broke up. A few movedtoward a waiting car. One of the remaining shapes started to re-enterthe City Hall. It changed its mind and turned to follow the others.     Loyce closed his eyes in horror. His senses reeled. He hung on tight,clutching at the sagging fence. The shape, the man-shape, had abruptlyfluttered up and flapped after the others. It flew to the sidewalk andcame to rest among them.     Pseudo-men. Imitation men. Insects with ability to disguise themselvesas men. Like other insects familiar to Earth. Protective coloration.Mimicry.     Loyce pulled himself away. He got slowly to his feet. It was night. Thealley was totally dark. But maybe they could see in the dark. Maybedarkness made no difference to them.     He left the alley cautiously and moved out onto the street. Men andwomen flowed past, but not so many, now. At the bus-stops stood waitinggroups. A huge bus lumbered along the street, its lights flashing in theevening gloom.     Loyce moved forward. He pushed his way among those waiting and when thebus halted he boarded it and took a seat in the rear, by the door. Amoment later the bus moved into life and rumbled down the street.  Loyce relaxed a little. He studied the people around him. Dulled, tiredfaces. People going home from work. Quite ordinary faces. None of thempaid any attention to him. All sat quietly, sunk down in their seats,jiggling with the motion of the bus.     The man sitting next to him unfolded a newspaper. He began to read thesports section, his lips moving. An ordinary man. Blue suit. Tie. Abusinessman, or a salesman. On his way home to his wife and family.     Across the aisle a young woman, perhaps twenty. Dark eyes and hair, apackage on her lap. Nylons and heels. Red coat and white angora sweater.Gazing absently ahead of her.     A high school boy in jeans and black jacket.     A great triple-chinned woman with an immense shopping bag loaded withpackages and parcels. Her thick face dim with weariness.     Ordinary people. The kind that rode the bus every evening. Going home totheir families. To dinner.     Going home—with their minds dead. Controlled, filmed over with the maskof an alien being that had appeared and taken possession of them, theirtown, their lives. Himself, too. Except that he happened to be deep inhis cellar instead of in the store. Somehow, he had been overlooked.They had missed him. Their control wasn't perfect, foolproof.     Maybe there were others.     Hope flickered in Loyce. They weren't omnipotent. They had made amistake, not got control of him. Their net, their field of control, hadpassed over him. He had emerged from his cellar as he had gone down.Apparently their power-zone was limited.     A few seats down the aisle a man was watching him. Loyce broke off hischain of thought. A slender man, with dark hair and a small mustache.Well-dressed, brown suit and shiny shoes. A book between his smallhands. He was watching Loyce, studying him intently. He turned quicklyaway.     Loyce tensed. One of      them     ? Or—another they had missed?     The man was watching him again. Small dark eyes, alive and clever.Shrewd. A man too shrewd for them—or one of the things itself, an alieninsect from beyond.     The bus halted. An elderly man got on slowly and dropped his token intothe box. He moved down the aisle and took a seat opposite Loyce.     The elderly man caught the sharp-eyed man's gaze. For a split secondsomething passed between them.     A look rich with meaning.     Loyce got to his feet. The bus was moving. He ran to the door. One stepdown into the well. He yanked the emergency door release. The rubberdoor swung open.     Hey! the driver shouted, jamming on the brakes. What the hell—     Loyce squirmed through. The bus was slowing down. Houses on all sides. Aresidential district, lawns and tall apartment buildings. Behind him,the bright-eyed man had leaped up. The elderly man was also on his feet.They were coming after him.     Loyce leaped. He hit the pavement with terrific force and rolled againstthe curb. Pain lapped over him. Pain and a vast tide of blackness.Desperately, he fought it off. He struggled to his knees and then sliddown again. The bus had stopped. People were getting off.     Loyce groped around. His fingers closed over something. A rock, lying inthe gutter. He crawled to his feet, grunting with pain. A shape loomedbefore him. A man, the bright-eyed man with the book.     Loyce kicked. The man gasped and fell. Loyce brought the rock down. Theman screamed and tried to roll away.       Stop!     For God's sake listen—     He struck again. A hideous crunching sound. The man's voice cut off anddissolved in a bubbling wail. Loyce scrambled up and back. The otherswere there, now. All around him. He ran, awkwardly, down the sidewalk,up a driveway. None of them followed him. They had stopped and werebending over the inert body of the man with the book, the bright-eyedman who had come after him.     Had he made a mistake?     But it was too late to worry about that. He had to get out—away fromthem. Out of Pikeville, beyond the crack of darkness, the rent betweentheir world and his.  Ed! Janet Loyce backed away nervously. What is it? What—     Ed Loyce slammed the door behind him and came into the living room.Pull down the shades. Quick.     Janet moved toward the window. But—     Do as I say. Who else is here besides you?     Nobody. Just the twins. They're upstairs in their room. What'shappened? You look so strange. Why are you home?     Ed locked the front door. He prowled around the house, into the kitchen.From the drawer under the sink he slid out the big butcher knife and ranhis finger along it. Sharp. Plenty sharp. He returned to the livingroom.     Listen to me, he said. I don't have much time. They know I escapedand they'll be looking for me.     Escaped? Janet's face twisted with bewilderment and fear. Who?     The town has been taken over. They're in control. I've got it prettywell figured out. They started at the top, at the City Hall and policedepartment. What they did with the      real     humans they—     What are you talking about?     We've been invaded. From some other universe, some other dimension.They're insects. Mimicry. And more. Power to control minds. Your mind.     My mind?     Their entrance is      here     , in Pikeville. They've taken over all of you.The whole town—except me. We're up against an incredibly powerfulenemy, but they have their limitations. That's our hope. They'relimited! They can make mistakes!     Janet shook her head. I don't understand, Ed. You must be insane.     Insane? No. Just lucky. If I hadn't been down in the basement I'd belike all the rest of you. Loyce peered out the window. But I can'tstand here talking. Get your coat.     My coat?     We're getting out of here. Out of Pikeville. We've got to get help.Fight this thing. They      can     be beaten. They're not infallible. It'sgoing to be close—but we may make it if we hurry. Come on! He grabbedher arm roughly. Get your coat and call the twins. We're all leaving.Don't stop to pack. There's no time for that.     White-faced, his wife moved toward the closet and got down her coat.Where are we going?     Ed pulled open the desk drawer and spilled the contents out onto thefloor. He grabbed up a road map and spread it open. They'll have thehighway covered, of course. But there's a back road. To Oak Grove. I gotonto it once. It's practically abandoned. Maybe they'll forget aboutit.     The old Ranch Road? Good Lord—it's completely closed. Nobody'ssupposed to drive over it.     I know. Ed thrust the map grimly into his coat. That's our bestchance. Now call down the twins and let's get going. Your car is full ofgas, isn't it?     Janet was dazed.     The Chevy? I had it filled up yesterday afternoon. Janet moved towardthe stairs. Ed, I—     Call the twins! Ed unlocked the front door and peered out. Nothingstirred. No sign of life. All right so far.     Come on downstairs, Janet called in a wavering voice. We're—goingout for awhile.     Now? Tommy's voice came.     Hurry up, Ed barked. Get down here, both of you.     Tommy appeared at the top of the stairs. I was doing my home work.We're starting fractions. Miss Parker says if we don't get this done—     You can forget about fractions. Ed grabbed his son as he came down thestairs and propelled him toward the door. Where's Jim?     He's coming.     Jim started slowly down the stairs. What's up, Dad?     We're going for a ride.     A ride? Where?     Ed turned to Janet. We'll leave the lights on. And the TV set. Go turnit on. He pushed her toward the set. So they'll think we're still—     He heard the buzz. And dropped instantly, the long butcher knife out.Sickened, he saw it coming down the stairs at him, wings a blur ofmotion as it aimed itself. It still bore a vague resemblance to Jimmy.It was small, a baby one. A brief glimpse—the thing hurtling at him,cold, multi-lensed inhuman eyes. Wings, body still clothed in yellowT-shirt and jeans, the mimic outline still stamped on it. A strangehalf-turn of its body as it reached him. What was it doing?     A stinger.     Loyce stabbed wildly at it. It retreated, buzzing frantically. Loycerolled and crawled toward the door. Tommy and Janet stood still asstatues, faces blank. Watching without expression. Loyce stabbed again.This time the knife connected. The thing shrieked and faltered. Itbounced against the wall and fluttered down.     Something lapped through his mind. A wall of force, energy, an alienmind probing into him. He was suddenly paralyzed. The mind entered hisown, touched against him briefly, shockingly. An utterly alien presence,settling over him—and then it flickered out as the thing collapsed in abroken heap on the rug.     It was dead. He turned it over with his foot. It was an insect, a fly ofsome kind. Yellow T-shirt, jeans. His son Jimmy.... He closed his mindtight. It was too late to think about that. Savagely he scooped up hisknife and headed toward the door. Janet and Tommy stood stone-still,neither of them moving.     The car was out. He'd never get through. They'd be waiting for him. Itwas ten miles on foot. Ten long miles over rough ground, gulleys andopen fields and hills of uncut forest. He'd have to go alone.     Loyce opened the door. For a brief second he looked back at his wife andson. Then he slammed the door behind him and raced down the porch steps.     A moment later he was on his way, hurrying swiftly through the darknesstoward the edge of town.  The early morning sunlight was blinding. Loyce halted, gasping forbreath, swaying back and forth. Sweat ran down in his eyes. His clothingwas torn, shredded by the brush and thorns through which he had crawled.Ten miles—on his hands and knees. Crawling, creeping through the night.His shoes were mud-caked. He was scratched and limping, utterlyexhausted.     But ahead of him lay Oak Grove.     He took a deep breath and started down the hill. Twice he stumbled andfell, picking himself up and trudging on. His ears rang. Everythingreceded and wavered. But he was there. He had got out, away fromPikeville.     A farmer in a field gaped at him. From a house a young woman watched inwonder. Loyce reached the road and turned onto it. Ahead of him was agasoline station and a drive-in. A couple of trucks, some chickenspecking in the dirt, a dog tied with a string.     The white-clad attendant watched suspiciously as he dragged himself upto the station. Thank God. He caught hold of the wall. I didn't thinkI was going to make it. They followed me most of the way. I could hearthem buzzing. Buzzing and flitting around behind me.     What happened? the attendant demanded. You in a wreck? A hold-up?     Loyce shook his head wearily. They have the whole town. The City Halland the police station. They hung a man from the lamppost. That was thefirst thing I saw. They've got all the roads blocked. I saw themhovering over the cars coming in. About four this morning I got beyondthem. I knew it right away. I could feel them leave. And then the suncame up.     The attendant licked his lip nervously. You're out of your head. Ibetter get a doctor.     Get me into Oak Grove, Loyce gasped. He sank down on the gravel.We've got to get started—cleaning them out. Got to get started rightaway.  They kept a tape recorder going all the time he talked. When he hadfinished the Commissioner snapped off the recorder and got to his feet.He stood for a moment, deep in thought. Finally he got out hiscigarettes and lit up slowly, a frown on his beefy face.     You don't believe me, Loyce said.     The Commissioner offered him a cigarette. Loyce pushed it impatientlyaway. Suit yourself. The Commissioner moved over to the window andstood for a time looking out at the town of Oak Grove. I believe you,he said abruptly.     Loyce sagged. Thank God.     So you got away. The Commissioner shook his head. You were down inyour cellar instead of at work. A freak chance. One in a million.     Loyce sipped some of the black coffee they had brought him. I have atheory, he murmured.     What is it?     About them. Who they are. They take over one area at a time. Startingat the top—the highest level of authority. Working down from there in awidening circle. When they're firmly in control they go on to the nexttown. They spread, slowly, very gradually. I think it's been going onfor a long time.     A long time?     Thousands of years. I don't think it's new.     Why do you say that?     When I was a kid.... A picture they showed us in Bible League. Areligious picture—an old print. The enemy gods, defeated by Jehovah.Moloch, Beelzebub, Moab, Baalin, Ashtaroth—     So?     They were all represented by figures. Loyce looked up at theCommissioner. Beelzebub was represented as—a giant fly.     The Commissioner grunted. An old struggle.     They've been defeated. The Bible is an account of their defeats. Theymake gains—but finally they're defeated.     Why defeated?     They can't get everyone. They didn't get me. And they never got theHebrews. The Hebrews carried the message to the whole world. Therealization of the danger. The two men on the bus. I think theyunderstood. Had escaped, like I did. He clenched his fists. I killedone of them. I made a mistake. I was afraid to take a chance.     The Commissioner nodded. Yes, they undoubtedly had escaped, as you did.Freak accidents. But the rest of the town was firmly in control. Heturned from the window. Well, Mr. Loyce. You seem to have figuredeverything out.     Not everything. The hanging man. The dead man hanging from thelamppost. I don't understand that.      Why?     Why did they deliberately hanghim there?     That would seem simple. The Commissioner smiled faintly.       Bait.          Loyce stiffened. His heart stopped beating. Bait? What do you mean?     To draw you out. Make you declare yourself. So they'd know who wasunder control—and who had escaped.     Loyce recoiled with horror. Then they      expected     failures! Theyanticipated— He broke off. They were ready with a trap.     And you showed yourself. You reacted. You made yourself known. TheCommissioner abruptly moved toward the door. Come along, Loyce. There'sa lot to do. We must get moving. There's no time to waste.     Loyce started slowly to his feet, numbed. And the man.      Who was theman?     I never saw him before. He wasn't a local man. He was a stranger.All muddy and dirty, his face cut, slashed—     There was a strange look on the Commissioner's face as he answered.Maybe, he said softly, you'll understand that, too. Come along withme, Mr. Loyce. He held the door open, his eyes gleaming. Loyce caught aglimpse of the street in front of the police station. Policemen, aplatform of some sort. A telephone pole—and a rope! Right this way,the Commissioner said, smiling coldly.  As the sun set, the vice-president of the Oak Grove Merchants' Bank cameup out of the vault, threw the heavy time locks, put on his hat andcoat, and hurried outside onto the sidewalk. Only a few people werethere, hurrying home to dinner.     Good night, the guard said, locking the door after him.     Good night, Clarence Mason murmured. He started along the streettoward his car. He was tired. He had been working all day down in thevault, examining the lay-out of the safety deposit boxes to see if therewas room for another tier. He was glad to be finished.     At the corner he halted. The street lights had not yet come on. Thestreet was dim. Everything was vague. He looked around—and froze.     From the telephone pole in front of the police station, something largeand shapeless hung. It moved a little with the wind.     What the hell was it?     Mason approached it warily. He wanted to get home. He was tired andhungry. He thought of his wife, his kids, a hot meal on the dinnertable. But there was something about the dark bundle, something ominousand ugly. The light was bad; he couldn't tell what it was. Yet it drewhim on, made him move closer for a better look. The shapeless thing madehim uneasy. He was frightened by it. Frightened—and fascinated.     And the strange part was that nobody else seemed to notice it.  ","Edward Loyce spends the whole day repairing the foundation. When he drives past the town park, he sees a thing hanging under the lamppost. He realizes that it’s a hanging human. Ed is frightened because of the hanged body and because everyone seems to not care about it. People walk past and ignore it. Ed tells the owners of other shops, trying to figure out the situation. However, both the owners think it is normal. After realizing he is the only one who feels strange, Ed gets closer to the hanged body, noticing that it’s a stranger. He bumps into Jenkins, a stationary clerk. Through the conversation with Jenkins and the jewelry store owner, he realizes that he is the only normal person in the town. He shouts to get the police, makes his way through the crowd, and finally gets into the police’s car.When he tries to understand the situation from the police, he realizes that the police are fake because he knows every cop in the town. He escapes from the fake police. When he gets closer to the police station, he sees a swarm of alien flies landing on the roof of City Hall and flying inside of the building, disguising themselves as men coming out of the City Hall. Ed realizes that they are aliens from other dimensions trying to control the humans and already control the minds of town people, except for him, as he escapes from it when repairing the foundation. He cautiously leaves and takes the bus. People on the bus are mind-controlled. A man with a book is looking at him, and Ed guesses the identity of the seemingly mind-clear man. When another older man ascends the bus and looks at the man with the book, Ed realizes the strangeness and escapes from the bus. Two men come after Ed, and Ed kills the man with the book and runs away. A doubt about killing the wrong person flashes through his mind, but he has no time to think.He tells his wife to get ready to leave when he gets home. He picks up a butcher knife and explains everything to his wife. When the twins come down, he sees a baby alien fly come toward him. Ed kills the alien, abandons his dazed wife and child, and flees. He runs ten miles towards Oak Grove. He explains everything to the Commissioner. The Commissioner records and agrees with his saying. Ed talks about his theory of the alien, but he cannot figure out the purpose of the hanged body. Finally, the Commissioner tells him that it is bait to lure people like him who escape successfully. Ed is frightened and realizes that he will be hanged in Oak Grove, just like the hanged body in Pikeville. That evening, Clarence Mason, the vice president of the Oak Grove Merchant’s Bank, sees a hanging object under the telephone pole in front of the police station."
"Who is Edward C. Loyce, and what are his characteristics? </s>     THE HANGING STRANGER     BY PHILIP K. DICK     ILLUSTRATED BY SMITH     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Science FictionAdventures Magazine December 1953. Extensive research did not uncoverany evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]     Ed had always been a practical man, when he saw something waswrong he tried to correct it. Then one day he saw    it   hanging in thetown square.    Five o'clock Ed Loyce washed up, tossed on his hat and coat, got his carout and headed across town toward his TV sales store. He was tired. Hisback and shoulders ached from digging dirt out of the basement andwheeling it into the back yard. But for a forty-year-old man he had doneokay. Janet could get a new vase with the money he had saved; and heliked the idea of repairing the foundations himself!     It was getting dark. The setting sun cast long rays over the scurryingcommuters, tired and grim-faced, women loaded down with bundles andpackages, students swarming home from the university, mixing with clerksand businessmen and drab secretaries. He stopped his Packard for a redlight and then started it up again. The store had been open without him;he'd arrive just in time to spell the help for dinner, go over therecords of the day, maybe even close a couple of sales himself. He droveslowly past the small square of green in the center of the street, thetown park. There were no parking places in front of LOYCE TV SALES ANDSERVICE. He cursed under his breath and swung the car in a U-turn. Againhe passed the little square of green with its lonely drinking fountainand bench and single lamppost.     From the lamppost something was hanging. A shapeless dark bundle,swinging a little with the wind. Like a dummy of some sort. Loyce rolleddown his window and peered out. What the hell was it? A display ofsome kind? Sometimes the Chamber of Commerce put up displays in thesquare.     Again he made a U-turn and brought his car around. He passed the parkand concentrated on the dark bundle. It wasn't a dummy. And if it was adisplay it was a strange kind. The hackles on his neck rose and heswallowed uneasily. Sweat slid out on his face and hands.     It was a body. A human body.  Look at it! Loyce snapped. Come on out here!     Don Fergusson came slowly out of the store, buttoning his pin-stripecoat with dignity. This is a big deal, Ed. I can't just leave the guystanding there.     See it? Ed pointed into the gathering gloom. The lamppost jutted upagainst the sky—the post and the bundle swinging from it. There it is.How the hell long has it been there? His voice rose excitedly. What'swrong with everybody? They just walk on past!     Don Fergusson lit a cigarette slowly. Take it easy, old man. There mustbe a good reason, or it wouldn't be there.     A reason! What kind of a reason?     Fergusson shrugged. Like the time the Traffic Safety Council put thatwrecked Buick there. Some sort of civic thing. How would I know?     Jack Potter from the shoe shop joined them. What's up, boys?     There's a body hanging from the lamppost, Loyce said. I'm going tocall the cops.     They must know about it, Potter said. Or otherwise it wouldn't bethere.     I got to get back in. Fergusson headed back into the store. Businessbefore pleasure.     Loyce began to get hysterical. You see it? You see it hanging there? Aman's body! A dead man!     Sure, Ed. I saw it this afternoon when I went out for coffee.     You mean it's been there all afternoon?     Sure. What's the matter? Potter glanced at his watch. Have to run.See you later, Ed.     Potter hurried off, joining the flow of people moving along thesidewalk. Men and women, passing by the park. A few glanced up curiouslyat the dark bundle—and then went on. Nobody stopped. Nobody paid anyattention.     I'm going nuts, Loyce whispered. He made his way to the curb andcrossed out into traffic, among the cars. Horns honked angrily at him.He gained the curb and stepped up onto the little square of green.     The man had been middle-aged. His clothing was ripped and torn, a graysuit, splashed and caked with dried mud. A stranger. Loyce had neverseen him before. Not a local man. His face was partly turned, away, andin the evening wind he spun a little, turning gently, silently. His skinwas gouged and cut. Red gashes, deep scratches of congealed blood. Apair of steel-rimmed glasses hung from one ear, dangling foolishly. Hiseyes bulged. His mouth was open, tongue thick and ugly blue.     For Heaven's sake, Loyce muttered, sickened. He pushed down his nauseaand made his way back to the sidewalk. He was shaking all over, withrevulsion—and fear.       Why?     Who was the man? Why was he hanging there? What did it mean?     And—why didn't anybody notice?     He bumped into a small man hurrying along the sidewalk. Watch it! theman grated, Oh, it's you, Ed.     Ed nodded dazedly. Hello, Jenkins.     What's the matter? The stationery clerk caught Ed's arm. You looksick.     The body. There in the park.     Sure, Ed. Jenkins led him into the alcove of LOYCE TV SALES ANDSERVICE. Take it easy.     Margaret Henderson from the jewelry store joined them. Somethingwrong?     Ed's not feeling well.     Loyce yanked himself free. How can you stand here? Don't you see it?For God's sake—     What's he talking about? Margaret asked nervously.     The body! Ed shouted. The body hanging there!     More people collected. Is he sick? It's Ed Loyce. You okay, Ed?     The body! Loyce screamed, struggling to get past them. Hands caught athim. He tore loose. Let me go! The police! Get the police!     Ed—     Better get a doctor!     He must be sick.     Or drunk.     Loyce fought his way through the people. He stumbled and half fell.Through a blur he saw rows of faces, curious, concerned, anxious. Menand women halting to see what the disturbance was. He fought past themtoward his store. He could see Fergusson inside talking to a man,showing him an Emerson TV set. Pete Foley in the back at the servicecounter, setting up a new Philco. Loyce shouted at them frantically.His voice was lost in the roar of traffic and the murmur around him.     Do something! he screamed. Don't stand there! Do something!Something's wrong! Something's happened! Things are going on!     The crowd melted respectfully for the two heavy-set cops movingefficiently toward Loyce.  Name? the cop with the notebook murmured.     Loyce. He mopped his forehead wearily. Edward C. Loyce. Listen to me.Back there—     Address? the cop demanded. The police car moved swiftly throughtraffic, shooting among the cars and buses. Loyce sagged against theseat, exhausted and confused. He took a deep shuddering breath.     1368 Hurst Road.     That's here in Pikeville?     That's right. Loyce pulled himself up with a violent effort. Listento me. Back there. In the square. Hanging from the lamppost—     Where were you today? the cop behind the wheel demanded.     Where? Loyce echoed.     You weren't in your shop, were you?     No. He shook his head. No, I was home. Down in the basement.     In the      basement     ?     Digging. A new foundation. Getting out the dirt to pour a cement frame.Why? What has that to do with—     Was anybody else down there with you?     No. My wife was downtown. My kids were at school. Loyce looked fromone heavy-set cop to the other. Hope flicked across his face, wild hope.You mean because I was down there I missed—the explanation? I didn'tget in on it? Like everybody else?     After a pause the cop with the notebook said: That's right. You missedthe explanation.     Then it's official? The body—it's      supposed     to be hanging there?     It's supposed to be hanging there. For everybody to see.     Ed Loyce grinned weakly. Good Lord. I guess I sort of went off the deepend. I thought maybe something had happened. You know, something likethe Ku Klux Klan. Some kind of violence. Communists or Fascists takingover. He wiped his face with his breast-pocket handkerchief, his handsshaking. I'm glad to know it's on the level.     It's on the level. The police car was getting near the Hall ofJustice. The sun had set. The streets were gloomy and dark. The lightshad not yet come on.     I feel better, Loyce said. I was pretty excited there, for a minute.I guess I got all stirred up. Now that I understand, there's no need totake me in, is there?     The two cops said nothing.     I should be back at my store. The boys haven't had dinner. I'm allright, now. No more trouble. Is there any need of—     This won't take long, the cop behind the wheel interrupted. A shortprocess. Only a few minutes.     I hope it's short, Loyce muttered. The car slowed down for astoplight. I guess I sort of disturbed the peace. Funny, gettingexcited like that and—     Loyce yanked the door open. He sprawled out into the street and rolledto his feet. Cars were moving all around him, gaining speed as the lightchanged. Loyce leaped onto the curb and raced among the people,burrowing into the swarming crowds. Behind him he heard sounds, shouts,people running.     They weren't cops. He had realized that right away. He knew every cop inPikeville. A man couldn't own a store, operate a business in a smalltown for twenty-five years without getting to know all the cops.     They weren't cops—and there hadn't been any explanation. Potter,Fergusson, Jenkins, none of them knew why it was there. They didn'tknow—and they didn't care.      That     was the strange part.     Loyce ducked into a hardware store. He raced toward the back, past thestartled clerks and customers, into the shipping room and through theback door. He tripped over a garbage can and ran up a flight of concretesteps. He climbed over a fence and jumped down on the other side,gasping and panting.     There was no sound behind him. He had got away.     He was at the entrance of an alley, dark and strewn with boards andruined boxes and tires. He could see the street at the far end. A streetlight wavered and came on. Men and women. Stores. Neon signs. Cars.     And to his right—the police station.     He was close, terribly close. Past the loading platform of a grocerystore rose the white concrete side of the Hall of Justice. Barredwindows. The police antenna. A great concrete wall rising up in thedarkness. A bad place for him to be near. He was too close. He had tokeep moving, get farther away from them.       Them?       Loyce moved cautiously down the alley. Beyond the police station was theCity Hall, the old-fashioned yellow structure of wood and gilded brassand broad cement steps. He could see the endless rows of offices, darkwindows, the cedars and beds of flowers on each side of the entrance.     And—something else.     Above the City Hall was a patch of darkness, a cone of gloom denser thanthe surrounding night. A prism of black that spread out and was lostinto the sky.     He listened. Good God, he could hear something. Something that made himstruggle frantically to close his ears, his mind, to shut out the sound.A buzzing. A distant, muted hum like a great swarm of bees.     Loyce gazed up, rigid with horror. The splotch of darkness, hanging overthe City Hall. Darkness so thick it seemed almost solid.      In the vortexsomething moved.     Flickering shapes. Things, descending from the sky,pausing momentarily above the City Hall, fluttering over it in a denseswarm and then dropping silently onto the roof.     Shapes. Fluttering shapes from the sky. From the crack of darkness thathung above him.     He was seeing—them.  For a long time Loyce watched, crouched behind a sagging fence in a poolof scummy water.     They were landing. Coming down in groups, landing on the roof of theCity Hall and disappearing inside. They had wings. Like giant insects ofsome kind. They flew and fluttered and came to rest—and then crawledcrab-fashion, sideways, across the roof and into the building.     He was sickened. And fascinated. Cold night wind blew around him and heshuddered. He was tired, dazed with shock. On the front steps of theCity Hall were men, standing here and there. Groups of men coming out ofthe building and halting for a moment before going on.     Were there more of them?     It didn't seem possible. What he saw descending from the black chasmweren't men. They were alien—from some other world, some otherdimension. Sliding through this slit, this break in the shell of theuniverse. Entering through this gap, winged insects from another realmof being.     On the steps of the City Hall a group of men broke up. A few movedtoward a waiting car. One of the remaining shapes started to re-enterthe City Hall. It changed its mind and turned to follow the others.     Loyce closed his eyes in horror. His senses reeled. He hung on tight,clutching at the sagging fence. The shape, the man-shape, had abruptlyfluttered up and flapped after the others. It flew to the sidewalk andcame to rest among them.     Pseudo-men. Imitation men. Insects with ability to disguise themselvesas men. Like other insects familiar to Earth. Protective coloration.Mimicry.     Loyce pulled himself away. He got slowly to his feet. It was night. Thealley was totally dark. But maybe they could see in the dark. Maybedarkness made no difference to them.     He left the alley cautiously and moved out onto the street. Men andwomen flowed past, but not so many, now. At the bus-stops stood waitinggroups. A huge bus lumbered along the street, its lights flashing in theevening gloom.     Loyce moved forward. He pushed his way among those waiting and when thebus halted he boarded it and took a seat in the rear, by the door. Amoment later the bus moved into life and rumbled down the street.  Loyce relaxed a little. He studied the people around him. Dulled, tiredfaces. People going home from work. Quite ordinary faces. None of thempaid any attention to him. All sat quietly, sunk down in their seats,jiggling with the motion of the bus.     The man sitting next to him unfolded a newspaper. He began to read thesports section, his lips moving. An ordinary man. Blue suit. Tie. Abusinessman, or a salesman. On his way home to his wife and family.     Across the aisle a young woman, perhaps twenty. Dark eyes and hair, apackage on her lap. Nylons and heels. Red coat and white angora sweater.Gazing absently ahead of her.     A high school boy in jeans and black jacket.     A great triple-chinned woman with an immense shopping bag loaded withpackages and parcels. Her thick face dim with weariness.     Ordinary people. The kind that rode the bus every evening. Going home totheir families. To dinner.     Going home—with their minds dead. Controlled, filmed over with the maskof an alien being that had appeared and taken possession of them, theirtown, their lives. Himself, too. Except that he happened to be deep inhis cellar instead of in the store. Somehow, he had been overlooked.They had missed him. Their control wasn't perfect, foolproof.     Maybe there were others.     Hope flickered in Loyce. They weren't omnipotent. They had made amistake, not got control of him. Their net, their field of control, hadpassed over him. He had emerged from his cellar as he had gone down.Apparently their power-zone was limited.     A few seats down the aisle a man was watching him. Loyce broke off hischain of thought. A slender man, with dark hair and a small mustache.Well-dressed, brown suit and shiny shoes. A book between his smallhands. He was watching Loyce, studying him intently. He turned quicklyaway.     Loyce tensed. One of      them     ? Or—another they had missed?     The man was watching him again. Small dark eyes, alive and clever.Shrewd. A man too shrewd for them—or one of the things itself, an alieninsect from beyond.     The bus halted. An elderly man got on slowly and dropped his token intothe box. He moved down the aisle and took a seat opposite Loyce.     The elderly man caught the sharp-eyed man's gaze. For a split secondsomething passed between them.     A look rich with meaning.     Loyce got to his feet. The bus was moving. He ran to the door. One stepdown into the well. He yanked the emergency door release. The rubberdoor swung open.     Hey! the driver shouted, jamming on the brakes. What the hell—     Loyce squirmed through. The bus was slowing down. Houses on all sides. Aresidential district, lawns and tall apartment buildings. Behind him,the bright-eyed man had leaped up. The elderly man was also on his feet.They were coming after him.     Loyce leaped. He hit the pavement with terrific force and rolled againstthe curb. Pain lapped over him. Pain and a vast tide of blackness.Desperately, he fought it off. He struggled to his knees and then sliddown again. The bus had stopped. People were getting off.     Loyce groped around. His fingers closed over something. A rock, lying inthe gutter. He crawled to his feet, grunting with pain. A shape loomedbefore him. A man, the bright-eyed man with the book.     Loyce kicked. The man gasped and fell. Loyce brought the rock down. Theman screamed and tried to roll away.       Stop!     For God's sake listen—     He struck again. A hideous crunching sound. The man's voice cut off anddissolved in a bubbling wail. Loyce scrambled up and back. The otherswere there, now. All around him. He ran, awkwardly, down the sidewalk,up a driveway. None of them followed him. They had stopped and werebending over the inert body of the man with the book, the bright-eyedman who had come after him.     Had he made a mistake?     But it was too late to worry about that. He had to get out—away fromthem. Out of Pikeville, beyond the crack of darkness, the rent betweentheir world and his.  Ed! Janet Loyce backed away nervously. What is it? What—     Ed Loyce slammed the door behind him and came into the living room.Pull down the shades. Quick.     Janet moved toward the window. But—     Do as I say. Who else is here besides you?     Nobody. Just the twins. They're upstairs in their room. What'shappened? You look so strange. Why are you home?     Ed locked the front door. He prowled around the house, into the kitchen.From the drawer under the sink he slid out the big butcher knife and ranhis finger along it. Sharp. Plenty sharp. He returned to the livingroom.     Listen to me, he said. I don't have much time. They know I escapedand they'll be looking for me.     Escaped? Janet's face twisted with bewilderment and fear. Who?     The town has been taken over. They're in control. I've got it prettywell figured out. They started at the top, at the City Hall and policedepartment. What they did with the      real     humans they—     What are you talking about?     We've been invaded. From some other universe, some other dimension.They're insects. Mimicry. And more. Power to control minds. Your mind.     My mind?     Their entrance is      here     , in Pikeville. They've taken over all of you.The whole town—except me. We're up against an incredibly powerfulenemy, but they have their limitations. That's our hope. They'relimited! They can make mistakes!     Janet shook her head. I don't understand, Ed. You must be insane.     Insane? No. Just lucky. If I hadn't been down in the basement I'd belike all the rest of you. Loyce peered out the window. But I can'tstand here talking. Get your coat.     My coat?     We're getting out of here. Out of Pikeville. We've got to get help.Fight this thing. They      can     be beaten. They're not infallible. It'sgoing to be close—but we may make it if we hurry. Come on! He grabbedher arm roughly. Get your coat and call the twins. We're all leaving.Don't stop to pack. There's no time for that.     White-faced, his wife moved toward the closet and got down her coat.Where are we going?     Ed pulled open the desk drawer and spilled the contents out onto thefloor. He grabbed up a road map and spread it open. They'll have thehighway covered, of course. But there's a back road. To Oak Grove. I gotonto it once. It's practically abandoned. Maybe they'll forget aboutit.     The old Ranch Road? Good Lord—it's completely closed. Nobody'ssupposed to drive over it.     I know. Ed thrust the map grimly into his coat. That's our bestchance. Now call down the twins and let's get going. Your car is full ofgas, isn't it?     Janet was dazed.     The Chevy? I had it filled up yesterday afternoon. Janet moved towardthe stairs. Ed, I—     Call the twins! Ed unlocked the front door and peered out. Nothingstirred. No sign of life. All right so far.     Come on downstairs, Janet called in a wavering voice. We're—goingout for awhile.     Now? Tommy's voice came.     Hurry up, Ed barked. Get down here, both of you.     Tommy appeared at the top of the stairs. I was doing my home work.We're starting fractions. Miss Parker says if we don't get this done—     You can forget about fractions. Ed grabbed his son as he came down thestairs and propelled him toward the door. Where's Jim?     He's coming.     Jim started slowly down the stairs. What's up, Dad?     We're going for a ride.     A ride? Where?     Ed turned to Janet. We'll leave the lights on. And the TV set. Go turnit on. He pushed her toward the set. So they'll think we're still—     He heard the buzz. And dropped instantly, the long butcher knife out.Sickened, he saw it coming down the stairs at him, wings a blur ofmotion as it aimed itself. It still bore a vague resemblance to Jimmy.It was small, a baby one. A brief glimpse—the thing hurtling at him,cold, multi-lensed inhuman eyes. Wings, body still clothed in yellowT-shirt and jeans, the mimic outline still stamped on it. A strangehalf-turn of its body as it reached him. What was it doing?     A stinger.     Loyce stabbed wildly at it. It retreated, buzzing frantically. Loycerolled and crawled toward the door. Tommy and Janet stood still asstatues, faces blank. Watching without expression. Loyce stabbed again.This time the knife connected. The thing shrieked and faltered. Itbounced against the wall and fluttered down.     Something lapped through his mind. A wall of force, energy, an alienmind probing into him. He was suddenly paralyzed. The mind entered hisown, touched against him briefly, shockingly. An utterly alien presence,settling over him—and then it flickered out as the thing collapsed in abroken heap on the rug.     It was dead. He turned it over with his foot. It was an insect, a fly ofsome kind. Yellow T-shirt, jeans. His son Jimmy.... He closed his mindtight. It was too late to think about that. Savagely he scooped up hisknife and headed toward the door. Janet and Tommy stood stone-still,neither of them moving.     The car was out. He'd never get through. They'd be waiting for him. Itwas ten miles on foot. Ten long miles over rough ground, gulleys andopen fields and hills of uncut forest. He'd have to go alone.     Loyce opened the door. For a brief second he looked back at his wife andson. Then he slammed the door behind him and raced down the porch steps.     A moment later he was on his way, hurrying swiftly through the darknesstoward the edge of town.  The early morning sunlight was blinding. Loyce halted, gasping forbreath, swaying back and forth. Sweat ran down in his eyes. His clothingwas torn, shredded by the brush and thorns through which he had crawled.Ten miles—on his hands and knees. Crawling, creeping through the night.His shoes were mud-caked. He was scratched and limping, utterlyexhausted.     But ahead of him lay Oak Grove.     He took a deep breath and started down the hill. Twice he stumbled andfell, picking himself up and trudging on. His ears rang. Everythingreceded and wavered. But he was there. He had got out, away fromPikeville.     A farmer in a field gaped at him. From a house a young woman watched inwonder. Loyce reached the road and turned onto it. Ahead of him was agasoline station and a drive-in. A couple of trucks, some chickenspecking in the dirt, a dog tied with a string.     The white-clad attendant watched suspiciously as he dragged himself upto the station. Thank God. He caught hold of the wall. I didn't thinkI was going to make it. They followed me most of the way. I could hearthem buzzing. Buzzing and flitting around behind me.     What happened? the attendant demanded. You in a wreck? A hold-up?     Loyce shook his head wearily. They have the whole town. The City Halland the police station. They hung a man from the lamppost. That was thefirst thing I saw. They've got all the roads blocked. I saw themhovering over the cars coming in. About four this morning I got beyondthem. I knew it right away. I could feel them leave. And then the suncame up.     The attendant licked his lip nervously. You're out of your head. Ibetter get a doctor.     Get me into Oak Grove, Loyce gasped. He sank down on the gravel.We've got to get started—cleaning them out. Got to get started rightaway.  They kept a tape recorder going all the time he talked. When he hadfinished the Commissioner snapped off the recorder and got to his feet.He stood for a moment, deep in thought. Finally he got out hiscigarettes and lit up slowly, a frown on his beefy face.     You don't believe me, Loyce said.     The Commissioner offered him a cigarette. Loyce pushed it impatientlyaway. Suit yourself. The Commissioner moved over to the window andstood for a time looking out at the town of Oak Grove. I believe you,he said abruptly.     Loyce sagged. Thank God.     So you got away. The Commissioner shook his head. You were down inyour cellar instead of at work. A freak chance. One in a million.     Loyce sipped some of the black coffee they had brought him. I have atheory, he murmured.     What is it?     About them. Who they are. They take over one area at a time. Startingat the top—the highest level of authority. Working down from there in awidening circle. When they're firmly in control they go on to the nexttown. They spread, slowly, very gradually. I think it's been going onfor a long time.     A long time?     Thousands of years. I don't think it's new.     Why do you say that?     When I was a kid.... A picture they showed us in Bible League. Areligious picture—an old print. The enemy gods, defeated by Jehovah.Moloch, Beelzebub, Moab, Baalin, Ashtaroth—     So?     They were all represented by figures. Loyce looked up at theCommissioner. Beelzebub was represented as—a giant fly.     The Commissioner grunted. An old struggle.     They've been defeated. The Bible is an account of their defeats. Theymake gains—but finally they're defeated.     Why defeated?     They can't get everyone. They didn't get me. And they never got theHebrews. The Hebrews carried the message to the whole world. Therealization of the danger. The two men on the bus. I think theyunderstood. Had escaped, like I did. He clenched his fists. I killedone of them. I made a mistake. I was afraid to take a chance.     The Commissioner nodded. Yes, they undoubtedly had escaped, as you did.Freak accidents. But the rest of the town was firmly in control. Heturned from the window. Well, Mr. Loyce. You seem to have figuredeverything out.     Not everything. The hanging man. The dead man hanging from thelamppost. I don't understand that.      Why?     Why did they deliberately hanghim there?     That would seem simple. The Commissioner smiled faintly.       Bait.          Loyce stiffened. His heart stopped beating. Bait? What do you mean?     To draw you out. Make you declare yourself. So they'd know who wasunder control—and who had escaped.     Loyce recoiled with horror. Then they      expected     failures! Theyanticipated— He broke off. They were ready with a trap.     And you showed yourself. You reacted. You made yourself known. TheCommissioner abruptly moved toward the door. Come along, Loyce. There'sa lot to do. We must get moving. There's no time to waste.     Loyce started slowly to his feet, numbed. And the man.      Who was theman?     I never saw him before. He wasn't a local man. He was a stranger.All muddy and dirty, his face cut, slashed—     There was a strange look on the Commissioner's face as he answered.Maybe, he said softly, you'll understand that, too. Come along withme, Mr. Loyce. He held the door open, his eyes gleaming. Loyce caught aglimpse of the street in front of the police station. Policemen, aplatform of some sort. A telephone pole—and a rope! Right this way,the Commissioner said, smiling coldly.  As the sun set, the vice-president of the Oak Grove Merchants' Bank cameup out of the vault, threw the heavy time locks, put on his hat andcoat, and hurried outside onto the sidewalk. Only a few people werethere, hurrying home to dinner.     Good night, the guard said, locking the door after him.     Good night, Clarence Mason murmured. He started along the streettoward his car. He was tired. He had been working all day down in thevault, examining the lay-out of the safety deposit boxes to see if therewas room for another tier. He was glad to be finished.     At the corner he halted. The street lights had not yet come on. Thestreet was dim. Everything was vague. He looked around—and froze.     From the telephone pole in front of the police station, something largeand shapeless hung. It moved a little with the wind.     What the hell was it?     Mason approached it warily. He wanted to get home. He was tired andhungry. He thought of his wife, his kids, a hot meal on the dinnertable. But there was something about the dark bundle, something ominousand ugly. The light was bad; he couldn't tell what it was. Yet it drewhim on, made him move closer for a better look. The shapeless thing madehim uneasy. He was frightened by it. Frightened—and fascinated.     And the strange part was that nobody else seemed to notice it.  ","Edward C. Loyce has been the owner of the TV sales store in the town for twenty-five years, and he is also called Ed by the town people. He is forty years old, living at 1368 Hurst Road, Pikeville. He has a wife, Janet, and twin sons, Jimmy and Tommy. He owns a Packard. He is practical and always tries to correct wrong things. He is friendly because he knows everyone in the town, and everyone seems to have a good relationship with him. Ed is brave because when he realizes that nobody pays attention to the hanged body in the town park, he gets closer and tries to figure out who the corpse is. Ed is also brilliant because he grasps the abnormal situations immediately after noticing the difference between the current situation and the normal one and because he sees the alien’s power flaws right after knowing the situation. He is also practical because he plans what he should do right after grasping the situation in the town. He is cautious as he kills the man with the book on the bus, not letting the aliens' slight chance get him. His will is formidable because he runs with his feet for ten miles along the rough ground to escape from Pikeville and because he makes the decision immediately when he knows that he has to abandon his family."
"What role does the hanged human body play in the story? </s>     THE HANGING STRANGER     BY PHILIP K. DICK     ILLUSTRATED BY SMITH     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Science FictionAdventures Magazine December 1953. Extensive research did not uncoverany evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]     Ed had always been a practical man, when he saw something waswrong he tried to correct it. Then one day he saw    it   hanging in thetown square.    Five o'clock Ed Loyce washed up, tossed on his hat and coat, got his carout and headed across town toward his TV sales store. He was tired. Hisback and shoulders ached from digging dirt out of the basement andwheeling it into the back yard. But for a forty-year-old man he had doneokay. Janet could get a new vase with the money he had saved; and heliked the idea of repairing the foundations himself!     It was getting dark. The setting sun cast long rays over the scurryingcommuters, tired and grim-faced, women loaded down with bundles andpackages, students swarming home from the university, mixing with clerksand businessmen and drab secretaries. He stopped his Packard for a redlight and then started it up again. The store had been open without him;he'd arrive just in time to spell the help for dinner, go over therecords of the day, maybe even close a couple of sales himself. He droveslowly past the small square of green in the center of the street, thetown park. There were no parking places in front of LOYCE TV SALES ANDSERVICE. He cursed under his breath and swung the car in a U-turn. Againhe passed the little square of green with its lonely drinking fountainand bench and single lamppost.     From the lamppost something was hanging. A shapeless dark bundle,swinging a little with the wind. Like a dummy of some sort. Loyce rolleddown his window and peered out. What the hell was it? A display ofsome kind? Sometimes the Chamber of Commerce put up displays in thesquare.     Again he made a U-turn and brought his car around. He passed the parkand concentrated on the dark bundle. It wasn't a dummy. And if it was adisplay it was a strange kind. The hackles on his neck rose and heswallowed uneasily. Sweat slid out on his face and hands.     It was a body. A human body.  Look at it! Loyce snapped. Come on out here!     Don Fergusson came slowly out of the store, buttoning his pin-stripecoat with dignity. This is a big deal, Ed. I can't just leave the guystanding there.     See it? Ed pointed into the gathering gloom. The lamppost jutted upagainst the sky—the post and the bundle swinging from it. There it is.How the hell long has it been there? His voice rose excitedly. What'swrong with everybody? They just walk on past!     Don Fergusson lit a cigarette slowly. Take it easy, old man. There mustbe a good reason, or it wouldn't be there.     A reason! What kind of a reason?     Fergusson shrugged. Like the time the Traffic Safety Council put thatwrecked Buick there. Some sort of civic thing. How would I know?     Jack Potter from the shoe shop joined them. What's up, boys?     There's a body hanging from the lamppost, Loyce said. I'm going tocall the cops.     They must know about it, Potter said. Or otherwise it wouldn't bethere.     I got to get back in. Fergusson headed back into the store. Businessbefore pleasure.     Loyce began to get hysterical. You see it? You see it hanging there? Aman's body! A dead man!     Sure, Ed. I saw it this afternoon when I went out for coffee.     You mean it's been there all afternoon?     Sure. What's the matter? Potter glanced at his watch. Have to run.See you later, Ed.     Potter hurried off, joining the flow of people moving along thesidewalk. Men and women, passing by the park. A few glanced up curiouslyat the dark bundle—and then went on. Nobody stopped. Nobody paid anyattention.     I'm going nuts, Loyce whispered. He made his way to the curb andcrossed out into traffic, among the cars. Horns honked angrily at him.He gained the curb and stepped up onto the little square of green.     The man had been middle-aged. His clothing was ripped and torn, a graysuit, splashed and caked with dried mud. A stranger. Loyce had neverseen him before. Not a local man. His face was partly turned, away, andin the evening wind he spun a little, turning gently, silently. His skinwas gouged and cut. Red gashes, deep scratches of congealed blood. Apair of steel-rimmed glasses hung from one ear, dangling foolishly. Hiseyes bulged. His mouth was open, tongue thick and ugly blue.     For Heaven's sake, Loyce muttered, sickened. He pushed down his nauseaand made his way back to the sidewalk. He was shaking all over, withrevulsion—and fear.       Why?     Who was the man? Why was he hanging there? What did it mean?     And—why didn't anybody notice?     He bumped into a small man hurrying along the sidewalk. Watch it! theman grated, Oh, it's you, Ed.     Ed nodded dazedly. Hello, Jenkins.     What's the matter? The stationery clerk caught Ed's arm. You looksick.     The body. There in the park.     Sure, Ed. Jenkins led him into the alcove of LOYCE TV SALES ANDSERVICE. Take it easy.     Margaret Henderson from the jewelry store joined them. Somethingwrong?     Ed's not feeling well.     Loyce yanked himself free. How can you stand here? Don't you see it?For God's sake—     What's he talking about? Margaret asked nervously.     The body! Ed shouted. The body hanging there!     More people collected. Is he sick? It's Ed Loyce. You okay, Ed?     The body! Loyce screamed, struggling to get past them. Hands caught athim. He tore loose. Let me go! The police! Get the police!     Ed—     Better get a doctor!     He must be sick.     Or drunk.     Loyce fought his way through the people. He stumbled and half fell.Through a blur he saw rows of faces, curious, concerned, anxious. Menand women halting to see what the disturbance was. He fought past themtoward his store. He could see Fergusson inside talking to a man,showing him an Emerson TV set. Pete Foley in the back at the servicecounter, setting up a new Philco. Loyce shouted at them frantically.His voice was lost in the roar of traffic and the murmur around him.     Do something! he screamed. Don't stand there! Do something!Something's wrong! Something's happened! Things are going on!     The crowd melted respectfully for the two heavy-set cops movingefficiently toward Loyce.  Name? the cop with the notebook murmured.     Loyce. He mopped his forehead wearily. Edward C. Loyce. Listen to me.Back there—     Address? the cop demanded. The police car moved swiftly throughtraffic, shooting among the cars and buses. Loyce sagged against theseat, exhausted and confused. He took a deep shuddering breath.     1368 Hurst Road.     That's here in Pikeville?     That's right. Loyce pulled himself up with a violent effort. Listento me. Back there. In the square. Hanging from the lamppost—     Where were you today? the cop behind the wheel demanded.     Where? Loyce echoed.     You weren't in your shop, were you?     No. He shook his head. No, I was home. Down in the basement.     In the      basement     ?     Digging. A new foundation. Getting out the dirt to pour a cement frame.Why? What has that to do with—     Was anybody else down there with you?     No. My wife was downtown. My kids were at school. Loyce looked fromone heavy-set cop to the other. Hope flicked across his face, wild hope.You mean because I was down there I missed—the explanation? I didn'tget in on it? Like everybody else?     After a pause the cop with the notebook said: That's right. You missedthe explanation.     Then it's official? The body—it's      supposed     to be hanging there?     It's supposed to be hanging there. For everybody to see.     Ed Loyce grinned weakly. Good Lord. I guess I sort of went off the deepend. I thought maybe something had happened. You know, something likethe Ku Klux Klan. Some kind of violence. Communists or Fascists takingover. He wiped his face with his breast-pocket handkerchief, his handsshaking. I'm glad to know it's on the level.     It's on the level. The police car was getting near the Hall ofJustice. The sun had set. The streets were gloomy and dark. The lightshad not yet come on.     I feel better, Loyce said. I was pretty excited there, for a minute.I guess I got all stirred up. Now that I understand, there's no need totake me in, is there?     The two cops said nothing.     I should be back at my store. The boys haven't had dinner. I'm allright, now. No more trouble. Is there any need of—     This won't take long, the cop behind the wheel interrupted. A shortprocess. Only a few minutes.     I hope it's short, Loyce muttered. The car slowed down for astoplight. I guess I sort of disturbed the peace. Funny, gettingexcited like that and—     Loyce yanked the door open. He sprawled out into the street and rolledto his feet. Cars were moving all around him, gaining speed as the lightchanged. Loyce leaped onto the curb and raced among the people,burrowing into the swarming crowds. Behind him he heard sounds, shouts,people running.     They weren't cops. He had realized that right away. He knew every cop inPikeville. A man couldn't own a store, operate a business in a smalltown for twenty-five years without getting to know all the cops.     They weren't cops—and there hadn't been any explanation. Potter,Fergusson, Jenkins, none of them knew why it was there. They didn'tknow—and they didn't care.      That     was the strange part.     Loyce ducked into a hardware store. He raced toward the back, past thestartled clerks and customers, into the shipping room and through theback door. He tripped over a garbage can and ran up a flight of concretesteps. He climbed over a fence and jumped down on the other side,gasping and panting.     There was no sound behind him. He had got away.     He was at the entrance of an alley, dark and strewn with boards andruined boxes and tires. He could see the street at the far end. A streetlight wavered and came on. Men and women. Stores. Neon signs. Cars.     And to his right—the police station.     He was close, terribly close. Past the loading platform of a grocerystore rose the white concrete side of the Hall of Justice. Barredwindows. The police antenna. A great concrete wall rising up in thedarkness. A bad place for him to be near. He was too close. He had tokeep moving, get farther away from them.       Them?       Loyce moved cautiously down the alley. Beyond the police station was theCity Hall, the old-fashioned yellow structure of wood and gilded brassand broad cement steps. He could see the endless rows of offices, darkwindows, the cedars and beds of flowers on each side of the entrance.     And—something else.     Above the City Hall was a patch of darkness, a cone of gloom denser thanthe surrounding night. A prism of black that spread out and was lostinto the sky.     He listened. Good God, he could hear something. Something that made himstruggle frantically to close his ears, his mind, to shut out the sound.A buzzing. A distant, muted hum like a great swarm of bees.     Loyce gazed up, rigid with horror. The splotch of darkness, hanging overthe City Hall. Darkness so thick it seemed almost solid.      In the vortexsomething moved.     Flickering shapes. Things, descending from the sky,pausing momentarily above the City Hall, fluttering over it in a denseswarm and then dropping silently onto the roof.     Shapes. Fluttering shapes from the sky. From the crack of darkness thathung above him.     He was seeing—them.  For a long time Loyce watched, crouched behind a sagging fence in a poolof scummy water.     They were landing. Coming down in groups, landing on the roof of theCity Hall and disappearing inside. They had wings. Like giant insects ofsome kind. They flew and fluttered and came to rest—and then crawledcrab-fashion, sideways, across the roof and into the building.     He was sickened. And fascinated. Cold night wind blew around him and heshuddered. He was tired, dazed with shock. On the front steps of theCity Hall were men, standing here and there. Groups of men coming out ofthe building and halting for a moment before going on.     Were there more of them?     It didn't seem possible. What he saw descending from the black chasmweren't men. They were alien—from some other world, some otherdimension. Sliding through this slit, this break in the shell of theuniverse. Entering through this gap, winged insects from another realmof being.     On the steps of the City Hall a group of men broke up. A few movedtoward a waiting car. One of the remaining shapes started to re-enterthe City Hall. It changed its mind and turned to follow the others.     Loyce closed his eyes in horror. His senses reeled. He hung on tight,clutching at the sagging fence. The shape, the man-shape, had abruptlyfluttered up and flapped after the others. It flew to the sidewalk andcame to rest among them.     Pseudo-men. Imitation men. Insects with ability to disguise themselvesas men. Like other insects familiar to Earth. Protective coloration.Mimicry.     Loyce pulled himself away. He got slowly to his feet. It was night. Thealley was totally dark. But maybe they could see in the dark. Maybedarkness made no difference to them.     He left the alley cautiously and moved out onto the street. Men andwomen flowed past, but not so many, now. At the bus-stops stood waitinggroups. A huge bus lumbered along the street, its lights flashing in theevening gloom.     Loyce moved forward. He pushed his way among those waiting and when thebus halted he boarded it and took a seat in the rear, by the door. Amoment later the bus moved into life and rumbled down the street.  Loyce relaxed a little. He studied the people around him. Dulled, tiredfaces. People going home from work. Quite ordinary faces. None of thempaid any attention to him. All sat quietly, sunk down in their seats,jiggling with the motion of the bus.     The man sitting next to him unfolded a newspaper. He began to read thesports section, his lips moving. An ordinary man. Blue suit. Tie. Abusinessman, or a salesman. On his way home to his wife and family.     Across the aisle a young woman, perhaps twenty. Dark eyes and hair, apackage on her lap. Nylons and heels. Red coat and white angora sweater.Gazing absently ahead of her.     A high school boy in jeans and black jacket.     A great triple-chinned woman with an immense shopping bag loaded withpackages and parcels. Her thick face dim with weariness.     Ordinary people. The kind that rode the bus every evening. Going home totheir families. To dinner.     Going home—with their minds dead. Controlled, filmed over with the maskof an alien being that had appeared and taken possession of them, theirtown, their lives. Himself, too. Except that he happened to be deep inhis cellar instead of in the store. Somehow, he had been overlooked.They had missed him. Their control wasn't perfect, foolproof.     Maybe there were others.     Hope flickered in Loyce. They weren't omnipotent. They had made amistake, not got control of him. Their net, their field of control, hadpassed over him. He had emerged from his cellar as he had gone down.Apparently their power-zone was limited.     A few seats down the aisle a man was watching him. Loyce broke off hischain of thought. A slender man, with dark hair and a small mustache.Well-dressed, brown suit and shiny shoes. A book between his smallhands. He was watching Loyce, studying him intently. He turned quicklyaway.     Loyce tensed. One of      them     ? Or—another they had missed?     The man was watching him again. Small dark eyes, alive and clever.Shrewd. A man too shrewd for them—or one of the things itself, an alieninsect from beyond.     The bus halted. An elderly man got on slowly and dropped his token intothe box. He moved down the aisle and took a seat opposite Loyce.     The elderly man caught the sharp-eyed man's gaze. For a split secondsomething passed between them.     A look rich with meaning.     Loyce got to his feet. The bus was moving. He ran to the door. One stepdown into the well. He yanked the emergency door release. The rubberdoor swung open.     Hey! the driver shouted, jamming on the brakes. What the hell—     Loyce squirmed through. The bus was slowing down. Houses on all sides. Aresidential district, lawns and tall apartment buildings. Behind him,the bright-eyed man had leaped up. The elderly man was also on his feet.They were coming after him.     Loyce leaped. He hit the pavement with terrific force and rolled againstthe curb. Pain lapped over him. Pain and a vast tide of blackness.Desperately, he fought it off. He struggled to his knees and then sliddown again. The bus had stopped. People were getting off.     Loyce groped around. His fingers closed over something. A rock, lying inthe gutter. He crawled to his feet, grunting with pain. A shape loomedbefore him. A man, the bright-eyed man with the book.     Loyce kicked. The man gasped and fell. Loyce brought the rock down. Theman screamed and tried to roll away.       Stop!     For God's sake listen—     He struck again. A hideous crunching sound. The man's voice cut off anddissolved in a bubbling wail. Loyce scrambled up and back. The otherswere there, now. All around him. He ran, awkwardly, down the sidewalk,up a driveway. None of them followed him. They had stopped and werebending over the inert body of the man with the book, the bright-eyedman who had come after him.     Had he made a mistake?     But it was too late to worry about that. He had to get out—away fromthem. Out of Pikeville, beyond the crack of darkness, the rent betweentheir world and his.  Ed! Janet Loyce backed away nervously. What is it? What—     Ed Loyce slammed the door behind him and came into the living room.Pull down the shades. Quick.     Janet moved toward the window. But—     Do as I say. Who else is here besides you?     Nobody. Just the twins. They're upstairs in their room. What'shappened? You look so strange. Why are you home?     Ed locked the front door. He prowled around the house, into the kitchen.From the drawer under the sink he slid out the big butcher knife and ranhis finger along it. Sharp. Plenty sharp. He returned to the livingroom.     Listen to me, he said. I don't have much time. They know I escapedand they'll be looking for me.     Escaped? Janet's face twisted with bewilderment and fear. Who?     The town has been taken over. They're in control. I've got it prettywell figured out. They started at the top, at the City Hall and policedepartment. What they did with the      real     humans they—     What are you talking about?     We've been invaded. From some other universe, some other dimension.They're insects. Mimicry. And more. Power to control minds. Your mind.     My mind?     Their entrance is      here     , in Pikeville. They've taken over all of you.The whole town—except me. We're up against an incredibly powerfulenemy, but they have their limitations. That's our hope. They'relimited! They can make mistakes!     Janet shook her head. I don't understand, Ed. You must be insane.     Insane? No. Just lucky. If I hadn't been down in the basement I'd belike all the rest of you. Loyce peered out the window. But I can'tstand here talking. Get your coat.     My coat?     We're getting out of here. Out of Pikeville. We've got to get help.Fight this thing. They      can     be beaten. They're not infallible. It'sgoing to be close—but we may make it if we hurry. Come on! He grabbedher arm roughly. Get your coat and call the twins. We're all leaving.Don't stop to pack. There's no time for that.     White-faced, his wife moved toward the closet and got down her coat.Where are we going?     Ed pulled open the desk drawer and spilled the contents out onto thefloor. He grabbed up a road map and spread it open. They'll have thehighway covered, of course. But there's a back road. To Oak Grove. I gotonto it once. It's practically abandoned. Maybe they'll forget aboutit.     The old Ranch Road? Good Lord—it's completely closed. Nobody'ssupposed to drive over it.     I know. Ed thrust the map grimly into his coat. That's our bestchance. Now call down the twins and let's get going. Your car is full ofgas, isn't it?     Janet was dazed.     The Chevy? I had it filled up yesterday afternoon. Janet moved towardthe stairs. Ed, I—     Call the twins! Ed unlocked the front door and peered out. Nothingstirred. No sign of life. All right so far.     Come on downstairs, Janet called in a wavering voice. We're—goingout for awhile.     Now? Tommy's voice came.     Hurry up, Ed barked. Get down here, both of you.     Tommy appeared at the top of the stairs. I was doing my home work.We're starting fractions. Miss Parker says if we don't get this done—     You can forget about fractions. Ed grabbed his son as he came down thestairs and propelled him toward the door. Where's Jim?     He's coming.     Jim started slowly down the stairs. What's up, Dad?     We're going for a ride.     A ride? Where?     Ed turned to Janet. We'll leave the lights on. And the TV set. Go turnit on. He pushed her toward the set. So they'll think we're still—     He heard the buzz. And dropped instantly, the long butcher knife out.Sickened, he saw it coming down the stairs at him, wings a blur ofmotion as it aimed itself. It still bore a vague resemblance to Jimmy.It was small, a baby one. A brief glimpse—the thing hurtling at him,cold, multi-lensed inhuman eyes. Wings, body still clothed in yellowT-shirt and jeans, the mimic outline still stamped on it. A strangehalf-turn of its body as it reached him. What was it doing?     A stinger.     Loyce stabbed wildly at it. It retreated, buzzing frantically. Loycerolled and crawled toward the door. Tommy and Janet stood still asstatues, faces blank. Watching without expression. Loyce stabbed again.This time the knife connected. The thing shrieked and faltered. Itbounced against the wall and fluttered down.     Something lapped through his mind. A wall of force, energy, an alienmind probing into him. He was suddenly paralyzed. The mind entered hisown, touched against him briefly, shockingly. An utterly alien presence,settling over him—and then it flickered out as the thing collapsed in abroken heap on the rug.     It was dead. He turned it over with his foot. It was an insect, a fly ofsome kind. Yellow T-shirt, jeans. His son Jimmy.... He closed his mindtight. It was too late to think about that. Savagely he scooped up hisknife and headed toward the door. Janet and Tommy stood stone-still,neither of them moving.     The car was out. He'd never get through. They'd be waiting for him. Itwas ten miles on foot. Ten long miles over rough ground, gulleys andopen fields and hills of uncut forest. He'd have to go alone.     Loyce opened the door. For a brief second he looked back at his wife andson. Then he slammed the door behind him and raced down the porch steps.     A moment later he was on his way, hurrying swiftly through the darknesstoward the edge of town.  The early morning sunlight was blinding. Loyce halted, gasping forbreath, swaying back and forth. Sweat ran down in his eyes. His clothingwas torn, shredded by the brush and thorns through which he had crawled.Ten miles—on his hands and knees. Crawling, creeping through the night.His shoes were mud-caked. He was scratched and limping, utterlyexhausted.     But ahead of him lay Oak Grove.     He took a deep breath and started down the hill. Twice he stumbled andfell, picking himself up and trudging on. His ears rang. Everythingreceded and wavered. But he was there. He had got out, away fromPikeville.     A farmer in a field gaped at him. From a house a young woman watched inwonder. Loyce reached the road and turned onto it. Ahead of him was agasoline station and a drive-in. A couple of trucks, some chickenspecking in the dirt, a dog tied with a string.     The white-clad attendant watched suspiciously as he dragged himself upto the station. Thank God. He caught hold of the wall. I didn't thinkI was going to make it. They followed me most of the way. I could hearthem buzzing. Buzzing and flitting around behind me.     What happened? the attendant demanded. You in a wreck? A hold-up?     Loyce shook his head wearily. They have the whole town. The City Halland the police station. They hung a man from the lamppost. That was thefirst thing I saw. They've got all the roads blocked. I saw themhovering over the cars coming in. About four this morning I got beyondthem. I knew it right away. I could feel them leave. And then the suncame up.     The attendant licked his lip nervously. You're out of your head. Ibetter get a doctor.     Get me into Oak Grove, Loyce gasped. He sank down on the gravel.We've got to get started—cleaning them out. Got to get started rightaway.  They kept a tape recorder going all the time he talked. When he hadfinished the Commissioner snapped off the recorder and got to his feet.He stood for a moment, deep in thought. Finally he got out hiscigarettes and lit up slowly, a frown on his beefy face.     You don't believe me, Loyce said.     The Commissioner offered him a cigarette. Loyce pushed it impatientlyaway. Suit yourself. The Commissioner moved over to the window andstood for a time looking out at the town of Oak Grove. I believe you,he said abruptly.     Loyce sagged. Thank God.     So you got away. The Commissioner shook his head. You were down inyour cellar instead of at work. A freak chance. One in a million.     Loyce sipped some of the black coffee they had brought him. I have atheory, he murmured.     What is it?     About them. Who they are. They take over one area at a time. Startingat the top—the highest level of authority. Working down from there in awidening circle. When they're firmly in control they go on to the nexttown. They spread, slowly, very gradually. I think it's been going onfor a long time.     A long time?     Thousands of years. I don't think it's new.     Why do you say that?     When I was a kid.... A picture they showed us in Bible League. Areligious picture—an old print. The enemy gods, defeated by Jehovah.Moloch, Beelzebub, Moab, Baalin, Ashtaroth—     So?     They were all represented by figures. Loyce looked up at theCommissioner. Beelzebub was represented as—a giant fly.     The Commissioner grunted. An old struggle.     They've been defeated. The Bible is an account of their defeats. Theymake gains—but finally they're defeated.     Why defeated?     They can't get everyone. They didn't get me. And they never got theHebrews. The Hebrews carried the message to the whole world. Therealization of the danger. The two men on the bus. I think theyunderstood. Had escaped, like I did. He clenched his fists. I killedone of them. I made a mistake. I was afraid to take a chance.     The Commissioner nodded. Yes, they undoubtedly had escaped, as you did.Freak accidents. But the rest of the town was firmly in control. Heturned from the window. Well, Mr. Loyce. You seem to have figuredeverything out.     Not everything. The hanging man. The dead man hanging from thelamppost. I don't understand that.      Why?     Why did they deliberately hanghim there?     That would seem simple. The Commissioner smiled faintly.       Bait.          Loyce stiffened. His heart stopped beating. Bait? What do you mean?     To draw you out. Make you declare yourself. So they'd know who wasunder control—and who had escaped.     Loyce recoiled with horror. Then they      expected     failures! Theyanticipated— He broke off. They were ready with a trap.     And you showed yourself. You reacted. You made yourself known. TheCommissioner abruptly moved toward the door. Come along, Loyce. There'sa lot to do. We must get moving. There's no time to waste.     Loyce started slowly to his feet, numbed. And the man.      Who was theman?     I never saw him before. He wasn't a local man. He was a stranger.All muddy and dirty, his face cut, slashed—     There was a strange look on the Commissioner's face as he answered.Maybe, he said softly, you'll understand that, too. Come along withme, Mr. Loyce. He held the door open, his eyes gleaming. Loyce caught aglimpse of the street in front of the police station. Policemen, aplatform of some sort. A telephone pole—and a rope! Right this way,the Commissioner said, smiling coldly.  As the sun set, the vice-president of the Oak Grove Merchants' Bank cameup out of the vault, threw the heavy time locks, put on his hat andcoat, and hurried outside onto the sidewalk. Only a few people werethere, hurrying home to dinner.     Good night, the guard said, locking the door after him.     Good night, Clarence Mason murmured. He started along the streettoward his car. He was tired. He had been working all day down in thevault, examining the lay-out of the safety deposit boxes to see if therewas room for another tier. He was glad to be finished.     At the corner he halted. The street lights had not yet come on. Thestreet was dim. Everything was vague. He looked around—and froze.     From the telephone pole in front of the police station, something largeand shapeless hung. It moved a little with the wind.     What the hell was it?     Mason approached it warily. He wanted to get home. He was tired andhungry. He thought of his wife, his kids, a hot meal on the dinnertable. But there was something about the dark bundle, something ominousand ugly. The light was bad; he couldn't tell what it was. Yet it drewhim on, made him move closer for a better look. The shapeless thing madehim uneasy. He was frightened by it. Frightened—and fascinated.     And the strange part was that nobody else seemed to notice it.  ","The hanged human body is bait to lure people who escape successfully from the mind control of alien flies and draw themselves out. People who are not under mental control would try everything they can to escape from the controlled town to the nearby uncontrolled town, but when they arrive in the uncontrolled town, they will be hanged as another bait in the new town, just like what happens to Ed Loyce in the story. When Ed notices the hanged body in the park and the strangeness that nobody cares about, he tries everything to alert people and escape. Yet, he ends up being suspended by the Commissioner in the town nearby as a new bait to lure people like him. The fact that the uncontrolled person escapes from the controlled town is also why the hanged body looks like a stranger in a town because the person often comes from another town. This fact also constitutes why the body is caked with mud, and its clothes are torn and ripped because it is the consequence of a long journey from another town to where it is hanged."
"What are the alien flies, and what are their characteristics? </s>     THE HANGING STRANGER     BY PHILIP K. DICK     ILLUSTRATED BY SMITH     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Science FictionAdventures Magazine December 1953. Extensive research did not uncoverany evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]     Ed had always been a practical man, when he saw something waswrong he tried to correct it. Then one day he saw    it   hanging in thetown square.    Five o'clock Ed Loyce washed up, tossed on his hat and coat, got his carout and headed across town toward his TV sales store. He was tired. Hisback and shoulders ached from digging dirt out of the basement andwheeling it into the back yard. But for a forty-year-old man he had doneokay. Janet could get a new vase with the money he had saved; and heliked the idea of repairing the foundations himself!     It was getting dark. The setting sun cast long rays over the scurryingcommuters, tired and grim-faced, women loaded down with bundles andpackages, students swarming home from the university, mixing with clerksand businessmen and drab secretaries. He stopped his Packard for a redlight and then started it up again. The store had been open without him;he'd arrive just in time to spell the help for dinner, go over therecords of the day, maybe even close a couple of sales himself. He droveslowly past the small square of green in the center of the street, thetown park. There were no parking places in front of LOYCE TV SALES ANDSERVICE. He cursed under his breath and swung the car in a U-turn. Againhe passed the little square of green with its lonely drinking fountainand bench and single lamppost.     From the lamppost something was hanging. A shapeless dark bundle,swinging a little with the wind. Like a dummy of some sort. Loyce rolleddown his window and peered out. What the hell was it? A display ofsome kind? Sometimes the Chamber of Commerce put up displays in thesquare.     Again he made a U-turn and brought his car around. He passed the parkand concentrated on the dark bundle. It wasn't a dummy. And if it was adisplay it was a strange kind. The hackles on his neck rose and heswallowed uneasily. Sweat slid out on his face and hands.     It was a body. A human body.  Look at it! Loyce snapped. Come on out here!     Don Fergusson came slowly out of the store, buttoning his pin-stripecoat with dignity. This is a big deal, Ed. I can't just leave the guystanding there.     See it? Ed pointed into the gathering gloom. The lamppost jutted upagainst the sky—the post and the bundle swinging from it. There it is.How the hell long has it been there? His voice rose excitedly. What'swrong with everybody? They just walk on past!     Don Fergusson lit a cigarette slowly. Take it easy, old man. There mustbe a good reason, or it wouldn't be there.     A reason! What kind of a reason?     Fergusson shrugged. Like the time the Traffic Safety Council put thatwrecked Buick there. Some sort of civic thing. How would I know?     Jack Potter from the shoe shop joined them. What's up, boys?     There's a body hanging from the lamppost, Loyce said. I'm going tocall the cops.     They must know about it, Potter said. Or otherwise it wouldn't bethere.     I got to get back in. Fergusson headed back into the store. Businessbefore pleasure.     Loyce began to get hysterical. You see it? You see it hanging there? Aman's body! A dead man!     Sure, Ed. I saw it this afternoon when I went out for coffee.     You mean it's been there all afternoon?     Sure. What's the matter? Potter glanced at his watch. Have to run.See you later, Ed.     Potter hurried off, joining the flow of people moving along thesidewalk. Men and women, passing by the park. A few glanced up curiouslyat the dark bundle—and then went on. Nobody stopped. Nobody paid anyattention.     I'm going nuts, Loyce whispered. He made his way to the curb andcrossed out into traffic, among the cars. Horns honked angrily at him.He gained the curb and stepped up onto the little square of green.     The man had been middle-aged. His clothing was ripped and torn, a graysuit, splashed and caked with dried mud. A stranger. Loyce had neverseen him before. Not a local man. His face was partly turned, away, andin the evening wind he spun a little, turning gently, silently. His skinwas gouged and cut. Red gashes, deep scratches of congealed blood. Apair of steel-rimmed glasses hung from one ear, dangling foolishly. Hiseyes bulged. His mouth was open, tongue thick and ugly blue.     For Heaven's sake, Loyce muttered, sickened. He pushed down his nauseaand made his way back to the sidewalk. He was shaking all over, withrevulsion—and fear.       Why?     Who was the man? Why was he hanging there? What did it mean?     And—why didn't anybody notice?     He bumped into a small man hurrying along the sidewalk. Watch it! theman grated, Oh, it's you, Ed.     Ed nodded dazedly. Hello, Jenkins.     What's the matter? The stationery clerk caught Ed's arm. You looksick.     The body. There in the park.     Sure, Ed. Jenkins led him into the alcove of LOYCE TV SALES ANDSERVICE. Take it easy.     Margaret Henderson from the jewelry store joined them. Somethingwrong?     Ed's not feeling well.     Loyce yanked himself free. How can you stand here? Don't you see it?For God's sake—     What's he talking about? Margaret asked nervously.     The body! Ed shouted. The body hanging there!     More people collected. Is he sick? It's Ed Loyce. You okay, Ed?     The body! Loyce screamed, struggling to get past them. Hands caught athim. He tore loose. Let me go! The police! Get the police!     Ed—     Better get a doctor!     He must be sick.     Or drunk.     Loyce fought his way through the people. He stumbled and half fell.Through a blur he saw rows of faces, curious, concerned, anxious. Menand women halting to see what the disturbance was. He fought past themtoward his store. He could see Fergusson inside talking to a man,showing him an Emerson TV set. Pete Foley in the back at the servicecounter, setting up a new Philco. Loyce shouted at them frantically.His voice was lost in the roar of traffic and the murmur around him.     Do something! he screamed. Don't stand there! Do something!Something's wrong! Something's happened! Things are going on!     The crowd melted respectfully for the two heavy-set cops movingefficiently toward Loyce.  Name? the cop with the notebook murmured.     Loyce. He mopped his forehead wearily. Edward C. Loyce. Listen to me.Back there—     Address? the cop demanded. The police car moved swiftly throughtraffic, shooting among the cars and buses. Loyce sagged against theseat, exhausted and confused. He took a deep shuddering breath.     1368 Hurst Road.     That's here in Pikeville?     That's right. Loyce pulled himself up with a violent effort. Listento me. Back there. In the square. Hanging from the lamppost—     Where were you today? the cop behind the wheel demanded.     Where? Loyce echoed.     You weren't in your shop, were you?     No. He shook his head. No, I was home. Down in the basement.     In the      basement     ?     Digging. A new foundation. Getting out the dirt to pour a cement frame.Why? What has that to do with—     Was anybody else down there with you?     No. My wife was downtown. My kids were at school. Loyce looked fromone heavy-set cop to the other. Hope flicked across his face, wild hope.You mean because I was down there I missed—the explanation? I didn'tget in on it? Like everybody else?     After a pause the cop with the notebook said: That's right. You missedthe explanation.     Then it's official? The body—it's      supposed     to be hanging there?     It's supposed to be hanging there. For everybody to see.     Ed Loyce grinned weakly. Good Lord. I guess I sort of went off the deepend. I thought maybe something had happened. You know, something likethe Ku Klux Klan. Some kind of violence. Communists or Fascists takingover. He wiped his face with his breast-pocket handkerchief, his handsshaking. I'm glad to know it's on the level.     It's on the level. The police car was getting near the Hall ofJustice. The sun had set. The streets were gloomy and dark. The lightshad not yet come on.     I feel better, Loyce said. I was pretty excited there, for a minute.I guess I got all stirred up. Now that I understand, there's no need totake me in, is there?     The two cops said nothing.     I should be back at my store. The boys haven't had dinner. I'm allright, now. No more trouble. Is there any need of—     This won't take long, the cop behind the wheel interrupted. A shortprocess. Only a few minutes.     I hope it's short, Loyce muttered. The car slowed down for astoplight. I guess I sort of disturbed the peace. Funny, gettingexcited like that and—     Loyce yanked the door open. He sprawled out into the street and rolledto his feet. Cars were moving all around him, gaining speed as the lightchanged. Loyce leaped onto the curb and raced among the people,burrowing into the swarming crowds. Behind him he heard sounds, shouts,people running.     They weren't cops. He had realized that right away. He knew every cop inPikeville. A man couldn't own a store, operate a business in a smalltown for twenty-five years without getting to know all the cops.     They weren't cops—and there hadn't been any explanation. Potter,Fergusson, Jenkins, none of them knew why it was there. They didn'tknow—and they didn't care.      That     was the strange part.     Loyce ducked into a hardware store. He raced toward the back, past thestartled clerks and customers, into the shipping room and through theback door. He tripped over a garbage can and ran up a flight of concretesteps. He climbed over a fence and jumped down on the other side,gasping and panting.     There was no sound behind him. He had got away.     He was at the entrance of an alley, dark and strewn with boards andruined boxes and tires. He could see the street at the far end. A streetlight wavered and came on. Men and women. Stores. Neon signs. Cars.     And to his right—the police station.     He was close, terribly close. Past the loading platform of a grocerystore rose the white concrete side of the Hall of Justice. Barredwindows. The police antenna. A great concrete wall rising up in thedarkness. A bad place for him to be near. He was too close. He had tokeep moving, get farther away from them.       Them?       Loyce moved cautiously down the alley. Beyond the police station was theCity Hall, the old-fashioned yellow structure of wood and gilded brassand broad cement steps. He could see the endless rows of offices, darkwindows, the cedars and beds of flowers on each side of the entrance.     And—something else.     Above the City Hall was a patch of darkness, a cone of gloom denser thanthe surrounding night. A prism of black that spread out and was lostinto the sky.     He listened. Good God, he could hear something. Something that made himstruggle frantically to close his ears, his mind, to shut out the sound.A buzzing. A distant, muted hum like a great swarm of bees.     Loyce gazed up, rigid with horror. The splotch of darkness, hanging overthe City Hall. Darkness so thick it seemed almost solid.      In the vortexsomething moved.     Flickering shapes. Things, descending from the sky,pausing momentarily above the City Hall, fluttering over it in a denseswarm and then dropping silently onto the roof.     Shapes. Fluttering shapes from the sky. From the crack of darkness thathung above him.     He was seeing—them.  For a long time Loyce watched, crouched behind a sagging fence in a poolof scummy water.     They were landing. Coming down in groups, landing on the roof of theCity Hall and disappearing inside. They had wings. Like giant insects ofsome kind. They flew and fluttered and came to rest—and then crawledcrab-fashion, sideways, across the roof and into the building.     He was sickened. And fascinated. Cold night wind blew around him and heshuddered. He was tired, dazed with shock. On the front steps of theCity Hall were men, standing here and there. Groups of men coming out ofthe building and halting for a moment before going on.     Were there more of them?     It didn't seem possible. What he saw descending from the black chasmweren't men. They were alien—from some other world, some otherdimension. Sliding through this slit, this break in the shell of theuniverse. Entering through this gap, winged insects from another realmof being.     On the steps of the City Hall a group of men broke up. A few movedtoward a waiting car. One of the remaining shapes started to re-enterthe City Hall. It changed its mind and turned to follow the others.     Loyce closed his eyes in horror. His senses reeled. He hung on tight,clutching at the sagging fence. The shape, the man-shape, had abruptlyfluttered up and flapped after the others. It flew to the sidewalk andcame to rest among them.     Pseudo-men. Imitation men. Insects with ability to disguise themselvesas men. Like other insects familiar to Earth. Protective coloration.Mimicry.     Loyce pulled himself away. He got slowly to his feet. It was night. Thealley was totally dark. But maybe they could see in the dark. Maybedarkness made no difference to them.     He left the alley cautiously and moved out onto the street. Men andwomen flowed past, but not so many, now. At the bus-stops stood waitinggroups. A huge bus lumbered along the street, its lights flashing in theevening gloom.     Loyce moved forward. He pushed his way among those waiting and when thebus halted he boarded it and took a seat in the rear, by the door. Amoment later the bus moved into life and rumbled down the street.  Loyce relaxed a little. He studied the people around him. Dulled, tiredfaces. People going home from work. Quite ordinary faces. None of thempaid any attention to him. All sat quietly, sunk down in their seats,jiggling with the motion of the bus.     The man sitting next to him unfolded a newspaper. He began to read thesports section, his lips moving. An ordinary man. Blue suit. Tie. Abusinessman, or a salesman. On his way home to his wife and family.     Across the aisle a young woman, perhaps twenty. Dark eyes and hair, apackage on her lap. Nylons and heels. Red coat and white angora sweater.Gazing absently ahead of her.     A high school boy in jeans and black jacket.     A great triple-chinned woman with an immense shopping bag loaded withpackages and parcels. Her thick face dim with weariness.     Ordinary people. The kind that rode the bus every evening. Going home totheir families. To dinner.     Going home—with their minds dead. Controlled, filmed over with the maskof an alien being that had appeared and taken possession of them, theirtown, their lives. Himself, too. Except that he happened to be deep inhis cellar instead of in the store. Somehow, he had been overlooked.They had missed him. Their control wasn't perfect, foolproof.     Maybe there were others.     Hope flickered in Loyce. They weren't omnipotent. They had made amistake, not got control of him. Their net, their field of control, hadpassed over him. He had emerged from his cellar as he had gone down.Apparently their power-zone was limited.     A few seats down the aisle a man was watching him. Loyce broke off hischain of thought. A slender man, with dark hair and a small mustache.Well-dressed, brown suit and shiny shoes. A book between his smallhands. He was watching Loyce, studying him intently. He turned quicklyaway.     Loyce tensed. One of      them     ? Or—another they had missed?     The man was watching him again. Small dark eyes, alive and clever.Shrewd. A man too shrewd for them—or one of the things itself, an alieninsect from beyond.     The bus halted. An elderly man got on slowly and dropped his token intothe box. He moved down the aisle and took a seat opposite Loyce.     The elderly man caught the sharp-eyed man's gaze. For a split secondsomething passed between them.     A look rich with meaning.     Loyce got to his feet. The bus was moving. He ran to the door. One stepdown into the well. He yanked the emergency door release. The rubberdoor swung open.     Hey! the driver shouted, jamming on the brakes. What the hell—     Loyce squirmed through. The bus was slowing down. Houses on all sides. Aresidential district, lawns and tall apartment buildings. Behind him,the bright-eyed man had leaped up. The elderly man was also on his feet.They were coming after him.     Loyce leaped. He hit the pavement with terrific force and rolled againstthe curb. Pain lapped over him. Pain and a vast tide of blackness.Desperately, he fought it off. He struggled to his knees and then sliddown again. The bus had stopped. People were getting off.     Loyce groped around. His fingers closed over something. A rock, lying inthe gutter. He crawled to his feet, grunting with pain. A shape loomedbefore him. A man, the bright-eyed man with the book.     Loyce kicked. The man gasped and fell. Loyce brought the rock down. Theman screamed and tried to roll away.       Stop!     For God's sake listen—     He struck again. A hideous crunching sound. The man's voice cut off anddissolved in a bubbling wail. Loyce scrambled up and back. The otherswere there, now. All around him. He ran, awkwardly, down the sidewalk,up a driveway. None of them followed him. They had stopped and werebending over the inert body of the man with the book, the bright-eyedman who had come after him.     Had he made a mistake?     But it was too late to worry about that. He had to get out—away fromthem. Out of Pikeville, beyond the crack of darkness, the rent betweentheir world and his.  Ed! Janet Loyce backed away nervously. What is it? What—     Ed Loyce slammed the door behind him and came into the living room.Pull down the shades. Quick.     Janet moved toward the window. But—     Do as I say. Who else is here besides you?     Nobody. Just the twins. They're upstairs in their room. What'shappened? You look so strange. Why are you home?     Ed locked the front door. He prowled around the house, into the kitchen.From the drawer under the sink he slid out the big butcher knife and ranhis finger along it. Sharp. Plenty sharp. He returned to the livingroom.     Listen to me, he said. I don't have much time. They know I escapedand they'll be looking for me.     Escaped? Janet's face twisted with bewilderment and fear. Who?     The town has been taken over. They're in control. I've got it prettywell figured out. They started at the top, at the City Hall and policedepartment. What they did with the      real     humans they—     What are you talking about?     We've been invaded. From some other universe, some other dimension.They're insects. Mimicry. And more. Power to control minds. Your mind.     My mind?     Their entrance is      here     , in Pikeville. They've taken over all of you.The whole town—except me. We're up against an incredibly powerfulenemy, but they have their limitations. That's our hope. They'relimited! They can make mistakes!     Janet shook her head. I don't understand, Ed. You must be insane.     Insane? No. Just lucky. If I hadn't been down in the basement I'd belike all the rest of you. Loyce peered out the window. But I can'tstand here talking. Get your coat.     My coat?     We're getting out of here. Out of Pikeville. We've got to get help.Fight this thing. They      can     be beaten. They're not infallible. It'sgoing to be close—but we may make it if we hurry. Come on! He grabbedher arm roughly. Get your coat and call the twins. We're all leaving.Don't stop to pack. There's no time for that.     White-faced, his wife moved toward the closet and got down her coat.Where are we going?     Ed pulled open the desk drawer and spilled the contents out onto thefloor. He grabbed up a road map and spread it open. They'll have thehighway covered, of course. But there's a back road. To Oak Grove. I gotonto it once. It's practically abandoned. Maybe they'll forget aboutit.     The old Ranch Road? Good Lord—it's completely closed. Nobody'ssupposed to drive over it.     I know. Ed thrust the map grimly into his coat. That's our bestchance. Now call down the twins and let's get going. Your car is full ofgas, isn't it?     Janet was dazed.     The Chevy? I had it filled up yesterday afternoon. Janet moved towardthe stairs. Ed, I—     Call the twins! Ed unlocked the front door and peered out. Nothingstirred. No sign of life. All right so far.     Come on downstairs, Janet called in a wavering voice. We're—goingout for awhile.     Now? Tommy's voice came.     Hurry up, Ed barked. Get down here, both of you.     Tommy appeared at the top of the stairs. I was doing my home work.We're starting fractions. Miss Parker says if we don't get this done—     You can forget about fractions. Ed grabbed his son as he came down thestairs and propelled him toward the door. Where's Jim?     He's coming.     Jim started slowly down the stairs. What's up, Dad?     We're going for a ride.     A ride? Where?     Ed turned to Janet. We'll leave the lights on. And the TV set. Go turnit on. He pushed her toward the set. So they'll think we're still—     He heard the buzz. And dropped instantly, the long butcher knife out.Sickened, he saw it coming down the stairs at him, wings a blur ofmotion as it aimed itself. It still bore a vague resemblance to Jimmy.It was small, a baby one. A brief glimpse—the thing hurtling at him,cold, multi-lensed inhuman eyes. Wings, body still clothed in yellowT-shirt and jeans, the mimic outline still stamped on it. A strangehalf-turn of its body as it reached him. What was it doing?     A stinger.     Loyce stabbed wildly at it. It retreated, buzzing frantically. Loycerolled and crawled toward the door. Tommy and Janet stood still asstatues, faces blank. Watching without expression. Loyce stabbed again.This time the knife connected. The thing shrieked and faltered. Itbounced against the wall and fluttered down.     Something lapped through his mind. A wall of force, energy, an alienmind probing into him. He was suddenly paralyzed. The mind entered hisown, touched against him briefly, shockingly. An utterly alien presence,settling over him—and then it flickered out as the thing collapsed in abroken heap on the rug.     It was dead. He turned it over with his foot. It was an insect, a fly ofsome kind. Yellow T-shirt, jeans. His son Jimmy.... He closed his mindtight. It was too late to think about that. Savagely he scooped up hisknife and headed toward the door. Janet and Tommy stood stone-still,neither of them moving.     The car was out. He'd never get through. They'd be waiting for him. Itwas ten miles on foot. Ten long miles over rough ground, gulleys andopen fields and hills of uncut forest. He'd have to go alone.     Loyce opened the door. For a brief second he looked back at his wife andson. Then he slammed the door behind him and raced down the porch steps.     A moment later he was on his way, hurrying swiftly through the darknesstoward the edge of town.  The early morning sunlight was blinding. Loyce halted, gasping forbreath, swaying back and forth. Sweat ran down in his eyes. His clothingwas torn, shredded by the brush and thorns through which he had crawled.Ten miles—on his hands and knees. Crawling, creeping through the night.His shoes were mud-caked. He was scratched and limping, utterlyexhausted.     But ahead of him lay Oak Grove.     He took a deep breath and started down the hill. Twice he stumbled andfell, picking himself up and trudging on. His ears rang. Everythingreceded and wavered. But he was there. He had got out, away fromPikeville.     A farmer in a field gaped at him. From a house a young woman watched inwonder. Loyce reached the road and turned onto it. Ahead of him was agasoline station and a drive-in. A couple of trucks, some chickenspecking in the dirt, a dog tied with a string.     The white-clad attendant watched suspiciously as he dragged himself upto the station. Thank God. He caught hold of the wall. I didn't thinkI was going to make it. They followed me most of the way. I could hearthem buzzing. Buzzing and flitting around behind me.     What happened? the attendant demanded. You in a wreck? A hold-up?     Loyce shook his head wearily. They have the whole town. The City Halland the police station. They hung a man from the lamppost. That was thefirst thing I saw. They've got all the roads blocked. I saw themhovering over the cars coming in. About four this morning I got beyondthem. I knew it right away. I could feel them leave. And then the suncame up.     The attendant licked his lip nervously. You're out of your head. Ibetter get a doctor.     Get me into Oak Grove, Loyce gasped. He sank down on the gravel.We've got to get started—cleaning them out. Got to get started rightaway.  They kept a tape recorder going all the time he talked. When he hadfinished the Commissioner snapped off the recorder and got to his feet.He stood for a moment, deep in thought. Finally he got out hiscigarettes and lit up slowly, a frown on his beefy face.     You don't believe me, Loyce said.     The Commissioner offered him a cigarette. Loyce pushed it impatientlyaway. Suit yourself. The Commissioner moved over to the window andstood for a time looking out at the town of Oak Grove. I believe you,he said abruptly.     Loyce sagged. Thank God.     So you got away. The Commissioner shook his head. You were down inyour cellar instead of at work. A freak chance. One in a million.     Loyce sipped some of the black coffee they had brought him. I have atheory, he murmured.     What is it?     About them. Who they are. They take over one area at a time. Startingat the top—the highest level of authority. Working down from there in awidening circle. When they're firmly in control they go on to the nexttown. They spread, slowly, very gradually. I think it's been going onfor a long time.     A long time?     Thousands of years. I don't think it's new.     Why do you say that?     When I was a kid.... A picture they showed us in Bible League. Areligious picture—an old print. The enemy gods, defeated by Jehovah.Moloch, Beelzebub, Moab, Baalin, Ashtaroth—     So?     They were all represented by figures. Loyce looked up at theCommissioner. Beelzebub was represented as—a giant fly.     The Commissioner grunted. An old struggle.     They've been defeated. The Bible is an account of their defeats. Theymake gains—but finally they're defeated.     Why defeated?     They can't get everyone. They didn't get me. And they never got theHebrews. The Hebrews carried the message to the whole world. Therealization of the danger. The two men on the bus. I think theyunderstood. Had escaped, like I did. He clenched his fists. I killedone of them. I made a mistake. I was afraid to take a chance.     The Commissioner nodded. Yes, they undoubtedly had escaped, as you did.Freak accidents. But the rest of the town was firmly in control. Heturned from the window. Well, Mr. Loyce. You seem to have figuredeverything out.     Not everything. The hanging man. The dead man hanging from thelamppost. I don't understand that.      Why?     Why did they deliberately hanghim there?     That would seem simple. The Commissioner smiled faintly.       Bait.          Loyce stiffened. His heart stopped beating. Bait? What do you mean?     To draw you out. Make you declare yourself. So they'd know who wasunder control—and who had escaped.     Loyce recoiled with horror. Then they      expected     failures! Theyanticipated— He broke off. They were ready with a trap.     And you showed yourself. You reacted. You made yourself known. TheCommissioner abruptly moved toward the door. Come along, Loyce. There'sa lot to do. We must get moving. There's no time to waste.     Loyce started slowly to his feet, numbed. And the man.      Who was theman?     I never saw him before. He wasn't a local man. He was a stranger.All muddy and dirty, his face cut, slashed—     There was a strange look on the Commissioner's face as he answered.Maybe, he said softly, you'll understand that, too. Come along withme, Mr. Loyce. He held the door open, his eyes gleaming. Loyce caught aglimpse of the street in front of the police station. Policemen, aplatform of some sort. A telephone pole—and a rope! Right this way,the Commissioner said, smiling coldly.  As the sun set, the vice-president of the Oak Grove Merchants' Bank cameup out of the vault, threw the heavy time locks, put on his hat andcoat, and hurried outside onto the sidewalk. Only a few people werethere, hurrying home to dinner.     Good night, the guard said, locking the door after him.     Good night, Clarence Mason murmured. He started along the streettoward his car. He was tired. He had been working all day down in thevault, examining the lay-out of the safety deposit boxes to see if therewas room for another tier. He was glad to be finished.     At the corner he halted. The street lights had not yet come on. Thestreet was dim. Everything was vague. He looked around—and froze.     From the telephone pole in front of the police station, something largeand shapeless hung. It moved a little with the wind.     What the hell was it?     Mason approached it warily. He wanted to get home. He was tired andhungry. He thought of his wife, his kids, a hot meal on the dinnertable. But there was something about the dark bundle, something ominousand ugly. The light was bad; he couldn't tell what it was. Yet it drewhim on, made him move closer for a better look. The shapeless thing madehim uneasy. He was frightened by it. Frightened—and fascinated.     And the strange part was that nobody else seemed to notice it.  ","The alien flies have multi-lensed inhuman eyes, wings, and a stinger. They are dark, coming from another dimension. They look like giant insects in their original form. When they move, they will produce a buzzing sound. They can mimic the appearance of humans, and they can control human minds. However, their mind control ability has its limit that they can control one area at one time, starting from the highest authority and widening down the control in a circle. When they control the whole town, they move to another area to continue. Their power flaw makes them unable to control everyone that someone may be overlooked. When that is the case, they set up a trap, using people who escape from the controlled town as bait to hang them in public, to lure people who are not under control to come to them by themselves. They anticipate their failures and are smart enough to make up for their flaws."
"What is the setting of the story? </s>     THE HANGING STRANGER     BY PHILIP K. DICK     ILLUSTRATED BY SMITH     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Science FictionAdventures Magazine December 1953. Extensive research did not uncoverany evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]     Ed had always been a practical man, when he saw something waswrong he tried to correct it. Then one day he saw    it   hanging in thetown square.    Five o'clock Ed Loyce washed up, tossed on his hat and coat, got his carout and headed across town toward his TV sales store. He was tired. Hisback and shoulders ached from digging dirt out of the basement andwheeling it into the back yard. But for a forty-year-old man he had doneokay. Janet could get a new vase with the money he had saved; and heliked the idea of repairing the foundations himself!     It was getting dark. The setting sun cast long rays over the scurryingcommuters, tired and grim-faced, women loaded down with bundles andpackages, students swarming home from the university, mixing with clerksand businessmen and drab secretaries. He stopped his Packard for a redlight and then started it up again. The store had been open without him;he'd arrive just in time to spell the help for dinner, go over therecords of the day, maybe even close a couple of sales himself. He droveslowly past the small square of green in the center of the street, thetown park. There were no parking places in front of LOYCE TV SALES ANDSERVICE. He cursed under his breath and swung the car in a U-turn. Againhe passed the little square of green with its lonely drinking fountainand bench and single lamppost.     From the lamppost something was hanging. A shapeless dark bundle,swinging a little with the wind. Like a dummy of some sort. Loyce rolleddown his window and peered out. What the hell was it? A display ofsome kind? Sometimes the Chamber of Commerce put up displays in thesquare.     Again he made a U-turn and brought his car around. He passed the parkand concentrated on the dark bundle. It wasn't a dummy. And if it was adisplay it was a strange kind. The hackles on his neck rose and heswallowed uneasily. Sweat slid out on his face and hands.     It was a body. A human body.  Look at it! Loyce snapped. Come on out here!     Don Fergusson came slowly out of the store, buttoning his pin-stripecoat with dignity. This is a big deal, Ed. I can't just leave the guystanding there.     See it? Ed pointed into the gathering gloom. The lamppost jutted upagainst the sky—the post and the bundle swinging from it. There it is.How the hell long has it been there? His voice rose excitedly. What'swrong with everybody? They just walk on past!     Don Fergusson lit a cigarette slowly. Take it easy, old man. There mustbe a good reason, or it wouldn't be there.     A reason! What kind of a reason?     Fergusson shrugged. Like the time the Traffic Safety Council put thatwrecked Buick there. Some sort of civic thing. How would I know?     Jack Potter from the shoe shop joined them. What's up, boys?     There's a body hanging from the lamppost, Loyce said. I'm going tocall the cops.     They must know about it, Potter said. Or otherwise it wouldn't bethere.     I got to get back in. Fergusson headed back into the store. Businessbefore pleasure.     Loyce began to get hysterical. You see it? You see it hanging there? Aman's body! A dead man!     Sure, Ed. I saw it this afternoon when I went out for coffee.     You mean it's been there all afternoon?     Sure. What's the matter? Potter glanced at his watch. Have to run.See you later, Ed.     Potter hurried off, joining the flow of people moving along thesidewalk. Men and women, passing by the park. A few glanced up curiouslyat the dark bundle—and then went on. Nobody stopped. Nobody paid anyattention.     I'm going nuts, Loyce whispered. He made his way to the curb andcrossed out into traffic, among the cars. Horns honked angrily at him.He gained the curb and stepped up onto the little square of green.     The man had been middle-aged. His clothing was ripped and torn, a graysuit, splashed and caked with dried mud. A stranger. Loyce had neverseen him before. Not a local man. His face was partly turned, away, andin the evening wind he spun a little, turning gently, silently. His skinwas gouged and cut. Red gashes, deep scratches of congealed blood. Apair of steel-rimmed glasses hung from one ear, dangling foolishly. Hiseyes bulged. His mouth was open, tongue thick and ugly blue.     For Heaven's sake, Loyce muttered, sickened. He pushed down his nauseaand made his way back to the sidewalk. He was shaking all over, withrevulsion—and fear.       Why?     Who was the man? Why was he hanging there? What did it mean?     And—why didn't anybody notice?     He bumped into a small man hurrying along the sidewalk. Watch it! theman grated, Oh, it's you, Ed.     Ed nodded dazedly. Hello, Jenkins.     What's the matter? The stationery clerk caught Ed's arm. You looksick.     The body. There in the park.     Sure, Ed. Jenkins led him into the alcove of LOYCE TV SALES ANDSERVICE. Take it easy.     Margaret Henderson from the jewelry store joined them. Somethingwrong?     Ed's not feeling well.     Loyce yanked himself free. How can you stand here? Don't you see it?For God's sake—     What's he talking about? Margaret asked nervously.     The body! Ed shouted. The body hanging there!     More people collected. Is he sick? It's Ed Loyce. You okay, Ed?     The body! Loyce screamed, struggling to get past them. Hands caught athim. He tore loose. Let me go! The police! Get the police!     Ed—     Better get a doctor!     He must be sick.     Or drunk.     Loyce fought his way through the people. He stumbled and half fell.Through a blur he saw rows of faces, curious, concerned, anxious. Menand women halting to see what the disturbance was. He fought past themtoward his store. He could see Fergusson inside talking to a man,showing him an Emerson TV set. Pete Foley in the back at the servicecounter, setting up a new Philco. Loyce shouted at them frantically.His voice was lost in the roar of traffic and the murmur around him.     Do something! he screamed. Don't stand there! Do something!Something's wrong! Something's happened! Things are going on!     The crowd melted respectfully for the two heavy-set cops movingefficiently toward Loyce.  Name? the cop with the notebook murmured.     Loyce. He mopped his forehead wearily. Edward C. Loyce. Listen to me.Back there—     Address? the cop demanded. The police car moved swiftly throughtraffic, shooting among the cars and buses. Loyce sagged against theseat, exhausted and confused. He took a deep shuddering breath.     1368 Hurst Road.     That's here in Pikeville?     That's right. Loyce pulled himself up with a violent effort. Listento me. Back there. In the square. Hanging from the lamppost—     Where were you today? the cop behind the wheel demanded.     Where? Loyce echoed.     You weren't in your shop, were you?     No. He shook his head. No, I was home. Down in the basement.     In the      basement     ?     Digging. A new foundation. Getting out the dirt to pour a cement frame.Why? What has that to do with—     Was anybody else down there with you?     No. My wife was downtown. My kids were at school. Loyce looked fromone heavy-set cop to the other. Hope flicked across his face, wild hope.You mean because I was down there I missed—the explanation? I didn'tget in on it? Like everybody else?     After a pause the cop with the notebook said: That's right. You missedthe explanation.     Then it's official? The body—it's      supposed     to be hanging there?     It's supposed to be hanging there. For everybody to see.     Ed Loyce grinned weakly. Good Lord. I guess I sort of went off the deepend. I thought maybe something had happened. You know, something likethe Ku Klux Klan. Some kind of violence. Communists or Fascists takingover. He wiped his face with his breast-pocket handkerchief, his handsshaking. I'm glad to know it's on the level.     It's on the level. The police car was getting near the Hall ofJustice. The sun had set. The streets were gloomy and dark. The lightshad not yet come on.     I feel better, Loyce said. I was pretty excited there, for a minute.I guess I got all stirred up. Now that I understand, there's no need totake me in, is there?     The two cops said nothing.     I should be back at my store. The boys haven't had dinner. I'm allright, now. No more trouble. Is there any need of—     This won't take long, the cop behind the wheel interrupted. A shortprocess. Only a few minutes.     I hope it's short, Loyce muttered. The car slowed down for astoplight. I guess I sort of disturbed the peace. Funny, gettingexcited like that and—     Loyce yanked the door open. He sprawled out into the street and rolledto his feet. Cars were moving all around him, gaining speed as the lightchanged. Loyce leaped onto the curb and raced among the people,burrowing into the swarming crowds. Behind him he heard sounds, shouts,people running.     They weren't cops. He had realized that right away. He knew every cop inPikeville. A man couldn't own a store, operate a business in a smalltown for twenty-five years without getting to know all the cops.     They weren't cops—and there hadn't been any explanation. Potter,Fergusson, Jenkins, none of them knew why it was there. They didn'tknow—and they didn't care.      That     was the strange part.     Loyce ducked into a hardware store. He raced toward the back, past thestartled clerks and customers, into the shipping room and through theback door. He tripped over a garbage can and ran up a flight of concretesteps. He climbed over a fence and jumped down on the other side,gasping and panting.     There was no sound behind him. He had got away.     He was at the entrance of an alley, dark and strewn with boards andruined boxes and tires. He could see the street at the far end. A streetlight wavered and came on. Men and women. Stores. Neon signs. Cars.     And to his right—the police station.     He was close, terribly close. Past the loading platform of a grocerystore rose the white concrete side of the Hall of Justice. Barredwindows. The police antenna. A great concrete wall rising up in thedarkness. A bad place for him to be near. He was too close. He had tokeep moving, get farther away from them.       Them?       Loyce moved cautiously down the alley. Beyond the police station was theCity Hall, the old-fashioned yellow structure of wood and gilded brassand broad cement steps. He could see the endless rows of offices, darkwindows, the cedars and beds of flowers on each side of the entrance.     And—something else.     Above the City Hall was a patch of darkness, a cone of gloom denser thanthe surrounding night. A prism of black that spread out and was lostinto the sky.     He listened. Good God, he could hear something. Something that made himstruggle frantically to close his ears, his mind, to shut out the sound.A buzzing. A distant, muted hum like a great swarm of bees.     Loyce gazed up, rigid with horror. The splotch of darkness, hanging overthe City Hall. Darkness so thick it seemed almost solid.      In the vortexsomething moved.     Flickering shapes. Things, descending from the sky,pausing momentarily above the City Hall, fluttering over it in a denseswarm and then dropping silently onto the roof.     Shapes. Fluttering shapes from the sky. From the crack of darkness thathung above him.     He was seeing—them.  For a long time Loyce watched, crouched behind a sagging fence in a poolof scummy water.     They were landing. Coming down in groups, landing on the roof of theCity Hall and disappearing inside. They had wings. Like giant insects ofsome kind. They flew and fluttered and came to rest—and then crawledcrab-fashion, sideways, across the roof and into the building.     He was sickened. And fascinated. Cold night wind blew around him and heshuddered. He was tired, dazed with shock. On the front steps of theCity Hall were men, standing here and there. Groups of men coming out ofthe building and halting for a moment before going on.     Were there more of them?     It didn't seem possible. What he saw descending from the black chasmweren't men. They were alien—from some other world, some otherdimension. Sliding through this slit, this break in the shell of theuniverse. Entering through this gap, winged insects from another realmof being.     On the steps of the City Hall a group of men broke up. A few movedtoward a waiting car. One of the remaining shapes started to re-enterthe City Hall. It changed its mind and turned to follow the others.     Loyce closed his eyes in horror. His senses reeled. He hung on tight,clutching at the sagging fence. The shape, the man-shape, had abruptlyfluttered up and flapped after the others. It flew to the sidewalk andcame to rest among them.     Pseudo-men. Imitation men. Insects with ability to disguise themselvesas men. Like other insects familiar to Earth. Protective coloration.Mimicry.     Loyce pulled himself away. He got slowly to his feet. It was night. Thealley was totally dark. But maybe they could see in the dark. Maybedarkness made no difference to them.     He left the alley cautiously and moved out onto the street. Men andwomen flowed past, but not so many, now. At the bus-stops stood waitinggroups. A huge bus lumbered along the street, its lights flashing in theevening gloom.     Loyce moved forward. He pushed his way among those waiting and when thebus halted he boarded it and took a seat in the rear, by the door. Amoment later the bus moved into life and rumbled down the street.  Loyce relaxed a little. He studied the people around him. Dulled, tiredfaces. People going home from work. Quite ordinary faces. None of thempaid any attention to him. All sat quietly, sunk down in their seats,jiggling with the motion of the bus.     The man sitting next to him unfolded a newspaper. He began to read thesports section, his lips moving. An ordinary man. Blue suit. Tie. Abusinessman, or a salesman. On his way home to his wife and family.     Across the aisle a young woman, perhaps twenty. Dark eyes and hair, apackage on her lap. Nylons and heels. Red coat and white angora sweater.Gazing absently ahead of her.     A high school boy in jeans and black jacket.     A great triple-chinned woman with an immense shopping bag loaded withpackages and parcels. Her thick face dim with weariness.     Ordinary people. The kind that rode the bus every evening. Going home totheir families. To dinner.     Going home—with their minds dead. Controlled, filmed over with the maskof an alien being that had appeared and taken possession of them, theirtown, their lives. Himself, too. Except that he happened to be deep inhis cellar instead of in the store. Somehow, he had been overlooked.They had missed him. Their control wasn't perfect, foolproof.     Maybe there were others.     Hope flickered in Loyce. They weren't omnipotent. They had made amistake, not got control of him. Their net, their field of control, hadpassed over him. He had emerged from his cellar as he had gone down.Apparently their power-zone was limited.     A few seats down the aisle a man was watching him. Loyce broke off hischain of thought. A slender man, with dark hair and a small mustache.Well-dressed, brown suit and shiny shoes. A book between his smallhands. He was watching Loyce, studying him intently. He turned quicklyaway.     Loyce tensed. One of      them     ? Or—another they had missed?     The man was watching him again. Small dark eyes, alive and clever.Shrewd. A man too shrewd for them—or one of the things itself, an alieninsect from beyond.     The bus halted. An elderly man got on slowly and dropped his token intothe box. He moved down the aisle and took a seat opposite Loyce.     The elderly man caught the sharp-eyed man's gaze. For a split secondsomething passed between them.     A look rich with meaning.     Loyce got to his feet. The bus was moving. He ran to the door. One stepdown into the well. He yanked the emergency door release. The rubberdoor swung open.     Hey! the driver shouted, jamming on the brakes. What the hell—     Loyce squirmed through. The bus was slowing down. Houses on all sides. Aresidential district, lawns and tall apartment buildings. Behind him,the bright-eyed man had leaped up. The elderly man was also on his feet.They were coming after him.     Loyce leaped. He hit the pavement with terrific force and rolled againstthe curb. Pain lapped over him. Pain and a vast tide of blackness.Desperately, he fought it off. He struggled to his knees and then sliddown again. The bus had stopped. People were getting off.     Loyce groped around. His fingers closed over something. A rock, lying inthe gutter. He crawled to his feet, grunting with pain. A shape loomedbefore him. A man, the bright-eyed man with the book.     Loyce kicked. The man gasped and fell. Loyce brought the rock down. Theman screamed and tried to roll away.       Stop!     For God's sake listen—     He struck again. A hideous crunching sound. The man's voice cut off anddissolved in a bubbling wail. Loyce scrambled up and back. The otherswere there, now. All around him. He ran, awkwardly, down the sidewalk,up a driveway. None of them followed him. They had stopped and werebending over the inert body of the man with the book, the bright-eyedman who had come after him.     Had he made a mistake?     But it was too late to worry about that. He had to get out—away fromthem. Out of Pikeville, beyond the crack of darkness, the rent betweentheir world and his.  Ed! Janet Loyce backed away nervously. What is it? What—     Ed Loyce slammed the door behind him and came into the living room.Pull down the shades. Quick.     Janet moved toward the window. But—     Do as I say. Who else is here besides you?     Nobody. Just the twins. They're upstairs in their room. What'shappened? You look so strange. Why are you home?     Ed locked the front door. He prowled around the house, into the kitchen.From the drawer under the sink he slid out the big butcher knife and ranhis finger along it. Sharp. Plenty sharp. He returned to the livingroom.     Listen to me, he said. I don't have much time. They know I escapedand they'll be looking for me.     Escaped? Janet's face twisted with bewilderment and fear. Who?     The town has been taken over. They're in control. I've got it prettywell figured out. They started at the top, at the City Hall and policedepartment. What they did with the      real     humans they—     What are you talking about?     We've been invaded. From some other universe, some other dimension.They're insects. Mimicry. And more. Power to control minds. Your mind.     My mind?     Their entrance is      here     , in Pikeville. They've taken over all of you.The whole town—except me. We're up against an incredibly powerfulenemy, but they have their limitations. That's our hope. They'relimited! They can make mistakes!     Janet shook her head. I don't understand, Ed. You must be insane.     Insane? No. Just lucky. If I hadn't been down in the basement I'd belike all the rest of you. Loyce peered out the window. But I can'tstand here talking. Get your coat.     My coat?     We're getting out of here. Out of Pikeville. We've got to get help.Fight this thing. They      can     be beaten. They're not infallible. It'sgoing to be close—but we may make it if we hurry. Come on! He grabbedher arm roughly. Get your coat and call the twins. We're all leaving.Don't stop to pack. There's no time for that.     White-faced, his wife moved toward the closet and got down her coat.Where are we going?     Ed pulled open the desk drawer and spilled the contents out onto thefloor. He grabbed up a road map and spread it open. They'll have thehighway covered, of course. But there's a back road. To Oak Grove. I gotonto it once. It's practically abandoned. Maybe they'll forget aboutit.     The old Ranch Road? Good Lord—it's completely closed. Nobody'ssupposed to drive over it.     I know. Ed thrust the map grimly into his coat. That's our bestchance. Now call down the twins and let's get going. Your car is full ofgas, isn't it?     Janet was dazed.     The Chevy? I had it filled up yesterday afternoon. Janet moved towardthe stairs. Ed, I—     Call the twins! Ed unlocked the front door and peered out. Nothingstirred. No sign of life. All right so far.     Come on downstairs, Janet called in a wavering voice. We're—goingout for awhile.     Now? Tommy's voice came.     Hurry up, Ed barked. Get down here, both of you.     Tommy appeared at the top of the stairs. I was doing my home work.We're starting fractions. Miss Parker says if we don't get this done—     You can forget about fractions. Ed grabbed his son as he came down thestairs and propelled him toward the door. Where's Jim?     He's coming.     Jim started slowly down the stairs. What's up, Dad?     We're going for a ride.     A ride? Where?     Ed turned to Janet. We'll leave the lights on. And the TV set. Go turnit on. He pushed her toward the set. So they'll think we're still—     He heard the buzz. And dropped instantly, the long butcher knife out.Sickened, he saw it coming down the stairs at him, wings a blur ofmotion as it aimed itself. It still bore a vague resemblance to Jimmy.It was small, a baby one. A brief glimpse—the thing hurtling at him,cold, multi-lensed inhuman eyes. Wings, body still clothed in yellowT-shirt and jeans, the mimic outline still stamped on it. A strangehalf-turn of its body as it reached him. What was it doing?     A stinger.     Loyce stabbed wildly at it. It retreated, buzzing frantically. Loycerolled and crawled toward the door. Tommy and Janet stood still asstatues, faces blank. Watching without expression. Loyce stabbed again.This time the knife connected. The thing shrieked and faltered. Itbounced against the wall and fluttered down.     Something lapped through his mind. A wall of force, energy, an alienmind probing into him. He was suddenly paralyzed. The mind entered hisown, touched against him briefly, shockingly. An utterly alien presence,settling over him—and then it flickered out as the thing collapsed in abroken heap on the rug.     It was dead. He turned it over with his foot. It was an insect, a fly ofsome kind. Yellow T-shirt, jeans. His son Jimmy.... He closed his mindtight. It was too late to think about that. Savagely he scooped up hisknife and headed toward the door. Janet and Tommy stood stone-still,neither of them moving.     The car was out. He'd never get through. They'd be waiting for him. Itwas ten miles on foot. Ten long miles over rough ground, gulleys andopen fields and hills of uncut forest. He'd have to go alone.     Loyce opened the door. For a brief second he looked back at his wife andson. Then he slammed the door behind him and raced down the porch steps.     A moment later he was on his way, hurrying swiftly through the darknesstoward the edge of town.  The early morning sunlight was blinding. Loyce halted, gasping forbreath, swaying back and forth. Sweat ran down in his eyes. His clothingwas torn, shredded by the brush and thorns through which he had crawled.Ten miles—on his hands and knees. Crawling, creeping through the night.His shoes were mud-caked. He was scratched and limping, utterlyexhausted.     But ahead of him lay Oak Grove.     He took a deep breath and started down the hill. Twice he stumbled andfell, picking himself up and trudging on. His ears rang. Everythingreceded and wavered. But he was there. He had got out, away fromPikeville.     A farmer in a field gaped at him. From a house a young woman watched inwonder. Loyce reached the road and turned onto it. Ahead of him was agasoline station and a drive-in. A couple of trucks, some chickenspecking in the dirt, a dog tied with a string.     The white-clad attendant watched suspiciously as he dragged himself upto the station. Thank God. He caught hold of the wall. I didn't thinkI was going to make it. They followed me most of the way. I could hearthem buzzing. Buzzing and flitting around behind me.     What happened? the attendant demanded. You in a wreck? A hold-up?     Loyce shook his head wearily. They have the whole town. The City Halland the police station. They hung a man from the lamppost. That was thefirst thing I saw. They've got all the roads blocked. I saw themhovering over the cars coming in. About four this morning I got beyondthem. I knew it right away. I could feel them leave. And then the suncame up.     The attendant licked his lip nervously. You're out of your head. Ibetter get a doctor.     Get me into Oak Grove, Loyce gasped. He sank down on the gravel.We've got to get started—cleaning them out. Got to get started rightaway.  They kept a tape recorder going all the time he talked. When he hadfinished the Commissioner snapped off the recorder and got to his feet.He stood for a moment, deep in thought. Finally he got out hiscigarettes and lit up slowly, a frown on his beefy face.     You don't believe me, Loyce said.     The Commissioner offered him a cigarette. Loyce pushed it impatientlyaway. Suit yourself. The Commissioner moved over to the window andstood for a time looking out at the town of Oak Grove. I believe you,he said abruptly.     Loyce sagged. Thank God.     So you got away. The Commissioner shook his head. You were down inyour cellar instead of at work. A freak chance. One in a million.     Loyce sipped some of the black coffee they had brought him. I have atheory, he murmured.     What is it?     About them. Who they are. They take over one area at a time. Startingat the top—the highest level of authority. Working down from there in awidening circle. When they're firmly in control they go on to the nexttown. They spread, slowly, very gradually. I think it's been going onfor a long time.     A long time?     Thousands of years. I don't think it's new.     Why do you say that?     When I was a kid.... A picture they showed us in Bible League. Areligious picture—an old print. The enemy gods, defeated by Jehovah.Moloch, Beelzebub, Moab, Baalin, Ashtaroth—     So?     They were all represented by figures. Loyce looked up at theCommissioner. Beelzebub was represented as—a giant fly.     The Commissioner grunted. An old struggle.     They've been defeated. The Bible is an account of their defeats. Theymake gains—but finally they're defeated.     Why defeated?     They can't get everyone. They didn't get me. And they never got theHebrews. The Hebrews carried the message to the whole world. Therealization of the danger. The two men on the bus. I think theyunderstood. Had escaped, like I did. He clenched his fists. I killedone of them. I made a mistake. I was afraid to take a chance.     The Commissioner nodded. Yes, they undoubtedly had escaped, as you did.Freak accidents. But the rest of the town was firmly in control. Heturned from the window. Well, Mr. Loyce. You seem to have figuredeverything out.     Not everything. The hanging man. The dead man hanging from thelamppost. I don't understand that.      Why?     Why did they deliberately hanghim there?     That would seem simple. The Commissioner smiled faintly.       Bait.          Loyce stiffened. His heart stopped beating. Bait? What do you mean?     To draw you out. Make you declare yourself. So they'd know who wasunder control—and who had escaped.     Loyce recoiled with horror. Then they      expected     failures! Theyanticipated— He broke off. They were ready with a trap.     And you showed yourself. You reacted. You made yourself known. TheCommissioner abruptly moved toward the door. Come along, Loyce. There'sa lot to do. We must get moving. There's no time to waste.     Loyce started slowly to his feet, numbed. And the man.      Who was theman?     I never saw him before. He wasn't a local man. He was a stranger.All muddy and dirty, his face cut, slashed—     There was a strange look on the Commissioner's face as he answered.Maybe, he said softly, you'll understand that, too. Come along withme, Mr. Loyce. He held the door open, his eyes gleaming. Loyce caught aglimpse of the street in front of the police station. Policemen, aplatform of some sort. A telephone pole—and a rope! Right this way,the Commissioner said, smiling coldly.  As the sun set, the vice-president of the Oak Grove Merchants' Bank cameup out of the vault, threw the heavy time locks, put on his hat andcoat, and hurried outside onto the sidewalk. Only a few people werethere, hurrying home to dinner.     Good night, the guard said, locking the door after him.     Good night, Clarence Mason murmured. He started along the streettoward his car. He was tired. He had been working all day down in thevault, examining the lay-out of the safety deposit boxes to see if therewas room for another tier. He was glad to be finished.     At the corner he halted. The street lights had not yet come on. Thestreet was dim. Everything was vague. He looked around—and froze.     From the telephone pole in front of the police station, something largeand shapeless hung. It moved a little with the wind.     What the hell was it?     Mason approached it warily. He wanted to get home. He was tired andhungry. He thought of his wife, his kids, a hot meal on the dinnertable. But there was something about the dark bundle, something ominousand ugly. The light was bad; he couldn't tell what it was. Yet it drewhim on, made him move closer for a better look. The shapeless thing madehim uneasy. He was frightened by it. Frightened—and fascinated.     And the strange part was that nobody else seemed to notice it.  ","The story happens in Pikeville town and Oak Grove town. The first scene occurs in the town park where the hanged body is. In the park, there is a lamppost, a drinking fountain, and a bench. Under the lamppost, the body is hanged. The second scene is in the car, where Ed has a conversation with the fake police. When Ed escapes from the fake police, he runs into a hardware store filled with customers and clerks. There is a back door in the shipping room, a garbage can next to the door, and concrete stairs outside the store towards the top of the fence. The other side of the fence is an entrance to an alley, which is filled with boards and ruined boxes and tires. Passing the loading platform of a grocery store stands one wall of the Hall of Justice. The wall is white with barred windows. The City Hall is next to the police station, with yellow wooden walls with brass cement steps. Cedars and flowers are planted on each side of the entrance. When Ed gets on the bus, the people sitting around him are all dull, tired, and quiet. No one pays attention to him. People seem to be normal: one is reading the newspaper, another with business suits sits quietly, and the other gazes absently towards the front. When Ed escapes from the bus, he runs into a residential district, pavement sides with tall apartment buildings and lawns. When Ed comes home, there are windows with shades in the living room. The house is a two-floor building. The twin’s room is upstairs. There is a basement in the house. In the kitchen, a butcher knife lies in the drawer under the sink. On his way to Oak Grove, rough ground, gullies, open fields, and forest are along the way. In Oak Grove, there is a gasoline station and drive-in. Several trucks park there—some chickens on the field and a dog tied with the string. In front of the police station in Oak Grove, a telephone pole is suitable to hang a human body."
"What is the plot of the story? </s>     THE HIGHEST MOUNTAIN     By BRYCE WALTON     Illustrated by BOB HAYES     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction June 1952.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        First one up this tallest summit in the Solar       System was a rotten egg ... a very rotten egg!        Bruce heard their feet on the gravel outside and got up reluctantly toopen the door for them. He'd been reading some of Byron's poems he'dsneaked aboard the ship; after that he had been on the point of dozingoff, and now one of those strangely realistic dreams would have to bepostponed for a while. Funny, those dreams. There were faces in them ofhuman beings, or of ghosts, and other forms that weren't human at all,but seemed real and alive—except that they were also just parts of alast unconscious desire to escape death. Maybe that was it.     'Oh that my young life were a lasting dream, my spirit not awakeningtill the beam of an eternity should bring the 'morrow, Bruce said. Hesmiled without feeling much of anything and added, Thanks, Mr. Poe.     Jacobs and Anhauser stood outside. The icy wind cut through and intoBruce, but he didn't seem to notice. Anhauser's bulk loomed even largerin the special cold-resisting suiting. Jacobs' thin face frowned slylyat Bruce.     Come on in, boys, and get warm, Bruce invited.     Hey, poet, you're still here! Anhauser said, looking astonished.     We thought you'd be running off somewhere, Jacobs said.     Bruce reached for the suit on its hook, started climbing into it.Where? he asked. Mars looks alike wherever you go. Where did youthink I'd be running to?     Any place just so it was away from here and us, Anhauser said.     I don't have to do that. You are going away from me. That takes careof that, doesn't it?     Ah, come on, get the hell out of there, Jacobs said. He pulled therevolver from its holster and pointed it at Bruce. We got to get somesleep. We're starting up that mountain at five in the morning.     I know, Bruce said. I'll be glad to see you climb the mountain.     Outside, in the weird light of the double moons, Bruce looked up at thegigantic overhang of the mountain. It was unbelievable. The mountaindidn't seem to belong here. He'd thought so when they'd first hit Marseight months back and discovered the other four rockets that had nevergot back to Earth—all lying side by side under the mountain's shadow,like little white chalk marks on a tallyboard.     They'd estimated its height at over 45,000 feet, which was a lot higherthan any mountain on Earth. Yet Mars was much older, geologically. Theentire face of the planet was smoothed into soft, undulating red hillsby erosion. And there in the middle of barren nothingness rose that oneincredible mountain. On certain nights when the stars were right, ithad seemed to Bruce as though it were pointing an accusing finger atEarth—or a warning one.  With Jacobs and Anhauser and the remainder of the crew of the ship,      Mars V     , seven judges sat in a semi-circle and Bruce stood there infront of them for the inquest.     In the middle of the half-moon of inquisition, with his long legsstretched out and his hands folded on his belly, sat Captain Terrence.His uniform was black. On his arm was the silver fist insignia of theConqueror Corps. Marsha Rennels sat on the extreme right and now therewas no emotion at all on her trim, neat face.     He remembered her as she had been years ago, but at the moment hewasn't looking very hard to see anything on her face. It was too late.They had gotten her young and it was too late.     Terrence's big, square face frowned a little. Bruce was aware suddenlyof the sound of the bleak, never-ending wind against the plastileneshelter. He remembered the strange misty shapes that had come to him inhis dreams, the voices that had called to him, and how disappointed hehad been when he woke from them.     This is a mere formality, Terrence finally said, since we all knowyou killed Lieutenant Doran a few hours ago. Marsha saw you kill him.Whatever you say goes on the record, of course.     For whom? Bruce asked.     What kind of question is that? For the authorities on Earth when weget back.     When you get back? Like the crews of those other four ships outthere? Bruce laughed without much humor.     Terrence rubbed a palm across his lips, dropped the hand quickly againto his belly. You want to make a statement or not? You shot Doran inthe head with a rifle. No provocation for the attack. You've wastedenough of my time with your damn arguments and anti-social behavior.This is a democratic group. Everyone has his say. But you've said toomuch, and done too much. Freedom doesn't allow you to go around killingfellow crew-members!     Any idea that there was any democracy or freedom left died on Venus,Bruce said.     Now we get another lecture! Terrence exploded. He leaned forward.You're sick, Bruce. They did a bad psych job on you. They should neverhave sent you on this trip. We need strength, all the strength we canfind. You don't belong here.     I know, Bruce agreed indifferently. I was drafted for this trip. Itold them I shouldn't be brought along. I said I didn't want any partof it.     Because you're afraid. You're not Conqueror material. That's why youbacked down when we all voted to climb the mountain. And what the devildoes Venus—?     Max Drexel's freckles slipped into the creases across his highforehead. Haven't you heard him expounding on the injustice done tothe Venusian aborigines, Captain? If you haven't, you aren't thoroughlyeducated to the crackpot idealism still infecting certain people.     I haven't heard it, Terrence admitted. What injustice?     Bruce said, I guess it couldn't really be considered an injusticeany longer. Values have changed too much. Doran and I were part of thecrew of that first ship to hit Venus, five years ago. Remember? Oneof the New Era's more infamous dates. Drexel says the Venusians wereaborigines. No one ever got a chance to find out. We ran into thisvillage. No one knows how old it was. There were intelligent beingsthere. One community left on the whole planet, maybe a few thousandinhabitants. They made their last mistake when they came out to greetus. Without even an attempt at communication, they were wiped out. Thevillage was burned and everything alive in it was destroyed.     Bruce felt the old weakness coming into his knees, the sweat beginningto run down his face. He took a deep breath and stood there before thecold nihilistic stares of fourteen eyes.     No, Bruce said. I apologize. None of you know what I'm talkingabout.     Terrence nodded. You're psycho. It's as simple as that. They pick themost capable for these conquests. Even the flights are processes ofelimination. Eventually we get the very best, the most resilient, thereal conquering blood. You just don't pass, Bruce. Listen, what do youthink gives you the right to stand here in judgment against the lawsof the whole Solar System?     There are plenty on Earth who agree with me, Bruce said. I can saywhat I think now because you can't do more than kill me and you'll dothat regardless....     He stopped. This was ridiculous, a waste of his time. And theirs. Theyhad established a kind of final totalitarianism since the New Era. Thepsychologists, the Pavlovian Reflex boys, had done that. If you didn'twant to be reconditioned to fit into the social machine like a humanvacuum tube, you kept your mouth shut. And for many, when the mouth waskept shut long enough, the mind pretty well forgot what it had wantedto open the mouth for in the first place.     A minority in both segments of a world split into two factions.Both had been warring diplomatically and sometimes physically, forcenturies, clung to old ideas of freedom, democracy, self-determinism,individualism. To most, the words had no meaning now. It was a questionof which set of conquering heroes could conquer the most space first.So far, only Venus had fallen. They had done a good, thorough jobthere. Four ships had come to Mars and their crews had disappeared.This was the fifth attempt—  Terrence said, why did you shoot Doran?     I didn't like him enough to take the nonsense he was handing me, andwhen he shot the— Bruce hesitated.     What? When he shot what?     Bruce felt an odd tingling in his stomach. The wind's voice seemed tosharpen and rise to a kind of wail.     All right, I'll tell you. I was sleeping, having a dream. Doran wokeme up. Marsha was with him. I'd forgotten about that geological job wewere supposed to be working on. I've had these dreams ever since we gothere.     What kind of dreams?     Someone laughed.     Just fantastic stuff. Ask your Pavlovian there, Bruce said. Peopletalk to me, and there are other things in the dreams. Voices and somekind of shapes that aren't what you would call human at all.     Someone coughed. There was obvious embarrassment in the room.     It's peculiar, but many faces and voices are those of crew members ofsome of the ships out there, the ones that never got back to Earth.     Terrence grinned. Ghosts, Bruce?     Maybe. This planet may not be a dead ball of clay. I've had a feelingthere's something real in the dreams, but I can't figure it out.You're still interested?     Terrence nodded and glanced to either side.     We've seen no indication of any kind of life whatsoever, Brucepointed out. Not even an insect, or any kind of plant life except somefungi and lichen down in the crevices. That never seemed logical to mefrom the start. We've covered the planet everywhere except one place—     The mountain, Terrence said. You've been afraid even to talk aboutscaling it.     Not afraid, Bruce objected. I don't see any need to climb it. Comingto Mars, conquering space, isn't that enough? It happens that the crewof the first ship here decided to climb the mountain, and that set aprecedent. Every ship that has come here has had to climb it. Why?Because they had to accept the challenge. And what's happened to them?Like you, they all had the necessary equipment to make a successfulclimb, but no one's ever come back down. No contact with anything upthere.     Captain, I'm not accepting a ridiculous challenge like that. Whyshould I? I didn't come here to conquer anything, even a mountain. Thechallenge of coming to Mars, of going on to where ever you guys intendgoing before something bigger than you are stops you—it doesn'tinterest me.     Nothing's bigger than the destiny of Earth! Terrence said, sitting upstraight and rigid.     I know, Bruce said. Anyway, I got off the track. As I was saying,I woke up from this dream and Marsha and Doran were there. Doran wasshaking me. But I didn't seem to have gotten entirely awake; eitherthat or some part of the dream was real, because I looked out thewindow—something was out there, looking at me. It was late, and atfirst I thought it might be a shadow. But it wasn't. It was misty,almost translucent, but I think it was something alive. I had a feelingit was intelligent, maybe very intelligent. I could feel something inmy mind. A kind of beauty and softness and warmth. I kept looking—     His throat was getting tight. He had difficulty talking. Doran askedme what I was looking at, and I told him. He laughed. But he looked.Then I realized that maybe I wasn't still dreaming. Doran saw it, too,or thought he did. He kept looking and finally he jumped and grabbed uphis rifle and ran outside. I yelled at him. I kept on yelling and ranafter him. 'It's intelligent, whatever it is!' I kept saying. 'How doyou know it means any harm?' But I heard Doran's rifle go off before Icould get to him. And whatever it was we saw, I didn't see it any more.Neither did Doran. Maybe he killed it. I don't know. He had to kill it.That's the way you think.     What? Explain that remark.     That's the philosophy of conquest—don't take any chances withaliens. They might hinder our advance across the Universe. So we killeverything. Doran acted without thinking at all. Conditioned to killeverything that doesn't look like us. So I hit Doran and took the gunaway from him and killed him. I felt sick, crazy with rage. Maybethat's part of it. All I know is that I thought he deserved to die andthat I had to kill him, so I did.     Is that all, Bruce?     That's about all. Except that I'd like to kill all of you. And I wouldif I had the chance.     That's what I figured. Terrence turned to the psychologist, a smallwiry man who sat there constantly fingering his ear. Stromberg, whatdo you think of this gobbledegook? We know he's crazy. But what hithim? You said his record was good up until a year ago.     Stromberg's voice was monotonous, like a voice off of a tape.Schizophrenia with mingled delusions of persecution. The schizophreniais caused by inner conflict—indecision between the older values andour present ones which he hasn't been able to accept. A complete casehistory would tell why he can't accept our present attitudes. I wouldsay that he has an incipient fear of personal inadequacy, which is whyhe fears our desire for conquest. He's rationalized, built up a defensewhich he's structured with his idealism, foundationed with Old Eravalues. Retreat into the past, an escape from his own present feelingsof inadequacy. Also, he escapes into these dream fantasies.     Yes, Terrence said. But how does that account for Doran's action?Doran must have seen something—     Doran's charts show high suggestibility under stress. Another weakpersonality eliminated. Let's regard it that way. He      imagined     he sawsomething. He glanced at Marsha. Did      you     see anything?     She hesitated, avoiding Bruce's eyes. Nothing at all. There wasn'tanything out there to see, except the dust and rocks. That's all thereis to see here. We could stay a million years and never see anythingelse. A shadow maybe—     All right, Terrence interrupted. Now, Bruce, you know the lawregulating the treatment of serious psycho cases in space?     Yes. Execution.     No facilities for handling such cases en route back to Earth.     I understand. No apologies necessary, Captain.     Terrence shifted his position. However, we've voted to grant youa kind of leniency. In exchange for a little further service fromyou, you can remain here on Mars after we leave. You'll be leftfood-concentrates to last a long time.     What kind of service?     Stay by the radio and take down what we report as we go up themountain.     Why not? Bruce said. You aren't certain you're coming back, then?     We might not, Terrence admitted calmly. Something's happened to theothers. We're going to find out what and we want it recorded. None ofus want to back down and stay here. You can take our reports as theycome in.     I'll do that, Bruce said. It should be interesting.  Bruce watched them go, away and up and around the immediate face ofthe mountain in the bleak cold of the Martian morning. He watched themdisappear behind a high ledge, tied together with plastic rope likeconvicts.     He stayed by the radio. He lost track of time and didn't care muchif he did. Sometimes he took a heavy sedative and slept. The sedativeprevented the dreams. He had an idea that the dreams might be sopleasant that he wouldn't wake up. He wanted to listen to Terrence aslong as the captain had anything to say. It was nothing but curiosity.     At fifteen thousand feet, Terrence reported only that they wereclimbing.     At twenty thousand feet, Terrence said, We're still climbing, andthat's all I can report, Bruce. It's worth coming to Mars for—toaccept a challenge like this!     At twenty-five thousand feet, Terrence reported, We've put on oxygenmasks. Jacobs and Drexel have developed some kind of altitude sicknessand we're taking a little time out. It's a magnificent sight up here. Ican imagine plenty of tourists coming to Mars one of these days, justto climb this mountain! Mt. Everest is a pimple compared with this!What a feeling of power, Bruce!     From forty thousand feet, Terrence said, We gauged this mountainat forty-five thousand. But here we are at forty and there doesn'tseem to be any top. We can see up and up and the mountain keeps ongoing. I don't understand how we could have made such an error in ourcomputations. I talked with Burton. He doesn't see how a mountain thishigh could still be here when the rest of the planet has been worn sosmooth.     And then from fifty-three thousand feet, Terrence said with a voicethat seemed slightly strained: No sign of any of the crew of the otherfour ships yet. Ten in each crew, that makes fifty. Not a sign of anyof them so far, but then we seem to have a long way left to climb—     Bruce listened and noted and took sedatives and opened cans of foodconcentrates. He smoked and ate and slept. He had plenty of time. Hehad only time and the dreams which he knew he could utilize later totake care of the time.     From sixty thousand feet, Terrence reported, I had to shoot Anhausera few minutes ago! He was dissenting. Hear that, Bruce? One of my mostdependable men. We took a vote. A mere formality, of course, whetherwe should continue climbing or not. We knew we'd all vote to keep onclimbing. And then Anhauser dissented. He was hysterical. He refusedto accept the majority decision. 'I'm going back down!' he yelled.So I had to shoot him. Imagine a man of his apparent caliber turninganti-democratic like that! This mountain will be a great tester forus in the future. We'll test everybody, find out quickly who theweaklings are.     Bruce listened to the wind. It seemed to rise higher and higher.Terrence, who had climbed still higher, was calling. Think of it! Whata conquest! No man's ever done a thing like this. Like Stromberg says,it's symbolic! We can build spaceships and reach other planets, butthat's not actual physical conquest. We feel like gods up here. We cansee what we are now. We can see how it's going to be—     Once in a while Terrence demanded that Bruce say something to prove hewas still there taking down what Terrence said. Bruce obliged. A longtime passed, the way time does when no one cares. Bruce stopped takingthe sedatives finally. The dreams came back and became, somehow, morereal each time. He needed the companionship of the dreams.     It was very lonely sitting there without the dreams, with nothing butTerrence's voice ranting excitedly on and on. Terrence didn't seem realany more; certainly not as real as the dreams.  The problem of where to put the line between dream and reality began toworry Bruce. He would wake up and listen and take down what Terrencewas saying, and then go to sleep again with increasing expectancy. Hisdream took on continuity. He could return to the point where he hadleft it, and it was the same—allowing even for the time differencenecessitated by his periods of sleep.     He met people in the dreams, two girls and a man. They had names:Pietro, Marlene, Helene.     Helene he had seen from the beginning, but she became more real tohim all the time, until he could talk with her. After that, he couldalso talk with Marlene and Pietro, and the conversations made sense.Consistently, they made sense.     The Martian landscape was entirely different in the dreams. Greenvalleys and rivers, or actually wide canals, with odd trees trailingtheir branches on the slow, peacefully gliding currents. Here and therewere pastel-colored cities and there were things drifting through themthat were alive and intelligent and soft and warm and wonderful to know.     '      ... dreams, in their vivid coloring of life, as in that fleeting,shadowy, misty strife of semblance with reality which brings to thedelirious eye more lovely things of paradise and love—and all ourown!—than young Hope in his sunniest hour hath known....     '     So sometimes he read poetry, but even that was hardly equal to thedreams.     And then he would wake up and listen to Terrence's voice. He wouldlook out the window over the barren frigid land where there was nothingbut seams of worn land, like scabs under the brazen sky.     If I had a choice, he thought, I wouldn't ever wake up at all again.The dreams may not be more real, but they're preferable.     Dreams were supposed to be wishful thinking, primarily, but hecouldn't live in them very long. His body would dry up and he woulddie. He had to stay awake enough to put a little energy back intohimself. Of course, if he died and lost the dreams, there would be onecompensation—he would also be free of Terrence and the rest of themwho had learned that the only value in life lay in killing one's wayacross the Cosmos.     But then he had a feeling Terrence's voice wouldn't be annoying himmuch more anyway. The voice was unreal, coming out of some void. Hecould switch off Terrence any time now, but he was still curious.     Bruce—Bruce, you still there? Listen, we're up here at what we figureto be five hundred thousand feet! It      is     impossible. We keep climbingand now we look up and we can see up and up and there the mountain isgoing up and up—     And some time later: Bruce, Marsha's dying! We don't know what's thematter. We can't find any reason for it. She's lying here and she keepslaughing and calling your name. She's a woman, so that's probably it.Women don't have real guts.     Bruce bent toward the radio. Outside the shelter, the wind whistledsoftly at the door.     Marsha, he said.     Bruce—     She hadn't said his name that way for a long time.     Marsha, remember how we used to talk about human values? I rememberhow you seemed to have something maybe different from the others. Inever thought you'd really buy this will to conquer, and now it doesn'tmatter....     He listened to her voice, first the crazy laughter, and then a whisper.Bruce, hello down there. Her voice was all mixed up with fear andhysteria and mockery. Bruce darling, are you lonely down there? I wishI were with you, safe ... free ... warm. I love you. Do you hear that?I really love you, after all. After all....       Her voice drifted away, came back to him. We're climbing the highestmountain. What are you doing there, relaxing where it's peaceful andwarm and sane? You always were such a calm guy. I remember now. Whatare you doing—reading poetry while we climb the mountain? What wasthat, Bruce—that one about the mountain you tried to quote to me lastnight before you ... I can't remember it now. Darling, what...?  He stared at the radio. He hesitated, reached out and switched on themike. He got through to her.     Hello, hello, darling, he whispered. Marsha, can you hear me?     Yes, yes. You down there, all warm and cozy, reading poetry, darling.Where you can see both ways instead of just up and down, up and down.     He tried to imagine where she was now as he spoke to her, how shelooked. He thought of Earth and how it had been there, years ago, withMarsha. Things had seemed so different then. There was something ofthat hope in his voice now as he spoke to her, yet not directly to her,as he looked out the window at the naked frigid sky and the barrenrocks.   '... and there is nowhere to go from the top of a mountain, But down, my dear; And the springs that flow on the floor of the valley Will never seem fresh or clear For thinking of the glitter of the mountain water In the feathery green of the year....'    The wind stormed over the shelter in a burst of power, buried the soundof his own voice.     Marsha, are you still there?     What the devil's the idea, poetry at a time like this, or any time?Terrence demanded. Listen, you taking this down? We haven't run intoany signs of the others. Six hundred thousand feet, Bruce! We feel ourdestiny. We conquer the Solar System. And we'll go out and out, andwe'll climb the highest mountain, the highest mountain anywhere. We'regoing up and up. We've voted on it. Unanimous. We go on. On to thetop, Bruce! Nothing can stop us. If it takes ten years, a hundred, athousand years, we'll find it. We'll find the top! Not the top of thisworld—the top of      everything     . The top of the  UNIVERSE  !     Later, Terrence's voice broke off in the middle of something orother—Bruce couldn't make any sense out of it at all—and turned intocrazy yells that faded out and never came back.     Bruce figured the others might still be climbing somewhere, or maybethey were dead. Either way it wouldn't make any difference to him. Heknew they would never come back down.     He was switching off the radio for good when he saw the colorationbreak over the window. It was the same as the dream, but for aninstant, dream and reality seemed fused like two superimposed filmnegatives.     He went to the window and looked out. The comfortable little city wasout there, and the canal flowing past through a pleasantly cool yetsunny afternoon. Purple mist blanketed the knees of low hills and therewas a valley, green and rich with the trees high and full beside thesoftly flowing canal water.     The filmy shapes that seemed alive, that were partly translucent,drifted along the water's edge, and birds as delicate as colored glasswavered down the wind.     He opened the shelter door and went out. The shelter looked the same,but useless now. How did the shelter of that bleak world get into thisone, where the air was warm and fragrant, where there was no cold, fromthat world into this one of his dreams?     The girl—Helene—was standing there leaning against a tree, smoking acigarette.     He walked toward her, and stopped. In the dream it had been easy, butnow he was embarrassed, in spite of the intimacy that had grown betweenthem. She wore the same casual slacks and sandals. Her hair was brown.She was not particularly beautiful, but she was comfortable to look atbecause she seemed so peaceful. Content, happy with what was and onlywhat was.     He turned quickly. The shelter was still there, and behind it the rowof spaceships—not like chalk marks on a tallyboard now, but like oddrelics that didn't belong there in the thick green grass. Five shipsinstead of four.     There was his own individual shelter beyond the headquarters building,and the other buildings. He looked up.     There was no mountain.  For one shivery moment he knew fear. And then the fear went away, andhe was ashamed of what he had felt. What he had feared was gone now,and he knew it was gone for good and he would never have to fear itagain.     Look here, Bruce. I wondered how long it would take to get it throughthat thick poetic head of yours!     Get what? He began to suspect what it was all about now, but hewasn't quite sure yet.     Smoke? she said.     He took one of the cigarettes and she lighted it for him and put thelighter back into her pocket.     It's real nice here, she said. Isn't it?     I guess it's about perfect.     It'll be easy. Staying here, I mean. We won't be going to Earth everagain, you know.     I didn't      know     that, but I didn't      think     we ever would again.     We wouldn't want to anyway, would we, Bruce?     No.     He kept on looking at the place where the mountain had been. Or maybeit still was; he couldn't make up his mind yet. Which was and which wasnot? That barren icy world without life, or this?     '      Is all that we see or seem     ,' he whispered, half to himself, '      buta dream within a dream?     '     She laughed softly. Poe was ahead of his time, she said. You stilldon't get it, do you? You don't know what's been happening?     Maybe I don't.     She shrugged, and looked in the direction of the ships. Poor guys. Ican't feel much hatred toward them now. The Martians give you a lot ofunderstanding of the human mind—after they've accepted you, and afteryou've lived with them awhile. But the mountain climbers—we can seenow—it's just luck, chance, we weren't like them. A deviant is a childof chance.     Yes, Bruce said. There's a lot of people like us on Earth, butthey'll never get the chance—the chance we seem to have here, to livedecently....     You're beginning to see now which was the dream, she said andsmiled. But don't be pessimistic. Those people on Earth will get theirchance, too, one of these fine days. The Conquerors aren't getting far.Venus, and then Mars, and Mars is where they stop. They'll keep cominghere and climbing the mountain and finally there won't be any more. Itwon't take so long.     She rose to her toes and waved and yelled. Bruce saw Pietro and Marlenewalking hand in hand up the other side of the canal. They waved backand called and then pushed off into the water in a small boat, anddrifted away and out of sight around a gentle turn.     She took his arm and they walked along the canal toward where themountain had been, or still was—he didn't know.     A quarter of a mile beyond the canal, he saw the high mound of red,naked hill, corroded and ugly, rising up like a scar of the surroundinggreen.     She wasn't smiling now. There were shadows on her face as the pressureon his arm stopped him.     I was on the first ship and Marlene on the second. None like us on thethird, and on the fourth ship was Pietro. All the others had to climbthe mountain— She stopped talking for a moment, and then he felt thepressure of her fingers on his arm. I'm very glad you came on thefifth, she whispered. Are you glad now?     I'm very glad, he said.     The Martians tested us, she explained. They're masters of the mind.I guess they've been grinding along through the evolutionary milla darn long time, longer than we could estimate now. They learnedthe horror we're capable of from the first ship—the Conquerors,the climbers. The Martians knew more like them would come and go oninto space, killing, destroying for no other reason than their ownsickness. Being masters of the mind, the Martians are also capableof hypnosis—no, that's not really the word, only the closest ourlanguage comes to naming it. Suggestion so deep and strong that itseems real to one human or a million or a billion; there's no limit tothe number that can be influenced. What the people who came off thoseships saw wasn't real. It was partly what the Martians wanted them tosee and feel—but most of it, like the desire to climb the mountain,was as much a part of the Conquerors' own psychic drive as it was thesuggestion of the Martians.     She waved her arm slowly to describe a peak. The Martians made themountain real. So real that it could be seen from space, measured byinstruments ... even photographed and chipped for rock samples. Butyou'll see how that was done, Bruce, and realize that this and not themountain of the Conquerors is the reality of Mars. This is the Mars noConqueror will ever see.  They walked toward the ugly red mound that jutted above the green. Whenthey came close enough, he saw the bodies lying there ... the remains,actually, of what had once been bodies. He felt too sickened to go onwalking.     It may seem cruel now, she said, but the Martians realized thatthere is no cure for the will to conquer. There is no safety from it,either, as the people of Earth and Venus discovered, unless it isgiven an impossible obstacle to overcome. So the Martians provided theConquerors with a mountain. They themselves wanted to climb. They hadto.     He was hardly listening as he walked away from Helene toward the erodedhills. The crew members of the first four ships were skeletons tiedtogether with imperishably strong rope about their waists. Far beyondthem were those from      Mars V     , too freshly dead to have decayedmuch ... Anhauser with his rope cut, a bullet in his head; Jacobs andMarsha and the others ... Terrence much past them all. He had managedto climb higher than anyone else and he lay with his arms stretchedout, his fingers still clutching at rock outcroppings.     The trail they left wound over the ground, chipped in places for holds,red elsewhere with blood from torn hands. Terrence was more than twelvemiles from the ship—horizontally.     Bruce lifted Marsha and carried her back over the rocky dust, into thefresh fragrance of the high grass, and across it to the shade and peacebeside the canal.     He put her down. She looked peaceful enough, more peaceful than thatother time, years ago, when the two of them seemed to have shared somuch, when the future had not yet destroyed her. He saw the shadow ofHelene bend across Marsha's face against the background of the silentlyflowing water of the cool, green canal.     You loved her?     Once, Bruce said. She might have been sane. They got her when shewas young. Too young to fight. But she would have, I think, if she'dbeen older when they got her.     He sat looking down at Marsha's face, and then at the water with theleaves floating down it.     '... And the springs that flow on the floor of the valley will neverseem fresh or clear for thinking of the glitter of the mountain waterin the feathery green of the year....'     He stood up, walked back with Helene along the canal toward the calmcity. He didn't look back.     They've all been dead quite a while, Bruce said wonderingly. YetI seemed to be hearing from Terrence until only a short time ago.Are—are the climbers still climbing—somewhere, Helene?     Who knows? Helene answered softly. Maybe. I doubt if even theMartians have the answer to that.     They entered the city.   ","The story is set on Mars. A group of conquerors from Earth arrived here after the last four crews never returned after deciding to climb a very high Martian mountain. The fifth team with Bruce, Marsha - his past love interest, Anhauser, Jacobs, Doran, Max Drexel, Stromberg - the psychologist, and its captain Terrence arrived here on their ship Mars V eight months ago. A day before the ascent Bruce is reading Byron and thinking about his bizarre dreams. Then we see an inquest. With all the crew members listening, Terrence interrogates Bruce and asks why he shot Doran. Bruce reminds the crew about the genocide of the Venusian aborigines: five years ago, he and Doran were part of the crew of the first ship that landed on Venus; these explorers wiped out the entire Venusian community. Terrence claims that Bruce is mentally ill and doesn’t have the real conquering blood. The captain understands the young man doesn’t believe in the philosophy of conquering and remains faithful to the old ideas of democracy and freedom. Bruce then explains that Marsha and Doran woke him up after a bizarre dream, and he immediately saw something or someone in the window. When Doran saw the creature, he left the room, and Bruce heard his rifle go off. Infuriated, Bruce killed the man. Stromberg deems Bruce a delusional schizophrenic and says that Doran probably imagined the creature, too. Instead of punishing the man by executing him, Terrence orders Bruce to write down everything they report via radio while they are climbing. He stays by the radio, eats what they left for him, and sometimes sleeps. Eventually, Terrence reports that the mountain is way higher than they anticipated - 45 00 feet. Later, he screams that he just killed Anhauser for dissent. The captain speaks of their great conquest, and Bruce sometimes replies to prove he's still writing down everything. His dreams become more realistic and he seems to see some crew members of the previous expeditions: Pietro, Marlene, and Helene. Terrence reports that they are at an altitude of five hundred thousand feet and later adds that Marsha is dying. She says she loves Bruce, and he recites a poem for her. Terrence later crazily speaks about toppling the Solar system but soon stops reporting. Bruce turns off the radio. The exterior of the ship changes - now he sees a small town and the grandiose mountain vanished. Not sure if it’s a dream or not, he approaches Helene, who eventually explains that the Martians wanted to stop the human conquerors. They decided to create an illusion of an infinitely high mountain, and the colonists felt an uncontrollable urge to climb it. They both walk to a red mound, where Bruce notices the bodies of the crew members of all five ships. Only people like him remained alive. Bruce looks at them and, together with Helene, leaves the mound, entering the city."
"Describe the setting of the story. </s>     THE HIGHEST MOUNTAIN     By BRYCE WALTON     Illustrated by BOB HAYES     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction June 1952.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        First one up this tallest summit in the Solar       System was a rotten egg ... a very rotten egg!        Bruce heard their feet on the gravel outside and got up reluctantly toopen the door for them. He'd been reading some of Byron's poems he'dsneaked aboard the ship; after that he had been on the point of dozingoff, and now one of those strangely realistic dreams would have to bepostponed for a while. Funny, those dreams. There were faces in them ofhuman beings, or of ghosts, and other forms that weren't human at all,but seemed real and alive—except that they were also just parts of alast unconscious desire to escape death. Maybe that was it.     'Oh that my young life were a lasting dream, my spirit not awakeningtill the beam of an eternity should bring the 'morrow, Bruce said. Hesmiled without feeling much of anything and added, Thanks, Mr. Poe.     Jacobs and Anhauser stood outside. The icy wind cut through and intoBruce, but he didn't seem to notice. Anhauser's bulk loomed even largerin the special cold-resisting suiting. Jacobs' thin face frowned slylyat Bruce.     Come on in, boys, and get warm, Bruce invited.     Hey, poet, you're still here! Anhauser said, looking astonished.     We thought you'd be running off somewhere, Jacobs said.     Bruce reached for the suit on its hook, started climbing into it.Where? he asked. Mars looks alike wherever you go. Where did youthink I'd be running to?     Any place just so it was away from here and us, Anhauser said.     I don't have to do that. You are going away from me. That takes careof that, doesn't it?     Ah, come on, get the hell out of there, Jacobs said. He pulled therevolver from its holster and pointed it at Bruce. We got to get somesleep. We're starting up that mountain at five in the morning.     I know, Bruce said. I'll be glad to see you climb the mountain.     Outside, in the weird light of the double moons, Bruce looked up at thegigantic overhang of the mountain. It was unbelievable. The mountaindidn't seem to belong here. He'd thought so when they'd first hit Marseight months back and discovered the other four rockets that had nevergot back to Earth—all lying side by side under the mountain's shadow,like little white chalk marks on a tallyboard.     They'd estimated its height at over 45,000 feet, which was a lot higherthan any mountain on Earth. Yet Mars was much older, geologically. Theentire face of the planet was smoothed into soft, undulating red hillsby erosion. And there in the middle of barren nothingness rose that oneincredible mountain. On certain nights when the stars were right, ithad seemed to Bruce as though it were pointing an accusing finger atEarth—or a warning one.  With Jacobs and Anhauser and the remainder of the crew of the ship,      Mars V     , seven judges sat in a semi-circle and Bruce stood there infront of them for the inquest.     In the middle of the half-moon of inquisition, with his long legsstretched out and his hands folded on his belly, sat Captain Terrence.His uniform was black. On his arm was the silver fist insignia of theConqueror Corps. Marsha Rennels sat on the extreme right and now therewas no emotion at all on her trim, neat face.     He remembered her as she had been years ago, but at the moment hewasn't looking very hard to see anything on her face. It was too late.They had gotten her young and it was too late.     Terrence's big, square face frowned a little. Bruce was aware suddenlyof the sound of the bleak, never-ending wind against the plastileneshelter. He remembered the strange misty shapes that had come to him inhis dreams, the voices that had called to him, and how disappointed hehad been when he woke from them.     This is a mere formality, Terrence finally said, since we all knowyou killed Lieutenant Doran a few hours ago. Marsha saw you kill him.Whatever you say goes on the record, of course.     For whom? Bruce asked.     What kind of question is that? For the authorities on Earth when weget back.     When you get back? Like the crews of those other four ships outthere? Bruce laughed without much humor.     Terrence rubbed a palm across his lips, dropped the hand quickly againto his belly. You want to make a statement or not? You shot Doran inthe head with a rifle. No provocation for the attack. You've wastedenough of my time with your damn arguments and anti-social behavior.This is a democratic group. Everyone has his say. But you've said toomuch, and done too much. Freedom doesn't allow you to go around killingfellow crew-members!     Any idea that there was any democracy or freedom left died on Venus,Bruce said.     Now we get another lecture! Terrence exploded. He leaned forward.You're sick, Bruce. They did a bad psych job on you. They should neverhave sent you on this trip. We need strength, all the strength we canfind. You don't belong here.     I know, Bruce agreed indifferently. I was drafted for this trip. Itold them I shouldn't be brought along. I said I didn't want any partof it.     Because you're afraid. You're not Conqueror material. That's why youbacked down when we all voted to climb the mountain. And what the devildoes Venus—?     Max Drexel's freckles slipped into the creases across his highforehead. Haven't you heard him expounding on the injustice done tothe Venusian aborigines, Captain? If you haven't, you aren't thoroughlyeducated to the crackpot idealism still infecting certain people.     I haven't heard it, Terrence admitted. What injustice?     Bruce said, I guess it couldn't really be considered an injusticeany longer. Values have changed too much. Doran and I were part of thecrew of that first ship to hit Venus, five years ago. Remember? Oneof the New Era's more infamous dates. Drexel says the Venusians wereaborigines. No one ever got a chance to find out. We ran into thisvillage. No one knows how old it was. There were intelligent beingsthere. One community left on the whole planet, maybe a few thousandinhabitants. They made their last mistake when they came out to greetus. Without even an attempt at communication, they were wiped out. Thevillage was burned and everything alive in it was destroyed.     Bruce felt the old weakness coming into his knees, the sweat beginningto run down his face. He took a deep breath and stood there before thecold nihilistic stares of fourteen eyes.     No, Bruce said. I apologize. None of you know what I'm talkingabout.     Terrence nodded. You're psycho. It's as simple as that. They pick themost capable for these conquests. Even the flights are processes ofelimination. Eventually we get the very best, the most resilient, thereal conquering blood. You just don't pass, Bruce. Listen, what do youthink gives you the right to stand here in judgment against the lawsof the whole Solar System?     There are plenty on Earth who agree with me, Bruce said. I can saywhat I think now because you can't do more than kill me and you'll dothat regardless....     He stopped. This was ridiculous, a waste of his time. And theirs. Theyhad established a kind of final totalitarianism since the New Era. Thepsychologists, the Pavlovian Reflex boys, had done that. If you didn'twant to be reconditioned to fit into the social machine like a humanvacuum tube, you kept your mouth shut. And for many, when the mouth waskept shut long enough, the mind pretty well forgot what it had wantedto open the mouth for in the first place.     A minority in both segments of a world split into two factions.Both had been warring diplomatically and sometimes physically, forcenturies, clung to old ideas of freedom, democracy, self-determinism,individualism. To most, the words had no meaning now. It was a questionof which set of conquering heroes could conquer the most space first.So far, only Venus had fallen. They had done a good, thorough jobthere. Four ships had come to Mars and their crews had disappeared.This was the fifth attempt—  Terrence said, why did you shoot Doran?     I didn't like him enough to take the nonsense he was handing me, andwhen he shot the— Bruce hesitated.     What? When he shot what?     Bruce felt an odd tingling in his stomach. The wind's voice seemed tosharpen and rise to a kind of wail.     All right, I'll tell you. I was sleeping, having a dream. Doran wokeme up. Marsha was with him. I'd forgotten about that geological job wewere supposed to be working on. I've had these dreams ever since we gothere.     What kind of dreams?     Someone laughed.     Just fantastic stuff. Ask your Pavlovian there, Bruce said. Peopletalk to me, and there are other things in the dreams. Voices and somekind of shapes that aren't what you would call human at all.     Someone coughed. There was obvious embarrassment in the room.     It's peculiar, but many faces and voices are those of crew members ofsome of the ships out there, the ones that never got back to Earth.     Terrence grinned. Ghosts, Bruce?     Maybe. This planet may not be a dead ball of clay. I've had a feelingthere's something real in the dreams, but I can't figure it out.You're still interested?     Terrence nodded and glanced to either side.     We've seen no indication of any kind of life whatsoever, Brucepointed out. Not even an insect, or any kind of plant life except somefungi and lichen down in the crevices. That never seemed logical to mefrom the start. We've covered the planet everywhere except one place—     The mountain, Terrence said. You've been afraid even to talk aboutscaling it.     Not afraid, Bruce objected. I don't see any need to climb it. Comingto Mars, conquering space, isn't that enough? It happens that the crewof the first ship here decided to climb the mountain, and that set aprecedent. Every ship that has come here has had to climb it. Why?Because they had to accept the challenge. And what's happened to them?Like you, they all had the necessary equipment to make a successfulclimb, but no one's ever come back down. No contact with anything upthere.     Captain, I'm not accepting a ridiculous challenge like that. Whyshould I? I didn't come here to conquer anything, even a mountain. Thechallenge of coming to Mars, of going on to where ever you guys intendgoing before something bigger than you are stops you—it doesn'tinterest me.     Nothing's bigger than the destiny of Earth! Terrence said, sitting upstraight and rigid.     I know, Bruce said. Anyway, I got off the track. As I was saying,I woke up from this dream and Marsha and Doran were there. Doran wasshaking me. But I didn't seem to have gotten entirely awake; eitherthat or some part of the dream was real, because I looked out thewindow—something was out there, looking at me. It was late, and atfirst I thought it might be a shadow. But it wasn't. It was misty,almost translucent, but I think it was something alive. I had a feelingit was intelligent, maybe very intelligent. I could feel something inmy mind. A kind of beauty and softness and warmth. I kept looking—     His throat was getting tight. He had difficulty talking. Doran askedme what I was looking at, and I told him. He laughed. But he looked.Then I realized that maybe I wasn't still dreaming. Doran saw it, too,or thought he did. He kept looking and finally he jumped and grabbed uphis rifle and ran outside. I yelled at him. I kept on yelling and ranafter him. 'It's intelligent, whatever it is!' I kept saying. 'How doyou know it means any harm?' But I heard Doran's rifle go off before Icould get to him. And whatever it was we saw, I didn't see it any more.Neither did Doran. Maybe he killed it. I don't know. He had to kill it.That's the way you think.     What? Explain that remark.     That's the philosophy of conquest—don't take any chances withaliens. They might hinder our advance across the Universe. So we killeverything. Doran acted without thinking at all. Conditioned to killeverything that doesn't look like us. So I hit Doran and took the gunaway from him and killed him. I felt sick, crazy with rage. Maybethat's part of it. All I know is that I thought he deserved to die andthat I had to kill him, so I did.     Is that all, Bruce?     That's about all. Except that I'd like to kill all of you. And I wouldif I had the chance.     That's what I figured. Terrence turned to the psychologist, a smallwiry man who sat there constantly fingering his ear. Stromberg, whatdo you think of this gobbledegook? We know he's crazy. But what hithim? You said his record was good up until a year ago.     Stromberg's voice was monotonous, like a voice off of a tape.Schizophrenia with mingled delusions of persecution. The schizophreniais caused by inner conflict—indecision between the older values andour present ones which he hasn't been able to accept. A complete casehistory would tell why he can't accept our present attitudes. I wouldsay that he has an incipient fear of personal inadequacy, which is whyhe fears our desire for conquest. He's rationalized, built up a defensewhich he's structured with his idealism, foundationed with Old Eravalues. Retreat into the past, an escape from his own present feelingsof inadequacy. Also, he escapes into these dream fantasies.     Yes, Terrence said. But how does that account for Doran's action?Doran must have seen something—     Doran's charts show high suggestibility under stress. Another weakpersonality eliminated. Let's regard it that way. He      imagined     he sawsomething. He glanced at Marsha. Did      you     see anything?     She hesitated, avoiding Bruce's eyes. Nothing at all. There wasn'tanything out there to see, except the dust and rocks. That's all thereis to see here. We could stay a million years and never see anythingelse. A shadow maybe—     All right, Terrence interrupted. Now, Bruce, you know the lawregulating the treatment of serious psycho cases in space?     Yes. Execution.     No facilities for handling such cases en route back to Earth.     I understand. No apologies necessary, Captain.     Terrence shifted his position. However, we've voted to grant youa kind of leniency. In exchange for a little further service fromyou, you can remain here on Mars after we leave. You'll be leftfood-concentrates to last a long time.     What kind of service?     Stay by the radio and take down what we report as we go up themountain.     Why not? Bruce said. You aren't certain you're coming back, then?     We might not, Terrence admitted calmly. Something's happened to theothers. We're going to find out what and we want it recorded. None ofus want to back down and stay here. You can take our reports as theycome in.     I'll do that, Bruce said. It should be interesting.  Bruce watched them go, away and up and around the immediate face ofthe mountain in the bleak cold of the Martian morning. He watched themdisappear behind a high ledge, tied together with plastic rope likeconvicts.     He stayed by the radio. He lost track of time and didn't care muchif he did. Sometimes he took a heavy sedative and slept. The sedativeprevented the dreams. He had an idea that the dreams might be sopleasant that he wouldn't wake up. He wanted to listen to Terrence aslong as the captain had anything to say. It was nothing but curiosity.     At fifteen thousand feet, Terrence reported only that they wereclimbing.     At twenty thousand feet, Terrence said, We're still climbing, andthat's all I can report, Bruce. It's worth coming to Mars for—toaccept a challenge like this!     At twenty-five thousand feet, Terrence reported, We've put on oxygenmasks. Jacobs and Drexel have developed some kind of altitude sicknessand we're taking a little time out. It's a magnificent sight up here. Ican imagine plenty of tourists coming to Mars one of these days, justto climb this mountain! Mt. Everest is a pimple compared with this!What a feeling of power, Bruce!     From forty thousand feet, Terrence said, We gauged this mountainat forty-five thousand. But here we are at forty and there doesn'tseem to be any top. We can see up and up and the mountain keeps ongoing. I don't understand how we could have made such an error in ourcomputations. I talked with Burton. He doesn't see how a mountain thishigh could still be here when the rest of the planet has been worn sosmooth.     And then from fifty-three thousand feet, Terrence said with a voicethat seemed slightly strained: No sign of any of the crew of the otherfour ships yet. Ten in each crew, that makes fifty. Not a sign of anyof them so far, but then we seem to have a long way left to climb—     Bruce listened and noted and took sedatives and opened cans of foodconcentrates. He smoked and ate and slept. He had plenty of time. Hehad only time and the dreams which he knew he could utilize later totake care of the time.     From sixty thousand feet, Terrence reported, I had to shoot Anhausera few minutes ago! He was dissenting. Hear that, Bruce? One of my mostdependable men. We took a vote. A mere formality, of course, whetherwe should continue climbing or not. We knew we'd all vote to keep onclimbing. And then Anhauser dissented. He was hysterical. He refusedto accept the majority decision. 'I'm going back down!' he yelled.So I had to shoot him. Imagine a man of his apparent caliber turninganti-democratic like that! This mountain will be a great tester forus in the future. We'll test everybody, find out quickly who theweaklings are.     Bruce listened to the wind. It seemed to rise higher and higher.Terrence, who had climbed still higher, was calling. Think of it! Whata conquest! No man's ever done a thing like this. Like Stromberg says,it's symbolic! We can build spaceships and reach other planets, butthat's not actual physical conquest. We feel like gods up here. We cansee what we are now. We can see how it's going to be—     Once in a while Terrence demanded that Bruce say something to prove hewas still there taking down what Terrence said. Bruce obliged. A longtime passed, the way time does when no one cares. Bruce stopped takingthe sedatives finally. The dreams came back and became, somehow, morereal each time. He needed the companionship of the dreams.     It was very lonely sitting there without the dreams, with nothing butTerrence's voice ranting excitedly on and on. Terrence didn't seem realany more; certainly not as real as the dreams.  The problem of where to put the line between dream and reality began toworry Bruce. He would wake up and listen and take down what Terrencewas saying, and then go to sleep again with increasing expectancy. Hisdream took on continuity. He could return to the point where he hadleft it, and it was the same—allowing even for the time differencenecessitated by his periods of sleep.     He met people in the dreams, two girls and a man. They had names:Pietro, Marlene, Helene.     Helene he had seen from the beginning, but she became more real tohim all the time, until he could talk with her. After that, he couldalso talk with Marlene and Pietro, and the conversations made sense.Consistently, they made sense.     The Martian landscape was entirely different in the dreams. Greenvalleys and rivers, or actually wide canals, with odd trees trailingtheir branches on the slow, peacefully gliding currents. Here and therewere pastel-colored cities and there were things drifting through themthat were alive and intelligent and soft and warm and wonderful to know.     '      ... dreams, in their vivid coloring of life, as in that fleeting,shadowy, misty strife of semblance with reality which brings to thedelirious eye more lovely things of paradise and love—and all ourown!—than young Hope in his sunniest hour hath known....     '     So sometimes he read poetry, but even that was hardly equal to thedreams.     And then he would wake up and listen to Terrence's voice. He wouldlook out the window over the barren frigid land where there was nothingbut seams of worn land, like scabs under the brazen sky.     If I had a choice, he thought, I wouldn't ever wake up at all again.The dreams may not be more real, but they're preferable.     Dreams were supposed to be wishful thinking, primarily, but hecouldn't live in them very long. His body would dry up and he woulddie. He had to stay awake enough to put a little energy back intohimself. Of course, if he died and lost the dreams, there would be onecompensation—he would also be free of Terrence and the rest of themwho had learned that the only value in life lay in killing one's wayacross the Cosmos.     But then he had a feeling Terrence's voice wouldn't be annoying himmuch more anyway. The voice was unreal, coming out of some void. Hecould switch off Terrence any time now, but he was still curious.     Bruce—Bruce, you still there? Listen, we're up here at what we figureto be five hundred thousand feet! It      is     impossible. We keep climbingand now we look up and we can see up and up and there the mountain isgoing up and up—     And some time later: Bruce, Marsha's dying! We don't know what's thematter. We can't find any reason for it. She's lying here and she keepslaughing and calling your name. She's a woman, so that's probably it.Women don't have real guts.     Bruce bent toward the radio. Outside the shelter, the wind whistledsoftly at the door.     Marsha, he said.     Bruce—     She hadn't said his name that way for a long time.     Marsha, remember how we used to talk about human values? I rememberhow you seemed to have something maybe different from the others. Inever thought you'd really buy this will to conquer, and now it doesn'tmatter....     He listened to her voice, first the crazy laughter, and then a whisper.Bruce, hello down there. Her voice was all mixed up with fear andhysteria and mockery. Bruce darling, are you lonely down there? I wishI were with you, safe ... free ... warm. I love you. Do you hear that?I really love you, after all. After all....       Her voice drifted away, came back to him. We're climbing the highestmountain. What are you doing there, relaxing where it's peaceful andwarm and sane? You always were such a calm guy. I remember now. Whatare you doing—reading poetry while we climb the mountain? What wasthat, Bruce—that one about the mountain you tried to quote to me lastnight before you ... I can't remember it now. Darling, what...?  He stared at the radio. He hesitated, reached out and switched on themike. He got through to her.     Hello, hello, darling, he whispered. Marsha, can you hear me?     Yes, yes. You down there, all warm and cozy, reading poetry, darling.Where you can see both ways instead of just up and down, up and down.     He tried to imagine where she was now as he spoke to her, how shelooked. He thought of Earth and how it had been there, years ago, withMarsha. Things had seemed so different then. There was something ofthat hope in his voice now as he spoke to her, yet not directly to her,as he looked out the window at the naked frigid sky and the barrenrocks.   '... and there is nowhere to go from the top of a mountain, But down, my dear; And the springs that flow on the floor of the valley Will never seem fresh or clear For thinking of the glitter of the mountain water In the feathery green of the year....'    The wind stormed over the shelter in a burst of power, buried the soundof his own voice.     Marsha, are you still there?     What the devil's the idea, poetry at a time like this, or any time?Terrence demanded. Listen, you taking this down? We haven't run intoany signs of the others. Six hundred thousand feet, Bruce! We feel ourdestiny. We conquer the Solar System. And we'll go out and out, andwe'll climb the highest mountain, the highest mountain anywhere. We'regoing up and up. We've voted on it. Unanimous. We go on. On to thetop, Bruce! Nothing can stop us. If it takes ten years, a hundred, athousand years, we'll find it. We'll find the top! Not the top of thisworld—the top of      everything     . The top of the  UNIVERSE  !     Later, Terrence's voice broke off in the middle of something orother—Bruce couldn't make any sense out of it at all—and turned intocrazy yells that faded out and never came back.     Bruce figured the others might still be climbing somewhere, or maybethey were dead. Either way it wouldn't make any difference to him. Heknew they would never come back down.     He was switching off the radio for good when he saw the colorationbreak over the window. It was the same as the dream, but for aninstant, dream and reality seemed fused like two superimposed filmnegatives.     He went to the window and looked out. The comfortable little city wasout there, and the canal flowing past through a pleasantly cool yetsunny afternoon. Purple mist blanketed the knees of low hills and therewas a valley, green and rich with the trees high and full beside thesoftly flowing canal water.     The filmy shapes that seemed alive, that were partly translucent,drifted along the water's edge, and birds as delicate as colored glasswavered down the wind.     He opened the shelter door and went out. The shelter looked the same,but useless now. How did the shelter of that bleak world get into thisone, where the air was warm and fragrant, where there was no cold, fromthat world into this one of his dreams?     The girl—Helene—was standing there leaning against a tree, smoking acigarette.     He walked toward her, and stopped. In the dream it had been easy, butnow he was embarrassed, in spite of the intimacy that had grown betweenthem. She wore the same casual slacks and sandals. Her hair was brown.She was not particularly beautiful, but she was comfortable to look atbecause she seemed so peaceful. Content, happy with what was and onlywhat was.     He turned quickly. The shelter was still there, and behind it the rowof spaceships—not like chalk marks on a tallyboard now, but like oddrelics that didn't belong there in the thick green grass. Five shipsinstead of four.     There was his own individual shelter beyond the headquarters building,and the other buildings. He looked up.     There was no mountain.  For one shivery moment he knew fear. And then the fear went away, andhe was ashamed of what he had felt. What he had feared was gone now,and he knew it was gone for good and he would never have to fear itagain.     Look here, Bruce. I wondered how long it would take to get it throughthat thick poetic head of yours!     Get what? He began to suspect what it was all about now, but hewasn't quite sure yet.     Smoke? she said.     He took one of the cigarettes and she lighted it for him and put thelighter back into her pocket.     It's real nice here, she said. Isn't it?     I guess it's about perfect.     It'll be easy. Staying here, I mean. We won't be going to Earth everagain, you know.     I didn't      know     that, but I didn't      think     we ever would again.     We wouldn't want to anyway, would we, Bruce?     No.     He kept on looking at the place where the mountain had been. Or maybeit still was; he couldn't make up his mind yet. Which was and which wasnot? That barren icy world without life, or this?     '      Is all that we see or seem     ,' he whispered, half to himself, '      buta dream within a dream?     '     She laughed softly. Poe was ahead of his time, she said. You stilldon't get it, do you? You don't know what's been happening?     Maybe I don't.     She shrugged, and looked in the direction of the ships. Poor guys. Ican't feel much hatred toward them now. The Martians give you a lot ofunderstanding of the human mind—after they've accepted you, and afteryou've lived with them awhile. But the mountain climbers—we can seenow—it's just luck, chance, we weren't like them. A deviant is a childof chance.     Yes, Bruce said. There's a lot of people like us on Earth, butthey'll never get the chance—the chance we seem to have here, to livedecently....     You're beginning to see now which was the dream, she said andsmiled. But don't be pessimistic. Those people on Earth will get theirchance, too, one of these fine days. The Conquerors aren't getting far.Venus, and then Mars, and Mars is where they stop. They'll keep cominghere and climbing the mountain and finally there won't be any more. Itwon't take so long.     She rose to her toes and waved and yelled. Bruce saw Pietro and Marlenewalking hand in hand up the other side of the canal. They waved backand called and then pushed off into the water in a small boat, anddrifted away and out of sight around a gentle turn.     She took his arm and they walked along the canal toward where themountain had been, or still was—he didn't know.     A quarter of a mile beyond the canal, he saw the high mound of red,naked hill, corroded and ugly, rising up like a scar of the surroundinggreen.     She wasn't smiling now. There were shadows on her face as the pressureon his arm stopped him.     I was on the first ship and Marlene on the second. None like us on thethird, and on the fourth ship was Pietro. All the others had to climbthe mountain— She stopped talking for a moment, and then he felt thepressure of her fingers on his arm. I'm very glad you came on thefifth, she whispered. Are you glad now?     I'm very glad, he said.     The Martians tested us, she explained. They're masters of the mind.I guess they've been grinding along through the evolutionary milla darn long time, longer than we could estimate now. They learnedthe horror we're capable of from the first ship—the Conquerors,the climbers. The Martians knew more like them would come and go oninto space, killing, destroying for no other reason than their ownsickness. Being masters of the mind, the Martians are also capableof hypnosis—no, that's not really the word, only the closest ourlanguage comes to naming it. Suggestion so deep and strong that itseems real to one human or a million or a billion; there's no limit tothe number that can be influenced. What the people who came off thoseships saw wasn't real. It was partly what the Martians wanted them tosee and feel—but most of it, like the desire to climb the mountain,was as much a part of the Conquerors' own psychic drive as it was thesuggestion of the Martians.     She waved her arm slowly to describe a peak. The Martians made themountain real. So real that it could be seen from space, measured byinstruments ... even photographed and chipped for rock samples. Butyou'll see how that was done, Bruce, and realize that this and not themountain of the Conquerors is the reality of Mars. This is the Mars noConqueror will ever see.  They walked toward the ugly red mound that jutted above the green. Whenthey came close enough, he saw the bodies lying there ... the remains,actually, of what had once been bodies. He felt too sickened to go onwalking.     It may seem cruel now, she said, but the Martians realized thatthere is no cure for the will to conquer. There is no safety from it,either, as the people of Earth and Venus discovered, unless it isgiven an impossible obstacle to overcome. So the Martians provided theConquerors with a mountain. They themselves wanted to climb. They hadto.     He was hardly listening as he walked away from Helene toward the erodedhills. The crew members of the first four ships were skeletons tiedtogether with imperishably strong rope about their waists. Far beyondthem were those from      Mars V     , too freshly dead to have decayedmuch ... Anhauser with his rope cut, a bullet in his head; Jacobs andMarsha and the others ... Terrence much past them all. He had managedto climb higher than anyone else and he lay with his arms stretchedout, his fingers still clutching at rock outcroppings.     The trail they left wound over the ground, chipped in places for holds,red elsewhere with blood from torn hands. Terrence was more than twelvemiles from the ship—horizontally.     Bruce lifted Marsha and carried her back over the rocky dust, into thefresh fragrance of the high grass, and across it to the shade and peacebeside the canal.     He put her down. She looked peaceful enough, more peaceful than thatother time, years ago, when the two of them seemed to have shared somuch, when the future had not yet destroyed her. He saw the shadow ofHelene bend across Marsha's face against the background of the silentlyflowing water of the cool, green canal.     You loved her?     Once, Bruce said. She might have been sane. They got her when shewas young. Too young to fight. But she would have, I think, if she'dbeen older when they got her.     He sat looking down at Marsha's face, and then at the water with theleaves floating down it.     '... And the springs that flow on the floor of the valley will neverseem fresh or clear for thinking of the glitter of the mountain waterin the feathery green of the year....'     He stood up, walked back with Helene along the canal toward the calmcity. He didn't look back.     They've all been dead quite a while, Bruce said wonderingly. YetI seemed to be hearing from Terrence until only a short time ago.Are—are the climbers still climbing—somewhere, Helene?     Who knows? Helene answered softly. Maybe. I doubt if even theMartians have the answer to that.     They entered the city.   ","At the beginning, Jacobs, Bruce, and Anhauser talk aboard their ship Mars V which recently landed on the windy surface of Mars. Bruce then looks at the even Martian landscape with an incredible mountain right near the ship and the double moons illuminating the surface. When everybody else leaves to climb the mountain, he spends his time on the spaceship, eating, sleeping, and sitting by the radio. Bruce dreams of a green valley and canals inside a town. And later, when the crew stops reporting anything, he finally can see the real landscape of Mars. He looks at numerous low hills with purple mist, a canal, and valleys with green trees. The mountain disappeared. A quarter of a mile beyond the canal, there is an ugly red mound with the bodies of the conquerors lying there. After looking at Marsha and Terrence, together with Helene, he walks along the canal back to the city.  "
"What is the relationship between Bruce and Marsha? </s>     THE HIGHEST MOUNTAIN     By BRYCE WALTON     Illustrated by BOB HAYES     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction June 1952.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        First one up this tallest summit in the Solar       System was a rotten egg ... a very rotten egg!        Bruce heard their feet on the gravel outside and got up reluctantly toopen the door for them. He'd been reading some of Byron's poems he'dsneaked aboard the ship; after that he had been on the point of dozingoff, and now one of those strangely realistic dreams would have to bepostponed for a while. Funny, those dreams. There were faces in them ofhuman beings, or of ghosts, and other forms that weren't human at all,but seemed real and alive—except that they were also just parts of alast unconscious desire to escape death. Maybe that was it.     'Oh that my young life were a lasting dream, my spirit not awakeningtill the beam of an eternity should bring the 'morrow, Bruce said. Hesmiled without feeling much of anything and added, Thanks, Mr. Poe.     Jacobs and Anhauser stood outside. The icy wind cut through and intoBruce, but he didn't seem to notice. Anhauser's bulk loomed even largerin the special cold-resisting suiting. Jacobs' thin face frowned slylyat Bruce.     Come on in, boys, and get warm, Bruce invited.     Hey, poet, you're still here! Anhauser said, looking astonished.     We thought you'd be running off somewhere, Jacobs said.     Bruce reached for the suit on its hook, started climbing into it.Where? he asked. Mars looks alike wherever you go. Where did youthink I'd be running to?     Any place just so it was away from here and us, Anhauser said.     I don't have to do that. You are going away from me. That takes careof that, doesn't it?     Ah, come on, get the hell out of there, Jacobs said. He pulled therevolver from its holster and pointed it at Bruce. We got to get somesleep. We're starting up that mountain at five in the morning.     I know, Bruce said. I'll be glad to see you climb the mountain.     Outside, in the weird light of the double moons, Bruce looked up at thegigantic overhang of the mountain. It was unbelievable. The mountaindidn't seem to belong here. He'd thought so when they'd first hit Marseight months back and discovered the other four rockets that had nevergot back to Earth—all lying side by side under the mountain's shadow,like little white chalk marks on a tallyboard.     They'd estimated its height at over 45,000 feet, which was a lot higherthan any mountain on Earth. Yet Mars was much older, geologically. Theentire face of the planet was smoothed into soft, undulating red hillsby erosion. And there in the middle of barren nothingness rose that oneincredible mountain. On certain nights when the stars were right, ithad seemed to Bruce as though it were pointing an accusing finger atEarth—or a warning one.  With Jacobs and Anhauser and the remainder of the crew of the ship,      Mars V     , seven judges sat in a semi-circle and Bruce stood there infront of them for the inquest.     In the middle of the half-moon of inquisition, with his long legsstretched out and his hands folded on his belly, sat Captain Terrence.His uniform was black. On his arm was the silver fist insignia of theConqueror Corps. Marsha Rennels sat on the extreme right and now therewas no emotion at all on her trim, neat face.     He remembered her as she had been years ago, but at the moment hewasn't looking very hard to see anything on her face. It was too late.They had gotten her young and it was too late.     Terrence's big, square face frowned a little. Bruce was aware suddenlyof the sound of the bleak, never-ending wind against the plastileneshelter. He remembered the strange misty shapes that had come to him inhis dreams, the voices that had called to him, and how disappointed hehad been when he woke from them.     This is a mere formality, Terrence finally said, since we all knowyou killed Lieutenant Doran a few hours ago. Marsha saw you kill him.Whatever you say goes on the record, of course.     For whom? Bruce asked.     What kind of question is that? For the authorities on Earth when weget back.     When you get back? Like the crews of those other four ships outthere? Bruce laughed without much humor.     Terrence rubbed a palm across his lips, dropped the hand quickly againto his belly. You want to make a statement or not? You shot Doran inthe head with a rifle. No provocation for the attack. You've wastedenough of my time with your damn arguments and anti-social behavior.This is a democratic group. Everyone has his say. But you've said toomuch, and done too much. Freedom doesn't allow you to go around killingfellow crew-members!     Any idea that there was any democracy or freedom left died on Venus,Bruce said.     Now we get another lecture! Terrence exploded. He leaned forward.You're sick, Bruce. They did a bad psych job on you. They should neverhave sent you on this trip. We need strength, all the strength we canfind. You don't belong here.     I know, Bruce agreed indifferently. I was drafted for this trip. Itold them I shouldn't be brought along. I said I didn't want any partof it.     Because you're afraid. You're not Conqueror material. That's why youbacked down when we all voted to climb the mountain. And what the devildoes Venus—?     Max Drexel's freckles slipped into the creases across his highforehead. Haven't you heard him expounding on the injustice done tothe Venusian aborigines, Captain? If you haven't, you aren't thoroughlyeducated to the crackpot idealism still infecting certain people.     I haven't heard it, Terrence admitted. What injustice?     Bruce said, I guess it couldn't really be considered an injusticeany longer. Values have changed too much. Doran and I were part of thecrew of that first ship to hit Venus, five years ago. Remember? Oneof the New Era's more infamous dates. Drexel says the Venusians wereaborigines. No one ever got a chance to find out. We ran into thisvillage. No one knows how old it was. There were intelligent beingsthere. One community left on the whole planet, maybe a few thousandinhabitants. They made their last mistake when they came out to greetus. Without even an attempt at communication, they were wiped out. Thevillage was burned and everything alive in it was destroyed.     Bruce felt the old weakness coming into his knees, the sweat beginningto run down his face. He took a deep breath and stood there before thecold nihilistic stares of fourteen eyes.     No, Bruce said. I apologize. None of you know what I'm talkingabout.     Terrence nodded. You're psycho. It's as simple as that. They pick themost capable for these conquests. Even the flights are processes ofelimination. Eventually we get the very best, the most resilient, thereal conquering blood. You just don't pass, Bruce. Listen, what do youthink gives you the right to stand here in judgment against the lawsof the whole Solar System?     There are plenty on Earth who agree with me, Bruce said. I can saywhat I think now because you can't do more than kill me and you'll dothat regardless....     He stopped. This was ridiculous, a waste of his time. And theirs. Theyhad established a kind of final totalitarianism since the New Era. Thepsychologists, the Pavlovian Reflex boys, had done that. If you didn'twant to be reconditioned to fit into the social machine like a humanvacuum tube, you kept your mouth shut. And for many, when the mouth waskept shut long enough, the mind pretty well forgot what it had wantedto open the mouth for in the first place.     A minority in both segments of a world split into two factions.Both had been warring diplomatically and sometimes physically, forcenturies, clung to old ideas of freedom, democracy, self-determinism,individualism. To most, the words had no meaning now. It was a questionof which set of conquering heroes could conquer the most space first.So far, only Venus had fallen. They had done a good, thorough jobthere. Four ships had come to Mars and their crews had disappeared.This was the fifth attempt—  Terrence said, why did you shoot Doran?     I didn't like him enough to take the nonsense he was handing me, andwhen he shot the— Bruce hesitated.     What? When he shot what?     Bruce felt an odd tingling in his stomach. The wind's voice seemed tosharpen and rise to a kind of wail.     All right, I'll tell you. I was sleeping, having a dream. Doran wokeme up. Marsha was with him. I'd forgotten about that geological job wewere supposed to be working on. I've had these dreams ever since we gothere.     What kind of dreams?     Someone laughed.     Just fantastic stuff. Ask your Pavlovian there, Bruce said. Peopletalk to me, and there are other things in the dreams. Voices and somekind of shapes that aren't what you would call human at all.     Someone coughed. There was obvious embarrassment in the room.     It's peculiar, but many faces and voices are those of crew members ofsome of the ships out there, the ones that never got back to Earth.     Terrence grinned. Ghosts, Bruce?     Maybe. This planet may not be a dead ball of clay. I've had a feelingthere's something real in the dreams, but I can't figure it out.You're still interested?     Terrence nodded and glanced to either side.     We've seen no indication of any kind of life whatsoever, Brucepointed out. Not even an insect, or any kind of plant life except somefungi and lichen down in the crevices. That never seemed logical to mefrom the start. We've covered the planet everywhere except one place—     The mountain, Terrence said. You've been afraid even to talk aboutscaling it.     Not afraid, Bruce objected. I don't see any need to climb it. Comingto Mars, conquering space, isn't that enough? It happens that the crewof the first ship here decided to climb the mountain, and that set aprecedent. Every ship that has come here has had to climb it. Why?Because they had to accept the challenge. And what's happened to them?Like you, they all had the necessary equipment to make a successfulclimb, but no one's ever come back down. No contact with anything upthere.     Captain, I'm not accepting a ridiculous challenge like that. Whyshould I? I didn't come here to conquer anything, even a mountain. Thechallenge of coming to Mars, of going on to where ever you guys intendgoing before something bigger than you are stops you—it doesn'tinterest me.     Nothing's bigger than the destiny of Earth! Terrence said, sitting upstraight and rigid.     I know, Bruce said. Anyway, I got off the track. As I was saying,I woke up from this dream and Marsha and Doran were there. Doran wasshaking me. But I didn't seem to have gotten entirely awake; eitherthat or some part of the dream was real, because I looked out thewindow—something was out there, looking at me. It was late, and atfirst I thought it might be a shadow. But it wasn't. It was misty,almost translucent, but I think it was something alive. I had a feelingit was intelligent, maybe very intelligent. I could feel something inmy mind. A kind of beauty and softness and warmth. I kept looking—     His throat was getting tight. He had difficulty talking. Doran askedme what I was looking at, and I told him. He laughed. But he looked.Then I realized that maybe I wasn't still dreaming. Doran saw it, too,or thought he did. He kept looking and finally he jumped and grabbed uphis rifle and ran outside. I yelled at him. I kept on yelling and ranafter him. 'It's intelligent, whatever it is!' I kept saying. 'How doyou know it means any harm?' But I heard Doran's rifle go off before Icould get to him. And whatever it was we saw, I didn't see it any more.Neither did Doran. Maybe he killed it. I don't know. He had to kill it.That's the way you think.     What? Explain that remark.     That's the philosophy of conquest—don't take any chances withaliens. They might hinder our advance across the Universe. So we killeverything. Doran acted without thinking at all. Conditioned to killeverything that doesn't look like us. So I hit Doran and took the gunaway from him and killed him. I felt sick, crazy with rage. Maybethat's part of it. All I know is that I thought he deserved to die andthat I had to kill him, so I did.     Is that all, Bruce?     That's about all. Except that I'd like to kill all of you. And I wouldif I had the chance.     That's what I figured. Terrence turned to the psychologist, a smallwiry man who sat there constantly fingering his ear. Stromberg, whatdo you think of this gobbledegook? We know he's crazy. But what hithim? You said his record was good up until a year ago.     Stromberg's voice was monotonous, like a voice off of a tape.Schizophrenia with mingled delusions of persecution. The schizophreniais caused by inner conflict—indecision between the older values andour present ones which he hasn't been able to accept. A complete casehistory would tell why he can't accept our present attitudes. I wouldsay that he has an incipient fear of personal inadequacy, which is whyhe fears our desire for conquest. He's rationalized, built up a defensewhich he's structured with his idealism, foundationed with Old Eravalues. Retreat into the past, an escape from his own present feelingsof inadequacy. Also, he escapes into these dream fantasies.     Yes, Terrence said. But how does that account for Doran's action?Doran must have seen something—     Doran's charts show high suggestibility under stress. Another weakpersonality eliminated. Let's regard it that way. He      imagined     he sawsomething. He glanced at Marsha. Did      you     see anything?     She hesitated, avoiding Bruce's eyes. Nothing at all. There wasn'tanything out there to see, except the dust and rocks. That's all thereis to see here. We could stay a million years and never see anythingelse. A shadow maybe—     All right, Terrence interrupted. Now, Bruce, you know the lawregulating the treatment of serious psycho cases in space?     Yes. Execution.     No facilities for handling such cases en route back to Earth.     I understand. No apologies necessary, Captain.     Terrence shifted his position. However, we've voted to grant youa kind of leniency. In exchange for a little further service fromyou, you can remain here on Mars after we leave. You'll be leftfood-concentrates to last a long time.     What kind of service?     Stay by the radio and take down what we report as we go up themountain.     Why not? Bruce said. You aren't certain you're coming back, then?     We might not, Terrence admitted calmly. Something's happened to theothers. We're going to find out what and we want it recorded. None ofus want to back down and stay here. You can take our reports as theycome in.     I'll do that, Bruce said. It should be interesting.  Bruce watched them go, away and up and around the immediate face ofthe mountain in the bleak cold of the Martian morning. He watched themdisappear behind a high ledge, tied together with plastic rope likeconvicts.     He stayed by the radio. He lost track of time and didn't care muchif he did. Sometimes he took a heavy sedative and slept. The sedativeprevented the dreams. He had an idea that the dreams might be sopleasant that he wouldn't wake up. He wanted to listen to Terrence aslong as the captain had anything to say. It was nothing but curiosity.     At fifteen thousand feet, Terrence reported only that they wereclimbing.     At twenty thousand feet, Terrence said, We're still climbing, andthat's all I can report, Bruce. It's worth coming to Mars for—toaccept a challenge like this!     At twenty-five thousand feet, Terrence reported, We've put on oxygenmasks. Jacobs and Drexel have developed some kind of altitude sicknessand we're taking a little time out. It's a magnificent sight up here. Ican imagine plenty of tourists coming to Mars one of these days, justto climb this mountain! Mt. Everest is a pimple compared with this!What a feeling of power, Bruce!     From forty thousand feet, Terrence said, We gauged this mountainat forty-five thousand. But here we are at forty and there doesn'tseem to be any top. We can see up and up and the mountain keeps ongoing. I don't understand how we could have made such an error in ourcomputations. I talked with Burton. He doesn't see how a mountain thishigh could still be here when the rest of the planet has been worn sosmooth.     And then from fifty-three thousand feet, Terrence said with a voicethat seemed slightly strained: No sign of any of the crew of the otherfour ships yet. Ten in each crew, that makes fifty. Not a sign of anyof them so far, but then we seem to have a long way left to climb—     Bruce listened and noted and took sedatives and opened cans of foodconcentrates. He smoked and ate and slept. He had plenty of time. Hehad only time and the dreams which he knew he could utilize later totake care of the time.     From sixty thousand feet, Terrence reported, I had to shoot Anhausera few minutes ago! He was dissenting. Hear that, Bruce? One of my mostdependable men. We took a vote. A mere formality, of course, whetherwe should continue climbing or not. We knew we'd all vote to keep onclimbing. And then Anhauser dissented. He was hysterical. He refusedto accept the majority decision. 'I'm going back down!' he yelled.So I had to shoot him. Imagine a man of his apparent caliber turninganti-democratic like that! This mountain will be a great tester forus in the future. We'll test everybody, find out quickly who theweaklings are.     Bruce listened to the wind. It seemed to rise higher and higher.Terrence, who had climbed still higher, was calling. Think of it! Whata conquest! No man's ever done a thing like this. Like Stromberg says,it's symbolic! We can build spaceships and reach other planets, butthat's not actual physical conquest. We feel like gods up here. We cansee what we are now. We can see how it's going to be—     Once in a while Terrence demanded that Bruce say something to prove hewas still there taking down what Terrence said. Bruce obliged. A longtime passed, the way time does when no one cares. Bruce stopped takingthe sedatives finally. The dreams came back and became, somehow, morereal each time. He needed the companionship of the dreams.     It was very lonely sitting there without the dreams, with nothing butTerrence's voice ranting excitedly on and on. Terrence didn't seem realany more; certainly not as real as the dreams.  The problem of where to put the line between dream and reality began toworry Bruce. He would wake up and listen and take down what Terrencewas saying, and then go to sleep again with increasing expectancy. Hisdream took on continuity. He could return to the point where he hadleft it, and it was the same—allowing even for the time differencenecessitated by his periods of sleep.     He met people in the dreams, two girls and a man. They had names:Pietro, Marlene, Helene.     Helene he had seen from the beginning, but she became more real tohim all the time, until he could talk with her. After that, he couldalso talk with Marlene and Pietro, and the conversations made sense.Consistently, they made sense.     The Martian landscape was entirely different in the dreams. Greenvalleys and rivers, or actually wide canals, with odd trees trailingtheir branches on the slow, peacefully gliding currents. Here and therewere pastel-colored cities and there were things drifting through themthat were alive and intelligent and soft and warm and wonderful to know.     '      ... dreams, in their vivid coloring of life, as in that fleeting,shadowy, misty strife of semblance with reality which brings to thedelirious eye more lovely things of paradise and love—and all ourown!—than young Hope in his sunniest hour hath known....     '     So sometimes he read poetry, but even that was hardly equal to thedreams.     And then he would wake up and listen to Terrence's voice. He wouldlook out the window over the barren frigid land where there was nothingbut seams of worn land, like scabs under the brazen sky.     If I had a choice, he thought, I wouldn't ever wake up at all again.The dreams may not be more real, but they're preferable.     Dreams were supposed to be wishful thinking, primarily, but hecouldn't live in them very long. His body would dry up and he woulddie. He had to stay awake enough to put a little energy back intohimself. Of course, if he died and lost the dreams, there would be onecompensation—he would also be free of Terrence and the rest of themwho had learned that the only value in life lay in killing one's wayacross the Cosmos.     But then he had a feeling Terrence's voice wouldn't be annoying himmuch more anyway. The voice was unreal, coming out of some void. Hecould switch off Terrence any time now, but he was still curious.     Bruce—Bruce, you still there? Listen, we're up here at what we figureto be five hundred thousand feet! It      is     impossible. We keep climbingand now we look up and we can see up and up and there the mountain isgoing up and up—     And some time later: Bruce, Marsha's dying! We don't know what's thematter. We can't find any reason for it. She's lying here and she keepslaughing and calling your name. She's a woman, so that's probably it.Women don't have real guts.     Bruce bent toward the radio. Outside the shelter, the wind whistledsoftly at the door.     Marsha, he said.     Bruce—     She hadn't said his name that way for a long time.     Marsha, remember how we used to talk about human values? I rememberhow you seemed to have something maybe different from the others. Inever thought you'd really buy this will to conquer, and now it doesn'tmatter....     He listened to her voice, first the crazy laughter, and then a whisper.Bruce, hello down there. Her voice was all mixed up with fear andhysteria and mockery. Bruce darling, are you lonely down there? I wishI were with you, safe ... free ... warm. I love you. Do you hear that?I really love you, after all. After all....       Her voice drifted away, came back to him. We're climbing the highestmountain. What are you doing there, relaxing where it's peaceful andwarm and sane? You always were such a calm guy. I remember now. Whatare you doing—reading poetry while we climb the mountain? What wasthat, Bruce—that one about the mountain you tried to quote to me lastnight before you ... I can't remember it now. Darling, what...?  He stared at the radio. He hesitated, reached out and switched on themike. He got through to her.     Hello, hello, darling, he whispered. Marsha, can you hear me?     Yes, yes. You down there, all warm and cozy, reading poetry, darling.Where you can see both ways instead of just up and down, up and down.     He tried to imagine where she was now as he spoke to her, how shelooked. He thought of Earth and how it had been there, years ago, withMarsha. Things had seemed so different then. There was something ofthat hope in his voice now as he spoke to her, yet not directly to her,as he looked out the window at the naked frigid sky and the barrenrocks.   '... and there is nowhere to go from the top of a mountain, But down, my dear; And the springs that flow on the floor of the valley Will never seem fresh or clear For thinking of the glitter of the mountain water In the feathery green of the year....'    The wind stormed over the shelter in a burst of power, buried the soundof his own voice.     Marsha, are you still there?     What the devil's the idea, poetry at a time like this, or any time?Terrence demanded. Listen, you taking this down? We haven't run intoany signs of the others. Six hundred thousand feet, Bruce! We feel ourdestiny. We conquer the Solar System. And we'll go out and out, andwe'll climb the highest mountain, the highest mountain anywhere. We'regoing up and up. We've voted on it. Unanimous. We go on. On to thetop, Bruce! Nothing can stop us. If it takes ten years, a hundred, athousand years, we'll find it. We'll find the top! Not the top of thisworld—the top of      everything     . The top of the  UNIVERSE  !     Later, Terrence's voice broke off in the middle of something orother—Bruce couldn't make any sense out of it at all—and turned intocrazy yells that faded out and never came back.     Bruce figured the others might still be climbing somewhere, or maybethey were dead. Either way it wouldn't make any difference to him. Heknew they would never come back down.     He was switching off the radio for good when he saw the colorationbreak over the window. It was the same as the dream, but for aninstant, dream and reality seemed fused like two superimposed filmnegatives.     He went to the window and looked out. The comfortable little city wasout there, and the canal flowing past through a pleasantly cool yetsunny afternoon. Purple mist blanketed the knees of low hills and therewas a valley, green and rich with the trees high and full beside thesoftly flowing canal water.     The filmy shapes that seemed alive, that were partly translucent,drifted along the water's edge, and birds as delicate as colored glasswavered down the wind.     He opened the shelter door and went out. The shelter looked the same,but useless now. How did the shelter of that bleak world get into thisone, where the air was warm and fragrant, where there was no cold, fromthat world into this one of his dreams?     The girl—Helene—was standing there leaning against a tree, smoking acigarette.     He walked toward her, and stopped. In the dream it had been easy, butnow he was embarrassed, in spite of the intimacy that had grown betweenthem. She wore the same casual slacks and sandals. Her hair was brown.She was not particularly beautiful, but she was comfortable to look atbecause she seemed so peaceful. Content, happy with what was and onlywhat was.     He turned quickly. The shelter was still there, and behind it the rowof spaceships—not like chalk marks on a tallyboard now, but like oddrelics that didn't belong there in the thick green grass. Five shipsinstead of four.     There was his own individual shelter beyond the headquarters building,and the other buildings. He looked up.     There was no mountain.  For one shivery moment he knew fear. And then the fear went away, andhe was ashamed of what he had felt. What he had feared was gone now,and he knew it was gone for good and he would never have to fear itagain.     Look here, Bruce. I wondered how long it would take to get it throughthat thick poetic head of yours!     Get what? He began to suspect what it was all about now, but hewasn't quite sure yet.     Smoke? she said.     He took one of the cigarettes and she lighted it for him and put thelighter back into her pocket.     It's real nice here, she said. Isn't it?     I guess it's about perfect.     It'll be easy. Staying here, I mean. We won't be going to Earth everagain, you know.     I didn't      know     that, but I didn't      think     we ever would again.     We wouldn't want to anyway, would we, Bruce?     No.     He kept on looking at the place where the mountain had been. Or maybeit still was; he couldn't make up his mind yet. Which was and which wasnot? That barren icy world without life, or this?     '      Is all that we see or seem     ,' he whispered, half to himself, '      buta dream within a dream?     '     She laughed softly. Poe was ahead of his time, she said. You stilldon't get it, do you? You don't know what's been happening?     Maybe I don't.     She shrugged, and looked in the direction of the ships. Poor guys. Ican't feel much hatred toward them now. The Martians give you a lot ofunderstanding of the human mind—after they've accepted you, and afteryou've lived with them awhile. But the mountain climbers—we can seenow—it's just luck, chance, we weren't like them. A deviant is a childof chance.     Yes, Bruce said. There's a lot of people like us on Earth, butthey'll never get the chance—the chance we seem to have here, to livedecently....     You're beginning to see now which was the dream, she said andsmiled. But don't be pessimistic. Those people on Earth will get theirchance, too, one of these fine days. The Conquerors aren't getting far.Venus, and then Mars, and Mars is where they stop. They'll keep cominghere and climbing the mountain and finally there won't be any more. Itwon't take so long.     She rose to her toes and waved and yelled. Bruce saw Pietro and Marlenewalking hand in hand up the other side of the canal. They waved backand called and then pushed off into the water in a small boat, anddrifted away and out of sight around a gentle turn.     She took his arm and they walked along the canal toward where themountain had been, or still was—he didn't know.     A quarter of a mile beyond the canal, he saw the high mound of red,naked hill, corroded and ugly, rising up like a scar of the surroundinggreen.     She wasn't smiling now. There were shadows on her face as the pressureon his arm stopped him.     I was on the first ship and Marlene on the second. None like us on thethird, and on the fourth ship was Pietro. All the others had to climbthe mountain— She stopped talking for a moment, and then he felt thepressure of her fingers on his arm. I'm very glad you came on thefifth, she whispered. Are you glad now?     I'm very glad, he said.     The Martians tested us, she explained. They're masters of the mind.I guess they've been grinding along through the evolutionary milla darn long time, longer than we could estimate now. They learnedthe horror we're capable of from the first ship—the Conquerors,the climbers. The Martians knew more like them would come and go oninto space, killing, destroying for no other reason than their ownsickness. Being masters of the mind, the Martians are also capableof hypnosis—no, that's not really the word, only the closest ourlanguage comes to naming it. Suggestion so deep and strong that itseems real to one human or a million or a billion; there's no limit tothe number that can be influenced. What the people who came off thoseships saw wasn't real. It was partly what the Martians wanted them tosee and feel—but most of it, like the desire to climb the mountain,was as much a part of the Conquerors' own psychic drive as it was thesuggestion of the Martians.     She waved her arm slowly to describe a peak. The Martians made themountain real. So real that it could be seen from space, measured byinstruments ... even photographed and chipped for rock samples. Butyou'll see how that was done, Bruce, and realize that this and not themountain of the Conquerors is the reality of Mars. This is the Mars noConqueror will ever see.  They walked toward the ugly red mound that jutted above the green. Whenthey came close enough, he saw the bodies lying there ... the remains,actually, of what had once been bodies. He felt too sickened to go onwalking.     It may seem cruel now, she said, but the Martians realized thatthere is no cure for the will to conquer. There is no safety from it,either, as the people of Earth and Venus discovered, unless it isgiven an impossible obstacle to overcome. So the Martians provided theConquerors with a mountain. They themselves wanted to climb. They hadto.     He was hardly listening as he walked away from Helene toward the erodedhills. The crew members of the first four ships were skeletons tiedtogether with imperishably strong rope about their waists. Far beyondthem were those from      Mars V     , too freshly dead to have decayedmuch ... Anhauser with his rope cut, a bullet in his head; Jacobs andMarsha and the others ... Terrence much past them all. He had managedto climb higher than anyone else and he lay with his arms stretchedout, his fingers still clutching at rock outcroppings.     The trail they left wound over the ground, chipped in places for holds,red elsewhere with blood from torn hands. Terrence was more than twelvemiles from the ship—horizontally.     Bruce lifted Marsha and carried her back over the rocky dust, into thefresh fragrance of the high grass, and across it to the shade and peacebeside the canal.     He put her down. She looked peaceful enough, more peaceful than thatother time, years ago, when the two of them seemed to have shared somuch, when the future had not yet destroyed her. He saw the shadow ofHelene bend across Marsha's face against the background of the silentlyflowing water of the cool, green canal.     You loved her?     Once, Bruce said. She might have been sane. They got her when shewas young. Too young to fight. But she would have, I think, if she'dbeen older when they got her.     He sat looking down at Marsha's face, and then at the water with theleaves floating down it.     '... And the springs that flow on the floor of the valley will neverseem fresh or clear for thinking of the glitter of the mountain waterin the feathery green of the year....'     He stood up, walked back with Helene along the canal toward the calmcity. He didn't look back.     They've all been dead quite a while, Bruce said wonderingly. YetI seemed to be hearing from Terrence until only a short time ago.Are—are the climbers still climbing—somewhere, Helene?     Who knows? Helene answered softly. Maybe. I doubt if even theMartians have the answer to that.     They entered the city.   ","Bruce and Marsha were close years ago when they lived on Earth. They shared similar values and loved each other, but eventually, Marsha became one of the conquerors, ready to expand the human territories. Now she’s almost emotionless. Bruce is disappointed and reckons that the other conquerors had gotten her young, and there was nothing he could do about it. When he’s interrogated, the psychologist asks if she saw any creature before Bruce shot Doran. She seems hesitant and doesn’t look at Bruce when denying seeing anything. When she is dying, she crazily laughs and admits that she is in love with him, asking Bruce to read her a poem. At the end, he finds Marsha’s body among the eroded hills and puts it beside the city canal. He says that he loved her once, and she could’ve been sane, different if the conquerors hadn’t got her when she was so young. "
"What is the significance of the mountain? </s>     THE HIGHEST MOUNTAIN     By BRYCE WALTON     Illustrated by BOB HAYES     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction June 1952.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        First one up this tallest summit in the Solar       System was a rotten egg ... a very rotten egg!        Bruce heard their feet on the gravel outside and got up reluctantly toopen the door for them. He'd been reading some of Byron's poems he'dsneaked aboard the ship; after that he had been on the point of dozingoff, and now one of those strangely realistic dreams would have to bepostponed for a while. Funny, those dreams. There were faces in them ofhuman beings, or of ghosts, and other forms that weren't human at all,but seemed real and alive—except that they were also just parts of alast unconscious desire to escape death. Maybe that was it.     'Oh that my young life were a lasting dream, my spirit not awakeningtill the beam of an eternity should bring the 'morrow, Bruce said. Hesmiled without feeling much of anything and added, Thanks, Mr. Poe.     Jacobs and Anhauser stood outside. The icy wind cut through and intoBruce, but he didn't seem to notice. Anhauser's bulk loomed even largerin the special cold-resisting suiting. Jacobs' thin face frowned slylyat Bruce.     Come on in, boys, and get warm, Bruce invited.     Hey, poet, you're still here! Anhauser said, looking astonished.     We thought you'd be running off somewhere, Jacobs said.     Bruce reached for the suit on its hook, started climbing into it.Where? he asked. Mars looks alike wherever you go. Where did youthink I'd be running to?     Any place just so it was away from here and us, Anhauser said.     I don't have to do that. You are going away from me. That takes careof that, doesn't it?     Ah, come on, get the hell out of there, Jacobs said. He pulled therevolver from its holster and pointed it at Bruce. We got to get somesleep. We're starting up that mountain at five in the morning.     I know, Bruce said. I'll be glad to see you climb the mountain.     Outside, in the weird light of the double moons, Bruce looked up at thegigantic overhang of the mountain. It was unbelievable. The mountaindidn't seem to belong here. He'd thought so when they'd first hit Marseight months back and discovered the other four rockets that had nevergot back to Earth—all lying side by side under the mountain's shadow,like little white chalk marks on a tallyboard.     They'd estimated its height at over 45,000 feet, which was a lot higherthan any mountain on Earth. Yet Mars was much older, geologically. Theentire face of the planet was smoothed into soft, undulating red hillsby erosion. And there in the middle of barren nothingness rose that oneincredible mountain. On certain nights when the stars were right, ithad seemed to Bruce as though it were pointing an accusing finger atEarth—or a warning one.  With Jacobs and Anhauser and the remainder of the crew of the ship,      Mars V     , seven judges sat in a semi-circle and Bruce stood there infront of them for the inquest.     In the middle of the half-moon of inquisition, with his long legsstretched out and his hands folded on his belly, sat Captain Terrence.His uniform was black. On his arm was the silver fist insignia of theConqueror Corps. Marsha Rennels sat on the extreme right and now therewas no emotion at all on her trim, neat face.     He remembered her as she had been years ago, but at the moment hewasn't looking very hard to see anything on her face. It was too late.They had gotten her young and it was too late.     Terrence's big, square face frowned a little. Bruce was aware suddenlyof the sound of the bleak, never-ending wind against the plastileneshelter. He remembered the strange misty shapes that had come to him inhis dreams, the voices that had called to him, and how disappointed hehad been when he woke from them.     This is a mere formality, Terrence finally said, since we all knowyou killed Lieutenant Doran a few hours ago. Marsha saw you kill him.Whatever you say goes on the record, of course.     For whom? Bruce asked.     What kind of question is that? For the authorities on Earth when weget back.     When you get back? Like the crews of those other four ships outthere? Bruce laughed without much humor.     Terrence rubbed a palm across his lips, dropped the hand quickly againto his belly. You want to make a statement or not? You shot Doran inthe head with a rifle. No provocation for the attack. You've wastedenough of my time with your damn arguments and anti-social behavior.This is a democratic group. Everyone has his say. But you've said toomuch, and done too much. Freedom doesn't allow you to go around killingfellow crew-members!     Any idea that there was any democracy or freedom left died on Venus,Bruce said.     Now we get another lecture! Terrence exploded. He leaned forward.You're sick, Bruce. They did a bad psych job on you. They should neverhave sent you on this trip. We need strength, all the strength we canfind. You don't belong here.     I know, Bruce agreed indifferently. I was drafted for this trip. Itold them I shouldn't be brought along. I said I didn't want any partof it.     Because you're afraid. You're not Conqueror material. That's why youbacked down when we all voted to climb the mountain. And what the devildoes Venus—?     Max Drexel's freckles slipped into the creases across his highforehead. Haven't you heard him expounding on the injustice done tothe Venusian aborigines, Captain? If you haven't, you aren't thoroughlyeducated to the crackpot idealism still infecting certain people.     I haven't heard it, Terrence admitted. What injustice?     Bruce said, I guess it couldn't really be considered an injusticeany longer. Values have changed too much. Doran and I were part of thecrew of that first ship to hit Venus, five years ago. Remember? Oneof the New Era's more infamous dates. Drexel says the Venusians wereaborigines. No one ever got a chance to find out. We ran into thisvillage. No one knows how old it was. There were intelligent beingsthere. One community left on the whole planet, maybe a few thousandinhabitants. They made their last mistake when they came out to greetus. Without even an attempt at communication, they were wiped out. Thevillage was burned and everything alive in it was destroyed.     Bruce felt the old weakness coming into his knees, the sweat beginningto run down his face. He took a deep breath and stood there before thecold nihilistic stares of fourteen eyes.     No, Bruce said. I apologize. None of you know what I'm talkingabout.     Terrence nodded. You're psycho. It's as simple as that. They pick themost capable for these conquests. Even the flights are processes ofelimination. Eventually we get the very best, the most resilient, thereal conquering blood. You just don't pass, Bruce. Listen, what do youthink gives you the right to stand here in judgment against the lawsof the whole Solar System?     There are plenty on Earth who agree with me, Bruce said. I can saywhat I think now because you can't do more than kill me and you'll dothat regardless....     He stopped. This was ridiculous, a waste of his time. And theirs. Theyhad established a kind of final totalitarianism since the New Era. Thepsychologists, the Pavlovian Reflex boys, had done that. If you didn'twant to be reconditioned to fit into the social machine like a humanvacuum tube, you kept your mouth shut. And for many, when the mouth waskept shut long enough, the mind pretty well forgot what it had wantedto open the mouth for in the first place.     A minority in both segments of a world split into two factions.Both had been warring diplomatically and sometimes physically, forcenturies, clung to old ideas of freedom, democracy, self-determinism,individualism. To most, the words had no meaning now. It was a questionof which set of conquering heroes could conquer the most space first.So far, only Venus had fallen. They had done a good, thorough jobthere. Four ships had come to Mars and their crews had disappeared.This was the fifth attempt—  Terrence said, why did you shoot Doran?     I didn't like him enough to take the nonsense he was handing me, andwhen he shot the— Bruce hesitated.     What? When he shot what?     Bruce felt an odd tingling in his stomach. The wind's voice seemed tosharpen and rise to a kind of wail.     All right, I'll tell you. I was sleeping, having a dream. Doran wokeme up. Marsha was with him. I'd forgotten about that geological job wewere supposed to be working on. I've had these dreams ever since we gothere.     What kind of dreams?     Someone laughed.     Just fantastic stuff. Ask your Pavlovian there, Bruce said. Peopletalk to me, and there are other things in the dreams. Voices and somekind of shapes that aren't what you would call human at all.     Someone coughed. There was obvious embarrassment in the room.     It's peculiar, but many faces and voices are those of crew members ofsome of the ships out there, the ones that never got back to Earth.     Terrence grinned. Ghosts, Bruce?     Maybe. This planet may not be a dead ball of clay. I've had a feelingthere's something real in the dreams, but I can't figure it out.You're still interested?     Terrence nodded and glanced to either side.     We've seen no indication of any kind of life whatsoever, Brucepointed out. Not even an insect, or any kind of plant life except somefungi and lichen down in the crevices. That never seemed logical to mefrom the start. We've covered the planet everywhere except one place—     The mountain, Terrence said. You've been afraid even to talk aboutscaling it.     Not afraid, Bruce objected. I don't see any need to climb it. Comingto Mars, conquering space, isn't that enough? It happens that the crewof the first ship here decided to climb the mountain, and that set aprecedent. Every ship that has come here has had to climb it. Why?Because they had to accept the challenge. And what's happened to them?Like you, they all had the necessary equipment to make a successfulclimb, but no one's ever come back down. No contact with anything upthere.     Captain, I'm not accepting a ridiculous challenge like that. Whyshould I? I didn't come here to conquer anything, even a mountain. Thechallenge of coming to Mars, of going on to where ever you guys intendgoing before something bigger than you are stops you—it doesn'tinterest me.     Nothing's bigger than the destiny of Earth! Terrence said, sitting upstraight and rigid.     I know, Bruce said. Anyway, I got off the track. As I was saying,I woke up from this dream and Marsha and Doran were there. Doran wasshaking me. But I didn't seem to have gotten entirely awake; eitherthat or some part of the dream was real, because I looked out thewindow—something was out there, looking at me. It was late, and atfirst I thought it might be a shadow. But it wasn't. It was misty,almost translucent, but I think it was something alive. I had a feelingit was intelligent, maybe very intelligent. I could feel something inmy mind. A kind of beauty and softness and warmth. I kept looking—     His throat was getting tight. He had difficulty talking. Doran askedme what I was looking at, and I told him. He laughed. But he looked.Then I realized that maybe I wasn't still dreaming. Doran saw it, too,or thought he did. He kept looking and finally he jumped and grabbed uphis rifle and ran outside. I yelled at him. I kept on yelling and ranafter him. 'It's intelligent, whatever it is!' I kept saying. 'How doyou know it means any harm?' But I heard Doran's rifle go off before Icould get to him. And whatever it was we saw, I didn't see it any more.Neither did Doran. Maybe he killed it. I don't know. He had to kill it.That's the way you think.     What? Explain that remark.     That's the philosophy of conquest—don't take any chances withaliens. They might hinder our advance across the Universe. So we killeverything. Doran acted without thinking at all. Conditioned to killeverything that doesn't look like us. So I hit Doran and took the gunaway from him and killed him. I felt sick, crazy with rage. Maybethat's part of it. All I know is that I thought he deserved to die andthat I had to kill him, so I did.     Is that all, Bruce?     That's about all. Except that I'd like to kill all of you. And I wouldif I had the chance.     That's what I figured. Terrence turned to the psychologist, a smallwiry man who sat there constantly fingering his ear. Stromberg, whatdo you think of this gobbledegook? We know he's crazy. But what hithim? You said his record was good up until a year ago.     Stromberg's voice was monotonous, like a voice off of a tape.Schizophrenia with mingled delusions of persecution. The schizophreniais caused by inner conflict—indecision between the older values andour present ones which he hasn't been able to accept. A complete casehistory would tell why he can't accept our present attitudes. I wouldsay that he has an incipient fear of personal inadequacy, which is whyhe fears our desire for conquest. He's rationalized, built up a defensewhich he's structured with his idealism, foundationed with Old Eravalues. Retreat into the past, an escape from his own present feelingsof inadequacy. Also, he escapes into these dream fantasies.     Yes, Terrence said. But how does that account for Doran's action?Doran must have seen something—     Doran's charts show high suggestibility under stress. Another weakpersonality eliminated. Let's regard it that way. He      imagined     he sawsomething. He glanced at Marsha. Did      you     see anything?     She hesitated, avoiding Bruce's eyes. Nothing at all. There wasn'tanything out there to see, except the dust and rocks. That's all thereis to see here. We could stay a million years and never see anythingelse. A shadow maybe—     All right, Terrence interrupted. Now, Bruce, you know the lawregulating the treatment of serious psycho cases in space?     Yes. Execution.     No facilities for handling such cases en route back to Earth.     I understand. No apologies necessary, Captain.     Terrence shifted his position. However, we've voted to grant youa kind of leniency. In exchange for a little further service fromyou, you can remain here on Mars after we leave. You'll be leftfood-concentrates to last a long time.     What kind of service?     Stay by the radio and take down what we report as we go up themountain.     Why not? Bruce said. You aren't certain you're coming back, then?     We might not, Terrence admitted calmly. Something's happened to theothers. We're going to find out what and we want it recorded. None ofus want to back down and stay here. You can take our reports as theycome in.     I'll do that, Bruce said. It should be interesting.  Bruce watched them go, away and up and around the immediate face ofthe mountain in the bleak cold of the Martian morning. He watched themdisappear behind a high ledge, tied together with plastic rope likeconvicts.     He stayed by the radio. He lost track of time and didn't care muchif he did. Sometimes he took a heavy sedative and slept. The sedativeprevented the dreams. He had an idea that the dreams might be sopleasant that he wouldn't wake up. He wanted to listen to Terrence aslong as the captain had anything to say. It was nothing but curiosity.     At fifteen thousand feet, Terrence reported only that they wereclimbing.     At twenty thousand feet, Terrence said, We're still climbing, andthat's all I can report, Bruce. It's worth coming to Mars for—toaccept a challenge like this!     At twenty-five thousand feet, Terrence reported, We've put on oxygenmasks. Jacobs and Drexel have developed some kind of altitude sicknessand we're taking a little time out. It's a magnificent sight up here. Ican imagine plenty of tourists coming to Mars one of these days, justto climb this mountain! Mt. Everest is a pimple compared with this!What a feeling of power, Bruce!     From forty thousand feet, Terrence said, We gauged this mountainat forty-five thousand. But here we are at forty and there doesn'tseem to be any top. We can see up and up and the mountain keeps ongoing. I don't understand how we could have made such an error in ourcomputations. I talked with Burton. He doesn't see how a mountain thishigh could still be here when the rest of the planet has been worn sosmooth.     And then from fifty-three thousand feet, Terrence said with a voicethat seemed slightly strained: No sign of any of the crew of the otherfour ships yet. Ten in each crew, that makes fifty. Not a sign of anyof them so far, but then we seem to have a long way left to climb—     Bruce listened and noted and took sedatives and opened cans of foodconcentrates. He smoked and ate and slept. He had plenty of time. Hehad only time and the dreams which he knew he could utilize later totake care of the time.     From sixty thousand feet, Terrence reported, I had to shoot Anhausera few minutes ago! He was dissenting. Hear that, Bruce? One of my mostdependable men. We took a vote. A mere formality, of course, whetherwe should continue climbing or not. We knew we'd all vote to keep onclimbing. And then Anhauser dissented. He was hysterical. He refusedto accept the majority decision. 'I'm going back down!' he yelled.So I had to shoot him. Imagine a man of his apparent caliber turninganti-democratic like that! This mountain will be a great tester forus in the future. We'll test everybody, find out quickly who theweaklings are.     Bruce listened to the wind. It seemed to rise higher and higher.Terrence, who had climbed still higher, was calling. Think of it! Whata conquest! No man's ever done a thing like this. Like Stromberg says,it's symbolic! We can build spaceships and reach other planets, butthat's not actual physical conquest. We feel like gods up here. We cansee what we are now. We can see how it's going to be—     Once in a while Terrence demanded that Bruce say something to prove hewas still there taking down what Terrence said. Bruce obliged. A longtime passed, the way time does when no one cares. Bruce stopped takingthe sedatives finally. The dreams came back and became, somehow, morereal each time. He needed the companionship of the dreams.     It was very lonely sitting there without the dreams, with nothing butTerrence's voice ranting excitedly on and on. Terrence didn't seem realany more; certainly not as real as the dreams.  The problem of where to put the line between dream and reality began toworry Bruce. He would wake up and listen and take down what Terrencewas saying, and then go to sleep again with increasing expectancy. Hisdream took on continuity. He could return to the point where he hadleft it, and it was the same—allowing even for the time differencenecessitated by his periods of sleep.     He met people in the dreams, two girls and a man. They had names:Pietro, Marlene, Helene.     Helene he had seen from the beginning, but she became more real tohim all the time, until he could talk with her. After that, he couldalso talk with Marlene and Pietro, and the conversations made sense.Consistently, they made sense.     The Martian landscape was entirely different in the dreams. Greenvalleys and rivers, or actually wide canals, with odd trees trailingtheir branches on the slow, peacefully gliding currents. Here and therewere pastel-colored cities and there were things drifting through themthat were alive and intelligent and soft and warm and wonderful to know.     '      ... dreams, in their vivid coloring of life, as in that fleeting,shadowy, misty strife of semblance with reality which brings to thedelirious eye more lovely things of paradise and love—and all ourown!—than young Hope in his sunniest hour hath known....     '     So sometimes he read poetry, but even that was hardly equal to thedreams.     And then he would wake up and listen to Terrence's voice. He wouldlook out the window over the barren frigid land where there was nothingbut seams of worn land, like scabs under the brazen sky.     If I had a choice, he thought, I wouldn't ever wake up at all again.The dreams may not be more real, but they're preferable.     Dreams were supposed to be wishful thinking, primarily, but hecouldn't live in them very long. His body would dry up and he woulddie. He had to stay awake enough to put a little energy back intohimself. Of course, if he died and lost the dreams, there would be onecompensation—he would also be free of Terrence and the rest of themwho had learned that the only value in life lay in killing one's wayacross the Cosmos.     But then he had a feeling Terrence's voice wouldn't be annoying himmuch more anyway. The voice was unreal, coming out of some void. Hecould switch off Terrence any time now, but he was still curious.     Bruce—Bruce, you still there? Listen, we're up here at what we figureto be five hundred thousand feet! It      is     impossible. We keep climbingand now we look up and we can see up and up and there the mountain isgoing up and up—     And some time later: Bruce, Marsha's dying! We don't know what's thematter. We can't find any reason for it. She's lying here and she keepslaughing and calling your name. She's a woman, so that's probably it.Women don't have real guts.     Bruce bent toward the radio. Outside the shelter, the wind whistledsoftly at the door.     Marsha, he said.     Bruce—     She hadn't said his name that way for a long time.     Marsha, remember how we used to talk about human values? I rememberhow you seemed to have something maybe different from the others. Inever thought you'd really buy this will to conquer, and now it doesn'tmatter....     He listened to her voice, first the crazy laughter, and then a whisper.Bruce, hello down there. Her voice was all mixed up with fear andhysteria and mockery. Bruce darling, are you lonely down there? I wishI were with you, safe ... free ... warm. I love you. Do you hear that?I really love you, after all. After all....       Her voice drifted away, came back to him. We're climbing the highestmountain. What are you doing there, relaxing where it's peaceful andwarm and sane? You always were such a calm guy. I remember now. Whatare you doing—reading poetry while we climb the mountain? What wasthat, Bruce—that one about the mountain you tried to quote to me lastnight before you ... I can't remember it now. Darling, what...?  He stared at the radio. He hesitated, reached out and switched on themike. He got through to her.     Hello, hello, darling, he whispered. Marsha, can you hear me?     Yes, yes. You down there, all warm and cozy, reading poetry, darling.Where you can see both ways instead of just up and down, up and down.     He tried to imagine where she was now as he spoke to her, how shelooked. He thought of Earth and how it had been there, years ago, withMarsha. Things had seemed so different then. There was something ofthat hope in his voice now as he spoke to her, yet not directly to her,as he looked out the window at the naked frigid sky and the barrenrocks.   '... and there is nowhere to go from the top of a mountain, But down, my dear; And the springs that flow on the floor of the valley Will never seem fresh or clear For thinking of the glitter of the mountain water In the feathery green of the year....'    The wind stormed over the shelter in a burst of power, buried the soundof his own voice.     Marsha, are you still there?     What the devil's the idea, poetry at a time like this, or any time?Terrence demanded. Listen, you taking this down? We haven't run intoany signs of the others. Six hundred thousand feet, Bruce! We feel ourdestiny. We conquer the Solar System. And we'll go out and out, andwe'll climb the highest mountain, the highest mountain anywhere. We'regoing up and up. We've voted on it. Unanimous. We go on. On to thetop, Bruce! Nothing can stop us. If it takes ten years, a hundred, athousand years, we'll find it. We'll find the top! Not the top of thisworld—the top of      everything     . The top of the  UNIVERSE  !     Later, Terrence's voice broke off in the middle of something orother—Bruce couldn't make any sense out of it at all—and turned intocrazy yells that faded out and never came back.     Bruce figured the others might still be climbing somewhere, or maybethey were dead. Either way it wouldn't make any difference to him. Heknew they would never come back down.     He was switching off the radio for good when he saw the colorationbreak over the window. It was the same as the dream, but for aninstant, dream and reality seemed fused like two superimposed filmnegatives.     He went to the window and looked out. The comfortable little city wasout there, and the canal flowing past through a pleasantly cool yetsunny afternoon. Purple mist blanketed the knees of low hills and therewas a valley, green and rich with the trees high and full beside thesoftly flowing canal water.     The filmy shapes that seemed alive, that were partly translucent,drifted along the water's edge, and birds as delicate as colored glasswavered down the wind.     He opened the shelter door and went out. The shelter looked the same,but useless now. How did the shelter of that bleak world get into thisone, where the air was warm and fragrant, where there was no cold, fromthat world into this one of his dreams?     The girl—Helene—was standing there leaning against a tree, smoking acigarette.     He walked toward her, and stopped. In the dream it had been easy, butnow he was embarrassed, in spite of the intimacy that had grown betweenthem. She wore the same casual slacks and sandals. Her hair was brown.She was not particularly beautiful, but she was comfortable to look atbecause she seemed so peaceful. Content, happy with what was and onlywhat was.     He turned quickly. The shelter was still there, and behind it the rowof spaceships—not like chalk marks on a tallyboard now, but like oddrelics that didn't belong there in the thick green grass. Five shipsinstead of four.     There was his own individual shelter beyond the headquarters building,and the other buildings. He looked up.     There was no mountain.  For one shivery moment he knew fear. And then the fear went away, andhe was ashamed of what he had felt. What he had feared was gone now,and he knew it was gone for good and he would never have to fear itagain.     Look here, Bruce. I wondered how long it would take to get it throughthat thick poetic head of yours!     Get what? He began to suspect what it was all about now, but hewasn't quite sure yet.     Smoke? she said.     He took one of the cigarettes and she lighted it for him and put thelighter back into her pocket.     It's real nice here, she said. Isn't it?     I guess it's about perfect.     It'll be easy. Staying here, I mean. We won't be going to Earth everagain, you know.     I didn't      know     that, but I didn't      think     we ever would again.     We wouldn't want to anyway, would we, Bruce?     No.     He kept on looking at the place where the mountain had been. Or maybeit still was; he couldn't make up his mind yet. Which was and which wasnot? That barren icy world without life, or this?     '      Is all that we see or seem     ,' he whispered, half to himself, '      buta dream within a dream?     '     She laughed softly. Poe was ahead of his time, she said. You stilldon't get it, do you? You don't know what's been happening?     Maybe I don't.     She shrugged, and looked in the direction of the ships. Poor guys. Ican't feel much hatred toward them now. The Martians give you a lot ofunderstanding of the human mind—after they've accepted you, and afteryou've lived with them awhile. But the mountain climbers—we can seenow—it's just luck, chance, we weren't like them. A deviant is a childof chance.     Yes, Bruce said. There's a lot of people like us on Earth, butthey'll never get the chance—the chance we seem to have here, to livedecently....     You're beginning to see now which was the dream, she said andsmiled. But don't be pessimistic. Those people on Earth will get theirchance, too, one of these fine days. The Conquerors aren't getting far.Venus, and then Mars, and Mars is where they stop. They'll keep cominghere and climbing the mountain and finally there won't be any more. Itwon't take so long.     She rose to her toes and waved and yelled. Bruce saw Pietro and Marlenewalking hand in hand up the other side of the canal. They waved backand called and then pushed off into the water in a small boat, anddrifted away and out of sight around a gentle turn.     She took his arm and they walked along the canal toward where themountain had been, or still was—he didn't know.     A quarter of a mile beyond the canal, he saw the high mound of red,naked hill, corroded and ugly, rising up like a scar of the surroundinggreen.     She wasn't smiling now. There were shadows on her face as the pressureon his arm stopped him.     I was on the first ship and Marlene on the second. None like us on thethird, and on the fourth ship was Pietro. All the others had to climbthe mountain— She stopped talking for a moment, and then he felt thepressure of her fingers on his arm. I'm very glad you came on thefifth, she whispered. Are you glad now?     I'm very glad, he said.     The Martians tested us, she explained. They're masters of the mind.I guess they've been grinding along through the evolutionary milla darn long time, longer than we could estimate now. They learnedthe horror we're capable of from the first ship—the Conquerors,the climbers. The Martians knew more like them would come and go oninto space, killing, destroying for no other reason than their ownsickness. Being masters of the mind, the Martians are also capableof hypnosis—no, that's not really the word, only the closest ourlanguage comes to naming it. Suggestion so deep and strong that itseems real to one human or a million or a billion; there's no limit tothe number that can be influenced. What the people who came off thoseships saw wasn't real. It was partly what the Martians wanted them tosee and feel—but most of it, like the desire to climb the mountain,was as much a part of the Conquerors' own psychic drive as it was thesuggestion of the Martians.     She waved her arm slowly to describe a peak. The Martians made themountain real. So real that it could be seen from space, measured byinstruments ... even photographed and chipped for rock samples. Butyou'll see how that was done, Bruce, and realize that this and not themountain of the Conquerors is the reality of Mars. This is the Mars noConqueror will ever see.  They walked toward the ugly red mound that jutted above the green. Whenthey came close enough, he saw the bodies lying there ... the remains,actually, of what had once been bodies. He felt too sickened to go onwalking.     It may seem cruel now, she said, but the Martians realized thatthere is no cure for the will to conquer. There is no safety from it,either, as the people of Earth and Venus discovered, unless it isgiven an impossible obstacle to overcome. So the Martians provided theConquerors with a mountain. They themselves wanted to climb. They hadto.     He was hardly listening as he walked away from Helene toward the erodedhills. The crew members of the first four ships were skeletons tiedtogether with imperishably strong rope about their waists. Far beyondthem were those from      Mars V     , too freshly dead to have decayedmuch ... Anhauser with his rope cut, a bullet in his head; Jacobs andMarsha and the others ... Terrence much past them all. He had managedto climb higher than anyone else and he lay with his arms stretchedout, his fingers still clutching at rock outcroppings.     The trail they left wound over the ground, chipped in places for holds,red elsewhere with blood from torn hands. Terrence was more than twelvemiles from the ship—horizontally.     Bruce lifted Marsha and carried her back over the rocky dust, into thefresh fragrance of the high grass, and across it to the shade and peacebeside the canal.     He put her down. She looked peaceful enough, more peaceful than thatother time, years ago, when the two of them seemed to have shared somuch, when the future had not yet destroyed her. He saw the shadow ofHelene bend across Marsha's face against the background of the silentlyflowing water of the cool, green canal.     You loved her?     Once, Bruce said. She might have been sane. They got her when shewas young. Too young to fight. But she would have, I think, if she'dbeen older when they got her.     He sat looking down at Marsha's face, and then at the water with theleaves floating down it.     '... And the springs that flow on the floor of the valley will neverseem fresh or clear for thinking of the glitter of the mountain waterin the feathery green of the year....'     He stood up, walked back with Helene along the canal toward the calmcity. He didn't look back.     They've all been dead quite a while, Bruce said wonderingly. YetI seemed to be hearing from Terrence until only a short time ago.Are—are the climbers still climbing—somewhere, Helene?     Who knows? Helene answered softly. Maybe. I doubt if even theMartians have the answer to that.     They entered the city.   ","The mountain is a sign of an impossible obstacle that the conquerors from Earth want to overcome, topple. Their urge to expand their territories and own the entire Solar System forces the Martians to come up with an illusion of something that can stop the destruction humans are spreading. The Martian mountain is a part of the hypnotic vision the conquered had access to, but they never saw the Martian city. They all ultimately died trying to climb it, from their drive to conquer everything they could find. The mountain is a perfect symbol of humans’ greed for territories and power, and it is also what stops them all from expanding their so-called empire. "
"What happens to Terrence throughout the story? </s>     THE HIGHEST MOUNTAIN     By BRYCE WALTON     Illustrated by BOB HAYES     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction June 1952.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        First one up this tallest summit in the Solar       System was a rotten egg ... a very rotten egg!        Bruce heard their feet on the gravel outside and got up reluctantly toopen the door for them. He'd been reading some of Byron's poems he'dsneaked aboard the ship; after that he had been on the point of dozingoff, and now one of those strangely realistic dreams would have to bepostponed for a while. Funny, those dreams. There were faces in them ofhuman beings, or of ghosts, and other forms that weren't human at all,but seemed real and alive—except that they were also just parts of alast unconscious desire to escape death. Maybe that was it.     'Oh that my young life were a lasting dream, my spirit not awakeningtill the beam of an eternity should bring the 'morrow, Bruce said. Hesmiled without feeling much of anything and added, Thanks, Mr. Poe.     Jacobs and Anhauser stood outside. The icy wind cut through and intoBruce, but he didn't seem to notice. Anhauser's bulk loomed even largerin the special cold-resisting suiting. Jacobs' thin face frowned slylyat Bruce.     Come on in, boys, and get warm, Bruce invited.     Hey, poet, you're still here! Anhauser said, looking astonished.     We thought you'd be running off somewhere, Jacobs said.     Bruce reached for the suit on its hook, started climbing into it.Where? he asked. Mars looks alike wherever you go. Where did youthink I'd be running to?     Any place just so it was away from here and us, Anhauser said.     I don't have to do that. You are going away from me. That takes careof that, doesn't it?     Ah, come on, get the hell out of there, Jacobs said. He pulled therevolver from its holster and pointed it at Bruce. We got to get somesleep. We're starting up that mountain at five in the morning.     I know, Bruce said. I'll be glad to see you climb the mountain.     Outside, in the weird light of the double moons, Bruce looked up at thegigantic overhang of the mountain. It was unbelievable. The mountaindidn't seem to belong here. He'd thought so when they'd first hit Marseight months back and discovered the other four rockets that had nevergot back to Earth—all lying side by side under the mountain's shadow,like little white chalk marks on a tallyboard.     They'd estimated its height at over 45,000 feet, which was a lot higherthan any mountain on Earth. Yet Mars was much older, geologically. Theentire face of the planet was smoothed into soft, undulating red hillsby erosion. And there in the middle of barren nothingness rose that oneincredible mountain. On certain nights when the stars were right, ithad seemed to Bruce as though it were pointing an accusing finger atEarth—or a warning one.  With Jacobs and Anhauser and the remainder of the crew of the ship,      Mars V     , seven judges sat in a semi-circle and Bruce stood there infront of them for the inquest.     In the middle of the half-moon of inquisition, with his long legsstretched out and his hands folded on his belly, sat Captain Terrence.His uniform was black. On his arm was the silver fist insignia of theConqueror Corps. Marsha Rennels sat on the extreme right and now therewas no emotion at all on her trim, neat face.     He remembered her as she had been years ago, but at the moment hewasn't looking very hard to see anything on her face. It was too late.They had gotten her young and it was too late.     Terrence's big, square face frowned a little. Bruce was aware suddenlyof the sound of the bleak, never-ending wind against the plastileneshelter. He remembered the strange misty shapes that had come to him inhis dreams, the voices that had called to him, and how disappointed hehad been when he woke from them.     This is a mere formality, Terrence finally said, since we all knowyou killed Lieutenant Doran a few hours ago. Marsha saw you kill him.Whatever you say goes on the record, of course.     For whom? Bruce asked.     What kind of question is that? For the authorities on Earth when weget back.     When you get back? Like the crews of those other four ships outthere? Bruce laughed without much humor.     Terrence rubbed a palm across his lips, dropped the hand quickly againto his belly. You want to make a statement or not? You shot Doran inthe head with a rifle. No provocation for the attack. You've wastedenough of my time with your damn arguments and anti-social behavior.This is a democratic group. Everyone has his say. But you've said toomuch, and done too much. Freedom doesn't allow you to go around killingfellow crew-members!     Any idea that there was any democracy or freedom left died on Venus,Bruce said.     Now we get another lecture! Terrence exploded. He leaned forward.You're sick, Bruce. They did a bad psych job on you. They should neverhave sent you on this trip. We need strength, all the strength we canfind. You don't belong here.     I know, Bruce agreed indifferently. I was drafted for this trip. Itold them I shouldn't be brought along. I said I didn't want any partof it.     Because you're afraid. You're not Conqueror material. That's why youbacked down when we all voted to climb the mountain. And what the devildoes Venus—?     Max Drexel's freckles slipped into the creases across his highforehead. Haven't you heard him expounding on the injustice done tothe Venusian aborigines, Captain? If you haven't, you aren't thoroughlyeducated to the crackpot idealism still infecting certain people.     I haven't heard it, Terrence admitted. What injustice?     Bruce said, I guess it couldn't really be considered an injusticeany longer. Values have changed too much. Doran and I were part of thecrew of that first ship to hit Venus, five years ago. Remember? Oneof the New Era's more infamous dates. Drexel says the Venusians wereaborigines. No one ever got a chance to find out. We ran into thisvillage. No one knows how old it was. There were intelligent beingsthere. One community left on the whole planet, maybe a few thousandinhabitants. They made their last mistake when they came out to greetus. Without even an attempt at communication, they were wiped out. Thevillage was burned and everything alive in it was destroyed.     Bruce felt the old weakness coming into his knees, the sweat beginningto run down his face. He took a deep breath and stood there before thecold nihilistic stares of fourteen eyes.     No, Bruce said. I apologize. None of you know what I'm talkingabout.     Terrence nodded. You're psycho. It's as simple as that. They pick themost capable for these conquests. Even the flights are processes ofelimination. Eventually we get the very best, the most resilient, thereal conquering blood. You just don't pass, Bruce. Listen, what do youthink gives you the right to stand here in judgment against the lawsof the whole Solar System?     There are plenty on Earth who agree with me, Bruce said. I can saywhat I think now because you can't do more than kill me and you'll dothat regardless....     He stopped. This was ridiculous, a waste of his time. And theirs. Theyhad established a kind of final totalitarianism since the New Era. Thepsychologists, the Pavlovian Reflex boys, had done that. If you didn'twant to be reconditioned to fit into the social machine like a humanvacuum tube, you kept your mouth shut. And for many, when the mouth waskept shut long enough, the mind pretty well forgot what it had wantedto open the mouth for in the first place.     A minority in both segments of a world split into two factions.Both had been warring diplomatically and sometimes physically, forcenturies, clung to old ideas of freedom, democracy, self-determinism,individualism. To most, the words had no meaning now. It was a questionof which set of conquering heroes could conquer the most space first.So far, only Venus had fallen. They had done a good, thorough jobthere. Four ships had come to Mars and their crews had disappeared.This was the fifth attempt—  Terrence said, why did you shoot Doran?     I didn't like him enough to take the nonsense he was handing me, andwhen he shot the— Bruce hesitated.     What? When he shot what?     Bruce felt an odd tingling in his stomach. The wind's voice seemed tosharpen and rise to a kind of wail.     All right, I'll tell you. I was sleeping, having a dream. Doran wokeme up. Marsha was with him. I'd forgotten about that geological job wewere supposed to be working on. I've had these dreams ever since we gothere.     What kind of dreams?     Someone laughed.     Just fantastic stuff. Ask your Pavlovian there, Bruce said. Peopletalk to me, and there are other things in the dreams. Voices and somekind of shapes that aren't what you would call human at all.     Someone coughed. There was obvious embarrassment in the room.     It's peculiar, but many faces and voices are those of crew members ofsome of the ships out there, the ones that never got back to Earth.     Terrence grinned. Ghosts, Bruce?     Maybe. This planet may not be a dead ball of clay. I've had a feelingthere's something real in the dreams, but I can't figure it out.You're still interested?     Terrence nodded and glanced to either side.     We've seen no indication of any kind of life whatsoever, Brucepointed out. Not even an insect, or any kind of plant life except somefungi and lichen down in the crevices. That never seemed logical to mefrom the start. We've covered the planet everywhere except one place—     The mountain, Terrence said. You've been afraid even to talk aboutscaling it.     Not afraid, Bruce objected. I don't see any need to climb it. Comingto Mars, conquering space, isn't that enough? It happens that the crewof the first ship here decided to climb the mountain, and that set aprecedent. Every ship that has come here has had to climb it. Why?Because they had to accept the challenge. And what's happened to them?Like you, they all had the necessary equipment to make a successfulclimb, but no one's ever come back down. No contact with anything upthere.     Captain, I'm not accepting a ridiculous challenge like that. Whyshould I? I didn't come here to conquer anything, even a mountain. Thechallenge of coming to Mars, of going on to where ever you guys intendgoing before something bigger than you are stops you—it doesn'tinterest me.     Nothing's bigger than the destiny of Earth! Terrence said, sitting upstraight and rigid.     I know, Bruce said. Anyway, I got off the track. As I was saying,I woke up from this dream and Marsha and Doran were there. Doran wasshaking me. But I didn't seem to have gotten entirely awake; eitherthat or some part of the dream was real, because I looked out thewindow—something was out there, looking at me. It was late, and atfirst I thought it might be a shadow. But it wasn't. It was misty,almost translucent, but I think it was something alive. I had a feelingit was intelligent, maybe very intelligent. I could feel something inmy mind. A kind of beauty and softness and warmth. I kept looking—     His throat was getting tight. He had difficulty talking. Doran askedme what I was looking at, and I told him. He laughed. But he looked.Then I realized that maybe I wasn't still dreaming. Doran saw it, too,or thought he did. He kept looking and finally he jumped and grabbed uphis rifle and ran outside. I yelled at him. I kept on yelling and ranafter him. 'It's intelligent, whatever it is!' I kept saying. 'How doyou know it means any harm?' But I heard Doran's rifle go off before Icould get to him. And whatever it was we saw, I didn't see it any more.Neither did Doran. Maybe he killed it. I don't know. He had to kill it.That's the way you think.     What? Explain that remark.     That's the philosophy of conquest—don't take any chances withaliens. They might hinder our advance across the Universe. So we killeverything. Doran acted without thinking at all. Conditioned to killeverything that doesn't look like us. So I hit Doran and took the gunaway from him and killed him. I felt sick, crazy with rage. Maybethat's part of it. All I know is that I thought he deserved to die andthat I had to kill him, so I did.     Is that all, Bruce?     That's about all. Except that I'd like to kill all of you. And I wouldif I had the chance.     That's what I figured. Terrence turned to the psychologist, a smallwiry man who sat there constantly fingering his ear. Stromberg, whatdo you think of this gobbledegook? We know he's crazy. But what hithim? You said his record was good up until a year ago.     Stromberg's voice was monotonous, like a voice off of a tape.Schizophrenia with mingled delusions of persecution. The schizophreniais caused by inner conflict—indecision between the older values andour present ones which he hasn't been able to accept. A complete casehistory would tell why he can't accept our present attitudes. I wouldsay that he has an incipient fear of personal inadequacy, which is whyhe fears our desire for conquest. He's rationalized, built up a defensewhich he's structured with his idealism, foundationed with Old Eravalues. Retreat into the past, an escape from his own present feelingsof inadequacy. Also, he escapes into these dream fantasies.     Yes, Terrence said. But how does that account for Doran's action?Doran must have seen something—     Doran's charts show high suggestibility under stress. Another weakpersonality eliminated. Let's regard it that way. He      imagined     he sawsomething. He glanced at Marsha. Did      you     see anything?     She hesitated, avoiding Bruce's eyes. Nothing at all. There wasn'tanything out there to see, except the dust and rocks. That's all thereis to see here. We could stay a million years and never see anythingelse. A shadow maybe—     All right, Terrence interrupted. Now, Bruce, you know the lawregulating the treatment of serious psycho cases in space?     Yes. Execution.     No facilities for handling such cases en route back to Earth.     I understand. No apologies necessary, Captain.     Terrence shifted his position. However, we've voted to grant youa kind of leniency. In exchange for a little further service fromyou, you can remain here on Mars after we leave. You'll be leftfood-concentrates to last a long time.     What kind of service?     Stay by the radio and take down what we report as we go up themountain.     Why not? Bruce said. You aren't certain you're coming back, then?     We might not, Terrence admitted calmly. Something's happened to theothers. We're going to find out what and we want it recorded. None ofus want to back down and stay here. You can take our reports as theycome in.     I'll do that, Bruce said. It should be interesting.  Bruce watched them go, away and up and around the immediate face ofthe mountain in the bleak cold of the Martian morning. He watched themdisappear behind a high ledge, tied together with plastic rope likeconvicts.     He stayed by the radio. He lost track of time and didn't care muchif he did. Sometimes he took a heavy sedative and slept. The sedativeprevented the dreams. He had an idea that the dreams might be sopleasant that he wouldn't wake up. He wanted to listen to Terrence aslong as the captain had anything to say. It was nothing but curiosity.     At fifteen thousand feet, Terrence reported only that they wereclimbing.     At twenty thousand feet, Terrence said, We're still climbing, andthat's all I can report, Bruce. It's worth coming to Mars for—toaccept a challenge like this!     At twenty-five thousand feet, Terrence reported, We've put on oxygenmasks. Jacobs and Drexel have developed some kind of altitude sicknessand we're taking a little time out. It's a magnificent sight up here. Ican imagine plenty of tourists coming to Mars one of these days, justto climb this mountain! Mt. Everest is a pimple compared with this!What a feeling of power, Bruce!     From forty thousand feet, Terrence said, We gauged this mountainat forty-five thousand. But here we are at forty and there doesn'tseem to be any top. We can see up and up and the mountain keeps ongoing. I don't understand how we could have made such an error in ourcomputations. I talked with Burton. He doesn't see how a mountain thishigh could still be here when the rest of the planet has been worn sosmooth.     And then from fifty-three thousand feet, Terrence said with a voicethat seemed slightly strained: No sign of any of the crew of the otherfour ships yet. Ten in each crew, that makes fifty. Not a sign of anyof them so far, but then we seem to have a long way left to climb—     Bruce listened and noted and took sedatives and opened cans of foodconcentrates. He smoked and ate and slept. He had plenty of time. Hehad only time and the dreams which he knew he could utilize later totake care of the time.     From sixty thousand feet, Terrence reported, I had to shoot Anhausera few minutes ago! He was dissenting. Hear that, Bruce? One of my mostdependable men. We took a vote. A mere formality, of course, whetherwe should continue climbing or not. We knew we'd all vote to keep onclimbing. And then Anhauser dissented. He was hysterical. He refusedto accept the majority decision. 'I'm going back down!' he yelled.So I had to shoot him. Imagine a man of his apparent caliber turninganti-democratic like that! This mountain will be a great tester forus in the future. We'll test everybody, find out quickly who theweaklings are.     Bruce listened to the wind. It seemed to rise higher and higher.Terrence, who had climbed still higher, was calling. Think of it! Whata conquest! No man's ever done a thing like this. Like Stromberg says,it's symbolic! We can build spaceships and reach other planets, butthat's not actual physical conquest. We feel like gods up here. We cansee what we are now. We can see how it's going to be—     Once in a while Terrence demanded that Bruce say something to prove hewas still there taking down what Terrence said. Bruce obliged. A longtime passed, the way time does when no one cares. Bruce stopped takingthe sedatives finally. The dreams came back and became, somehow, morereal each time. He needed the companionship of the dreams.     It was very lonely sitting there without the dreams, with nothing butTerrence's voice ranting excitedly on and on. Terrence didn't seem realany more; certainly not as real as the dreams.  The problem of where to put the line between dream and reality began toworry Bruce. He would wake up and listen and take down what Terrencewas saying, and then go to sleep again with increasing expectancy. Hisdream took on continuity. He could return to the point where he hadleft it, and it was the same—allowing even for the time differencenecessitated by his periods of sleep.     He met people in the dreams, two girls and a man. They had names:Pietro, Marlene, Helene.     Helene he had seen from the beginning, but she became more real tohim all the time, until he could talk with her. After that, he couldalso talk with Marlene and Pietro, and the conversations made sense.Consistently, they made sense.     The Martian landscape was entirely different in the dreams. Greenvalleys and rivers, or actually wide canals, with odd trees trailingtheir branches on the slow, peacefully gliding currents. Here and therewere pastel-colored cities and there were things drifting through themthat were alive and intelligent and soft and warm and wonderful to know.     '      ... dreams, in their vivid coloring of life, as in that fleeting,shadowy, misty strife of semblance with reality which brings to thedelirious eye more lovely things of paradise and love—and all ourown!—than young Hope in his sunniest hour hath known....     '     So sometimes he read poetry, but even that was hardly equal to thedreams.     And then he would wake up and listen to Terrence's voice. He wouldlook out the window over the barren frigid land where there was nothingbut seams of worn land, like scabs under the brazen sky.     If I had a choice, he thought, I wouldn't ever wake up at all again.The dreams may not be more real, but they're preferable.     Dreams were supposed to be wishful thinking, primarily, but hecouldn't live in them very long. His body would dry up and he woulddie. He had to stay awake enough to put a little energy back intohimself. Of course, if he died and lost the dreams, there would be onecompensation—he would also be free of Terrence and the rest of themwho had learned that the only value in life lay in killing one's wayacross the Cosmos.     But then he had a feeling Terrence's voice wouldn't be annoying himmuch more anyway. The voice was unreal, coming out of some void. Hecould switch off Terrence any time now, but he was still curious.     Bruce—Bruce, you still there? Listen, we're up here at what we figureto be five hundred thousand feet! It      is     impossible. We keep climbingand now we look up and we can see up and up and there the mountain isgoing up and up—     And some time later: Bruce, Marsha's dying! We don't know what's thematter. We can't find any reason for it. She's lying here and she keepslaughing and calling your name. She's a woman, so that's probably it.Women don't have real guts.     Bruce bent toward the radio. Outside the shelter, the wind whistledsoftly at the door.     Marsha, he said.     Bruce—     She hadn't said his name that way for a long time.     Marsha, remember how we used to talk about human values? I rememberhow you seemed to have something maybe different from the others. Inever thought you'd really buy this will to conquer, and now it doesn'tmatter....     He listened to her voice, first the crazy laughter, and then a whisper.Bruce, hello down there. Her voice was all mixed up with fear andhysteria and mockery. Bruce darling, are you lonely down there? I wishI were with you, safe ... free ... warm. I love you. Do you hear that?I really love you, after all. After all....       Her voice drifted away, came back to him. We're climbing the highestmountain. What are you doing there, relaxing where it's peaceful andwarm and sane? You always were such a calm guy. I remember now. Whatare you doing—reading poetry while we climb the mountain? What wasthat, Bruce—that one about the mountain you tried to quote to me lastnight before you ... I can't remember it now. Darling, what...?  He stared at the radio. He hesitated, reached out and switched on themike. He got through to her.     Hello, hello, darling, he whispered. Marsha, can you hear me?     Yes, yes. You down there, all warm and cozy, reading poetry, darling.Where you can see both ways instead of just up and down, up and down.     He tried to imagine where she was now as he spoke to her, how shelooked. He thought of Earth and how it had been there, years ago, withMarsha. Things had seemed so different then. There was something ofthat hope in his voice now as he spoke to her, yet not directly to her,as he looked out the window at the naked frigid sky and the barrenrocks.   '... and there is nowhere to go from the top of a mountain, But down, my dear; And the springs that flow on the floor of the valley Will never seem fresh or clear For thinking of the glitter of the mountain water In the feathery green of the year....'    The wind stormed over the shelter in a burst of power, buried the soundof his own voice.     Marsha, are you still there?     What the devil's the idea, poetry at a time like this, or any time?Terrence demanded. Listen, you taking this down? We haven't run intoany signs of the others. Six hundred thousand feet, Bruce! We feel ourdestiny. We conquer the Solar System. And we'll go out and out, andwe'll climb the highest mountain, the highest mountain anywhere. We'regoing up and up. We've voted on it. Unanimous. We go on. On to thetop, Bruce! Nothing can stop us. If it takes ten years, a hundred, athousand years, we'll find it. We'll find the top! Not the top of thisworld—the top of      everything     . The top of the  UNIVERSE  !     Later, Terrence's voice broke off in the middle of something orother—Bruce couldn't make any sense out of it at all—and turned intocrazy yells that faded out and never came back.     Bruce figured the others might still be climbing somewhere, or maybethey were dead. Either way it wouldn't make any difference to him. Heknew they would never come back down.     He was switching off the radio for good when he saw the colorationbreak over the window. It was the same as the dream, but for aninstant, dream and reality seemed fused like two superimposed filmnegatives.     He went to the window and looked out. The comfortable little city wasout there, and the canal flowing past through a pleasantly cool yetsunny afternoon. Purple mist blanketed the knees of low hills and therewas a valley, green and rich with the trees high and full beside thesoftly flowing canal water.     The filmy shapes that seemed alive, that were partly translucent,drifted along the water's edge, and birds as delicate as colored glasswavered down the wind.     He opened the shelter door and went out. The shelter looked the same,but useless now. How did the shelter of that bleak world get into thisone, where the air was warm and fragrant, where there was no cold, fromthat world into this one of his dreams?     The girl—Helene—was standing there leaning against a tree, smoking acigarette.     He walked toward her, and stopped. In the dream it had been easy, butnow he was embarrassed, in spite of the intimacy that had grown betweenthem. She wore the same casual slacks and sandals. Her hair was brown.She was not particularly beautiful, but she was comfortable to look atbecause she seemed so peaceful. Content, happy with what was and onlywhat was.     He turned quickly. The shelter was still there, and behind it the rowof spaceships—not like chalk marks on a tallyboard now, but like oddrelics that didn't belong there in the thick green grass. Five shipsinstead of four.     There was his own individual shelter beyond the headquarters building,and the other buildings. He looked up.     There was no mountain.  For one shivery moment he knew fear. And then the fear went away, andhe was ashamed of what he had felt. What he had feared was gone now,and he knew it was gone for good and he would never have to fear itagain.     Look here, Bruce. I wondered how long it would take to get it throughthat thick poetic head of yours!     Get what? He began to suspect what it was all about now, but hewasn't quite sure yet.     Smoke? she said.     He took one of the cigarettes and she lighted it for him and put thelighter back into her pocket.     It's real nice here, she said. Isn't it?     I guess it's about perfect.     It'll be easy. Staying here, I mean. We won't be going to Earth everagain, you know.     I didn't      know     that, but I didn't      think     we ever would again.     We wouldn't want to anyway, would we, Bruce?     No.     He kept on looking at the place where the mountain had been. Or maybeit still was; he couldn't make up his mind yet. Which was and which wasnot? That barren icy world without life, or this?     '      Is all that we see or seem     ,' he whispered, half to himself, '      buta dream within a dream?     '     She laughed softly. Poe was ahead of his time, she said. You stilldon't get it, do you? You don't know what's been happening?     Maybe I don't.     She shrugged, and looked in the direction of the ships. Poor guys. Ican't feel much hatred toward them now. The Martians give you a lot ofunderstanding of the human mind—after they've accepted you, and afteryou've lived with them awhile. But the mountain climbers—we can seenow—it's just luck, chance, we weren't like them. A deviant is a childof chance.     Yes, Bruce said. There's a lot of people like us on Earth, butthey'll never get the chance—the chance we seem to have here, to livedecently....     You're beginning to see now which was the dream, she said andsmiled. But don't be pessimistic. Those people on Earth will get theirchance, too, one of these fine days. The Conquerors aren't getting far.Venus, and then Mars, and Mars is where they stop. They'll keep cominghere and climbing the mountain and finally there won't be any more. Itwon't take so long.     She rose to her toes and waved and yelled. Bruce saw Pietro and Marlenewalking hand in hand up the other side of the canal. They waved backand called and then pushed off into the water in a small boat, anddrifted away and out of sight around a gentle turn.     She took his arm and they walked along the canal toward where themountain had been, or still was—he didn't know.     A quarter of a mile beyond the canal, he saw the high mound of red,naked hill, corroded and ugly, rising up like a scar of the surroundinggreen.     She wasn't smiling now. There were shadows on her face as the pressureon his arm stopped him.     I was on the first ship and Marlene on the second. None like us on thethird, and on the fourth ship was Pietro. All the others had to climbthe mountain— She stopped talking for a moment, and then he felt thepressure of her fingers on his arm. I'm very glad you came on thefifth, she whispered. Are you glad now?     I'm very glad, he said.     The Martians tested us, she explained. They're masters of the mind.I guess they've been grinding along through the evolutionary milla darn long time, longer than we could estimate now. They learnedthe horror we're capable of from the first ship—the Conquerors,the climbers. The Martians knew more like them would come and go oninto space, killing, destroying for no other reason than their ownsickness. Being masters of the mind, the Martians are also capableof hypnosis—no, that's not really the word, only the closest ourlanguage comes to naming it. Suggestion so deep and strong that itseems real to one human or a million or a billion; there's no limit tothe number that can be influenced. What the people who came off thoseships saw wasn't real. It was partly what the Martians wanted them tosee and feel—but most of it, like the desire to climb the mountain,was as much a part of the Conquerors' own psychic drive as it was thesuggestion of the Martians.     She waved her arm slowly to describe a peak. The Martians made themountain real. So real that it could be seen from space, measured byinstruments ... even photographed and chipped for rock samples. Butyou'll see how that was done, Bruce, and realize that this and not themountain of the Conquerors is the reality of Mars. This is the Mars noConqueror will ever see.  They walked toward the ugly red mound that jutted above the green. Whenthey came close enough, he saw the bodies lying there ... the remains,actually, of what had once been bodies. He felt too sickened to go onwalking.     It may seem cruel now, she said, but the Martians realized thatthere is no cure for the will to conquer. There is no safety from it,either, as the people of Earth and Venus discovered, unless it isgiven an impossible obstacle to overcome. So the Martians provided theConquerors with a mountain. They themselves wanted to climb. They hadto.     He was hardly listening as he walked away from Helene toward the erodedhills. The crew members of the first four ships were skeletons tiedtogether with imperishably strong rope about their waists. Far beyondthem were those from      Mars V     , too freshly dead to have decayedmuch ... Anhauser with his rope cut, a bullet in his head; Jacobs andMarsha and the others ... Terrence much past them all. He had managedto climb higher than anyone else and he lay with his arms stretchedout, his fingers still clutching at rock outcroppings.     The trail they left wound over the ground, chipped in places for holds,red elsewhere with blood from torn hands. Terrence was more than twelvemiles from the ship—horizontally.     Bruce lifted Marsha and carried her back over the rocky dust, into thefresh fragrance of the high grass, and across it to the shade and peacebeside the canal.     He put her down. She looked peaceful enough, more peaceful than thatother time, years ago, when the two of them seemed to have shared somuch, when the future had not yet destroyed her. He saw the shadow ofHelene bend across Marsha's face against the background of the silentlyflowing water of the cool, green canal.     You loved her?     Once, Bruce said. She might have been sane. They got her when shewas young. Too young to fight. But she would have, I think, if she'dbeen older when they got her.     He sat looking down at Marsha's face, and then at the water with theleaves floating down it.     '... And the springs that flow on the floor of the valley will neverseem fresh or clear for thinking of the glitter of the mountain waterin the feathery green of the year....'     He stood up, walked back with Helene along the canal toward the calmcity. He didn't look back.     They've all been dead quite a while, Bruce said wonderingly. YetI seemed to be hearing from Terrence until only a short time ago.Are—are the climbers still climbing—somewhere, Helene?     Who knows? Helene answered softly. Maybe. I doubt if even theMartians have the answer to that.     They entered the city.   ","Terrence is the ship’s captain. At the beginning, he serves as a judge when he interrogates Bruce, who killed the other crew member Doran. Terrence listens to the story about Venus and claims that Bruce is not a true conqueror and is simply a psycho. He then asks a question about Bruce’s dreams and later hears the story of Doran's death. Stromberg then concludes that Bruce has schizophrenia caused by inner conflict. He also supposes that Doran imagined the strange creature after Terrence asks him to explain the actions of the killed crew member. Finally, instead of killing Bruce, Terrence orders him to sit by the radio and write down everything they report while climbing. He reports that they are at fifteen and then twenty-five thousand feet and are to take a little time out. At forty thousand feet, he tells Bruce that the mountain is way higher than they thought - their computations are wrong. At sixty thousand feet, he shoots Anhauser after the latter starts dissenting and becomes hysterical and claims the mountain to be a tester for the real conquerors. Eventually, they reach the mark of five hundred thousand feet, and the captain is shocked. Later, Marsha unexpectedly starts dying, and Terrence concludes that women don’t have real guts for such undertakings. At six hundred thousand feet, he starts declaring that they will soon find the top of the universe. Terrence made it farther than any other crew member of the five ships. He dies with his fingers still clutching the rock outcroppings. In reality, he’s just over twelve miles away from the spaceship horizontally. "
"What is the plot of the story? </s>     Bridge Crossing     BY DAVE DRYFOOS     Illustrated by HARRISON     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction May 1951.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      He knew the city was organized for his     individual defense, for it had been that     way since he was born. But who was his enemy?      In 1849, the mist that sometimes rolled through the Golden Gate wasknown as fog. In 2149, it had become far more frequent, and was knownas smog. By 2349, it was fog again.     But tonight there was smoke mixed with the fog. Roddie could smell it.Somewhere in the forested ruins, fire was burning.     He wasn't worried. The small blaze that smoldered behind him on thecracked concrete floor had consumed everything burnable within blocks;what remained of the gutted concrete office building from which hepeered was fire-proof.     But Roddie was himself aflame with anger. As always when Invaders brokein from the north, he'd been left behind with his nurse, Molly, whilethe soldiers went out to fight.     And nowadays Molly's presence wasn't the comfort it used to be. He feltalmost ready to jump out of his skin, the way she rocked and knitted inthat grating ruined chair, saying over and over again, The soldiersdon't      want     little boys. The soldiers don't      want     little boys. Thesoldiers don't—     I'm      not     a little boy! Roddie suddenly shouted. I'm full-grown andI've never even      seen     an Invader. Why won't you let me go and fight?     Fiercely he crossed the bare, gritty floor and shook Molly's shoulder.She rattled under his jarring hand, and abruptly changed the subject.     A is for Atom, B is for Bomb, C is for Corpse— she chanted.     Roddie reached into her shapeless dress and pinched. Lately that hadhelped her over these spells. But this time, though it stopped thekindergarten song, the treatment only started something worse.     Wuzzums hungry? Molly cooed, still rocking.     Utterly disgusted, Roddie ripped her head off her neck.     It was a completely futile gesture. The complicated mind that hadcared for him and taught him speech and the alphabet hadn't made him amechanic, and his only tool was a broken-handled screwdriver.  He was still tinkering when the soldiers came in. While they lined upalong the wall, he put Molly's head back on her neck.     She gaped coyly at the new arrivals. Hello, boys, she simpered.Looking for a good time?     Roddie slapped her to silence, reflecting briefly that there were manythings he didn't know about Molly. But there was work to be done.Carefully he framed the ritual words she'd taught him: Soldiers, cometo attention and report!     There were eleven of them, six feet tall, with four limbs and eightextremities. They stood uniformly, the thumbs on each pair of handstouching along the center line of the legs, front feet turned out at anangle of forty-five degrees, rear feet turned inward at thirty degrees.     Sir, they chorused, we have met the enemy and he is ours.     He inspected them. All were scratched and dented, but one in particularseemed badly damaged. His left arm was almost severed at the shoulder.     Come here, fellow, Roddie said. Let's see if I can fix that.     The soldier took a step forward, lurched suddenly, stopped, and whippedout a bayonet.     Death to Invaders! he yelled, and charged crazily.      Molly stepped in front of him.     You aren't being very nice to my baby, she murmured, and thrust herknitting needles into his eyes.     Roddie jumped behind him, knocked off his helmet, and pressed a softspot on his conical skull. The soldier collapsed to the floor.  Roddie salvaged and returned Molly's needles. Then he examined thepatient, tearing him apart as a boy dismembers an alarm clock.     It was lucky he did. The left arm's pair of hands suddenly writhed offthe floor in an effort to choke him. But because the arm was detachedat the shoulder and therefore blind, he escaped the clutching onslaughtand could goad the reflexing hands into assaulting one anotherharmlessly.      Meanwhile, the other soldiers left, except for one, apparently anothercasualty, who stumbled on his way out and fell into the fire. By thetime Roddie had hauled him clear, damage was beyond repair. Roddieswore, then decided to try combining parts of this casualty with piecesof the other to make a whole one.     To get more light for the operation, he poked up the fire. Roddie wasnew at his work, and took it seriously. It alarmed him to watch thesoldiers melt away, gradually succumbing to battle damage, shamedhim to see the empty ruins burn section by section as the Invadersrepeatedly broke through and had to be burned out.     Soon there would be nothing left of the      Private Property Keep Out     that, according to Molly's bedtime story, the Owners had entrusted tothem when driven away by radioactivity. Soon the soldiers themselveswould be gone. None would remain to guard the city but a few strayedservants like Molly, and an occasional Civil Defender.     And himself, Roddie reflected, spitting savagely into the fire. Hemight remain. But how he fitted into the picture, he didn't know. AndMolly, who claimed to have found him in the ruins after a fight withInvaders twenty years before, couldn't or wouldn't say.     Well, for as long as possible, Roddie decided, he'd do his duty asthe others did theirs—single-mindedly. Eventually the soldiers mightaccept him as one of themselves; meanwhile, this newly attempted firstaid was useful to them.     He gave the fire a final poke and then paused, wondering if, whenheated, his screwdriver could make an unfastened end of wire stick onthe grayish spot where it seemed to belong.     Stretching prone to blow the embers hot so he could try out his newidea, Roddie got too close to the flames. Instantly the room filledwith the stench of singed hair. Roddie drew angrily back, beating outthe sparks in his uncut blond mane.     As he stood slapping his head and muttering, a deranged Civil Defensefirefighter popped into the doorway and covered him with carbon dioxidefoam.     Roddie fled. His life-long friends were not merely wearing out, theywere unbearably wearing.  In the street, even before he'd wiped off the foam, he regrettedhis flight. The fire was back home. And here in the cold of thisfog-shrouded canyon, a mere trail between heaped-up walls of rubble,the diaper he wore felt inadequate against the pre-dawn cold. Hischerished weapon, a magnetic tack-hammer, was chill beneath thediaper's top, and the broken, radium-dialed wristwatch suspended froma string around his neck hung clammy against his chest. He stoodirresolute on numbing bare feet, and considered returning to the morefamiliar bedlam.     But colder than cold was his shame at being cold. Molly never was,though she knew how to keep him warm, nor were the others. Hunger,thirst, pain and coldness were sensations never experienced by hisfriends. Like the growth he'd been undergoing till recently, these werethings of ignominy, to be hidden as far as possible from inquiringeyes. Cold as it was, he'd have to hide.     Temporarily, the darkness concealed him, though it was not quitecomplete. From above the fog, the moon played vaguely deceptive lighton the splinters of architecture looming toward it. Some distance off,an owl hooted, but here nocturnal rodents felt free to squeak andrustle as they scampered.     The world seemed ghostly. Yet it wasn't dead; it merely lurked. And asan irrepressible yawn reminded Roddie of his absurd need for sleep evenin the midst of danger, he concluded for the thousandth time that theOne who'd built him must have been an apprentice.     For just such reasons he'd developed the hideout toward which he nowwalked. It had been the haven of his adolescence, when the discovery ofhow much he differed from his friends had been a shock, and the shockitself a difference to be hidden.     His hiding place was a manhole, dead center in the dead street. Aweathered bronze bar, carefully placed in the cover's slotted rim, wasthe levering key that opened its door.       Everything     was wrong tonight! He couldn't even find the bar. Ofcourse that spoiled things, because the bar was a roller on which tomove the heavy cover from below, and a support that held it ajar forventilation.     But the example of his friends had taught him above all else to carryout every purpose. Molly was a nurse; she had raised him despite allobstacles. The soldiers were guards; they protected the ruins againsteverything larger than a rat. The firefighter had put even      him     outwhen he was aflame....     Anyhow, the manhole cover had been loosened by his frequent handling.He lifted it aside by main strength, then flattened himself to thestreet, and felt with his feet for the top rung.     Halfway down the iron ladder, something made him pause. He looked, butsaw only blackness. He listened, sniffed, found nothing. What couldhave entered through the iron cover?     He sneered at his own timidity and jumped to the bottom.     It was warm! The dry bottom of the hole had the temperature of bodyheat, as if a large animal had recently rested there!  Quickly, Roddie drew the hammer from his waist. Then, with weapon readyfor an instantaneous blow, he stretched his left hand through thedarkness. He touched something warm, softish. Gingerly he felt overthat curving surface for identifying features.     While Roddie investigated by touch, his long fingers were suddenlyseized and bitten. At the same time, his right shin received a savagekick. And his own retaliatory blow was checked in mid-swing by anunexpected voice.     Get your filthy hands off me! it whispered angrily. Who do you thinkyou are?     Startled, he dropped his hammer. I'm Roddie, he said, squatting tofumble for it. Who do you think      you     are?     I'm Ida, naturally! Just how many girls      are     there in this raidingparty?     His first Invader—and he had dropped his weapon!     Scrabbling fearfully in the dust for his hammer, Roddie pausedsuddenly. This girl—whatever      that     was—seemed to think him one ofher own kind. There was a chance, not much, but worth taking, to turndelay to advantage. Maybe he could learn something of value before hekilled her. That would make the soldiers accept him!     He stalled, seeking a gambit. How would      I     know how many girls thereare?     Half expecting a blow, he got instead an apology. I'm sorry, the girlsaid. I should have known. Never even heard your name before, either.Roddie.... Whose boat did you come in, Roddie?     Boat? What was a boat? How would I know? he repeated, voice tightwith fear of discovery.     If she noticed the tension, she didn't show it. Certainly her whisperwas friendly enough. Oh, you're one of the fellows from Bodega, then.They shoved a boy into our boat at the last minute, too. Tough, wasn'tit, getting separated in the fog and tide like that? If only we didn'thave to use boats.... But, say, how are we going to get away from here?     I wouldn't know, Roddie said, closing his fingers on the hammer, andrising. How did you get in?     Followed your footprints. It was sundown and I saw human tracks in thedust and they led me here. Where were you?     Scouting around, Roddie said vaguely. How did you know I was a manwhen I came back?     Because you couldn't see me, silly! You know perfectly well theseandroids are heat-sensitive and can locate us in the dark!     Indeed he did know! Many times he'd felt ashamed that Molly could findhim whenever she wanted to, even here in the manhole. But perhaps themanhole would help him now to redeem himself....  I'd like to get a look at you, he said.     The girl laughed self-consciously. It's getting gray out. You'll seeme soon enough.     But she'd see      him     , Roddie realized. He had to talk fast.     What'll we do when it's light? he asked.     Well, I guess the boats have gone, Ida said. You could swim theGate, I guess—you seem tall and strong enough. But I couldn't. You'llthink it's crazy, but I've given this some thought, and even looked itover from the other side. I expect to try the Golden Gate Bridge!     Now he was getting somewhere! The bridge was ruined, impassable. Evenher own people had crossed the Strait by other means. But if there      were     a way over the bridge....     It's broken, he said. How in the world can we cross it?     Oh, you'll find out, if you take me up there. I—I don't want to bealone, Roddie. Will you go with me? Now?     Well, she could be made to point out the route before he killedher—      if     nothing happened when she saw him.     Uneasy, Roddie hefted the hammer in his hand.     A giggle broke the pause. It's nice of you to wait and let me go firstup the ladder, the girl said. But where the heck is the rusty oldthing?     I'll go first, said Roddie. He might need the advantage. Theladder's right behind me.     He climbed with hammer in teeth, and stretched his left hand fromstreet level to grasp and neutralize the girl's right. Then, nervouslyfingering his weapon, he stared at her in the thin gray dawn.     She was short and lean, except for roundnesses here and there. From hershapeless doeskin dress stretched slender legs that tapered to feetthat were bare, tiny, and, like her hands, only two in number.     Roddie was pleased. They were evenly matched as to members, and thatwould make things easy when the time came.     He looked into her face. It smiled at him, tanned and ruddy, with afull mouth and bright dark eyes that hid under long lashes when helooked too long.     Startling, those wary eyes. Concealing. For a moment he felt a rush offear, but she gave his hand a squeeze before twisting loose, and burstinto sudden laughter.     Diapers! she chortled, struggling to keep her voice low. My big,strong, blond and blue-eyed hero goes into battle wearing diapers, andcarrying only a hammer to fight with! You're the most unforgettablecharacter I have ever known!     He'd passed inspection, then—so far. He expelled his withheld breath,and said, I think you'll find me a little odd, in some ways.     Oh, not at all, Ida replied quickly. Different, yes, but I wouldn'tsay odd.  When they started down the street, she was nervous despite Roddie'sassertion that he knew where the soldiers were posted. He wondered ifshe felt some of the doubt he'd tried to conceal, shared his visions ofwhat the soldiers might do if they found him brazenly strolling with anInvader. They might not believe he was only questioning a prisoner.     Every day, his friends were becoming more unpredictable.     For that very reason, because he didn't know what precautions would doany good, he took a chance and walked openly to the bridge by the mostdirect route. In time this apparent assurance stilled Ida's fears, andshe began to talk.     Many of the things she said were beyond his experience and meaninglessto him, but he did note with interest how effective the soldiers hadbeen.     It's awful, Ida said. So few young men are left, so manycasualties....     But why do you—we—keep up the fight? Roddie asked. I mean, thesoldiers will never leave the city; their purpose is to guard it andthey      can't     leave, so they won't attack. Let them alone, and there'llbe plenty of young men.     Well! said Ida, sharply. You need indoctrination! Didn't they evertell you that the city is our home, even if the stupid androids do keepus out? Don't you know how dependent we are on these raids for all ourtools and things?     She sounded suspicious. Roddie shot her a furtive, startled glance.But she wasn't standing off to fight him. On the contrary, she was tooclose for both comfort and combat. She bumped him hip and shoulderevery few steps, and if he edged away, she followed.     He went on with his questioning. Why are      you     here? I mean, sure, theothers are after tools and things, but what's      your     purpose?     Ida shrugged. I'll admit no girl has ever done it before, she said,but I thought I could help with the wounded. That's why I have noweapon.     She hesitated, glanced covertly up at him, and went on with a rush ofwords. It's the lack of men, I guess. All the girls are kind of boredand hopeless, so I got this bright idea and stowed away on one of theboats when it was dark and the fog had settled down. Do you think I wasbeing silly?     No, but you do seem a little purposeless.     In silence they trudged through a vast area of charred wood andconcrete foundations on the northern end of the city. Thick fog overthe water hid Alcatraz, but in-shore visibility was better, and theycould see the beginning of the bridge approach.     A stone rattled nearby. There was a clink of metal. Ida gasped, andclung to Roddie's arm.     Behind me! he whispered urgently. Get behind me and hold on!     He felt Ida's arms encircling his waist, her chin digging into his backbelow the left shoulder. Facing them, a hundred feet away, stood asoldier. He looked contemptuous, hostile.      It's all right, Roddie said, his voice breaking.     There was a long, sullen, heart-stopping stare. Then the soldier turnedand walked away.     Ida's grip loosened, and he could feel her sag behind him. Roddieturned and held her. With eyes closed, she pressed cold blue lips tohis. He grimaced and turned away his head.     Ida's response was quick. Forgive me, she breathed, and slipped fromhis arms, but she held herself erect. I was so scared. And then we'vehad no sleep, no food or water.     Roddie was familiar with these signs of weakness, proud of appearing todeny his own humiliating needs.     I guess you're not as strong as me, he said smugly. I'll take careof you. Of course we can't sleep now, but I'll get food and water.     Leaving her to follow, he turned left to the ruins of a supermarket hehad previously visited, demonstrating his superior strength by settinga pace Ida couldn't match. By the time she caught up with him, he hadgrubbed out a few cans of the special size that Molly always chose.Picking two that were neither dented, swollen, nor rusted, he smashedan end of each with his hammer, and gave Ida her choice of strainedspinach or squash.     Baby food! she muttered. Maybe it's just what we need, but to eatbaby food with a man wearing a diaper.... Tell me, Roddie, how did youhappen to know where to find it?     Well, this is the northern end of the city, he answered, shrugging.I've been here before.     Why did the soldier let us go?     This watch, he said, touching the radium dial. It's a talisman.     But Ida's eyes had widened, and the color was gone from her face. Shewas silent, too, except when asking him to fill his fast-emptied canwith rain-water. She didn't finish her own portion, but lay back in therubble with feet higher than her head, obviously trying to renew herstrength.     And when they resumed their walk, her sullen, fear-clouded face showedplainly that he'd given himself away.     But to kill her now, before learning how she planned to cross thesupposedly impassable bridge, seemed as purposeless and impulsive asIda herself. Roddie didn't think, in any case, that her death wouldsatisfy the soldiers. With new and useful information to offer, hemight join them as an equal at last. But if his dalliance with thisenemy seemed pointless, not even Molly's knitting needles could protecthim.     He was sure the soldiers must be tracking the mysterious emanations ofhis watch dial, and had trouble to keep from glancing over his shoulderat every step. But arrival at the bridge approach ended the need forthis self-restraint. Here, difficult going demanded full attention.  He'd never gone as far as the bridge before, not having wanted tolook as if he might be leaving the city. The approach was a jungle ofconcrete with an underbrush of reinforcing-steel that reached for theunwary with rusted spines. Frequently they had to balance on crackedgirders, and inch over roadless spots high off the ground.     Here Ida took the lead. When they got to where three approach roadsmade a clover-leaf, she led him down a side road and into a forest.     Roddie stopped, and seized her arm.     What are you trying to do? he demanded.     I'm taking you with me, Ida said firmly. Taking you where youbelong!     No! he blurted, drawing his hammer. I can't go, nor let you go. Ibelong here!     Ida gasped, twisted loose, and ran. Roddie ran after her.     She wasn't so easily caught. Like a frightened doe, she dashed in andout among the trees, leaped to the bridge's underpinnings where theythrust rustedly from a cliff, and scrambled up the ramp.     Roddie sighed and slowed down. The pavement ended just beyond the cableanchors. From there to the south tower, only an occasional danglingsupport wire showed where the actual bridge had been suspended. Ida wastrapped.     He could take his time. Let the soldiers come up, as they undoubtedlywould, to finish the job....     But Ida didn't seem to realize she was trapped. Without hesitation shedashed up the main left-hand suspension cable and ran along its curvedsteel surface.     For a moment, Roddie thought of letting her go, letting her run up theever-steepening catenary until—because there were no guard-ropes orhandgrips—she simply fell. That would solve his problem.     Except it wouldn't be      his     solution. Her death wouldn't prove him tohis friends.     He set out quickly, before Ida was lost to sight in the thick fogthat billowed in straight from the ocean. At first he ran erect alongthe top of the yard-wide cylinder of twisted metal, but soon the curvesteepened. He had to go on all fours, clinging palm and sole.     Blood was on the cable where she'd passed. More blood stained it whenhe'd followed.     But because his friends knew neither pain nor fatigue, Roddie wouldadmit none either. Nor would he give in to the fear that dizzied him atevery downward look. He scrambled on like an automaton, watching onlyhis holds, till he rammed Ida's rear with his head.  She had stopped, trembling and gasping. Roddie clung just below herand looked dazedly around. There was nothing in sight but fog, piercedby the rapier of rusted wire supporting them. Neither end of it was insight.     Upward lay success, if death were not nearer on the cable. No soldierhad ever come even this far, for soldiers, as he'd told Ida, never leftthe city, were not built to do so. But      he     was here; with luck, hecould capitalize on the differences that had plagued him so long.     Go on! he ordered hoarsely. Move!     There was neither answer nor result. He broke off an end of loosenedwire and jabbed her rear. Ida gasped and crawled on.     Up and up they went, chilled, wet, bleeding, pain-racked, exhausted.Never had Roddie felt so thoroughly the defects of his peculiarnon-mechanical construction.     Without realizing it, he acquired a new purpose, a duty as compellingas that of any soldier or fire-watcher. He had to keep that tremblingbody of his alive, mount to the tall rust tower overhead.     He climbed and he made Ida climb, till, at nightmare's end, the fogthinned and they came into clear, windswept air and clawed up the lasthundred feet to sanctuary.     They were completely spent. Without word or thought they crept withinthe tower, huddled together for warmth on its dank steel deck, andslept for several hours.  Roddie awoke as Ida finished struggling free of his unconscious grip.Limping, he joined her painful walk around the tower. From its openingsthey looked out on a strange and isolated world.     To the north, where Ida seemed drawn as though by instinct, MountTamalpais reared its brushy head, a looming island above a billowywhite sea of fog. To the south were the Twin Peaks, a pair of buttonson a cotton sheet. Eastward lay Mount Diablo, bald and brooding,tallest of the peaks and most forbidding.     But westward over the ocean lay the land of gold—of all the kinds ofgold there are, from brightest yellow to deepest orange. Only a smallportion of the setting sun glared above the fog-bank; the rest seemedto have been broken off and smeared around by a child in love with itscolor.     Fascinated, Roddie stared for minutes, but turned when Ida showed nointerest. She was intent on the tower itself. Following her eyes,Roddie saw his duty made suddenly clear.     Easy to make out even in the fading light was the route by whichInvaders could cross to the foot of this tower on the remaining ruinsof the road, climb to where he now stood, and then descend the cableover the bridge's gap and catch the city unaware. Easy to estimate wasthe advantage of even this perilous route over things that scattered onthe water and prevented a landing in strength. Easy to see was the needto kill Ida before she carried home this knowledge.     Roddie took the hammer from his waist.     Don't! Oh, don't! Ida screamed. She burst into tears and covered herface with scratched and bloodied hands.     Surprised, Roddie withheld the blow. He had wept, as a child, and,weeping, had for the first time learned he differed from his friends.Ida's tears disturbed him, bringing unhappy memories.     Why should you cry? he asked comfortingly. You know your people willcome back to avenge you and will destroy my friends.     But—but my people are your people, too, Ida wailed. It's sosenseless, now, after all our struggle to escape. Don't you see? Yourfriends are only machines, built by our ancestors. We are Men—and thecity is ours, not theirs!     It      can't     be, Roddie objected. The city surely belongs to thosewho are superior, and my friends are superior to your people, even tome. Each of      us     has a purpose, though, while you Invaders seem to beaimless. Each of      us     helps preserve the city; you only try to rob andend it by destroying it.      My     people must be the true Men, becausethey're so much more rational than yours.... And it isn't rational tolet you escape.     Ida had turned up her tear-streaked face to stare at him.     Rational! What's rational about murdering a defenseless girl incold blood? Don't you realize we're the same sort of being, we two?Don't—don't you remember how we've been with each other all day?     She paused. Roddie noticed that her eyes were dark and frightened, yetsomehow soft, over scarlet cheeks. He had to look away. But he saidnothing.     Never mind! Ida said viciously. You can't make me beg. Go ahead andkill—see if it proves you're superior. My people will take over thecity regardless of you and me, and regardless of your jumping-jackfriends, too! Men can accomplish anything!  Scornfully she turned and looked toward the western twilight. It wasRoddie's turn to stand and stare.     Purpose! Ida flung at him over her shoulder. Logic! Women hear somuch of that from men! You're a man, all right! Men      always     call itlogic when they want to destroy! Loyalty to your own sort, kindness,affection—all emotional, aren't they? Not a bit logical. Emotion isfor creating, and it's so much more logical to destroy, isn't it?     She whirled back toward him, advancing as if she wanted to sink herteeth into his throat. Go ahead. Get it over with—if you have thecourage.     It was hard for Roddie to look away from that wrath-crimsoned face,but it was even harder to keep staring into the blaze of her eyes. Hecompromised by gazing out an opening at the gathering dusk. He thoughtfor a long time before he decided to tuck his hammer away.     It isn't reasonable to kill you now, he said. Too dark. You can'tpossibly get down that half-ruined manway tonight, so let's see how Ifeel in the morning.     Ida began to weep again, and Roddie found it necessary to comfort her.     And by morning he knew he was a Man.   ","The protagonist of this story is Roddie, a young male character whose interactions with the characters around him include mechanical arms and robotic functionalities. It turns out that Roddie lives within a dystopian city, to which alongside his android friends, seek to defend the city against its enemy. Whilst going about his day, Roddie investigates the manhole he often frequents and finds that it has recently been visited by something warm. Further investigation reveals Ida to be the culprit, a human female who has decided to help the wounded in the city.Despite Roddie’s initial hesitance, Ida and Roddie strike up an easygoing acquaintance and gallivant around the city, with the latter guiding the former due to his experience. In addition to helping Ida find food and shelter, Roddie is able to ward off a potential attack from an android soldier with a talisman - his watch. However, this watch leads Ida to be suspicious of Roddie. As they neared the bridge, Ida insists on bringing Roddie back to where he belongs, fearing he had been wrongfully taken or indoctrinated. After a chase and climbing up the south tower, Roddie notices that Ida may be able to inform her fellow humans on how to infiltrate the city due to them being on top of the bridge. Choosing to defend his city and prove himself to his friends, Roddie does not hesitate to kill Ida and advances to do so. Ida begins to cry and defend her people - insisting that they are on the same side as Men and that the city belongs to the two of them, not Roddie’s friends. Initially in disbelief, Roddie continues to advance before deciding to leave it for the next morning before comforting Ida and later on, realizing that he too, is Man. "
"Who is Ida and what are her characteristics? </s>     Bridge Crossing     BY DAVE DRYFOOS     Illustrated by HARRISON     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction May 1951.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      He knew the city was organized for his     individual defense, for it had been that     way since he was born. But who was his enemy?      In 1849, the mist that sometimes rolled through the Golden Gate wasknown as fog. In 2149, it had become far more frequent, and was knownas smog. By 2349, it was fog again.     But tonight there was smoke mixed with the fog. Roddie could smell it.Somewhere in the forested ruins, fire was burning.     He wasn't worried. The small blaze that smoldered behind him on thecracked concrete floor had consumed everything burnable within blocks;what remained of the gutted concrete office building from which hepeered was fire-proof.     But Roddie was himself aflame with anger. As always when Invaders brokein from the north, he'd been left behind with his nurse, Molly, whilethe soldiers went out to fight.     And nowadays Molly's presence wasn't the comfort it used to be. He feltalmost ready to jump out of his skin, the way she rocked and knitted inthat grating ruined chair, saying over and over again, The soldiersdon't      want     little boys. The soldiers don't      want     little boys. Thesoldiers don't—     I'm      not     a little boy! Roddie suddenly shouted. I'm full-grown andI've never even      seen     an Invader. Why won't you let me go and fight?     Fiercely he crossed the bare, gritty floor and shook Molly's shoulder.She rattled under his jarring hand, and abruptly changed the subject.     A is for Atom, B is for Bomb, C is for Corpse— she chanted.     Roddie reached into her shapeless dress and pinched. Lately that hadhelped her over these spells. But this time, though it stopped thekindergarten song, the treatment only started something worse.     Wuzzums hungry? Molly cooed, still rocking.     Utterly disgusted, Roddie ripped her head off her neck.     It was a completely futile gesture. The complicated mind that hadcared for him and taught him speech and the alphabet hadn't made him amechanic, and his only tool was a broken-handled screwdriver.  He was still tinkering when the soldiers came in. While they lined upalong the wall, he put Molly's head back on her neck.     She gaped coyly at the new arrivals. Hello, boys, she simpered.Looking for a good time?     Roddie slapped her to silence, reflecting briefly that there were manythings he didn't know about Molly. But there was work to be done.Carefully he framed the ritual words she'd taught him: Soldiers, cometo attention and report!     There were eleven of them, six feet tall, with four limbs and eightextremities. They stood uniformly, the thumbs on each pair of handstouching along the center line of the legs, front feet turned out at anangle of forty-five degrees, rear feet turned inward at thirty degrees.     Sir, they chorused, we have met the enemy and he is ours.     He inspected them. All were scratched and dented, but one in particularseemed badly damaged. His left arm was almost severed at the shoulder.     Come here, fellow, Roddie said. Let's see if I can fix that.     The soldier took a step forward, lurched suddenly, stopped, and whippedout a bayonet.     Death to Invaders! he yelled, and charged crazily.      Molly stepped in front of him.     You aren't being very nice to my baby, she murmured, and thrust herknitting needles into his eyes.     Roddie jumped behind him, knocked off his helmet, and pressed a softspot on his conical skull. The soldier collapsed to the floor.  Roddie salvaged and returned Molly's needles. Then he examined thepatient, tearing him apart as a boy dismembers an alarm clock.     It was lucky he did. The left arm's pair of hands suddenly writhed offthe floor in an effort to choke him. But because the arm was detachedat the shoulder and therefore blind, he escaped the clutching onslaughtand could goad the reflexing hands into assaulting one anotherharmlessly.      Meanwhile, the other soldiers left, except for one, apparently anothercasualty, who stumbled on his way out and fell into the fire. By thetime Roddie had hauled him clear, damage was beyond repair. Roddieswore, then decided to try combining parts of this casualty with piecesof the other to make a whole one.     To get more light for the operation, he poked up the fire. Roddie wasnew at his work, and took it seriously. It alarmed him to watch thesoldiers melt away, gradually succumbing to battle damage, shamedhim to see the empty ruins burn section by section as the Invadersrepeatedly broke through and had to be burned out.     Soon there would be nothing left of the      Private Property Keep Out     that, according to Molly's bedtime story, the Owners had entrusted tothem when driven away by radioactivity. Soon the soldiers themselveswould be gone. None would remain to guard the city but a few strayedservants like Molly, and an occasional Civil Defender.     And himself, Roddie reflected, spitting savagely into the fire. Hemight remain. But how he fitted into the picture, he didn't know. AndMolly, who claimed to have found him in the ruins after a fight withInvaders twenty years before, couldn't or wouldn't say.     Well, for as long as possible, Roddie decided, he'd do his duty asthe others did theirs—single-mindedly. Eventually the soldiers mightaccept him as one of themselves; meanwhile, this newly attempted firstaid was useful to them.     He gave the fire a final poke and then paused, wondering if, whenheated, his screwdriver could make an unfastened end of wire stick onthe grayish spot where it seemed to belong.     Stretching prone to blow the embers hot so he could try out his newidea, Roddie got too close to the flames. Instantly the room filledwith the stench of singed hair. Roddie drew angrily back, beating outthe sparks in his uncut blond mane.     As he stood slapping his head and muttering, a deranged Civil Defensefirefighter popped into the doorway and covered him with carbon dioxidefoam.     Roddie fled. His life-long friends were not merely wearing out, theywere unbearably wearing.  In the street, even before he'd wiped off the foam, he regrettedhis flight. The fire was back home. And here in the cold of thisfog-shrouded canyon, a mere trail between heaped-up walls of rubble,the diaper he wore felt inadequate against the pre-dawn cold. Hischerished weapon, a magnetic tack-hammer, was chill beneath thediaper's top, and the broken, radium-dialed wristwatch suspended froma string around his neck hung clammy against his chest. He stoodirresolute on numbing bare feet, and considered returning to the morefamiliar bedlam.     But colder than cold was his shame at being cold. Molly never was,though she knew how to keep him warm, nor were the others. Hunger,thirst, pain and coldness were sensations never experienced by hisfriends. Like the growth he'd been undergoing till recently, these werethings of ignominy, to be hidden as far as possible from inquiringeyes. Cold as it was, he'd have to hide.     Temporarily, the darkness concealed him, though it was not quitecomplete. From above the fog, the moon played vaguely deceptive lighton the splinters of architecture looming toward it. Some distance off,an owl hooted, but here nocturnal rodents felt free to squeak andrustle as they scampered.     The world seemed ghostly. Yet it wasn't dead; it merely lurked. And asan irrepressible yawn reminded Roddie of his absurd need for sleep evenin the midst of danger, he concluded for the thousandth time that theOne who'd built him must have been an apprentice.     For just such reasons he'd developed the hideout toward which he nowwalked. It had been the haven of his adolescence, when the discovery ofhow much he differed from his friends had been a shock, and the shockitself a difference to be hidden.     His hiding place was a manhole, dead center in the dead street. Aweathered bronze bar, carefully placed in the cover's slotted rim, wasthe levering key that opened its door.       Everything     was wrong tonight! He couldn't even find the bar. Ofcourse that spoiled things, because the bar was a roller on which tomove the heavy cover from below, and a support that held it ajar forventilation.     But the example of his friends had taught him above all else to carryout every purpose. Molly was a nurse; she had raised him despite allobstacles. The soldiers were guards; they protected the ruins againsteverything larger than a rat. The firefighter had put even      him     outwhen he was aflame....     Anyhow, the manhole cover had been loosened by his frequent handling.He lifted it aside by main strength, then flattened himself to thestreet, and felt with his feet for the top rung.     Halfway down the iron ladder, something made him pause. He looked, butsaw only blackness. He listened, sniffed, found nothing. What couldhave entered through the iron cover?     He sneered at his own timidity and jumped to the bottom.     It was warm! The dry bottom of the hole had the temperature of bodyheat, as if a large animal had recently rested there!  Quickly, Roddie drew the hammer from his waist. Then, with weapon readyfor an instantaneous blow, he stretched his left hand through thedarkness. He touched something warm, softish. Gingerly he felt overthat curving surface for identifying features.     While Roddie investigated by touch, his long fingers were suddenlyseized and bitten. At the same time, his right shin received a savagekick. And his own retaliatory blow was checked in mid-swing by anunexpected voice.     Get your filthy hands off me! it whispered angrily. Who do you thinkyou are?     Startled, he dropped his hammer. I'm Roddie, he said, squatting tofumble for it. Who do you think      you     are?     I'm Ida, naturally! Just how many girls      are     there in this raidingparty?     His first Invader—and he had dropped his weapon!     Scrabbling fearfully in the dust for his hammer, Roddie pausedsuddenly. This girl—whatever      that     was—seemed to think him one ofher own kind. There was a chance, not much, but worth taking, to turndelay to advantage. Maybe he could learn something of value before hekilled her. That would make the soldiers accept him!     He stalled, seeking a gambit. How would      I     know how many girls thereare?     Half expecting a blow, he got instead an apology. I'm sorry, the girlsaid. I should have known. Never even heard your name before, either.Roddie.... Whose boat did you come in, Roddie?     Boat? What was a boat? How would I know? he repeated, voice tightwith fear of discovery.     If she noticed the tension, she didn't show it. Certainly her whisperwas friendly enough. Oh, you're one of the fellows from Bodega, then.They shoved a boy into our boat at the last minute, too. Tough, wasn'tit, getting separated in the fog and tide like that? If only we didn'thave to use boats.... But, say, how are we going to get away from here?     I wouldn't know, Roddie said, closing his fingers on the hammer, andrising. How did you get in?     Followed your footprints. It was sundown and I saw human tracks in thedust and they led me here. Where were you?     Scouting around, Roddie said vaguely. How did you know I was a manwhen I came back?     Because you couldn't see me, silly! You know perfectly well theseandroids are heat-sensitive and can locate us in the dark!     Indeed he did know! Many times he'd felt ashamed that Molly could findhim whenever she wanted to, even here in the manhole. But perhaps themanhole would help him now to redeem himself....  I'd like to get a look at you, he said.     The girl laughed self-consciously. It's getting gray out. You'll seeme soon enough.     But she'd see      him     , Roddie realized. He had to talk fast.     What'll we do when it's light? he asked.     Well, I guess the boats have gone, Ida said. You could swim theGate, I guess—you seem tall and strong enough. But I couldn't. You'llthink it's crazy, but I've given this some thought, and even looked itover from the other side. I expect to try the Golden Gate Bridge!     Now he was getting somewhere! The bridge was ruined, impassable. Evenher own people had crossed the Strait by other means. But if there      were     a way over the bridge....     It's broken, he said. How in the world can we cross it?     Oh, you'll find out, if you take me up there. I—I don't want to bealone, Roddie. Will you go with me? Now?     Well, she could be made to point out the route before he killedher—      if     nothing happened when she saw him.     Uneasy, Roddie hefted the hammer in his hand.     A giggle broke the pause. It's nice of you to wait and let me go firstup the ladder, the girl said. But where the heck is the rusty oldthing?     I'll go first, said Roddie. He might need the advantage. Theladder's right behind me.     He climbed with hammer in teeth, and stretched his left hand fromstreet level to grasp and neutralize the girl's right. Then, nervouslyfingering his weapon, he stared at her in the thin gray dawn.     She was short and lean, except for roundnesses here and there. From hershapeless doeskin dress stretched slender legs that tapered to feetthat were bare, tiny, and, like her hands, only two in number.     Roddie was pleased. They were evenly matched as to members, and thatwould make things easy when the time came.     He looked into her face. It smiled at him, tanned and ruddy, with afull mouth and bright dark eyes that hid under long lashes when helooked too long.     Startling, those wary eyes. Concealing. For a moment he felt a rush offear, but she gave his hand a squeeze before twisting loose, and burstinto sudden laughter.     Diapers! she chortled, struggling to keep her voice low. My big,strong, blond and blue-eyed hero goes into battle wearing diapers, andcarrying only a hammer to fight with! You're the most unforgettablecharacter I have ever known!     He'd passed inspection, then—so far. He expelled his withheld breath,and said, I think you'll find me a little odd, in some ways.     Oh, not at all, Ida replied quickly. Different, yes, but I wouldn'tsay odd.  When they started down the street, she was nervous despite Roddie'sassertion that he knew where the soldiers were posted. He wondered ifshe felt some of the doubt he'd tried to conceal, shared his visions ofwhat the soldiers might do if they found him brazenly strolling with anInvader. They might not believe he was only questioning a prisoner.     Every day, his friends were becoming more unpredictable.     For that very reason, because he didn't know what precautions would doany good, he took a chance and walked openly to the bridge by the mostdirect route. In time this apparent assurance stilled Ida's fears, andshe began to talk.     Many of the things she said were beyond his experience and meaninglessto him, but he did note with interest how effective the soldiers hadbeen.     It's awful, Ida said. So few young men are left, so manycasualties....     But why do you—we—keep up the fight? Roddie asked. I mean, thesoldiers will never leave the city; their purpose is to guard it andthey      can't     leave, so they won't attack. Let them alone, and there'llbe plenty of young men.     Well! said Ida, sharply. You need indoctrination! Didn't they evertell you that the city is our home, even if the stupid androids do keepus out? Don't you know how dependent we are on these raids for all ourtools and things?     She sounded suspicious. Roddie shot her a furtive, startled glance.But she wasn't standing off to fight him. On the contrary, she was tooclose for both comfort and combat. She bumped him hip and shoulderevery few steps, and if he edged away, she followed.     He went on with his questioning. Why are      you     here? I mean, sure, theothers are after tools and things, but what's      your     purpose?     Ida shrugged. I'll admit no girl has ever done it before, she said,but I thought I could help with the wounded. That's why I have noweapon.     She hesitated, glanced covertly up at him, and went on with a rush ofwords. It's the lack of men, I guess. All the girls are kind of boredand hopeless, so I got this bright idea and stowed away on one of theboats when it was dark and the fog had settled down. Do you think I wasbeing silly?     No, but you do seem a little purposeless.     In silence they trudged through a vast area of charred wood andconcrete foundations on the northern end of the city. Thick fog overthe water hid Alcatraz, but in-shore visibility was better, and theycould see the beginning of the bridge approach.     A stone rattled nearby. There was a clink of metal. Ida gasped, andclung to Roddie's arm.     Behind me! he whispered urgently. Get behind me and hold on!     He felt Ida's arms encircling his waist, her chin digging into his backbelow the left shoulder. Facing them, a hundred feet away, stood asoldier. He looked contemptuous, hostile.      It's all right, Roddie said, his voice breaking.     There was a long, sullen, heart-stopping stare. Then the soldier turnedand walked away.     Ida's grip loosened, and he could feel her sag behind him. Roddieturned and held her. With eyes closed, she pressed cold blue lips tohis. He grimaced and turned away his head.     Ida's response was quick. Forgive me, she breathed, and slipped fromhis arms, but she held herself erect. I was so scared. And then we'vehad no sleep, no food or water.     Roddie was familiar with these signs of weakness, proud of appearing todeny his own humiliating needs.     I guess you're not as strong as me, he said smugly. I'll take careof you. Of course we can't sleep now, but I'll get food and water.     Leaving her to follow, he turned left to the ruins of a supermarket hehad previously visited, demonstrating his superior strength by settinga pace Ida couldn't match. By the time she caught up with him, he hadgrubbed out a few cans of the special size that Molly always chose.Picking two that were neither dented, swollen, nor rusted, he smashedan end of each with his hammer, and gave Ida her choice of strainedspinach or squash.     Baby food! she muttered. Maybe it's just what we need, but to eatbaby food with a man wearing a diaper.... Tell me, Roddie, how did youhappen to know where to find it?     Well, this is the northern end of the city, he answered, shrugging.I've been here before.     Why did the soldier let us go?     This watch, he said, touching the radium dial. It's a talisman.     But Ida's eyes had widened, and the color was gone from her face. Shewas silent, too, except when asking him to fill his fast-emptied canwith rain-water. She didn't finish her own portion, but lay back in therubble with feet higher than her head, obviously trying to renew herstrength.     And when they resumed their walk, her sullen, fear-clouded face showedplainly that he'd given himself away.     But to kill her now, before learning how she planned to cross thesupposedly impassable bridge, seemed as purposeless and impulsive asIda herself. Roddie didn't think, in any case, that her death wouldsatisfy the soldiers. With new and useful information to offer, hemight join them as an equal at last. But if his dalliance with thisenemy seemed pointless, not even Molly's knitting needles could protecthim.     He was sure the soldiers must be tracking the mysterious emanations ofhis watch dial, and had trouble to keep from glancing over his shoulderat every step. But arrival at the bridge approach ended the need forthis self-restraint. Here, difficult going demanded full attention.  He'd never gone as far as the bridge before, not having wanted tolook as if he might be leaving the city. The approach was a jungle ofconcrete with an underbrush of reinforcing-steel that reached for theunwary with rusted spines. Frequently they had to balance on crackedgirders, and inch over roadless spots high off the ground.     Here Ida took the lead. When they got to where three approach roadsmade a clover-leaf, she led him down a side road and into a forest.     Roddie stopped, and seized her arm.     What are you trying to do? he demanded.     I'm taking you with me, Ida said firmly. Taking you where youbelong!     No! he blurted, drawing his hammer. I can't go, nor let you go. Ibelong here!     Ida gasped, twisted loose, and ran. Roddie ran after her.     She wasn't so easily caught. Like a frightened doe, she dashed in andout among the trees, leaped to the bridge's underpinnings where theythrust rustedly from a cliff, and scrambled up the ramp.     Roddie sighed and slowed down. The pavement ended just beyond the cableanchors. From there to the south tower, only an occasional danglingsupport wire showed where the actual bridge had been suspended. Ida wastrapped.     He could take his time. Let the soldiers come up, as they undoubtedlywould, to finish the job....     But Ida didn't seem to realize she was trapped. Without hesitation shedashed up the main left-hand suspension cable and ran along its curvedsteel surface.     For a moment, Roddie thought of letting her go, letting her run up theever-steepening catenary until—because there were no guard-ropes orhandgrips—she simply fell. That would solve his problem.     Except it wouldn't be      his     solution. Her death wouldn't prove him tohis friends.     He set out quickly, before Ida was lost to sight in the thick fogthat billowed in straight from the ocean. At first he ran erect alongthe top of the yard-wide cylinder of twisted metal, but soon the curvesteepened. He had to go on all fours, clinging palm and sole.     Blood was on the cable where she'd passed. More blood stained it whenhe'd followed.     But because his friends knew neither pain nor fatigue, Roddie wouldadmit none either. Nor would he give in to the fear that dizzied him atevery downward look. He scrambled on like an automaton, watching onlyhis holds, till he rammed Ida's rear with his head.  She had stopped, trembling and gasping. Roddie clung just below herand looked dazedly around. There was nothing in sight but fog, piercedby the rapier of rusted wire supporting them. Neither end of it was insight.     Upward lay success, if death were not nearer on the cable. No soldierhad ever come even this far, for soldiers, as he'd told Ida, never leftthe city, were not built to do so. But      he     was here; with luck, hecould capitalize on the differences that had plagued him so long.     Go on! he ordered hoarsely. Move!     There was neither answer nor result. He broke off an end of loosenedwire and jabbed her rear. Ida gasped and crawled on.     Up and up they went, chilled, wet, bleeding, pain-racked, exhausted.Never had Roddie felt so thoroughly the defects of his peculiarnon-mechanical construction.     Without realizing it, he acquired a new purpose, a duty as compellingas that of any soldier or fire-watcher. He had to keep that tremblingbody of his alive, mount to the tall rust tower overhead.     He climbed and he made Ida climb, till, at nightmare's end, the fogthinned and they came into clear, windswept air and clawed up the lasthundred feet to sanctuary.     They were completely spent. Without word or thought they crept withinthe tower, huddled together for warmth on its dank steel deck, andslept for several hours.  Roddie awoke as Ida finished struggling free of his unconscious grip.Limping, he joined her painful walk around the tower. From its openingsthey looked out on a strange and isolated world.     To the north, where Ida seemed drawn as though by instinct, MountTamalpais reared its brushy head, a looming island above a billowywhite sea of fog. To the south were the Twin Peaks, a pair of buttonson a cotton sheet. Eastward lay Mount Diablo, bald and brooding,tallest of the peaks and most forbidding.     But westward over the ocean lay the land of gold—of all the kinds ofgold there are, from brightest yellow to deepest orange. Only a smallportion of the setting sun glared above the fog-bank; the rest seemedto have been broken off and smeared around by a child in love with itscolor.     Fascinated, Roddie stared for minutes, but turned when Ida showed nointerest. She was intent on the tower itself. Following her eyes,Roddie saw his duty made suddenly clear.     Easy to make out even in the fading light was the route by whichInvaders could cross to the foot of this tower on the remaining ruinsof the road, climb to where he now stood, and then descend the cableover the bridge's gap and catch the city unaware. Easy to estimate wasthe advantage of even this perilous route over things that scattered onthe water and prevented a landing in strength. Easy to see was the needto kill Ida before she carried home this knowledge.     Roddie took the hammer from his waist.     Don't! Oh, don't! Ida screamed. She burst into tears and covered herface with scratched and bloodied hands.     Surprised, Roddie withheld the blow. He had wept, as a child, and,weeping, had for the first time learned he differed from his friends.Ida's tears disturbed him, bringing unhappy memories.     Why should you cry? he asked comfortingly. You know your people willcome back to avenge you and will destroy my friends.     But—but my people are your people, too, Ida wailed. It's sosenseless, now, after all our struggle to escape. Don't you see? Yourfriends are only machines, built by our ancestors. We are Men—and thecity is ours, not theirs!     It      can't     be, Roddie objected. The city surely belongs to thosewho are superior, and my friends are superior to your people, even tome. Each of      us     has a purpose, though, while you Invaders seem to beaimless. Each of      us     helps preserve the city; you only try to rob andend it by destroying it.      My     people must be the true Men, becausethey're so much more rational than yours.... And it isn't rational tolet you escape.     Ida had turned up her tear-streaked face to stare at him.     Rational! What's rational about murdering a defenseless girl incold blood? Don't you realize we're the same sort of being, we two?Don't—don't you remember how we've been with each other all day?     She paused. Roddie noticed that her eyes were dark and frightened, yetsomehow soft, over scarlet cheeks. He had to look away. But he saidnothing.     Never mind! Ida said viciously. You can't make me beg. Go ahead andkill—see if it proves you're superior. My people will take over thecity regardless of you and me, and regardless of your jumping-jackfriends, too! Men can accomplish anything!  Scornfully she turned and looked toward the western twilight. It wasRoddie's turn to stand and stare.     Purpose! Ida flung at him over her shoulder. Logic! Women hear somuch of that from men! You're a man, all right! Men      always     call itlogic when they want to destroy! Loyalty to your own sort, kindness,affection—all emotional, aren't they? Not a bit logical. Emotion isfor creating, and it's so much more logical to destroy, isn't it?     She whirled back toward him, advancing as if she wanted to sink herteeth into his throat. Go ahead. Get it over with—if you have thecourage.     It was hard for Roddie to look away from that wrath-crimsoned face,but it was even harder to keep staring into the blaze of her eyes. Hecompromised by gazing out an opening at the gathering dusk. He thoughtfor a long time before he decided to tuck his hammer away.     It isn't reasonable to kill you now, he said. Too dark. You can'tpossibly get down that half-ruined manway tonight, so let's see how Ifeel in the morning.     Ida began to weep again, and Roddie found it necessary to comfort her.     And by morning he knew he was a Man.   ","Ida is a human girl that Roddie first encounters when she is hiding in the manhole that he frequents himself. She appears to have come into the android-ridden city on her own with the altruistic desire to help the wounded. She is selfless and persistent in her mission. She is inexperienced with the android world as demonstrated by her fright when the pair encountered a soldier, who only walked away after Roddie confronted it. Similarly, Roddie had to guide her around the city and help her with access to resources like shelter and food. Ida is loyal and brave as well. Despite Roddie threatening to kill her at the end of the story, Ida insists on the idea that they are both human and that Roddie’s way of thinking was incorrect. In the end, she is able to discourage him from killing her and he ends up comforting her. "
"What is the relationship between Roddie and Ida? </s>     Bridge Crossing     BY DAVE DRYFOOS     Illustrated by HARRISON     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction May 1951.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      He knew the city was organized for his     individual defense, for it had been that     way since he was born. But who was his enemy?      In 1849, the mist that sometimes rolled through the Golden Gate wasknown as fog. In 2149, it had become far more frequent, and was knownas smog. By 2349, it was fog again.     But tonight there was smoke mixed with the fog. Roddie could smell it.Somewhere in the forested ruins, fire was burning.     He wasn't worried. The small blaze that smoldered behind him on thecracked concrete floor had consumed everything burnable within blocks;what remained of the gutted concrete office building from which hepeered was fire-proof.     But Roddie was himself aflame with anger. As always when Invaders brokein from the north, he'd been left behind with his nurse, Molly, whilethe soldiers went out to fight.     And nowadays Molly's presence wasn't the comfort it used to be. He feltalmost ready to jump out of his skin, the way she rocked and knitted inthat grating ruined chair, saying over and over again, The soldiersdon't      want     little boys. The soldiers don't      want     little boys. Thesoldiers don't—     I'm      not     a little boy! Roddie suddenly shouted. I'm full-grown andI've never even      seen     an Invader. Why won't you let me go and fight?     Fiercely he crossed the bare, gritty floor and shook Molly's shoulder.She rattled under his jarring hand, and abruptly changed the subject.     A is for Atom, B is for Bomb, C is for Corpse— she chanted.     Roddie reached into her shapeless dress and pinched. Lately that hadhelped her over these spells. But this time, though it stopped thekindergarten song, the treatment only started something worse.     Wuzzums hungry? Molly cooed, still rocking.     Utterly disgusted, Roddie ripped her head off her neck.     It was a completely futile gesture. The complicated mind that hadcared for him and taught him speech and the alphabet hadn't made him amechanic, and his only tool was a broken-handled screwdriver.  He was still tinkering when the soldiers came in. While they lined upalong the wall, he put Molly's head back on her neck.     She gaped coyly at the new arrivals. Hello, boys, she simpered.Looking for a good time?     Roddie slapped her to silence, reflecting briefly that there were manythings he didn't know about Molly. But there was work to be done.Carefully he framed the ritual words she'd taught him: Soldiers, cometo attention and report!     There were eleven of them, six feet tall, with four limbs and eightextremities. They stood uniformly, the thumbs on each pair of handstouching along the center line of the legs, front feet turned out at anangle of forty-five degrees, rear feet turned inward at thirty degrees.     Sir, they chorused, we have met the enemy and he is ours.     He inspected them. All were scratched and dented, but one in particularseemed badly damaged. His left arm was almost severed at the shoulder.     Come here, fellow, Roddie said. Let's see if I can fix that.     The soldier took a step forward, lurched suddenly, stopped, and whippedout a bayonet.     Death to Invaders! he yelled, and charged crazily.      Molly stepped in front of him.     You aren't being very nice to my baby, she murmured, and thrust herknitting needles into his eyes.     Roddie jumped behind him, knocked off his helmet, and pressed a softspot on his conical skull. The soldier collapsed to the floor.  Roddie salvaged and returned Molly's needles. Then he examined thepatient, tearing him apart as a boy dismembers an alarm clock.     It was lucky he did. The left arm's pair of hands suddenly writhed offthe floor in an effort to choke him. But because the arm was detachedat the shoulder and therefore blind, he escaped the clutching onslaughtand could goad the reflexing hands into assaulting one anotherharmlessly.      Meanwhile, the other soldiers left, except for one, apparently anothercasualty, who stumbled on his way out and fell into the fire. By thetime Roddie had hauled him clear, damage was beyond repair. Roddieswore, then decided to try combining parts of this casualty with piecesof the other to make a whole one.     To get more light for the operation, he poked up the fire. Roddie wasnew at his work, and took it seriously. It alarmed him to watch thesoldiers melt away, gradually succumbing to battle damage, shamedhim to see the empty ruins burn section by section as the Invadersrepeatedly broke through and had to be burned out.     Soon there would be nothing left of the      Private Property Keep Out     that, according to Molly's bedtime story, the Owners had entrusted tothem when driven away by radioactivity. Soon the soldiers themselveswould be gone. None would remain to guard the city but a few strayedservants like Molly, and an occasional Civil Defender.     And himself, Roddie reflected, spitting savagely into the fire. Hemight remain. But how he fitted into the picture, he didn't know. AndMolly, who claimed to have found him in the ruins after a fight withInvaders twenty years before, couldn't or wouldn't say.     Well, for as long as possible, Roddie decided, he'd do his duty asthe others did theirs—single-mindedly. Eventually the soldiers mightaccept him as one of themselves; meanwhile, this newly attempted firstaid was useful to them.     He gave the fire a final poke and then paused, wondering if, whenheated, his screwdriver could make an unfastened end of wire stick onthe grayish spot where it seemed to belong.     Stretching prone to blow the embers hot so he could try out his newidea, Roddie got too close to the flames. Instantly the room filledwith the stench of singed hair. Roddie drew angrily back, beating outthe sparks in his uncut blond mane.     As he stood slapping his head and muttering, a deranged Civil Defensefirefighter popped into the doorway and covered him with carbon dioxidefoam.     Roddie fled. His life-long friends were not merely wearing out, theywere unbearably wearing.  In the street, even before he'd wiped off the foam, he regrettedhis flight. The fire was back home. And here in the cold of thisfog-shrouded canyon, a mere trail between heaped-up walls of rubble,the diaper he wore felt inadequate against the pre-dawn cold. Hischerished weapon, a magnetic tack-hammer, was chill beneath thediaper's top, and the broken, radium-dialed wristwatch suspended froma string around his neck hung clammy against his chest. He stoodirresolute on numbing bare feet, and considered returning to the morefamiliar bedlam.     But colder than cold was his shame at being cold. Molly never was,though she knew how to keep him warm, nor were the others. Hunger,thirst, pain and coldness were sensations never experienced by hisfriends. Like the growth he'd been undergoing till recently, these werethings of ignominy, to be hidden as far as possible from inquiringeyes. Cold as it was, he'd have to hide.     Temporarily, the darkness concealed him, though it was not quitecomplete. From above the fog, the moon played vaguely deceptive lighton the splinters of architecture looming toward it. Some distance off,an owl hooted, but here nocturnal rodents felt free to squeak andrustle as they scampered.     The world seemed ghostly. Yet it wasn't dead; it merely lurked. And asan irrepressible yawn reminded Roddie of his absurd need for sleep evenin the midst of danger, he concluded for the thousandth time that theOne who'd built him must have been an apprentice.     For just such reasons he'd developed the hideout toward which he nowwalked. It had been the haven of his adolescence, when the discovery ofhow much he differed from his friends had been a shock, and the shockitself a difference to be hidden.     His hiding place was a manhole, dead center in the dead street. Aweathered bronze bar, carefully placed in the cover's slotted rim, wasthe levering key that opened its door.       Everything     was wrong tonight! He couldn't even find the bar. Ofcourse that spoiled things, because the bar was a roller on which tomove the heavy cover from below, and a support that held it ajar forventilation.     But the example of his friends had taught him above all else to carryout every purpose. Molly was a nurse; she had raised him despite allobstacles. The soldiers were guards; they protected the ruins againsteverything larger than a rat. The firefighter had put even      him     outwhen he was aflame....     Anyhow, the manhole cover had been loosened by his frequent handling.He lifted it aside by main strength, then flattened himself to thestreet, and felt with his feet for the top rung.     Halfway down the iron ladder, something made him pause. He looked, butsaw only blackness. He listened, sniffed, found nothing. What couldhave entered through the iron cover?     He sneered at his own timidity and jumped to the bottom.     It was warm! The dry bottom of the hole had the temperature of bodyheat, as if a large animal had recently rested there!  Quickly, Roddie drew the hammer from his waist. Then, with weapon readyfor an instantaneous blow, he stretched his left hand through thedarkness. He touched something warm, softish. Gingerly he felt overthat curving surface for identifying features.     While Roddie investigated by touch, his long fingers were suddenlyseized and bitten. At the same time, his right shin received a savagekick. And his own retaliatory blow was checked in mid-swing by anunexpected voice.     Get your filthy hands off me! it whispered angrily. Who do you thinkyou are?     Startled, he dropped his hammer. I'm Roddie, he said, squatting tofumble for it. Who do you think      you     are?     I'm Ida, naturally! Just how many girls      are     there in this raidingparty?     His first Invader—and he had dropped his weapon!     Scrabbling fearfully in the dust for his hammer, Roddie pausedsuddenly. This girl—whatever      that     was—seemed to think him one ofher own kind. There was a chance, not much, but worth taking, to turndelay to advantage. Maybe he could learn something of value before hekilled her. That would make the soldiers accept him!     He stalled, seeking a gambit. How would      I     know how many girls thereare?     Half expecting a blow, he got instead an apology. I'm sorry, the girlsaid. I should have known. Never even heard your name before, either.Roddie.... Whose boat did you come in, Roddie?     Boat? What was a boat? How would I know? he repeated, voice tightwith fear of discovery.     If she noticed the tension, she didn't show it. Certainly her whisperwas friendly enough. Oh, you're one of the fellows from Bodega, then.They shoved a boy into our boat at the last minute, too. Tough, wasn'tit, getting separated in the fog and tide like that? If only we didn'thave to use boats.... But, say, how are we going to get away from here?     I wouldn't know, Roddie said, closing his fingers on the hammer, andrising. How did you get in?     Followed your footprints. It was sundown and I saw human tracks in thedust and they led me here. Where were you?     Scouting around, Roddie said vaguely. How did you know I was a manwhen I came back?     Because you couldn't see me, silly! You know perfectly well theseandroids are heat-sensitive and can locate us in the dark!     Indeed he did know! Many times he'd felt ashamed that Molly could findhim whenever she wanted to, even here in the manhole. But perhaps themanhole would help him now to redeem himself....  I'd like to get a look at you, he said.     The girl laughed self-consciously. It's getting gray out. You'll seeme soon enough.     But she'd see      him     , Roddie realized. He had to talk fast.     What'll we do when it's light? he asked.     Well, I guess the boats have gone, Ida said. You could swim theGate, I guess—you seem tall and strong enough. But I couldn't. You'llthink it's crazy, but I've given this some thought, and even looked itover from the other side. I expect to try the Golden Gate Bridge!     Now he was getting somewhere! The bridge was ruined, impassable. Evenher own people had crossed the Strait by other means. But if there      were     a way over the bridge....     It's broken, he said. How in the world can we cross it?     Oh, you'll find out, if you take me up there. I—I don't want to bealone, Roddie. Will you go with me? Now?     Well, she could be made to point out the route before he killedher—      if     nothing happened when she saw him.     Uneasy, Roddie hefted the hammer in his hand.     A giggle broke the pause. It's nice of you to wait and let me go firstup the ladder, the girl said. But where the heck is the rusty oldthing?     I'll go first, said Roddie. He might need the advantage. Theladder's right behind me.     He climbed with hammer in teeth, and stretched his left hand fromstreet level to grasp and neutralize the girl's right. Then, nervouslyfingering his weapon, he stared at her in the thin gray dawn.     She was short and lean, except for roundnesses here and there. From hershapeless doeskin dress stretched slender legs that tapered to feetthat were bare, tiny, and, like her hands, only two in number.     Roddie was pleased. They were evenly matched as to members, and thatwould make things easy when the time came.     He looked into her face. It smiled at him, tanned and ruddy, with afull mouth and bright dark eyes that hid under long lashes when helooked too long.     Startling, those wary eyes. Concealing. For a moment he felt a rush offear, but she gave his hand a squeeze before twisting loose, and burstinto sudden laughter.     Diapers! she chortled, struggling to keep her voice low. My big,strong, blond and blue-eyed hero goes into battle wearing diapers, andcarrying only a hammer to fight with! You're the most unforgettablecharacter I have ever known!     He'd passed inspection, then—so far. He expelled his withheld breath,and said, I think you'll find me a little odd, in some ways.     Oh, not at all, Ida replied quickly. Different, yes, but I wouldn'tsay odd.  When they started down the street, she was nervous despite Roddie'sassertion that he knew where the soldiers were posted. He wondered ifshe felt some of the doubt he'd tried to conceal, shared his visions ofwhat the soldiers might do if they found him brazenly strolling with anInvader. They might not believe he was only questioning a prisoner.     Every day, his friends were becoming more unpredictable.     For that very reason, because he didn't know what precautions would doany good, he took a chance and walked openly to the bridge by the mostdirect route. In time this apparent assurance stilled Ida's fears, andshe began to talk.     Many of the things she said were beyond his experience and meaninglessto him, but he did note with interest how effective the soldiers hadbeen.     It's awful, Ida said. So few young men are left, so manycasualties....     But why do you—we—keep up the fight? Roddie asked. I mean, thesoldiers will never leave the city; their purpose is to guard it andthey      can't     leave, so they won't attack. Let them alone, and there'llbe plenty of young men.     Well! said Ida, sharply. You need indoctrination! Didn't they evertell you that the city is our home, even if the stupid androids do keepus out? Don't you know how dependent we are on these raids for all ourtools and things?     She sounded suspicious. Roddie shot her a furtive, startled glance.But she wasn't standing off to fight him. On the contrary, she was tooclose for both comfort and combat. She bumped him hip and shoulderevery few steps, and if he edged away, she followed.     He went on with his questioning. Why are      you     here? I mean, sure, theothers are after tools and things, but what's      your     purpose?     Ida shrugged. I'll admit no girl has ever done it before, she said,but I thought I could help with the wounded. That's why I have noweapon.     She hesitated, glanced covertly up at him, and went on with a rush ofwords. It's the lack of men, I guess. All the girls are kind of boredand hopeless, so I got this bright idea and stowed away on one of theboats when it was dark and the fog had settled down. Do you think I wasbeing silly?     No, but you do seem a little purposeless.     In silence they trudged through a vast area of charred wood andconcrete foundations on the northern end of the city. Thick fog overthe water hid Alcatraz, but in-shore visibility was better, and theycould see the beginning of the bridge approach.     A stone rattled nearby. There was a clink of metal. Ida gasped, andclung to Roddie's arm.     Behind me! he whispered urgently. Get behind me and hold on!     He felt Ida's arms encircling his waist, her chin digging into his backbelow the left shoulder. Facing them, a hundred feet away, stood asoldier. He looked contemptuous, hostile.      It's all right, Roddie said, his voice breaking.     There was a long, sullen, heart-stopping stare. Then the soldier turnedand walked away.     Ida's grip loosened, and he could feel her sag behind him. Roddieturned and held her. With eyes closed, she pressed cold blue lips tohis. He grimaced and turned away his head.     Ida's response was quick. Forgive me, she breathed, and slipped fromhis arms, but she held herself erect. I was so scared. And then we'vehad no sleep, no food or water.     Roddie was familiar with these signs of weakness, proud of appearing todeny his own humiliating needs.     I guess you're not as strong as me, he said smugly. I'll take careof you. Of course we can't sleep now, but I'll get food and water.     Leaving her to follow, he turned left to the ruins of a supermarket hehad previously visited, demonstrating his superior strength by settinga pace Ida couldn't match. By the time she caught up with him, he hadgrubbed out a few cans of the special size that Molly always chose.Picking two that were neither dented, swollen, nor rusted, he smashedan end of each with his hammer, and gave Ida her choice of strainedspinach or squash.     Baby food! she muttered. Maybe it's just what we need, but to eatbaby food with a man wearing a diaper.... Tell me, Roddie, how did youhappen to know where to find it?     Well, this is the northern end of the city, he answered, shrugging.I've been here before.     Why did the soldier let us go?     This watch, he said, touching the radium dial. It's a talisman.     But Ida's eyes had widened, and the color was gone from her face. Shewas silent, too, except when asking him to fill his fast-emptied canwith rain-water. She didn't finish her own portion, but lay back in therubble with feet higher than her head, obviously trying to renew herstrength.     And when they resumed their walk, her sullen, fear-clouded face showedplainly that he'd given himself away.     But to kill her now, before learning how she planned to cross thesupposedly impassable bridge, seemed as purposeless and impulsive asIda herself. Roddie didn't think, in any case, that her death wouldsatisfy the soldiers. With new and useful information to offer, hemight join them as an equal at last. But if his dalliance with thisenemy seemed pointless, not even Molly's knitting needles could protecthim.     He was sure the soldiers must be tracking the mysterious emanations ofhis watch dial, and had trouble to keep from glancing over his shoulderat every step. But arrival at the bridge approach ended the need forthis self-restraint. Here, difficult going demanded full attention.  He'd never gone as far as the bridge before, not having wanted tolook as if he might be leaving the city. The approach was a jungle ofconcrete with an underbrush of reinforcing-steel that reached for theunwary with rusted spines. Frequently they had to balance on crackedgirders, and inch over roadless spots high off the ground.     Here Ida took the lead. When they got to where three approach roadsmade a clover-leaf, she led him down a side road and into a forest.     Roddie stopped, and seized her arm.     What are you trying to do? he demanded.     I'm taking you with me, Ida said firmly. Taking you where youbelong!     No! he blurted, drawing his hammer. I can't go, nor let you go. Ibelong here!     Ida gasped, twisted loose, and ran. Roddie ran after her.     She wasn't so easily caught. Like a frightened doe, she dashed in andout among the trees, leaped to the bridge's underpinnings where theythrust rustedly from a cliff, and scrambled up the ramp.     Roddie sighed and slowed down. The pavement ended just beyond the cableanchors. From there to the south tower, only an occasional danglingsupport wire showed where the actual bridge had been suspended. Ida wastrapped.     He could take his time. Let the soldiers come up, as they undoubtedlywould, to finish the job....     But Ida didn't seem to realize she was trapped. Without hesitation shedashed up the main left-hand suspension cable and ran along its curvedsteel surface.     For a moment, Roddie thought of letting her go, letting her run up theever-steepening catenary until—because there were no guard-ropes orhandgrips—she simply fell. That would solve his problem.     Except it wouldn't be      his     solution. Her death wouldn't prove him tohis friends.     He set out quickly, before Ida was lost to sight in the thick fogthat billowed in straight from the ocean. At first he ran erect alongthe top of the yard-wide cylinder of twisted metal, but soon the curvesteepened. He had to go on all fours, clinging palm and sole.     Blood was on the cable where she'd passed. More blood stained it whenhe'd followed.     But because his friends knew neither pain nor fatigue, Roddie wouldadmit none either. Nor would he give in to the fear that dizzied him atevery downward look. He scrambled on like an automaton, watching onlyhis holds, till he rammed Ida's rear with his head.  She had stopped, trembling and gasping. Roddie clung just below herand looked dazedly around. There was nothing in sight but fog, piercedby the rapier of rusted wire supporting them. Neither end of it was insight.     Upward lay success, if death were not nearer on the cable. No soldierhad ever come even this far, for soldiers, as he'd told Ida, never leftthe city, were not built to do so. But      he     was here; with luck, hecould capitalize on the differences that had plagued him so long.     Go on! he ordered hoarsely. Move!     There was neither answer nor result. He broke off an end of loosenedwire and jabbed her rear. Ida gasped and crawled on.     Up and up they went, chilled, wet, bleeding, pain-racked, exhausted.Never had Roddie felt so thoroughly the defects of his peculiarnon-mechanical construction.     Without realizing it, he acquired a new purpose, a duty as compellingas that of any soldier or fire-watcher. He had to keep that tremblingbody of his alive, mount to the tall rust tower overhead.     He climbed and he made Ida climb, till, at nightmare's end, the fogthinned and they came into clear, windswept air and clawed up the lasthundred feet to sanctuary.     They were completely spent. Without word or thought they crept withinthe tower, huddled together for warmth on its dank steel deck, andslept for several hours.  Roddie awoke as Ida finished struggling free of his unconscious grip.Limping, he joined her painful walk around the tower. From its openingsthey looked out on a strange and isolated world.     To the north, where Ida seemed drawn as though by instinct, MountTamalpais reared its brushy head, a looming island above a billowywhite sea of fog. To the south were the Twin Peaks, a pair of buttonson a cotton sheet. Eastward lay Mount Diablo, bald and brooding,tallest of the peaks and most forbidding.     But westward over the ocean lay the land of gold—of all the kinds ofgold there are, from brightest yellow to deepest orange. Only a smallportion of the setting sun glared above the fog-bank; the rest seemedto have been broken off and smeared around by a child in love with itscolor.     Fascinated, Roddie stared for minutes, but turned when Ida showed nointerest. She was intent on the tower itself. Following her eyes,Roddie saw his duty made suddenly clear.     Easy to make out even in the fading light was the route by whichInvaders could cross to the foot of this tower on the remaining ruinsof the road, climb to where he now stood, and then descend the cableover the bridge's gap and catch the city unaware. Easy to estimate wasthe advantage of even this perilous route over things that scattered onthe water and prevented a landing in strength. Easy to see was the needto kill Ida before she carried home this knowledge.     Roddie took the hammer from his waist.     Don't! Oh, don't! Ida screamed. She burst into tears and covered herface with scratched and bloodied hands.     Surprised, Roddie withheld the blow. He had wept, as a child, and,weeping, had for the first time learned he differed from his friends.Ida's tears disturbed him, bringing unhappy memories.     Why should you cry? he asked comfortingly. You know your people willcome back to avenge you and will destroy my friends.     But—but my people are your people, too, Ida wailed. It's sosenseless, now, after all our struggle to escape. Don't you see? Yourfriends are only machines, built by our ancestors. We are Men—and thecity is ours, not theirs!     It      can't     be, Roddie objected. The city surely belongs to thosewho are superior, and my friends are superior to your people, even tome. Each of      us     has a purpose, though, while you Invaders seem to beaimless. Each of      us     helps preserve the city; you only try to rob andend it by destroying it.      My     people must be the true Men, becausethey're so much more rational than yours.... And it isn't rational tolet you escape.     Ida had turned up her tear-streaked face to stare at him.     Rational! What's rational about murdering a defenseless girl incold blood? Don't you realize we're the same sort of being, we two?Don't—don't you remember how we've been with each other all day?     She paused. Roddie noticed that her eyes were dark and frightened, yetsomehow soft, over scarlet cheeks. He had to look away. But he saidnothing.     Never mind! Ida said viciously. You can't make me beg. Go ahead andkill—see if it proves you're superior. My people will take over thecity regardless of you and me, and regardless of your jumping-jackfriends, too! Men can accomplish anything!  Scornfully she turned and looked toward the western twilight. It wasRoddie's turn to stand and stare.     Purpose! Ida flung at him over her shoulder. Logic! Women hear somuch of that from men! You're a man, all right! Men      always     call itlogic when they want to destroy! Loyalty to your own sort, kindness,affection—all emotional, aren't they? Not a bit logical. Emotion isfor creating, and it's so much more logical to destroy, isn't it?     She whirled back toward him, advancing as if she wanted to sink herteeth into his throat. Go ahead. Get it over with—if you have thecourage.     It was hard for Roddie to look away from that wrath-crimsoned face,but it was even harder to keep staring into the blaze of her eyes. Hecompromised by gazing out an opening at the gathering dusk. He thoughtfor a long time before he decided to tuck his hammer away.     It isn't reasonable to kill you now, he said. Too dark. You can'tpossibly get down that half-ruined manway tonight, so let's see how Ifeel in the morning.     Ida began to weep again, and Roddie found it necessary to comfort her.     And by morning he knew he was a Man.   ","Although Roddie has been preparing his entire life for defense against something, someone, he never knows who his enemy is. Ida - by nature of being Man - is his enemy, as Roddie believes him to be an android. When they first meet in the darkness, Roddie is afraid that Ida may realize what he is. However, they have no trouble once they see each other and spend the entire day together. Roddie proudly takes the role of Ida’s caretaker, noting that she is scared of the soldiers and not as strong as he is, so he takes her to a supermarket and feeds her. However, when Roddie reveals the talisman that prevented the soldier from attacking, their relationship changes. Ida tries to take Roddie back to her boat where she proclaims he belongs and Roddie insists that he belongs in this android-ridden dystopia. In their chase, they end up atop a tower. Realizing Ida now has the knowledge to bring home to the Invaders on how to enter the city, Roddie feels a sense of duty to kill her. She is the enemy, as he thinks she wishes to harm his city. As Ida cries - something Roddie can do but his friends can’t - he realizes that he too is Man and decides not to kill her.  "
"How does Roddie use his tools (screwdriver and hammer) throughout the story? </s>     Bridge Crossing     BY DAVE DRYFOOS     Illustrated by HARRISON     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction May 1951.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      He knew the city was organized for his     individual defense, for it had been that     way since he was born. But who was his enemy?      In 1849, the mist that sometimes rolled through the Golden Gate wasknown as fog. In 2149, it had become far more frequent, and was knownas smog. By 2349, it was fog again.     But tonight there was smoke mixed with the fog. Roddie could smell it.Somewhere in the forested ruins, fire was burning.     He wasn't worried. The small blaze that smoldered behind him on thecracked concrete floor had consumed everything burnable within blocks;what remained of the gutted concrete office building from which hepeered was fire-proof.     But Roddie was himself aflame with anger. As always when Invaders brokein from the north, he'd been left behind with his nurse, Molly, whilethe soldiers went out to fight.     And nowadays Molly's presence wasn't the comfort it used to be. He feltalmost ready to jump out of his skin, the way she rocked and knitted inthat grating ruined chair, saying over and over again, The soldiersdon't      want     little boys. The soldiers don't      want     little boys. Thesoldiers don't—     I'm      not     a little boy! Roddie suddenly shouted. I'm full-grown andI've never even      seen     an Invader. Why won't you let me go and fight?     Fiercely he crossed the bare, gritty floor and shook Molly's shoulder.She rattled under his jarring hand, and abruptly changed the subject.     A is for Atom, B is for Bomb, C is for Corpse— she chanted.     Roddie reached into her shapeless dress and pinched. Lately that hadhelped her over these spells. But this time, though it stopped thekindergarten song, the treatment only started something worse.     Wuzzums hungry? Molly cooed, still rocking.     Utterly disgusted, Roddie ripped her head off her neck.     It was a completely futile gesture. The complicated mind that hadcared for him and taught him speech and the alphabet hadn't made him amechanic, and his only tool was a broken-handled screwdriver.  He was still tinkering when the soldiers came in. While they lined upalong the wall, he put Molly's head back on her neck.     She gaped coyly at the new arrivals. Hello, boys, she simpered.Looking for a good time?     Roddie slapped her to silence, reflecting briefly that there were manythings he didn't know about Molly. But there was work to be done.Carefully he framed the ritual words she'd taught him: Soldiers, cometo attention and report!     There were eleven of them, six feet tall, with four limbs and eightextremities. They stood uniformly, the thumbs on each pair of handstouching along the center line of the legs, front feet turned out at anangle of forty-five degrees, rear feet turned inward at thirty degrees.     Sir, they chorused, we have met the enemy and he is ours.     He inspected them. All were scratched and dented, but one in particularseemed badly damaged. His left arm was almost severed at the shoulder.     Come here, fellow, Roddie said. Let's see if I can fix that.     The soldier took a step forward, lurched suddenly, stopped, and whippedout a bayonet.     Death to Invaders! he yelled, and charged crazily.      Molly stepped in front of him.     You aren't being very nice to my baby, she murmured, and thrust herknitting needles into his eyes.     Roddie jumped behind him, knocked off his helmet, and pressed a softspot on his conical skull. The soldier collapsed to the floor.  Roddie salvaged and returned Molly's needles. Then he examined thepatient, tearing him apart as a boy dismembers an alarm clock.     It was lucky he did. The left arm's pair of hands suddenly writhed offthe floor in an effort to choke him. But because the arm was detachedat the shoulder and therefore blind, he escaped the clutching onslaughtand could goad the reflexing hands into assaulting one anotherharmlessly.      Meanwhile, the other soldiers left, except for one, apparently anothercasualty, who stumbled on his way out and fell into the fire. By thetime Roddie had hauled him clear, damage was beyond repair. Roddieswore, then decided to try combining parts of this casualty with piecesof the other to make a whole one.     To get more light for the operation, he poked up the fire. Roddie wasnew at his work, and took it seriously. It alarmed him to watch thesoldiers melt away, gradually succumbing to battle damage, shamedhim to see the empty ruins burn section by section as the Invadersrepeatedly broke through and had to be burned out.     Soon there would be nothing left of the      Private Property Keep Out     that, according to Molly's bedtime story, the Owners had entrusted tothem when driven away by radioactivity. Soon the soldiers themselveswould be gone. None would remain to guard the city but a few strayedservants like Molly, and an occasional Civil Defender.     And himself, Roddie reflected, spitting savagely into the fire. Hemight remain. But how he fitted into the picture, he didn't know. AndMolly, who claimed to have found him in the ruins after a fight withInvaders twenty years before, couldn't or wouldn't say.     Well, for as long as possible, Roddie decided, he'd do his duty asthe others did theirs—single-mindedly. Eventually the soldiers mightaccept him as one of themselves; meanwhile, this newly attempted firstaid was useful to them.     He gave the fire a final poke and then paused, wondering if, whenheated, his screwdriver could make an unfastened end of wire stick onthe grayish spot where it seemed to belong.     Stretching prone to blow the embers hot so he could try out his newidea, Roddie got too close to the flames. Instantly the room filledwith the stench of singed hair. Roddie drew angrily back, beating outthe sparks in his uncut blond mane.     As he stood slapping his head and muttering, a deranged Civil Defensefirefighter popped into the doorway and covered him with carbon dioxidefoam.     Roddie fled. His life-long friends were not merely wearing out, theywere unbearably wearing.  In the street, even before he'd wiped off the foam, he regrettedhis flight. The fire was back home. And here in the cold of thisfog-shrouded canyon, a mere trail between heaped-up walls of rubble,the diaper he wore felt inadequate against the pre-dawn cold. Hischerished weapon, a magnetic tack-hammer, was chill beneath thediaper's top, and the broken, radium-dialed wristwatch suspended froma string around his neck hung clammy against his chest. He stoodirresolute on numbing bare feet, and considered returning to the morefamiliar bedlam.     But colder than cold was his shame at being cold. Molly never was,though she knew how to keep him warm, nor were the others. Hunger,thirst, pain and coldness were sensations never experienced by hisfriends. Like the growth he'd been undergoing till recently, these werethings of ignominy, to be hidden as far as possible from inquiringeyes. Cold as it was, he'd have to hide.     Temporarily, the darkness concealed him, though it was not quitecomplete. From above the fog, the moon played vaguely deceptive lighton the splinters of architecture looming toward it. Some distance off,an owl hooted, but here nocturnal rodents felt free to squeak andrustle as they scampered.     The world seemed ghostly. Yet it wasn't dead; it merely lurked. And asan irrepressible yawn reminded Roddie of his absurd need for sleep evenin the midst of danger, he concluded for the thousandth time that theOne who'd built him must have been an apprentice.     For just such reasons he'd developed the hideout toward which he nowwalked. It had been the haven of his adolescence, when the discovery ofhow much he differed from his friends had been a shock, and the shockitself a difference to be hidden.     His hiding place was a manhole, dead center in the dead street. Aweathered bronze bar, carefully placed in the cover's slotted rim, wasthe levering key that opened its door.       Everything     was wrong tonight! He couldn't even find the bar. Ofcourse that spoiled things, because the bar was a roller on which tomove the heavy cover from below, and a support that held it ajar forventilation.     But the example of his friends had taught him above all else to carryout every purpose. Molly was a nurse; she had raised him despite allobstacles. The soldiers were guards; they protected the ruins againsteverything larger than a rat. The firefighter had put even      him     outwhen he was aflame....     Anyhow, the manhole cover had been loosened by his frequent handling.He lifted it aside by main strength, then flattened himself to thestreet, and felt with his feet for the top rung.     Halfway down the iron ladder, something made him pause. He looked, butsaw only blackness. He listened, sniffed, found nothing. What couldhave entered through the iron cover?     He sneered at his own timidity and jumped to the bottom.     It was warm! The dry bottom of the hole had the temperature of bodyheat, as if a large animal had recently rested there!  Quickly, Roddie drew the hammer from his waist. Then, with weapon readyfor an instantaneous blow, he stretched his left hand through thedarkness. He touched something warm, softish. Gingerly he felt overthat curving surface for identifying features.     While Roddie investigated by touch, his long fingers were suddenlyseized and bitten. At the same time, his right shin received a savagekick. And his own retaliatory blow was checked in mid-swing by anunexpected voice.     Get your filthy hands off me! it whispered angrily. Who do you thinkyou are?     Startled, he dropped his hammer. I'm Roddie, he said, squatting tofumble for it. Who do you think      you     are?     I'm Ida, naturally! Just how many girls      are     there in this raidingparty?     His first Invader—and he had dropped his weapon!     Scrabbling fearfully in the dust for his hammer, Roddie pausedsuddenly. This girl—whatever      that     was—seemed to think him one ofher own kind. There was a chance, not much, but worth taking, to turndelay to advantage. Maybe he could learn something of value before hekilled her. That would make the soldiers accept him!     He stalled, seeking a gambit. How would      I     know how many girls thereare?     Half expecting a blow, he got instead an apology. I'm sorry, the girlsaid. I should have known. Never even heard your name before, either.Roddie.... Whose boat did you come in, Roddie?     Boat? What was a boat? How would I know? he repeated, voice tightwith fear of discovery.     If she noticed the tension, she didn't show it. Certainly her whisperwas friendly enough. Oh, you're one of the fellows from Bodega, then.They shoved a boy into our boat at the last minute, too. Tough, wasn'tit, getting separated in the fog and tide like that? If only we didn'thave to use boats.... But, say, how are we going to get away from here?     I wouldn't know, Roddie said, closing his fingers on the hammer, andrising. How did you get in?     Followed your footprints. It was sundown and I saw human tracks in thedust and they led me here. Where were you?     Scouting around, Roddie said vaguely. How did you know I was a manwhen I came back?     Because you couldn't see me, silly! You know perfectly well theseandroids are heat-sensitive and can locate us in the dark!     Indeed he did know! Many times he'd felt ashamed that Molly could findhim whenever she wanted to, even here in the manhole. But perhaps themanhole would help him now to redeem himself....  I'd like to get a look at you, he said.     The girl laughed self-consciously. It's getting gray out. You'll seeme soon enough.     But she'd see      him     , Roddie realized. He had to talk fast.     What'll we do when it's light? he asked.     Well, I guess the boats have gone, Ida said. You could swim theGate, I guess—you seem tall and strong enough. But I couldn't. You'llthink it's crazy, but I've given this some thought, and even looked itover from the other side. I expect to try the Golden Gate Bridge!     Now he was getting somewhere! The bridge was ruined, impassable. Evenher own people had crossed the Strait by other means. But if there      were     a way over the bridge....     It's broken, he said. How in the world can we cross it?     Oh, you'll find out, if you take me up there. I—I don't want to bealone, Roddie. Will you go with me? Now?     Well, she could be made to point out the route before he killedher—      if     nothing happened when she saw him.     Uneasy, Roddie hefted the hammer in his hand.     A giggle broke the pause. It's nice of you to wait and let me go firstup the ladder, the girl said. But where the heck is the rusty oldthing?     I'll go first, said Roddie. He might need the advantage. Theladder's right behind me.     He climbed with hammer in teeth, and stretched his left hand fromstreet level to grasp and neutralize the girl's right. Then, nervouslyfingering his weapon, he stared at her in the thin gray dawn.     She was short and lean, except for roundnesses here and there. From hershapeless doeskin dress stretched slender legs that tapered to feetthat were bare, tiny, and, like her hands, only two in number.     Roddie was pleased. They were evenly matched as to members, and thatwould make things easy when the time came.     He looked into her face. It smiled at him, tanned and ruddy, with afull mouth and bright dark eyes that hid under long lashes when helooked too long.     Startling, those wary eyes. Concealing. For a moment he felt a rush offear, but she gave his hand a squeeze before twisting loose, and burstinto sudden laughter.     Diapers! she chortled, struggling to keep her voice low. My big,strong, blond and blue-eyed hero goes into battle wearing diapers, andcarrying only a hammer to fight with! You're the most unforgettablecharacter I have ever known!     He'd passed inspection, then—so far. He expelled his withheld breath,and said, I think you'll find me a little odd, in some ways.     Oh, not at all, Ida replied quickly. Different, yes, but I wouldn'tsay odd.  When they started down the street, she was nervous despite Roddie'sassertion that he knew where the soldiers were posted. He wondered ifshe felt some of the doubt he'd tried to conceal, shared his visions ofwhat the soldiers might do if they found him brazenly strolling with anInvader. They might not believe he was only questioning a prisoner.     Every day, his friends were becoming more unpredictable.     For that very reason, because he didn't know what precautions would doany good, he took a chance and walked openly to the bridge by the mostdirect route. In time this apparent assurance stilled Ida's fears, andshe began to talk.     Many of the things she said were beyond his experience and meaninglessto him, but he did note with interest how effective the soldiers hadbeen.     It's awful, Ida said. So few young men are left, so manycasualties....     But why do you—we—keep up the fight? Roddie asked. I mean, thesoldiers will never leave the city; their purpose is to guard it andthey      can't     leave, so they won't attack. Let them alone, and there'llbe plenty of young men.     Well! said Ida, sharply. You need indoctrination! Didn't they evertell you that the city is our home, even if the stupid androids do keepus out? Don't you know how dependent we are on these raids for all ourtools and things?     She sounded suspicious. Roddie shot her a furtive, startled glance.But she wasn't standing off to fight him. On the contrary, she was tooclose for both comfort and combat. She bumped him hip and shoulderevery few steps, and if he edged away, she followed.     He went on with his questioning. Why are      you     here? I mean, sure, theothers are after tools and things, but what's      your     purpose?     Ida shrugged. I'll admit no girl has ever done it before, she said,but I thought I could help with the wounded. That's why I have noweapon.     She hesitated, glanced covertly up at him, and went on with a rush ofwords. It's the lack of men, I guess. All the girls are kind of boredand hopeless, so I got this bright idea and stowed away on one of theboats when it was dark and the fog had settled down. Do you think I wasbeing silly?     No, but you do seem a little purposeless.     In silence they trudged through a vast area of charred wood andconcrete foundations on the northern end of the city. Thick fog overthe water hid Alcatraz, but in-shore visibility was better, and theycould see the beginning of the bridge approach.     A stone rattled nearby. There was a clink of metal. Ida gasped, andclung to Roddie's arm.     Behind me! he whispered urgently. Get behind me and hold on!     He felt Ida's arms encircling his waist, her chin digging into his backbelow the left shoulder. Facing them, a hundred feet away, stood asoldier. He looked contemptuous, hostile.      It's all right, Roddie said, his voice breaking.     There was a long, sullen, heart-stopping stare. Then the soldier turnedand walked away.     Ida's grip loosened, and he could feel her sag behind him. Roddieturned and held her. With eyes closed, she pressed cold blue lips tohis. He grimaced and turned away his head.     Ida's response was quick. Forgive me, she breathed, and slipped fromhis arms, but she held herself erect. I was so scared. And then we'vehad no sleep, no food or water.     Roddie was familiar with these signs of weakness, proud of appearing todeny his own humiliating needs.     I guess you're not as strong as me, he said smugly. I'll take careof you. Of course we can't sleep now, but I'll get food and water.     Leaving her to follow, he turned left to the ruins of a supermarket hehad previously visited, demonstrating his superior strength by settinga pace Ida couldn't match. By the time she caught up with him, he hadgrubbed out a few cans of the special size that Molly always chose.Picking two that were neither dented, swollen, nor rusted, he smashedan end of each with his hammer, and gave Ida her choice of strainedspinach or squash.     Baby food! she muttered. Maybe it's just what we need, but to eatbaby food with a man wearing a diaper.... Tell me, Roddie, how did youhappen to know where to find it?     Well, this is the northern end of the city, he answered, shrugging.I've been here before.     Why did the soldier let us go?     This watch, he said, touching the radium dial. It's a talisman.     But Ida's eyes had widened, and the color was gone from her face. Shewas silent, too, except when asking him to fill his fast-emptied canwith rain-water. She didn't finish her own portion, but lay back in therubble with feet higher than her head, obviously trying to renew herstrength.     And when they resumed their walk, her sullen, fear-clouded face showedplainly that he'd given himself away.     But to kill her now, before learning how she planned to cross thesupposedly impassable bridge, seemed as purposeless and impulsive asIda herself. Roddie didn't think, in any case, that her death wouldsatisfy the soldiers. With new and useful information to offer, hemight join them as an equal at last. But if his dalliance with thisenemy seemed pointless, not even Molly's knitting needles could protecthim.     He was sure the soldiers must be tracking the mysterious emanations ofhis watch dial, and had trouble to keep from glancing over his shoulderat every step. But arrival at the bridge approach ended the need forthis self-restraint. Here, difficult going demanded full attention.  He'd never gone as far as the bridge before, not having wanted tolook as if he might be leaving the city. The approach was a jungle ofconcrete with an underbrush of reinforcing-steel that reached for theunwary with rusted spines. Frequently they had to balance on crackedgirders, and inch over roadless spots high off the ground.     Here Ida took the lead. When they got to where three approach roadsmade a clover-leaf, she led him down a side road and into a forest.     Roddie stopped, and seized her arm.     What are you trying to do? he demanded.     I'm taking you with me, Ida said firmly. Taking you where youbelong!     No! he blurted, drawing his hammer. I can't go, nor let you go. Ibelong here!     Ida gasped, twisted loose, and ran. Roddie ran after her.     She wasn't so easily caught. Like a frightened doe, she dashed in andout among the trees, leaped to the bridge's underpinnings where theythrust rustedly from a cliff, and scrambled up the ramp.     Roddie sighed and slowed down. The pavement ended just beyond the cableanchors. From there to the south tower, only an occasional danglingsupport wire showed where the actual bridge had been suspended. Ida wastrapped.     He could take his time. Let the soldiers come up, as they undoubtedlywould, to finish the job....     But Ida didn't seem to realize she was trapped. Without hesitation shedashed up the main left-hand suspension cable and ran along its curvedsteel surface.     For a moment, Roddie thought of letting her go, letting her run up theever-steepening catenary until—because there were no guard-ropes orhandgrips—she simply fell. That would solve his problem.     Except it wouldn't be      his     solution. Her death wouldn't prove him tohis friends.     He set out quickly, before Ida was lost to sight in the thick fogthat billowed in straight from the ocean. At first he ran erect alongthe top of the yard-wide cylinder of twisted metal, but soon the curvesteepened. He had to go on all fours, clinging palm and sole.     Blood was on the cable where she'd passed. More blood stained it whenhe'd followed.     But because his friends knew neither pain nor fatigue, Roddie wouldadmit none either. Nor would he give in to the fear that dizzied him atevery downward look. He scrambled on like an automaton, watching onlyhis holds, till he rammed Ida's rear with his head.  She had stopped, trembling and gasping. Roddie clung just below herand looked dazedly around. There was nothing in sight but fog, piercedby the rapier of rusted wire supporting them. Neither end of it was insight.     Upward lay success, if death were not nearer on the cable. No soldierhad ever come even this far, for soldiers, as he'd told Ida, never leftthe city, were not built to do so. But      he     was here; with luck, hecould capitalize on the differences that had plagued him so long.     Go on! he ordered hoarsely. Move!     There was neither answer nor result. He broke off an end of loosenedwire and jabbed her rear. Ida gasped and crawled on.     Up and up they went, chilled, wet, bleeding, pain-racked, exhausted.Never had Roddie felt so thoroughly the defects of his peculiarnon-mechanical construction.     Without realizing it, he acquired a new purpose, a duty as compellingas that of any soldier or fire-watcher. He had to keep that tremblingbody of his alive, mount to the tall rust tower overhead.     He climbed and he made Ida climb, till, at nightmare's end, the fogthinned and they came into clear, windswept air and clawed up the lasthundred feet to sanctuary.     They were completely spent. Without word or thought they crept withinthe tower, huddled together for warmth on its dank steel deck, andslept for several hours.  Roddie awoke as Ida finished struggling free of his unconscious grip.Limping, he joined her painful walk around the tower. From its openingsthey looked out on a strange and isolated world.     To the north, where Ida seemed drawn as though by instinct, MountTamalpais reared its brushy head, a looming island above a billowywhite sea of fog. To the south were the Twin Peaks, a pair of buttonson a cotton sheet. Eastward lay Mount Diablo, bald and brooding,tallest of the peaks and most forbidding.     But westward over the ocean lay the land of gold—of all the kinds ofgold there are, from brightest yellow to deepest orange. Only a smallportion of the setting sun glared above the fog-bank; the rest seemedto have been broken off and smeared around by a child in love with itscolor.     Fascinated, Roddie stared for minutes, but turned when Ida showed nointerest. She was intent on the tower itself. Following her eyes,Roddie saw his duty made suddenly clear.     Easy to make out even in the fading light was the route by whichInvaders could cross to the foot of this tower on the remaining ruinsof the road, climb to where he now stood, and then descend the cableover the bridge's gap and catch the city unaware. Easy to estimate wasthe advantage of even this perilous route over things that scattered onthe water and prevented a landing in strength. Easy to see was the needto kill Ida before she carried home this knowledge.     Roddie took the hammer from his waist.     Don't! Oh, don't! Ida screamed. She burst into tears and covered herface with scratched and bloodied hands.     Surprised, Roddie withheld the blow. He had wept, as a child, and,weeping, had for the first time learned he differed from his friends.Ida's tears disturbed him, bringing unhappy memories.     Why should you cry? he asked comfortingly. You know your people willcome back to avenge you and will destroy my friends.     But—but my people are your people, too, Ida wailed. It's sosenseless, now, after all our struggle to escape. Don't you see? Yourfriends are only machines, built by our ancestors. We are Men—and thecity is ours, not theirs!     It      can't     be, Roddie objected. The city surely belongs to thosewho are superior, and my friends are superior to your people, even tome. Each of      us     has a purpose, though, while you Invaders seem to beaimless. Each of      us     helps preserve the city; you only try to rob andend it by destroying it.      My     people must be the true Men, becausethey're so much more rational than yours.... And it isn't rational tolet you escape.     Ida had turned up her tear-streaked face to stare at him.     Rational! What's rational about murdering a defenseless girl incold blood? Don't you realize we're the same sort of being, we two?Don't—don't you remember how we've been with each other all day?     She paused. Roddie noticed that her eyes were dark and frightened, yetsomehow soft, over scarlet cheeks. He had to look away. But he saidnothing.     Never mind! Ida said viciously. You can't make me beg. Go ahead andkill—see if it proves you're superior. My people will take over thecity regardless of you and me, and regardless of your jumping-jackfriends, too! Men can accomplish anything!  Scornfully she turned and looked toward the western twilight. It wasRoddie's turn to stand and stare.     Purpose! Ida flung at him over her shoulder. Logic! Women hear somuch of that from men! You're a man, all right! Men      always     call itlogic when they want to destroy! Loyalty to your own sort, kindness,affection—all emotional, aren't they? Not a bit logical. Emotion isfor creating, and it's so much more logical to destroy, isn't it?     She whirled back toward him, advancing as if she wanted to sink herteeth into his throat. Go ahead. Get it over with—if you have thecourage.     It was hard for Roddie to look away from that wrath-crimsoned face,but it was even harder to keep staring into the blaze of her eyes. Hecompromised by gazing out an opening at the gathering dusk. He thoughtfor a long time before he decided to tuck his hammer away.     It isn't reasonable to kill you now, he said. Too dark. You can'tpossibly get down that half-ruined manway tonight, so let's see how Ifeel in the morning.     Ida began to weep again, and Roddie found it necessary to comfort her.     And by morning he knew he was a Man.   ","The first tool that Roddie uses is a screwdriver with a broken handle. He uses it to tinker with and screw Molly’s head back onto her robot body, after tearing it off himself. He also used it when he was considering heating it over a fire to mold it into a different tool, but ended up not completing it. His hammer is his weapon. Roddie keeps his hammer on his body, which he was able to reach for conveniently when he initially found a warm body hiding in the manhole. All throughout this initial encounter with Ida, Roddie has his hammer close to him, either clutching it or holding it in his mouth while climbing the ladder. He also uses it as a tool to break open cans. Finally, at the end of the story, he is prepared to use the hammer to kill Ida - even going as far as raising it threateningly - before deciding not to. "
"How does Roddie figure out why he's different from his friends? </s>     Bridge Crossing     BY DAVE DRYFOOS     Illustrated by HARRISON     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction May 1951.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      He knew the city was organized for his     individual defense, for it had been that     way since he was born. But who was his enemy?      In 1849, the mist that sometimes rolled through the Golden Gate wasknown as fog. In 2149, it had become far more frequent, and was knownas smog. By 2349, it was fog again.     But tonight there was smoke mixed with the fog. Roddie could smell it.Somewhere in the forested ruins, fire was burning.     He wasn't worried. The small blaze that smoldered behind him on thecracked concrete floor had consumed everything burnable within blocks;what remained of the gutted concrete office building from which hepeered was fire-proof.     But Roddie was himself aflame with anger. As always when Invaders brokein from the north, he'd been left behind with his nurse, Molly, whilethe soldiers went out to fight.     And nowadays Molly's presence wasn't the comfort it used to be. He feltalmost ready to jump out of his skin, the way she rocked and knitted inthat grating ruined chair, saying over and over again, The soldiersdon't      want     little boys. The soldiers don't      want     little boys. Thesoldiers don't—     I'm      not     a little boy! Roddie suddenly shouted. I'm full-grown andI've never even      seen     an Invader. Why won't you let me go and fight?     Fiercely he crossed the bare, gritty floor and shook Molly's shoulder.She rattled under his jarring hand, and abruptly changed the subject.     A is for Atom, B is for Bomb, C is for Corpse— she chanted.     Roddie reached into her shapeless dress and pinched. Lately that hadhelped her over these spells. But this time, though it stopped thekindergarten song, the treatment only started something worse.     Wuzzums hungry? Molly cooed, still rocking.     Utterly disgusted, Roddie ripped her head off her neck.     It was a completely futile gesture. The complicated mind that hadcared for him and taught him speech and the alphabet hadn't made him amechanic, and his only tool was a broken-handled screwdriver.  He was still tinkering when the soldiers came in. While they lined upalong the wall, he put Molly's head back on her neck.     She gaped coyly at the new arrivals. Hello, boys, she simpered.Looking for a good time?     Roddie slapped her to silence, reflecting briefly that there were manythings he didn't know about Molly. But there was work to be done.Carefully he framed the ritual words she'd taught him: Soldiers, cometo attention and report!     There were eleven of them, six feet tall, with four limbs and eightextremities. They stood uniformly, the thumbs on each pair of handstouching along the center line of the legs, front feet turned out at anangle of forty-five degrees, rear feet turned inward at thirty degrees.     Sir, they chorused, we have met the enemy and he is ours.     He inspected them. All were scratched and dented, but one in particularseemed badly damaged. His left arm was almost severed at the shoulder.     Come here, fellow, Roddie said. Let's see if I can fix that.     The soldier took a step forward, lurched suddenly, stopped, and whippedout a bayonet.     Death to Invaders! he yelled, and charged crazily.      Molly stepped in front of him.     You aren't being very nice to my baby, she murmured, and thrust herknitting needles into his eyes.     Roddie jumped behind him, knocked off his helmet, and pressed a softspot on his conical skull. The soldier collapsed to the floor.  Roddie salvaged and returned Molly's needles. Then he examined thepatient, tearing him apart as a boy dismembers an alarm clock.     It was lucky he did. The left arm's pair of hands suddenly writhed offthe floor in an effort to choke him. But because the arm was detachedat the shoulder and therefore blind, he escaped the clutching onslaughtand could goad the reflexing hands into assaulting one anotherharmlessly.      Meanwhile, the other soldiers left, except for one, apparently anothercasualty, who stumbled on his way out and fell into the fire. By thetime Roddie had hauled him clear, damage was beyond repair. Roddieswore, then decided to try combining parts of this casualty with piecesof the other to make a whole one.     To get more light for the operation, he poked up the fire. Roddie wasnew at his work, and took it seriously. It alarmed him to watch thesoldiers melt away, gradually succumbing to battle damage, shamedhim to see the empty ruins burn section by section as the Invadersrepeatedly broke through and had to be burned out.     Soon there would be nothing left of the      Private Property Keep Out     that, according to Molly's bedtime story, the Owners had entrusted tothem when driven away by radioactivity. Soon the soldiers themselveswould be gone. None would remain to guard the city but a few strayedservants like Molly, and an occasional Civil Defender.     And himself, Roddie reflected, spitting savagely into the fire. Hemight remain. But how he fitted into the picture, he didn't know. AndMolly, who claimed to have found him in the ruins after a fight withInvaders twenty years before, couldn't or wouldn't say.     Well, for as long as possible, Roddie decided, he'd do his duty asthe others did theirs—single-mindedly. Eventually the soldiers mightaccept him as one of themselves; meanwhile, this newly attempted firstaid was useful to them.     He gave the fire a final poke and then paused, wondering if, whenheated, his screwdriver could make an unfastened end of wire stick onthe grayish spot where it seemed to belong.     Stretching prone to blow the embers hot so he could try out his newidea, Roddie got too close to the flames. Instantly the room filledwith the stench of singed hair. Roddie drew angrily back, beating outthe sparks in his uncut blond mane.     As he stood slapping his head and muttering, a deranged Civil Defensefirefighter popped into the doorway and covered him with carbon dioxidefoam.     Roddie fled. His life-long friends were not merely wearing out, theywere unbearably wearing.  In the street, even before he'd wiped off the foam, he regrettedhis flight. The fire was back home. And here in the cold of thisfog-shrouded canyon, a mere trail between heaped-up walls of rubble,the diaper he wore felt inadequate against the pre-dawn cold. Hischerished weapon, a magnetic tack-hammer, was chill beneath thediaper's top, and the broken, radium-dialed wristwatch suspended froma string around his neck hung clammy against his chest. He stoodirresolute on numbing bare feet, and considered returning to the morefamiliar bedlam.     But colder than cold was his shame at being cold. Molly never was,though she knew how to keep him warm, nor were the others. Hunger,thirst, pain and coldness were sensations never experienced by hisfriends. Like the growth he'd been undergoing till recently, these werethings of ignominy, to be hidden as far as possible from inquiringeyes. Cold as it was, he'd have to hide.     Temporarily, the darkness concealed him, though it was not quitecomplete. From above the fog, the moon played vaguely deceptive lighton the splinters of architecture looming toward it. Some distance off,an owl hooted, but here nocturnal rodents felt free to squeak andrustle as they scampered.     The world seemed ghostly. Yet it wasn't dead; it merely lurked. And asan irrepressible yawn reminded Roddie of his absurd need for sleep evenin the midst of danger, he concluded for the thousandth time that theOne who'd built him must have been an apprentice.     For just such reasons he'd developed the hideout toward which he nowwalked. It had been the haven of his adolescence, when the discovery ofhow much he differed from his friends had been a shock, and the shockitself a difference to be hidden.     His hiding place was a manhole, dead center in the dead street. Aweathered bronze bar, carefully placed in the cover's slotted rim, wasthe levering key that opened its door.       Everything     was wrong tonight! He couldn't even find the bar. Ofcourse that spoiled things, because the bar was a roller on which tomove the heavy cover from below, and a support that held it ajar forventilation.     But the example of his friends had taught him above all else to carryout every purpose. Molly was a nurse; she had raised him despite allobstacles. The soldiers were guards; they protected the ruins againsteverything larger than a rat. The firefighter had put even      him     outwhen he was aflame....     Anyhow, the manhole cover had been loosened by his frequent handling.He lifted it aside by main strength, then flattened himself to thestreet, and felt with his feet for the top rung.     Halfway down the iron ladder, something made him pause. He looked, butsaw only blackness. He listened, sniffed, found nothing. What couldhave entered through the iron cover?     He sneered at his own timidity and jumped to the bottom.     It was warm! The dry bottom of the hole had the temperature of bodyheat, as if a large animal had recently rested there!  Quickly, Roddie drew the hammer from his waist. Then, with weapon readyfor an instantaneous blow, he stretched his left hand through thedarkness. He touched something warm, softish. Gingerly he felt overthat curving surface for identifying features.     While Roddie investigated by touch, his long fingers were suddenlyseized and bitten. At the same time, his right shin received a savagekick. And his own retaliatory blow was checked in mid-swing by anunexpected voice.     Get your filthy hands off me! it whispered angrily. Who do you thinkyou are?     Startled, he dropped his hammer. I'm Roddie, he said, squatting tofumble for it. Who do you think      you     are?     I'm Ida, naturally! Just how many girls      are     there in this raidingparty?     His first Invader—and he had dropped his weapon!     Scrabbling fearfully in the dust for his hammer, Roddie pausedsuddenly. This girl—whatever      that     was—seemed to think him one ofher own kind. There was a chance, not much, but worth taking, to turndelay to advantage. Maybe he could learn something of value before hekilled her. That would make the soldiers accept him!     He stalled, seeking a gambit. How would      I     know how many girls thereare?     Half expecting a blow, he got instead an apology. I'm sorry, the girlsaid. I should have known. Never even heard your name before, either.Roddie.... Whose boat did you come in, Roddie?     Boat? What was a boat? How would I know? he repeated, voice tightwith fear of discovery.     If she noticed the tension, she didn't show it. Certainly her whisperwas friendly enough. Oh, you're one of the fellows from Bodega, then.They shoved a boy into our boat at the last minute, too. Tough, wasn'tit, getting separated in the fog and tide like that? If only we didn'thave to use boats.... But, say, how are we going to get away from here?     I wouldn't know, Roddie said, closing his fingers on the hammer, andrising. How did you get in?     Followed your footprints. It was sundown and I saw human tracks in thedust and they led me here. Where were you?     Scouting around, Roddie said vaguely. How did you know I was a manwhen I came back?     Because you couldn't see me, silly! You know perfectly well theseandroids are heat-sensitive and can locate us in the dark!     Indeed he did know! Many times he'd felt ashamed that Molly could findhim whenever she wanted to, even here in the manhole. But perhaps themanhole would help him now to redeem himself....  I'd like to get a look at you, he said.     The girl laughed self-consciously. It's getting gray out. You'll seeme soon enough.     But she'd see      him     , Roddie realized. He had to talk fast.     What'll we do when it's light? he asked.     Well, I guess the boats have gone, Ida said. You could swim theGate, I guess—you seem tall and strong enough. But I couldn't. You'llthink it's crazy, but I've given this some thought, and even looked itover from the other side. I expect to try the Golden Gate Bridge!     Now he was getting somewhere! The bridge was ruined, impassable. Evenher own people had crossed the Strait by other means. But if there      were     a way over the bridge....     It's broken, he said. How in the world can we cross it?     Oh, you'll find out, if you take me up there. I—I don't want to bealone, Roddie. Will you go with me? Now?     Well, she could be made to point out the route before he killedher—      if     nothing happened when she saw him.     Uneasy, Roddie hefted the hammer in his hand.     A giggle broke the pause. It's nice of you to wait and let me go firstup the ladder, the girl said. But where the heck is the rusty oldthing?     I'll go first, said Roddie. He might need the advantage. Theladder's right behind me.     He climbed with hammer in teeth, and stretched his left hand fromstreet level to grasp and neutralize the girl's right. Then, nervouslyfingering his weapon, he stared at her in the thin gray dawn.     She was short and lean, except for roundnesses here and there. From hershapeless doeskin dress stretched slender legs that tapered to feetthat were bare, tiny, and, like her hands, only two in number.     Roddie was pleased. They were evenly matched as to members, and thatwould make things easy when the time came.     He looked into her face. It smiled at him, tanned and ruddy, with afull mouth and bright dark eyes that hid under long lashes when helooked too long.     Startling, those wary eyes. Concealing. For a moment he felt a rush offear, but she gave his hand a squeeze before twisting loose, and burstinto sudden laughter.     Diapers! she chortled, struggling to keep her voice low. My big,strong, blond and blue-eyed hero goes into battle wearing diapers, andcarrying only a hammer to fight with! You're the most unforgettablecharacter I have ever known!     He'd passed inspection, then—so far. He expelled his withheld breath,and said, I think you'll find me a little odd, in some ways.     Oh, not at all, Ida replied quickly. Different, yes, but I wouldn'tsay odd.  When they started down the street, she was nervous despite Roddie'sassertion that he knew where the soldiers were posted. He wondered ifshe felt some of the doubt he'd tried to conceal, shared his visions ofwhat the soldiers might do if they found him brazenly strolling with anInvader. They might not believe he was only questioning a prisoner.     Every day, his friends were becoming more unpredictable.     For that very reason, because he didn't know what precautions would doany good, he took a chance and walked openly to the bridge by the mostdirect route. In time this apparent assurance stilled Ida's fears, andshe began to talk.     Many of the things she said were beyond his experience and meaninglessto him, but he did note with interest how effective the soldiers hadbeen.     It's awful, Ida said. So few young men are left, so manycasualties....     But why do you—we—keep up the fight? Roddie asked. I mean, thesoldiers will never leave the city; their purpose is to guard it andthey      can't     leave, so they won't attack. Let them alone, and there'llbe plenty of young men.     Well! said Ida, sharply. You need indoctrination! Didn't they evertell you that the city is our home, even if the stupid androids do keepus out? Don't you know how dependent we are on these raids for all ourtools and things?     She sounded suspicious. Roddie shot her a furtive, startled glance.But she wasn't standing off to fight him. On the contrary, she was tooclose for both comfort and combat. She bumped him hip and shoulderevery few steps, and if he edged away, she followed.     He went on with his questioning. Why are      you     here? I mean, sure, theothers are after tools and things, but what's      your     purpose?     Ida shrugged. I'll admit no girl has ever done it before, she said,but I thought I could help with the wounded. That's why I have noweapon.     She hesitated, glanced covertly up at him, and went on with a rush ofwords. It's the lack of men, I guess. All the girls are kind of boredand hopeless, so I got this bright idea and stowed away on one of theboats when it was dark and the fog had settled down. Do you think I wasbeing silly?     No, but you do seem a little purposeless.     In silence they trudged through a vast area of charred wood andconcrete foundations on the northern end of the city. Thick fog overthe water hid Alcatraz, but in-shore visibility was better, and theycould see the beginning of the bridge approach.     A stone rattled nearby. There was a clink of metal. Ida gasped, andclung to Roddie's arm.     Behind me! he whispered urgently. Get behind me and hold on!     He felt Ida's arms encircling his waist, her chin digging into his backbelow the left shoulder. Facing them, a hundred feet away, stood asoldier. He looked contemptuous, hostile.      It's all right, Roddie said, his voice breaking.     There was a long, sullen, heart-stopping stare. Then the soldier turnedand walked away.     Ida's grip loosened, and he could feel her sag behind him. Roddieturned and held her. With eyes closed, she pressed cold blue lips tohis. He grimaced and turned away his head.     Ida's response was quick. Forgive me, she breathed, and slipped fromhis arms, but she held herself erect. I was so scared. And then we'vehad no sleep, no food or water.     Roddie was familiar with these signs of weakness, proud of appearing todeny his own humiliating needs.     I guess you're not as strong as me, he said smugly. I'll take careof you. Of course we can't sleep now, but I'll get food and water.     Leaving her to follow, he turned left to the ruins of a supermarket hehad previously visited, demonstrating his superior strength by settinga pace Ida couldn't match. By the time she caught up with him, he hadgrubbed out a few cans of the special size that Molly always chose.Picking two that were neither dented, swollen, nor rusted, he smashedan end of each with his hammer, and gave Ida her choice of strainedspinach or squash.     Baby food! she muttered. Maybe it's just what we need, but to eatbaby food with a man wearing a diaper.... Tell me, Roddie, how did youhappen to know where to find it?     Well, this is the northern end of the city, he answered, shrugging.I've been here before.     Why did the soldier let us go?     This watch, he said, touching the radium dial. It's a talisman.     But Ida's eyes had widened, and the color was gone from her face. Shewas silent, too, except when asking him to fill his fast-emptied canwith rain-water. She didn't finish her own portion, but lay back in therubble with feet higher than her head, obviously trying to renew herstrength.     And when they resumed their walk, her sullen, fear-clouded face showedplainly that he'd given himself away.     But to kill her now, before learning how she planned to cross thesupposedly impassable bridge, seemed as purposeless and impulsive asIda herself. Roddie didn't think, in any case, that her death wouldsatisfy the soldiers. With new and useful information to offer, hemight join them as an equal at last. But if his dalliance with thisenemy seemed pointless, not even Molly's knitting needles could protecthim.     He was sure the soldiers must be tracking the mysterious emanations ofhis watch dial, and had trouble to keep from glancing over his shoulderat every step. But arrival at the bridge approach ended the need forthis self-restraint. Here, difficult going demanded full attention.  He'd never gone as far as the bridge before, not having wanted tolook as if he might be leaving the city. The approach was a jungle ofconcrete with an underbrush of reinforcing-steel that reached for theunwary with rusted spines. Frequently they had to balance on crackedgirders, and inch over roadless spots high off the ground.     Here Ida took the lead. When they got to where three approach roadsmade a clover-leaf, she led him down a side road and into a forest.     Roddie stopped, and seized her arm.     What are you trying to do? he demanded.     I'm taking you with me, Ida said firmly. Taking you where youbelong!     No! he blurted, drawing his hammer. I can't go, nor let you go. Ibelong here!     Ida gasped, twisted loose, and ran. Roddie ran after her.     She wasn't so easily caught. Like a frightened doe, she dashed in andout among the trees, leaped to the bridge's underpinnings where theythrust rustedly from a cliff, and scrambled up the ramp.     Roddie sighed and slowed down. The pavement ended just beyond the cableanchors. From there to the south tower, only an occasional danglingsupport wire showed where the actual bridge had been suspended. Ida wastrapped.     He could take his time. Let the soldiers come up, as they undoubtedlywould, to finish the job....     But Ida didn't seem to realize she was trapped. Without hesitation shedashed up the main left-hand suspension cable and ran along its curvedsteel surface.     For a moment, Roddie thought of letting her go, letting her run up theever-steepening catenary until—because there were no guard-ropes orhandgrips—she simply fell. That would solve his problem.     Except it wouldn't be      his     solution. Her death wouldn't prove him tohis friends.     He set out quickly, before Ida was lost to sight in the thick fogthat billowed in straight from the ocean. At first he ran erect alongthe top of the yard-wide cylinder of twisted metal, but soon the curvesteepened. He had to go on all fours, clinging palm and sole.     Blood was on the cable where she'd passed. More blood stained it whenhe'd followed.     But because his friends knew neither pain nor fatigue, Roddie wouldadmit none either. Nor would he give in to the fear that dizzied him atevery downward look. He scrambled on like an automaton, watching onlyhis holds, till he rammed Ida's rear with his head.  She had stopped, trembling and gasping. Roddie clung just below herand looked dazedly around. There was nothing in sight but fog, piercedby the rapier of rusted wire supporting them. Neither end of it was insight.     Upward lay success, if death were not nearer on the cable. No soldierhad ever come even this far, for soldiers, as he'd told Ida, never leftthe city, were not built to do so. But      he     was here; with luck, hecould capitalize on the differences that had plagued him so long.     Go on! he ordered hoarsely. Move!     There was neither answer nor result. He broke off an end of loosenedwire and jabbed her rear. Ida gasped and crawled on.     Up and up they went, chilled, wet, bleeding, pain-racked, exhausted.Never had Roddie felt so thoroughly the defects of his peculiarnon-mechanical construction.     Without realizing it, he acquired a new purpose, a duty as compellingas that of any soldier or fire-watcher. He had to keep that tremblingbody of his alive, mount to the tall rust tower overhead.     He climbed and he made Ida climb, till, at nightmare's end, the fogthinned and they came into clear, windswept air and clawed up the lasthundred feet to sanctuary.     They were completely spent. Without word or thought they crept withinthe tower, huddled together for warmth on its dank steel deck, andslept for several hours.  Roddie awoke as Ida finished struggling free of his unconscious grip.Limping, he joined her painful walk around the tower. From its openingsthey looked out on a strange and isolated world.     To the north, where Ida seemed drawn as though by instinct, MountTamalpais reared its brushy head, a looming island above a billowywhite sea of fog. To the south were the Twin Peaks, a pair of buttonson a cotton sheet. Eastward lay Mount Diablo, bald and brooding,tallest of the peaks and most forbidding.     But westward over the ocean lay the land of gold—of all the kinds ofgold there are, from brightest yellow to deepest orange. Only a smallportion of the setting sun glared above the fog-bank; the rest seemedto have been broken off and smeared around by a child in love with itscolor.     Fascinated, Roddie stared for minutes, but turned when Ida showed nointerest. She was intent on the tower itself. Following her eyes,Roddie saw his duty made suddenly clear.     Easy to make out even in the fading light was the route by whichInvaders could cross to the foot of this tower on the remaining ruinsof the road, climb to where he now stood, and then descend the cableover the bridge's gap and catch the city unaware. Easy to estimate wasthe advantage of even this perilous route over things that scattered onthe water and prevented a landing in strength. Easy to see was the needto kill Ida before she carried home this knowledge.     Roddie took the hammer from his waist.     Don't! Oh, don't! Ida screamed. She burst into tears and covered herface with scratched and bloodied hands.     Surprised, Roddie withheld the blow. He had wept, as a child, and,weeping, had for the first time learned he differed from his friends.Ida's tears disturbed him, bringing unhappy memories.     Why should you cry? he asked comfortingly. You know your people willcome back to avenge you and will destroy my friends.     But—but my people are your people, too, Ida wailed. It's sosenseless, now, after all our struggle to escape. Don't you see? Yourfriends are only machines, built by our ancestors. We are Men—and thecity is ours, not theirs!     It      can't     be, Roddie objected. The city surely belongs to thosewho are superior, and my friends are superior to your people, even tome. Each of      us     has a purpose, though, while you Invaders seem to beaimless. Each of      us     helps preserve the city; you only try to rob andend it by destroying it.      My     people must be the true Men, becausethey're so much more rational than yours.... And it isn't rational tolet you escape.     Ida had turned up her tear-streaked face to stare at him.     Rational! What's rational about murdering a defenseless girl incold blood? Don't you realize we're the same sort of being, we two?Don't—don't you remember how we've been with each other all day?     She paused. Roddie noticed that her eyes were dark and frightened, yetsomehow soft, over scarlet cheeks. He had to look away. But he saidnothing.     Never mind! Ida said viciously. You can't make me beg. Go ahead andkill—see if it proves you're superior. My people will take over thecity regardless of you and me, and regardless of your jumping-jackfriends, too! Men can accomplish anything!  Scornfully she turned and looked toward the western twilight. It wasRoddie's turn to stand and stare.     Purpose! Ida flung at him over her shoulder. Logic! Women hear somuch of that from men! You're a man, all right! Men      always     call itlogic when they want to destroy! Loyalty to your own sort, kindness,affection—all emotional, aren't they? Not a bit logical. Emotion isfor creating, and it's so much more logical to destroy, isn't it?     She whirled back toward him, advancing as if she wanted to sink herteeth into his throat. Go ahead. Get it over with—if you have thecourage.     It was hard for Roddie to look away from that wrath-crimsoned face,but it was even harder to keep staring into the blaze of her eyes. Hecompromised by gazing out an opening at the gathering dusk. He thoughtfor a long time before he decided to tuck his hammer away.     It isn't reasonable to kill you now, he said. Too dark. You can'tpossibly get down that half-ruined manway tonight, so let's see how Ifeel in the morning.     Ida began to weep again, and Roddie found it necessary to comfort her.     And by morning he knew he was a Man.   ","Put simply, Roddie is Man and his friends in the story are androids. Despite growing up with them and having been brought up by Molly, Roddie is human. One clear difference is the fact that Roddie is able to tear off the limbs of his friends and repair it back together. For example, he tore off Molly’s head when her “spells” became worse, and then later tinkered it back on her head. Another example of this difference is when Ida begins to cry at the end of the story, and Roddie internally expresses that the first time he wept was the first time he noted a difference between him and his android friends, who presumably cannot emote in the same way. Similarly, they do not know pain nor fatigue, so Roddie pretends he doesn’t either. At the very end of the story, he finally accepts that he is Man. "
"What is the plot of the story? </s>     DR. KOMETEVSKY'S DAY     By FRITZ LEIBER     Illustrated by DAVID STONE     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction February 1952.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]         Before science, there was superstition. After       science, there will be ... what? The biggest,       most staggering     , most final      fact of them all!        But it's all predicted here! It even names this century for the nextreshuffling of the planets.     Celeste Wolver looked up unwillingly at the book her friend MadgeCarnap held aloft like a torch. She made out the ill-stamped title,      The Dance of the Planets     . There was no mistaking the time ofits origin; only paper from the Twentieth Century aged to thatparticularly nasty shade of brown. Indeed, the book seemed to Celestea brown old witch resurrected from the Last Age of Madness to confounda world growing sane, and she couldn't help shrinking back a trifletoward her husband Theodor.     He tried to come to her rescue. Only predicted in the vaguest way. AsI understand it, Kometevsky claimed, on the basis of a lot of evidencedrawn from folklore, that the planets and their moons trade positionsevery so often.     As if they were playing Going to Jerusalem, or musical chairs,Celeste chimed in, but she couldn't make it sound funny.     Jupiter was supposed to have started as the outermost planet, and isto end up in the orbit of Mercury, Theodor continued. Well, nothingat all like that has happened.     But it's begun, Madge said with conviction. Phobos and Deimos havedisappeared. You can't argue away that stubborn little fact.     That was the trouble; you couldn't. Mars' two tiny moons had simplyvanished during a period when, as was generally the case, the eyesof astronomy weren't on them. Just some hundred-odd cubic miles ofrock—the merest cosmic flyspecks—yet they had carried away with themthe security of a whole world.  Looking at the lovely garden landscape around her, Celeste Wolver feltthat in a moment the shrubby hills would begin to roll like waves, thecharmingly aimless paths twist like snakes and sink in the green sea,the sparsely placed skyscrapers dissolve into the misty clouds theypierced.       People must have felt like this     , she thought,      when Aristarches firsthinted and Copernicus told them that the solid Earth under their feetwas falling dizzily through space. Only it's worse for us, because theycouldn't see that anything had changed. We can.       You need something to cling to, she heard Madge say. Dr. Kometevskywas the only person who ever had an inkling that anything like thismight happen. I was never a Kometevskyite before. Hadn't even heard ofthe man.     She said it almost apologetically. In fact, standing there so frank andanxious-eyed, Madge looked anything but a fanatic, which made it muchworse.     Of course, there are several more convincing alternateexplanations.... Theodor began hesitantly, knowing very well thatthere weren't. If Phobos and Deimos had suddenly disintegrated,surely Mars Base would have noticed something. Of course there was theDisordered Space Hypothesis, even if it was little more than the chancephrase of a prominent physicist pounded upon by an eager journalist.And in any case, what sense of security were you left with if youadmitted that moons and planets might explode, or drop through unseenholes in space? So he ended up by taking a different tack: Besides, ifPhobos and Deimos simply shot off somewhere, surely they'd have beenpicked up by now by 'scope or radar.     Two balls of rock just a few miles in diameter? Madge questioned.Aren't they smaller than many of the asteroids? I'm no astronomer, butI think' I'm right.     And of course she was.     She swung the book under her arm. Whew, it's heavy, she observed,adding in slightly scandalized tones, Never been microfilmed. Shesmiled nervously and looked them up and down. Going to a party? sheasked.     Theodor's scarlet cloak and Celeste's green culottes and silver jacketjustified the question, but they shook their heads.     Just the normally flamboyant garb of the family, Celeste said,while Theodor explained, As it happens, we're bound on businessconnected with the disappearance. We Wolvers practically constitutea sub-committee of the Congress for the Discovery of New Purposes.And since a lot of varied material comes to our attention, we'regoing to see if any of it correlates with this bit of astronomicalsleight-of-hand.     Madge nodded. Give you something to do, at any rate. Well, I must beoff. The Buddhist temple has lent us their place for a meeting. Shegave them a woeful grin. See you when the Earth jumps.     Theodor said to Celeste, Come on, dear. We'll be late.     But Celeste didn't want to move too fast. You know, Teddy, she saiduncomfortably, all this reminds me of those old myths where too muchgood fortune is a sure sign of coming disaster. It was just too muchluck, our great-grandparents missing World III and getting the WorldGovernment started a thousand years ahead of schedule. Luck like thatcouldn't last, evidently. Maybe we've gone too fast with a lot ofthings, like space-flight and the Deep Shaft and— she hesitated abit—complex marriages. I'm a woman. I want complete security. Wheream I to find it?     In me, Theodor said promptly.     In you? Celeste questioned, walking slowly. But you're justone-third of my husband. Perhaps I should look for it in Edmund orIvan.     You angry with me about something?     Of course not. But a woman wants her source of security whole. In acrisis like this, it's disturbing to have it divided.     Well, we are a whole and, I believe, indivisible family, Theodortold her warmly. You're not suggesting, are you, that we're going tobe punished for our polygamous sins by a cosmic catastrophe? Fire fromHeaven and all that?     Don't be silly. I just wanted to give you a picture of my feeling.Celeste smiled. I guess none of us realized how much we've come todepend on the idea of unchanging scientific law. Knocks the props fromunder you.     Theodor nodded emphatically. All the more reason to get a line onwhat's happening as quickly as possible. You know, it's fantasticallyfar-fetched, but I think the experience of persons with Extra-SensoryPerception may give us a clue. During the past three or four daysthere's been a remarkable similarity in the dreams of ESPs all over theplanet. I'm going to present the evidence at the meeting.     Celeste looked up at him. So that's why Rosalind's bringing Frieda'sdaughter?     Dotty is your daughter, too, and Rosalind's, Theodor reminded her.     No, just Frieda's, Celeste said bitterly. Of course you may be thefather. One-third of a chance.     Theodor looked at her sharply, but didn't comment. Anyway, Dotty willbe there, he said. Probably asleep by now. All the ESPs have suddenlyseemed to need more sleep.     As they talked, it had been growing darker, though the luminescence ofthe path kept it from being bothersome. And now the cloud rack partedto the east, showing a single red planet low on the horizon.     Did you know, Theodor said suddenly, that in      Gulliver's Travels     Dean Swift predicted that better telescopes would show Mars to have twomoons? He got the sizes and distances and periods damned accurately,too. One of the few really startling coincidences of reality andliterature.     Stop being eerie, Celeste said sharply. But then she went on, Thosenames Phobos and Deimos—they're Greek, aren't they? What do they mean?     Theodor lost a step. Fear and Terror, he said unwillingly. Nowdon't go taking that for an omen. Most of the mythological names ofmajor and minor ancient gods had been taken—the bodies in the SolarSystem are named that way, of course—and these were about all thatwere available.     It was true, but it didn't comfort him much.     I am a God     , Dotty was dreaming,      and I want to be by myself andthink. I and my god-friends like to keep some of our thoughts secret,but the other gods have forbidden us to.       A little smile flickered across the lips of the sleeping girl, andthe woman in gold tights and gold-spangled jacket leaned forwardthoughtfully. In her dignity and simplicity and straight-spined grace,she was rather like a circus mother watching her sick child before shewent out for the trapeze act.       I and my god-friends sail off in our great round silver boats     , Dottywent on dreaming.      The other gods are angry and scared. They arefrightened of the thoughts we may think in secret. They follow us tohunt us down. There are many more of them than of us.    As Celeste and Theodor entered the committee room, Rosalind Wolver—aglitter of platinum against darkness—came in through the oppositedoor and softly shut it behind her. Frieda, a fair woman in blue robes,got up from the round table.     Celeste turned away with outward casualness as Theodor kissed his twoother wives. She was pleased to note that Edmund seemed impatient too.A figure in close-fitting black, unrelieved except for two red arrowsat the collar, he struck her as embodying very properly the serious,fateful temper of the moment.     He took two briefcases from his vest pocket and tossed them down on thetable beside one of the microfilm projectors.     I suggest we get started without waiting for Ivan, he said.     Frieda frowned anxiously. It's ten minutes since he phoned from theDeep Space Bar to say he was starting right away. And that's hardly atwo minutes walk.     Rosalind instantly started toward the outside door.     I'll check, she explained. Oh, Frieda, I've set the mike so you'llhear if Dotty calls.     Edmund threw up his hands. Very well, then, he said and walked over,switched on the picture and stared out moodily.     Theodor and Frieda got out their briefcases, switched on projectors,and began silently checking through their material.     Celeste fiddled with the TV and got a newscast. But she found her eyesdidn't want to absorb the blocks of print that rather swiftly succeededeach other, so, after a few moments, she shrugged impatiently andswitched to audio.     At the noise, the others looked around at her with surprise and someirritation, but in a few moments they were also listening.     The two rocket ships sent out from Mars Base to explore the orbitalpositions of Phobos and Deimos—that is, the volume of space they'd beoccupying if their positions had remained normal—report finding massesof dust and larger debris. The two masses of fine debris are movingin the same orbits and at the same velocities as the two vanishedmoons, and occupy roughly the same volumes of space, though the massof material is hardly a hundredth that of the moons. Physicists haveventured no statements as to whether this constitutes a confirmation ofthe Disintegration Hypothesis.     However, we're mighty pleased at this news here. There's a markedlessening of tension. The finding of the debris—solid, tangiblestuff—seems to lift the whole affair out of the supernatural miasma inwhich some of us have been tempted to plunge it. One-hundredth of themoons has been found.     The rest will also be!     Edmund had turned his back on the window. Frieda and Theodor hadswitched off their projectors.     Meanwhile, Earthlings are going about their business with a minimumof commotion, meeting with considerable calm the strange threat tothe fabric of their Solar System. Many, of course, are assembled inchurches and humanist temples. Kometevskyites have staged helicopterprocessions at Washington, Peking, Pretoria, and Christiana, demandingthat instant preparations be made for—and I quote—'Earth's comingleap through space.' They have also formally challenged all astronomersto produce an explanation other than the one contained in that strangebook so recently conjured from oblivion,      The Dance of the Planets     .     That about winds up the story for the present. There are no newreports from Interplanetary Radar, Astronomy, or the other rocket shipssearching in the extended Mars volume. Nor have any statements beenissued by the various groups working on the problem in Astrophysics,Cosmic Ecology, the Congress for the Discovery of New Purposes, and soforth. Meanwhile, however, we can take courage from the words of a poemwritten even before Dr. Kometevsky's book:   This Earth is not the steadfast place We landsmen build upon; From deep to deep she varies pace, And while she comes is gone. Beneath my feet I feel Her smooth bulk heave and dip; With velvet plunge and soft upreel She swings and steadies to her keel Like a gallant, gallant ship. While the TV voice intoned the poem, growing richer as emotion caughtit up, Celeste looked around her at the others. Frieda, with hertouch of feminine helplessness showing more than ever through herbusiness-like poise. Theodor leaning forward from his scarlet cloakthrown back, smiling the half-smile with which he seemed to face eventhe unknown. Black Edmund, masking a deep uncertainty with a strongshow of decisiveness.     In short, her family. She knew their every quirk and foible. And yetnow they seemed to her a million miles away, figures seen through thewrong end of a telescope.     Were they really a family? Strong sources of mutual strength andsecurity to each other? Or had they merely been playing family,experimenting with their notions of complex marriage like a bunch ofsilly adolescents? Butterflies taking advantage of good weather towing together in a glamorous, artificial dance—until outraged Naturedecided to wipe them out?     As the poem was ending, Celeste saw the door open and Rosalind comeslowly in. The Golden Woman's face was white as the paths she had beentreading.     Just then the TV voice quickened with shock. News! Lunar ObservatoryOne reports that, although Jupiter is just about to pass behind theSun, a good coronagraph of the planet has been obtained. Checked andrechecked, it admits of only one interpretation, which Lunar Onefeels duty-bound to release.      Jupiter's fourteen moons are no longervisible!          The chorus of remarks with which the Wolvers would otherwise havereceived this was checked by one thing: the fact that Rosalind seemednot to hear it. Whatever was on her mind prevented even that incrediblestatement from penetrating.     She walked shakily to the table and put down a briefcase, one end ofwhich was smudged with dirt.     Without looking at them, she said, Ivan left the Deep Space Bartwenty minutes ago, said he was coming straight here. On my way backI searched the path. Midway I found this half-buried in the dirt. Ihad to tug to get it out—almost as if it had been cemented into theground. Do you feel how the dirt seems to be      in     the leather, as ifit had lain for years in the grave?     By now the others were fingering the small case of microfilms they hadseen so many times in Ivan's competent hands. What Rosalind said wastrue. It had a gritty, unwholesome feel to it. Also, it felt strangelyheavy.     And see what's written on it, she added.     They turned it over. Scrawled with white pencil in big, hasty, franticletters were two words:     Going down!     The other gods     , Dotty dreamt,      are combing the whole Universe for us.We have escaped them many times, but now our tricks are almost used up.There are no doors going out of the Universe and our boats are silverbeacons to the hunters. So we decide to disguise them in the only waythey can be disguised. It is our last chance.    Edmund rapped the table to gain the family's attention. I'd say we'vedone everything we can for the moment to find Ivan. We've made athorough local search. A wider one, which we can't conduct personally,is in progress. All helpful agencies have been alerted and descriptionsare being broadcast. I suggest we get on with the business of theevening—which may very well be connected with Ivan's disappearance.     One by one the others nodded and took their places at the round table.Celeste made a great effort to throw off the feeling of unreality thathad engulfed her and focus attention on her microfilms.     I'll take over Ivan's notes, she heard Edmund say. They're mainlyabout the Deep Shaft.     How far have they got with that? Frieda asked idly. Twenty-fivemiles?     Nearer thirty, I believe, Edmund answered, and still going down.     At those last two words they all looked up quickly. Then their eyeswent toward Ivan's briefcase.     Our trick has succeeded     , Dotty dreamt.      The other gods have passedour hiding place a dozen times without noticing. They search theUniverse for us many times in vain. They finally decide that we havefound a door going out of the Universe. Yet they fear us all the more.They think of us as devils who will some day return through the door todestroy them. So they watch everywhere. We lie quietly smiling in ourcamouflaged boats, yet hardly daring to move or think, for fear thatthe faintest echoes of our doings will give them a clue. Hundreds ofmillions of years pass by. They seem to us no more than drugged hoursin a prison.    Theodor rubbed his eyes and pushed his chair back from the table. Weneed a break.     Frieda agreed wearily. We've gone through everything.     Good idea, Edmund said briskly. I think we've hit on several crucialpoints along the way and half disentangled them from the great mass ofinconsequential material. I'll finish up that part of the job right nowand present my case when we're all a bit fresher. Say half an hour?     Theodor nodded heavily, pushing up from his chair and hitching hiscloak over a shoulder.     I'm going out for a drink, he informed them.     After several hesitant seconds, Rosalind quietly followed him. Friedastretched out on a couch and closed her eyes. Edmund scanned microfilmstirelessly, every now and then setting one aside.     Celeste watched him for a minute, then sprang up and started toward theroom where Dotty was asleep. But midway she stopped.       Not my child     , she thought bitterly.      Frieda's her mother, Rosalindher nurse. I'm nothing at all. Just one of the husband's girl friends.A lady of uneasy virtue in a dissolving world.       But then she straightened her shoulders and went on.  Rosalind didn't catch up with Theodor. Her footsteps were silent andhe never looked back along the path whose feeble white glow rose onlyknee-high, lighting a low strip of shrub and mossy tree trunk to eitherside, no more.     It was a little chilly. She drew on her gloves, but she didn't hurry.In fact, she fell farther and farther behind the dipping tail ofhis scarlet cloak and his plodding red shoes, which seemed to movedisembodied, like those in the fairy tale.     When she reached the point where she had found Ivan's briefcase, shestopped altogether.     A breeze rustled the leaves, and, moistly brushing her cheek, broughtforest scents of rot and mold. After a bit she began to hear thefurtive scurryings and scuttlings of forest creatures.     She looked around her half-heartedly, suddenly realizing the futilityof her quest. What clues could she hope to find in this knee-hightwilight? And they'd thoroughly combed the place earlier in the night.     Without warning, an eerie tingling went through her and she was seizedby a horror of the cold, grainy Earth underfoot—an ancestral terrorfrom the days when men shivered at ghost stories about graves and tombs.     A tiny detail persisted in bulking larger and larger in her mind—theunnaturalness of the way the Earth had impregnated the corner of Ivan'sbriefcase, almost as if dirt and leather co-existed in the same space.She remembered the queer way the partly buried briefcase had resistedher first tug, like a rooted plant.     She felt cowed by the mysterious night about her, and literallydwarfed, as if she had grown several inches shorter. She roused herselfand started forward.     Something held her feet.     They were ankle-deep in the path. While she looked in fright andhorror, they began to sink still lower into the ground.     She plunged frantically, trying to jerk loose. She couldn't. She hadthe panicky feeling that the Earth had not only trapped but invadedher; that its molecules were creeping up between the molecules of herflesh; that the two were becoming one.     And she was sinking faster. Now knee-deep, thigh-deep, hip-deep,waist-deep. She beat at the powdery path with her hands and threw herbody from side to side in agonized frenzy like some sinner frozen inthe ice of the innermost circle of the ancients' hell. And always thesense of the dark, grainy tide rose inside as well as around her.     She thought,      he'd just have had time to scribble that note on hisbriefcase and toss it away.     She jerked off a glove, leaned out asfar as she could, and made a frantic effort to drive its fingers intothe powdery path. Then the Earth mounted to her chin, her nose, andcovered her eyes.     She expected blackness, but it was as if the light of the path stayedwith her, making a little glow all around. She saw roots, pebbles,black rot, worn tunnels, worms. Tier on tier of them, her visionpenetrating the solid ground. And at the same time, the knowledge thatthese same sorts of things were coursing up through her.  And still she continued to sink at a speed that increased, as if thelaw of gravitation applied to her in a diminished way. She dropped fromblack soil through gray clay and into pale limestone.       Her tortured, rock-permeated lungs sucked at rock and drew in air. Shewondered madly if a volume of air were falling with her through thestone.     A glitter of quartz. The momentary openness of a foot-high cavernwith a trickle of water. And then she was sliding down a black basaltcolumn, half inside it, half inside gold-flecked ore. Then just blackbasalt. And always faster.     It grew hot, then hotter, as if she were approaching the mythicaleternal fires.  At first glance Theodor thought the Deep Space Bar was empty. Then hesaw a figure hunched monkeylike on the last stool, almost lost in theblue shadows, while behind the bar, her crystal dress blending with thetiers of sparkling glasses, stood a grave-eyed young girl who couldhardly have been fifteen.     The TV was saying, ... in addition, a number of mysteriousdisappearances of high-rating individuals have been reported. Theseare thought to be cases of misunderstanding, illusory apprehension,and impulse traveling—a result of the unusual stresses of the time.Finally, a few suggestible individuals in various parts of the globe,especially the Indian Peninsula, have declared themselves to be 'gods'and in some way responsible for current events.     It is thought—     The girl switched off the TV and took Theodor's order, explainingcasually, Joe wanted to go to a Kometevskyite meeting, so I took overfor him. When she had prepared Theodor's highball, she announced,I'll have a drink with you gentlemen, and squeezed herself a glass ofpomegranate juice.     The monkeylike figure muttered, Scotch-and-soda, then turned towardEdmund and asked, And what is your reaction to all this, sir?  Theodor recognized the shrunken wrinkle-seamed face. It was ColonelFortescue, a military antique long retired from the Peace Patrol andreputed to have seen actual fighting in the Last Age of Madness. Now,for some reason, the face sported a knowing smile.     Theodor shrugged. Just then the TV big news light blinked blue andthe girl switched on audio. The Colonel winked at Theodor.     ... confirming the disappearance of Jupiter's moons. But two otherutterly fantastic reports have just been received. First, LunarObservatory One says that it is visually tracking fourteen small bodieswhich it believes may be the lost moons of Jupiter. They are movingoutward from the Solar System at an incredible velocity and are alreadybeyond the orbit of Saturn!     The Colonel said, Ah!     Second, Palomar reports a large number of dark bodies approaching theSolar System at an equally incredible velocity. They are at about twicethe distance of Pluto, but closing in fast! We will be on the air withfurther details as soon as possible.     The Colonel said, Ah-ha!     Theodor stared at him. The old man's self-satisfied poise was almostamusing.     Are you a Kometevskyite? Theodor asked him.     The Colonel laughed. Of course not, my boy. Those poor people arefumbling in the dark. Don't you see what's happened?     Frankly, no.     The Colonel leaned toward Theodor and whispered gruffly, The DivinePlan. God is a military strategist, naturally.     Then he lifted the scotch-and-soda in his clawlike hand and took asatisfying swallow.     I knew it all along, of course, he went on musingly, but this lastnews makes it as plain as a rocket blast, at least to anyone who knowsmilitary strategy. Look here, my boy, suppose you were commanding afleet and got wind of the enemy's approach—what would you do? Why,you'd send your scouts and destroyers fanning out toward them. Behindthat screen you'd mass your heavy ships. Then—     You don't mean to imply— Theodor interrupted.     The girl behind the bar looked at them both cryptically.     Of course I do! the Colonel cut in sharply. It's a war between theforces of good and evil. The bright suns and planets are on one side,the dark on the other. The moons are the destroyers, Jupiter andSaturn are the big battleships, while we're on a heavy cruiser, I'mproud to say. We'll probably go into action soon. Be a corking fight,what? And all by divine strategy!     He chuckled and took another big drink. Theodor looked at him sourly.The girl behind the bar polished a glass and said nothing.  Dotty suddenly began to turn and toss, and a look of terror came overher sleeping face. Celeste leaned forward apprehensively.     The child's lips worked and Celeste made out the sleepy-fuzzy words:They've found out where we're hiding. They're coming to get us. No!Please, no!     Celeste's reactions were mixed. She felt worried about Dotty and atthe same time almost in terror of her, as if the little girl were anagent of supernatural forces. She told herself that this fear was anexpression of her own hostility, yet she didn't really believe it. Shetouched the child's hand.     Dotty's eyes opened without making Celeste feel she had quite comeawake. After a bit she looked at Celeste and her little lips parted ina smile.     Hello, she said sleepily. I've been having such funny dreams. Then,after a pause, frowning, I really am a god, you know. It feels veryqueer.     Yes, dear? Celeste prompted uneasily. Shall I call Frieda?     The smile left Dotty's lips. Why do you act so nervous around me? sheasked. Don't you love me, Mummy?     Celeste started at the word. Her throat closed. Then, very slowly, herface broke into a radiant smile. Of course I do, darling. I love youvery much.     Dotty nodded happily, her eyes already closed again.     There was a sudden flurry of excited voices beyond the door. Celesteheard her name called. She stood up.     I'm going to have to go out and talk with the others, she said. Ifyou want me, dear, just call.     Yes, Mummy.  Edmund rapped for attention. Celeste, Frieda, and Theodor glancedaround at him. He looked more frightfully strained, they realized, thaneven they felt. His expression was a study in suppressed excitement,but there were also signs of a knowledge that was almost toooverpowering for a human being to bear.     His voice was clipped, rapid. I think it's about time we stoppedworrying about our own affairs and thought of those of the SolarSystem, partly because I think they have a direct bearing on thedisappearances of Ivan end Rosalind. As I told you, I've been sortingout the crucial items from the material we've been presenting. Thereare roughly four of those items, as I see it. It's rather like amystery story. I wonder if, hearing those four clues, you will come tothe same conclusion I have.     The others nodded.     First, there are the latest reports from Deep Shaft, which, asyou know, has been sunk to investigate deep-Earth conditions. Atapproximately twenty-nine miles below the surface, the delvers haveencountered a metallic obstruction which they have tentatively namedthe durasphere. It resists their hardest drills, their strongestcorrosives. They have extended a side-tunnel at that level for aquarter of a mile. Delicate measurements, made possible by themirror-smooth metal surface, show that the durasphere has a slightcurvature that is almost exactly equal to the curvature of the Earthitself. The suggestion is that deep borings made anywhere in the worldwould encounter the durasphere at the same depth.     Second, the movements of the moons of Mars and Jupiter, andparticularly the debris left behind by the moons of Mars. GrantingPhobos and Deimos had duraspheres proportional in size to that ofEarth, then the debris would roughly equal in amount the material inthose two duraspheres' rocky envelopes. The suggestion is that thetwo duraspheres suddenly burst from their envelopes with such titanicvelocity as to leave those disrupted envelopes behind.     It was deadly quiet in the committee room.     Thirdly, the disappearances of Ivan and Rosalind, and especiallythe baffling hint—from Ivan's message in one case and Rosalind'sdownward-pointing glove in the other—that they were both somehow drawninto the depths of the Earth.     Finally, the dreams of the ESPs, which agree overwhelmingly in thefollowing points: A group of beings separate themselves from a godlikeand telepathic race because they insist on maintaining a degree ofmental privacy. They flee in great boats or ships of some sort. Theyare pursued on such a scale that there is no hiding place for themanywhere in the universe. In some manner they successfully camouflagetheir ships. Eons pass and their still-fanatical pursuers do notpenetrate their secret. Then, suddenly, they are detected.     Edmund waited. Do you see what I'm driving at? he asked hoarsely.  He could tell from their looks that the others did, but couldn't bringthemselves to put it into words.     I suppose it's the time-scale and the value-scale that are so hard forus to accept, he said softly. Much more, even, than the size-scale.The thought that there are creatures in the Universe to whom the wholecareer of Man—in fact, the whole career of life—is no more than a fewthousand or hundred thousand years. And to whom Man is no more than aminor stage property—a trifling part of a clever job of camouflage.     This time he went on, Fantasy writers have at times hinted all sortsof odd things about the Earth—that it might even be a kind of singleliving creature, or honeycombed with inhabited caverns, and so on.But I don't know that any of them have ever suggested that the Earth,together with all the planets and moons of the Solar System, mightbe....     In a whisper, Frieda finished for him, ... a camouflaged fleet ofgigantic spherical spaceships.           Your guess happens to be the precise truth.          At that familiar, yet dreadly unfamiliar voice, all four of them swungtoward the inner door. Dotty was standing there, a sleep-stupefiedlittle girl with a blanket caught up around her and dragging behind.Their own daughter. But in her eyes was a look from which they cringed.     She said, I am a creature somewhat older than what your geologistscall the Archeozoic Era. I am speaking to you through a number oftelepathically sensitive individuals among your kind. In each case mythoughts suit themselves to your level of comprehension. I inhabit thedisguised and jetless spaceship which is your Earth.     Celeste swayed a step forward. Baby.... she implored.     Dotty went on, without giving her a glance, It is true that we plantedthe seeds of life on some of these planets simply as part of ourcamouflage, just as we gave them a suitable environment for each. Andit is true that now we must let most of that life be destroyed. Ourhiding place has been discovered, our pursuers are upon us, and we mustmake one last effort to escape or do battle, since we firmly believethat the principle of mental privacy to which we have devoted ourexistence is perhaps the greatest good in the whole Universe.     But it is not true that we look with contempt upon you. Our whole raceis deeply devoted to life, wherever it may come into being, and it isour rule never to interfere with its development. That was one ofthe reasons we made life a part of our camouflage—it would make ourpursuers reluctant to examine these planets too closely.     Yes, we have always cherished you and watched your evolution withinterest from our hidden lairs. We may even unconsciously have shapedyour development in certain ways, trying constantly to educate you awayfrom war and finally succeeding—which may have given the betrayingclue to our pursuers.     Your planets must be burst asunder—this particular planet in thearea of the Pacific—so that we may have our last chance to escape.Even if we did not move, our pursuers would destroy you with us. Wecannot invite you inside our ships—not for lack of space, but becauseyou could never survive the vast accelerations to which you would besubjected. You would, you see, need very special accommodations, ofwhich we have enough only for a few.     Those few we will take with us, as the seed from which a new humanrace may—if we ourselves somehow survive—be born.  Rosalind and Ivan stared dumbly at each other across the egg-shapedsilver room, without apparent entrance or exit, in which they weresprawled. But their thoughts were no longer of thirty-odd milejourneys down through solid earth, or of how cool it was after theheat of the passage, or of how grotesque it was to be trapped here,the fragment of a marriage. They were both listening to the voice thatspoke inside their minds.     In a few minutes your bodies will be separated into layers one atomthick, capable of being shelved or stored in such a way as to endurealmost infinite accelerations. Single cells will cover acres of space.But do not be alarmed. The process will be painless and each particlewill be catalogued for future assembly. Your consciousness will endurethroughout the process.     Rosalind looked at her gold-shod toes. She was wondering,      will they gofirst, or my head? Or will I be peeled like an apple?       She looked at Ivan and knew he was thinking the same thing.  Up in the committee room, the other Wolvers slumped around the table.Only little Dotty sat straight and staring, speechless and unanswering,quite beyond their reach, like a telephone off the hook and with theconnection open, but no voice from the other end.     They had just switched off the TV after listening to a confusedmedley of denials, prayers, Kometevskyite chatterings, and a fewastonishingly realistic comments on the possibility of survival.     These last pointed out that, on the side of the Earth opposite thePacific, the convulsions would come slowly when the entombed spaceshipburst forth—provided, as seemed the case, that it moved without jetsor reaction.     It would be as if the Earth's vast core simply vanished. Gravity woulddiminish abruptly to a fraction of its former value. The empty envelopeof rock and water and air would slowly fall together, though at thesame time the air would begin to escape from the debris because therewould no longer be the mass required to hold it.     However, there might be definite chances of temporary and evenprolonged survival for individuals in strong, hermetically sealedstructures, such as submarines and spaceships. The few spaceships onEarth were reported to have blasted off, or be preparing to leave, withas many passengers as could be carried.     But most persons, apparently, could not contemplate action of any sort.They could only sit and think, like the Wolvers.     A faint smile relaxed Celeste's face. She was thinking,      how beautiful!It means the death of the Solar System, which is a horrifyingsubjective concept. Objectively, though, it would be a more awesomesight than any human being has ever seen or ever could see. It's anabsurd and even brutal thing to wish—but I wish I could see the wholecataclysm from beginning to end. It would make death seem very small, atiny personal event.       Dotty's face was losing its blank expression, becoming intent andalarmed.     We are in contact with our pursuers, she said in thefamiliar-unfamiliar voice. Negotiations are now going on. Thereseems to be—there      is     a change in them. Where they were harsh andvindictive before, they now are gentle and conciliatory. She paused,the alarm on her childish features pinching into anxious uncertainty.Our pursuers have always been shrewd. The change in them may be false,intended merely to lull us into allowing them to come close enough todestroy us. We must not fall into the trap by growing hopeful....     They leaned forward, clutching hands, watching the little face asthough it were a television screen. Celeste had the wild feeling thatshe was listening to a communique from a war so unthinkably vast andviolent, between opponents so astronomically huge and nearly immortal,that she felt like no more than a reasoning ameba ... and then realizedwith an explosive urge to laugh that that was exactly the situation.     No! said Dotty. Her eyes began to glow. They      have     changed! Duringthe eons in which we lay sealed away and hidden from them, knowingnothing of them, they have rebelled against the tyranny of a communalmind to which no thoughts are private ... the tyranny that we ourselvesfled to escape. They come not to destroy us, but to welcome us back toa society that we and they can make truly great!  Frieda collapsed to a chair, trembling between laughter and hystericalweeping. Theodor looked as blank as Dotty had while waiting for wordsto speak. Edmund sprang to the picture window, Celeste toward the TVset.     Climbing shakily out of the chair, Frieda stumbled to the picturewindow and peered out beside Edmund. She saw lights bobbing along thepaths with a wild excitement.     On the TV screen, Celeste watched two brightly lit ships spinning inthe sky—whether human spaceships or Phobos and Deimos come to helpEarth rejoice, she couldn't tell.     Dotty spoke again, the joy in her strange voice forcing them to turn.And you, dear children, creatures of our camouflage, we welcomeyou—whatever your future career on these planets or like ones—intothe society of enlightened worlds! You need not feel small and aloneand helpless ever again, for we shall always be with you!     The outer door opened. Ivan and Rosalind reeled in, drunkenly smiling,arm in arm.     Like rockets, Rosalind blurted happily. We came through thedurasphere and solid rock ... shot up right to the surface.     They didn't have to take us along, Ivan added with a bleary grin.But you know that already, don't you? They're too good to let you livein fear, so they must have told you by now.     Yes, we know, said Theodor. They must be almost godlike in theirgoodness. I feel ... calm.     Edmund nodded soberly. Calmer than I ever felt before. It's knowing, Isuppose, that—well, we're not alone.     Dotty blinked and looked around and smiled at them all with a whollylittle-girl smile.     Oh, Mummy, she said, and it was impossible to tell whether she spoketo Frieda or Rosalind or Celeste, I've just had the funniest dream.     No, darling, said Rosalind gently, it's we who had the dream. We'vejust awakened.  ","The story is set in the future where Mars’ two moons Phobos and Deimos unexpectedly vanished, space travel exists, and monogamous marriages are lawful. Celeste Wolver talks to her friend Madge Carnap, who claims that the old book The Dance of The Planets predicted the moons’ disappearance. Wolver’s husband, one of the three ones she has, Theodor tries to explain that the book predicts only some events, but he and Celeste soon understand they don’t have strong arguments. Then Celeste and Theodor leave for a meeting regarding the recent events. While walking there, she shares her worries with him. Theodor says ESPs around the world have similar dreams. So, Rosalind, one of his wives, will bring their daughter Dotty to the meeting. Celeste, Rosalind, Frieda, Theodor, and Edmund were waiting only for the third husband, Ivan. Rosalind leaves to look for him, and the others start the meeting. They listen to recent news recordings: Mars’ moons disappeared; Kometevskyites - people that believe in the theory of The Dance of The Planets - demand some government's action. The news anchorman declares that Jupiter’s fourteen moons are not visible anymore. Rosalind comes back and says she only found Ivan’s briefcase covered in mud, with the phrase ""Going down” hastily written on it. They alert local agencies and talk about the project - Deep Shaft - Ivan was studying. The family splits up for a thirty-minute break, and Rosalind goes to where she found the briefcase. There the woman soon starts sinking into the ground. Rosalind realizes what happened to Ivan and leaves a glove pointing down as a sign; soon, her body is underground, and she keeps moving down mud and soil. Theodor, who went to the bar for the break, meets a colonel who tells him that there is a war between good and evil, and the planets are battleships controlled by divine power. The stories of these characters get interrupted by small extracts from Dotty’s dreams, where she calls herself a god, and says she and her friends have been found by their enemies and need to flee. Dotty wakes up and tells Celeste she is a god. Celeste goes back to everybody, and Edmund lists all the known facts. He says Deep Shaft found a metallic durasphere inside the Earth and proposes that other moons had it too. Ivan and Rosalind are drawn into the depth of the Earth, and in their dreams, all ESPs say they will leave in some great boats. Everybody understands that their planet is a camouflaged spaceship. Suddenly, Dotty says in an unfamiliar voice that their assumption is correct. The creature uses Dotty to tell them people were part of the camouflage they needed to hide from the enemies who don’t support mental privacy. Now they have to leave and can take only a few people. Suddenly, the creature says that their enemies changed, and now they don’t need to hide or destroy the planet. Rosalind and Ivan return."
"What is the significance of the principle of mental privacy? </s>     DR. KOMETEVSKY'S DAY     By FRITZ LEIBER     Illustrated by DAVID STONE     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction February 1952.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]         Before science, there was superstition. After       science, there will be ... what? The biggest,       most staggering     , most final      fact of them all!        But it's all predicted here! It even names this century for the nextreshuffling of the planets.     Celeste Wolver looked up unwillingly at the book her friend MadgeCarnap held aloft like a torch. She made out the ill-stamped title,      The Dance of the Planets     . There was no mistaking the time ofits origin; only paper from the Twentieth Century aged to thatparticularly nasty shade of brown. Indeed, the book seemed to Celestea brown old witch resurrected from the Last Age of Madness to confounda world growing sane, and she couldn't help shrinking back a trifletoward her husband Theodor.     He tried to come to her rescue. Only predicted in the vaguest way. AsI understand it, Kometevsky claimed, on the basis of a lot of evidencedrawn from folklore, that the planets and their moons trade positionsevery so often.     As if they were playing Going to Jerusalem, or musical chairs,Celeste chimed in, but she couldn't make it sound funny.     Jupiter was supposed to have started as the outermost planet, and isto end up in the orbit of Mercury, Theodor continued. Well, nothingat all like that has happened.     But it's begun, Madge said with conviction. Phobos and Deimos havedisappeared. You can't argue away that stubborn little fact.     That was the trouble; you couldn't. Mars' two tiny moons had simplyvanished during a period when, as was generally the case, the eyesof astronomy weren't on them. Just some hundred-odd cubic miles ofrock—the merest cosmic flyspecks—yet they had carried away with themthe security of a whole world.  Looking at the lovely garden landscape around her, Celeste Wolver feltthat in a moment the shrubby hills would begin to roll like waves, thecharmingly aimless paths twist like snakes and sink in the green sea,the sparsely placed skyscrapers dissolve into the misty clouds theypierced.       People must have felt like this     , she thought,      when Aristarches firsthinted and Copernicus told them that the solid Earth under their feetwas falling dizzily through space. Only it's worse for us, because theycouldn't see that anything had changed. We can.       You need something to cling to, she heard Madge say. Dr. Kometevskywas the only person who ever had an inkling that anything like thismight happen. I was never a Kometevskyite before. Hadn't even heard ofthe man.     She said it almost apologetically. In fact, standing there so frank andanxious-eyed, Madge looked anything but a fanatic, which made it muchworse.     Of course, there are several more convincing alternateexplanations.... Theodor began hesitantly, knowing very well thatthere weren't. If Phobos and Deimos had suddenly disintegrated,surely Mars Base would have noticed something. Of course there was theDisordered Space Hypothesis, even if it was little more than the chancephrase of a prominent physicist pounded upon by an eager journalist.And in any case, what sense of security were you left with if youadmitted that moons and planets might explode, or drop through unseenholes in space? So he ended up by taking a different tack: Besides, ifPhobos and Deimos simply shot off somewhere, surely they'd have beenpicked up by now by 'scope or radar.     Two balls of rock just a few miles in diameter? Madge questioned.Aren't they smaller than many of the asteroids? I'm no astronomer, butI think' I'm right.     And of course she was.     She swung the book under her arm. Whew, it's heavy, she observed,adding in slightly scandalized tones, Never been microfilmed. Shesmiled nervously and looked them up and down. Going to a party? sheasked.     Theodor's scarlet cloak and Celeste's green culottes and silver jacketjustified the question, but they shook their heads.     Just the normally flamboyant garb of the family, Celeste said,while Theodor explained, As it happens, we're bound on businessconnected with the disappearance. We Wolvers practically constitutea sub-committee of the Congress for the Discovery of New Purposes.And since a lot of varied material comes to our attention, we'regoing to see if any of it correlates with this bit of astronomicalsleight-of-hand.     Madge nodded. Give you something to do, at any rate. Well, I must beoff. The Buddhist temple has lent us their place for a meeting. Shegave them a woeful grin. See you when the Earth jumps.     Theodor said to Celeste, Come on, dear. We'll be late.     But Celeste didn't want to move too fast. You know, Teddy, she saiduncomfortably, all this reminds me of those old myths where too muchgood fortune is a sure sign of coming disaster. It was just too muchluck, our great-grandparents missing World III and getting the WorldGovernment started a thousand years ahead of schedule. Luck like thatcouldn't last, evidently. Maybe we've gone too fast with a lot ofthings, like space-flight and the Deep Shaft and— she hesitated abit—complex marriages. I'm a woman. I want complete security. Wheream I to find it?     In me, Theodor said promptly.     In you? Celeste questioned, walking slowly. But you're justone-third of my husband. Perhaps I should look for it in Edmund orIvan.     You angry with me about something?     Of course not. But a woman wants her source of security whole. In acrisis like this, it's disturbing to have it divided.     Well, we are a whole and, I believe, indivisible family, Theodortold her warmly. You're not suggesting, are you, that we're going tobe punished for our polygamous sins by a cosmic catastrophe? Fire fromHeaven and all that?     Don't be silly. I just wanted to give you a picture of my feeling.Celeste smiled. I guess none of us realized how much we've come todepend on the idea of unchanging scientific law. Knocks the props fromunder you.     Theodor nodded emphatically. All the more reason to get a line onwhat's happening as quickly as possible. You know, it's fantasticallyfar-fetched, but I think the experience of persons with Extra-SensoryPerception may give us a clue. During the past three or four daysthere's been a remarkable similarity in the dreams of ESPs all over theplanet. I'm going to present the evidence at the meeting.     Celeste looked up at him. So that's why Rosalind's bringing Frieda'sdaughter?     Dotty is your daughter, too, and Rosalind's, Theodor reminded her.     No, just Frieda's, Celeste said bitterly. Of course you may be thefather. One-third of a chance.     Theodor looked at her sharply, but didn't comment. Anyway, Dotty willbe there, he said. Probably asleep by now. All the ESPs have suddenlyseemed to need more sleep.     As they talked, it had been growing darker, though the luminescence ofthe path kept it from being bothersome. And now the cloud rack partedto the east, showing a single red planet low on the horizon.     Did you know, Theodor said suddenly, that in      Gulliver's Travels     Dean Swift predicted that better telescopes would show Mars to have twomoons? He got the sizes and distances and periods damned accurately,too. One of the few really startling coincidences of reality andliterature.     Stop being eerie, Celeste said sharply. But then she went on, Thosenames Phobos and Deimos—they're Greek, aren't they? What do they mean?     Theodor lost a step. Fear and Terror, he said unwillingly. Nowdon't go taking that for an omen. Most of the mythological names ofmajor and minor ancient gods had been taken—the bodies in the SolarSystem are named that way, of course—and these were about all thatwere available.     It was true, but it didn't comfort him much.     I am a God     , Dotty was dreaming,      and I want to be by myself andthink. I and my god-friends like to keep some of our thoughts secret,but the other gods have forbidden us to.       A little smile flickered across the lips of the sleeping girl, andthe woman in gold tights and gold-spangled jacket leaned forwardthoughtfully. In her dignity and simplicity and straight-spined grace,she was rather like a circus mother watching her sick child before shewent out for the trapeze act.       I and my god-friends sail off in our great round silver boats     , Dottywent on dreaming.      The other gods are angry and scared. They arefrightened of the thoughts we may think in secret. They follow us tohunt us down. There are many more of them than of us.    As Celeste and Theodor entered the committee room, Rosalind Wolver—aglitter of platinum against darkness—came in through the oppositedoor and softly shut it behind her. Frieda, a fair woman in blue robes,got up from the round table.     Celeste turned away with outward casualness as Theodor kissed his twoother wives. She was pleased to note that Edmund seemed impatient too.A figure in close-fitting black, unrelieved except for two red arrowsat the collar, he struck her as embodying very properly the serious,fateful temper of the moment.     He took two briefcases from his vest pocket and tossed them down on thetable beside one of the microfilm projectors.     I suggest we get started without waiting for Ivan, he said.     Frieda frowned anxiously. It's ten minutes since he phoned from theDeep Space Bar to say he was starting right away. And that's hardly atwo minutes walk.     Rosalind instantly started toward the outside door.     I'll check, she explained. Oh, Frieda, I've set the mike so you'llhear if Dotty calls.     Edmund threw up his hands. Very well, then, he said and walked over,switched on the picture and stared out moodily.     Theodor and Frieda got out their briefcases, switched on projectors,and began silently checking through their material.     Celeste fiddled with the TV and got a newscast. But she found her eyesdidn't want to absorb the blocks of print that rather swiftly succeededeach other, so, after a few moments, she shrugged impatiently andswitched to audio.     At the noise, the others looked around at her with surprise and someirritation, but in a few moments they were also listening.     The two rocket ships sent out from Mars Base to explore the orbitalpositions of Phobos and Deimos—that is, the volume of space they'd beoccupying if their positions had remained normal—report finding massesof dust and larger debris. The two masses of fine debris are movingin the same orbits and at the same velocities as the two vanishedmoons, and occupy roughly the same volumes of space, though the massof material is hardly a hundredth that of the moons. Physicists haveventured no statements as to whether this constitutes a confirmation ofthe Disintegration Hypothesis.     However, we're mighty pleased at this news here. There's a markedlessening of tension. The finding of the debris—solid, tangiblestuff—seems to lift the whole affair out of the supernatural miasma inwhich some of us have been tempted to plunge it. One-hundredth of themoons has been found.     The rest will also be!     Edmund had turned his back on the window. Frieda and Theodor hadswitched off their projectors.     Meanwhile, Earthlings are going about their business with a minimumof commotion, meeting with considerable calm the strange threat tothe fabric of their Solar System. Many, of course, are assembled inchurches and humanist temples. Kometevskyites have staged helicopterprocessions at Washington, Peking, Pretoria, and Christiana, demandingthat instant preparations be made for—and I quote—'Earth's comingleap through space.' They have also formally challenged all astronomersto produce an explanation other than the one contained in that strangebook so recently conjured from oblivion,      The Dance of the Planets     .     That about winds up the story for the present. There are no newreports from Interplanetary Radar, Astronomy, or the other rocket shipssearching in the extended Mars volume. Nor have any statements beenissued by the various groups working on the problem in Astrophysics,Cosmic Ecology, the Congress for the Discovery of New Purposes, and soforth. Meanwhile, however, we can take courage from the words of a poemwritten even before Dr. Kometevsky's book:   This Earth is not the steadfast place We landsmen build upon; From deep to deep she varies pace, And while she comes is gone. Beneath my feet I feel Her smooth bulk heave and dip; With velvet plunge and soft upreel She swings and steadies to her keel Like a gallant, gallant ship. While the TV voice intoned the poem, growing richer as emotion caughtit up, Celeste looked around her at the others. Frieda, with hertouch of feminine helplessness showing more than ever through herbusiness-like poise. Theodor leaning forward from his scarlet cloakthrown back, smiling the half-smile with which he seemed to face eventhe unknown. Black Edmund, masking a deep uncertainty with a strongshow of decisiveness.     In short, her family. She knew their every quirk and foible. And yetnow they seemed to her a million miles away, figures seen through thewrong end of a telescope.     Were they really a family? Strong sources of mutual strength andsecurity to each other? Or had they merely been playing family,experimenting with their notions of complex marriage like a bunch ofsilly adolescents? Butterflies taking advantage of good weather towing together in a glamorous, artificial dance—until outraged Naturedecided to wipe them out?     As the poem was ending, Celeste saw the door open and Rosalind comeslowly in. The Golden Woman's face was white as the paths she had beentreading.     Just then the TV voice quickened with shock. News! Lunar ObservatoryOne reports that, although Jupiter is just about to pass behind theSun, a good coronagraph of the planet has been obtained. Checked andrechecked, it admits of only one interpretation, which Lunar Onefeels duty-bound to release.      Jupiter's fourteen moons are no longervisible!          The chorus of remarks with which the Wolvers would otherwise havereceived this was checked by one thing: the fact that Rosalind seemednot to hear it. Whatever was on her mind prevented even that incrediblestatement from penetrating.     She walked shakily to the table and put down a briefcase, one end ofwhich was smudged with dirt.     Without looking at them, she said, Ivan left the Deep Space Bartwenty minutes ago, said he was coming straight here. On my way backI searched the path. Midway I found this half-buried in the dirt. Ihad to tug to get it out—almost as if it had been cemented into theground. Do you feel how the dirt seems to be      in     the leather, as ifit had lain for years in the grave?     By now the others were fingering the small case of microfilms they hadseen so many times in Ivan's competent hands. What Rosalind said wastrue. It had a gritty, unwholesome feel to it. Also, it felt strangelyheavy.     And see what's written on it, she added.     They turned it over. Scrawled with white pencil in big, hasty, franticletters were two words:     Going down!     The other gods     , Dotty dreamt,      are combing the whole Universe for us.We have escaped them many times, but now our tricks are almost used up.There are no doors going out of the Universe and our boats are silverbeacons to the hunters. So we decide to disguise them in the only waythey can be disguised. It is our last chance.    Edmund rapped the table to gain the family's attention. I'd say we'vedone everything we can for the moment to find Ivan. We've made athorough local search. A wider one, which we can't conduct personally,is in progress. All helpful agencies have been alerted and descriptionsare being broadcast. I suggest we get on with the business of theevening—which may very well be connected with Ivan's disappearance.     One by one the others nodded and took their places at the round table.Celeste made a great effort to throw off the feeling of unreality thathad engulfed her and focus attention on her microfilms.     I'll take over Ivan's notes, she heard Edmund say. They're mainlyabout the Deep Shaft.     How far have they got with that? Frieda asked idly. Twenty-fivemiles?     Nearer thirty, I believe, Edmund answered, and still going down.     At those last two words they all looked up quickly. Then their eyeswent toward Ivan's briefcase.     Our trick has succeeded     , Dotty dreamt.      The other gods have passedour hiding place a dozen times without noticing. They search theUniverse for us many times in vain. They finally decide that we havefound a door going out of the Universe. Yet they fear us all the more.They think of us as devils who will some day return through the door todestroy them. So they watch everywhere. We lie quietly smiling in ourcamouflaged boats, yet hardly daring to move or think, for fear thatthe faintest echoes of our doings will give them a clue. Hundreds ofmillions of years pass by. They seem to us no more than drugged hoursin a prison.    Theodor rubbed his eyes and pushed his chair back from the table. Weneed a break.     Frieda agreed wearily. We've gone through everything.     Good idea, Edmund said briskly. I think we've hit on several crucialpoints along the way and half disentangled them from the great mass ofinconsequential material. I'll finish up that part of the job right nowand present my case when we're all a bit fresher. Say half an hour?     Theodor nodded heavily, pushing up from his chair and hitching hiscloak over a shoulder.     I'm going out for a drink, he informed them.     After several hesitant seconds, Rosalind quietly followed him. Friedastretched out on a couch and closed her eyes. Edmund scanned microfilmstirelessly, every now and then setting one aside.     Celeste watched him for a minute, then sprang up and started toward theroom where Dotty was asleep. But midway she stopped.       Not my child     , she thought bitterly.      Frieda's her mother, Rosalindher nurse. I'm nothing at all. Just one of the husband's girl friends.A lady of uneasy virtue in a dissolving world.       But then she straightened her shoulders and went on.  Rosalind didn't catch up with Theodor. Her footsteps were silent andhe never looked back along the path whose feeble white glow rose onlyknee-high, lighting a low strip of shrub and mossy tree trunk to eitherside, no more.     It was a little chilly. She drew on her gloves, but she didn't hurry.In fact, she fell farther and farther behind the dipping tail ofhis scarlet cloak and his plodding red shoes, which seemed to movedisembodied, like those in the fairy tale.     When she reached the point where she had found Ivan's briefcase, shestopped altogether.     A breeze rustled the leaves, and, moistly brushing her cheek, broughtforest scents of rot and mold. After a bit she began to hear thefurtive scurryings and scuttlings of forest creatures.     She looked around her half-heartedly, suddenly realizing the futilityof her quest. What clues could she hope to find in this knee-hightwilight? And they'd thoroughly combed the place earlier in the night.     Without warning, an eerie tingling went through her and she was seizedby a horror of the cold, grainy Earth underfoot—an ancestral terrorfrom the days when men shivered at ghost stories about graves and tombs.     A tiny detail persisted in bulking larger and larger in her mind—theunnaturalness of the way the Earth had impregnated the corner of Ivan'sbriefcase, almost as if dirt and leather co-existed in the same space.She remembered the queer way the partly buried briefcase had resistedher first tug, like a rooted plant.     She felt cowed by the mysterious night about her, and literallydwarfed, as if she had grown several inches shorter. She roused herselfand started forward.     Something held her feet.     They were ankle-deep in the path. While she looked in fright andhorror, they began to sink still lower into the ground.     She plunged frantically, trying to jerk loose. She couldn't. She hadthe panicky feeling that the Earth had not only trapped but invadedher; that its molecules were creeping up between the molecules of herflesh; that the two were becoming one.     And she was sinking faster. Now knee-deep, thigh-deep, hip-deep,waist-deep. She beat at the powdery path with her hands and threw herbody from side to side in agonized frenzy like some sinner frozen inthe ice of the innermost circle of the ancients' hell. And always thesense of the dark, grainy tide rose inside as well as around her.     She thought,      he'd just have had time to scribble that note on hisbriefcase and toss it away.     She jerked off a glove, leaned out asfar as she could, and made a frantic effort to drive its fingers intothe powdery path. Then the Earth mounted to her chin, her nose, andcovered her eyes.     She expected blackness, but it was as if the light of the path stayedwith her, making a little glow all around. She saw roots, pebbles,black rot, worn tunnels, worms. Tier on tier of them, her visionpenetrating the solid ground. And at the same time, the knowledge thatthese same sorts of things were coursing up through her.  And still she continued to sink at a speed that increased, as if thelaw of gravitation applied to her in a diminished way. She dropped fromblack soil through gray clay and into pale limestone.       Her tortured, rock-permeated lungs sucked at rock and drew in air. Shewondered madly if a volume of air were falling with her through thestone.     A glitter of quartz. The momentary openness of a foot-high cavernwith a trickle of water. And then she was sliding down a black basaltcolumn, half inside it, half inside gold-flecked ore. Then just blackbasalt. And always faster.     It grew hot, then hotter, as if she were approaching the mythicaleternal fires.  At first glance Theodor thought the Deep Space Bar was empty. Then hesaw a figure hunched monkeylike on the last stool, almost lost in theblue shadows, while behind the bar, her crystal dress blending with thetiers of sparkling glasses, stood a grave-eyed young girl who couldhardly have been fifteen.     The TV was saying, ... in addition, a number of mysteriousdisappearances of high-rating individuals have been reported. Theseare thought to be cases of misunderstanding, illusory apprehension,and impulse traveling—a result of the unusual stresses of the time.Finally, a few suggestible individuals in various parts of the globe,especially the Indian Peninsula, have declared themselves to be 'gods'and in some way responsible for current events.     It is thought—     The girl switched off the TV and took Theodor's order, explainingcasually, Joe wanted to go to a Kometevskyite meeting, so I took overfor him. When she had prepared Theodor's highball, she announced,I'll have a drink with you gentlemen, and squeezed herself a glass ofpomegranate juice.     The monkeylike figure muttered, Scotch-and-soda, then turned towardEdmund and asked, And what is your reaction to all this, sir?  Theodor recognized the shrunken wrinkle-seamed face. It was ColonelFortescue, a military antique long retired from the Peace Patrol andreputed to have seen actual fighting in the Last Age of Madness. Now,for some reason, the face sported a knowing smile.     Theodor shrugged. Just then the TV big news light blinked blue andthe girl switched on audio. The Colonel winked at Theodor.     ... confirming the disappearance of Jupiter's moons. But two otherutterly fantastic reports have just been received. First, LunarObservatory One says that it is visually tracking fourteen small bodieswhich it believes may be the lost moons of Jupiter. They are movingoutward from the Solar System at an incredible velocity and are alreadybeyond the orbit of Saturn!     The Colonel said, Ah!     Second, Palomar reports a large number of dark bodies approaching theSolar System at an equally incredible velocity. They are at about twicethe distance of Pluto, but closing in fast! We will be on the air withfurther details as soon as possible.     The Colonel said, Ah-ha!     Theodor stared at him. The old man's self-satisfied poise was almostamusing.     Are you a Kometevskyite? Theodor asked him.     The Colonel laughed. Of course not, my boy. Those poor people arefumbling in the dark. Don't you see what's happened?     Frankly, no.     The Colonel leaned toward Theodor and whispered gruffly, The DivinePlan. God is a military strategist, naturally.     Then he lifted the scotch-and-soda in his clawlike hand and took asatisfying swallow.     I knew it all along, of course, he went on musingly, but this lastnews makes it as plain as a rocket blast, at least to anyone who knowsmilitary strategy. Look here, my boy, suppose you were commanding afleet and got wind of the enemy's approach—what would you do? Why,you'd send your scouts and destroyers fanning out toward them. Behindthat screen you'd mass your heavy ships. Then—     You don't mean to imply— Theodor interrupted.     The girl behind the bar looked at them both cryptically.     Of course I do! the Colonel cut in sharply. It's a war between theforces of good and evil. The bright suns and planets are on one side,the dark on the other. The moons are the destroyers, Jupiter andSaturn are the big battleships, while we're on a heavy cruiser, I'mproud to say. We'll probably go into action soon. Be a corking fight,what? And all by divine strategy!     He chuckled and took another big drink. Theodor looked at him sourly.The girl behind the bar polished a glass and said nothing.  Dotty suddenly began to turn and toss, and a look of terror came overher sleeping face. Celeste leaned forward apprehensively.     The child's lips worked and Celeste made out the sleepy-fuzzy words:They've found out where we're hiding. They're coming to get us. No!Please, no!     Celeste's reactions were mixed. She felt worried about Dotty and atthe same time almost in terror of her, as if the little girl were anagent of supernatural forces. She told herself that this fear was anexpression of her own hostility, yet she didn't really believe it. Shetouched the child's hand.     Dotty's eyes opened without making Celeste feel she had quite comeawake. After a bit she looked at Celeste and her little lips parted ina smile.     Hello, she said sleepily. I've been having such funny dreams. Then,after a pause, frowning, I really am a god, you know. It feels veryqueer.     Yes, dear? Celeste prompted uneasily. Shall I call Frieda?     The smile left Dotty's lips. Why do you act so nervous around me? sheasked. Don't you love me, Mummy?     Celeste started at the word. Her throat closed. Then, very slowly, herface broke into a radiant smile. Of course I do, darling. I love youvery much.     Dotty nodded happily, her eyes already closed again.     There was a sudden flurry of excited voices beyond the door. Celesteheard her name called. She stood up.     I'm going to have to go out and talk with the others, she said. Ifyou want me, dear, just call.     Yes, Mummy.  Edmund rapped for attention. Celeste, Frieda, and Theodor glancedaround at him. He looked more frightfully strained, they realized, thaneven they felt. His expression was a study in suppressed excitement,but there were also signs of a knowledge that was almost toooverpowering for a human being to bear.     His voice was clipped, rapid. I think it's about time we stoppedworrying about our own affairs and thought of those of the SolarSystem, partly because I think they have a direct bearing on thedisappearances of Ivan end Rosalind. As I told you, I've been sortingout the crucial items from the material we've been presenting. Thereare roughly four of those items, as I see it. It's rather like amystery story. I wonder if, hearing those four clues, you will come tothe same conclusion I have.     The others nodded.     First, there are the latest reports from Deep Shaft, which, asyou know, has been sunk to investigate deep-Earth conditions. Atapproximately twenty-nine miles below the surface, the delvers haveencountered a metallic obstruction which they have tentatively namedthe durasphere. It resists their hardest drills, their strongestcorrosives. They have extended a side-tunnel at that level for aquarter of a mile. Delicate measurements, made possible by themirror-smooth metal surface, show that the durasphere has a slightcurvature that is almost exactly equal to the curvature of the Earthitself. The suggestion is that deep borings made anywhere in the worldwould encounter the durasphere at the same depth.     Second, the movements of the moons of Mars and Jupiter, andparticularly the debris left behind by the moons of Mars. GrantingPhobos and Deimos had duraspheres proportional in size to that ofEarth, then the debris would roughly equal in amount the material inthose two duraspheres' rocky envelopes. The suggestion is that thetwo duraspheres suddenly burst from their envelopes with such titanicvelocity as to leave those disrupted envelopes behind.     It was deadly quiet in the committee room.     Thirdly, the disappearances of Ivan and Rosalind, and especiallythe baffling hint—from Ivan's message in one case and Rosalind'sdownward-pointing glove in the other—that they were both somehow drawninto the depths of the Earth.     Finally, the dreams of the ESPs, which agree overwhelmingly in thefollowing points: A group of beings separate themselves from a godlikeand telepathic race because they insist on maintaining a degree ofmental privacy. They flee in great boats or ships of some sort. Theyare pursued on such a scale that there is no hiding place for themanywhere in the universe. In some manner they successfully camouflagetheir ships. Eons pass and their still-fanatical pursuers do notpenetrate their secret. Then, suddenly, they are detected.     Edmund waited. Do you see what I'm driving at? he asked hoarsely.  He could tell from their looks that the others did, but couldn't bringthemselves to put it into words.     I suppose it's the time-scale and the value-scale that are so hard forus to accept, he said softly. Much more, even, than the size-scale.The thought that there are creatures in the Universe to whom the wholecareer of Man—in fact, the whole career of life—is no more than a fewthousand or hundred thousand years. And to whom Man is no more than aminor stage property—a trifling part of a clever job of camouflage.     This time he went on, Fantasy writers have at times hinted all sortsof odd things about the Earth—that it might even be a kind of singleliving creature, or honeycombed with inhabited caverns, and so on.But I don't know that any of them have ever suggested that the Earth,together with all the planets and moons of the Solar System, mightbe....     In a whisper, Frieda finished for him, ... a camouflaged fleet ofgigantic spherical spaceships.           Your guess happens to be the precise truth.          At that familiar, yet dreadly unfamiliar voice, all four of them swungtoward the inner door. Dotty was standing there, a sleep-stupefiedlittle girl with a blanket caught up around her and dragging behind.Their own daughter. But in her eyes was a look from which they cringed.     She said, I am a creature somewhat older than what your geologistscall the Archeozoic Era. I am speaking to you through a number oftelepathically sensitive individuals among your kind. In each case mythoughts suit themselves to your level of comprehension. I inhabit thedisguised and jetless spaceship which is your Earth.     Celeste swayed a step forward. Baby.... she implored.     Dotty went on, without giving her a glance, It is true that we plantedthe seeds of life on some of these planets simply as part of ourcamouflage, just as we gave them a suitable environment for each. Andit is true that now we must let most of that life be destroyed. Ourhiding place has been discovered, our pursuers are upon us, and we mustmake one last effort to escape or do battle, since we firmly believethat the principle of mental privacy to which we have devoted ourexistence is perhaps the greatest good in the whole Universe.     But it is not true that we look with contempt upon you. Our whole raceis deeply devoted to life, wherever it may come into being, and it isour rule never to interfere with its development. That was one ofthe reasons we made life a part of our camouflage—it would make ourpursuers reluctant to examine these planets too closely.     Yes, we have always cherished you and watched your evolution withinterest from our hidden lairs. We may even unconsciously have shapedyour development in certain ways, trying constantly to educate you awayfrom war and finally succeeding—which may have given the betrayingclue to our pursuers.     Your planets must be burst asunder—this particular planet in thearea of the Pacific—so that we may have our last chance to escape.Even if we did not move, our pursuers would destroy you with us. Wecannot invite you inside our ships—not for lack of space, but becauseyou could never survive the vast accelerations to which you would besubjected. You would, you see, need very special accommodations, ofwhich we have enough only for a few.     Those few we will take with us, as the seed from which a new humanrace may—if we ourselves somehow survive—be born.  Rosalind and Ivan stared dumbly at each other across the egg-shapedsilver room, without apparent entrance or exit, in which they weresprawled. But their thoughts were no longer of thirty-odd milejourneys down through solid earth, or of how cool it was after theheat of the passage, or of how grotesque it was to be trapped here,the fragment of a marriage. They were both listening to the voice thatspoke inside their minds.     In a few minutes your bodies will be separated into layers one atomthick, capable of being shelved or stored in such a way as to endurealmost infinite accelerations. Single cells will cover acres of space.But do not be alarmed. The process will be painless and each particlewill be catalogued for future assembly. Your consciousness will endurethroughout the process.     Rosalind looked at her gold-shod toes. She was wondering,      will they gofirst, or my head? Or will I be peeled like an apple?       She looked at Ivan and knew he was thinking the same thing.  Up in the committee room, the other Wolvers slumped around the table.Only little Dotty sat straight and staring, speechless and unanswering,quite beyond their reach, like a telephone off the hook and with theconnection open, but no voice from the other end.     They had just switched off the TV after listening to a confusedmedley of denials, prayers, Kometevskyite chatterings, and a fewastonishingly realistic comments on the possibility of survival.     These last pointed out that, on the side of the Earth opposite thePacific, the convulsions would come slowly when the entombed spaceshipburst forth—provided, as seemed the case, that it moved without jetsor reaction.     It would be as if the Earth's vast core simply vanished. Gravity woulddiminish abruptly to a fraction of its former value. The empty envelopeof rock and water and air would slowly fall together, though at thesame time the air would begin to escape from the debris because therewould no longer be the mass required to hold it.     However, there might be definite chances of temporary and evenprolonged survival for individuals in strong, hermetically sealedstructures, such as submarines and spaceships. The few spaceships onEarth were reported to have blasted off, or be preparing to leave, withas many passengers as could be carried.     But most persons, apparently, could not contemplate action of any sort.They could only sit and think, like the Wolvers.     A faint smile relaxed Celeste's face. She was thinking,      how beautiful!It means the death of the Solar System, which is a horrifyingsubjective concept. Objectively, though, it would be a more awesomesight than any human being has ever seen or ever could see. It's anabsurd and even brutal thing to wish—but I wish I could see the wholecataclysm from beginning to end. It would make death seem very small, atiny personal event.       Dotty's face was losing its blank expression, becoming intent andalarmed.     We are in contact with our pursuers, she said in thefamiliar-unfamiliar voice. Negotiations are now going on. Thereseems to be—there      is     a change in them. Where they were harsh andvindictive before, they now are gentle and conciliatory. She paused,the alarm on her childish features pinching into anxious uncertainty.Our pursuers have always been shrewd. The change in them may be false,intended merely to lull us into allowing them to come close enough todestroy us. We must not fall into the trap by growing hopeful....     They leaned forward, clutching hands, watching the little face asthough it were a television screen. Celeste had the wild feeling thatshe was listening to a communique from a war so unthinkably vast andviolent, between opponents so astronomically huge and nearly immortal,that she felt like no more than a reasoning ameba ... and then realizedwith an explosive urge to laugh that that was exactly the situation.     No! said Dotty. Her eyes began to glow. They      have     changed! Duringthe eons in which we lay sealed away and hidden from them, knowingnothing of them, they have rebelled against the tyranny of a communalmind to which no thoughts are private ... the tyranny that we ourselvesfled to escape. They come not to destroy us, but to welcome us back toa society that we and they can make truly great!  Frieda collapsed to a chair, trembling between laughter and hystericalweeping. Theodor looked as blank as Dotty had while waiting for wordsto speak. Edmund sprang to the picture window, Celeste toward the TVset.     Climbing shakily out of the chair, Frieda stumbled to the picturewindow and peered out beside Edmund. She saw lights bobbing along thepaths with a wild excitement.     On the TV screen, Celeste watched two brightly lit ships spinning inthe sky—whether human spaceships or Phobos and Deimos come to helpEarth rejoice, she couldn't tell.     Dotty spoke again, the joy in her strange voice forcing them to turn.And you, dear children, creatures of our camouflage, we welcomeyou—whatever your future career on these planets or like ones—intothe society of enlightened worlds! You need not feel small and aloneand helpless ever again, for we shall always be with you!     The outer door opened. Ivan and Rosalind reeled in, drunkenly smiling,arm in arm.     Like rockets, Rosalind blurted happily. We came through thedurasphere and solid rock ... shot up right to the surface.     They didn't have to take us along, Ivan added with a bleary grin.But you know that already, don't you? They're too good to let you livein fear, so they must have told you by now.     Yes, we know, said Theodor. They must be almost godlike in theirgoodness. I feel ... calm.     Edmund nodded soberly. Calmer than I ever felt before. It's knowing, Isuppose, that—well, we're not alone.     Dotty blinked and looked around and smiled at them all with a whollylittle-girl smile.     Oh, Mummy, she said, and it was impossible to tell whether she spoketo Frieda or Rosalind or Celeste, I've just had the funniest dream.     No, darling, said Rosalind gently, it's we who had the dream. We'vejust awakened.  ","The incredibly old semi-god creatures escaped the tyranny of a communal mind to which no thoughts were private. These creatures believe in the principle of mental privacy, and that’s why they escaped and planted seeds of life on planets, including the Earth, as part of their camouflage. Humanity exists as a result of these actions, and it also may shrink in numbers since the creatures have been found by their pursuers and are ready to leave again, thus destroying the planet. The belief in this principle also allowed the enemies of these creatures to rebel against the communal mind and welcome them back to the society of enlightened worlds and let humans live. "
"Who’s Rosalind and what happens to her throughout the story? </s>     DR. KOMETEVSKY'S DAY     By FRITZ LEIBER     Illustrated by DAVID STONE     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction February 1952.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]         Before science, there was superstition. After       science, there will be ... what? The biggest,       most staggering     , most final      fact of them all!        But it's all predicted here! It even names this century for the nextreshuffling of the planets.     Celeste Wolver looked up unwillingly at the book her friend MadgeCarnap held aloft like a torch. She made out the ill-stamped title,      The Dance of the Planets     . There was no mistaking the time ofits origin; only paper from the Twentieth Century aged to thatparticularly nasty shade of brown. Indeed, the book seemed to Celestea brown old witch resurrected from the Last Age of Madness to confounda world growing sane, and she couldn't help shrinking back a trifletoward her husband Theodor.     He tried to come to her rescue. Only predicted in the vaguest way. AsI understand it, Kometevsky claimed, on the basis of a lot of evidencedrawn from folklore, that the planets and their moons trade positionsevery so often.     As if they were playing Going to Jerusalem, or musical chairs,Celeste chimed in, but she couldn't make it sound funny.     Jupiter was supposed to have started as the outermost planet, and isto end up in the orbit of Mercury, Theodor continued. Well, nothingat all like that has happened.     But it's begun, Madge said with conviction. Phobos and Deimos havedisappeared. You can't argue away that stubborn little fact.     That was the trouble; you couldn't. Mars' two tiny moons had simplyvanished during a period when, as was generally the case, the eyesof astronomy weren't on them. Just some hundred-odd cubic miles ofrock—the merest cosmic flyspecks—yet they had carried away with themthe security of a whole world.  Looking at the lovely garden landscape around her, Celeste Wolver feltthat in a moment the shrubby hills would begin to roll like waves, thecharmingly aimless paths twist like snakes and sink in the green sea,the sparsely placed skyscrapers dissolve into the misty clouds theypierced.       People must have felt like this     , she thought,      when Aristarches firsthinted and Copernicus told them that the solid Earth under their feetwas falling dizzily through space. Only it's worse for us, because theycouldn't see that anything had changed. We can.       You need something to cling to, she heard Madge say. Dr. Kometevskywas the only person who ever had an inkling that anything like thismight happen. I was never a Kometevskyite before. Hadn't even heard ofthe man.     She said it almost apologetically. In fact, standing there so frank andanxious-eyed, Madge looked anything but a fanatic, which made it muchworse.     Of course, there are several more convincing alternateexplanations.... Theodor began hesitantly, knowing very well thatthere weren't. If Phobos and Deimos had suddenly disintegrated,surely Mars Base would have noticed something. Of course there was theDisordered Space Hypothesis, even if it was little more than the chancephrase of a prominent physicist pounded upon by an eager journalist.And in any case, what sense of security were you left with if youadmitted that moons and planets might explode, or drop through unseenholes in space? So he ended up by taking a different tack: Besides, ifPhobos and Deimos simply shot off somewhere, surely they'd have beenpicked up by now by 'scope or radar.     Two balls of rock just a few miles in diameter? Madge questioned.Aren't they smaller than many of the asteroids? I'm no astronomer, butI think' I'm right.     And of course she was.     She swung the book under her arm. Whew, it's heavy, she observed,adding in slightly scandalized tones, Never been microfilmed. Shesmiled nervously and looked them up and down. Going to a party? sheasked.     Theodor's scarlet cloak and Celeste's green culottes and silver jacketjustified the question, but they shook their heads.     Just the normally flamboyant garb of the family, Celeste said,while Theodor explained, As it happens, we're bound on businessconnected with the disappearance. We Wolvers practically constitutea sub-committee of the Congress for the Discovery of New Purposes.And since a lot of varied material comes to our attention, we'regoing to see if any of it correlates with this bit of astronomicalsleight-of-hand.     Madge nodded. Give you something to do, at any rate. Well, I must beoff. The Buddhist temple has lent us their place for a meeting. Shegave them a woeful grin. See you when the Earth jumps.     Theodor said to Celeste, Come on, dear. We'll be late.     But Celeste didn't want to move too fast. You know, Teddy, she saiduncomfortably, all this reminds me of those old myths where too muchgood fortune is a sure sign of coming disaster. It was just too muchluck, our great-grandparents missing World III and getting the WorldGovernment started a thousand years ahead of schedule. Luck like thatcouldn't last, evidently. Maybe we've gone too fast with a lot ofthings, like space-flight and the Deep Shaft and— she hesitated abit—complex marriages. I'm a woman. I want complete security. Wheream I to find it?     In me, Theodor said promptly.     In you? Celeste questioned, walking slowly. But you're justone-third of my husband. Perhaps I should look for it in Edmund orIvan.     You angry with me about something?     Of course not. But a woman wants her source of security whole. In acrisis like this, it's disturbing to have it divided.     Well, we are a whole and, I believe, indivisible family, Theodortold her warmly. You're not suggesting, are you, that we're going tobe punished for our polygamous sins by a cosmic catastrophe? Fire fromHeaven and all that?     Don't be silly. I just wanted to give you a picture of my feeling.Celeste smiled. I guess none of us realized how much we've come todepend on the idea of unchanging scientific law. Knocks the props fromunder you.     Theodor nodded emphatically. All the more reason to get a line onwhat's happening as quickly as possible. You know, it's fantasticallyfar-fetched, but I think the experience of persons with Extra-SensoryPerception may give us a clue. During the past three or four daysthere's been a remarkable similarity in the dreams of ESPs all over theplanet. I'm going to present the evidence at the meeting.     Celeste looked up at him. So that's why Rosalind's bringing Frieda'sdaughter?     Dotty is your daughter, too, and Rosalind's, Theodor reminded her.     No, just Frieda's, Celeste said bitterly. Of course you may be thefather. One-third of a chance.     Theodor looked at her sharply, but didn't comment. Anyway, Dotty willbe there, he said. Probably asleep by now. All the ESPs have suddenlyseemed to need more sleep.     As they talked, it had been growing darker, though the luminescence ofthe path kept it from being bothersome. And now the cloud rack partedto the east, showing a single red planet low on the horizon.     Did you know, Theodor said suddenly, that in      Gulliver's Travels     Dean Swift predicted that better telescopes would show Mars to have twomoons? He got the sizes and distances and periods damned accurately,too. One of the few really startling coincidences of reality andliterature.     Stop being eerie, Celeste said sharply. But then she went on, Thosenames Phobos and Deimos—they're Greek, aren't they? What do they mean?     Theodor lost a step. Fear and Terror, he said unwillingly. Nowdon't go taking that for an omen. Most of the mythological names ofmajor and minor ancient gods had been taken—the bodies in the SolarSystem are named that way, of course—and these were about all thatwere available.     It was true, but it didn't comfort him much.     I am a God     , Dotty was dreaming,      and I want to be by myself andthink. I and my god-friends like to keep some of our thoughts secret,but the other gods have forbidden us to.       A little smile flickered across the lips of the sleeping girl, andthe woman in gold tights and gold-spangled jacket leaned forwardthoughtfully. In her dignity and simplicity and straight-spined grace,she was rather like a circus mother watching her sick child before shewent out for the trapeze act.       I and my god-friends sail off in our great round silver boats     , Dottywent on dreaming.      The other gods are angry and scared. They arefrightened of the thoughts we may think in secret. They follow us tohunt us down. There are many more of them than of us.    As Celeste and Theodor entered the committee room, Rosalind Wolver—aglitter of platinum against darkness—came in through the oppositedoor and softly shut it behind her. Frieda, a fair woman in blue robes,got up from the round table.     Celeste turned away with outward casualness as Theodor kissed his twoother wives. She was pleased to note that Edmund seemed impatient too.A figure in close-fitting black, unrelieved except for two red arrowsat the collar, he struck her as embodying very properly the serious,fateful temper of the moment.     He took two briefcases from his vest pocket and tossed them down on thetable beside one of the microfilm projectors.     I suggest we get started without waiting for Ivan, he said.     Frieda frowned anxiously. It's ten minutes since he phoned from theDeep Space Bar to say he was starting right away. And that's hardly atwo minutes walk.     Rosalind instantly started toward the outside door.     I'll check, she explained. Oh, Frieda, I've set the mike so you'llhear if Dotty calls.     Edmund threw up his hands. Very well, then, he said and walked over,switched on the picture and stared out moodily.     Theodor and Frieda got out their briefcases, switched on projectors,and began silently checking through their material.     Celeste fiddled with the TV and got a newscast. But she found her eyesdidn't want to absorb the blocks of print that rather swiftly succeededeach other, so, after a few moments, she shrugged impatiently andswitched to audio.     At the noise, the others looked around at her with surprise and someirritation, but in a few moments they were also listening.     The two rocket ships sent out from Mars Base to explore the orbitalpositions of Phobos and Deimos—that is, the volume of space they'd beoccupying if their positions had remained normal—report finding massesof dust and larger debris. The two masses of fine debris are movingin the same orbits and at the same velocities as the two vanishedmoons, and occupy roughly the same volumes of space, though the massof material is hardly a hundredth that of the moons. Physicists haveventured no statements as to whether this constitutes a confirmation ofthe Disintegration Hypothesis.     However, we're mighty pleased at this news here. There's a markedlessening of tension. The finding of the debris—solid, tangiblestuff—seems to lift the whole affair out of the supernatural miasma inwhich some of us have been tempted to plunge it. One-hundredth of themoons has been found.     The rest will also be!     Edmund had turned his back on the window. Frieda and Theodor hadswitched off their projectors.     Meanwhile, Earthlings are going about their business with a minimumof commotion, meeting with considerable calm the strange threat tothe fabric of their Solar System. Many, of course, are assembled inchurches and humanist temples. Kometevskyites have staged helicopterprocessions at Washington, Peking, Pretoria, and Christiana, demandingthat instant preparations be made for—and I quote—'Earth's comingleap through space.' They have also formally challenged all astronomersto produce an explanation other than the one contained in that strangebook so recently conjured from oblivion,      The Dance of the Planets     .     That about winds up the story for the present. There are no newreports from Interplanetary Radar, Astronomy, or the other rocket shipssearching in the extended Mars volume. Nor have any statements beenissued by the various groups working on the problem in Astrophysics,Cosmic Ecology, the Congress for the Discovery of New Purposes, and soforth. Meanwhile, however, we can take courage from the words of a poemwritten even before Dr. Kometevsky's book:   This Earth is not the steadfast place We landsmen build upon; From deep to deep she varies pace, And while she comes is gone. Beneath my feet I feel Her smooth bulk heave and dip; With velvet plunge and soft upreel She swings and steadies to her keel Like a gallant, gallant ship. While the TV voice intoned the poem, growing richer as emotion caughtit up, Celeste looked around her at the others. Frieda, with hertouch of feminine helplessness showing more than ever through herbusiness-like poise. Theodor leaning forward from his scarlet cloakthrown back, smiling the half-smile with which he seemed to face eventhe unknown. Black Edmund, masking a deep uncertainty with a strongshow of decisiveness.     In short, her family. She knew their every quirk and foible. And yetnow they seemed to her a million miles away, figures seen through thewrong end of a telescope.     Were they really a family? Strong sources of mutual strength andsecurity to each other? Or had they merely been playing family,experimenting with their notions of complex marriage like a bunch ofsilly adolescents? Butterflies taking advantage of good weather towing together in a glamorous, artificial dance—until outraged Naturedecided to wipe them out?     As the poem was ending, Celeste saw the door open and Rosalind comeslowly in. The Golden Woman's face was white as the paths she had beentreading.     Just then the TV voice quickened with shock. News! Lunar ObservatoryOne reports that, although Jupiter is just about to pass behind theSun, a good coronagraph of the planet has been obtained. Checked andrechecked, it admits of only one interpretation, which Lunar Onefeels duty-bound to release.      Jupiter's fourteen moons are no longervisible!          The chorus of remarks with which the Wolvers would otherwise havereceived this was checked by one thing: the fact that Rosalind seemednot to hear it. Whatever was on her mind prevented even that incrediblestatement from penetrating.     She walked shakily to the table and put down a briefcase, one end ofwhich was smudged with dirt.     Without looking at them, she said, Ivan left the Deep Space Bartwenty minutes ago, said he was coming straight here. On my way backI searched the path. Midway I found this half-buried in the dirt. Ihad to tug to get it out—almost as if it had been cemented into theground. Do you feel how the dirt seems to be      in     the leather, as ifit had lain for years in the grave?     By now the others were fingering the small case of microfilms they hadseen so many times in Ivan's competent hands. What Rosalind said wastrue. It had a gritty, unwholesome feel to it. Also, it felt strangelyheavy.     And see what's written on it, she added.     They turned it over. Scrawled with white pencil in big, hasty, franticletters were two words:     Going down!     The other gods     , Dotty dreamt,      are combing the whole Universe for us.We have escaped them many times, but now our tricks are almost used up.There are no doors going out of the Universe and our boats are silverbeacons to the hunters. So we decide to disguise them in the only waythey can be disguised. It is our last chance.    Edmund rapped the table to gain the family's attention. I'd say we'vedone everything we can for the moment to find Ivan. We've made athorough local search. A wider one, which we can't conduct personally,is in progress. All helpful agencies have been alerted and descriptionsare being broadcast. I suggest we get on with the business of theevening—which may very well be connected with Ivan's disappearance.     One by one the others nodded and took their places at the round table.Celeste made a great effort to throw off the feeling of unreality thathad engulfed her and focus attention on her microfilms.     I'll take over Ivan's notes, she heard Edmund say. They're mainlyabout the Deep Shaft.     How far have they got with that? Frieda asked idly. Twenty-fivemiles?     Nearer thirty, I believe, Edmund answered, and still going down.     At those last two words they all looked up quickly. Then their eyeswent toward Ivan's briefcase.     Our trick has succeeded     , Dotty dreamt.      The other gods have passedour hiding place a dozen times without noticing. They search theUniverse for us many times in vain. They finally decide that we havefound a door going out of the Universe. Yet they fear us all the more.They think of us as devils who will some day return through the door todestroy them. So they watch everywhere. We lie quietly smiling in ourcamouflaged boats, yet hardly daring to move or think, for fear thatthe faintest echoes of our doings will give them a clue. Hundreds ofmillions of years pass by. They seem to us no more than drugged hoursin a prison.    Theodor rubbed his eyes and pushed his chair back from the table. Weneed a break.     Frieda agreed wearily. We've gone through everything.     Good idea, Edmund said briskly. I think we've hit on several crucialpoints along the way and half disentangled them from the great mass ofinconsequential material. I'll finish up that part of the job right nowand present my case when we're all a bit fresher. Say half an hour?     Theodor nodded heavily, pushing up from his chair and hitching hiscloak over a shoulder.     I'm going out for a drink, he informed them.     After several hesitant seconds, Rosalind quietly followed him. Friedastretched out on a couch and closed her eyes. Edmund scanned microfilmstirelessly, every now and then setting one aside.     Celeste watched him for a minute, then sprang up and started toward theroom where Dotty was asleep. But midway she stopped.       Not my child     , she thought bitterly.      Frieda's her mother, Rosalindher nurse. I'm nothing at all. Just one of the husband's girl friends.A lady of uneasy virtue in a dissolving world.       But then she straightened her shoulders and went on.  Rosalind didn't catch up with Theodor. Her footsteps were silent andhe never looked back along the path whose feeble white glow rose onlyknee-high, lighting a low strip of shrub and mossy tree trunk to eitherside, no more.     It was a little chilly. She drew on her gloves, but she didn't hurry.In fact, she fell farther and farther behind the dipping tail ofhis scarlet cloak and his plodding red shoes, which seemed to movedisembodied, like those in the fairy tale.     When she reached the point where she had found Ivan's briefcase, shestopped altogether.     A breeze rustled the leaves, and, moistly brushing her cheek, broughtforest scents of rot and mold. After a bit she began to hear thefurtive scurryings and scuttlings of forest creatures.     She looked around her half-heartedly, suddenly realizing the futilityof her quest. What clues could she hope to find in this knee-hightwilight? And they'd thoroughly combed the place earlier in the night.     Without warning, an eerie tingling went through her and she was seizedby a horror of the cold, grainy Earth underfoot—an ancestral terrorfrom the days when men shivered at ghost stories about graves and tombs.     A tiny detail persisted in bulking larger and larger in her mind—theunnaturalness of the way the Earth had impregnated the corner of Ivan'sbriefcase, almost as if dirt and leather co-existed in the same space.She remembered the queer way the partly buried briefcase had resistedher first tug, like a rooted plant.     She felt cowed by the mysterious night about her, and literallydwarfed, as if she had grown several inches shorter. She roused herselfand started forward.     Something held her feet.     They were ankle-deep in the path. While she looked in fright andhorror, they began to sink still lower into the ground.     She plunged frantically, trying to jerk loose. She couldn't. She hadthe panicky feeling that the Earth had not only trapped but invadedher; that its molecules were creeping up between the molecules of herflesh; that the two were becoming one.     And she was sinking faster. Now knee-deep, thigh-deep, hip-deep,waist-deep. She beat at the powdery path with her hands and threw herbody from side to side in agonized frenzy like some sinner frozen inthe ice of the innermost circle of the ancients' hell. And always thesense of the dark, grainy tide rose inside as well as around her.     She thought,      he'd just have had time to scribble that note on hisbriefcase and toss it away.     She jerked off a glove, leaned out asfar as she could, and made a frantic effort to drive its fingers intothe powdery path. Then the Earth mounted to her chin, her nose, andcovered her eyes.     She expected blackness, but it was as if the light of the path stayedwith her, making a little glow all around. She saw roots, pebbles,black rot, worn tunnels, worms. Tier on tier of them, her visionpenetrating the solid ground. And at the same time, the knowledge thatthese same sorts of things were coursing up through her.  And still she continued to sink at a speed that increased, as if thelaw of gravitation applied to her in a diminished way. She dropped fromblack soil through gray clay and into pale limestone.       Her tortured, rock-permeated lungs sucked at rock and drew in air. Shewondered madly if a volume of air were falling with her through thestone.     A glitter of quartz. The momentary openness of a foot-high cavernwith a trickle of water. And then she was sliding down a black basaltcolumn, half inside it, half inside gold-flecked ore. Then just blackbasalt. And always faster.     It grew hot, then hotter, as if she were approaching the mythicaleternal fires.  At first glance Theodor thought the Deep Space Bar was empty. Then hesaw a figure hunched monkeylike on the last stool, almost lost in theblue shadows, while behind the bar, her crystal dress blending with thetiers of sparkling glasses, stood a grave-eyed young girl who couldhardly have been fifteen.     The TV was saying, ... in addition, a number of mysteriousdisappearances of high-rating individuals have been reported. Theseare thought to be cases of misunderstanding, illusory apprehension,and impulse traveling—a result of the unusual stresses of the time.Finally, a few suggestible individuals in various parts of the globe,especially the Indian Peninsula, have declared themselves to be 'gods'and in some way responsible for current events.     It is thought—     The girl switched off the TV and took Theodor's order, explainingcasually, Joe wanted to go to a Kometevskyite meeting, so I took overfor him. When she had prepared Theodor's highball, she announced,I'll have a drink with you gentlemen, and squeezed herself a glass ofpomegranate juice.     The monkeylike figure muttered, Scotch-and-soda, then turned towardEdmund and asked, And what is your reaction to all this, sir?  Theodor recognized the shrunken wrinkle-seamed face. It was ColonelFortescue, a military antique long retired from the Peace Patrol andreputed to have seen actual fighting in the Last Age of Madness. Now,for some reason, the face sported a knowing smile.     Theodor shrugged. Just then the TV big news light blinked blue andthe girl switched on audio. The Colonel winked at Theodor.     ... confirming the disappearance of Jupiter's moons. But two otherutterly fantastic reports have just been received. First, LunarObservatory One says that it is visually tracking fourteen small bodieswhich it believes may be the lost moons of Jupiter. They are movingoutward from the Solar System at an incredible velocity and are alreadybeyond the orbit of Saturn!     The Colonel said, Ah!     Second, Palomar reports a large number of dark bodies approaching theSolar System at an equally incredible velocity. They are at about twicethe distance of Pluto, but closing in fast! We will be on the air withfurther details as soon as possible.     The Colonel said, Ah-ha!     Theodor stared at him. The old man's self-satisfied poise was almostamusing.     Are you a Kometevskyite? Theodor asked him.     The Colonel laughed. Of course not, my boy. Those poor people arefumbling in the dark. Don't you see what's happened?     Frankly, no.     The Colonel leaned toward Theodor and whispered gruffly, The DivinePlan. God is a military strategist, naturally.     Then he lifted the scotch-and-soda in his clawlike hand and took asatisfying swallow.     I knew it all along, of course, he went on musingly, but this lastnews makes it as plain as a rocket blast, at least to anyone who knowsmilitary strategy. Look here, my boy, suppose you were commanding afleet and got wind of the enemy's approach—what would you do? Why,you'd send your scouts and destroyers fanning out toward them. Behindthat screen you'd mass your heavy ships. Then—     You don't mean to imply— Theodor interrupted.     The girl behind the bar looked at them both cryptically.     Of course I do! the Colonel cut in sharply. It's a war between theforces of good and evil. The bright suns and planets are on one side,the dark on the other. The moons are the destroyers, Jupiter andSaturn are the big battleships, while we're on a heavy cruiser, I'mproud to say. We'll probably go into action soon. Be a corking fight,what? And all by divine strategy!     He chuckled and took another big drink. Theodor looked at him sourly.The girl behind the bar polished a glass and said nothing.  Dotty suddenly began to turn and toss, and a look of terror came overher sleeping face. Celeste leaned forward apprehensively.     The child's lips worked and Celeste made out the sleepy-fuzzy words:They've found out where we're hiding. They're coming to get us. No!Please, no!     Celeste's reactions were mixed. She felt worried about Dotty and atthe same time almost in terror of her, as if the little girl were anagent of supernatural forces. She told herself that this fear was anexpression of her own hostility, yet she didn't really believe it. Shetouched the child's hand.     Dotty's eyes opened without making Celeste feel she had quite comeawake. After a bit she looked at Celeste and her little lips parted ina smile.     Hello, she said sleepily. I've been having such funny dreams. Then,after a pause, frowning, I really am a god, you know. It feels veryqueer.     Yes, dear? Celeste prompted uneasily. Shall I call Frieda?     The smile left Dotty's lips. Why do you act so nervous around me? sheasked. Don't you love me, Mummy?     Celeste started at the word. Her throat closed. Then, very slowly, herface broke into a radiant smile. Of course I do, darling. I love youvery much.     Dotty nodded happily, her eyes already closed again.     There was a sudden flurry of excited voices beyond the door. Celesteheard her name called. She stood up.     I'm going to have to go out and talk with the others, she said. Ifyou want me, dear, just call.     Yes, Mummy.  Edmund rapped for attention. Celeste, Frieda, and Theodor glancedaround at him. He looked more frightfully strained, they realized, thaneven they felt. His expression was a study in suppressed excitement,but there were also signs of a knowledge that was almost toooverpowering for a human being to bear.     His voice was clipped, rapid. I think it's about time we stoppedworrying about our own affairs and thought of those of the SolarSystem, partly because I think they have a direct bearing on thedisappearances of Ivan end Rosalind. As I told you, I've been sortingout the crucial items from the material we've been presenting. Thereare roughly four of those items, as I see it. It's rather like amystery story. I wonder if, hearing those four clues, you will come tothe same conclusion I have.     The others nodded.     First, there are the latest reports from Deep Shaft, which, asyou know, has been sunk to investigate deep-Earth conditions. Atapproximately twenty-nine miles below the surface, the delvers haveencountered a metallic obstruction which they have tentatively namedthe durasphere. It resists their hardest drills, their strongestcorrosives. They have extended a side-tunnel at that level for aquarter of a mile. Delicate measurements, made possible by themirror-smooth metal surface, show that the durasphere has a slightcurvature that is almost exactly equal to the curvature of the Earthitself. The suggestion is that deep borings made anywhere in the worldwould encounter the durasphere at the same depth.     Second, the movements of the moons of Mars and Jupiter, andparticularly the debris left behind by the moons of Mars. GrantingPhobos and Deimos had duraspheres proportional in size to that ofEarth, then the debris would roughly equal in amount the material inthose two duraspheres' rocky envelopes. The suggestion is that thetwo duraspheres suddenly burst from their envelopes with such titanicvelocity as to leave those disrupted envelopes behind.     It was deadly quiet in the committee room.     Thirdly, the disappearances of Ivan and Rosalind, and especiallythe baffling hint—from Ivan's message in one case and Rosalind'sdownward-pointing glove in the other—that they were both somehow drawninto the depths of the Earth.     Finally, the dreams of the ESPs, which agree overwhelmingly in thefollowing points: A group of beings separate themselves from a godlikeand telepathic race because they insist on maintaining a degree ofmental privacy. They flee in great boats or ships of some sort. Theyare pursued on such a scale that there is no hiding place for themanywhere in the universe. In some manner they successfully camouflagetheir ships. Eons pass and their still-fanatical pursuers do notpenetrate their secret. Then, suddenly, they are detected.     Edmund waited. Do you see what I'm driving at? he asked hoarsely.  He could tell from their looks that the others did, but couldn't bringthemselves to put it into words.     I suppose it's the time-scale and the value-scale that are so hard forus to accept, he said softly. Much more, even, than the size-scale.The thought that there are creatures in the Universe to whom the wholecareer of Man—in fact, the whole career of life—is no more than a fewthousand or hundred thousand years. And to whom Man is no more than aminor stage property—a trifling part of a clever job of camouflage.     This time he went on, Fantasy writers have at times hinted all sortsof odd things about the Earth—that it might even be a kind of singleliving creature, or honeycombed with inhabited caverns, and so on.But I don't know that any of them have ever suggested that the Earth,together with all the planets and moons of the Solar System, mightbe....     In a whisper, Frieda finished for him, ... a camouflaged fleet ofgigantic spherical spaceships.           Your guess happens to be the precise truth.          At that familiar, yet dreadly unfamiliar voice, all four of them swungtoward the inner door. Dotty was standing there, a sleep-stupefiedlittle girl with a blanket caught up around her and dragging behind.Their own daughter. But in her eyes was a look from which they cringed.     She said, I am a creature somewhat older than what your geologistscall the Archeozoic Era. I am speaking to you through a number oftelepathically sensitive individuals among your kind. In each case mythoughts suit themselves to your level of comprehension. I inhabit thedisguised and jetless spaceship which is your Earth.     Celeste swayed a step forward. Baby.... she implored.     Dotty went on, without giving her a glance, It is true that we plantedthe seeds of life on some of these planets simply as part of ourcamouflage, just as we gave them a suitable environment for each. Andit is true that now we must let most of that life be destroyed. Ourhiding place has been discovered, our pursuers are upon us, and we mustmake one last effort to escape or do battle, since we firmly believethat the principle of mental privacy to which we have devoted ourexistence is perhaps the greatest good in the whole Universe.     But it is not true that we look with contempt upon you. Our whole raceis deeply devoted to life, wherever it may come into being, and it isour rule never to interfere with its development. That was one ofthe reasons we made life a part of our camouflage—it would make ourpursuers reluctant to examine these planets too closely.     Yes, we have always cherished you and watched your evolution withinterest from our hidden lairs. We may even unconsciously have shapedyour development in certain ways, trying constantly to educate you awayfrom war and finally succeeding—which may have given the betrayingclue to our pursuers.     Your planets must be burst asunder—this particular planet in thearea of the Pacific—so that we may have our last chance to escape.Even if we did not move, our pursuers would destroy you with us. Wecannot invite you inside our ships—not for lack of space, but becauseyou could never survive the vast accelerations to which you would besubjected. You would, you see, need very special accommodations, ofwhich we have enough only for a few.     Those few we will take with us, as the seed from which a new humanrace may—if we ourselves somehow survive—be born.  Rosalind and Ivan stared dumbly at each other across the egg-shapedsilver room, without apparent entrance or exit, in which they weresprawled. But their thoughts were no longer of thirty-odd milejourneys down through solid earth, or of how cool it was after theheat of the passage, or of how grotesque it was to be trapped here,the fragment of a marriage. They were both listening to the voice thatspoke inside their minds.     In a few minutes your bodies will be separated into layers one atomthick, capable of being shelved or stored in such a way as to endurealmost infinite accelerations. Single cells will cover acres of space.But do not be alarmed. The process will be painless and each particlewill be catalogued for future assembly. Your consciousness will endurethroughout the process.     Rosalind looked at her gold-shod toes. She was wondering,      will they gofirst, or my head? Or will I be peeled like an apple?       She looked at Ivan and knew he was thinking the same thing.  Up in the committee room, the other Wolvers slumped around the table.Only little Dotty sat straight and staring, speechless and unanswering,quite beyond their reach, like a telephone off the hook and with theconnection open, but no voice from the other end.     They had just switched off the TV after listening to a confusedmedley of denials, prayers, Kometevskyite chatterings, and a fewastonishingly realistic comments on the possibility of survival.     These last pointed out that, on the side of the Earth opposite thePacific, the convulsions would come slowly when the entombed spaceshipburst forth—provided, as seemed the case, that it moved without jetsor reaction.     It would be as if the Earth's vast core simply vanished. Gravity woulddiminish abruptly to a fraction of its former value. The empty envelopeof rock and water and air would slowly fall together, though at thesame time the air would begin to escape from the debris because therewould no longer be the mass required to hold it.     However, there might be definite chances of temporary and evenprolonged survival for individuals in strong, hermetically sealedstructures, such as submarines and spaceships. The few spaceships onEarth were reported to have blasted off, or be preparing to leave, withas many passengers as could be carried.     But most persons, apparently, could not contemplate action of any sort.They could only sit and think, like the Wolvers.     A faint smile relaxed Celeste's face. She was thinking,      how beautiful!It means the death of the Solar System, which is a horrifyingsubjective concept. Objectively, though, it would be a more awesomesight than any human being has ever seen or ever could see. It's anabsurd and even brutal thing to wish—but I wish I could see the wholecataclysm from beginning to end. It would make death seem very small, atiny personal event.       Dotty's face was losing its blank expression, becoming intent andalarmed.     We are in contact with our pursuers, she said in thefamiliar-unfamiliar voice. Negotiations are now going on. Thereseems to be—there      is     a change in them. Where they were harsh andvindictive before, they now are gentle and conciliatory. She paused,the alarm on her childish features pinching into anxious uncertainty.Our pursuers have always been shrewd. The change in them may be false,intended merely to lull us into allowing them to come close enough todestroy us. We must not fall into the trap by growing hopeful....     They leaned forward, clutching hands, watching the little face asthough it were a television screen. Celeste had the wild feeling thatshe was listening to a communique from a war so unthinkably vast andviolent, between opponents so astronomically huge and nearly immortal,that she felt like no more than a reasoning ameba ... and then realizedwith an explosive urge to laugh that that was exactly the situation.     No! said Dotty. Her eyes began to glow. They      have     changed! Duringthe eons in which we lay sealed away and hidden from them, knowingnothing of them, they have rebelled against the tyranny of a communalmind to which no thoughts are private ... the tyranny that we ourselvesfled to escape. They come not to destroy us, but to welcome us back toa society that we and they can make truly great!  Frieda collapsed to a chair, trembling between laughter and hystericalweeping. Theodor looked as blank as Dotty had while waiting for wordsto speak. Edmund sprang to the picture window, Celeste toward the TVset.     Climbing shakily out of the chair, Frieda stumbled to the picturewindow and peered out beside Edmund. She saw lights bobbing along thepaths with a wild excitement.     On the TV screen, Celeste watched two brightly lit ships spinning inthe sky—whether human spaceships or Phobos and Deimos come to helpEarth rejoice, she couldn't tell.     Dotty spoke again, the joy in her strange voice forcing them to turn.And you, dear children, creatures of our camouflage, we welcomeyou—whatever your future career on these planets or like ones—intothe society of enlightened worlds! You need not feel small and aloneand helpless ever again, for we shall always be with you!     The outer door opened. Ivan and Rosalind reeled in, drunkenly smiling,arm in arm.     Like rockets, Rosalind blurted happily. We came through thedurasphere and solid rock ... shot up right to the surface.     They didn't have to take us along, Ivan added with a bleary grin.But you know that already, don't you? They're too good to let you livein fear, so they must have told you by now.     Yes, we know, said Theodor. They must be almost godlike in theirgoodness. I feel ... calm.     Edmund nodded soberly. Calmer than I ever felt before. It's knowing, Isuppose, that—well, we're not alone.     Dotty blinked and looked around and smiled at them all with a whollylittle-girl smile.     Oh, Mummy, she said, and it was impossible to tell whether she spoketo Frieda or Rosalind or Celeste, I've just had the funniest dream.     No, darling, said Rosalind gently, it's we who had the dream. We'vejust awakened.  ","Rosalind is a member of the Wolves family, the wife of Theodor, Edmund, and Ivan. At the beginning of the story, she comes to the meeting of their family sub-committee. When Ivan doesn’t show up, Rosalind decides to go to the Deep Space Bar and try to find him. On her way back, she finds his briefcase half-buried in the dirt. It has a hastily written phrase “Going down” written on it. Shocked, she comes back and shows her findings to everybody. They alert the local agencies and create their family member’s description that is broadcast. They decide to take a small break, and Rosalind leaves right after Theodor. She doesn’t catch up with him and stops at the place where she found the briefcase. Suddenly, her feet get stuck, and her body starts sinking into the ground. She understands that the same thing happened to Ivan and decides to leave her glove to show what happened to her. Soon earth covers her head, and she keeps moving down through different soil levels. The temperature rises, and soon she ends up in a silver egg-shaped room where she meets Ivan. A voice inside their heads explains that their bodies will soon go through a painless process of separation into small atom-thick layers which will enable them to endure almost infinite accelerations, and their consciousness will be intact. They learn more about the Earth and its function. Soon, when the pursuers of the semi-god creatures tell them about the changes they made, Rosalind and Ivan are shot back to the surface. They walk back to their family."
"What’s the significance of Dotty’s dreams? </s>     DR. KOMETEVSKY'S DAY     By FRITZ LEIBER     Illustrated by DAVID STONE     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction February 1952.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]         Before science, there was superstition. After       science, there will be ... what? The biggest,       most staggering     , most final      fact of them all!        But it's all predicted here! It even names this century for the nextreshuffling of the planets.     Celeste Wolver looked up unwillingly at the book her friend MadgeCarnap held aloft like a torch. She made out the ill-stamped title,      The Dance of the Planets     . There was no mistaking the time ofits origin; only paper from the Twentieth Century aged to thatparticularly nasty shade of brown. Indeed, the book seemed to Celestea brown old witch resurrected from the Last Age of Madness to confounda world growing sane, and she couldn't help shrinking back a trifletoward her husband Theodor.     He tried to come to her rescue. Only predicted in the vaguest way. AsI understand it, Kometevsky claimed, on the basis of a lot of evidencedrawn from folklore, that the planets and their moons trade positionsevery so often.     As if they were playing Going to Jerusalem, or musical chairs,Celeste chimed in, but she couldn't make it sound funny.     Jupiter was supposed to have started as the outermost planet, and isto end up in the orbit of Mercury, Theodor continued. Well, nothingat all like that has happened.     But it's begun, Madge said with conviction. Phobos and Deimos havedisappeared. You can't argue away that stubborn little fact.     That was the trouble; you couldn't. Mars' two tiny moons had simplyvanished during a period when, as was generally the case, the eyesof astronomy weren't on them. Just some hundred-odd cubic miles ofrock—the merest cosmic flyspecks—yet they had carried away with themthe security of a whole world.  Looking at the lovely garden landscape around her, Celeste Wolver feltthat in a moment the shrubby hills would begin to roll like waves, thecharmingly aimless paths twist like snakes and sink in the green sea,the sparsely placed skyscrapers dissolve into the misty clouds theypierced.       People must have felt like this     , she thought,      when Aristarches firsthinted and Copernicus told them that the solid Earth under their feetwas falling dizzily through space. Only it's worse for us, because theycouldn't see that anything had changed. We can.       You need something to cling to, she heard Madge say. Dr. Kometevskywas the only person who ever had an inkling that anything like thismight happen. I was never a Kometevskyite before. Hadn't even heard ofthe man.     She said it almost apologetically. In fact, standing there so frank andanxious-eyed, Madge looked anything but a fanatic, which made it muchworse.     Of course, there are several more convincing alternateexplanations.... Theodor began hesitantly, knowing very well thatthere weren't. If Phobos and Deimos had suddenly disintegrated,surely Mars Base would have noticed something. Of course there was theDisordered Space Hypothesis, even if it was little more than the chancephrase of a prominent physicist pounded upon by an eager journalist.And in any case, what sense of security were you left with if youadmitted that moons and planets might explode, or drop through unseenholes in space? So he ended up by taking a different tack: Besides, ifPhobos and Deimos simply shot off somewhere, surely they'd have beenpicked up by now by 'scope or radar.     Two balls of rock just a few miles in diameter? Madge questioned.Aren't they smaller than many of the asteroids? I'm no astronomer, butI think' I'm right.     And of course she was.     She swung the book under her arm. Whew, it's heavy, she observed,adding in slightly scandalized tones, Never been microfilmed. Shesmiled nervously and looked them up and down. Going to a party? sheasked.     Theodor's scarlet cloak and Celeste's green culottes and silver jacketjustified the question, but they shook their heads.     Just the normally flamboyant garb of the family, Celeste said,while Theodor explained, As it happens, we're bound on businessconnected with the disappearance. We Wolvers practically constitutea sub-committee of the Congress for the Discovery of New Purposes.And since a lot of varied material comes to our attention, we'regoing to see if any of it correlates with this bit of astronomicalsleight-of-hand.     Madge nodded. Give you something to do, at any rate. Well, I must beoff. The Buddhist temple has lent us their place for a meeting. Shegave them a woeful grin. See you when the Earth jumps.     Theodor said to Celeste, Come on, dear. We'll be late.     But Celeste didn't want to move too fast. You know, Teddy, she saiduncomfortably, all this reminds me of those old myths where too muchgood fortune is a sure sign of coming disaster. It was just too muchluck, our great-grandparents missing World III and getting the WorldGovernment started a thousand years ahead of schedule. Luck like thatcouldn't last, evidently. Maybe we've gone too fast with a lot ofthings, like space-flight and the Deep Shaft and— she hesitated abit—complex marriages. I'm a woman. I want complete security. Wheream I to find it?     In me, Theodor said promptly.     In you? Celeste questioned, walking slowly. But you're justone-third of my husband. Perhaps I should look for it in Edmund orIvan.     You angry with me about something?     Of course not. But a woman wants her source of security whole. In acrisis like this, it's disturbing to have it divided.     Well, we are a whole and, I believe, indivisible family, Theodortold her warmly. You're not suggesting, are you, that we're going tobe punished for our polygamous sins by a cosmic catastrophe? Fire fromHeaven and all that?     Don't be silly. I just wanted to give you a picture of my feeling.Celeste smiled. I guess none of us realized how much we've come todepend on the idea of unchanging scientific law. Knocks the props fromunder you.     Theodor nodded emphatically. All the more reason to get a line onwhat's happening as quickly as possible. You know, it's fantasticallyfar-fetched, but I think the experience of persons with Extra-SensoryPerception may give us a clue. During the past three or four daysthere's been a remarkable similarity in the dreams of ESPs all over theplanet. I'm going to present the evidence at the meeting.     Celeste looked up at him. So that's why Rosalind's bringing Frieda'sdaughter?     Dotty is your daughter, too, and Rosalind's, Theodor reminded her.     No, just Frieda's, Celeste said bitterly. Of course you may be thefather. One-third of a chance.     Theodor looked at her sharply, but didn't comment. Anyway, Dotty willbe there, he said. Probably asleep by now. All the ESPs have suddenlyseemed to need more sleep.     As they talked, it had been growing darker, though the luminescence ofthe path kept it from being bothersome. And now the cloud rack partedto the east, showing a single red planet low on the horizon.     Did you know, Theodor said suddenly, that in      Gulliver's Travels     Dean Swift predicted that better telescopes would show Mars to have twomoons? He got the sizes and distances and periods damned accurately,too. One of the few really startling coincidences of reality andliterature.     Stop being eerie, Celeste said sharply. But then she went on, Thosenames Phobos and Deimos—they're Greek, aren't they? What do they mean?     Theodor lost a step. Fear and Terror, he said unwillingly. Nowdon't go taking that for an omen. Most of the mythological names ofmajor and minor ancient gods had been taken—the bodies in the SolarSystem are named that way, of course—and these were about all thatwere available.     It was true, but it didn't comfort him much.     I am a God     , Dotty was dreaming,      and I want to be by myself andthink. I and my god-friends like to keep some of our thoughts secret,but the other gods have forbidden us to.       A little smile flickered across the lips of the sleeping girl, andthe woman in gold tights and gold-spangled jacket leaned forwardthoughtfully. In her dignity and simplicity and straight-spined grace,she was rather like a circus mother watching her sick child before shewent out for the trapeze act.       I and my god-friends sail off in our great round silver boats     , Dottywent on dreaming.      The other gods are angry and scared. They arefrightened of the thoughts we may think in secret. They follow us tohunt us down. There are many more of them than of us.    As Celeste and Theodor entered the committee room, Rosalind Wolver—aglitter of platinum against darkness—came in through the oppositedoor and softly shut it behind her. Frieda, a fair woman in blue robes,got up from the round table.     Celeste turned away with outward casualness as Theodor kissed his twoother wives. She was pleased to note that Edmund seemed impatient too.A figure in close-fitting black, unrelieved except for two red arrowsat the collar, he struck her as embodying very properly the serious,fateful temper of the moment.     He took two briefcases from his vest pocket and tossed them down on thetable beside one of the microfilm projectors.     I suggest we get started without waiting for Ivan, he said.     Frieda frowned anxiously. It's ten minutes since he phoned from theDeep Space Bar to say he was starting right away. And that's hardly atwo minutes walk.     Rosalind instantly started toward the outside door.     I'll check, she explained. Oh, Frieda, I've set the mike so you'llhear if Dotty calls.     Edmund threw up his hands. Very well, then, he said and walked over,switched on the picture and stared out moodily.     Theodor and Frieda got out their briefcases, switched on projectors,and began silently checking through their material.     Celeste fiddled with the TV and got a newscast. But she found her eyesdidn't want to absorb the blocks of print that rather swiftly succeededeach other, so, after a few moments, she shrugged impatiently andswitched to audio.     At the noise, the others looked around at her with surprise and someirritation, but in a few moments they were also listening.     The two rocket ships sent out from Mars Base to explore the orbitalpositions of Phobos and Deimos—that is, the volume of space they'd beoccupying if their positions had remained normal—report finding massesof dust and larger debris. The two masses of fine debris are movingin the same orbits and at the same velocities as the two vanishedmoons, and occupy roughly the same volumes of space, though the massof material is hardly a hundredth that of the moons. Physicists haveventured no statements as to whether this constitutes a confirmation ofthe Disintegration Hypothesis.     However, we're mighty pleased at this news here. There's a markedlessening of tension. The finding of the debris—solid, tangiblestuff—seems to lift the whole affair out of the supernatural miasma inwhich some of us have been tempted to plunge it. One-hundredth of themoons has been found.     The rest will also be!     Edmund had turned his back on the window. Frieda and Theodor hadswitched off their projectors.     Meanwhile, Earthlings are going about their business with a minimumof commotion, meeting with considerable calm the strange threat tothe fabric of their Solar System. Many, of course, are assembled inchurches and humanist temples. Kometevskyites have staged helicopterprocessions at Washington, Peking, Pretoria, and Christiana, demandingthat instant preparations be made for—and I quote—'Earth's comingleap through space.' They have also formally challenged all astronomersto produce an explanation other than the one contained in that strangebook so recently conjured from oblivion,      The Dance of the Planets     .     That about winds up the story for the present. There are no newreports from Interplanetary Radar, Astronomy, or the other rocket shipssearching in the extended Mars volume. Nor have any statements beenissued by the various groups working on the problem in Astrophysics,Cosmic Ecology, the Congress for the Discovery of New Purposes, and soforth. Meanwhile, however, we can take courage from the words of a poemwritten even before Dr. Kometevsky's book:   This Earth is not the steadfast place We landsmen build upon; From deep to deep she varies pace, And while she comes is gone. Beneath my feet I feel Her smooth bulk heave and dip; With velvet plunge and soft upreel She swings and steadies to her keel Like a gallant, gallant ship. While the TV voice intoned the poem, growing richer as emotion caughtit up, Celeste looked around her at the others. Frieda, with hertouch of feminine helplessness showing more than ever through herbusiness-like poise. Theodor leaning forward from his scarlet cloakthrown back, smiling the half-smile with which he seemed to face eventhe unknown. Black Edmund, masking a deep uncertainty with a strongshow of decisiveness.     In short, her family. She knew their every quirk and foible. And yetnow they seemed to her a million miles away, figures seen through thewrong end of a telescope.     Were they really a family? Strong sources of mutual strength andsecurity to each other? Or had they merely been playing family,experimenting with their notions of complex marriage like a bunch ofsilly adolescents? Butterflies taking advantage of good weather towing together in a glamorous, artificial dance—until outraged Naturedecided to wipe them out?     As the poem was ending, Celeste saw the door open and Rosalind comeslowly in. The Golden Woman's face was white as the paths she had beentreading.     Just then the TV voice quickened with shock. News! Lunar ObservatoryOne reports that, although Jupiter is just about to pass behind theSun, a good coronagraph of the planet has been obtained. Checked andrechecked, it admits of only one interpretation, which Lunar Onefeels duty-bound to release.      Jupiter's fourteen moons are no longervisible!          The chorus of remarks with which the Wolvers would otherwise havereceived this was checked by one thing: the fact that Rosalind seemednot to hear it. Whatever was on her mind prevented even that incrediblestatement from penetrating.     She walked shakily to the table and put down a briefcase, one end ofwhich was smudged with dirt.     Without looking at them, she said, Ivan left the Deep Space Bartwenty minutes ago, said he was coming straight here. On my way backI searched the path. Midway I found this half-buried in the dirt. Ihad to tug to get it out—almost as if it had been cemented into theground. Do you feel how the dirt seems to be      in     the leather, as ifit had lain for years in the grave?     By now the others were fingering the small case of microfilms they hadseen so many times in Ivan's competent hands. What Rosalind said wastrue. It had a gritty, unwholesome feel to it. Also, it felt strangelyheavy.     And see what's written on it, she added.     They turned it over. Scrawled with white pencil in big, hasty, franticletters were two words:     Going down!     The other gods     , Dotty dreamt,      are combing the whole Universe for us.We have escaped them many times, but now our tricks are almost used up.There are no doors going out of the Universe and our boats are silverbeacons to the hunters. So we decide to disguise them in the only waythey can be disguised. It is our last chance.    Edmund rapped the table to gain the family's attention. I'd say we'vedone everything we can for the moment to find Ivan. We've made athorough local search. A wider one, which we can't conduct personally,is in progress. All helpful agencies have been alerted and descriptionsare being broadcast. I suggest we get on with the business of theevening—which may very well be connected with Ivan's disappearance.     One by one the others nodded and took their places at the round table.Celeste made a great effort to throw off the feeling of unreality thathad engulfed her and focus attention on her microfilms.     I'll take over Ivan's notes, she heard Edmund say. They're mainlyabout the Deep Shaft.     How far have they got with that? Frieda asked idly. Twenty-fivemiles?     Nearer thirty, I believe, Edmund answered, and still going down.     At those last two words they all looked up quickly. Then their eyeswent toward Ivan's briefcase.     Our trick has succeeded     , Dotty dreamt.      The other gods have passedour hiding place a dozen times without noticing. They search theUniverse for us many times in vain. They finally decide that we havefound a door going out of the Universe. Yet they fear us all the more.They think of us as devils who will some day return through the door todestroy them. So they watch everywhere. We lie quietly smiling in ourcamouflaged boats, yet hardly daring to move or think, for fear thatthe faintest echoes of our doings will give them a clue. Hundreds ofmillions of years pass by. They seem to us no more than drugged hoursin a prison.    Theodor rubbed his eyes and pushed his chair back from the table. Weneed a break.     Frieda agreed wearily. We've gone through everything.     Good idea, Edmund said briskly. I think we've hit on several crucialpoints along the way and half disentangled them from the great mass ofinconsequential material. I'll finish up that part of the job right nowand present my case when we're all a bit fresher. Say half an hour?     Theodor nodded heavily, pushing up from his chair and hitching hiscloak over a shoulder.     I'm going out for a drink, he informed them.     After several hesitant seconds, Rosalind quietly followed him. Friedastretched out on a couch and closed her eyes. Edmund scanned microfilmstirelessly, every now and then setting one aside.     Celeste watched him for a minute, then sprang up and started toward theroom where Dotty was asleep. But midway she stopped.       Not my child     , she thought bitterly.      Frieda's her mother, Rosalindher nurse. I'm nothing at all. Just one of the husband's girl friends.A lady of uneasy virtue in a dissolving world.       But then she straightened her shoulders and went on.  Rosalind didn't catch up with Theodor. Her footsteps were silent andhe never looked back along the path whose feeble white glow rose onlyknee-high, lighting a low strip of shrub and mossy tree trunk to eitherside, no more.     It was a little chilly. She drew on her gloves, but she didn't hurry.In fact, she fell farther and farther behind the dipping tail ofhis scarlet cloak and his plodding red shoes, which seemed to movedisembodied, like those in the fairy tale.     When she reached the point where she had found Ivan's briefcase, shestopped altogether.     A breeze rustled the leaves, and, moistly brushing her cheek, broughtforest scents of rot and mold. After a bit she began to hear thefurtive scurryings and scuttlings of forest creatures.     She looked around her half-heartedly, suddenly realizing the futilityof her quest. What clues could she hope to find in this knee-hightwilight? And they'd thoroughly combed the place earlier in the night.     Without warning, an eerie tingling went through her and she was seizedby a horror of the cold, grainy Earth underfoot—an ancestral terrorfrom the days when men shivered at ghost stories about graves and tombs.     A tiny detail persisted in bulking larger and larger in her mind—theunnaturalness of the way the Earth had impregnated the corner of Ivan'sbriefcase, almost as if dirt and leather co-existed in the same space.She remembered the queer way the partly buried briefcase had resistedher first tug, like a rooted plant.     She felt cowed by the mysterious night about her, and literallydwarfed, as if she had grown several inches shorter. She roused herselfand started forward.     Something held her feet.     They were ankle-deep in the path. While she looked in fright andhorror, they began to sink still lower into the ground.     She plunged frantically, trying to jerk loose. She couldn't. She hadthe panicky feeling that the Earth had not only trapped but invadedher; that its molecules were creeping up between the molecules of herflesh; that the two were becoming one.     And she was sinking faster. Now knee-deep, thigh-deep, hip-deep,waist-deep. She beat at the powdery path with her hands and threw herbody from side to side in agonized frenzy like some sinner frozen inthe ice of the innermost circle of the ancients' hell. And always thesense of the dark, grainy tide rose inside as well as around her.     She thought,      he'd just have had time to scribble that note on hisbriefcase and toss it away.     She jerked off a glove, leaned out asfar as she could, and made a frantic effort to drive its fingers intothe powdery path. Then the Earth mounted to her chin, her nose, andcovered her eyes.     She expected blackness, but it was as if the light of the path stayedwith her, making a little glow all around. She saw roots, pebbles,black rot, worn tunnels, worms. Tier on tier of them, her visionpenetrating the solid ground. And at the same time, the knowledge thatthese same sorts of things were coursing up through her.  And still she continued to sink at a speed that increased, as if thelaw of gravitation applied to her in a diminished way. She dropped fromblack soil through gray clay and into pale limestone.       Her tortured, rock-permeated lungs sucked at rock and drew in air. Shewondered madly if a volume of air were falling with her through thestone.     A glitter of quartz. The momentary openness of a foot-high cavernwith a trickle of water. And then she was sliding down a black basaltcolumn, half inside it, half inside gold-flecked ore. Then just blackbasalt. And always faster.     It grew hot, then hotter, as if she were approaching the mythicaleternal fires.  At first glance Theodor thought the Deep Space Bar was empty. Then hesaw a figure hunched monkeylike on the last stool, almost lost in theblue shadows, while behind the bar, her crystal dress blending with thetiers of sparkling glasses, stood a grave-eyed young girl who couldhardly have been fifteen.     The TV was saying, ... in addition, a number of mysteriousdisappearances of high-rating individuals have been reported. Theseare thought to be cases of misunderstanding, illusory apprehension,and impulse traveling—a result of the unusual stresses of the time.Finally, a few suggestible individuals in various parts of the globe,especially the Indian Peninsula, have declared themselves to be 'gods'and in some way responsible for current events.     It is thought—     The girl switched off the TV and took Theodor's order, explainingcasually, Joe wanted to go to a Kometevskyite meeting, so I took overfor him. When she had prepared Theodor's highball, she announced,I'll have a drink with you gentlemen, and squeezed herself a glass ofpomegranate juice.     The monkeylike figure muttered, Scotch-and-soda, then turned towardEdmund and asked, And what is your reaction to all this, sir?  Theodor recognized the shrunken wrinkle-seamed face. It was ColonelFortescue, a military antique long retired from the Peace Patrol andreputed to have seen actual fighting in the Last Age of Madness. Now,for some reason, the face sported a knowing smile.     Theodor shrugged. Just then the TV big news light blinked blue andthe girl switched on audio. The Colonel winked at Theodor.     ... confirming the disappearance of Jupiter's moons. But two otherutterly fantastic reports have just been received. First, LunarObservatory One says that it is visually tracking fourteen small bodieswhich it believes may be the lost moons of Jupiter. They are movingoutward from the Solar System at an incredible velocity and are alreadybeyond the orbit of Saturn!     The Colonel said, Ah!     Second, Palomar reports a large number of dark bodies approaching theSolar System at an equally incredible velocity. They are at about twicethe distance of Pluto, but closing in fast! We will be on the air withfurther details as soon as possible.     The Colonel said, Ah-ha!     Theodor stared at him. The old man's self-satisfied poise was almostamusing.     Are you a Kometevskyite? Theodor asked him.     The Colonel laughed. Of course not, my boy. Those poor people arefumbling in the dark. Don't you see what's happened?     Frankly, no.     The Colonel leaned toward Theodor and whispered gruffly, The DivinePlan. God is a military strategist, naturally.     Then he lifted the scotch-and-soda in his clawlike hand and took asatisfying swallow.     I knew it all along, of course, he went on musingly, but this lastnews makes it as plain as a rocket blast, at least to anyone who knowsmilitary strategy. Look here, my boy, suppose you were commanding afleet and got wind of the enemy's approach—what would you do? Why,you'd send your scouts and destroyers fanning out toward them. Behindthat screen you'd mass your heavy ships. Then—     You don't mean to imply— Theodor interrupted.     The girl behind the bar looked at them both cryptically.     Of course I do! the Colonel cut in sharply. It's a war between theforces of good and evil. The bright suns and planets are on one side,the dark on the other. The moons are the destroyers, Jupiter andSaturn are the big battleships, while we're on a heavy cruiser, I'mproud to say. We'll probably go into action soon. Be a corking fight,what? And all by divine strategy!     He chuckled and took another big drink. Theodor looked at him sourly.The girl behind the bar polished a glass and said nothing.  Dotty suddenly began to turn and toss, and a look of terror came overher sleeping face. Celeste leaned forward apprehensively.     The child's lips worked and Celeste made out the sleepy-fuzzy words:They've found out where we're hiding. They're coming to get us. No!Please, no!     Celeste's reactions were mixed. She felt worried about Dotty and atthe same time almost in terror of her, as if the little girl were anagent of supernatural forces. She told herself that this fear was anexpression of her own hostility, yet she didn't really believe it. Shetouched the child's hand.     Dotty's eyes opened without making Celeste feel she had quite comeawake. After a bit she looked at Celeste and her little lips parted ina smile.     Hello, she said sleepily. I've been having such funny dreams. Then,after a pause, frowning, I really am a god, you know. It feels veryqueer.     Yes, dear? Celeste prompted uneasily. Shall I call Frieda?     The smile left Dotty's lips. Why do you act so nervous around me? sheasked. Don't you love me, Mummy?     Celeste started at the word. Her throat closed. Then, very slowly, herface broke into a radiant smile. Of course I do, darling. I love youvery much.     Dotty nodded happily, her eyes already closed again.     There was a sudden flurry of excited voices beyond the door. Celesteheard her name called. She stood up.     I'm going to have to go out and talk with the others, she said. Ifyou want me, dear, just call.     Yes, Mummy.  Edmund rapped for attention. Celeste, Frieda, and Theodor glancedaround at him. He looked more frightfully strained, they realized, thaneven they felt. His expression was a study in suppressed excitement,but there were also signs of a knowledge that was almost toooverpowering for a human being to bear.     His voice was clipped, rapid. I think it's about time we stoppedworrying about our own affairs and thought of those of the SolarSystem, partly because I think they have a direct bearing on thedisappearances of Ivan end Rosalind. As I told you, I've been sortingout the crucial items from the material we've been presenting. Thereare roughly four of those items, as I see it. It's rather like amystery story. I wonder if, hearing those four clues, you will come tothe same conclusion I have.     The others nodded.     First, there are the latest reports from Deep Shaft, which, asyou know, has been sunk to investigate deep-Earth conditions. Atapproximately twenty-nine miles below the surface, the delvers haveencountered a metallic obstruction which they have tentatively namedthe durasphere. It resists their hardest drills, their strongestcorrosives. They have extended a side-tunnel at that level for aquarter of a mile. Delicate measurements, made possible by themirror-smooth metal surface, show that the durasphere has a slightcurvature that is almost exactly equal to the curvature of the Earthitself. The suggestion is that deep borings made anywhere in the worldwould encounter the durasphere at the same depth.     Second, the movements of the moons of Mars and Jupiter, andparticularly the debris left behind by the moons of Mars. GrantingPhobos and Deimos had duraspheres proportional in size to that ofEarth, then the debris would roughly equal in amount the material inthose two duraspheres' rocky envelopes. The suggestion is that thetwo duraspheres suddenly burst from their envelopes with such titanicvelocity as to leave those disrupted envelopes behind.     It was deadly quiet in the committee room.     Thirdly, the disappearances of Ivan and Rosalind, and especiallythe baffling hint—from Ivan's message in one case and Rosalind'sdownward-pointing glove in the other—that they were both somehow drawninto the depths of the Earth.     Finally, the dreams of the ESPs, which agree overwhelmingly in thefollowing points: A group of beings separate themselves from a godlikeand telepathic race because they insist on maintaining a degree ofmental privacy. They flee in great boats or ships of some sort. Theyare pursued on such a scale that there is no hiding place for themanywhere in the universe. In some manner they successfully camouflagetheir ships. Eons pass and their still-fanatical pursuers do notpenetrate their secret. Then, suddenly, they are detected.     Edmund waited. Do you see what I'm driving at? he asked hoarsely.  He could tell from their looks that the others did, but couldn't bringthemselves to put it into words.     I suppose it's the time-scale and the value-scale that are so hard forus to accept, he said softly. Much more, even, than the size-scale.The thought that there are creatures in the Universe to whom the wholecareer of Man—in fact, the whole career of life—is no more than a fewthousand or hundred thousand years. And to whom Man is no more than aminor stage property—a trifling part of a clever job of camouflage.     This time he went on, Fantasy writers have at times hinted all sortsof odd things about the Earth—that it might even be a kind of singleliving creature, or honeycombed with inhabited caverns, and so on.But I don't know that any of them have ever suggested that the Earth,together with all the planets and moons of the Solar System, mightbe....     In a whisper, Frieda finished for him, ... a camouflaged fleet ofgigantic spherical spaceships.           Your guess happens to be the precise truth.          At that familiar, yet dreadly unfamiliar voice, all four of them swungtoward the inner door. Dotty was standing there, a sleep-stupefiedlittle girl with a blanket caught up around her and dragging behind.Their own daughter. But in her eyes was a look from which they cringed.     She said, I am a creature somewhat older than what your geologistscall the Archeozoic Era. I am speaking to you through a number oftelepathically sensitive individuals among your kind. In each case mythoughts suit themselves to your level of comprehension. I inhabit thedisguised and jetless spaceship which is your Earth.     Celeste swayed a step forward. Baby.... she implored.     Dotty went on, without giving her a glance, It is true that we plantedthe seeds of life on some of these planets simply as part of ourcamouflage, just as we gave them a suitable environment for each. Andit is true that now we must let most of that life be destroyed. Ourhiding place has been discovered, our pursuers are upon us, and we mustmake one last effort to escape or do battle, since we firmly believethat the principle of mental privacy to which we have devoted ourexistence is perhaps the greatest good in the whole Universe.     But it is not true that we look with contempt upon you. Our whole raceis deeply devoted to life, wherever it may come into being, and it isour rule never to interfere with its development. That was one ofthe reasons we made life a part of our camouflage—it would make ourpursuers reluctant to examine these planets too closely.     Yes, we have always cherished you and watched your evolution withinterest from our hidden lairs. We may even unconsciously have shapedyour development in certain ways, trying constantly to educate you awayfrom war and finally succeeding—which may have given the betrayingclue to our pursuers.     Your planets must be burst asunder—this particular planet in thearea of the Pacific—so that we may have our last chance to escape.Even if we did not move, our pursuers would destroy you with us. Wecannot invite you inside our ships—not for lack of space, but becauseyou could never survive the vast accelerations to which you would besubjected. You would, you see, need very special accommodations, ofwhich we have enough only for a few.     Those few we will take with us, as the seed from which a new humanrace may—if we ourselves somehow survive—be born.  Rosalind and Ivan stared dumbly at each other across the egg-shapedsilver room, without apparent entrance or exit, in which they weresprawled. But their thoughts were no longer of thirty-odd milejourneys down through solid earth, or of how cool it was after theheat of the passage, or of how grotesque it was to be trapped here,the fragment of a marriage. They were both listening to the voice thatspoke inside their minds.     In a few minutes your bodies will be separated into layers one atomthick, capable of being shelved or stored in such a way as to endurealmost infinite accelerations. Single cells will cover acres of space.But do not be alarmed. The process will be painless and each particlewill be catalogued for future assembly. Your consciousness will endurethroughout the process.     Rosalind looked at her gold-shod toes. She was wondering,      will they gofirst, or my head? Or will I be peeled like an apple?       She looked at Ivan and knew he was thinking the same thing.  Up in the committee room, the other Wolvers slumped around the table.Only little Dotty sat straight and staring, speechless and unanswering,quite beyond their reach, like a telephone off the hook and with theconnection open, but no voice from the other end.     They had just switched off the TV after listening to a confusedmedley of denials, prayers, Kometevskyite chatterings, and a fewastonishingly realistic comments on the possibility of survival.     These last pointed out that, on the side of the Earth opposite thePacific, the convulsions would come slowly when the entombed spaceshipburst forth—provided, as seemed the case, that it moved without jetsor reaction.     It would be as if the Earth's vast core simply vanished. Gravity woulddiminish abruptly to a fraction of its former value. The empty envelopeof rock and water and air would slowly fall together, though at thesame time the air would begin to escape from the debris because therewould no longer be the mass required to hold it.     However, there might be definite chances of temporary and evenprolonged survival for individuals in strong, hermetically sealedstructures, such as submarines and spaceships. The few spaceships onEarth were reported to have blasted off, or be preparing to leave, withas many passengers as could be carried.     But most persons, apparently, could not contemplate action of any sort.They could only sit and think, like the Wolvers.     A faint smile relaxed Celeste's face. She was thinking,      how beautiful!It means the death of the Solar System, which is a horrifyingsubjective concept. Objectively, though, it would be a more awesomesight than any human being has ever seen or ever could see. It's anabsurd and even brutal thing to wish—but I wish I could see the wholecataclysm from beginning to end. It would make death seem very small, atiny personal event.       Dotty's face was losing its blank expression, becoming intent andalarmed.     We are in contact with our pursuers, she said in thefamiliar-unfamiliar voice. Negotiations are now going on. Thereseems to be—there      is     a change in them. Where they were harsh andvindictive before, they now are gentle and conciliatory. She paused,the alarm on her childish features pinching into anxious uncertainty.Our pursuers have always been shrewd. The change in them may be false,intended merely to lull us into allowing them to come close enough todestroy us. We must not fall into the trap by growing hopeful....     They leaned forward, clutching hands, watching the little face asthough it were a television screen. Celeste had the wild feeling thatshe was listening to a communique from a war so unthinkably vast andviolent, between opponents so astronomically huge and nearly immortal,that she felt like no more than a reasoning ameba ... and then realizedwith an explosive urge to laugh that that was exactly the situation.     No! said Dotty. Her eyes began to glow. They      have     changed! Duringthe eons in which we lay sealed away and hidden from them, knowingnothing of them, they have rebelled against the tyranny of a communalmind to which no thoughts are private ... the tyranny that we ourselvesfled to escape. They come not to destroy us, but to welcome us back toa society that we and they can make truly great!  Frieda collapsed to a chair, trembling between laughter and hystericalweeping. Theodor looked as blank as Dotty had while waiting for wordsto speak. Edmund sprang to the picture window, Celeste toward the TVset.     Climbing shakily out of the chair, Frieda stumbled to the picturewindow and peered out beside Edmund. She saw lights bobbing along thepaths with a wild excitement.     On the TV screen, Celeste watched two brightly lit ships spinning inthe sky—whether human spaceships or Phobos and Deimos come to helpEarth rejoice, she couldn't tell.     Dotty spoke again, the joy in her strange voice forcing them to turn.And you, dear children, creatures of our camouflage, we welcomeyou—whatever your future career on these planets or like ones—intothe society of enlightened worlds! You need not feel small and aloneand helpless ever again, for we shall always be with you!     The outer door opened. Ivan and Rosalind reeled in, drunkenly smiling,arm in arm.     Like rockets, Rosalind blurted happily. We came through thedurasphere and solid rock ... shot up right to the surface.     They didn't have to take us along, Ivan added with a bleary grin.But you know that already, don't you? They're too good to let you livein fear, so they must have told you by now.     Yes, we know, said Theodor. They must be almost godlike in theirgoodness. I feel ... calm.     Edmund nodded soberly. Calmer than I ever felt before. It's knowing, Isuppose, that—well, we're not alone.     Dotty blinked and looked around and smiled at them all with a whollylittle-girl smile.     Oh, Mummy, she said, and it was impossible to tell whether she spoketo Frieda or Rosalind or Celeste, I've just had the funniest dream.     No, darling, said Rosalind gently, it's we who had the dream. We'vejust awakened.  ","Throughout the entire story, the narrative gets interrupted by small parts of Dotty's dreams. She has extrasensory abilities, and the semi-god creatures use her and other ESPs to communicate with people. In her dreams, she tells the story of these creatures' life. She speaks about their belief in mental privacy and says that other gods do not want them to have private thoughts and decide to hunt them down. The creatures that value privacy of thoughts create inhabited planets and manage to hide for millions of years from the others. But now they have been found and need to flee again. Dotty’s dreams conceptually explain the origin of the planets of the Solar System and why those need to be destroyed now. Through her dreams, the creatures tell the Earth is their camouflaged spaceship, and they will soon need to live. "
"What is Celeste's attitude towards other members of her family and how does it change? </s>     DR. KOMETEVSKY'S DAY     By FRITZ LEIBER     Illustrated by DAVID STONE     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction February 1952.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]         Before science, there was superstition. After       science, there will be ... what? The biggest,       most staggering     , most final      fact of them all!        But it's all predicted here! It even names this century for the nextreshuffling of the planets.     Celeste Wolver looked up unwillingly at the book her friend MadgeCarnap held aloft like a torch. She made out the ill-stamped title,      The Dance of the Planets     . There was no mistaking the time ofits origin; only paper from the Twentieth Century aged to thatparticularly nasty shade of brown. Indeed, the book seemed to Celestea brown old witch resurrected from the Last Age of Madness to confounda world growing sane, and she couldn't help shrinking back a trifletoward her husband Theodor.     He tried to come to her rescue. Only predicted in the vaguest way. AsI understand it, Kometevsky claimed, on the basis of a lot of evidencedrawn from folklore, that the planets and their moons trade positionsevery so often.     As if they were playing Going to Jerusalem, or musical chairs,Celeste chimed in, but she couldn't make it sound funny.     Jupiter was supposed to have started as the outermost planet, and isto end up in the orbit of Mercury, Theodor continued. Well, nothingat all like that has happened.     But it's begun, Madge said with conviction. Phobos and Deimos havedisappeared. You can't argue away that stubborn little fact.     That was the trouble; you couldn't. Mars' two tiny moons had simplyvanished during a period when, as was generally the case, the eyesof astronomy weren't on them. Just some hundred-odd cubic miles ofrock—the merest cosmic flyspecks—yet they had carried away with themthe security of a whole world.  Looking at the lovely garden landscape around her, Celeste Wolver feltthat in a moment the shrubby hills would begin to roll like waves, thecharmingly aimless paths twist like snakes and sink in the green sea,the sparsely placed skyscrapers dissolve into the misty clouds theypierced.       People must have felt like this     , she thought,      when Aristarches firsthinted and Copernicus told them that the solid Earth under their feetwas falling dizzily through space. Only it's worse for us, because theycouldn't see that anything had changed. We can.       You need something to cling to, she heard Madge say. Dr. Kometevskywas the only person who ever had an inkling that anything like thismight happen. I was never a Kometevskyite before. Hadn't even heard ofthe man.     She said it almost apologetically. In fact, standing there so frank andanxious-eyed, Madge looked anything but a fanatic, which made it muchworse.     Of course, there are several more convincing alternateexplanations.... Theodor began hesitantly, knowing very well thatthere weren't. If Phobos and Deimos had suddenly disintegrated,surely Mars Base would have noticed something. Of course there was theDisordered Space Hypothesis, even if it was little more than the chancephrase of a prominent physicist pounded upon by an eager journalist.And in any case, what sense of security were you left with if youadmitted that moons and planets might explode, or drop through unseenholes in space? So he ended up by taking a different tack: Besides, ifPhobos and Deimos simply shot off somewhere, surely they'd have beenpicked up by now by 'scope or radar.     Two balls of rock just a few miles in diameter? Madge questioned.Aren't they smaller than many of the asteroids? I'm no astronomer, butI think' I'm right.     And of course she was.     She swung the book under her arm. Whew, it's heavy, she observed,adding in slightly scandalized tones, Never been microfilmed. Shesmiled nervously and looked them up and down. Going to a party? sheasked.     Theodor's scarlet cloak and Celeste's green culottes and silver jacketjustified the question, but they shook their heads.     Just the normally flamboyant garb of the family, Celeste said,while Theodor explained, As it happens, we're bound on businessconnected with the disappearance. We Wolvers practically constitutea sub-committee of the Congress for the Discovery of New Purposes.And since a lot of varied material comes to our attention, we'regoing to see if any of it correlates with this bit of astronomicalsleight-of-hand.     Madge nodded. Give you something to do, at any rate. Well, I must beoff. The Buddhist temple has lent us their place for a meeting. Shegave them a woeful grin. See you when the Earth jumps.     Theodor said to Celeste, Come on, dear. We'll be late.     But Celeste didn't want to move too fast. You know, Teddy, she saiduncomfortably, all this reminds me of those old myths where too muchgood fortune is a sure sign of coming disaster. It was just too muchluck, our great-grandparents missing World III and getting the WorldGovernment started a thousand years ahead of schedule. Luck like thatcouldn't last, evidently. Maybe we've gone too fast with a lot ofthings, like space-flight and the Deep Shaft and— she hesitated abit—complex marriages. I'm a woman. I want complete security. Wheream I to find it?     In me, Theodor said promptly.     In you? Celeste questioned, walking slowly. But you're justone-third of my husband. Perhaps I should look for it in Edmund orIvan.     You angry with me about something?     Of course not. But a woman wants her source of security whole. In acrisis like this, it's disturbing to have it divided.     Well, we are a whole and, I believe, indivisible family, Theodortold her warmly. You're not suggesting, are you, that we're going tobe punished for our polygamous sins by a cosmic catastrophe? Fire fromHeaven and all that?     Don't be silly. I just wanted to give you a picture of my feeling.Celeste smiled. I guess none of us realized how much we've come todepend on the idea of unchanging scientific law. Knocks the props fromunder you.     Theodor nodded emphatically. All the more reason to get a line onwhat's happening as quickly as possible. You know, it's fantasticallyfar-fetched, but I think the experience of persons with Extra-SensoryPerception may give us a clue. During the past three or four daysthere's been a remarkable similarity in the dreams of ESPs all over theplanet. I'm going to present the evidence at the meeting.     Celeste looked up at him. So that's why Rosalind's bringing Frieda'sdaughter?     Dotty is your daughter, too, and Rosalind's, Theodor reminded her.     No, just Frieda's, Celeste said bitterly. Of course you may be thefather. One-third of a chance.     Theodor looked at her sharply, but didn't comment. Anyway, Dotty willbe there, he said. Probably asleep by now. All the ESPs have suddenlyseemed to need more sleep.     As they talked, it had been growing darker, though the luminescence ofthe path kept it from being bothersome. And now the cloud rack partedto the east, showing a single red planet low on the horizon.     Did you know, Theodor said suddenly, that in      Gulliver's Travels     Dean Swift predicted that better telescopes would show Mars to have twomoons? He got the sizes and distances and periods damned accurately,too. One of the few really startling coincidences of reality andliterature.     Stop being eerie, Celeste said sharply. But then she went on, Thosenames Phobos and Deimos—they're Greek, aren't they? What do they mean?     Theodor lost a step. Fear and Terror, he said unwillingly. Nowdon't go taking that for an omen. Most of the mythological names ofmajor and minor ancient gods had been taken—the bodies in the SolarSystem are named that way, of course—and these were about all thatwere available.     It was true, but it didn't comfort him much.     I am a God     , Dotty was dreaming,      and I want to be by myself andthink. I and my god-friends like to keep some of our thoughts secret,but the other gods have forbidden us to.       A little smile flickered across the lips of the sleeping girl, andthe woman in gold tights and gold-spangled jacket leaned forwardthoughtfully. In her dignity and simplicity and straight-spined grace,she was rather like a circus mother watching her sick child before shewent out for the trapeze act.       I and my god-friends sail off in our great round silver boats     , Dottywent on dreaming.      The other gods are angry and scared. They arefrightened of the thoughts we may think in secret. They follow us tohunt us down. There are many more of them than of us.    As Celeste and Theodor entered the committee room, Rosalind Wolver—aglitter of platinum against darkness—came in through the oppositedoor and softly shut it behind her. Frieda, a fair woman in blue robes,got up from the round table.     Celeste turned away with outward casualness as Theodor kissed his twoother wives. She was pleased to note that Edmund seemed impatient too.A figure in close-fitting black, unrelieved except for two red arrowsat the collar, he struck her as embodying very properly the serious,fateful temper of the moment.     He took two briefcases from his vest pocket and tossed them down on thetable beside one of the microfilm projectors.     I suggest we get started without waiting for Ivan, he said.     Frieda frowned anxiously. It's ten minutes since he phoned from theDeep Space Bar to say he was starting right away. And that's hardly atwo minutes walk.     Rosalind instantly started toward the outside door.     I'll check, she explained. Oh, Frieda, I've set the mike so you'llhear if Dotty calls.     Edmund threw up his hands. Very well, then, he said and walked over,switched on the picture and stared out moodily.     Theodor and Frieda got out their briefcases, switched on projectors,and began silently checking through their material.     Celeste fiddled with the TV and got a newscast. But she found her eyesdidn't want to absorb the blocks of print that rather swiftly succeededeach other, so, after a few moments, she shrugged impatiently andswitched to audio.     At the noise, the others looked around at her with surprise and someirritation, but in a few moments they were also listening.     The two rocket ships sent out from Mars Base to explore the orbitalpositions of Phobos and Deimos—that is, the volume of space they'd beoccupying if their positions had remained normal—report finding massesof dust and larger debris. The two masses of fine debris are movingin the same orbits and at the same velocities as the two vanishedmoons, and occupy roughly the same volumes of space, though the massof material is hardly a hundredth that of the moons. Physicists haveventured no statements as to whether this constitutes a confirmation ofthe Disintegration Hypothesis.     However, we're mighty pleased at this news here. There's a markedlessening of tension. The finding of the debris—solid, tangiblestuff—seems to lift the whole affair out of the supernatural miasma inwhich some of us have been tempted to plunge it. One-hundredth of themoons has been found.     The rest will also be!     Edmund had turned his back on the window. Frieda and Theodor hadswitched off their projectors.     Meanwhile, Earthlings are going about their business with a minimumof commotion, meeting with considerable calm the strange threat tothe fabric of their Solar System. Many, of course, are assembled inchurches and humanist temples. Kometevskyites have staged helicopterprocessions at Washington, Peking, Pretoria, and Christiana, demandingthat instant preparations be made for—and I quote—'Earth's comingleap through space.' They have also formally challenged all astronomersto produce an explanation other than the one contained in that strangebook so recently conjured from oblivion,      The Dance of the Planets     .     That about winds up the story for the present. There are no newreports from Interplanetary Radar, Astronomy, or the other rocket shipssearching in the extended Mars volume. Nor have any statements beenissued by the various groups working on the problem in Astrophysics,Cosmic Ecology, the Congress for the Discovery of New Purposes, and soforth. Meanwhile, however, we can take courage from the words of a poemwritten even before Dr. Kometevsky's book:   This Earth is not the steadfast place We landsmen build upon; From deep to deep she varies pace, And while she comes is gone. Beneath my feet I feel Her smooth bulk heave and dip; With velvet plunge and soft upreel She swings and steadies to her keel Like a gallant, gallant ship. While the TV voice intoned the poem, growing richer as emotion caughtit up, Celeste looked around her at the others. Frieda, with hertouch of feminine helplessness showing more than ever through herbusiness-like poise. Theodor leaning forward from his scarlet cloakthrown back, smiling the half-smile with which he seemed to face eventhe unknown. Black Edmund, masking a deep uncertainty with a strongshow of decisiveness.     In short, her family. She knew their every quirk and foible. And yetnow they seemed to her a million miles away, figures seen through thewrong end of a telescope.     Were they really a family? Strong sources of mutual strength andsecurity to each other? Or had they merely been playing family,experimenting with their notions of complex marriage like a bunch ofsilly adolescents? Butterflies taking advantage of good weather towing together in a glamorous, artificial dance—until outraged Naturedecided to wipe them out?     As the poem was ending, Celeste saw the door open and Rosalind comeslowly in. The Golden Woman's face was white as the paths she had beentreading.     Just then the TV voice quickened with shock. News! Lunar ObservatoryOne reports that, although Jupiter is just about to pass behind theSun, a good coronagraph of the planet has been obtained. Checked andrechecked, it admits of only one interpretation, which Lunar Onefeels duty-bound to release.      Jupiter's fourteen moons are no longervisible!          The chorus of remarks with which the Wolvers would otherwise havereceived this was checked by one thing: the fact that Rosalind seemednot to hear it. Whatever was on her mind prevented even that incrediblestatement from penetrating.     She walked shakily to the table and put down a briefcase, one end ofwhich was smudged with dirt.     Without looking at them, she said, Ivan left the Deep Space Bartwenty minutes ago, said he was coming straight here. On my way backI searched the path. Midway I found this half-buried in the dirt. Ihad to tug to get it out—almost as if it had been cemented into theground. Do you feel how the dirt seems to be      in     the leather, as ifit had lain for years in the grave?     By now the others were fingering the small case of microfilms they hadseen so many times in Ivan's competent hands. What Rosalind said wastrue. It had a gritty, unwholesome feel to it. Also, it felt strangelyheavy.     And see what's written on it, she added.     They turned it over. Scrawled with white pencil in big, hasty, franticletters were two words:     Going down!     The other gods     , Dotty dreamt,      are combing the whole Universe for us.We have escaped them many times, but now our tricks are almost used up.There are no doors going out of the Universe and our boats are silverbeacons to the hunters. So we decide to disguise them in the only waythey can be disguised. It is our last chance.    Edmund rapped the table to gain the family's attention. I'd say we'vedone everything we can for the moment to find Ivan. We've made athorough local search. A wider one, which we can't conduct personally,is in progress. All helpful agencies have been alerted and descriptionsare being broadcast. I suggest we get on with the business of theevening—which may very well be connected with Ivan's disappearance.     One by one the others nodded and took their places at the round table.Celeste made a great effort to throw off the feeling of unreality thathad engulfed her and focus attention on her microfilms.     I'll take over Ivan's notes, she heard Edmund say. They're mainlyabout the Deep Shaft.     How far have they got with that? Frieda asked idly. Twenty-fivemiles?     Nearer thirty, I believe, Edmund answered, and still going down.     At those last two words they all looked up quickly. Then their eyeswent toward Ivan's briefcase.     Our trick has succeeded     , Dotty dreamt.      The other gods have passedour hiding place a dozen times without noticing. They search theUniverse for us many times in vain. They finally decide that we havefound a door going out of the Universe. Yet they fear us all the more.They think of us as devils who will some day return through the door todestroy them. So they watch everywhere. We lie quietly smiling in ourcamouflaged boats, yet hardly daring to move or think, for fear thatthe faintest echoes of our doings will give them a clue. Hundreds ofmillions of years pass by. They seem to us no more than drugged hoursin a prison.    Theodor rubbed his eyes and pushed his chair back from the table. Weneed a break.     Frieda agreed wearily. We've gone through everything.     Good idea, Edmund said briskly. I think we've hit on several crucialpoints along the way and half disentangled them from the great mass ofinconsequential material. I'll finish up that part of the job right nowand present my case when we're all a bit fresher. Say half an hour?     Theodor nodded heavily, pushing up from his chair and hitching hiscloak over a shoulder.     I'm going out for a drink, he informed them.     After several hesitant seconds, Rosalind quietly followed him. Friedastretched out on a couch and closed her eyes. Edmund scanned microfilmstirelessly, every now and then setting one aside.     Celeste watched him for a minute, then sprang up and started toward theroom where Dotty was asleep. But midway she stopped.       Not my child     , she thought bitterly.      Frieda's her mother, Rosalindher nurse. I'm nothing at all. Just one of the husband's girl friends.A lady of uneasy virtue in a dissolving world.       But then she straightened her shoulders and went on.  Rosalind didn't catch up with Theodor. Her footsteps were silent andhe never looked back along the path whose feeble white glow rose onlyknee-high, lighting a low strip of shrub and mossy tree trunk to eitherside, no more.     It was a little chilly. She drew on her gloves, but she didn't hurry.In fact, she fell farther and farther behind the dipping tail ofhis scarlet cloak and his plodding red shoes, which seemed to movedisembodied, like those in the fairy tale.     When she reached the point where she had found Ivan's briefcase, shestopped altogether.     A breeze rustled the leaves, and, moistly brushing her cheek, broughtforest scents of rot and mold. After a bit she began to hear thefurtive scurryings and scuttlings of forest creatures.     She looked around her half-heartedly, suddenly realizing the futilityof her quest. What clues could she hope to find in this knee-hightwilight? And they'd thoroughly combed the place earlier in the night.     Without warning, an eerie tingling went through her and she was seizedby a horror of the cold, grainy Earth underfoot—an ancestral terrorfrom the days when men shivered at ghost stories about graves and tombs.     A tiny detail persisted in bulking larger and larger in her mind—theunnaturalness of the way the Earth had impregnated the corner of Ivan'sbriefcase, almost as if dirt and leather co-existed in the same space.She remembered the queer way the partly buried briefcase had resistedher first tug, like a rooted plant.     She felt cowed by the mysterious night about her, and literallydwarfed, as if she had grown several inches shorter. She roused herselfand started forward.     Something held her feet.     They were ankle-deep in the path. While she looked in fright andhorror, they began to sink still lower into the ground.     She plunged frantically, trying to jerk loose. She couldn't. She hadthe panicky feeling that the Earth had not only trapped but invadedher; that its molecules were creeping up between the molecules of herflesh; that the two were becoming one.     And she was sinking faster. Now knee-deep, thigh-deep, hip-deep,waist-deep. She beat at the powdery path with her hands and threw herbody from side to side in agonized frenzy like some sinner frozen inthe ice of the innermost circle of the ancients' hell. And always thesense of the dark, grainy tide rose inside as well as around her.     She thought,      he'd just have had time to scribble that note on hisbriefcase and toss it away.     She jerked off a glove, leaned out asfar as she could, and made a frantic effort to drive its fingers intothe powdery path. Then the Earth mounted to her chin, her nose, andcovered her eyes.     She expected blackness, but it was as if the light of the path stayedwith her, making a little glow all around. She saw roots, pebbles,black rot, worn tunnels, worms. Tier on tier of them, her visionpenetrating the solid ground. And at the same time, the knowledge thatthese same sorts of things were coursing up through her.  And still she continued to sink at a speed that increased, as if thelaw of gravitation applied to her in a diminished way. She dropped fromblack soil through gray clay and into pale limestone.       Her tortured, rock-permeated lungs sucked at rock and drew in air. Shewondered madly if a volume of air were falling with her through thestone.     A glitter of quartz. The momentary openness of a foot-high cavernwith a trickle of water. And then she was sliding down a black basaltcolumn, half inside it, half inside gold-flecked ore. Then just blackbasalt. And always faster.     It grew hot, then hotter, as if she were approaching the mythicaleternal fires.  At first glance Theodor thought the Deep Space Bar was empty. Then hesaw a figure hunched monkeylike on the last stool, almost lost in theblue shadows, while behind the bar, her crystal dress blending with thetiers of sparkling glasses, stood a grave-eyed young girl who couldhardly have been fifteen.     The TV was saying, ... in addition, a number of mysteriousdisappearances of high-rating individuals have been reported. Theseare thought to be cases of misunderstanding, illusory apprehension,and impulse traveling—a result of the unusual stresses of the time.Finally, a few suggestible individuals in various parts of the globe,especially the Indian Peninsula, have declared themselves to be 'gods'and in some way responsible for current events.     It is thought—     The girl switched off the TV and took Theodor's order, explainingcasually, Joe wanted to go to a Kometevskyite meeting, so I took overfor him. When she had prepared Theodor's highball, she announced,I'll have a drink with you gentlemen, and squeezed herself a glass ofpomegranate juice.     The monkeylike figure muttered, Scotch-and-soda, then turned towardEdmund and asked, And what is your reaction to all this, sir?  Theodor recognized the shrunken wrinkle-seamed face. It was ColonelFortescue, a military antique long retired from the Peace Patrol andreputed to have seen actual fighting in the Last Age of Madness. Now,for some reason, the face sported a knowing smile.     Theodor shrugged. Just then the TV big news light blinked blue andthe girl switched on audio. The Colonel winked at Theodor.     ... confirming the disappearance of Jupiter's moons. But two otherutterly fantastic reports have just been received. First, LunarObservatory One says that it is visually tracking fourteen small bodieswhich it believes may be the lost moons of Jupiter. They are movingoutward from the Solar System at an incredible velocity and are alreadybeyond the orbit of Saturn!     The Colonel said, Ah!     Second, Palomar reports a large number of dark bodies approaching theSolar System at an equally incredible velocity. They are at about twicethe distance of Pluto, but closing in fast! We will be on the air withfurther details as soon as possible.     The Colonel said, Ah-ha!     Theodor stared at him. The old man's self-satisfied poise was almostamusing.     Are you a Kometevskyite? Theodor asked him.     The Colonel laughed. Of course not, my boy. Those poor people arefumbling in the dark. Don't you see what's happened?     Frankly, no.     The Colonel leaned toward Theodor and whispered gruffly, The DivinePlan. God is a military strategist, naturally.     Then he lifted the scotch-and-soda in his clawlike hand and took asatisfying swallow.     I knew it all along, of course, he went on musingly, but this lastnews makes it as plain as a rocket blast, at least to anyone who knowsmilitary strategy. Look here, my boy, suppose you were commanding afleet and got wind of the enemy's approach—what would you do? Why,you'd send your scouts and destroyers fanning out toward them. Behindthat screen you'd mass your heavy ships. Then—     You don't mean to imply— Theodor interrupted.     The girl behind the bar looked at them both cryptically.     Of course I do! the Colonel cut in sharply. It's a war between theforces of good and evil. The bright suns and planets are on one side,the dark on the other. The moons are the destroyers, Jupiter andSaturn are the big battleships, while we're on a heavy cruiser, I'mproud to say. We'll probably go into action soon. Be a corking fight,what? And all by divine strategy!     He chuckled and took another big drink. Theodor looked at him sourly.The girl behind the bar polished a glass and said nothing.  Dotty suddenly began to turn and toss, and a look of terror came overher sleeping face. Celeste leaned forward apprehensively.     The child's lips worked and Celeste made out the sleepy-fuzzy words:They've found out where we're hiding. They're coming to get us. No!Please, no!     Celeste's reactions were mixed. She felt worried about Dotty and atthe same time almost in terror of her, as if the little girl were anagent of supernatural forces. She told herself that this fear was anexpression of her own hostility, yet she didn't really believe it. Shetouched the child's hand.     Dotty's eyes opened without making Celeste feel she had quite comeawake. After a bit she looked at Celeste and her little lips parted ina smile.     Hello, she said sleepily. I've been having such funny dreams. Then,after a pause, frowning, I really am a god, you know. It feels veryqueer.     Yes, dear? Celeste prompted uneasily. Shall I call Frieda?     The smile left Dotty's lips. Why do you act so nervous around me? sheasked. Don't you love me, Mummy?     Celeste started at the word. Her throat closed. Then, very slowly, herface broke into a radiant smile. Of course I do, darling. I love youvery much.     Dotty nodded happily, her eyes already closed again.     There was a sudden flurry of excited voices beyond the door. Celesteheard her name called. She stood up.     I'm going to have to go out and talk with the others, she said. Ifyou want me, dear, just call.     Yes, Mummy.  Edmund rapped for attention. Celeste, Frieda, and Theodor glancedaround at him. He looked more frightfully strained, they realized, thaneven they felt. His expression was a study in suppressed excitement,but there were also signs of a knowledge that was almost toooverpowering for a human being to bear.     His voice was clipped, rapid. I think it's about time we stoppedworrying about our own affairs and thought of those of the SolarSystem, partly because I think they have a direct bearing on thedisappearances of Ivan end Rosalind. As I told you, I've been sortingout the crucial items from the material we've been presenting. Thereare roughly four of those items, as I see it. It's rather like amystery story. I wonder if, hearing those four clues, you will come tothe same conclusion I have.     The others nodded.     First, there are the latest reports from Deep Shaft, which, asyou know, has been sunk to investigate deep-Earth conditions. Atapproximately twenty-nine miles below the surface, the delvers haveencountered a metallic obstruction which they have tentatively namedthe durasphere. It resists their hardest drills, their strongestcorrosives. They have extended a side-tunnel at that level for aquarter of a mile. Delicate measurements, made possible by themirror-smooth metal surface, show that the durasphere has a slightcurvature that is almost exactly equal to the curvature of the Earthitself. The suggestion is that deep borings made anywhere in the worldwould encounter the durasphere at the same depth.     Second, the movements of the moons of Mars and Jupiter, andparticularly the debris left behind by the moons of Mars. GrantingPhobos and Deimos had duraspheres proportional in size to that ofEarth, then the debris would roughly equal in amount the material inthose two duraspheres' rocky envelopes. The suggestion is that thetwo duraspheres suddenly burst from their envelopes with such titanicvelocity as to leave those disrupted envelopes behind.     It was deadly quiet in the committee room.     Thirdly, the disappearances of Ivan and Rosalind, and especiallythe baffling hint—from Ivan's message in one case and Rosalind'sdownward-pointing glove in the other—that they were both somehow drawninto the depths of the Earth.     Finally, the dreams of the ESPs, which agree overwhelmingly in thefollowing points: A group of beings separate themselves from a godlikeand telepathic race because they insist on maintaining a degree ofmental privacy. They flee in great boats or ships of some sort. Theyare pursued on such a scale that there is no hiding place for themanywhere in the universe. In some manner they successfully camouflagetheir ships. Eons pass and their still-fanatical pursuers do notpenetrate their secret. Then, suddenly, they are detected.     Edmund waited. Do you see what I'm driving at? he asked hoarsely.  He could tell from their looks that the others did, but couldn't bringthemselves to put it into words.     I suppose it's the time-scale and the value-scale that are so hard forus to accept, he said softly. Much more, even, than the size-scale.The thought that there are creatures in the Universe to whom the wholecareer of Man—in fact, the whole career of life—is no more than a fewthousand or hundred thousand years. And to whom Man is no more than aminor stage property—a trifling part of a clever job of camouflage.     This time he went on, Fantasy writers have at times hinted all sortsof odd things about the Earth—that it might even be a kind of singleliving creature, or honeycombed with inhabited caverns, and so on.But I don't know that any of them have ever suggested that the Earth,together with all the planets and moons of the Solar System, mightbe....     In a whisper, Frieda finished for him, ... a camouflaged fleet ofgigantic spherical spaceships.           Your guess happens to be the precise truth.          At that familiar, yet dreadly unfamiliar voice, all four of them swungtoward the inner door. Dotty was standing there, a sleep-stupefiedlittle girl with a blanket caught up around her and dragging behind.Their own daughter. But in her eyes was a look from which they cringed.     She said, I am a creature somewhat older than what your geologistscall the Archeozoic Era. I am speaking to you through a number oftelepathically sensitive individuals among your kind. In each case mythoughts suit themselves to your level of comprehension. I inhabit thedisguised and jetless spaceship which is your Earth.     Celeste swayed a step forward. Baby.... she implored.     Dotty went on, without giving her a glance, It is true that we plantedthe seeds of life on some of these planets simply as part of ourcamouflage, just as we gave them a suitable environment for each. Andit is true that now we must let most of that life be destroyed. Ourhiding place has been discovered, our pursuers are upon us, and we mustmake one last effort to escape or do battle, since we firmly believethat the principle of mental privacy to which we have devoted ourexistence is perhaps the greatest good in the whole Universe.     But it is not true that we look with contempt upon you. Our whole raceis deeply devoted to life, wherever it may come into being, and it isour rule never to interfere with its development. That was one ofthe reasons we made life a part of our camouflage—it would make ourpursuers reluctant to examine these planets too closely.     Yes, we have always cherished you and watched your evolution withinterest from our hidden lairs. We may even unconsciously have shapedyour development in certain ways, trying constantly to educate you awayfrom war and finally succeeding—which may have given the betrayingclue to our pursuers.     Your planets must be burst asunder—this particular planet in thearea of the Pacific—so that we may have our last chance to escape.Even if we did not move, our pursuers would destroy you with us. Wecannot invite you inside our ships—not for lack of space, but becauseyou could never survive the vast accelerations to which you would besubjected. You would, you see, need very special accommodations, ofwhich we have enough only for a few.     Those few we will take with us, as the seed from which a new humanrace may—if we ourselves somehow survive—be born.  Rosalind and Ivan stared dumbly at each other across the egg-shapedsilver room, without apparent entrance or exit, in which they weresprawled. But their thoughts were no longer of thirty-odd milejourneys down through solid earth, or of how cool it was after theheat of the passage, or of how grotesque it was to be trapped here,the fragment of a marriage. They were both listening to the voice thatspoke inside their minds.     In a few minutes your bodies will be separated into layers one atomthick, capable of being shelved or stored in such a way as to endurealmost infinite accelerations. Single cells will cover acres of space.But do not be alarmed. The process will be painless and each particlewill be catalogued for future assembly. Your consciousness will endurethroughout the process.     Rosalind looked at her gold-shod toes. She was wondering,      will they gofirst, or my head? Or will I be peeled like an apple?       She looked at Ivan and knew he was thinking the same thing.  Up in the committee room, the other Wolvers slumped around the table.Only little Dotty sat straight and staring, speechless and unanswering,quite beyond their reach, like a telephone off the hook and with theconnection open, but no voice from the other end.     They had just switched off the TV after listening to a confusedmedley of denials, prayers, Kometevskyite chatterings, and a fewastonishingly realistic comments on the possibility of survival.     These last pointed out that, on the side of the Earth opposite thePacific, the convulsions would come slowly when the entombed spaceshipburst forth—provided, as seemed the case, that it moved without jetsor reaction.     It would be as if the Earth's vast core simply vanished. Gravity woulddiminish abruptly to a fraction of its former value. The empty envelopeof rock and water and air would slowly fall together, though at thesame time the air would begin to escape from the debris because therewould no longer be the mass required to hold it.     However, there might be definite chances of temporary and evenprolonged survival for individuals in strong, hermetically sealedstructures, such as submarines and spaceships. The few spaceships onEarth were reported to have blasted off, or be preparing to leave, withas many passengers as could be carried.     But most persons, apparently, could not contemplate action of any sort.They could only sit and think, like the Wolvers.     A faint smile relaxed Celeste's face. She was thinking,      how beautiful!It means the death of the Solar System, which is a horrifyingsubjective concept. Objectively, though, it would be a more awesomesight than any human being has ever seen or ever could see. It's anabsurd and even brutal thing to wish—but I wish I could see the wholecataclysm from beginning to end. It would make death seem very small, atiny personal event.       Dotty's face was losing its blank expression, becoming intent andalarmed.     We are in contact with our pursuers, she said in thefamiliar-unfamiliar voice. Negotiations are now going on. Thereseems to be—there      is     a change in them. Where they were harsh andvindictive before, they now are gentle and conciliatory. She paused,the alarm on her childish features pinching into anxious uncertainty.Our pursuers have always been shrewd. The change in them may be false,intended merely to lull us into allowing them to come close enough todestroy us. We must not fall into the trap by growing hopeful....     They leaned forward, clutching hands, watching the little face asthough it were a television screen. Celeste had the wild feeling thatshe was listening to a communique from a war so unthinkably vast andviolent, between opponents so astronomically huge and nearly immortal,that she felt like no more than a reasoning ameba ... and then realizedwith an explosive urge to laugh that that was exactly the situation.     No! said Dotty. Her eyes began to glow. They      have     changed! Duringthe eons in which we lay sealed away and hidden from them, knowingnothing of them, they have rebelled against the tyranny of a communalmind to which no thoughts are private ... the tyranny that we ourselvesfled to escape. They come not to destroy us, but to welcome us back toa society that we and they can make truly great!  Frieda collapsed to a chair, trembling between laughter and hystericalweeping. Theodor looked as blank as Dotty had while waiting for wordsto speak. Edmund sprang to the picture window, Celeste toward the TVset.     Climbing shakily out of the chair, Frieda stumbled to the picturewindow and peered out beside Edmund. She saw lights bobbing along thepaths with a wild excitement.     On the TV screen, Celeste watched two brightly lit ships spinning inthe sky—whether human spaceships or Phobos and Deimos come to helpEarth rejoice, she couldn't tell.     Dotty spoke again, the joy in her strange voice forcing them to turn.And you, dear children, creatures of our camouflage, we welcomeyou—whatever your future career on these planets or like ones—intothe society of enlightened worlds! You need not feel small and aloneand helpless ever again, for we shall always be with you!     The outer door opened. Ivan and Rosalind reeled in, drunkenly smiling,arm in arm.     Like rockets, Rosalind blurted happily. We came through thedurasphere and solid rock ... shot up right to the surface.     They didn't have to take us along, Ivan added with a bleary grin.But you know that already, don't you? They're too good to let you livein fear, so they must have told you by now.     Yes, we know, said Theodor. They must be almost godlike in theirgoodness. I feel ... calm.     Edmund nodded soberly. Calmer than I ever felt before. It's knowing, Isuppose, that—well, we're not alone.     Dotty blinked and looked around and smiled at them all with a whollylittle-girl smile.     Oh, Mummy, she said, and it was impossible to tell whether she spoketo Frieda or Rosalind or Celeste, I've just had the funniest dream.     No, darling, said Rosalind gently, it's we who had the dream. We'vejust awakened.  ","From the beginning, Celeste seems to struggle with her complex marriage. She finds it hard to find complete security in three men simultaneously. In a crisis, it’s disturbing for her to have her source of security divided into three. She also cannot accept that Dotty is her daughter because the girl was born from Frieda. Celeste points out that the probability of Dotty being Theodor’s daughter is only one-third. She reckons that humanity might have gone too far with some things, including monogamous marriages. While in the committee room, she tries to determine if they are a true family or just experimenting with their relationship. The family members seem both familiar and unfamiliar to her. When she wants to check up on Dotty, she thinks that she is no one to the girl but still goes on. Dotty, after a small chat, makes Celeste say that she loves her. In the end, the reader understands that, no matter what Celeste’s feelings are, Dotty loves all three women and considers them mothers. "
"What is the plot of the story? </s>     BREAKDOWN     By HERBERT D. KASTLE     Illustrated by COWLES     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Magazine June 1961.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]       He didn't know exactly when it had started, but it had been going onfor weeks. Edna begged him to see the doctor living in that new housetwo miles past Dugan's farm, but he refused. He point-blank refused toadmit he was sick      that     way—in the head!     Of course, a man could grow forgetful. He had to admit there weremoments when he had all sorts of mixed-up memories and thoughts in hismind. And sometimes—like right now, lying in bed beside Edna, watchingthe first hint of light touch the windows—he began sweating with fear.A horrible, gut-wrenching fear, all the more horrible because it wasbased on nothing.     The chicken-run came alive; the barn followed minutes later. There werechores to do, the same chores he'd done all his forty-one years. Exceptthat now, with the new regulations about wheat and corn, he had onlya vegetable patch to farm. Sure, he got paid for letting the fieldsremain empty. But it just didn't seem right, all that land going towaste....       Davie. Blond hair and a round, tanned face and strong arms growingstronger each day from helping out after school.       He turned and shook Edna. What happened to Davie?     She cleared her throat, mumbled, Huh? What happened to who?     I said, what.... But then it slipped away. Davie? No, that was partof a dream he'd had last week. He and Edna had no children.     He felt the fear again, and got up fast to escape it. Edna opened hereyes as soon as his weight left the bed. Like hotcakes for breakfast?     Eggs, he said. Bacon. And then, seeing her face change, heremembered. Course, he muttered. Can't have bacon. Rationed.     She was fully awake now. If you'd only go see Dr. Hamming, Harry. Justfor a checkup. Or let me call him so he could—     You stop that! You stop that right now, and for good! I don't want tohear no more about doctors. I get laid up, I'll call one. And it won'tbe that Hamming who I ain't never seen in my life! It'll be Timkins,who took care'n us and brought our son into the world and....     She began to cry, and he realized he'd said something crazy again. Theyhad no son, never had a son. And Timkins—he'd died and they'd gone tohis funeral. Or so Edna said.     He himself just couldn't remember it.     He went to the bed and sat down beside her. Sorry. That was just adream I had. I'm still half asleep this morning. Couldn't fall off lastnight, not till real late. Guess I'm a little nervous, what with allthe new regulations and not working regular. I never meant we had ason. He waited then, hoping she'd say they      had     had a son, and he'ddied or gone away. But of course she didn't.  He went to the bathroom and washed. By the time he came to the kitchen,Edna had hotcakes on a plate and coffee in a cup. He sat down and ate.Part way through the meal, he paused. Got an awful craving for meat,he said. Goddam those rations! Man can't even butcher his own stockfor his own table!     We're having meat for lunch, she said placatingly. Nice cut ofmulti-pro.     Multi-pro, he scoffed. God knows what's in it. Like spam put througha grinder a hundred times and then baked into slabs. Can't hardly tasteany meat there.     Well, we got no choice. Country's on emergency rations. The currentcrisis, you know.     The way she said it irritated him. Like it was Scripture; like no onecould question one word of it without being damned to Hell. He finishedquickly and without speaking went on out to the barn.     He milked and curried and fed and cleaned, and still was done insideof two hours. Then he walked slowly, head down, across the hay-strewnfloor. He stopped, put out his hand as if to find a pole or beam thatwas too familiar to require raising his eyes, and almost fell as heleaned in that direction. Regaining his balance after a sidewardstaggering shuffle, he looked around, startled. Why, this ain't theway I had my barn....     He heard his own voice, and stopped. He fought the flash of senselesspanic. Of course this was the way he'd had his barn built, because it      was     his barn!     He rubbed his hard hands together and said aloud, Get down to thepatch. Them tomatoes need fertilizer for tang. He walked outside andtook a deep breath. Air was different, wasn't it? Sweet and pure andclean, like country air always was and always would be; but still,different somehow. Maybe sharper. Or was sharp the word? Maybe....     He went quickly across the yard, past the pig-pen—he'd had twelvepigs, hadn't he? Now he had four—behind the house to where thehalf-acre truck farm lay greening in the sun. He got to work. Sometimelater, Edna called to him. Delivery last night, Harry. I took some.Pick up rest?     Yes, he shouted.     She disappeared.     He walked slowly back to the house. As he came into the front yard,moving toward the road and the supply bin, something occurred to him.      The car.     He hadn't seen the old Chevvy in ... how long? It'd be niceto take a ride to town, see a movie, maybe have a few beers.     No. It was against the travel regulations. He couldn't go further thanWalt and Gloria Shanks' place. They couldn't go further than his. Andthe gas rationing. Besides, he'd sold the car, hadn't he? Because itwas no use to him lying in the tractor shed.  He whirled, staring out across the fields to his left. Why, the tractorshed had stood just fifty feet from the house!     No, he'd torn it down. The tractor was in town, being overhauled andall. He was leaving it there until he had use for it.     He went on toward the road, his head beginning to throb. Why shoulda man his age, hardly sick at all since he was a kid, suddenly startlosing hold this way? Edna was worried. The Shanks had noticed it too.     He was at the supply bin—like an old-fashioned wood bin; a box witha sloping flap lid. Deliveries of food and clothing and home medicinesand other things were left here. You wrote down what you needed, andthey left it—or whatever they allowed you—with a bill. You paid thebill by leaving money in the bin, and the next week you found a receiptand your new stuff and your new bill. And almost always you found somemoney from the government, for not planting wheat or not planting corn.It came out just about even.     He hauled out a sack of flour, half the amount of sugar Edna hadordered, some dried fruit, a new Homekit Medicine Shelf. He carried itinto the house, and noticed a slip of paper pinned to the sugar bag. Atelevision program guide.     Edna hustled over excitedly. Anything good on this week, Harry?     He looked down the listings, and frowned. All old movies. Still onlyone channel. Still only from nine to eleven at night. He gave it toher, turned away; then stopped and waited. He'd said the same thinglast week. And she had said the films were all new to her.     She said it now. Why Harry, I've never seen this movie with ClarkGable. Nor the comedy with Red Skeleton. Nor the other five neither.     I'm gonna lie down, he said flatly. He turned and stepped forward,and found himself facing the stove. Not the door to the hall; thestove. But the door.... he began. He cut himself short. He turned andsaw the door a few feet to the left, beside the table. He went thereand out and up the stairs (they too had moved; they too weren't right)and into the bedroom and lay down. The bedroom was wrong. The bed waswrong. The windows were wrong.     The world was wrong! Lord, the whole damned world was wrong!  Edna didn't wake him, so they had a late lunch. Then he went back tothe barn and let the four cows and four sheep and two horses into thepastures. Then he checked to see that Edna had fed the chickens right.They had only a dozen or so now.     When had he sold the rest? And when had he sold his other livestock?     Or had they died somehow? A rough winter? Disease?     He stood in the yard, a tall, husky man with pale brown hair and a facethat had once been long, lean and strong and was now only long andlean. He blinked gray eyes and tried hard to remember, then turned andwent to the house. Edna was soaking dishes in the sink, according toregulations—one sinkful of dishwater a day. And one tub of bath watertwice a week.     She was looking at him. He realized his anger and confusion must beshowing. He managed a smile. You remember how much we got for ourlivestock, Edna?     Same as everyone else, she said. Government agents paid flat rates.     He remembered then, or thought he did. The headache was back. He wentupstairs and slept again, but this time he had dreams, many of them,and all confused and all frightening. He was glad to get up. And he wasglad to hear Walt and Gloria talking to Edna downstairs.     He washed his face, combed his hair and went down. Walt and Gloria weresitting on the sofa, Edna in the blue armchair. Walt was saying he'dgotten the new TV picture tube he'd ordered. Found it in the supplybin this morning. Spent the whole day installing it according to thebook of directions.     Harry said hi and they all said hi and he sat down and they talkedabout TV and gardens and livestock. Then Harry said, How's Penny?     Fine, Gloria answered. I'm starting her on the kindergarten booknext week.     She's five already? Harry asked.     Almost six, Walt said. Emergency Education Regulations state thatthe child should be five years nine months old before embarking onkindergarten book.     And Frances? Harry asked. Your oldest? She must be startinghigh.... He stopped, because they were all staring at him, and becausehe couldn't remember Frances clearly. Just a joke, he said, laughingand rising. Let's eat. I'm starved.  They ate in the kitchen. They talked—or rather Edna, Gloria and Waltdid. Harry nodded and said uh-huh and used his mouth for chewing.     Walt and Gloria went home at ten-fifteen. They said goodbye at thedoor and Harry walked away. He heard Gloria whispering something aboutDoctor Hamming.     He was sitting in the living room when Edna came in. She was crying.Harry, please see the doctor.     He got up. I'm going out. I might even sleep out!     But why, Harry, why?     He couldn't stand to see her crying. He went to her, kissed her wetcheek, spoke more softly. It'll do me good, like when I was a kid.     If you say so, Harry.     He left quickly. He went outside and across the yard to the road. Helooked up it and down it, to the north and to the south. It was abright night with moon and stars, but he saw nothing, no one. The roadwas empty. It was always empty, except when Walt and Gloria walked overfrom their place a mile or so south. But once it hadn't been empty.Once there'd been cars, people....     He had to do something. Just sitting and looking at the sky wouldn'thelp him. He had to go somewhere, see someone.     He went to the barn and looked for his saddle. There was no saddle. Buthe'd had one hanging right behind the door. Or had he?     He threw a blanket over Plum, the big mare, and tied it with a piece ofwash line. He used another piece for a bridle, since he couldn't findthat either, and didn't bother making a bit. He mounted, and Plum movedout of the barn and onto the road. He headed north, toward town.     Then he realized he couldn't go along the road this way. He'd bereported. Breaking travel regulations was a serious offense. He didn'tknow what they did to you, but it wasn't anything easy like a fine.     He cut into an unfenced, unplanted field.     His headache was back, worse now than it had ever been. His entirehead throbbed, and he leaned forward and put his cheek against Plum'smane. The mare whinnied uneasily, but he kicked her sides and she movedforward. He lay there, just wanting to go somewhere, just wanting toleave his headache and confusion behind.     He didn't know how long it was, but Plum was moving cautiously now. Heraised his head. They were approaching a fence. He noticed a gate offto the right, and pulled the rope so Plum went that way. They reachedthe gate and he got down to open it, and saw the sign. Phineas GrottonFarm. He looked up at the sky, found the constellations, turned hishead, and nodded. He'd started north, and Plum had continued north.He'd crossed land belonging both to himself and the Franklins. Now hewas leaving the Franklin farm. North of the Franklins were the Bessers.Who was this Phineas Grotton? Had he bought out Lon Besser? Butanything like that would've gotten around.     Was he forgetting again?  Well, no matter. Mr. Grotton would have to excuse his trespass. Heopened the gate, led Plum through it, closed the gate. He mounted androde forward, still north, toward the small Pangborn place and afterthe Pangborns the biggest farm in the county—old Wallace Elverton'splace. The fields here, as everywhere in the county, lay fallow. Seemedas if the government had so much grain stored up they'd be able to getalong without crops for years more.     He looked around. Somehow, the country bothered him. He wasn't surewhy, but ... everything was wrong.     His head weighed an agonized ton. He put it down again. Plum wentsedately forward. After a while she stopped. Harry looked up. Anotherfence. And what a fence! About ten feet of heavy steel mesh, topped bythree feet of barbed-wire—five separate strands. What in the world hadSam Pangborn been thinking of to put up a monster like this?     He looked around. The gate should be further west. He rode that way.He found no gate. He turned back, heading east. No gate. Nothing butfence. And wasn't the fence gradually curving inward? He looked back.Yes, there      was     a slight inward curve.     He dismounted and tied Plum to the fence, then stepped back and figuredthe best way to get to the other side.     The best way, the only way, was to claw, clutch and clamber, as theyused to say back when he was a kid.       It took some doing. He tore his shirt on the barbed wire, but he gotover and began walking, straight ahead, due north. The earth changedbeneath his feet. He stooped and touched it. Sand. Hard-packed sand.He'd never seen the like of it in this county.     He walked on. A sound came to him; a rising-falling whisper. Helistened to it, and looked up every so often at the sky, to make surehe was heading in the right direction.     And the sand ended. His shoes plunked over flooring.     Flooring!     He knelt to make sure, and his hand felt wooden planks. He rose, andglanced up to see if he was still outdoors. Then he laughed. It was asick laugh, so he stopped it.     He took another step. His shoes sounded against the wood. He walked.More wood. Wood that went on, as the sand had. And the roaring soundgrowing louder. And the air changing, smelling like air never hadbefore in Cultwait County.  His entire body trembled. His mind trembled too. He walked, and came toa waist-high metal railing, and made a tiny sound deep in his throat.He looked out over water, endless water rolling in endless waves underthe night sky. Crashing water, topped with reflected silver from themoon. Pounding water, filling the air with spray.     He put out his hands and grasped the railing. It was wet. He raiseddamp fingers to his mouth. Salt.     He stepped back, back, and turned and ran. He ran wildly, blindly,until he could run no more. Then he fell, feeling the sand beneath him,and shut his eyes and mind to everything.     Much later, he got up and went to the fence and climbed it. He camedown on the other side and looked around and saw Plum. He walked toher, mounted her, sat still. The thoughts, or dreams, or whatever theywere which had been torturing him these past few weeks began torturinghim again.     It was getting light. His head was splitting.     Davie. His son Davie. Fourteen years old. Going to high school intown....       Town!     He should've gone there in the first place! He would ride east,to the road, then head south, back toward home. That would bring himright down Main Street. Regulations or not, he'd talk to people, findout what was happening.     He kicked Plum's sides. The mare began to move. He kept kicking untilshe broke into a brisk canter. He held on with hands and legs.     Why hadn't he seen the Pangborns and Elvertons lately—a long timelately?       The ocean. He'd seen the ocean. Not a reservoir or lake made byflooding and by damming, but salt water and enormous. An ocean, wherethere could be no ocean. The Pangborns and Elvertons had been wherethat ocean was now. And after the Elvertons had come the Dobsons.And after them the new plastics plant. And after that the city ofCrossville. And after that....       He was passing his own farm. He hadn't come through town, and yet herehe was at his own farm. Could he have forgotten where town was? Couldit be north of his home, not south? Could a man get so confused as toforget things he'd known all his life?     He reached the Shanks' place, and passed it at a trot. Then he wasbeyond their boundaries and breaking regulations again. He stayed onthe road. He went by a small house and saw colored folks in the yard.There'd been no colored folks here. There'd been Eli Bergen and hisfamily and his mother, in a bigger, newer house. The colored folksheard Plum's hooves and looked up and stared. Then a man raised hisvoice. Mistah, you breakin' regulations! Mistah, the police gonnah getyou!  He rode on. He came to another house, neat and white, with threechildren playing on a grassy lawn. They saw him and ran inside. Amoment later, adult voices yelled after him:     You theah! Stop!     Call the sheriff! He's headin' foah Piney Woods!     There was no place called Piney Woods in this county.     Was this how a man's mind went?     He came to another house, and another. He passed ten all told, andpeople shouted at him for breaking regulations, and the last three orfour sounded like Easterners. And their houses looked like pictures ofNew England he'd seen in magazines.     He rode on. He never did come to town. He came to a ten-foot fence witha three-foot barbed-wire extension. He got off Plum and ripped hisclothing climbing. He walked over hard-packed sand, and then wood,and came to a low metal railing. He looked out at the ocean, gleamingin bright sunlight, surging and seething endlessly. He felt the earthsway beneath him. He staggered, and dropped to his hands and knees, andshook his head like a fighter hit too many times. Then he got up andwent back to the fence and heard a sound. It was a familiar sound, yetstrange too. He shaded his eyes against the climbing sun. Then he sawit—a car.      A car!    It was one of those tiny foreign jobs that run on practically no gas atall. It stopped beside him and two men got out. Young men with lined,tired faces; they wore policemen's uniforms. You broke regulations,Mr. Burr. You'll have to come with us.     He nodded. He wanted to. He wanted to be taken care of. He turnedtoward Plum.     The other officer was walking around the horse. Rode her hard, hesaid, and he sounded real worried. Shouldn't have done that, Mr. Burr.We have so very few now....     The officer holding Harry's arm said, Pete.     The officer examining Plum said, It won't make any difference in awhile.     Harry looked at both of them, and felt sharp, personal fear.     Take the horse back to his farm, the officer holding Harry said. Heopened the door of the little car and pushed Harry inside. He wentaround to the driver's side and got behind the wheel and drove away.Harry looked back. Pete was leading Plum after them; not riding him,walking him. He sure must like horses, he said.     Yes.     Am I going to jail?     No.     Where then?     The doctor's place.     They stopped in front of the new house two miles past Dugan's farm.Except he'd never seen it before. Or had he? Everyone seemed to knowabout it—or was everyone only Edna and the Shanks?     He got out of the car. The officer took his arm and led him up thepath. Harry noticed that the new house was big.     When they came inside, he knew it wasn't like any house he'd ever seenor heard of. There was this long central passageway, and dozens ofdoors branched off it on both sides, and stairways went down from it inat least three places that he could see, and at the far end—a good twohundred yards away—a big ramp led upward. And it was all gray plasterwalls and dull black floors and cold white lighting, like a hospital,or a modern factory, or maybe a government building. Except that hedidn't see or hear people.     He did hear      something     ; a low, rumbling noise. The further they camealong the hall, the louder the rumbling grew. It seemed to be deep downsomewhere.  They went through one of the doors on the right, into a windowlessroom. A thin little man with bald head and frameless glasses was there,putting on a white coat. His veiny hands shook. He looked a hundredyears old. Where's Petey? he asked.     Pete's all right, Dad. Just leading a horse back to Burr's farm.     The old man sighed. I didn't know what form it would take. I expectedone or two cases, but I couldn't predict whether it would be gradual orsudden, whether or not it would lead to violence.     No violence, Dad.     Fine, Stan. He looked at Harry. I'm going to give you a littletreatment, Mr. Burr. It'll settle your nerves and make everything....     What happened to Davie? Harry asked, things pushing at his brainagain.     Stan helped him up. Just step this way, Mr. Burr.     He didn't resist. He went through the second door into the room withthe big chair. He sat down and let them strap his arms and legs and letthem lower the metal thing over his head. He felt needles pierce hisscalp and the back of his neck. He let them do what they wanted; hewould let them kill him if they wanted. All he asked was one answer soas to know whether or not he was insane.     What happened to my son Davie?     The old man walked across the room and examined what looked like theinsides of a dozen big radios. He turned, his hand on a switch.     Please, Harry whispered. Just tell me about my son.     The doctor blinked behind his glasses, and then his hand left theswitch. Dead, he said, his voice a rustling of dried leaves. Like somany millions of others. Dead, when the bombs fell. Dead, as everyoneknew they would be and no one did anything to prevent. Dead. Perhapsthe whole world is dead—except for us.     Harry stared at him.  I can't take the time to explain it all. I have too much to do. Justthree of us—myself and my two sons. My wife lost her mind. I shouldhave helped her as I'm helping you.     I don't understand, Harry said. I remember people, and things, andwhere are they now? Dead? People can die, but farms, cities....     I haven't the time, the doctor repeated, voice rising. I have to runa world. Three of us, to run a world! I built it as best I could, buthow large could I make it? The money. The years and years of work. Thepeople calling me insane when they found out ... but a few giving memore money, and the work going on. And those few caught like everyoneelse, unprepared when the holocaust started, unprepared and unable toreach my world. So they died. As I knew they would. As they should haveknown they would.     Harry felt the rumbling beneath him. Engines?     You survived, the doctor said. Your wife. A few hundred others inthe rural areas. One other family in your area. I survived becauseI lived for survival, like a mole deep in the earth, expecting thecatastrophe every minute. I survived because I gave up living tosurvive. He laughed, high and thin.     His son said, Please, Dad....     No! I want to talk to someone      sane     ! You and Petey and I—we're allinsane, you know. Three years now, playing God, waiting for some land,any land, to become habitable. And knowing everything, and surroundedby people who are sane only because I made sure they would knownothing. He stepped forward, glaring at Harry. Now do you understand?I went across the country, picking up a few of the few left alive. Mostwere farmers, and even where some weren't I picked the farmers anyway.Because farmers are what we'll need, and all the rest can evolve later.I put you and the others, eighty-six all told, from every section ofthe country, on my world, the only uncontaminated land left. I gaveyou back your old lives. I couldn't give you big crops because wedon't need big crops. We would only exhaust our limited soil with bigcrops. But I gave you vegetable gardens and livestock and, best of all,      sanity     ! I wiped the insane moments from your minds. I gave you peaceand consigned myself, my sons, my own wife....     He choked and stopped.     Stan ran across the room to the switch. Harry watched him, and hisbrain struggled with an impossible concept. He heard the engines andremembered the ocean on two sides; on four sides had he bothered tocheck south and east; on      all     sides if that fence continued to curveinward. Ocean, and there was no ocean in Iowa.     And this wasn't Iowa.       The explosions had ripped the world, and he'd tried to get to town tosave Davie, and there'd been no town and there'd been no people andthere'd been only death and poison in the air and even those few peopleleft had begun to die, and then the truck with the huge trailer hadcome, the gleaming trailer with the little man and his trembling wifeand his two sons....    Suddenly, he understood. And understanding brought not peace but thegreatest terror he'd ever known. He screamed, We're on.... but theswitch was thrown and there was no more speech. For an hour. Then hegot out of the chair and said, Sure glad I took my wife's advice andcame to see you, Doctor Hamming. I feel better already, and after onlyone.... What do you call these treatments?     Diathermy, the little doctor muttered.     Harry gave him a five-dollar bill. The doctor gave him two singles inchange. That's certainly reasonable enough, Harry said.     The doctor nodded. There's a police officer in the hall. He'll driveyou home so there won't be any trouble with the travel regulations.     Harry said, Thanks. Think we'll ever see the end of travel regulationsand rationing and all the rest of the emergency?     You will, Mr. Burr.     Harry walked to the door.     We're on an ark, the doctor said.     Harry turned around, smiling. What?     A test, Mr. Burr. You passed it. Goodbye.     Harry went home. He told Edna he felt just great! She said she'd beenworried when an officer found Plum wandering on the road; she thoughtmaybe Harry had gone off somewhere and broken travel regulations.     Me? he exclaimed, amazed. Break travel regulations? I'd as soon killa pig!   ","Harry Burr is begged by his wife Edna to go see a doctor because she believes that he is sick in the head. He refuses to believe that anything is wrong, but he does admit that there are times where he lies in fear over nothing and mixes up his memories. The story then jumps to the present, where he begins to think about a blond boy named Davie. Edna is confused because they have no children. Edna brings up seeing a doctor again, he angrily responds that it will only be Timkins who brought their son into the world. Edna tells him they had no son, and Timkins died a while ago. The scene cuts to breakfast, where Harry complains about a lack of meat. Edna explains that there is only multi-pro because of the current crisis in the country. Harry begins to go walk outside, but he experiences more strange memories that don’t add up. He picks up the delivery that Edna ordered. Edna asks if there is anything good on television this week because there is only one channel. After a late lunch, Harry goes to check on the animals again and wonders what happened to the rest of the livestock. Edna tells him that they got the same as everyone else, and he goes upstairs again. When he awakes again, Gloria and Walt have arrived. He asks about Penny and Frances. After they leave, He takes his mare Plum out for a ride, and they arrive at a barbed wire fence area up north. He gets over the wire and continues to walk north, until the earth changes to sand. Then, the sand becomes wooden flooring; there is also a loud roaring sound. When he reaches a waist-high metal railing, he runs back to Plum again. Harry has the idea to ride to town, even if the other neighbors tell him to stop and for somebody to call the police. Soon, two policemen come out to escort him to the doctor. Harry asks the doctor where his son is, and the doctor explains that he is dead like so many millions of others. The doctor tells him he has so many things to do, and he says there are a few remaining people who are still alive. Harry’s brain struggles with the impossible concept, and he thinks about how this is not Iowa. Just as Harry realizes what they are on, the switch is thrown, and he finds himself feeling better from the diathermy treatment. Before Harry leaves, the doctor tests him one last time by telling him that they are on an ark. Harry is confused, which means that the treatment works. He goes home to Edna and is happier than ever. "
"Who is Doctor Hamming, and what are his traits? </s>     BREAKDOWN     By HERBERT D. KASTLE     Illustrated by COWLES     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Magazine June 1961.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]       He didn't know exactly when it had started, but it had been going onfor weeks. Edna begged him to see the doctor living in that new housetwo miles past Dugan's farm, but he refused. He point-blank refused toadmit he was sick      that     way—in the head!     Of course, a man could grow forgetful. He had to admit there weremoments when he had all sorts of mixed-up memories and thoughts in hismind. And sometimes—like right now, lying in bed beside Edna, watchingthe first hint of light touch the windows—he began sweating with fear.A horrible, gut-wrenching fear, all the more horrible because it wasbased on nothing.     The chicken-run came alive; the barn followed minutes later. There werechores to do, the same chores he'd done all his forty-one years. Exceptthat now, with the new regulations about wheat and corn, he had onlya vegetable patch to farm. Sure, he got paid for letting the fieldsremain empty. But it just didn't seem right, all that land going towaste....       Davie. Blond hair and a round, tanned face and strong arms growingstronger each day from helping out after school.       He turned and shook Edna. What happened to Davie?     She cleared her throat, mumbled, Huh? What happened to who?     I said, what.... But then it slipped away. Davie? No, that was partof a dream he'd had last week. He and Edna had no children.     He felt the fear again, and got up fast to escape it. Edna opened hereyes as soon as his weight left the bed. Like hotcakes for breakfast?     Eggs, he said. Bacon. And then, seeing her face change, heremembered. Course, he muttered. Can't have bacon. Rationed.     She was fully awake now. If you'd only go see Dr. Hamming, Harry. Justfor a checkup. Or let me call him so he could—     You stop that! You stop that right now, and for good! I don't want tohear no more about doctors. I get laid up, I'll call one. And it won'tbe that Hamming who I ain't never seen in my life! It'll be Timkins,who took care'n us and brought our son into the world and....     She began to cry, and he realized he'd said something crazy again. Theyhad no son, never had a son. And Timkins—he'd died and they'd gone tohis funeral. Or so Edna said.     He himself just couldn't remember it.     He went to the bed and sat down beside her. Sorry. That was just adream I had. I'm still half asleep this morning. Couldn't fall off lastnight, not till real late. Guess I'm a little nervous, what with allthe new regulations and not working regular. I never meant we had ason. He waited then, hoping she'd say they      had     had a son, and he'ddied or gone away. But of course she didn't.  He went to the bathroom and washed. By the time he came to the kitchen,Edna had hotcakes on a plate and coffee in a cup. He sat down and ate.Part way through the meal, he paused. Got an awful craving for meat,he said. Goddam those rations! Man can't even butcher his own stockfor his own table!     We're having meat for lunch, she said placatingly. Nice cut ofmulti-pro.     Multi-pro, he scoffed. God knows what's in it. Like spam put througha grinder a hundred times and then baked into slabs. Can't hardly tasteany meat there.     Well, we got no choice. Country's on emergency rations. The currentcrisis, you know.     The way she said it irritated him. Like it was Scripture; like no onecould question one word of it without being damned to Hell. He finishedquickly and without speaking went on out to the barn.     He milked and curried and fed and cleaned, and still was done insideof two hours. Then he walked slowly, head down, across the hay-strewnfloor. He stopped, put out his hand as if to find a pole or beam thatwas too familiar to require raising his eyes, and almost fell as heleaned in that direction. Regaining his balance after a sidewardstaggering shuffle, he looked around, startled. Why, this ain't theway I had my barn....     He heard his own voice, and stopped. He fought the flash of senselesspanic. Of course this was the way he'd had his barn built, because it      was     his barn!     He rubbed his hard hands together and said aloud, Get down to thepatch. Them tomatoes need fertilizer for tang. He walked outside andtook a deep breath. Air was different, wasn't it? Sweet and pure andclean, like country air always was and always would be; but still,different somehow. Maybe sharper. Or was sharp the word? Maybe....     He went quickly across the yard, past the pig-pen—he'd had twelvepigs, hadn't he? Now he had four—behind the house to where thehalf-acre truck farm lay greening in the sun. He got to work. Sometimelater, Edna called to him. Delivery last night, Harry. I took some.Pick up rest?     Yes, he shouted.     She disappeared.     He walked slowly back to the house. As he came into the front yard,moving toward the road and the supply bin, something occurred to him.      The car.     He hadn't seen the old Chevvy in ... how long? It'd be niceto take a ride to town, see a movie, maybe have a few beers.     No. It was against the travel regulations. He couldn't go further thanWalt and Gloria Shanks' place. They couldn't go further than his. Andthe gas rationing. Besides, he'd sold the car, hadn't he? Because itwas no use to him lying in the tractor shed.  He whirled, staring out across the fields to his left. Why, the tractorshed had stood just fifty feet from the house!     No, he'd torn it down. The tractor was in town, being overhauled andall. He was leaving it there until he had use for it.     He went on toward the road, his head beginning to throb. Why shoulda man his age, hardly sick at all since he was a kid, suddenly startlosing hold this way? Edna was worried. The Shanks had noticed it too.     He was at the supply bin—like an old-fashioned wood bin; a box witha sloping flap lid. Deliveries of food and clothing and home medicinesand other things were left here. You wrote down what you needed, andthey left it—or whatever they allowed you—with a bill. You paid thebill by leaving money in the bin, and the next week you found a receiptand your new stuff and your new bill. And almost always you found somemoney from the government, for not planting wheat or not planting corn.It came out just about even.     He hauled out a sack of flour, half the amount of sugar Edna hadordered, some dried fruit, a new Homekit Medicine Shelf. He carried itinto the house, and noticed a slip of paper pinned to the sugar bag. Atelevision program guide.     Edna hustled over excitedly. Anything good on this week, Harry?     He looked down the listings, and frowned. All old movies. Still onlyone channel. Still only from nine to eleven at night. He gave it toher, turned away; then stopped and waited. He'd said the same thinglast week. And she had said the films were all new to her.     She said it now. Why Harry, I've never seen this movie with ClarkGable. Nor the comedy with Red Skeleton. Nor the other five neither.     I'm gonna lie down, he said flatly. He turned and stepped forward,and found himself facing the stove. Not the door to the hall; thestove. But the door.... he began. He cut himself short. He turned andsaw the door a few feet to the left, beside the table. He went thereand out and up the stairs (they too had moved; they too weren't right)and into the bedroom and lay down. The bedroom was wrong. The bed waswrong. The windows were wrong.     The world was wrong! Lord, the whole damned world was wrong!  Edna didn't wake him, so they had a late lunch. Then he went back tothe barn and let the four cows and four sheep and two horses into thepastures. Then he checked to see that Edna had fed the chickens right.They had only a dozen or so now.     When had he sold the rest? And when had he sold his other livestock?     Or had they died somehow? A rough winter? Disease?     He stood in the yard, a tall, husky man with pale brown hair and a facethat had once been long, lean and strong and was now only long andlean. He blinked gray eyes and tried hard to remember, then turned andwent to the house. Edna was soaking dishes in the sink, according toregulations—one sinkful of dishwater a day. And one tub of bath watertwice a week.     She was looking at him. He realized his anger and confusion must beshowing. He managed a smile. You remember how much we got for ourlivestock, Edna?     Same as everyone else, she said. Government agents paid flat rates.     He remembered then, or thought he did. The headache was back. He wentupstairs and slept again, but this time he had dreams, many of them,and all confused and all frightening. He was glad to get up. And he wasglad to hear Walt and Gloria talking to Edna downstairs.     He washed his face, combed his hair and went down. Walt and Gloria weresitting on the sofa, Edna in the blue armchair. Walt was saying he'dgotten the new TV picture tube he'd ordered. Found it in the supplybin this morning. Spent the whole day installing it according to thebook of directions.     Harry said hi and they all said hi and he sat down and they talkedabout TV and gardens and livestock. Then Harry said, How's Penny?     Fine, Gloria answered. I'm starting her on the kindergarten booknext week.     She's five already? Harry asked.     Almost six, Walt said. Emergency Education Regulations state thatthe child should be five years nine months old before embarking onkindergarten book.     And Frances? Harry asked. Your oldest? She must be startinghigh.... He stopped, because they were all staring at him, and becausehe couldn't remember Frances clearly. Just a joke, he said, laughingand rising. Let's eat. I'm starved.  They ate in the kitchen. They talked—or rather Edna, Gloria and Waltdid. Harry nodded and said uh-huh and used his mouth for chewing.     Walt and Gloria went home at ten-fifteen. They said goodbye at thedoor and Harry walked away. He heard Gloria whispering something aboutDoctor Hamming.     He was sitting in the living room when Edna came in. She was crying.Harry, please see the doctor.     He got up. I'm going out. I might even sleep out!     But why, Harry, why?     He couldn't stand to see her crying. He went to her, kissed her wetcheek, spoke more softly. It'll do me good, like when I was a kid.     If you say so, Harry.     He left quickly. He went outside and across the yard to the road. Helooked up it and down it, to the north and to the south. It was abright night with moon and stars, but he saw nothing, no one. The roadwas empty. It was always empty, except when Walt and Gloria walked overfrom their place a mile or so south. But once it hadn't been empty.Once there'd been cars, people....     He had to do something. Just sitting and looking at the sky wouldn'thelp him. He had to go somewhere, see someone.     He went to the barn and looked for his saddle. There was no saddle. Buthe'd had one hanging right behind the door. Or had he?     He threw a blanket over Plum, the big mare, and tied it with a piece ofwash line. He used another piece for a bridle, since he couldn't findthat either, and didn't bother making a bit. He mounted, and Plum movedout of the barn and onto the road. He headed north, toward town.     Then he realized he couldn't go along the road this way. He'd bereported. Breaking travel regulations was a serious offense. He didn'tknow what they did to you, but it wasn't anything easy like a fine.     He cut into an unfenced, unplanted field.     His headache was back, worse now than it had ever been. His entirehead throbbed, and he leaned forward and put his cheek against Plum'smane. The mare whinnied uneasily, but he kicked her sides and she movedforward. He lay there, just wanting to go somewhere, just wanting toleave his headache and confusion behind.     He didn't know how long it was, but Plum was moving cautiously now. Heraised his head. They were approaching a fence. He noticed a gate offto the right, and pulled the rope so Plum went that way. They reachedthe gate and he got down to open it, and saw the sign. Phineas GrottonFarm. He looked up at the sky, found the constellations, turned hishead, and nodded. He'd started north, and Plum had continued north.He'd crossed land belonging both to himself and the Franklins. Now hewas leaving the Franklin farm. North of the Franklins were the Bessers.Who was this Phineas Grotton? Had he bought out Lon Besser? Butanything like that would've gotten around.     Was he forgetting again?  Well, no matter. Mr. Grotton would have to excuse his trespass. Heopened the gate, led Plum through it, closed the gate. He mounted androde forward, still north, toward the small Pangborn place and afterthe Pangborns the biggest farm in the county—old Wallace Elverton'splace. The fields here, as everywhere in the county, lay fallow. Seemedas if the government had so much grain stored up they'd be able to getalong without crops for years more.     He looked around. Somehow, the country bothered him. He wasn't surewhy, but ... everything was wrong.     His head weighed an agonized ton. He put it down again. Plum wentsedately forward. After a while she stopped. Harry looked up. Anotherfence. And what a fence! About ten feet of heavy steel mesh, topped bythree feet of barbed-wire—five separate strands. What in the world hadSam Pangborn been thinking of to put up a monster like this?     He looked around. The gate should be further west. He rode that way.He found no gate. He turned back, heading east. No gate. Nothing butfence. And wasn't the fence gradually curving inward? He looked back.Yes, there      was     a slight inward curve.     He dismounted and tied Plum to the fence, then stepped back and figuredthe best way to get to the other side.     The best way, the only way, was to claw, clutch and clamber, as theyused to say back when he was a kid.       It took some doing. He tore his shirt on the barbed wire, but he gotover and began walking, straight ahead, due north. The earth changedbeneath his feet. He stooped and touched it. Sand. Hard-packed sand.He'd never seen the like of it in this county.     He walked on. A sound came to him; a rising-falling whisper. Helistened to it, and looked up every so often at the sky, to make surehe was heading in the right direction.     And the sand ended. His shoes plunked over flooring.     Flooring!     He knelt to make sure, and his hand felt wooden planks. He rose, andglanced up to see if he was still outdoors. Then he laughed. It was asick laugh, so he stopped it.     He took another step. His shoes sounded against the wood. He walked.More wood. Wood that went on, as the sand had. And the roaring soundgrowing louder. And the air changing, smelling like air never hadbefore in Cultwait County.  His entire body trembled. His mind trembled too. He walked, and came toa waist-high metal railing, and made a tiny sound deep in his throat.He looked out over water, endless water rolling in endless waves underthe night sky. Crashing water, topped with reflected silver from themoon. Pounding water, filling the air with spray.     He put out his hands and grasped the railing. It was wet. He raiseddamp fingers to his mouth. Salt.     He stepped back, back, and turned and ran. He ran wildly, blindly,until he could run no more. Then he fell, feeling the sand beneath him,and shut his eyes and mind to everything.     Much later, he got up and went to the fence and climbed it. He camedown on the other side and looked around and saw Plum. He walked toher, mounted her, sat still. The thoughts, or dreams, or whatever theywere which had been torturing him these past few weeks began torturinghim again.     It was getting light. His head was splitting.     Davie. His son Davie. Fourteen years old. Going to high school intown....       Town!     He should've gone there in the first place! He would ride east,to the road, then head south, back toward home. That would bring himright down Main Street. Regulations or not, he'd talk to people, findout what was happening.     He kicked Plum's sides. The mare began to move. He kept kicking untilshe broke into a brisk canter. He held on with hands and legs.     Why hadn't he seen the Pangborns and Elvertons lately—a long timelately?       The ocean. He'd seen the ocean. Not a reservoir or lake made byflooding and by damming, but salt water and enormous. An ocean, wherethere could be no ocean. The Pangborns and Elvertons had been wherethat ocean was now. And after the Elvertons had come the Dobsons.And after them the new plastics plant. And after that the city ofCrossville. And after that....       He was passing his own farm. He hadn't come through town, and yet herehe was at his own farm. Could he have forgotten where town was? Couldit be north of his home, not south? Could a man get so confused as toforget things he'd known all his life?     He reached the Shanks' place, and passed it at a trot. Then he wasbeyond their boundaries and breaking regulations again. He stayed onthe road. He went by a small house and saw colored folks in the yard.There'd been no colored folks here. There'd been Eli Bergen and hisfamily and his mother, in a bigger, newer house. The colored folksheard Plum's hooves and looked up and stared. Then a man raised hisvoice. Mistah, you breakin' regulations! Mistah, the police gonnah getyou!  He rode on. He came to another house, neat and white, with threechildren playing on a grassy lawn. They saw him and ran inside. Amoment later, adult voices yelled after him:     You theah! Stop!     Call the sheriff! He's headin' foah Piney Woods!     There was no place called Piney Woods in this county.     Was this how a man's mind went?     He came to another house, and another. He passed ten all told, andpeople shouted at him for breaking regulations, and the last three orfour sounded like Easterners. And their houses looked like pictures ofNew England he'd seen in magazines.     He rode on. He never did come to town. He came to a ten-foot fence witha three-foot barbed-wire extension. He got off Plum and ripped hisclothing climbing. He walked over hard-packed sand, and then wood,and came to a low metal railing. He looked out at the ocean, gleamingin bright sunlight, surging and seething endlessly. He felt the earthsway beneath him. He staggered, and dropped to his hands and knees, andshook his head like a fighter hit too many times. Then he got up andwent back to the fence and heard a sound. It was a familiar sound, yetstrange too. He shaded his eyes against the climbing sun. Then he sawit—a car.      A car!    It was one of those tiny foreign jobs that run on practically no gas atall. It stopped beside him and two men got out. Young men with lined,tired faces; they wore policemen's uniforms. You broke regulations,Mr. Burr. You'll have to come with us.     He nodded. He wanted to. He wanted to be taken care of. He turnedtoward Plum.     The other officer was walking around the horse. Rode her hard, hesaid, and he sounded real worried. Shouldn't have done that, Mr. Burr.We have so very few now....     The officer holding Harry's arm said, Pete.     The officer examining Plum said, It won't make any difference in awhile.     Harry looked at both of them, and felt sharp, personal fear.     Take the horse back to his farm, the officer holding Harry said. Heopened the door of the little car and pushed Harry inside. He wentaround to the driver's side and got behind the wheel and drove away.Harry looked back. Pete was leading Plum after them; not riding him,walking him. He sure must like horses, he said.     Yes.     Am I going to jail?     No.     Where then?     The doctor's place.     They stopped in front of the new house two miles past Dugan's farm.Except he'd never seen it before. Or had he? Everyone seemed to knowabout it—or was everyone only Edna and the Shanks?     He got out of the car. The officer took his arm and led him up thepath. Harry noticed that the new house was big.     When they came inside, he knew it wasn't like any house he'd ever seenor heard of. There was this long central passageway, and dozens ofdoors branched off it on both sides, and stairways went down from it inat least three places that he could see, and at the far end—a good twohundred yards away—a big ramp led upward. And it was all gray plasterwalls and dull black floors and cold white lighting, like a hospital,or a modern factory, or maybe a government building. Except that hedidn't see or hear people.     He did hear      something     ; a low, rumbling noise. The further they camealong the hall, the louder the rumbling grew. It seemed to be deep downsomewhere.  They went through one of the doors on the right, into a windowlessroom. A thin little man with bald head and frameless glasses was there,putting on a white coat. His veiny hands shook. He looked a hundredyears old. Where's Petey? he asked.     Pete's all right, Dad. Just leading a horse back to Burr's farm.     The old man sighed. I didn't know what form it would take. I expectedone or two cases, but I couldn't predict whether it would be gradual orsudden, whether or not it would lead to violence.     No violence, Dad.     Fine, Stan. He looked at Harry. I'm going to give you a littletreatment, Mr. Burr. It'll settle your nerves and make everything....     What happened to Davie? Harry asked, things pushing at his brainagain.     Stan helped him up. Just step this way, Mr. Burr.     He didn't resist. He went through the second door into the room withthe big chair. He sat down and let them strap his arms and legs and letthem lower the metal thing over his head. He felt needles pierce hisscalp and the back of his neck. He let them do what they wanted; hewould let them kill him if they wanted. All he asked was one answer soas to know whether or not he was insane.     What happened to my son Davie?     The old man walked across the room and examined what looked like theinsides of a dozen big radios. He turned, his hand on a switch.     Please, Harry whispered. Just tell me about my son.     The doctor blinked behind his glasses, and then his hand left theswitch. Dead, he said, his voice a rustling of dried leaves. Like somany millions of others. Dead, when the bombs fell. Dead, as everyoneknew they would be and no one did anything to prevent. Dead. Perhapsthe whole world is dead—except for us.     Harry stared at him.  I can't take the time to explain it all. I have too much to do. Justthree of us—myself and my two sons. My wife lost her mind. I shouldhave helped her as I'm helping you.     I don't understand, Harry said. I remember people, and things, andwhere are they now? Dead? People can die, but farms, cities....     I haven't the time, the doctor repeated, voice rising. I have to runa world. Three of us, to run a world! I built it as best I could, buthow large could I make it? The money. The years and years of work. Thepeople calling me insane when they found out ... but a few giving memore money, and the work going on. And those few caught like everyoneelse, unprepared when the holocaust started, unprepared and unable toreach my world. So they died. As I knew they would. As they should haveknown they would.     Harry felt the rumbling beneath him. Engines?     You survived, the doctor said. Your wife. A few hundred others inthe rural areas. One other family in your area. I survived becauseI lived for survival, like a mole deep in the earth, expecting thecatastrophe every minute. I survived because I gave up living tosurvive. He laughed, high and thin.     His son said, Please, Dad....     No! I want to talk to someone      sane     ! You and Petey and I—we're allinsane, you know. Three years now, playing God, waiting for some land,any land, to become habitable. And knowing everything, and surroundedby people who are sane only because I made sure they would knownothing. He stepped forward, glaring at Harry. Now do you understand?I went across the country, picking up a few of the few left alive. Mostwere farmers, and even where some weren't I picked the farmers anyway.Because farmers are what we'll need, and all the rest can evolve later.I put you and the others, eighty-six all told, from every section ofthe country, on my world, the only uncontaminated land left. I gaveyou back your old lives. I couldn't give you big crops because wedon't need big crops. We would only exhaust our limited soil with bigcrops. But I gave you vegetable gardens and livestock and, best of all,      sanity     ! I wiped the insane moments from your minds. I gave you peaceand consigned myself, my sons, my own wife....     He choked and stopped.     Stan ran across the room to the switch. Harry watched him, and hisbrain struggled with an impossible concept. He heard the engines andremembered the ocean on two sides; on four sides had he bothered tocheck south and east; on      all     sides if that fence continued to curveinward. Ocean, and there was no ocean in Iowa.     And this wasn't Iowa.       The explosions had ripped the world, and he'd tried to get to town tosave Davie, and there'd been no town and there'd been no people andthere'd been only death and poison in the air and even those few peopleleft had begun to die, and then the truck with the huge trailer hadcome, the gleaming trailer with the little man and his trembling wifeand his two sons....    Suddenly, he understood. And understanding brought not peace but thegreatest terror he'd ever known. He screamed, We're on.... but theswitch was thrown and there was no more speech. For an hour. Then hegot out of the chair and said, Sure glad I took my wife's advice andcame to see you, Doctor Hamming. I feel better already, and after onlyone.... What do you call these treatments?     Diathermy, the little doctor muttered.     Harry gave him a five-dollar bill. The doctor gave him two singles inchange. That's certainly reasonable enough, Harry said.     The doctor nodded. There's a police officer in the hall. He'll driveyou home so there won't be any trouble with the travel regulations.     Harry said, Thanks. Think we'll ever see the end of travel regulationsand rationing and all the rest of the emergency?     You will, Mr. Burr.     Harry walked to the door.     We're on an ark, the doctor said.     Harry turned around, smiling. What?     A test, Mr. Burr. You passed it. Goodbye.     Harry went home. He told Edna he felt just great! She said she'd beenworried when an officer found Plum wandering on the road; she thoughtmaybe Harry had gone off somewhere and broken travel regulations.     Me? he exclaimed, amazed. Break travel regulations? I'd as soon killa pig!   ","Doctor Hamming is first described by Edna as someone who can treat Harry’s so-called “mental problems”. She insists for Harry to go see him multiple times, but Harry refuses every time. Finally, when Harry is escorted by the policemen does he go meet Doctor Hamming in person. In person, Doctor Hamming is a thin little man with a bald head and framed glasses. He also wears a white coat and looks about one hundred years old. He lives with his two sons, and his wife is not around anymore. His son’s names are Pete and Stan. Doctor Hamming is a very stressed person, constantly trying to manage the ark. He is also impatient as well, raising his voice when Harry asks him about his dead son. However, although the doctor is impatient, he is very knowledgeable in his field as well. He predicted that people will begin to die from a disaster and invested a lot of his money to build the ark. He has exceptional planning skills, picking out the farmers in the rural areas as people to continue living on the ark because he knows how important the farmers are. The doctor’s treatments are very successful as well, capable of completely erasing Harry Burr’s conflicting memories and making him forget that they are on an ark. "
"What is the relationship between Edna and Harry? </s>     BREAKDOWN     By HERBERT D. KASTLE     Illustrated by COWLES     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Magazine June 1961.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]       He didn't know exactly when it had started, but it had been going onfor weeks. Edna begged him to see the doctor living in that new housetwo miles past Dugan's farm, but he refused. He point-blank refused toadmit he was sick      that     way—in the head!     Of course, a man could grow forgetful. He had to admit there weremoments when he had all sorts of mixed-up memories and thoughts in hismind. And sometimes—like right now, lying in bed beside Edna, watchingthe first hint of light touch the windows—he began sweating with fear.A horrible, gut-wrenching fear, all the more horrible because it wasbased on nothing.     The chicken-run came alive; the barn followed minutes later. There werechores to do, the same chores he'd done all his forty-one years. Exceptthat now, with the new regulations about wheat and corn, he had onlya vegetable patch to farm. Sure, he got paid for letting the fieldsremain empty. But it just didn't seem right, all that land going towaste....       Davie. Blond hair and a round, tanned face and strong arms growingstronger each day from helping out after school.       He turned and shook Edna. What happened to Davie?     She cleared her throat, mumbled, Huh? What happened to who?     I said, what.... But then it slipped away. Davie? No, that was partof a dream he'd had last week. He and Edna had no children.     He felt the fear again, and got up fast to escape it. Edna opened hereyes as soon as his weight left the bed. Like hotcakes for breakfast?     Eggs, he said. Bacon. And then, seeing her face change, heremembered. Course, he muttered. Can't have bacon. Rationed.     She was fully awake now. If you'd only go see Dr. Hamming, Harry. Justfor a checkup. Or let me call him so he could—     You stop that! You stop that right now, and for good! I don't want tohear no more about doctors. I get laid up, I'll call one. And it won'tbe that Hamming who I ain't never seen in my life! It'll be Timkins,who took care'n us and brought our son into the world and....     She began to cry, and he realized he'd said something crazy again. Theyhad no son, never had a son. And Timkins—he'd died and they'd gone tohis funeral. Or so Edna said.     He himself just couldn't remember it.     He went to the bed and sat down beside her. Sorry. That was just adream I had. I'm still half asleep this morning. Couldn't fall off lastnight, not till real late. Guess I'm a little nervous, what with allthe new regulations and not working regular. I never meant we had ason. He waited then, hoping she'd say they      had     had a son, and he'ddied or gone away. But of course she didn't.  He went to the bathroom and washed. By the time he came to the kitchen,Edna had hotcakes on a plate and coffee in a cup. He sat down and ate.Part way through the meal, he paused. Got an awful craving for meat,he said. Goddam those rations! Man can't even butcher his own stockfor his own table!     We're having meat for lunch, she said placatingly. Nice cut ofmulti-pro.     Multi-pro, he scoffed. God knows what's in it. Like spam put througha grinder a hundred times and then baked into slabs. Can't hardly tasteany meat there.     Well, we got no choice. Country's on emergency rations. The currentcrisis, you know.     The way she said it irritated him. Like it was Scripture; like no onecould question one word of it without being damned to Hell. He finishedquickly and without speaking went on out to the barn.     He milked and curried and fed and cleaned, and still was done insideof two hours. Then he walked slowly, head down, across the hay-strewnfloor. He stopped, put out his hand as if to find a pole or beam thatwas too familiar to require raising his eyes, and almost fell as heleaned in that direction. Regaining his balance after a sidewardstaggering shuffle, he looked around, startled. Why, this ain't theway I had my barn....     He heard his own voice, and stopped. He fought the flash of senselesspanic. Of course this was the way he'd had his barn built, because it      was     his barn!     He rubbed his hard hands together and said aloud, Get down to thepatch. Them tomatoes need fertilizer for tang. He walked outside andtook a deep breath. Air was different, wasn't it? Sweet and pure andclean, like country air always was and always would be; but still,different somehow. Maybe sharper. Or was sharp the word? Maybe....     He went quickly across the yard, past the pig-pen—he'd had twelvepigs, hadn't he? Now he had four—behind the house to where thehalf-acre truck farm lay greening in the sun. He got to work. Sometimelater, Edna called to him. Delivery last night, Harry. I took some.Pick up rest?     Yes, he shouted.     She disappeared.     He walked slowly back to the house. As he came into the front yard,moving toward the road and the supply bin, something occurred to him.      The car.     He hadn't seen the old Chevvy in ... how long? It'd be niceto take a ride to town, see a movie, maybe have a few beers.     No. It was against the travel regulations. He couldn't go further thanWalt and Gloria Shanks' place. They couldn't go further than his. Andthe gas rationing. Besides, he'd sold the car, hadn't he? Because itwas no use to him lying in the tractor shed.  He whirled, staring out across the fields to his left. Why, the tractorshed had stood just fifty feet from the house!     No, he'd torn it down. The tractor was in town, being overhauled andall. He was leaving it there until he had use for it.     He went on toward the road, his head beginning to throb. Why shoulda man his age, hardly sick at all since he was a kid, suddenly startlosing hold this way? Edna was worried. The Shanks had noticed it too.     He was at the supply bin—like an old-fashioned wood bin; a box witha sloping flap lid. Deliveries of food and clothing and home medicinesand other things were left here. You wrote down what you needed, andthey left it—or whatever they allowed you—with a bill. You paid thebill by leaving money in the bin, and the next week you found a receiptand your new stuff and your new bill. And almost always you found somemoney from the government, for not planting wheat or not planting corn.It came out just about even.     He hauled out a sack of flour, half the amount of sugar Edna hadordered, some dried fruit, a new Homekit Medicine Shelf. He carried itinto the house, and noticed a slip of paper pinned to the sugar bag. Atelevision program guide.     Edna hustled over excitedly. Anything good on this week, Harry?     He looked down the listings, and frowned. All old movies. Still onlyone channel. Still only from nine to eleven at night. He gave it toher, turned away; then stopped and waited. He'd said the same thinglast week. And she had said the films were all new to her.     She said it now. Why Harry, I've never seen this movie with ClarkGable. Nor the comedy with Red Skeleton. Nor the other five neither.     I'm gonna lie down, he said flatly. He turned and stepped forward,and found himself facing the stove. Not the door to the hall; thestove. But the door.... he began. He cut himself short. He turned andsaw the door a few feet to the left, beside the table. He went thereand out and up the stairs (they too had moved; they too weren't right)and into the bedroom and lay down. The bedroom was wrong. The bed waswrong. The windows were wrong.     The world was wrong! Lord, the whole damned world was wrong!  Edna didn't wake him, so they had a late lunch. Then he went back tothe barn and let the four cows and four sheep and two horses into thepastures. Then he checked to see that Edna had fed the chickens right.They had only a dozen or so now.     When had he sold the rest? And when had he sold his other livestock?     Or had they died somehow? A rough winter? Disease?     He stood in the yard, a tall, husky man with pale brown hair and a facethat had once been long, lean and strong and was now only long andlean. He blinked gray eyes and tried hard to remember, then turned andwent to the house. Edna was soaking dishes in the sink, according toregulations—one sinkful of dishwater a day. And one tub of bath watertwice a week.     She was looking at him. He realized his anger and confusion must beshowing. He managed a smile. You remember how much we got for ourlivestock, Edna?     Same as everyone else, she said. Government agents paid flat rates.     He remembered then, or thought he did. The headache was back. He wentupstairs and slept again, but this time he had dreams, many of them,and all confused and all frightening. He was glad to get up. And he wasglad to hear Walt and Gloria talking to Edna downstairs.     He washed his face, combed his hair and went down. Walt and Gloria weresitting on the sofa, Edna in the blue armchair. Walt was saying he'dgotten the new TV picture tube he'd ordered. Found it in the supplybin this morning. Spent the whole day installing it according to thebook of directions.     Harry said hi and they all said hi and he sat down and they talkedabout TV and gardens and livestock. Then Harry said, How's Penny?     Fine, Gloria answered. I'm starting her on the kindergarten booknext week.     She's five already? Harry asked.     Almost six, Walt said. Emergency Education Regulations state thatthe child should be five years nine months old before embarking onkindergarten book.     And Frances? Harry asked. Your oldest? She must be startinghigh.... He stopped, because they were all staring at him, and becausehe couldn't remember Frances clearly. Just a joke, he said, laughingand rising. Let's eat. I'm starved.  They ate in the kitchen. They talked—or rather Edna, Gloria and Waltdid. Harry nodded and said uh-huh and used his mouth for chewing.     Walt and Gloria went home at ten-fifteen. They said goodbye at thedoor and Harry walked away. He heard Gloria whispering something aboutDoctor Hamming.     He was sitting in the living room when Edna came in. She was crying.Harry, please see the doctor.     He got up. I'm going out. I might even sleep out!     But why, Harry, why?     He couldn't stand to see her crying. He went to her, kissed her wetcheek, spoke more softly. It'll do me good, like when I was a kid.     If you say so, Harry.     He left quickly. He went outside and across the yard to the road. Helooked up it and down it, to the north and to the south. It was abright night with moon and stars, but he saw nothing, no one. The roadwas empty. It was always empty, except when Walt and Gloria walked overfrom their place a mile or so south. But once it hadn't been empty.Once there'd been cars, people....     He had to do something. Just sitting and looking at the sky wouldn'thelp him. He had to go somewhere, see someone.     He went to the barn and looked for his saddle. There was no saddle. Buthe'd had one hanging right behind the door. Or had he?     He threw a blanket over Plum, the big mare, and tied it with a piece ofwash line. He used another piece for a bridle, since he couldn't findthat either, and didn't bother making a bit. He mounted, and Plum movedout of the barn and onto the road. He headed north, toward town.     Then he realized he couldn't go along the road this way. He'd bereported. Breaking travel regulations was a serious offense. He didn'tknow what they did to you, but it wasn't anything easy like a fine.     He cut into an unfenced, unplanted field.     His headache was back, worse now than it had ever been. His entirehead throbbed, and he leaned forward and put his cheek against Plum'smane. The mare whinnied uneasily, but he kicked her sides and she movedforward. He lay there, just wanting to go somewhere, just wanting toleave his headache and confusion behind.     He didn't know how long it was, but Plum was moving cautiously now. Heraised his head. They were approaching a fence. He noticed a gate offto the right, and pulled the rope so Plum went that way. They reachedthe gate and he got down to open it, and saw the sign. Phineas GrottonFarm. He looked up at the sky, found the constellations, turned hishead, and nodded. He'd started north, and Plum had continued north.He'd crossed land belonging both to himself and the Franklins. Now hewas leaving the Franklin farm. North of the Franklins were the Bessers.Who was this Phineas Grotton? Had he bought out Lon Besser? Butanything like that would've gotten around.     Was he forgetting again?  Well, no matter. Mr. Grotton would have to excuse his trespass. Heopened the gate, led Plum through it, closed the gate. He mounted androde forward, still north, toward the small Pangborn place and afterthe Pangborns the biggest farm in the county—old Wallace Elverton'splace. The fields here, as everywhere in the county, lay fallow. Seemedas if the government had so much grain stored up they'd be able to getalong without crops for years more.     He looked around. Somehow, the country bothered him. He wasn't surewhy, but ... everything was wrong.     His head weighed an agonized ton. He put it down again. Plum wentsedately forward. After a while she stopped. Harry looked up. Anotherfence. And what a fence! About ten feet of heavy steel mesh, topped bythree feet of barbed-wire—five separate strands. What in the world hadSam Pangborn been thinking of to put up a monster like this?     He looked around. The gate should be further west. He rode that way.He found no gate. He turned back, heading east. No gate. Nothing butfence. And wasn't the fence gradually curving inward? He looked back.Yes, there      was     a slight inward curve.     He dismounted and tied Plum to the fence, then stepped back and figuredthe best way to get to the other side.     The best way, the only way, was to claw, clutch and clamber, as theyused to say back when he was a kid.       It took some doing. He tore his shirt on the barbed wire, but he gotover and began walking, straight ahead, due north. The earth changedbeneath his feet. He stooped and touched it. Sand. Hard-packed sand.He'd never seen the like of it in this county.     He walked on. A sound came to him; a rising-falling whisper. Helistened to it, and looked up every so often at the sky, to make surehe was heading in the right direction.     And the sand ended. His shoes plunked over flooring.     Flooring!     He knelt to make sure, and his hand felt wooden planks. He rose, andglanced up to see if he was still outdoors. Then he laughed. It was asick laugh, so he stopped it.     He took another step. His shoes sounded against the wood. He walked.More wood. Wood that went on, as the sand had. And the roaring soundgrowing louder. And the air changing, smelling like air never hadbefore in Cultwait County.  His entire body trembled. His mind trembled too. He walked, and came toa waist-high metal railing, and made a tiny sound deep in his throat.He looked out over water, endless water rolling in endless waves underthe night sky. Crashing water, topped with reflected silver from themoon. Pounding water, filling the air with spray.     He put out his hands and grasped the railing. It was wet. He raiseddamp fingers to his mouth. Salt.     He stepped back, back, and turned and ran. He ran wildly, blindly,until he could run no more. Then he fell, feeling the sand beneath him,and shut his eyes and mind to everything.     Much later, he got up and went to the fence and climbed it. He camedown on the other side and looked around and saw Plum. He walked toher, mounted her, sat still. The thoughts, or dreams, or whatever theywere which had been torturing him these past few weeks began torturinghim again.     It was getting light. His head was splitting.     Davie. His son Davie. Fourteen years old. Going to high school intown....       Town!     He should've gone there in the first place! He would ride east,to the road, then head south, back toward home. That would bring himright down Main Street. Regulations or not, he'd talk to people, findout what was happening.     He kicked Plum's sides. The mare began to move. He kept kicking untilshe broke into a brisk canter. He held on with hands and legs.     Why hadn't he seen the Pangborns and Elvertons lately—a long timelately?       The ocean. He'd seen the ocean. Not a reservoir or lake made byflooding and by damming, but salt water and enormous. An ocean, wherethere could be no ocean. The Pangborns and Elvertons had been wherethat ocean was now. And after the Elvertons had come the Dobsons.And after them the new plastics plant. And after that the city ofCrossville. And after that....       He was passing his own farm. He hadn't come through town, and yet herehe was at his own farm. Could he have forgotten where town was? Couldit be north of his home, not south? Could a man get so confused as toforget things he'd known all his life?     He reached the Shanks' place, and passed it at a trot. Then he wasbeyond their boundaries and breaking regulations again. He stayed onthe road. He went by a small house and saw colored folks in the yard.There'd been no colored folks here. There'd been Eli Bergen and hisfamily and his mother, in a bigger, newer house. The colored folksheard Plum's hooves and looked up and stared. Then a man raised hisvoice. Mistah, you breakin' regulations! Mistah, the police gonnah getyou!  He rode on. He came to another house, neat and white, with threechildren playing on a grassy lawn. They saw him and ran inside. Amoment later, adult voices yelled after him:     You theah! Stop!     Call the sheriff! He's headin' foah Piney Woods!     There was no place called Piney Woods in this county.     Was this how a man's mind went?     He came to another house, and another. He passed ten all told, andpeople shouted at him for breaking regulations, and the last three orfour sounded like Easterners. And their houses looked like pictures ofNew England he'd seen in magazines.     He rode on. He never did come to town. He came to a ten-foot fence witha three-foot barbed-wire extension. He got off Plum and ripped hisclothing climbing. He walked over hard-packed sand, and then wood,and came to a low metal railing. He looked out at the ocean, gleamingin bright sunlight, surging and seething endlessly. He felt the earthsway beneath him. He staggered, and dropped to his hands and knees, andshook his head like a fighter hit too many times. Then he got up andwent back to the fence and heard a sound. It was a familiar sound, yetstrange too. He shaded his eyes against the climbing sun. Then he sawit—a car.      A car!    It was one of those tiny foreign jobs that run on practically no gas atall. It stopped beside him and two men got out. Young men with lined,tired faces; they wore policemen's uniforms. You broke regulations,Mr. Burr. You'll have to come with us.     He nodded. He wanted to. He wanted to be taken care of. He turnedtoward Plum.     The other officer was walking around the horse. Rode her hard, hesaid, and he sounded real worried. Shouldn't have done that, Mr. Burr.We have so very few now....     The officer holding Harry's arm said, Pete.     The officer examining Plum said, It won't make any difference in awhile.     Harry looked at both of them, and felt sharp, personal fear.     Take the horse back to his farm, the officer holding Harry said. Heopened the door of the little car and pushed Harry inside. He wentaround to the driver's side and got behind the wheel and drove away.Harry looked back. Pete was leading Plum after them; not riding him,walking him. He sure must like horses, he said.     Yes.     Am I going to jail?     No.     Where then?     The doctor's place.     They stopped in front of the new house two miles past Dugan's farm.Except he'd never seen it before. Or had he? Everyone seemed to knowabout it—or was everyone only Edna and the Shanks?     He got out of the car. The officer took his arm and led him up thepath. Harry noticed that the new house was big.     When they came inside, he knew it wasn't like any house he'd ever seenor heard of. There was this long central passageway, and dozens ofdoors branched off it on both sides, and stairways went down from it inat least three places that he could see, and at the far end—a good twohundred yards away—a big ramp led upward. And it was all gray plasterwalls and dull black floors and cold white lighting, like a hospital,or a modern factory, or maybe a government building. Except that hedidn't see or hear people.     He did hear      something     ; a low, rumbling noise. The further they camealong the hall, the louder the rumbling grew. It seemed to be deep downsomewhere.  They went through one of the doors on the right, into a windowlessroom. A thin little man with bald head and frameless glasses was there,putting on a white coat. His veiny hands shook. He looked a hundredyears old. Where's Petey? he asked.     Pete's all right, Dad. Just leading a horse back to Burr's farm.     The old man sighed. I didn't know what form it would take. I expectedone or two cases, but I couldn't predict whether it would be gradual orsudden, whether or not it would lead to violence.     No violence, Dad.     Fine, Stan. He looked at Harry. I'm going to give you a littletreatment, Mr. Burr. It'll settle your nerves and make everything....     What happened to Davie? Harry asked, things pushing at his brainagain.     Stan helped him up. Just step this way, Mr. Burr.     He didn't resist. He went through the second door into the room withthe big chair. He sat down and let them strap his arms and legs and letthem lower the metal thing over his head. He felt needles pierce hisscalp and the back of his neck. He let them do what they wanted; hewould let them kill him if they wanted. All he asked was one answer soas to know whether or not he was insane.     What happened to my son Davie?     The old man walked across the room and examined what looked like theinsides of a dozen big radios. He turned, his hand on a switch.     Please, Harry whispered. Just tell me about my son.     The doctor blinked behind his glasses, and then his hand left theswitch. Dead, he said, his voice a rustling of dried leaves. Like somany millions of others. Dead, when the bombs fell. Dead, as everyoneknew they would be and no one did anything to prevent. Dead. Perhapsthe whole world is dead—except for us.     Harry stared at him.  I can't take the time to explain it all. I have too much to do. Justthree of us—myself and my two sons. My wife lost her mind. I shouldhave helped her as I'm helping you.     I don't understand, Harry said. I remember people, and things, andwhere are they now? Dead? People can die, but farms, cities....     I haven't the time, the doctor repeated, voice rising. I have to runa world. Three of us, to run a world! I built it as best I could, buthow large could I make it? The money. The years and years of work. Thepeople calling me insane when they found out ... but a few giving memore money, and the work going on. And those few caught like everyoneelse, unprepared when the holocaust started, unprepared and unable toreach my world. So they died. As I knew they would. As they should haveknown they would.     Harry felt the rumbling beneath him. Engines?     You survived, the doctor said. Your wife. A few hundred others inthe rural areas. One other family in your area. I survived becauseI lived for survival, like a mole deep in the earth, expecting thecatastrophe every minute. I survived because I gave up living tosurvive. He laughed, high and thin.     His son said, Please, Dad....     No! I want to talk to someone      sane     ! You and Petey and I—we're allinsane, you know. Three years now, playing God, waiting for some land,any land, to become habitable. And knowing everything, and surroundedby people who are sane only because I made sure they would knownothing. He stepped forward, glaring at Harry. Now do you understand?I went across the country, picking up a few of the few left alive. Mostwere farmers, and even where some weren't I picked the farmers anyway.Because farmers are what we'll need, and all the rest can evolve later.I put you and the others, eighty-six all told, from every section ofthe country, on my world, the only uncontaminated land left. I gaveyou back your old lives. I couldn't give you big crops because wedon't need big crops. We would only exhaust our limited soil with bigcrops. But I gave you vegetable gardens and livestock and, best of all,      sanity     ! I wiped the insane moments from your minds. I gave you peaceand consigned myself, my sons, my own wife....     He choked and stopped.     Stan ran across the room to the switch. Harry watched him, and hisbrain struggled with an impossible concept. He heard the engines andremembered the ocean on two sides; on four sides had he bothered tocheck south and east; on      all     sides if that fence continued to curveinward. Ocean, and there was no ocean in Iowa.     And this wasn't Iowa.       The explosions had ripped the world, and he'd tried to get to town tosave Davie, and there'd been no town and there'd been no people andthere'd been only death and poison in the air and even those few peopleleft had begun to die, and then the truck with the huge trailer hadcome, the gleaming trailer with the little man and his trembling wifeand his two sons....    Suddenly, he understood. And understanding brought not peace but thegreatest terror he'd ever known. He screamed, We're on.... but theswitch was thrown and there was no more speech. For an hour. Then hegot out of the chair and said, Sure glad I took my wife's advice andcame to see you, Doctor Hamming. I feel better already, and after onlyone.... What do you call these treatments?     Diathermy, the little doctor muttered.     Harry gave him a five-dollar bill. The doctor gave him two singles inchange. That's certainly reasonable enough, Harry said.     The doctor nodded. There's a police officer in the hall. He'll driveyou home so there won't be any trouble with the travel regulations.     Harry said, Thanks. Think we'll ever see the end of travel regulationsand rationing and all the rest of the emergency?     You will, Mr. Burr.     Harry walked to the door.     We're on an ark, the doctor said.     Harry turned around, smiling. What?     A test, Mr. Burr. You passed it. Goodbye.     Harry went home. He told Edna he felt just great! She said she'd beenworried when an officer found Plum wandering on the road; she thoughtmaybe Harry had gone off somewhere and broken travel regulations.     Me? he exclaimed, amazed. Break travel regulations? I'd as soon killa pig!   ","Harry and Edna Burr are married. Initially, Edna is very concerned about Harry because of the strange memories that he experiences. She tries to plead with him to see a doctor, but he refuses to believe it. Harry is seen getting impatient with Edna, mainly because she is confused about the questions or people that he talks about. Even though she is concerned, Edna is good at comforting Harry. When he complains about the lack of meat, she tells him that they will have some multi-pro for lunch. The two of them split their duties as well, with Edna doing a lot of the housework and Harry doing the more manual labor. She also tries to suggest activities to do, such as asking what’s on the channel for this week. Edna loves Harry very much, but she does encourage him to seek a doctor to help his mental health. At the end, when Harry returns from his treatment, she asks if he has gone out to break any regulations. He only laughs and says he would rather kill a pig than do that. "
"Describe the setting of the story. </s>     BREAKDOWN     By HERBERT D. KASTLE     Illustrated by COWLES     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Magazine June 1961.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]       He didn't know exactly when it had started, but it had been going onfor weeks. Edna begged him to see the doctor living in that new housetwo miles past Dugan's farm, but he refused. He point-blank refused toadmit he was sick      that     way—in the head!     Of course, a man could grow forgetful. He had to admit there weremoments when he had all sorts of mixed-up memories and thoughts in hismind. And sometimes—like right now, lying in bed beside Edna, watchingthe first hint of light touch the windows—he began sweating with fear.A horrible, gut-wrenching fear, all the more horrible because it wasbased on nothing.     The chicken-run came alive; the barn followed minutes later. There werechores to do, the same chores he'd done all his forty-one years. Exceptthat now, with the new regulations about wheat and corn, he had onlya vegetable patch to farm. Sure, he got paid for letting the fieldsremain empty. But it just didn't seem right, all that land going towaste....       Davie. Blond hair and a round, tanned face and strong arms growingstronger each day from helping out after school.       He turned and shook Edna. What happened to Davie?     She cleared her throat, mumbled, Huh? What happened to who?     I said, what.... But then it slipped away. Davie? No, that was partof a dream he'd had last week. He and Edna had no children.     He felt the fear again, and got up fast to escape it. Edna opened hereyes as soon as his weight left the bed. Like hotcakes for breakfast?     Eggs, he said. Bacon. And then, seeing her face change, heremembered. Course, he muttered. Can't have bacon. Rationed.     She was fully awake now. If you'd only go see Dr. Hamming, Harry. Justfor a checkup. Or let me call him so he could—     You stop that! You stop that right now, and for good! I don't want tohear no more about doctors. I get laid up, I'll call one. And it won'tbe that Hamming who I ain't never seen in my life! It'll be Timkins,who took care'n us and brought our son into the world and....     She began to cry, and he realized he'd said something crazy again. Theyhad no son, never had a son. And Timkins—he'd died and they'd gone tohis funeral. Or so Edna said.     He himself just couldn't remember it.     He went to the bed and sat down beside her. Sorry. That was just adream I had. I'm still half asleep this morning. Couldn't fall off lastnight, not till real late. Guess I'm a little nervous, what with allthe new regulations and not working regular. I never meant we had ason. He waited then, hoping she'd say they      had     had a son, and he'ddied or gone away. But of course she didn't.  He went to the bathroom and washed. By the time he came to the kitchen,Edna had hotcakes on a plate and coffee in a cup. He sat down and ate.Part way through the meal, he paused. Got an awful craving for meat,he said. Goddam those rations! Man can't even butcher his own stockfor his own table!     We're having meat for lunch, she said placatingly. Nice cut ofmulti-pro.     Multi-pro, he scoffed. God knows what's in it. Like spam put througha grinder a hundred times and then baked into slabs. Can't hardly tasteany meat there.     Well, we got no choice. Country's on emergency rations. The currentcrisis, you know.     The way she said it irritated him. Like it was Scripture; like no onecould question one word of it without being damned to Hell. He finishedquickly and without speaking went on out to the barn.     He milked and curried and fed and cleaned, and still was done insideof two hours. Then he walked slowly, head down, across the hay-strewnfloor. He stopped, put out his hand as if to find a pole or beam thatwas too familiar to require raising his eyes, and almost fell as heleaned in that direction. Regaining his balance after a sidewardstaggering shuffle, he looked around, startled. Why, this ain't theway I had my barn....     He heard his own voice, and stopped. He fought the flash of senselesspanic. Of course this was the way he'd had his barn built, because it      was     his barn!     He rubbed his hard hands together and said aloud, Get down to thepatch. Them tomatoes need fertilizer for tang. He walked outside andtook a deep breath. Air was different, wasn't it? Sweet and pure andclean, like country air always was and always would be; but still,different somehow. Maybe sharper. Or was sharp the word? Maybe....     He went quickly across the yard, past the pig-pen—he'd had twelvepigs, hadn't he? Now he had four—behind the house to where thehalf-acre truck farm lay greening in the sun. He got to work. Sometimelater, Edna called to him. Delivery last night, Harry. I took some.Pick up rest?     Yes, he shouted.     She disappeared.     He walked slowly back to the house. As he came into the front yard,moving toward the road and the supply bin, something occurred to him.      The car.     He hadn't seen the old Chevvy in ... how long? It'd be niceto take a ride to town, see a movie, maybe have a few beers.     No. It was against the travel regulations. He couldn't go further thanWalt and Gloria Shanks' place. They couldn't go further than his. Andthe gas rationing. Besides, he'd sold the car, hadn't he? Because itwas no use to him lying in the tractor shed.  He whirled, staring out across the fields to his left. Why, the tractorshed had stood just fifty feet from the house!     No, he'd torn it down. The tractor was in town, being overhauled andall. He was leaving it there until he had use for it.     He went on toward the road, his head beginning to throb. Why shoulda man his age, hardly sick at all since he was a kid, suddenly startlosing hold this way? Edna was worried. The Shanks had noticed it too.     He was at the supply bin—like an old-fashioned wood bin; a box witha sloping flap lid. Deliveries of food and clothing and home medicinesand other things were left here. You wrote down what you needed, andthey left it—or whatever they allowed you—with a bill. You paid thebill by leaving money in the bin, and the next week you found a receiptand your new stuff and your new bill. And almost always you found somemoney from the government, for not planting wheat or not planting corn.It came out just about even.     He hauled out a sack of flour, half the amount of sugar Edna hadordered, some dried fruit, a new Homekit Medicine Shelf. He carried itinto the house, and noticed a slip of paper pinned to the sugar bag. Atelevision program guide.     Edna hustled over excitedly. Anything good on this week, Harry?     He looked down the listings, and frowned. All old movies. Still onlyone channel. Still only from nine to eleven at night. He gave it toher, turned away; then stopped and waited. He'd said the same thinglast week. And she had said the films were all new to her.     She said it now. Why Harry, I've never seen this movie with ClarkGable. Nor the comedy with Red Skeleton. Nor the other five neither.     I'm gonna lie down, he said flatly. He turned and stepped forward,and found himself facing the stove. Not the door to the hall; thestove. But the door.... he began. He cut himself short. He turned andsaw the door a few feet to the left, beside the table. He went thereand out and up the stairs (they too had moved; they too weren't right)and into the bedroom and lay down. The bedroom was wrong. The bed waswrong. The windows were wrong.     The world was wrong! Lord, the whole damned world was wrong!  Edna didn't wake him, so they had a late lunch. Then he went back tothe barn and let the four cows and four sheep and two horses into thepastures. Then he checked to see that Edna had fed the chickens right.They had only a dozen or so now.     When had he sold the rest? And when had he sold his other livestock?     Or had they died somehow? A rough winter? Disease?     He stood in the yard, a tall, husky man with pale brown hair and a facethat had once been long, lean and strong and was now only long andlean. He blinked gray eyes and tried hard to remember, then turned andwent to the house. Edna was soaking dishes in the sink, according toregulations—one sinkful of dishwater a day. And one tub of bath watertwice a week.     She was looking at him. He realized his anger and confusion must beshowing. He managed a smile. You remember how much we got for ourlivestock, Edna?     Same as everyone else, she said. Government agents paid flat rates.     He remembered then, or thought he did. The headache was back. He wentupstairs and slept again, but this time he had dreams, many of them,and all confused and all frightening. He was glad to get up. And he wasglad to hear Walt and Gloria talking to Edna downstairs.     He washed his face, combed his hair and went down. Walt and Gloria weresitting on the sofa, Edna in the blue armchair. Walt was saying he'dgotten the new TV picture tube he'd ordered. Found it in the supplybin this morning. Spent the whole day installing it according to thebook of directions.     Harry said hi and they all said hi and he sat down and they talkedabout TV and gardens and livestock. Then Harry said, How's Penny?     Fine, Gloria answered. I'm starting her on the kindergarten booknext week.     She's five already? Harry asked.     Almost six, Walt said. Emergency Education Regulations state thatthe child should be five years nine months old before embarking onkindergarten book.     And Frances? Harry asked. Your oldest? She must be startinghigh.... He stopped, because they were all staring at him, and becausehe couldn't remember Frances clearly. Just a joke, he said, laughingand rising. Let's eat. I'm starved.  They ate in the kitchen. They talked—or rather Edna, Gloria and Waltdid. Harry nodded and said uh-huh and used his mouth for chewing.     Walt and Gloria went home at ten-fifteen. They said goodbye at thedoor and Harry walked away. He heard Gloria whispering something aboutDoctor Hamming.     He was sitting in the living room when Edna came in. She was crying.Harry, please see the doctor.     He got up. I'm going out. I might even sleep out!     But why, Harry, why?     He couldn't stand to see her crying. He went to her, kissed her wetcheek, spoke more softly. It'll do me good, like when I was a kid.     If you say so, Harry.     He left quickly. He went outside and across the yard to the road. Helooked up it and down it, to the north and to the south. It was abright night with moon and stars, but he saw nothing, no one. The roadwas empty. It was always empty, except when Walt and Gloria walked overfrom their place a mile or so south. But once it hadn't been empty.Once there'd been cars, people....     He had to do something. Just sitting and looking at the sky wouldn'thelp him. He had to go somewhere, see someone.     He went to the barn and looked for his saddle. There was no saddle. Buthe'd had one hanging right behind the door. Or had he?     He threw a blanket over Plum, the big mare, and tied it with a piece ofwash line. He used another piece for a bridle, since he couldn't findthat either, and didn't bother making a bit. He mounted, and Plum movedout of the barn and onto the road. He headed north, toward town.     Then he realized he couldn't go along the road this way. He'd bereported. Breaking travel regulations was a serious offense. He didn'tknow what they did to you, but it wasn't anything easy like a fine.     He cut into an unfenced, unplanted field.     His headache was back, worse now than it had ever been. His entirehead throbbed, and he leaned forward and put his cheek against Plum'smane. The mare whinnied uneasily, but he kicked her sides and she movedforward. He lay there, just wanting to go somewhere, just wanting toleave his headache and confusion behind.     He didn't know how long it was, but Plum was moving cautiously now. Heraised his head. They were approaching a fence. He noticed a gate offto the right, and pulled the rope so Plum went that way. They reachedthe gate and he got down to open it, and saw the sign. Phineas GrottonFarm. He looked up at the sky, found the constellations, turned hishead, and nodded. He'd started north, and Plum had continued north.He'd crossed land belonging both to himself and the Franklins. Now hewas leaving the Franklin farm. North of the Franklins were the Bessers.Who was this Phineas Grotton? Had he bought out Lon Besser? Butanything like that would've gotten around.     Was he forgetting again?  Well, no matter. Mr. Grotton would have to excuse his trespass. Heopened the gate, led Plum through it, closed the gate. He mounted androde forward, still north, toward the small Pangborn place and afterthe Pangborns the biggest farm in the county—old Wallace Elverton'splace. The fields here, as everywhere in the county, lay fallow. Seemedas if the government had so much grain stored up they'd be able to getalong without crops for years more.     He looked around. Somehow, the country bothered him. He wasn't surewhy, but ... everything was wrong.     His head weighed an agonized ton. He put it down again. Plum wentsedately forward. After a while she stopped. Harry looked up. Anotherfence. And what a fence! About ten feet of heavy steel mesh, topped bythree feet of barbed-wire—five separate strands. What in the world hadSam Pangborn been thinking of to put up a monster like this?     He looked around. The gate should be further west. He rode that way.He found no gate. He turned back, heading east. No gate. Nothing butfence. And wasn't the fence gradually curving inward? He looked back.Yes, there      was     a slight inward curve.     He dismounted and tied Plum to the fence, then stepped back and figuredthe best way to get to the other side.     The best way, the only way, was to claw, clutch and clamber, as theyused to say back when he was a kid.       It took some doing. He tore his shirt on the barbed wire, but he gotover and began walking, straight ahead, due north. The earth changedbeneath his feet. He stooped and touched it. Sand. Hard-packed sand.He'd never seen the like of it in this county.     He walked on. A sound came to him; a rising-falling whisper. Helistened to it, and looked up every so often at the sky, to make surehe was heading in the right direction.     And the sand ended. His shoes plunked over flooring.     Flooring!     He knelt to make sure, and his hand felt wooden planks. He rose, andglanced up to see if he was still outdoors. Then he laughed. It was asick laugh, so he stopped it.     He took another step. His shoes sounded against the wood. He walked.More wood. Wood that went on, as the sand had. And the roaring soundgrowing louder. And the air changing, smelling like air never hadbefore in Cultwait County.  His entire body trembled. His mind trembled too. He walked, and came toa waist-high metal railing, and made a tiny sound deep in his throat.He looked out over water, endless water rolling in endless waves underthe night sky. Crashing water, topped with reflected silver from themoon. Pounding water, filling the air with spray.     He put out his hands and grasped the railing. It was wet. He raiseddamp fingers to his mouth. Salt.     He stepped back, back, and turned and ran. He ran wildly, blindly,until he could run no more. Then he fell, feeling the sand beneath him,and shut his eyes and mind to everything.     Much later, he got up and went to the fence and climbed it. He camedown on the other side and looked around and saw Plum. He walked toher, mounted her, sat still. The thoughts, or dreams, or whatever theywere which had been torturing him these past few weeks began torturinghim again.     It was getting light. His head was splitting.     Davie. His son Davie. Fourteen years old. Going to high school intown....       Town!     He should've gone there in the first place! He would ride east,to the road, then head south, back toward home. That would bring himright down Main Street. Regulations or not, he'd talk to people, findout what was happening.     He kicked Plum's sides. The mare began to move. He kept kicking untilshe broke into a brisk canter. He held on with hands and legs.     Why hadn't he seen the Pangborns and Elvertons lately—a long timelately?       The ocean. He'd seen the ocean. Not a reservoir or lake made byflooding and by damming, but salt water and enormous. An ocean, wherethere could be no ocean. The Pangborns and Elvertons had been wherethat ocean was now. And after the Elvertons had come the Dobsons.And after them the new plastics plant. And after that the city ofCrossville. And after that....       He was passing his own farm. He hadn't come through town, and yet herehe was at his own farm. Could he have forgotten where town was? Couldit be north of his home, not south? Could a man get so confused as toforget things he'd known all his life?     He reached the Shanks' place, and passed it at a trot. Then he wasbeyond their boundaries and breaking regulations again. He stayed onthe road. He went by a small house and saw colored folks in the yard.There'd been no colored folks here. There'd been Eli Bergen and hisfamily and his mother, in a bigger, newer house. The colored folksheard Plum's hooves and looked up and stared. Then a man raised hisvoice. Mistah, you breakin' regulations! Mistah, the police gonnah getyou!  He rode on. He came to another house, neat and white, with threechildren playing on a grassy lawn. They saw him and ran inside. Amoment later, adult voices yelled after him:     You theah! Stop!     Call the sheriff! He's headin' foah Piney Woods!     There was no place called Piney Woods in this county.     Was this how a man's mind went?     He came to another house, and another. He passed ten all told, andpeople shouted at him for breaking regulations, and the last three orfour sounded like Easterners. And their houses looked like pictures ofNew England he'd seen in magazines.     He rode on. He never did come to town. He came to a ten-foot fence witha three-foot barbed-wire extension. He got off Plum and ripped hisclothing climbing. He walked over hard-packed sand, and then wood,and came to a low metal railing. He looked out at the ocean, gleamingin bright sunlight, surging and seething endlessly. He felt the earthsway beneath him. He staggered, and dropped to his hands and knees, andshook his head like a fighter hit too many times. Then he got up andwent back to the fence and heard a sound. It was a familiar sound, yetstrange too. He shaded his eyes against the climbing sun. Then he sawit—a car.      A car!    It was one of those tiny foreign jobs that run on practically no gas atall. It stopped beside him and two men got out. Young men with lined,tired faces; they wore policemen's uniforms. You broke regulations,Mr. Burr. You'll have to come with us.     He nodded. He wanted to. He wanted to be taken care of. He turnedtoward Plum.     The other officer was walking around the horse. Rode her hard, hesaid, and he sounded real worried. Shouldn't have done that, Mr. Burr.We have so very few now....     The officer holding Harry's arm said, Pete.     The officer examining Plum said, It won't make any difference in awhile.     Harry looked at both of them, and felt sharp, personal fear.     Take the horse back to his farm, the officer holding Harry said. Heopened the door of the little car and pushed Harry inside. He wentaround to the driver's side and got behind the wheel and drove away.Harry looked back. Pete was leading Plum after them; not riding him,walking him. He sure must like horses, he said.     Yes.     Am I going to jail?     No.     Where then?     The doctor's place.     They stopped in front of the new house two miles past Dugan's farm.Except he'd never seen it before. Or had he? Everyone seemed to knowabout it—or was everyone only Edna and the Shanks?     He got out of the car. The officer took his arm and led him up thepath. Harry noticed that the new house was big.     When they came inside, he knew it wasn't like any house he'd ever seenor heard of. There was this long central passageway, and dozens ofdoors branched off it on both sides, and stairways went down from it inat least three places that he could see, and at the far end—a good twohundred yards away—a big ramp led upward. And it was all gray plasterwalls and dull black floors and cold white lighting, like a hospital,or a modern factory, or maybe a government building. Except that hedidn't see or hear people.     He did hear      something     ; a low, rumbling noise. The further they camealong the hall, the louder the rumbling grew. It seemed to be deep downsomewhere.  They went through one of the doors on the right, into a windowlessroom. A thin little man with bald head and frameless glasses was there,putting on a white coat. His veiny hands shook. He looked a hundredyears old. Where's Petey? he asked.     Pete's all right, Dad. Just leading a horse back to Burr's farm.     The old man sighed. I didn't know what form it would take. I expectedone or two cases, but I couldn't predict whether it would be gradual orsudden, whether or not it would lead to violence.     No violence, Dad.     Fine, Stan. He looked at Harry. I'm going to give you a littletreatment, Mr. Burr. It'll settle your nerves and make everything....     What happened to Davie? Harry asked, things pushing at his brainagain.     Stan helped him up. Just step this way, Mr. Burr.     He didn't resist. He went through the second door into the room withthe big chair. He sat down and let them strap his arms and legs and letthem lower the metal thing over his head. He felt needles pierce hisscalp and the back of his neck. He let them do what they wanted; hewould let them kill him if they wanted. All he asked was one answer soas to know whether or not he was insane.     What happened to my son Davie?     The old man walked across the room and examined what looked like theinsides of a dozen big radios. He turned, his hand on a switch.     Please, Harry whispered. Just tell me about my son.     The doctor blinked behind his glasses, and then his hand left theswitch. Dead, he said, his voice a rustling of dried leaves. Like somany millions of others. Dead, when the bombs fell. Dead, as everyoneknew they would be and no one did anything to prevent. Dead. Perhapsthe whole world is dead—except for us.     Harry stared at him.  I can't take the time to explain it all. I have too much to do. Justthree of us—myself and my two sons. My wife lost her mind. I shouldhave helped her as I'm helping you.     I don't understand, Harry said. I remember people, and things, andwhere are they now? Dead? People can die, but farms, cities....     I haven't the time, the doctor repeated, voice rising. I have to runa world. Three of us, to run a world! I built it as best I could, buthow large could I make it? The money. The years and years of work. Thepeople calling me insane when they found out ... but a few giving memore money, and the work going on. And those few caught like everyoneelse, unprepared when the holocaust started, unprepared and unable toreach my world. So they died. As I knew they would. As they should haveknown they would.     Harry felt the rumbling beneath him. Engines?     You survived, the doctor said. Your wife. A few hundred others inthe rural areas. One other family in your area. I survived becauseI lived for survival, like a mole deep in the earth, expecting thecatastrophe every minute. I survived because I gave up living tosurvive. He laughed, high and thin.     His son said, Please, Dad....     No! I want to talk to someone      sane     ! You and Petey and I—we're allinsane, you know. Three years now, playing God, waiting for some land,any land, to become habitable. And knowing everything, and surroundedby people who are sane only because I made sure they would knownothing. He stepped forward, glaring at Harry. Now do you understand?I went across the country, picking up a few of the few left alive. Mostwere farmers, and even where some weren't I picked the farmers anyway.Because farmers are what we'll need, and all the rest can evolve later.I put you and the others, eighty-six all told, from every section ofthe country, on my world, the only uncontaminated land left. I gaveyou back your old lives. I couldn't give you big crops because wedon't need big crops. We would only exhaust our limited soil with bigcrops. But I gave you vegetable gardens and livestock and, best of all,      sanity     ! I wiped the insane moments from your minds. I gave you peaceand consigned myself, my sons, my own wife....     He choked and stopped.     Stan ran across the room to the switch. Harry watched him, and hisbrain struggled with an impossible concept. He heard the engines andremembered the ocean on two sides; on four sides had he bothered tocheck south and east; on      all     sides if that fence continued to curveinward. Ocean, and there was no ocean in Iowa.     And this wasn't Iowa.       The explosions had ripped the world, and he'd tried to get to town tosave Davie, and there'd been no town and there'd been no people andthere'd been only death and poison in the air and even those few peopleleft had begun to die, and then the truck with the huge trailer hadcome, the gleaming trailer with the little man and his trembling wifeand his two sons....    Suddenly, he understood. And understanding brought not peace but thegreatest terror he'd ever known. He screamed, We're on.... but theswitch was thrown and there was no more speech. For an hour. Then hegot out of the chair and said, Sure glad I took my wife's advice andcame to see you, Doctor Hamming. I feel better already, and after onlyone.... What do you call these treatments?     Diathermy, the little doctor muttered.     Harry gave him a five-dollar bill. The doctor gave him two singles inchange. That's certainly reasonable enough, Harry said.     The doctor nodded. There's a police officer in the hall. He'll driveyou home so there won't be any trouble with the travel regulations.     Harry said, Thanks. Think we'll ever see the end of travel regulationsand rationing and all the rest of the emergency?     You will, Mr. Burr.     Harry walked to the door.     We're on an ark, the doctor said.     Harry turned around, smiling. What?     A test, Mr. Burr. You passed it. Goodbye.     Harry went home. He told Edna he felt just great! She said she'd beenworried when an officer found Plum wandering on the road; she thoughtmaybe Harry had gone off somewhere and broken travel regulations.     Me? he exclaimed, amazed. Break travel regulations? I'd as soon killa pig!   ","The story is set on an ark that Doctor Hamming put money into creating. Although it resembles Iowa, the residents are fooled to believe that it is indeed Iowa. Each of the residents have their own farm and land area, and they are restricted to only staying inside a certain area. For the Burrs, they cannot go beyond the Shanks’ place. Harry’s farm area has his house, an area for the livestock, and a tractor shed that was supposed to be torn off. Their area also has a supply bin that is shaped like an old-fashioned wood bin for deliveries from the government.  The land they live on is also shared with the Franklins. When Harry takes Plum out for a ride, they go up north past the Franklins to where the Bessers should be.  Then, they reach a small Pangborn farm.  Beyond Pangborn, there lies old Wallace Elverton’s place, which is known as the biggest farm in the country. There is barbed wire in this area, and he walks past it. Slowly, the earth becomes sand and then wood. There are also colored folks living here, when there shouldn’t have been, and a place called Piney Woods exists as well. The place where Doctor Hamming  lives is two miles past Dugan’s farm. It resembles a hospital, but there is nobody else inside of it. "
"What are some of the government regulations that are imposed in the story? </s>     BREAKDOWN     By HERBERT D. KASTLE     Illustrated by COWLES     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Magazine June 1961.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]       He didn't know exactly when it had started, but it had been going onfor weeks. Edna begged him to see the doctor living in that new housetwo miles past Dugan's farm, but he refused. He point-blank refused toadmit he was sick      that     way—in the head!     Of course, a man could grow forgetful. He had to admit there weremoments when he had all sorts of mixed-up memories and thoughts in hismind. And sometimes—like right now, lying in bed beside Edna, watchingthe first hint of light touch the windows—he began sweating with fear.A horrible, gut-wrenching fear, all the more horrible because it wasbased on nothing.     The chicken-run came alive; the barn followed minutes later. There werechores to do, the same chores he'd done all his forty-one years. Exceptthat now, with the new regulations about wheat and corn, he had onlya vegetable patch to farm. Sure, he got paid for letting the fieldsremain empty. But it just didn't seem right, all that land going towaste....       Davie. Blond hair and a round, tanned face and strong arms growingstronger each day from helping out after school.       He turned and shook Edna. What happened to Davie?     She cleared her throat, mumbled, Huh? What happened to who?     I said, what.... But then it slipped away. Davie? No, that was partof a dream he'd had last week. He and Edna had no children.     He felt the fear again, and got up fast to escape it. Edna opened hereyes as soon as his weight left the bed. Like hotcakes for breakfast?     Eggs, he said. Bacon. And then, seeing her face change, heremembered. Course, he muttered. Can't have bacon. Rationed.     She was fully awake now. If you'd only go see Dr. Hamming, Harry. Justfor a checkup. Or let me call him so he could—     You stop that! You stop that right now, and for good! I don't want tohear no more about doctors. I get laid up, I'll call one. And it won'tbe that Hamming who I ain't never seen in my life! It'll be Timkins,who took care'n us and brought our son into the world and....     She began to cry, and he realized he'd said something crazy again. Theyhad no son, never had a son. And Timkins—he'd died and they'd gone tohis funeral. Or so Edna said.     He himself just couldn't remember it.     He went to the bed and sat down beside her. Sorry. That was just adream I had. I'm still half asleep this morning. Couldn't fall off lastnight, not till real late. Guess I'm a little nervous, what with allthe new regulations and not working regular. I never meant we had ason. He waited then, hoping she'd say they      had     had a son, and he'ddied or gone away. But of course she didn't.  He went to the bathroom and washed. By the time he came to the kitchen,Edna had hotcakes on a plate and coffee in a cup. He sat down and ate.Part way through the meal, he paused. Got an awful craving for meat,he said. Goddam those rations! Man can't even butcher his own stockfor his own table!     We're having meat for lunch, she said placatingly. Nice cut ofmulti-pro.     Multi-pro, he scoffed. God knows what's in it. Like spam put througha grinder a hundred times and then baked into slabs. Can't hardly tasteany meat there.     Well, we got no choice. Country's on emergency rations. The currentcrisis, you know.     The way she said it irritated him. Like it was Scripture; like no onecould question one word of it without being damned to Hell. He finishedquickly and without speaking went on out to the barn.     He milked and curried and fed and cleaned, and still was done insideof two hours. Then he walked slowly, head down, across the hay-strewnfloor. He stopped, put out his hand as if to find a pole or beam thatwas too familiar to require raising his eyes, and almost fell as heleaned in that direction. Regaining his balance after a sidewardstaggering shuffle, he looked around, startled. Why, this ain't theway I had my barn....     He heard his own voice, and stopped. He fought the flash of senselesspanic. Of course this was the way he'd had his barn built, because it      was     his barn!     He rubbed his hard hands together and said aloud, Get down to thepatch. Them tomatoes need fertilizer for tang. He walked outside andtook a deep breath. Air was different, wasn't it? Sweet and pure andclean, like country air always was and always would be; but still,different somehow. Maybe sharper. Or was sharp the word? Maybe....     He went quickly across the yard, past the pig-pen—he'd had twelvepigs, hadn't he? Now he had four—behind the house to where thehalf-acre truck farm lay greening in the sun. He got to work. Sometimelater, Edna called to him. Delivery last night, Harry. I took some.Pick up rest?     Yes, he shouted.     She disappeared.     He walked slowly back to the house. As he came into the front yard,moving toward the road and the supply bin, something occurred to him.      The car.     He hadn't seen the old Chevvy in ... how long? It'd be niceto take a ride to town, see a movie, maybe have a few beers.     No. It was against the travel regulations. He couldn't go further thanWalt and Gloria Shanks' place. They couldn't go further than his. Andthe gas rationing. Besides, he'd sold the car, hadn't he? Because itwas no use to him lying in the tractor shed.  He whirled, staring out across the fields to his left. Why, the tractorshed had stood just fifty feet from the house!     No, he'd torn it down. The tractor was in town, being overhauled andall. He was leaving it there until he had use for it.     He went on toward the road, his head beginning to throb. Why shoulda man his age, hardly sick at all since he was a kid, suddenly startlosing hold this way? Edna was worried. The Shanks had noticed it too.     He was at the supply bin—like an old-fashioned wood bin; a box witha sloping flap lid. Deliveries of food and clothing and home medicinesand other things were left here. You wrote down what you needed, andthey left it—or whatever they allowed you—with a bill. You paid thebill by leaving money in the bin, and the next week you found a receiptand your new stuff and your new bill. And almost always you found somemoney from the government, for not planting wheat or not planting corn.It came out just about even.     He hauled out a sack of flour, half the amount of sugar Edna hadordered, some dried fruit, a new Homekit Medicine Shelf. He carried itinto the house, and noticed a slip of paper pinned to the sugar bag. Atelevision program guide.     Edna hustled over excitedly. Anything good on this week, Harry?     He looked down the listings, and frowned. All old movies. Still onlyone channel. Still only from nine to eleven at night. He gave it toher, turned away; then stopped and waited. He'd said the same thinglast week. And she had said the films were all new to her.     She said it now. Why Harry, I've never seen this movie with ClarkGable. Nor the comedy with Red Skeleton. Nor the other five neither.     I'm gonna lie down, he said flatly. He turned and stepped forward,and found himself facing the stove. Not the door to the hall; thestove. But the door.... he began. He cut himself short. He turned andsaw the door a few feet to the left, beside the table. He went thereand out and up the stairs (they too had moved; they too weren't right)and into the bedroom and lay down. The bedroom was wrong. The bed waswrong. The windows were wrong.     The world was wrong! Lord, the whole damned world was wrong!  Edna didn't wake him, so they had a late lunch. Then he went back tothe barn and let the four cows and four sheep and two horses into thepastures. Then he checked to see that Edna had fed the chickens right.They had only a dozen or so now.     When had he sold the rest? And when had he sold his other livestock?     Or had they died somehow? A rough winter? Disease?     He stood in the yard, a tall, husky man with pale brown hair and a facethat had once been long, lean and strong and was now only long andlean. He blinked gray eyes and tried hard to remember, then turned andwent to the house. Edna was soaking dishes in the sink, according toregulations—one sinkful of dishwater a day. And one tub of bath watertwice a week.     She was looking at him. He realized his anger and confusion must beshowing. He managed a smile. You remember how much we got for ourlivestock, Edna?     Same as everyone else, she said. Government agents paid flat rates.     He remembered then, or thought he did. The headache was back. He wentupstairs and slept again, but this time he had dreams, many of them,and all confused and all frightening. He was glad to get up. And he wasglad to hear Walt and Gloria talking to Edna downstairs.     He washed his face, combed his hair and went down. Walt and Gloria weresitting on the sofa, Edna in the blue armchair. Walt was saying he'dgotten the new TV picture tube he'd ordered. Found it in the supplybin this morning. Spent the whole day installing it according to thebook of directions.     Harry said hi and they all said hi and he sat down and they talkedabout TV and gardens and livestock. Then Harry said, How's Penny?     Fine, Gloria answered. I'm starting her on the kindergarten booknext week.     She's five already? Harry asked.     Almost six, Walt said. Emergency Education Regulations state thatthe child should be five years nine months old before embarking onkindergarten book.     And Frances? Harry asked. Your oldest? She must be startinghigh.... He stopped, because they were all staring at him, and becausehe couldn't remember Frances clearly. Just a joke, he said, laughingand rising. Let's eat. I'm starved.  They ate in the kitchen. They talked—or rather Edna, Gloria and Waltdid. Harry nodded and said uh-huh and used his mouth for chewing.     Walt and Gloria went home at ten-fifteen. They said goodbye at thedoor and Harry walked away. He heard Gloria whispering something aboutDoctor Hamming.     He was sitting in the living room when Edna came in. She was crying.Harry, please see the doctor.     He got up. I'm going out. I might even sleep out!     But why, Harry, why?     He couldn't stand to see her crying. He went to her, kissed her wetcheek, spoke more softly. It'll do me good, like when I was a kid.     If you say so, Harry.     He left quickly. He went outside and across the yard to the road. Helooked up it and down it, to the north and to the south. It was abright night with moon and stars, but he saw nothing, no one. The roadwas empty. It was always empty, except when Walt and Gloria walked overfrom their place a mile or so south. But once it hadn't been empty.Once there'd been cars, people....     He had to do something. Just sitting and looking at the sky wouldn'thelp him. He had to go somewhere, see someone.     He went to the barn and looked for his saddle. There was no saddle. Buthe'd had one hanging right behind the door. Or had he?     He threw a blanket over Plum, the big mare, and tied it with a piece ofwash line. He used another piece for a bridle, since he couldn't findthat either, and didn't bother making a bit. He mounted, and Plum movedout of the barn and onto the road. He headed north, toward town.     Then he realized he couldn't go along the road this way. He'd bereported. Breaking travel regulations was a serious offense. He didn'tknow what they did to you, but it wasn't anything easy like a fine.     He cut into an unfenced, unplanted field.     His headache was back, worse now than it had ever been. His entirehead throbbed, and he leaned forward and put his cheek against Plum'smane. The mare whinnied uneasily, but he kicked her sides and she movedforward. He lay there, just wanting to go somewhere, just wanting toleave his headache and confusion behind.     He didn't know how long it was, but Plum was moving cautiously now. Heraised his head. They were approaching a fence. He noticed a gate offto the right, and pulled the rope so Plum went that way. They reachedthe gate and he got down to open it, and saw the sign. Phineas GrottonFarm. He looked up at the sky, found the constellations, turned hishead, and nodded. He'd started north, and Plum had continued north.He'd crossed land belonging both to himself and the Franklins. Now hewas leaving the Franklin farm. North of the Franklins were the Bessers.Who was this Phineas Grotton? Had he bought out Lon Besser? Butanything like that would've gotten around.     Was he forgetting again?  Well, no matter. Mr. Grotton would have to excuse his trespass. Heopened the gate, led Plum through it, closed the gate. He mounted androde forward, still north, toward the small Pangborn place and afterthe Pangborns the biggest farm in the county—old Wallace Elverton'splace. The fields here, as everywhere in the county, lay fallow. Seemedas if the government had so much grain stored up they'd be able to getalong without crops for years more.     He looked around. Somehow, the country bothered him. He wasn't surewhy, but ... everything was wrong.     His head weighed an agonized ton. He put it down again. Plum wentsedately forward. After a while she stopped. Harry looked up. Anotherfence. And what a fence! About ten feet of heavy steel mesh, topped bythree feet of barbed-wire—five separate strands. What in the world hadSam Pangborn been thinking of to put up a monster like this?     He looked around. The gate should be further west. He rode that way.He found no gate. He turned back, heading east. No gate. Nothing butfence. And wasn't the fence gradually curving inward? He looked back.Yes, there      was     a slight inward curve.     He dismounted and tied Plum to the fence, then stepped back and figuredthe best way to get to the other side.     The best way, the only way, was to claw, clutch and clamber, as theyused to say back when he was a kid.       It took some doing. He tore his shirt on the barbed wire, but he gotover and began walking, straight ahead, due north. The earth changedbeneath his feet. He stooped and touched it. Sand. Hard-packed sand.He'd never seen the like of it in this county.     He walked on. A sound came to him; a rising-falling whisper. Helistened to it, and looked up every so often at the sky, to make surehe was heading in the right direction.     And the sand ended. His shoes plunked over flooring.     Flooring!     He knelt to make sure, and his hand felt wooden planks. He rose, andglanced up to see if he was still outdoors. Then he laughed. It was asick laugh, so he stopped it.     He took another step. His shoes sounded against the wood. He walked.More wood. Wood that went on, as the sand had. And the roaring soundgrowing louder. And the air changing, smelling like air never hadbefore in Cultwait County.  His entire body trembled. His mind trembled too. He walked, and came toa waist-high metal railing, and made a tiny sound deep in his throat.He looked out over water, endless water rolling in endless waves underthe night sky. Crashing water, topped with reflected silver from themoon. Pounding water, filling the air with spray.     He put out his hands and grasped the railing. It was wet. He raiseddamp fingers to his mouth. Salt.     He stepped back, back, and turned and ran. He ran wildly, blindly,until he could run no more. Then he fell, feeling the sand beneath him,and shut his eyes and mind to everything.     Much later, he got up and went to the fence and climbed it. He camedown on the other side and looked around and saw Plum. He walked toher, mounted her, sat still. The thoughts, or dreams, or whatever theywere which had been torturing him these past few weeks began torturinghim again.     It was getting light. His head was splitting.     Davie. His son Davie. Fourteen years old. Going to high school intown....       Town!     He should've gone there in the first place! He would ride east,to the road, then head south, back toward home. That would bring himright down Main Street. Regulations or not, he'd talk to people, findout what was happening.     He kicked Plum's sides. The mare began to move. He kept kicking untilshe broke into a brisk canter. He held on with hands and legs.     Why hadn't he seen the Pangborns and Elvertons lately—a long timelately?       The ocean. He'd seen the ocean. Not a reservoir or lake made byflooding and by damming, but salt water and enormous. An ocean, wherethere could be no ocean. The Pangborns and Elvertons had been wherethat ocean was now. And after the Elvertons had come the Dobsons.And after them the new plastics plant. And after that the city ofCrossville. And after that....       He was passing his own farm. He hadn't come through town, and yet herehe was at his own farm. Could he have forgotten where town was? Couldit be north of his home, not south? Could a man get so confused as toforget things he'd known all his life?     He reached the Shanks' place, and passed it at a trot. Then he wasbeyond their boundaries and breaking regulations again. He stayed onthe road. He went by a small house and saw colored folks in the yard.There'd been no colored folks here. There'd been Eli Bergen and hisfamily and his mother, in a bigger, newer house. The colored folksheard Plum's hooves and looked up and stared. Then a man raised hisvoice. Mistah, you breakin' regulations! Mistah, the police gonnah getyou!  He rode on. He came to another house, neat and white, with threechildren playing on a grassy lawn. They saw him and ran inside. Amoment later, adult voices yelled after him:     You theah! Stop!     Call the sheriff! He's headin' foah Piney Woods!     There was no place called Piney Woods in this county.     Was this how a man's mind went?     He came to another house, and another. He passed ten all told, andpeople shouted at him for breaking regulations, and the last three orfour sounded like Easterners. And their houses looked like pictures ofNew England he'd seen in magazines.     He rode on. He never did come to town. He came to a ten-foot fence witha three-foot barbed-wire extension. He got off Plum and ripped hisclothing climbing. He walked over hard-packed sand, and then wood,and came to a low metal railing. He looked out at the ocean, gleamingin bright sunlight, surging and seething endlessly. He felt the earthsway beneath him. He staggered, and dropped to his hands and knees, andshook his head like a fighter hit too many times. Then he got up andwent back to the fence and heard a sound. It was a familiar sound, yetstrange too. He shaded his eyes against the climbing sun. Then he sawit—a car.      A car!    It was one of those tiny foreign jobs that run on practically no gas atall. It stopped beside him and two men got out. Young men with lined,tired faces; they wore policemen's uniforms. You broke regulations,Mr. Burr. You'll have to come with us.     He nodded. He wanted to. He wanted to be taken care of. He turnedtoward Plum.     The other officer was walking around the horse. Rode her hard, hesaid, and he sounded real worried. Shouldn't have done that, Mr. Burr.We have so very few now....     The officer holding Harry's arm said, Pete.     The officer examining Plum said, It won't make any difference in awhile.     Harry looked at both of them, and felt sharp, personal fear.     Take the horse back to his farm, the officer holding Harry said. Heopened the door of the little car and pushed Harry inside. He wentaround to the driver's side and got behind the wheel and drove away.Harry looked back. Pete was leading Plum after them; not riding him,walking him. He sure must like horses, he said.     Yes.     Am I going to jail?     No.     Where then?     The doctor's place.     They stopped in front of the new house two miles past Dugan's farm.Except he'd never seen it before. Or had he? Everyone seemed to knowabout it—or was everyone only Edna and the Shanks?     He got out of the car. The officer took his arm and led him up thepath. Harry noticed that the new house was big.     When they came inside, he knew it wasn't like any house he'd ever seenor heard of. There was this long central passageway, and dozens ofdoors branched off it on both sides, and stairways went down from it inat least three places that he could see, and at the far end—a good twohundred yards away—a big ramp led upward. And it was all gray plasterwalls and dull black floors and cold white lighting, like a hospital,or a modern factory, or maybe a government building. Except that hedidn't see or hear people.     He did hear      something     ; a low, rumbling noise. The further they camealong the hall, the louder the rumbling grew. It seemed to be deep downsomewhere.  They went through one of the doors on the right, into a windowlessroom. A thin little man with bald head and frameless glasses was there,putting on a white coat. His veiny hands shook. He looked a hundredyears old. Where's Petey? he asked.     Pete's all right, Dad. Just leading a horse back to Burr's farm.     The old man sighed. I didn't know what form it would take. I expectedone or two cases, but I couldn't predict whether it would be gradual orsudden, whether or not it would lead to violence.     No violence, Dad.     Fine, Stan. He looked at Harry. I'm going to give you a littletreatment, Mr. Burr. It'll settle your nerves and make everything....     What happened to Davie? Harry asked, things pushing at his brainagain.     Stan helped him up. Just step this way, Mr. Burr.     He didn't resist. He went through the second door into the room withthe big chair. He sat down and let them strap his arms and legs and letthem lower the metal thing over his head. He felt needles pierce hisscalp and the back of his neck. He let them do what they wanted; hewould let them kill him if they wanted. All he asked was one answer soas to know whether or not he was insane.     What happened to my son Davie?     The old man walked across the room and examined what looked like theinsides of a dozen big radios. He turned, his hand on a switch.     Please, Harry whispered. Just tell me about my son.     The doctor blinked behind his glasses, and then his hand left theswitch. Dead, he said, his voice a rustling of dried leaves. Like somany millions of others. Dead, when the bombs fell. Dead, as everyoneknew they would be and no one did anything to prevent. Dead. Perhapsthe whole world is dead—except for us.     Harry stared at him.  I can't take the time to explain it all. I have too much to do. Justthree of us—myself and my two sons. My wife lost her mind. I shouldhave helped her as I'm helping you.     I don't understand, Harry said. I remember people, and things, andwhere are they now? Dead? People can die, but farms, cities....     I haven't the time, the doctor repeated, voice rising. I have to runa world. Three of us, to run a world! I built it as best I could, buthow large could I make it? The money. The years and years of work. Thepeople calling me insane when they found out ... but a few giving memore money, and the work going on. And those few caught like everyoneelse, unprepared when the holocaust started, unprepared and unable toreach my world. So they died. As I knew they would. As they should haveknown they would.     Harry felt the rumbling beneath him. Engines?     You survived, the doctor said. Your wife. A few hundred others inthe rural areas. One other family in your area. I survived becauseI lived for survival, like a mole deep in the earth, expecting thecatastrophe every minute. I survived because I gave up living tosurvive. He laughed, high and thin.     His son said, Please, Dad....     No! I want to talk to someone      sane     ! You and Petey and I—we're allinsane, you know. Three years now, playing God, waiting for some land,any land, to become habitable. And knowing everything, and surroundedby people who are sane only because I made sure they would knownothing. He stepped forward, glaring at Harry. Now do you understand?I went across the country, picking up a few of the few left alive. Mostwere farmers, and even where some weren't I picked the farmers anyway.Because farmers are what we'll need, and all the rest can evolve later.I put you and the others, eighty-six all told, from every section ofthe country, on my world, the only uncontaminated land left. I gaveyou back your old lives. I couldn't give you big crops because wedon't need big crops. We would only exhaust our limited soil with bigcrops. But I gave you vegetable gardens and livestock and, best of all,      sanity     ! I wiped the insane moments from your minds. I gave you peaceand consigned myself, my sons, my own wife....     He choked and stopped.     Stan ran across the room to the switch. Harry watched him, and hisbrain struggled with an impossible concept. He heard the engines andremembered the ocean on two sides; on four sides had he bothered tocheck south and east; on      all     sides if that fence continued to curveinward. Ocean, and there was no ocean in Iowa.     And this wasn't Iowa.       The explosions had ripped the world, and he'd tried to get to town tosave Davie, and there'd been no town and there'd been no people andthere'd been only death and poison in the air and even those few peopleleft had begun to die, and then the truck with the huge trailer hadcome, the gleaming trailer with the little man and his trembling wifeand his two sons....    Suddenly, he understood. And understanding brought not peace but thegreatest terror he'd ever known. He screamed, We're on.... but theswitch was thrown and there was no more speech. For an hour. Then hegot out of the chair and said, Sure glad I took my wife's advice andcame to see you, Doctor Hamming. I feel better already, and after onlyone.... What do you call these treatments?     Diathermy, the little doctor muttered.     Harry gave him a five-dollar bill. The doctor gave him two singles inchange. That's certainly reasonable enough, Harry said.     The doctor nodded. There's a police officer in the hall. He'll driveyou home so there won't be any trouble with the travel regulations.     Harry said, Thanks. Think we'll ever see the end of travel regulationsand rationing and all the rest of the emergency?     You will, Mr. Burr.     Harry walked to the door.     We're on an ark, the doctor said.     Harry turned around, smiling. What?     A test, Mr. Burr. You passed it. Goodbye.     Harry went home. He told Edna he felt just great! She said she'd beenworried when an officer found Plum wandering on the road; she thoughtmaybe Harry had gone off somewhere and broken travel regulations.     Me? he exclaimed, amazed. Break travel regulations? I'd as soon killa pig!   ","One of the government restrictions that Edna reminds Harry about is the rationing of meat. Due to the crisis in the country, there is a shortage of meat. Instead of actual meat, most people eat multi-pro, which is similar to spam. The government also sets up boundaries for the residents to stay inside of, and they are not allowed to go past these regulations or else the police will come. The government also takes care of supplies, and most residents just have to write down what they want and pay a bill. In terms of money, the government takes care of it as well each week. Each farm receives the same number of animals because government agents paid flat rates. When Harry finds the stock of grain, he notes that the government has enough to keep going for a few years. Television is also restricted to old movies, playing only on one channel from nine to eleven at night. Later, it is revealed that these restrictions are imposed to keep the people alive on the ark long enough until they can begin to expand civilization again. "
"What is the plot of the story? </s>     The Girls From Fieu Dayol     By ROBERT F. YOUNG     They were lovely and quick     to learn—and their only     faults were little ones!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Up until the moment when he first looked into Hippolyte Adolphe Taine's      History of English Literature     , Herbert Quidley's penchant for oldbooks had netted him nothing in the way of romance and intrigue.Not that he was a stranger to either. Far from it. But hitherto thebackground for both had been bedrooms and bars, not libraries.     On page 21 of the Taine tome he happened upon a sheet of yellow copypaper folded in four. Unfolding it, he read:       asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkjCai: Sities towms copeis wotnid. Gind snoll doper nckli! Wilbe FieuDayol fot ig habe mot toseo knwo—te bijk weil en snoll doper—Klio,asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj       Since when, Quidley wondered, refolding the paper and putting it backin the book, had high-school typing students taken to reading Taine?Thoughtfully he replaced the book on the shelf and moved deeper intothe literature section.     He had just taken down Xenophon's      Anabasis     when he saw the girl walkin the door.     Let it be said forthwith that old books were not the only item onHerbert Quidley's penchant-list. He liked old wood, too, and oldpaintings, not to mention old wine and old whiskey. But most of all heliked young girls. He especially liked them when they looked the wayHelen of Troy must have looked when Paris took one gander at her andstarted building his ladder. This one was tall, with hyacinth hair andliquid blue eyes, and she had a Grecian symmetry of shape that wouldhave made Paris' eyes pop had he been around to take notice. Pariswasn't, but Quidley's eyes, did the job.     After coming in the door, the girl deposited a book on the librarian'sdesk and headed for the literature section. Quickly Quidley loweredhis eyes to the      Anabasis     and henceforth followed her progress out oftheir corners. When she came to the O's she paused, took down a bookand glanced through it. Then she replaced it and moved on to theP's ... the Q's ... the R's. Barely three feet from him she pausedagain and took down Taine's      History of English Literature     .     He simply could not believe it. The odds against two persons taking aninterest in so esoteric a volume on a single night in a single librarywere ten thousand to one. And yet there was no gainsaying that thevolume was in the girl's hands, and that she was riffling through itwith the air of a seasoned browser.     Presently she returned the book to the shelf, selectedanother—seemingly at random—and took it over to the librarian's desk.She waited statuesquely while the librarian processed it, then tuckedit under her arm and whisked out the door into the misty April night.As soon as she disappeared, Quidley stepped over to the T's and tookTaine down once more. Just as he had suspected. The makeshift bookmarkwas gone.     He remembered how the asdf-;lkj exercise had given way to several linesof gibberish and then reappeared again. A camouflaged message? Or wasit merely what it appeared to be on the surface—the efforts of animpatient typing student to type before his time?     He returned Taine to the shelf. After learning from the librarian thatthe girl's name was Kay Smith, he went out and got in his hardtop. Thename rang a bell. Halfway home he realized why. The typing exercise hadcontained the word Cai, and if you pronounced it with hard c, you gotKai—or Kay. Obviously, then, the exercise had been a message, andhad been deliberately inserted in a book no average person would dreamof borrowing.     By whom—her boy friend?     Quidley winced. He was allergic to the term. Not that he ever let thepresence of a boy friend deter him when he set out to conquer, butbecause the term itself brought to mind the word fiance, and the wordfiance brought to mind still another word, one which repelled himviolently. I.e., marriage. Just the same, he decided to keep Taine's      History     under observation for a while.  Her boy friend turned out to be her girl friend, and her girl friendturned out to be a tall and lissome, lovely with a Helenesque air ofher own. From the vantage point of a strategically located readingtable, where he was keeping company with his favorite little magazine,      The Zeitgeist     , Quidley watched her take a seemingly haphazard routeto the shelf where Taine's      History     reposed, take the volume down,surreptitiously slip a folded sheet of yellow paper between its pagesand return it to the shelf.     After she left he wasted no time in acquainting himself with the secondmessage. It was as unintelligible as the first:       asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj Cai: Habewotnid ig ist ending ifedererer te. T'lide sid Fieu Dayol po jestigtoseo knwo, bijk weil en snoll doper entling—Yoolna. asdf ;lkj asdf;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj       Well, perhaps not quite as unintelligible. He knew, at least, who Caiwas, and he knew—from the reappearance of the words      wotnid     ,      FieuDayol     and      snoll doper     —that the two communications were in thesame code. And certainly it was reasonable to assume that the lastword—      Yoolna     —was the name of the girl he had just seen, and thatshe was a different person from the      Klio     whose name had appended thefirst message.     He refolded the paper, replaced it between the pages, returned the bookto the shelf and went back to the reading table and      The Zeitgeist     .     Kay didn't show up till almost closing time, and he was beginningto think that perhaps she wouldn't come around for the pickup tilltomorrow when she finally walked in the door. She employed the sametactics she had employed the previous night, arriving, as though bychance, at the T-section and transferring the message with the sameundetectable legerdemain to her purse. This time, when she walked outthe door, he was not far behind her.     She climbed into a sleek convertible and pulled into the street. Ittook him but a moment to gain his hardtop and start out after her.When, several blocks later, she pulled to the curb in front of anall-night coffee bar, he followed suit. After that, it was merely amatter of following her inside.     He decided on Operation Spill-the-sugar. It had stood him in good steadbefore, and he was rather fond of it. The procedure was quite simple.First you took note of the position of the sugar dispensers, then yousituated yourself so that your intended victim was between you and thenearest one, then you ordered coffee without sugar in a low voice, andafter the counterman or countergirl had served you, you waited tillhe/she was out of earshot and asked your i.v. to please pass the sugar.When she did so you let the dispenser slip from your fingers in such away that some of its contents spilled on her lap—     I'm terribly sorry, he said, righting it. Here, let me brush it off.  It's all right, it's only sugar, she said, laughing.     I'm hopelessly clumsy, he continued smoothly, brushing the gleamingcrystals from her pleated skirt, noting the clean sweep of her thighs.I beseech you to forgive me.     You're forgiven, she said, and he noticed then that she spoke with aslight accent.     If you like, you can send it to the cleaners and have them send thebill to me. My address is 61 Park Place. He pulled out his wallet,chose an appropriate card, and handed it to her—     Herbert Quidley:      Profiliste       Her forehead crinkled.       Profiliste?          I paint profiles with words, he said. You may have run across someof my pieces in the Better Magazines. I employ a variety of pseudonyms,of course.     How interesting. She pronounced it anteresting.     Not famous profiles, you understand. Just profiles that strike myfancy. He paused. She had raised her cup to her lips and was taking adainty sip. You have a rather striking profile yourself, Miss—     Smith. Kay Smith. She set the cup back on the counter and turned andfaced him. For a second her eyes seemed to expand till they preoccupiedhis entire vision, till he could see nothing but their disturbinglyclear—and suddenly cold—blueness. Panic touched him, then vanishedwhen she said, Would you really consider word-painting      my     profile,Mr. Quidley?       Would     he! When can I call?     She hesitated for a moment. Then: I think it will be better if I callon you. There are quite a number of people living in our—our house.I'm afraid the quarters would be much too cramped for an artist likeyourself to concentrate.     Quidley glowed. Usually it required two or three days, and sometimes aweek, to reach the apartment phase. Fine, he said. When can I expectyou?     She stood up and he got to his feet beside her. She was even tallerthan he had thought. In fact, if he hadn't been wearing Cuban heels,she'd have been taller than he was. I'll be in town night after next,she said. Will nine o'clock be convenient for you?     Perfectly.     Good-by for now then, Mr. Quidley.     He was so elated that when he arrived at his apartment he actuallydid try to write a profile. His own, of course. He sat down at hiscustom-built chrome-trimmed desk, inserted a blank sheet of paper inhis custom-built typewriter and tried to arrange his thoughts. But asusual his mind raced ahead of the moment, and he saw the title,      SelfProfile     , nestling noticeably on the contents page of one of the BetterMagazines, and presently he saw the piece itself in all its splendidarray of colorful rhetoric, sparkling imagery and scintillating wit,occupying a two-page spread.     It was some time before he returned to reality, and when he did thefirst thing that met his eyes was the uncompromisingly blank sheet ofpaper. Hurriedly he typed out a letter to his father, requesting anadvance on his allowance, then, after a tall glass of vintage wine, hewent to bed.  In telling him that she would be in town two nights hence, Kay hadunwittingly apprised him that there would be no exchange of messagesuntil that time, so the next evening he skipped his vigil at thelibrary. The following evening, however, after readying his apartmentfor the forthcoming assignation, he hied himself to his reading-tablepost and took up      The Zeitgeist     once again.     He had not thought it possible that there could be a third such woman.     And yet there she was, walking in the door, tall and blue-eyed andgraceful; dark of hair and noble of mien; browsing in the philosophysection now, now the fiction section, now moving leisurely into theliterature aisle and toward the T's....     The camouflage had varied, but the message was typical enough:       fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; Cai: Ginden snoll doper nckli! Wotnid antwaterer Fieu Dayol hid jestig snolldoper ifedererer te. Dep gogensplo snoll dopers ensing!—Gorka. fdsajkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl;       Judging from the repeated use of the words,      snoll dopers     were thetopic of the day. Annoyed, Quidley replaced the message and put thebook back on the shelf. Then he returned to his apartment to await Kay.     He wondered what her reaction would be if he asked her point-blank whata      snoll doper     was; whether she would reveal the nature of the amateursecret society to which she and Klio and Yoolna and Gorka belonged.It virtually had to be an amateur secret society. Unless, of course,they were foreigners. But what on earth foreign organization would bequixotic enough to employ Taine's      History of English Literature     as acommunications medium when there was a telephone in every drugstore anda mailbox on every corner?     Somehow the words what on earth foreign organization got turnedaround in his mind and became what foreign organization on earth andbefore he could summon his common sense to succor him, he experienceda rather bad moment. By the time the door chimes sounded he was hisnormal self again.     He straightened his tie with nervous fingers, checked to see if hisshirt cuffs protruded the proper length from his coat sleeves, andlooked around the room to see if everything was in place. Everythingwas—the typewriter uncovered and centered on the chrome-trimmed desk,with the sheaf of crinkly first-sheets beside it; the reference booksstacked imposingly nearby;      Harper's     ,      The Atlantic     and      The SaturdayReview     showing conspicuously in the magazine rack; the newly openedbottle of bourbon and the two snifter glasses on the sideboard; thesmall table set cozily for two—  The chimes sounded again. He opened the door.     She walked in with a demure, Hello. He took her wrap. When he sawwhat she was wearing he had to tilt his head back so that his eyeswouldn't fall out of their sockets.     Skin, mostly, in the upper regions. White, glowing skin on which herlong hair lay like forest pools. As for her dress, it was as thoughshe had fallen forward into immaculate snow, half-burying her breastsbefore catching herself on her elbows, then turning into a sittingposition, the snow clinging to her skin in a glistening veneer;arising finally to her feet, resplendently attired.     He went over to the sideboard, picked up the bottle of bourbon. Shefollowed. He set the two snifter glasses side by side and tilted thebottle. Say when. When! I admire your dress—never saw anythingquite like it. Thank you. The material is something new. Feel it.It's—it's almost like foam rubber. Cigarette? Thanks.... Issomething wrong, Mr. Quidley? No, of course not. Why? Your handsare trembling. Oh. I'm—I'm afraid it's the present company, MissSmith. Call me Kay.     They touched glasses: Your liquor is as exquisite as your living room,Herbert. I shall have to come here more often. I hope you will, Kay.Though such conduct, I'm told, is morally reprehensible on the planetEarth. Not in this particular circle. Your hair is lovely. Thankyou.... You haven't mentioned my perfume yet. Perhaps I'm standing toofar away.... There! It's—it's as lovely as your hair, Kay. Um,kiss me again. I—I never figured—I mean, I engaged a caterer toserve us dinner at 9:30. Call him up. Make it 10:30.  The following evening found Quidley on tenter-hooks. The      snoll-doper     mystery had acquired a new tang. He could hardly wait till the nextmessage transfer took place.     He decided to spend the evening plotting the epic novel which heintended to write someday. He set to work immediately. He plottedmentally, of course—notes were for the hacks and the other commercialnon-geniuses who infested the modern literary world. Closing his eyes,he saw the whole vivid panorama of epic action and grand adventureflowing like a mighty and majestic river before his literary vision:the authentic and awe-inspiring background; the hordes of colorfulcharacters; the handsome virile hero, the compelling Helenesqueheroine.... God, it was going to be great! The best thing he'd everdone! See, already there was a crowd of book lovers in front of thebookstore, staring into the window where the new Herbert Quidley wason display, trying to force its way into the jammed interior....      Cutto interior.     FIRST EAGER CUSTOMER: Tell me quickly, are there anymore copies of the new Herbert Quidley left? BOOK CLERK: A few. Youdon't know how lucky you are to get here before the first printing ranout. FIRST EAGER CUSTOMER: Give me a dozen. I want to make sure thatmy children and my children's children have a plentiful supply. BOOKCLERK: Sorry. Only one to a customer. Next? SECOND EAGER CUSTOMER: Tellme quickly, are ... there ... any ... more ... copies ... of—     ZZZZZZZZZZZZZ....     Message no. 4, except for a slight variation in camouflage, ran true toform:       a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj Cai: Habe te snoll dopers ensing?Wotnid ne Fieu Dayol ist ifederereret, hid jestig snoll doper. Ginded, olro—Jilka. a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj       Quidley sighed. What, he asked himself, standing in the library aisleand staring at the indecipherable words, was a normal girl like Kaydoing in such a childish secret society? From the way she and hercorrespondents carried on you'd almost think they were Martian girlscouts on an interplanetary camping trip, trying for their merit badgesin communications!     You could hardly call Kay a girl scout, though.     Nevertheless, she was the key figure in the      snoll-doper     enigma. Thefact annoyed him, especially when he considered that a      snoll doper     ,for all he knew, could be anything from a Chinese fortune cooky to anH-bomb.     He remembered Kay's odd accent. Was that the way a person would speakEnglish if her own language ran something like       ist ifedereret, hidjestig snoll doper adwo     ?     He remembered the way she had looked at him in the coffee bar.     He remembered the material of her dress.     He remembered how she had come to his room.     I didn't know you had a taste for Taine.  Her voice seemed to come from far away, but she was standing rightbeside him, tall and bewitching; Helenesque as ever. Her blue eyesbecame great wells into which he found himself falling. With an effort,he pulled himself back. You're early tonight, he said lamely.     She appropriated the message, read it. Put the book back, she saidpresently. Then, when he complied: Come on.     Where are we going?     I'm going to deliver a      snoll doper     to Jilka. After that I'm going totake you home to meet my folks.     The relieved sigh he heard was his own.     They climbed into her convertible and she nosed it into the moving lineof cars. How long have you been reading my mail? she asked.     Since the night before I met you.     Was that the reason you spilled the sugar?     Part of the reason, he said. What's a      snoll doper     ?     She laughed. I don't think I'd better tell you just yet.     He sighed again. But if Jilka wanted a      snoll doper     , he said after awhile, why in the world didn't she call you up and say so?     Regulations. She pulled over to the curb in front of a brickapartment building. This is where Jilka lives. I'll explain when I getback.     He watched her get out, walk up the walk to the entrance and letherself in. He leaned his head back on the seat, lit a cigarette andexhaled a mixture of smoke and relief. On the way to meet her folks.So it was just an ordinary secret society after all. And here he'dbeen thinking that she was the key figure in a Martian plot to blow upEarth—     Her      folks     !     Abruptly the full implication of the words got through to him, and hesat bolt-up-right on the seat. He was starting to climb out of the carwhen he saw Kay coming down the walk. Anyway, running away wouldn'tsolve his problem. A complete disappearing act was in order, and acomplete disappearing act would take time. Meanwhile he would playalong with her.  A station wagon came up behind them, slowed, and matched its speedwith theirs. Someone's following us, Quidley said.     Probably Jilka.     Five minutes later the station wagon turned down a side street anddisappeared. She's no longer with us, Quidley said.     She's got to pick someone up. She'll meet us later.     At your folks'?     At the ship.     The city was thinning out around them now, and a few stars were visiblein the night sky. Quidley watched them thoughtfully for a while. Then:What ship? he said.     The one we're going to      Fieu Dayol     on.           Fieu Dayol?          Persei 17 to you. I said I was going to take you home to meet myfolks, didn't I?     In other words, you're kidnapping me.     She shook her head vehemently. I most certainly am not! Neitheraccording to interstellar law or your own. When you compromised me, youmade yourself liable in the eyes of both.     But why pick on me? There must be plenty of men on      Fieu Dayol     . Whydon't you marry one of them?     For two reasons: one, you're the particular man who compromisedme. Two, there are      not     plenty of men on      Fieu Dayol     . Our race isidentical to yours in everything except population-balance between thesexes. At periodic intervals the women on      Fieu Dayol     so greatlyoutnumber the men that those of us who are temperamentally andemotionally unfitted to become spinsters have to look for      wotnids     —ormates—on other worlds. It's quite legal and quite respectable. As amatter of fact, we even have schools specializing in alien culturesto expedite our activities. Our biggest problem is the Interstellarstatute forbidding us the use of local communications services andforbidding us to appear in public places. It was devised to facilitatethe prosecution of interstellar black marketeers, but we're subject toit, too, and have to contrive communications systems of our own.     But why were all the messages addressed to you?     They weren't messages. They were requisitions. I'm the ship's stockgirl.  April fields stretched darkly away on either side of the highway.Presently she turned down a rutted road between two of them and theybounced and swayed back to a black blur of trees. Here we are, shesaid.     Gradually he made out the sphere. It blended so flawlessly with itsbackground that he wouldn't have been able to see it at all if hehadn't been informed of its existence. A gangplank sloped down from anopen lock and came to rest just within the fringe of the trees.     Lights danced in the darkness behind them as another car jounced downthe rutted road. Jilka, Kay said. I wonder if she got him.     Apparently she had. At least there was a man with her—a ratherwoebegone, wilted creature who didn't even look up as they passed.Quidley watched them ascend the gangplank, the man in the lead, anddisappear into the ship.     Next, Kay said.     Quidley shook his head. You're not taking      me     to another planet!     She opened her purse and pulled out a small metallic object Alittle while ago you asked me what a      snoll doper     was, she said.Unfortunately interstellar law severely limits us in our choice ofmarriageable males, and we can take only those who refuse to conformto the sexual mores of their own societies. She did something to theobject that caused it to extend itself into a long, tubular affair.      This     is a      snoll doper     .     She prodded his ribs. March, she said.     He marched. Halfway up the plank he glanced back over his shoulder fora better look at the object pressed against his back.     It bore a striking resemblance to a shotgun.  ","Herbert Quidley finds a yellow paper with unintelligible words folded in the book called History of English Literature by Hippolyte Adolphe Taine. After he continues to work, he sees a girl come in, browse randomly, and take Taine’s book. The girl quickly riffles through the book, puts it back on the shelf, and leaves the library. After the girl leaves, Quidley checks the book, noticing the disappearance of the yellow paper. He learns the girl’s name, Kay Smith, from the librarian and goes home. On his way home, he guesses that the paper is a kind of message transmitted through an esoteric book. He guesses the identity of the person who might do this message job with Kay, none of which pleases him as he has a liking for the girl, so he decides to observe this messaging action for a while.The following day, when Quidley waits at the library, a girl different from Kay comes to the library, puts another paper in Taine’s book, and leaves. Quidley sees the paper and finds another batch of unintelligible words, from which he finds two common words, Fieu Dayol and snoll doper. He puts back the letter and goes back to his seat. When the library is about to close, Kay comes to take the paper and leaves. Quidley follows behind her into a coffee bar. He intentionally spills the sugar on her, which allows him to start talking to her. Throughout the conversation, Quidley reveals his identity as a profiliste and accepts Kay’s request to make her a profile. They set up a time to meet next time. After they separate, Quidley goes home and writes a letter to his father for the allowance.Two days later, Quidley goes to the library again and sits at his reading-table post with his favorite magazine. He sees the third woman come in and do the same thing as the previous girls. He reads the new message and returns to his apartment waiting for Kay. He thinks about the meaning of snoll doper. When Kay comes, they do something sexually. The following day, puzzled by the secret of the snoll doper, Quidley decides to read the message before the exchange happens. Kay finds out that Quidley is reading the message. She tells him to come with her to deliver the snoll doper to Jilka and meet her folks. When Quidley waits in the car, he realizes the possible true identity of Kay and what may happen next. Quidley learns from the conversation with Kay that they are heading to the ship to Fieu Dayol. He also learns that Kay is the ship’s stock girl, and all the messages are actually requisitions for the snoll dopers. He realizes that he is kidnapped to another planet, Fieu Dayol, where women outnumber men. He sees a man with Jilka ascend the ship and disappear. Kay forces Quidley to go into the ship by pointing him with a shotgun, which is called snoll doper in Kay’s language."
"Who is Kay Smith, and what are her characteristics? </s>     The Girls From Fieu Dayol     By ROBERT F. YOUNG     They were lovely and quick     to learn—and their only     faults were little ones!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Up until the moment when he first looked into Hippolyte Adolphe Taine's      History of English Literature     , Herbert Quidley's penchant for oldbooks had netted him nothing in the way of romance and intrigue.Not that he was a stranger to either. Far from it. But hitherto thebackground for both had been bedrooms and bars, not libraries.     On page 21 of the Taine tome he happened upon a sheet of yellow copypaper folded in four. Unfolding it, he read:       asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkjCai: Sities towms copeis wotnid. Gind snoll doper nckli! Wilbe FieuDayol fot ig habe mot toseo knwo—te bijk weil en snoll doper—Klio,asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj       Since when, Quidley wondered, refolding the paper and putting it backin the book, had high-school typing students taken to reading Taine?Thoughtfully he replaced the book on the shelf and moved deeper intothe literature section.     He had just taken down Xenophon's      Anabasis     when he saw the girl walkin the door.     Let it be said forthwith that old books were not the only item onHerbert Quidley's penchant-list. He liked old wood, too, and oldpaintings, not to mention old wine and old whiskey. But most of all heliked young girls. He especially liked them when they looked the wayHelen of Troy must have looked when Paris took one gander at her andstarted building his ladder. This one was tall, with hyacinth hair andliquid blue eyes, and she had a Grecian symmetry of shape that wouldhave made Paris' eyes pop had he been around to take notice. Pariswasn't, but Quidley's eyes, did the job.     After coming in the door, the girl deposited a book on the librarian'sdesk and headed for the literature section. Quickly Quidley loweredhis eyes to the      Anabasis     and henceforth followed her progress out oftheir corners. When she came to the O's she paused, took down a bookand glanced through it. Then she replaced it and moved on to theP's ... the Q's ... the R's. Barely three feet from him she pausedagain and took down Taine's      History of English Literature     .     He simply could not believe it. The odds against two persons taking aninterest in so esoteric a volume on a single night in a single librarywere ten thousand to one. And yet there was no gainsaying that thevolume was in the girl's hands, and that she was riffling through itwith the air of a seasoned browser.     Presently she returned the book to the shelf, selectedanother—seemingly at random—and took it over to the librarian's desk.She waited statuesquely while the librarian processed it, then tuckedit under her arm and whisked out the door into the misty April night.As soon as she disappeared, Quidley stepped over to the T's and tookTaine down once more. Just as he had suspected. The makeshift bookmarkwas gone.     He remembered how the asdf-;lkj exercise had given way to several linesof gibberish and then reappeared again. A camouflaged message? Or wasit merely what it appeared to be on the surface—the efforts of animpatient typing student to type before his time?     He returned Taine to the shelf. After learning from the librarian thatthe girl's name was Kay Smith, he went out and got in his hardtop. Thename rang a bell. Halfway home he realized why. The typing exercise hadcontained the word Cai, and if you pronounced it with hard c, you gotKai—or Kay. Obviously, then, the exercise had been a message, andhad been deliberately inserted in a book no average person would dreamof borrowing.     By whom—her boy friend?     Quidley winced. He was allergic to the term. Not that he ever let thepresence of a boy friend deter him when he set out to conquer, butbecause the term itself brought to mind the word fiance, and the wordfiance brought to mind still another word, one which repelled himviolently. I.e., marriage. Just the same, he decided to keep Taine's      History     under observation for a while.  Her boy friend turned out to be her girl friend, and her girl friendturned out to be a tall and lissome, lovely with a Helenesque air ofher own. From the vantage point of a strategically located readingtable, where he was keeping company with his favorite little magazine,      The Zeitgeist     , Quidley watched her take a seemingly haphazard routeto the shelf where Taine's      History     reposed, take the volume down,surreptitiously slip a folded sheet of yellow paper between its pagesand return it to the shelf.     After she left he wasted no time in acquainting himself with the secondmessage. It was as unintelligible as the first:       asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj Cai: Habewotnid ig ist ending ifedererer te. T'lide sid Fieu Dayol po jestigtoseo knwo, bijk weil en snoll doper entling—Yoolna. asdf ;lkj asdf;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj       Well, perhaps not quite as unintelligible. He knew, at least, who Caiwas, and he knew—from the reappearance of the words      wotnid     ,      FieuDayol     and      snoll doper     —that the two communications were in thesame code. And certainly it was reasonable to assume that the lastword—      Yoolna     —was the name of the girl he had just seen, and thatshe was a different person from the      Klio     whose name had appended thefirst message.     He refolded the paper, replaced it between the pages, returned the bookto the shelf and went back to the reading table and      The Zeitgeist     .     Kay didn't show up till almost closing time, and he was beginningto think that perhaps she wouldn't come around for the pickup tilltomorrow when she finally walked in the door. She employed the sametactics she had employed the previous night, arriving, as though bychance, at the T-section and transferring the message with the sameundetectable legerdemain to her purse. This time, when she walked outthe door, he was not far behind her.     She climbed into a sleek convertible and pulled into the street. Ittook him but a moment to gain his hardtop and start out after her.When, several blocks later, she pulled to the curb in front of anall-night coffee bar, he followed suit. After that, it was merely amatter of following her inside.     He decided on Operation Spill-the-sugar. It had stood him in good steadbefore, and he was rather fond of it. The procedure was quite simple.First you took note of the position of the sugar dispensers, then yousituated yourself so that your intended victim was between you and thenearest one, then you ordered coffee without sugar in a low voice, andafter the counterman or countergirl had served you, you waited tillhe/she was out of earshot and asked your i.v. to please pass the sugar.When she did so you let the dispenser slip from your fingers in such away that some of its contents spilled on her lap—     I'm terribly sorry, he said, righting it. Here, let me brush it off.  It's all right, it's only sugar, she said, laughing.     I'm hopelessly clumsy, he continued smoothly, brushing the gleamingcrystals from her pleated skirt, noting the clean sweep of her thighs.I beseech you to forgive me.     You're forgiven, she said, and he noticed then that she spoke with aslight accent.     If you like, you can send it to the cleaners and have them send thebill to me. My address is 61 Park Place. He pulled out his wallet,chose an appropriate card, and handed it to her—     Herbert Quidley:      Profiliste       Her forehead crinkled.       Profiliste?          I paint profiles with words, he said. You may have run across someof my pieces in the Better Magazines. I employ a variety of pseudonyms,of course.     How interesting. She pronounced it anteresting.     Not famous profiles, you understand. Just profiles that strike myfancy. He paused. She had raised her cup to her lips and was taking adainty sip. You have a rather striking profile yourself, Miss—     Smith. Kay Smith. She set the cup back on the counter and turned andfaced him. For a second her eyes seemed to expand till they preoccupiedhis entire vision, till he could see nothing but their disturbinglyclear—and suddenly cold—blueness. Panic touched him, then vanishedwhen she said, Would you really consider word-painting      my     profile,Mr. Quidley?       Would     he! When can I call?     She hesitated for a moment. Then: I think it will be better if I callon you. There are quite a number of people living in our—our house.I'm afraid the quarters would be much too cramped for an artist likeyourself to concentrate.     Quidley glowed. Usually it required two or three days, and sometimes aweek, to reach the apartment phase. Fine, he said. When can I expectyou?     She stood up and he got to his feet beside her. She was even tallerthan he had thought. In fact, if he hadn't been wearing Cuban heels,she'd have been taller than he was. I'll be in town night after next,she said. Will nine o'clock be convenient for you?     Perfectly.     Good-by for now then, Mr. Quidley.     He was so elated that when he arrived at his apartment he actuallydid try to write a profile. His own, of course. He sat down at hiscustom-built chrome-trimmed desk, inserted a blank sheet of paper inhis custom-built typewriter and tried to arrange his thoughts. But asusual his mind raced ahead of the moment, and he saw the title,      SelfProfile     , nestling noticeably on the contents page of one of the BetterMagazines, and presently he saw the piece itself in all its splendidarray of colorful rhetoric, sparkling imagery and scintillating wit,occupying a two-page spread.     It was some time before he returned to reality, and when he did thefirst thing that met his eyes was the uncompromisingly blank sheet ofpaper. Hurriedly he typed out a letter to his father, requesting anadvance on his allowance, then, after a tall glass of vintage wine, hewent to bed.  In telling him that she would be in town two nights hence, Kay hadunwittingly apprised him that there would be no exchange of messagesuntil that time, so the next evening he skipped his vigil at thelibrary. The following evening, however, after readying his apartmentfor the forthcoming assignation, he hied himself to his reading-tablepost and took up      The Zeitgeist     once again.     He had not thought it possible that there could be a third such woman.     And yet there she was, walking in the door, tall and blue-eyed andgraceful; dark of hair and noble of mien; browsing in the philosophysection now, now the fiction section, now moving leisurely into theliterature aisle and toward the T's....     The camouflage had varied, but the message was typical enough:       fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; Cai: Ginden snoll doper nckli! Wotnid antwaterer Fieu Dayol hid jestig snolldoper ifedererer te. Dep gogensplo snoll dopers ensing!—Gorka. fdsajkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl;       Judging from the repeated use of the words,      snoll dopers     were thetopic of the day. Annoyed, Quidley replaced the message and put thebook back on the shelf. Then he returned to his apartment to await Kay.     He wondered what her reaction would be if he asked her point-blank whata      snoll doper     was; whether she would reveal the nature of the amateursecret society to which she and Klio and Yoolna and Gorka belonged.It virtually had to be an amateur secret society. Unless, of course,they were foreigners. But what on earth foreign organization would bequixotic enough to employ Taine's      History of English Literature     as acommunications medium when there was a telephone in every drugstore anda mailbox on every corner?     Somehow the words what on earth foreign organization got turnedaround in his mind and became what foreign organization on earth andbefore he could summon his common sense to succor him, he experienceda rather bad moment. By the time the door chimes sounded he was hisnormal self again.     He straightened his tie with nervous fingers, checked to see if hisshirt cuffs protruded the proper length from his coat sleeves, andlooked around the room to see if everything was in place. Everythingwas—the typewriter uncovered and centered on the chrome-trimmed desk,with the sheaf of crinkly first-sheets beside it; the reference booksstacked imposingly nearby;      Harper's     ,      The Atlantic     and      The SaturdayReview     showing conspicuously in the magazine rack; the newly openedbottle of bourbon and the two snifter glasses on the sideboard; thesmall table set cozily for two—  The chimes sounded again. He opened the door.     She walked in with a demure, Hello. He took her wrap. When he sawwhat she was wearing he had to tilt his head back so that his eyeswouldn't fall out of their sockets.     Skin, mostly, in the upper regions. White, glowing skin on which herlong hair lay like forest pools. As for her dress, it was as thoughshe had fallen forward into immaculate snow, half-burying her breastsbefore catching herself on her elbows, then turning into a sittingposition, the snow clinging to her skin in a glistening veneer;arising finally to her feet, resplendently attired.     He went over to the sideboard, picked up the bottle of bourbon. Shefollowed. He set the two snifter glasses side by side and tilted thebottle. Say when. When! I admire your dress—never saw anythingquite like it. Thank you. The material is something new. Feel it.It's—it's almost like foam rubber. Cigarette? Thanks.... Issomething wrong, Mr. Quidley? No, of course not. Why? Your handsare trembling. Oh. I'm—I'm afraid it's the present company, MissSmith. Call me Kay.     They touched glasses: Your liquor is as exquisite as your living room,Herbert. I shall have to come here more often. I hope you will, Kay.Though such conduct, I'm told, is morally reprehensible on the planetEarth. Not in this particular circle. Your hair is lovely. Thankyou.... You haven't mentioned my perfume yet. Perhaps I'm standing toofar away.... There! It's—it's as lovely as your hair, Kay. Um,kiss me again. I—I never figured—I mean, I engaged a caterer toserve us dinner at 9:30. Call him up. Make it 10:30.  The following evening found Quidley on tenter-hooks. The      snoll-doper     mystery had acquired a new tang. He could hardly wait till the nextmessage transfer took place.     He decided to spend the evening plotting the epic novel which heintended to write someday. He set to work immediately. He plottedmentally, of course—notes were for the hacks and the other commercialnon-geniuses who infested the modern literary world. Closing his eyes,he saw the whole vivid panorama of epic action and grand adventureflowing like a mighty and majestic river before his literary vision:the authentic and awe-inspiring background; the hordes of colorfulcharacters; the handsome virile hero, the compelling Helenesqueheroine.... God, it was going to be great! The best thing he'd everdone! See, already there was a crowd of book lovers in front of thebookstore, staring into the window where the new Herbert Quidley wason display, trying to force its way into the jammed interior....      Cutto interior.     FIRST EAGER CUSTOMER: Tell me quickly, are there anymore copies of the new Herbert Quidley left? BOOK CLERK: A few. Youdon't know how lucky you are to get here before the first printing ranout. FIRST EAGER CUSTOMER: Give me a dozen. I want to make sure thatmy children and my children's children have a plentiful supply. BOOKCLERK: Sorry. Only one to a customer. Next? SECOND EAGER CUSTOMER: Tellme quickly, are ... there ... any ... more ... copies ... of—     ZZZZZZZZZZZZZ....     Message no. 4, except for a slight variation in camouflage, ran true toform:       a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj Cai: Habe te snoll dopers ensing?Wotnid ne Fieu Dayol ist ifederereret, hid jestig snoll doper. Ginded, olro—Jilka. a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj       Quidley sighed. What, he asked himself, standing in the library aisleand staring at the indecipherable words, was a normal girl like Kaydoing in such a childish secret society? From the way she and hercorrespondents carried on you'd almost think they were Martian girlscouts on an interplanetary camping trip, trying for their merit badgesin communications!     You could hardly call Kay a girl scout, though.     Nevertheless, she was the key figure in the      snoll-doper     enigma. Thefact annoyed him, especially when he considered that a      snoll doper     ,for all he knew, could be anything from a Chinese fortune cooky to anH-bomb.     He remembered Kay's odd accent. Was that the way a person would speakEnglish if her own language ran something like       ist ifedereret, hidjestig snoll doper adwo     ?     He remembered the way she had looked at him in the coffee bar.     He remembered the material of her dress.     He remembered how she had come to his room.     I didn't know you had a taste for Taine.  Her voice seemed to come from far away, but she was standing rightbeside him, tall and bewitching; Helenesque as ever. Her blue eyesbecame great wells into which he found himself falling. With an effort,he pulled himself back. You're early tonight, he said lamely.     She appropriated the message, read it. Put the book back, she saidpresently. Then, when he complied: Come on.     Where are we going?     I'm going to deliver a      snoll doper     to Jilka. After that I'm going totake you home to meet my folks.     The relieved sigh he heard was his own.     They climbed into her convertible and she nosed it into the moving lineof cars. How long have you been reading my mail? she asked.     Since the night before I met you.     Was that the reason you spilled the sugar?     Part of the reason, he said. What's a      snoll doper     ?     She laughed. I don't think I'd better tell you just yet.     He sighed again. But if Jilka wanted a      snoll doper     , he said after awhile, why in the world didn't she call you up and say so?     Regulations. She pulled over to the curb in front of a brickapartment building. This is where Jilka lives. I'll explain when I getback.     He watched her get out, walk up the walk to the entrance and letherself in. He leaned his head back on the seat, lit a cigarette andexhaled a mixture of smoke and relief. On the way to meet her folks.So it was just an ordinary secret society after all. And here he'dbeen thinking that she was the key figure in a Martian plot to blow upEarth—     Her      folks     !     Abruptly the full implication of the words got through to him, and hesat bolt-up-right on the seat. He was starting to climb out of the carwhen he saw Kay coming down the walk. Anyway, running away wouldn'tsolve his problem. A complete disappearing act was in order, and acomplete disappearing act would take time. Meanwhile he would playalong with her.  A station wagon came up behind them, slowed, and matched its speedwith theirs. Someone's following us, Quidley said.     Probably Jilka.     Five minutes later the station wagon turned down a side street anddisappeared. She's no longer with us, Quidley said.     She's got to pick someone up. She'll meet us later.     At your folks'?     At the ship.     The city was thinning out around them now, and a few stars were visiblein the night sky. Quidley watched them thoughtfully for a while. Then:What ship? he said.     The one we're going to      Fieu Dayol     on.           Fieu Dayol?          Persei 17 to you. I said I was going to take you home to meet myfolks, didn't I?     In other words, you're kidnapping me.     She shook her head vehemently. I most certainly am not! Neitheraccording to interstellar law or your own. When you compromised me, youmade yourself liable in the eyes of both.     But why pick on me? There must be plenty of men on      Fieu Dayol     . Whydon't you marry one of them?     For two reasons: one, you're the particular man who compromisedme. Two, there are      not     plenty of men on      Fieu Dayol     . Our race isidentical to yours in everything except population-balance between thesexes. At periodic intervals the women on      Fieu Dayol     so greatlyoutnumber the men that those of us who are temperamentally andemotionally unfitted to become spinsters have to look for      wotnids     —ormates—on other worlds. It's quite legal and quite respectable. As amatter of fact, we even have schools specializing in alien culturesto expedite our activities. Our biggest problem is the Interstellarstatute forbidding us the use of local communications services andforbidding us to appear in public places. It was devised to facilitatethe prosecution of interstellar black marketeers, but we're subject toit, too, and have to contrive communications systems of our own.     But why were all the messages addressed to you?     They weren't messages. They were requisitions. I'm the ship's stockgirl.  April fields stretched darkly away on either side of the highway.Presently she turned down a rutted road between two of them and theybounced and swayed back to a black blur of trees. Here we are, shesaid.     Gradually he made out the sphere. It blended so flawlessly with itsbackground that he wouldn't have been able to see it at all if hehadn't been informed of its existence. A gangplank sloped down from anopen lock and came to rest just within the fringe of the trees.     Lights danced in the darkness behind them as another car jounced downthe rutted road. Jilka, Kay said. I wonder if she got him.     Apparently she had. At least there was a man with her—a ratherwoebegone, wilted creature who didn't even look up as they passed.Quidley watched them ascend the gangplank, the man in the lead, anddisappear into the ship.     Next, Kay said.     Quidley shook his head. You're not taking      me     to another planet!     She opened her purse and pulled out a small metallic object Alittle while ago you asked me what a      snoll doper     was, she said.Unfortunately interstellar law severely limits us in our choice ofmarriageable males, and we can take only those who refuse to conformto the sexual mores of their own societies. She did something to theobject that caused it to extend itself into a long, tubular affair.      This     is a      snoll doper     .     She prodded his ribs. March, she said.     He marched. Halfway up the plank he glanced back over his shoulder fora better look at the object pressed against his back.     It bore a striking resemblance to a shotgun.  ","She is tall with hyacinth long hair and blue eyes. Her skin is glowingly white. Her body shape is Grecian symmetric. She fascinates Herbert Quidley, a man who finds out the secret letter in Taine’s book, when she walks in the library. She is the receiver of secret messages in the book, and she goes to the library almost every day to pick up the letter in the book. She wears a pleated skirt when Herbert Quidley spills the sugar on her thighs. She speaks with a slight accent that she pronounces “interesting” with “anteresting.” She walks demurely. She wears a dress that exposes a lot of her skin when she goes to Quidley’s apartment, which indicates her intention to have sexual behaviors with him. She owns a convertible, and her purse hides a gun. She is the stock girl on the ship to Fieu Dayol, and her job is to deliver guns to her members, which is why she goes to the library to pick up the secret letters, the requisitions for the guns. It is revealed at the end that she comes to the Earth to bring men to her planet."
"Who is Herbert Quidley, and what are his characteristics? </s>     The Girls From Fieu Dayol     By ROBERT F. YOUNG     They were lovely and quick     to learn—and their only     faults were little ones!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Up until the moment when he first looked into Hippolyte Adolphe Taine's      History of English Literature     , Herbert Quidley's penchant for oldbooks had netted him nothing in the way of romance and intrigue.Not that he was a stranger to either. Far from it. But hitherto thebackground for both had been bedrooms and bars, not libraries.     On page 21 of the Taine tome he happened upon a sheet of yellow copypaper folded in four. Unfolding it, he read:       asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkjCai: Sities towms copeis wotnid. Gind snoll doper nckli! Wilbe FieuDayol fot ig habe mot toseo knwo—te bijk weil en snoll doper—Klio,asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj       Since when, Quidley wondered, refolding the paper and putting it backin the book, had high-school typing students taken to reading Taine?Thoughtfully he replaced the book on the shelf and moved deeper intothe literature section.     He had just taken down Xenophon's      Anabasis     when he saw the girl walkin the door.     Let it be said forthwith that old books were not the only item onHerbert Quidley's penchant-list. He liked old wood, too, and oldpaintings, not to mention old wine and old whiskey. But most of all heliked young girls. He especially liked them when they looked the wayHelen of Troy must have looked when Paris took one gander at her andstarted building his ladder. This one was tall, with hyacinth hair andliquid blue eyes, and she had a Grecian symmetry of shape that wouldhave made Paris' eyes pop had he been around to take notice. Pariswasn't, but Quidley's eyes, did the job.     After coming in the door, the girl deposited a book on the librarian'sdesk and headed for the literature section. Quickly Quidley loweredhis eyes to the      Anabasis     and henceforth followed her progress out oftheir corners. When she came to the O's she paused, took down a bookand glanced through it. Then she replaced it and moved on to theP's ... the Q's ... the R's. Barely three feet from him she pausedagain and took down Taine's      History of English Literature     .     He simply could not believe it. The odds against two persons taking aninterest in so esoteric a volume on a single night in a single librarywere ten thousand to one. And yet there was no gainsaying that thevolume was in the girl's hands, and that she was riffling through itwith the air of a seasoned browser.     Presently she returned the book to the shelf, selectedanother—seemingly at random—and took it over to the librarian's desk.She waited statuesquely while the librarian processed it, then tuckedit under her arm and whisked out the door into the misty April night.As soon as she disappeared, Quidley stepped over to the T's and tookTaine down once more. Just as he had suspected. The makeshift bookmarkwas gone.     He remembered how the asdf-;lkj exercise had given way to several linesof gibberish and then reappeared again. A camouflaged message? Or wasit merely what it appeared to be on the surface—the efforts of animpatient typing student to type before his time?     He returned Taine to the shelf. After learning from the librarian thatthe girl's name was Kay Smith, he went out and got in his hardtop. Thename rang a bell. Halfway home he realized why. The typing exercise hadcontained the word Cai, and if you pronounced it with hard c, you gotKai—or Kay. Obviously, then, the exercise had been a message, andhad been deliberately inserted in a book no average person would dreamof borrowing.     By whom—her boy friend?     Quidley winced. He was allergic to the term. Not that he ever let thepresence of a boy friend deter him when he set out to conquer, butbecause the term itself brought to mind the word fiance, and the wordfiance brought to mind still another word, one which repelled himviolently. I.e., marriage. Just the same, he decided to keep Taine's      History     under observation for a while.  Her boy friend turned out to be her girl friend, and her girl friendturned out to be a tall and lissome, lovely with a Helenesque air ofher own. From the vantage point of a strategically located readingtable, where he was keeping company with his favorite little magazine,      The Zeitgeist     , Quidley watched her take a seemingly haphazard routeto the shelf where Taine's      History     reposed, take the volume down,surreptitiously slip a folded sheet of yellow paper between its pagesand return it to the shelf.     After she left he wasted no time in acquainting himself with the secondmessage. It was as unintelligible as the first:       asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj Cai: Habewotnid ig ist ending ifedererer te. T'lide sid Fieu Dayol po jestigtoseo knwo, bijk weil en snoll doper entling—Yoolna. asdf ;lkj asdf;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj       Well, perhaps not quite as unintelligible. He knew, at least, who Caiwas, and he knew—from the reappearance of the words      wotnid     ,      FieuDayol     and      snoll doper     —that the two communications were in thesame code. And certainly it was reasonable to assume that the lastword—      Yoolna     —was the name of the girl he had just seen, and thatshe was a different person from the      Klio     whose name had appended thefirst message.     He refolded the paper, replaced it between the pages, returned the bookto the shelf and went back to the reading table and      The Zeitgeist     .     Kay didn't show up till almost closing time, and he was beginningto think that perhaps she wouldn't come around for the pickup tilltomorrow when she finally walked in the door. She employed the sametactics she had employed the previous night, arriving, as though bychance, at the T-section and transferring the message with the sameundetectable legerdemain to her purse. This time, when she walked outthe door, he was not far behind her.     She climbed into a sleek convertible and pulled into the street. Ittook him but a moment to gain his hardtop and start out after her.When, several blocks later, she pulled to the curb in front of anall-night coffee bar, he followed suit. After that, it was merely amatter of following her inside.     He decided on Operation Spill-the-sugar. It had stood him in good steadbefore, and he was rather fond of it. The procedure was quite simple.First you took note of the position of the sugar dispensers, then yousituated yourself so that your intended victim was between you and thenearest one, then you ordered coffee without sugar in a low voice, andafter the counterman or countergirl had served you, you waited tillhe/she was out of earshot and asked your i.v. to please pass the sugar.When she did so you let the dispenser slip from your fingers in such away that some of its contents spilled on her lap—     I'm terribly sorry, he said, righting it. Here, let me brush it off.  It's all right, it's only sugar, she said, laughing.     I'm hopelessly clumsy, he continued smoothly, brushing the gleamingcrystals from her pleated skirt, noting the clean sweep of her thighs.I beseech you to forgive me.     You're forgiven, she said, and he noticed then that she spoke with aslight accent.     If you like, you can send it to the cleaners and have them send thebill to me. My address is 61 Park Place. He pulled out his wallet,chose an appropriate card, and handed it to her—     Herbert Quidley:      Profiliste       Her forehead crinkled.       Profiliste?          I paint profiles with words, he said. You may have run across someof my pieces in the Better Magazines. I employ a variety of pseudonyms,of course.     How interesting. She pronounced it anteresting.     Not famous profiles, you understand. Just profiles that strike myfancy. He paused. She had raised her cup to her lips and was taking adainty sip. You have a rather striking profile yourself, Miss—     Smith. Kay Smith. She set the cup back on the counter and turned andfaced him. For a second her eyes seemed to expand till they preoccupiedhis entire vision, till he could see nothing but their disturbinglyclear—and suddenly cold—blueness. Panic touched him, then vanishedwhen she said, Would you really consider word-painting      my     profile,Mr. Quidley?       Would     he! When can I call?     She hesitated for a moment. Then: I think it will be better if I callon you. There are quite a number of people living in our—our house.I'm afraid the quarters would be much too cramped for an artist likeyourself to concentrate.     Quidley glowed. Usually it required two or three days, and sometimes aweek, to reach the apartment phase. Fine, he said. When can I expectyou?     She stood up and he got to his feet beside her. She was even tallerthan he had thought. In fact, if he hadn't been wearing Cuban heels,she'd have been taller than he was. I'll be in town night after next,she said. Will nine o'clock be convenient for you?     Perfectly.     Good-by for now then, Mr. Quidley.     He was so elated that when he arrived at his apartment he actuallydid try to write a profile. His own, of course. He sat down at hiscustom-built chrome-trimmed desk, inserted a blank sheet of paper inhis custom-built typewriter and tried to arrange his thoughts. But asusual his mind raced ahead of the moment, and he saw the title,      SelfProfile     , nestling noticeably on the contents page of one of the BetterMagazines, and presently he saw the piece itself in all its splendidarray of colorful rhetoric, sparkling imagery and scintillating wit,occupying a two-page spread.     It was some time before he returned to reality, and when he did thefirst thing that met his eyes was the uncompromisingly blank sheet ofpaper. Hurriedly he typed out a letter to his father, requesting anadvance on his allowance, then, after a tall glass of vintage wine, hewent to bed.  In telling him that she would be in town two nights hence, Kay hadunwittingly apprised him that there would be no exchange of messagesuntil that time, so the next evening he skipped his vigil at thelibrary. The following evening, however, after readying his apartmentfor the forthcoming assignation, he hied himself to his reading-tablepost and took up      The Zeitgeist     once again.     He had not thought it possible that there could be a third such woman.     And yet there she was, walking in the door, tall and blue-eyed andgraceful; dark of hair and noble of mien; browsing in the philosophysection now, now the fiction section, now moving leisurely into theliterature aisle and toward the T's....     The camouflage had varied, but the message was typical enough:       fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; Cai: Ginden snoll doper nckli! Wotnid antwaterer Fieu Dayol hid jestig snolldoper ifedererer te. Dep gogensplo snoll dopers ensing!—Gorka. fdsajkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl;       Judging from the repeated use of the words,      snoll dopers     were thetopic of the day. Annoyed, Quidley replaced the message and put thebook back on the shelf. Then he returned to his apartment to await Kay.     He wondered what her reaction would be if he asked her point-blank whata      snoll doper     was; whether she would reveal the nature of the amateursecret society to which she and Klio and Yoolna and Gorka belonged.It virtually had to be an amateur secret society. Unless, of course,they were foreigners. But what on earth foreign organization would bequixotic enough to employ Taine's      History of English Literature     as acommunications medium when there was a telephone in every drugstore anda mailbox on every corner?     Somehow the words what on earth foreign organization got turnedaround in his mind and became what foreign organization on earth andbefore he could summon his common sense to succor him, he experienceda rather bad moment. By the time the door chimes sounded he was hisnormal self again.     He straightened his tie with nervous fingers, checked to see if hisshirt cuffs protruded the proper length from his coat sleeves, andlooked around the room to see if everything was in place. Everythingwas—the typewriter uncovered and centered on the chrome-trimmed desk,with the sheaf of crinkly first-sheets beside it; the reference booksstacked imposingly nearby;      Harper's     ,      The Atlantic     and      The SaturdayReview     showing conspicuously in the magazine rack; the newly openedbottle of bourbon and the two snifter glasses on the sideboard; thesmall table set cozily for two—  The chimes sounded again. He opened the door.     She walked in with a demure, Hello. He took her wrap. When he sawwhat she was wearing he had to tilt his head back so that his eyeswouldn't fall out of their sockets.     Skin, mostly, in the upper regions. White, glowing skin on which herlong hair lay like forest pools. As for her dress, it was as thoughshe had fallen forward into immaculate snow, half-burying her breastsbefore catching herself on her elbows, then turning into a sittingposition, the snow clinging to her skin in a glistening veneer;arising finally to her feet, resplendently attired.     He went over to the sideboard, picked up the bottle of bourbon. Shefollowed. He set the two snifter glasses side by side and tilted thebottle. Say when. When! I admire your dress—never saw anythingquite like it. Thank you. The material is something new. Feel it.It's—it's almost like foam rubber. Cigarette? Thanks.... Issomething wrong, Mr. Quidley? No, of course not. Why? Your handsare trembling. Oh. I'm—I'm afraid it's the present company, MissSmith. Call me Kay.     They touched glasses: Your liquor is as exquisite as your living room,Herbert. I shall have to come here more often. I hope you will, Kay.Though such conduct, I'm told, is morally reprehensible on the planetEarth. Not in this particular circle. Your hair is lovely. Thankyou.... You haven't mentioned my perfume yet. Perhaps I'm standing toofar away.... There! It's—it's as lovely as your hair, Kay. Um,kiss me again. I—I never figured—I mean, I engaged a caterer toserve us dinner at 9:30. Call him up. Make it 10:30.  The following evening found Quidley on tenter-hooks. The      snoll-doper     mystery had acquired a new tang. He could hardly wait till the nextmessage transfer took place.     He decided to spend the evening plotting the epic novel which heintended to write someday. He set to work immediately. He plottedmentally, of course—notes were for the hacks and the other commercialnon-geniuses who infested the modern literary world. Closing his eyes,he saw the whole vivid panorama of epic action and grand adventureflowing like a mighty and majestic river before his literary vision:the authentic and awe-inspiring background; the hordes of colorfulcharacters; the handsome virile hero, the compelling Helenesqueheroine.... God, it was going to be great! The best thing he'd everdone! See, already there was a crowd of book lovers in front of thebookstore, staring into the window where the new Herbert Quidley wason display, trying to force its way into the jammed interior....      Cutto interior.     FIRST EAGER CUSTOMER: Tell me quickly, are there anymore copies of the new Herbert Quidley left? BOOK CLERK: A few. Youdon't know how lucky you are to get here before the first printing ranout. FIRST EAGER CUSTOMER: Give me a dozen. I want to make sure thatmy children and my children's children have a plentiful supply. BOOKCLERK: Sorry. Only one to a customer. Next? SECOND EAGER CUSTOMER: Tellme quickly, are ... there ... any ... more ... copies ... of—     ZZZZZZZZZZZZZ....     Message no. 4, except for a slight variation in camouflage, ran true toform:       a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj Cai: Habe te snoll dopers ensing?Wotnid ne Fieu Dayol ist ifederereret, hid jestig snoll doper. Ginded, olro—Jilka. a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj       Quidley sighed. What, he asked himself, standing in the library aisleand staring at the indecipherable words, was a normal girl like Kaydoing in such a childish secret society? From the way she and hercorrespondents carried on you'd almost think they were Martian girlscouts on an interplanetary camping trip, trying for their merit badgesin communications!     You could hardly call Kay a girl scout, though.     Nevertheless, she was the key figure in the      snoll-doper     enigma. Thefact annoyed him, especially when he considered that a      snoll doper     ,for all he knew, could be anything from a Chinese fortune cooky to anH-bomb.     He remembered Kay's odd accent. Was that the way a person would speakEnglish if her own language ran something like       ist ifedereret, hidjestig snoll doper adwo     ?     He remembered the way she had looked at him in the coffee bar.     He remembered the material of her dress.     He remembered how she had come to his room.     I didn't know you had a taste for Taine.  Her voice seemed to come from far away, but she was standing rightbeside him, tall and bewitching; Helenesque as ever. Her blue eyesbecame great wells into which he found himself falling. With an effort,he pulled himself back. You're early tonight, he said lamely.     She appropriated the message, read it. Put the book back, she saidpresently. Then, when he complied: Come on.     Where are we going?     I'm going to deliver a      snoll doper     to Jilka. After that I'm going totake you home to meet my folks.     The relieved sigh he heard was his own.     They climbed into her convertible and she nosed it into the moving lineof cars. How long have you been reading my mail? she asked.     Since the night before I met you.     Was that the reason you spilled the sugar?     Part of the reason, he said. What's a      snoll doper     ?     She laughed. I don't think I'd better tell you just yet.     He sighed again. But if Jilka wanted a      snoll doper     , he said after awhile, why in the world didn't she call you up and say so?     Regulations. She pulled over to the curb in front of a brickapartment building. This is where Jilka lives. I'll explain when I getback.     He watched her get out, walk up the walk to the entrance and letherself in. He leaned his head back on the seat, lit a cigarette andexhaled a mixture of smoke and relief. On the way to meet her folks.So it was just an ordinary secret society after all. And here he'dbeen thinking that she was the key figure in a Martian plot to blow upEarth—     Her      folks     !     Abruptly the full implication of the words got through to him, and hesat bolt-up-right on the seat. He was starting to climb out of the carwhen he saw Kay coming down the walk. Anyway, running away wouldn'tsolve his problem. A complete disappearing act was in order, and acomplete disappearing act would take time. Meanwhile he would playalong with her.  A station wagon came up behind them, slowed, and matched its speedwith theirs. Someone's following us, Quidley said.     Probably Jilka.     Five minutes later the station wagon turned down a side street anddisappeared. She's no longer with us, Quidley said.     She's got to pick someone up. She'll meet us later.     At your folks'?     At the ship.     The city was thinning out around them now, and a few stars were visiblein the night sky. Quidley watched them thoughtfully for a while. Then:What ship? he said.     The one we're going to      Fieu Dayol     on.           Fieu Dayol?          Persei 17 to you. I said I was going to take you home to meet myfolks, didn't I?     In other words, you're kidnapping me.     She shook her head vehemently. I most certainly am not! Neitheraccording to interstellar law or your own. When you compromised me, youmade yourself liable in the eyes of both.     But why pick on me? There must be plenty of men on      Fieu Dayol     . Whydon't you marry one of them?     For two reasons: one, you're the particular man who compromisedme. Two, there are      not     plenty of men on      Fieu Dayol     . Our race isidentical to yours in everything except population-balance between thesexes. At periodic intervals the women on      Fieu Dayol     so greatlyoutnumber the men that those of us who are temperamentally andemotionally unfitted to become spinsters have to look for      wotnids     —ormates—on other worlds. It's quite legal and quite respectable. As amatter of fact, we even have schools specializing in alien culturesto expedite our activities. Our biggest problem is the Interstellarstatute forbidding us the use of local communications services andforbidding us to appear in public places. It was devised to facilitatethe prosecution of interstellar black marketeers, but we're subject toit, too, and have to contrive communications systems of our own.     But why were all the messages addressed to you?     They weren't messages. They were requisitions. I'm the ship's stockgirl.  April fields stretched darkly away on either side of the highway.Presently she turned down a rutted road between two of them and theybounced and swayed back to a black blur of trees. Here we are, shesaid.     Gradually he made out the sphere. It blended so flawlessly with itsbackground that he wouldn't have been able to see it at all if hehadn't been informed of its existence. A gangplank sloped down from anopen lock and came to rest just within the fringe of the trees.     Lights danced in the darkness behind them as another car jounced downthe rutted road. Jilka, Kay said. I wonder if she got him.     Apparently she had. At least there was a man with her—a ratherwoebegone, wilted creature who didn't even look up as they passed.Quidley watched them ascend the gangplank, the man in the lead, anddisappear into the ship.     Next, Kay said.     Quidley shook his head. You're not taking      me     to another planet!     She opened her purse and pulled out a small metallic object Alittle while ago you asked me what a      snoll doper     was, she said.Unfortunately interstellar law severely limits us in our choice ofmarriageable males, and we can take only those who refuse to conformto the sexual mores of their own societies. She did something to theobject that caused it to extend itself into a long, tubular affair.      This     is a      snoll doper     .     She prodded his ribs. March, she said.     He marched. Halfway up the plank he glanced back over his shoulder fora better look at the object pressed against his back.     It bore a striking resemblance to a shotgun.  ","Herbert Quidley is a profiliste who often stays in the library. He has a variety of pseudonyms for his career, each of which has its own card in his wallet. He owns a hardtop. He lives at 61 Park Place. He often wears Cuban heels. His favorite little magazine is The Zeitgeist. He likes everything old, such as old books, old wines, old woods, and old paintings. But most of all, he likes young girls, which is why he starts his observations on Kay’s behavior, a girl who exchanges letters through the book in the library. Quidley is a very thoughtful and careful person because whenever he reads the mysterious letters in the book, he always puts the letters back in the book and replaces the book on the shelf. He always sits at the reading table to observe the girls. He knows very well about romantic stuff and how to have sexual relationships with girls as he has his own skill called Operation Spill-the-sugar to start a conversation with a stranger woman. However, Quidley has little moral on sexual relationships because whether the targeted girl has a boyfriend would not deter his intention to conquer her."
"What role does the snoll doper play in the story? </s>     The Girls From Fieu Dayol     By ROBERT F. YOUNG     They were lovely and quick     to learn—and their only     faults were little ones!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Up until the moment when he first looked into Hippolyte Adolphe Taine's      History of English Literature     , Herbert Quidley's penchant for oldbooks had netted him nothing in the way of romance and intrigue.Not that he was a stranger to either. Far from it. But hitherto thebackground for both had been bedrooms and bars, not libraries.     On page 21 of the Taine tome he happened upon a sheet of yellow copypaper folded in four. Unfolding it, he read:       asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkjCai: Sities towms copeis wotnid. Gind snoll doper nckli! Wilbe FieuDayol fot ig habe mot toseo knwo—te bijk weil en snoll doper—Klio,asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj       Since when, Quidley wondered, refolding the paper and putting it backin the book, had high-school typing students taken to reading Taine?Thoughtfully he replaced the book on the shelf and moved deeper intothe literature section.     He had just taken down Xenophon's      Anabasis     when he saw the girl walkin the door.     Let it be said forthwith that old books were not the only item onHerbert Quidley's penchant-list. He liked old wood, too, and oldpaintings, not to mention old wine and old whiskey. But most of all heliked young girls. He especially liked them when they looked the wayHelen of Troy must have looked when Paris took one gander at her andstarted building his ladder. This one was tall, with hyacinth hair andliquid blue eyes, and she had a Grecian symmetry of shape that wouldhave made Paris' eyes pop had he been around to take notice. Pariswasn't, but Quidley's eyes, did the job.     After coming in the door, the girl deposited a book on the librarian'sdesk and headed for the literature section. Quickly Quidley loweredhis eyes to the      Anabasis     and henceforth followed her progress out oftheir corners. When she came to the O's she paused, took down a bookand glanced through it. Then she replaced it and moved on to theP's ... the Q's ... the R's. Barely three feet from him she pausedagain and took down Taine's      History of English Literature     .     He simply could not believe it. The odds against two persons taking aninterest in so esoteric a volume on a single night in a single librarywere ten thousand to one. And yet there was no gainsaying that thevolume was in the girl's hands, and that she was riffling through itwith the air of a seasoned browser.     Presently she returned the book to the shelf, selectedanother—seemingly at random—and took it over to the librarian's desk.She waited statuesquely while the librarian processed it, then tuckedit under her arm and whisked out the door into the misty April night.As soon as she disappeared, Quidley stepped over to the T's and tookTaine down once more. Just as he had suspected. The makeshift bookmarkwas gone.     He remembered how the asdf-;lkj exercise had given way to several linesof gibberish and then reappeared again. A camouflaged message? Or wasit merely what it appeared to be on the surface—the efforts of animpatient typing student to type before his time?     He returned Taine to the shelf. After learning from the librarian thatthe girl's name was Kay Smith, he went out and got in his hardtop. Thename rang a bell. Halfway home he realized why. The typing exercise hadcontained the word Cai, and if you pronounced it with hard c, you gotKai—or Kay. Obviously, then, the exercise had been a message, andhad been deliberately inserted in a book no average person would dreamof borrowing.     By whom—her boy friend?     Quidley winced. He was allergic to the term. Not that he ever let thepresence of a boy friend deter him when he set out to conquer, butbecause the term itself brought to mind the word fiance, and the wordfiance brought to mind still another word, one which repelled himviolently. I.e., marriage. Just the same, he decided to keep Taine's      History     under observation for a while.  Her boy friend turned out to be her girl friend, and her girl friendturned out to be a tall and lissome, lovely with a Helenesque air ofher own. From the vantage point of a strategically located readingtable, where he was keeping company with his favorite little magazine,      The Zeitgeist     , Quidley watched her take a seemingly haphazard routeto the shelf where Taine's      History     reposed, take the volume down,surreptitiously slip a folded sheet of yellow paper between its pagesand return it to the shelf.     After she left he wasted no time in acquainting himself with the secondmessage. It was as unintelligible as the first:       asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj Cai: Habewotnid ig ist ending ifedererer te. T'lide sid Fieu Dayol po jestigtoseo knwo, bijk weil en snoll doper entling—Yoolna. asdf ;lkj asdf;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj       Well, perhaps not quite as unintelligible. He knew, at least, who Caiwas, and he knew—from the reappearance of the words      wotnid     ,      FieuDayol     and      snoll doper     —that the two communications were in thesame code. And certainly it was reasonable to assume that the lastword—      Yoolna     —was the name of the girl he had just seen, and thatshe was a different person from the      Klio     whose name had appended thefirst message.     He refolded the paper, replaced it between the pages, returned the bookto the shelf and went back to the reading table and      The Zeitgeist     .     Kay didn't show up till almost closing time, and he was beginningto think that perhaps she wouldn't come around for the pickup tilltomorrow when she finally walked in the door. She employed the sametactics she had employed the previous night, arriving, as though bychance, at the T-section and transferring the message with the sameundetectable legerdemain to her purse. This time, when she walked outthe door, he was not far behind her.     She climbed into a sleek convertible and pulled into the street. Ittook him but a moment to gain his hardtop and start out after her.When, several blocks later, she pulled to the curb in front of anall-night coffee bar, he followed suit. After that, it was merely amatter of following her inside.     He decided on Operation Spill-the-sugar. It had stood him in good steadbefore, and he was rather fond of it. The procedure was quite simple.First you took note of the position of the sugar dispensers, then yousituated yourself so that your intended victim was between you and thenearest one, then you ordered coffee without sugar in a low voice, andafter the counterman or countergirl had served you, you waited tillhe/she was out of earshot and asked your i.v. to please pass the sugar.When she did so you let the dispenser slip from your fingers in such away that some of its contents spilled on her lap—     I'm terribly sorry, he said, righting it. Here, let me brush it off.  It's all right, it's only sugar, she said, laughing.     I'm hopelessly clumsy, he continued smoothly, brushing the gleamingcrystals from her pleated skirt, noting the clean sweep of her thighs.I beseech you to forgive me.     You're forgiven, she said, and he noticed then that she spoke with aslight accent.     If you like, you can send it to the cleaners and have them send thebill to me. My address is 61 Park Place. He pulled out his wallet,chose an appropriate card, and handed it to her—     Herbert Quidley:      Profiliste       Her forehead crinkled.       Profiliste?          I paint profiles with words, he said. You may have run across someof my pieces in the Better Magazines. I employ a variety of pseudonyms,of course.     How interesting. She pronounced it anteresting.     Not famous profiles, you understand. Just profiles that strike myfancy. He paused. She had raised her cup to her lips and was taking adainty sip. You have a rather striking profile yourself, Miss—     Smith. Kay Smith. She set the cup back on the counter and turned andfaced him. For a second her eyes seemed to expand till they preoccupiedhis entire vision, till he could see nothing but their disturbinglyclear—and suddenly cold—blueness. Panic touched him, then vanishedwhen she said, Would you really consider word-painting      my     profile,Mr. Quidley?       Would     he! When can I call?     She hesitated for a moment. Then: I think it will be better if I callon you. There are quite a number of people living in our—our house.I'm afraid the quarters would be much too cramped for an artist likeyourself to concentrate.     Quidley glowed. Usually it required two or three days, and sometimes aweek, to reach the apartment phase. Fine, he said. When can I expectyou?     She stood up and he got to his feet beside her. She was even tallerthan he had thought. In fact, if he hadn't been wearing Cuban heels,she'd have been taller than he was. I'll be in town night after next,she said. Will nine o'clock be convenient for you?     Perfectly.     Good-by for now then, Mr. Quidley.     He was so elated that when he arrived at his apartment he actuallydid try to write a profile. His own, of course. He sat down at hiscustom-built chrome-trimmed desk, inserted a blank sheet of paper inhis custom-built typewriter and tried to arrange his thoughts. But asusual his mind raced ahead of the moment, and he saw the title,      SelfProfile     , nestling noticeably on the contents page of one of the BetterMagazines, and presently he saw the piece itself in all its splendidarray of colorful rhetoric, sparkling imagery and scintillating wit,occupying a two-page spread.     It was some time before he returned to reality, and when he did thefirst thing that met his eyes was the uncompromisingly blank sheet ofpaper. Hurriedly he typed out a letter to his father, requesting anadvance on his allowance, then, after a tall glass of vintage wine, hewent to bed.  In telling him that she would be in town two nights hence, Kay hadunwittingly apprised him that there would be no exchange of messagesuntil that time, so the next evening he skipped his vigil at thelibrary. The following evening, however, after readying his apartmentfor the forthcoming assignation, he hied himself to his reading-tablepost and took up      The Zeitgeist     once again.     He had not thought it possible that there could be a third such woman.     And yet there she was, walking in the door, tall and blue-eyed andgraceful; dark of hair and noble of mien; browsing in the philosophysection now, now the fiction section, now moving leisurely into theliterature aisle and toward the T's....     The camouflage had varied, but the message was typical enough:       fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; Cai: Ginden snoll doper nckli! Wotnid antwaterer Fieu Dayol hid jestig snolldoper ifedererer te. Dep gogensplo snoll dopers ensing!—Gorka. fdsajkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl;       Judging from the repeated use of the words,      snoll dopers     were thetopic of the day. Annoyed, Quidley replaced the message and put thebook back on the shelf. Then he returned to his apartment to await Kay.     He wondered what her reaction would be if he asked her point-blank whata      snoll doper     was; whether she would reveal the nature of the amateursecret society to which she and Klio and Yoolna and Gorka belonged.It virtually had to be an amateur secret society. Unless, of course,they were foreigners. But what on earth foreign organization would bequixotic enough to employ Taine's      History of English Literature     as acommunications medium when there was a telephone in every drugstore anda mailbox on every corner?     Somehow the words what on earth foreign organization got turnedaround in his mind and became what foreign organization on earth andbefore he could summon his common sense to succor him, he experienceda rather bad moment. By the time the door chimes sounded he was hisnormal self again.     He straightened his tie with nervous fingers, checked to see if hisshirt cuffs protruded the proper length from his coat sleeves, andlooked around the room to see if everything was in place. Everythingwas—the typewriter uncovered and centered on the chrome-trimmed desk,with the sheaf of crinkly first-sheets beside it; the reference booksstacked imposingly nearby;      Harper's     ,      The Atlantic     and      The SaturdayReview     showing conspicuously in the magazine rack; the newly openedbottle of bourbon and the two snifter glasses on the sideboard; thesmall table set cozily for two—  The chimes sounded again. He opened the door.     She walked in with a demure, Hello. He took her wrap. When he sawwhat she was wearing he had to tilt his head back so that his eyeswouldn't fall out of their sockets.     Skin, mostly, in the upper regions. White, glowing skin on which herlong hair lay like forest pools. As for her dress, it was as thoughshe had fallen forward into immaculate snow, half-burying her breastsbefore catching herself on her elbows, then turning into a sittingposition, the snow clinging to her skin in a glistening veneer;arising finally to her feet, resplendently attired.     He went over to the sideboard, picked up the bottle of bourbon. Shefollowed. He set the two snifter glasses side by side and tilted thebottle. Say when. When! I admire your dress—never saw anythingquite like it. Thank you. The material is something new. Feel it.It's—it's almost like foam rubber. Cigarette? Thanks.... Issomething wrong, Mr. Quidley? No, of course not. Why? Your handsare trembling. Oh. I'm—I'm afraid it's the present company, MissSmith. Call me Kay.     They touched glasses: Your liquor is as exquisite as your living room,Herbert. I shall have to come here more often. I hope you will, Kay.Though such conduct, I'm told, is morally reprehensible on the planetEarth. Not in this particular circle. Your hair is lovely. Thankyou.... You haven't mentioned my perfume yet. Perhaps I'm standing toofar away.... There! It's—it's as lovely as your hair, Kay. Um,kiss me again. I—I never figured—I mean, I engaged a caterer toserve us dinner at 9:30. Call him up. Make it 10:30.  The following evening found Quidley on tenter-hooks. The      snoll-doper     mystery had acquired a new tang. He could hardly wait till the nextmessage transfer took place.     He decided to spend the evening plotting the epic novel which heintended to write someday. He set to work immediately. He plottedmentally, of course—notes were for the hacks and the other commercialnon-geniuses who infested the modern literary world. Closing his eyes,he saw the whole vivid panorama of epic action and grand adventureflowing like a mighty and majestic river before his literary vision:the authentic and awe-inspiring background; the hordes of colorfulcharacters; the handsome virile hero, the compelling Helenesqueheroine.... God, it was going to be great! The best thing he'd everdone! See, already there was a crowd of book lovers in front of thebookstore, staring into the window where the new Herbert Quidley wason display, trying to force its way into the jammed interior....      Cutto interior.     FIRST EAGER CUSTOMER: Tell me quickly, are there anymore copies of the new Herbert Quidley left? BOOK CLERK: A few. Youdon't know how lucky you are to get here before the first printing ranout. FIRST EAGER CUSTOMER: Give me a dozen. I want to make sure thatmy children and my children's children have a plentiful supply. BOOKCLERK: Sorry. Only one to a customer. Next? SECOND EAGER CUSTOMER: Tellme quickly, are ... there ... any ... more ... copies ... of—     ZZZZZZZZZZZZZ....     Message no. 4, except for a slight variation in camouflage, ran true toform:       a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj Cai: Habe te snoll dopers ensing?Wotnid ne Fieu Dayol ist ifederereret, hid jestig snoll doper. Ginded, olro—Jilka. a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj       Quidley sighed. What, he asked himself, standing in the library aisleand staring at the indecipherable words, was a normal girl like Kaydoing in such a childish secret society? From the way she and hercorrespondents carried on you'd almost think they were Martian girlscouts on an interplanetary camping trip, trying for their merit badgesin communications!     You could hardly call Kay a girl scout, though.     Nevertheless, she was the key figure in the      snoll-doper     enigma. Thefact annoyed him, especially when he considered that a      snoll doper     ,for all he knew, could be anything from a Chinese fortune cooky to anH-bomb.     He remembered Kay's odd accent. Was that the way a person would speakEnglish if her own language ran something like       ist ifedereret, hidjestig snoll doper adwo     ?     He remembered the way she had looked at him in the coffee bar.     He remembered the material of her dress.     He remembered how she had come to his room.     I didn't know you had a taste for Taine.  Her voice seemed to come from far away, but she was standing rightbeside him, tall and bewitching; Helenesque as ever. Her blue eyesbecame great wells into which he found himself falling. With an effort,he pulled himself back. You're early tonight, he said lamely.     She appropriated the message, read it. Put the book back, she saidpresently. Then, when he complied: Come on.     Where are we going?     I'm going to deliver a      snoll doper     to Jilka. After that I'm going totake you home to meet my folks.     The relieved sigh he heard was his own.     They climbed into her convertible and she nosed it into the moving lineof cars. How long have you been reading my mail? she asked.     Since the night before I met you.     Was that the reason you spilled the sugar?     Part of the reason, he said. What's a      snoll doper     ?     She laughed. I don't think I'd better tell you just yet.     He sighed again. But if Jilka wanted a      snoll doper     , he said after awhile, why in the world didn't she call you up and say so?     Regulations. She pulled over to the curb in front of a brickapartment building. This is where Jilka lives. I'll explain when I getback.     He watched her get out, walk up the walk to the entrance and letherself in. He leaned his head back on the seat, lit a cigarette andexhaled a mixture of smoke and relief. On the way to meet her folks.So it was just an ordinary secret society after all. And here he'dbeen thinking that she was the key figure in a Martian plot to blow upEarth—     Her      folks     !     Abruptly the full implication of the words got through to him, and hesat bolt-up-right on the seat. He was starting to climb out of the carwhen he saw Kay coming down the walk. Anyway, running away wouldn'tsolve his problem. A complete disappearing act was in order, and acomplete disappearing act would take time. Meanwhile he would playalong with her.  A station wagon came up behind them, slowed, and matched its speedwith theirs. Someone's following us, Quidley said.     Probably Jilka.     Five minutes later the station wagon turned down a side street anddisappeared. She's no longer with us, Quidley said.     She's got to pick someone up. She'll meet us later.     At your folks'?     At the ship.     The city was thinning out around them now, and a few stars were visiblein the night sky. Quidley watched them thoughtfully for a while. Then:What ship? he said.     The one we're going to      Fieu Dayol     on.           Fieu Dayol?          Persei 17 to you. I said I was going to take you home to meet myfolks, didn't I?     In other words, you're kidnapping me.     She shook her head vehemently. I most certainly am not! Neitheraccording to interstellar law or your own. When you compromised me, youmade yourself liable in the eyes of both.     But why pick on me? There must be plenty of men on      Fieu Dayol     . Whydon't you marry one of them?     For two reasons: one, you're the particular man who compromisedme. Two, there are      not     plenty of men on      Fieu Dayol     . Our race isidentical to yours in everything except population-balance between thesexes. At periodic intervals the women on      Fieu Dayol     so greatlyoutnumber the men that those of us who are temperamentally andemotionally unfitted to become spinsters have to look for      wotnids     —ormates—on other worlds. It's quite legal and quite respectable. As amatter of fact, we even have schools specializing in alien culturesto expedite our activities. Our biggest problem is the Interstellarstatute forbidding us the use of local communications services andforbidding us to appear in public places. It was devised to facilitatethe prosecution of interstellar black marketeers, but we're subject toit, too, and have to contrive communications systems of our own.     But why were all the messages addressed to you?     They weren't messages. They were requisitions. I'm the ship's stockgirl.  April fields stretched darkly away on either side of the highway.Presently she turned down a rutted road between two of them and theybounced and swayed back to a black blur of trees. Here we are, shesaid.     Gradually he made out the sphere. It blended so flawlessly with itsbackground that he wouldn't have been able to see it at all if hehadn't been informed of its existence. A gangplank sloped down from anopen lock and came to rest just within the fringe of the trees.     Lights danced in the darkness behind them as another car jounced downthe rutted road. Jilka, Kay said. I wonder if she got him.     Apparently she had. At least there was a man with her—a ratherwoebegone, wilted creature who didn't even look up as they passed.Quidley watched them ascend the gangplank, the man in the lead, anddisappear into the ship.     Next, Kay said.     Quidley shook his head. You're not taking      me     to another planet!     She opened her purse and pulled out a small metallic object Alittle while ago you asked me what a      snoll doper     was, she said.Unfortunately interstellar law severely limits us in our choice ofmarriageable males, and we can take only those who refuse to conformto the sexual mores of their own societies. She did something to theobject that caused it to extend itself into a long, tubular affair.      This     is a      snoll doper     .     She prodded his ribs. March, she said.     He marched. Halfway up the plank he glanced back over his shoulder fora better look at the object pressed against his back.     It bore a striking resemblance to a shotgun.  ","Snoll doper appears in every letter that is hidden in History of English Literature by Hippolyte Adolphe Taine, a book favored by Hebert Quidley, from which he finds these letters and starts his observation. Quidley finds these words several times when he secretly reads the letters in the book whenever a girl comes to put a new letter in the book. He is fascinated by the first girl called Kay Smith who takes the first letter after he notices it. From then on, he has been guessing the meaning of snoll doper. At first, Quidley thinks that snoll doper means a person who has close relationships with Kay, like a boyfriend or a husband. He is annoyed by this possibility after having sexual behaviors with Kay, which causes him to secretly read the fourth letter before Kay comes to pick it up. When Kay finds out that Quidley has been reading her letter, she tells him to come with her to deliver the snoll doper to Jilka, where Quidley is relieved because he realizes that snoll doper is the name of an object, not an identity. On their way to Jilka’s place, Quidley keeps asking Kay what the meaning of snoll doper is, but Kay doesn’t tell him. At the end of the story, snoll doper turns out to be the name of a shotgun, which is what the letters are for, a requisition for the shotgun. Those letters are sent toward Kay because she is the ship’s stock girl who delivers the guns. In conclusion, snoll doper is a word that puzzles Quidley throughout the whole story and causes him to be caught by Kay, the purpose of those secret letters transmitted between Kay and other girls through the book, and an object that forces Quidley to go into the ship."
"What is the setting of the story? </s>     The Girls From Fieu Dayol     By ROBERT F. YOUNG     They were lovely and quick     to learn—and their only     faults were little ones!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Up until the moment when he first looked into Hippolyte Adolphe Taine's      History of English Literature     , Herbert Quidley's penchant for oldbooks had netted him nothing in the way of romance and intrigue.Not that he was a stranger to either. Far from it. But hitherto thebackground for both had been bedrooms and bars, not libraries.     On page 21 of the Taine tome he happened upon a sheet of yellow copypaper folded in four. Unfolding it, he read:       asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkjCai: Sities towms copeis wotnid. Gind snoll doper nckli! Wilbe FieuDayol fot ig habe mot toseo knwo—te bijk weil en snoll doper—Klio,asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj       Since when, Quidley wondered, refolding the paper and putting it backin the book, had high-school typing students taken to reading Taine?Thoughtfully he replaced the book on the shelf and moved deeper intothe literature section.     He had just taken down Xenophon's      Anabasis     when he saw the girl walkin the door.     Let it be said forthwith that old books were not the only item onHerbert Quidley's penchant-list. He liked old wood, too, and oldpaintings, not to mention old wine and old whiskey. But most of all heliked young girls. He especially liked them when they looked the wayHelen of Troy must have looked when Paris took one gander at her andstarted building his ladder. This one was tall, with hyacinth hair andliquid blue eyes, and she had a Grecian symmetry of shape that wouldhave made Paris' eyes pop had he been around to take notice. Pariswasn't, but Quidley's eyes, did the job.     After coming in the door, the girl deposited a book on the librarian'sdesk and headed for the literature section. Quickly Quidley loweredhis eyes to the      Anabasis     and henceforth followed her progress out oftheir corners. When she came to the O's she paused, took down a bookand glanced through it. Then she replaced it and moved on to theP's ... the Q's ... the R's. Barely three feet from him she pausedagain and took down Taine's      History of English Literature     .     He simply could not believe it. The odds against two persons taking aninterest in so esoteric a volume on a single night in a single librarywere ten thousand to one. And yet there was no gainsaying that thevolume was in the girl's hands, and that she was riffling through itwith the air of a seasoned browser.     Presently she returned the book to the shelf, selectedanother—seemingly at random—and took it over to the librarian's desk.She waited statuesquely while the librarian processed it, then tuckedit under her arm and whisked out the door into the misty April night.As soon as she disappeared, Quidley stepped over to the T's and tookTaine down once more. Just as he had suspected. The makeshift bookmarkwas gone.     He remembered how the asdf-;lkj exercise had given way to several linesof gibberish and then reappeared again. A camouflaged message? Or wasit merely what it appeared to be on the surface—the efforts of animpatient typing student to type before his time?     He returned Taine to the shelf. After learning from the librarian thatthe girl's name was Kay Smith, he went out and got in his hardtop. Thename rang a bell. Halfway home he realized why. The typing exercise hadcontained the word Cai, and if you pronounced it with hard c, you gotKai—or Kay. Obviously, then, the exercise had been a message, andhad been deliberately inserted in a book no average person would dreamof borrowing.     By whom—her boy friend?     Quidley winced. He was allergic to the term. Not that he ever let thepresence of a boy friend deter him when he set out to conquer, butbecause the term itself brought to mind the word fiance, and the wordfiance brought to mind still another word, one which repelled himviolently. I.e., marriage. Just the same, he decided to keep Taine's      History     under observation for a while.  Her boy friend turned out to be her girl friend, and her girl friendturned out to be a tall and lissome, lovely with a Helenesque air ofher own. From the vantage point of a strategically located readingtable, where he was keeping company with his favorite little magazine,      The Zeitgeist     , Quidley watched her take a seemingly haphazard routeto the shelf where Taine's      History     reposed, take the volume down,surreptitiously slip a folded sheet of yellow paper between its pagesand return it to the shelf.     After she left he wasted no time in acquainting himself with the secondmessage. It was as unintelligible as the first:       asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj Cai: Habewotnid ig ist ending ifedererer te. T'lide sid Fieu Dayol po jestigtoseo knwo, bijk weil en snoll doper entling—Yoolna. asdf ;lkj asdf;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj       Well, perhaps not quite as unintelligible. He knew, at least, who Caiwas, and he knew—from the reappearance of the words      wotnid     ,      FieuDayol     and      snoll doper     —that the two communications were in thesame code. And certainly it was reasonable to assume that the lastword—      Yoolna     —was the name of the girl he had just seen, and thatshe was a different person from the      Klio     whose name had appended thefirst message.     He refolded the paper, replaced it between the pages, returned the bookto the shelf and went back to the reading table and      The Zeitgeist     .     Kay didn't show up till almost closing time, and he was beginningto think that perhaps she wouldn't come around for the pickup tilltomorrow when she finally walked in the door. She employed the sametactics she had employed the previous night, arriving, as though bychance, at the T-section and transferring the message with the sameundetectable legerdemain to her purse. This time, when she walked outthe door, he was not far behind her.     She climbed into a sleek convertible and pulled into the street. Ittook him but a moment to gain his hardtop and start out after her.When, several blocks later, she pulled to the curb in front of anall-night coffee bar, he followed suit. After that, it was merely amatter of following her inside.     He decided on Operation Spill-the-sugar. It had stood him in good steadbefore, and he was rather fond of it. The procedure was quite simple.First you took note of the position of the sugar dispensers, then yousituated yourself so that your intended victim was between you and thenearest one, then you ordered coffee without sugar in a low voice, andafter the counterman or countergirl had served you, you waited tillhe/she was out of earshot and asked your i.v. to please pass the sugar.When she did so you let the dispenser slip from your fingers in such away that some of its contents spilled on her lap—     I'm terribly sorry, he said, righting it. Here, let me brush it off.  It's all right, it's only sugar, she said, laughing.     I'm hopelessly clumsy, he continued smoothly, brushing the gleamingcrystals from her pleated skirt, noting the clean sweep of her thighs.I beseech you to forgive me.     You're forgiven, she said, and he noticed then that she spoke with aslight accent.     If you like, you can send it to the cleaners and have them send thebill to me. My address is 61 Park Place. He pulled out his wallet,chose an appropriate card, and handed it to her—     Herbert Quidley:      Profiliste       Her forehead crinkled.       Profiliste?          I paint profiles with words, he said. You may have run across someof my pieces in the Better Magazines. I employ a variety of pseudonyms,of course.     How interesting. She pronounced it anteresting.     Not famous profiles, you understand. Just profiles that strike myfancy. He paused. She had raised her cup to her lips and was taking adainty sip. You have a rather striking profile yourself, Miss—     Smith. Kay Smith. She set the cup back on the counter and turned andfaced him. For a second her eyes seemed to expand till they preoccupiedhis entire vision, till he could see nothing but their disturbinglyclear—and suddenly cold—blueness. Panic touched him, then vanishedwhen she said, Would you really consider word-painting      my     profile,Mr. Quidley?       Would     he! When can I call?     She hesitated for a moment. Then: I think it will be better if I callon you. There are quite a number of people living in our—our house.I'm afraid the quarters would be much too cramped for an artist likeyourself to concentrate.     Quidley glowed. Usually it required two or three days, and sometimes aweek, to reach the apartment phase. Fine, he said. When can I expectyou?     She stood up and he got to his feet beside her. She was even tallerthan he had thought. In fact, if he hadn't been wearing Cuban heels,she'd have been taller than he was. I'll be in town night after next,she said. Will nine o'clock be convenient for you?     Perfectly.     Good-by for now then, Mr. Quidley.     He was so elated that when he arrived at his apartment he actuallydid try to write a profile. His own, of course. He sat down at hiscustom-built chrome-trimmed desk, inserted a blank sheet of paper inhis custom-built typewriter and tried to arrange his thoughts. But asusual his mind raced ahead of the moment, and he saw the title,      SelfProfile     , nestling noticeably on the contents page of one of the BetterMagazines, and presently he saw the piece itself in all its splendidarray of colorful rhetoric, sparkling imagery and scintillating wit,occupying a two-page spread.     It was some time before he returned to reality, and when he did thefirst thing that met his eyes was the uncompromisingly blank sheet ofpaper. Hurriedly he typed out a letter to his father, requesting anadvance on his allowance, then, after a tall glass of vintage wine, hewent to bed.  In telling him that she would be in town two nights hence, Kay hadunwittingly apprised him that there would be no exchange of messagesuntil that time, so the next evening he skipped his vigil at thelibrary. The following evening, however, after readying his apartmentfor the forthcoming assignation, he hied himself to his reading-tablepost and took up      The Zeitgeist     once again.     He had not thought it possible that there could be a third such woman.     And yet there she was, walking in the door, tall and blue-eyed andgraceful; dark of hair and noble of mien; browsing in the philosophysection now, now the fiction section, now moving leisurely into theliterature aisle and toward the T's....     The camouflage had varied, but the message was typical enough:       fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; Cai: Ginden snoll doper nckli! Wotnid antwaterer Fieu Dayol hid jestig snolldoper ifedererer te. Dep gogensplo snoll dopers ensing!—Gorka. fdsajkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl;       Judging from the repeated use of the words,      snoll dopers     were thetopic of the day. Annoyed, Quidley replaced the message and put thebook back on the shelf. Then he returned to his apartment to await Kay.     He wondered what her reaction would be if he asked her point-blank whata      snoll doper     was; whether she would reveal the nature of the amateursecret society to which she and Klio and Yoolna and Gorka belonged.It virtually had to be an amateur secret society. Unless, of course,they were foreigners. But what on earth foreign organization would bequixotic enough to employ Taine's      History of English Literature     as acommunications medium when there was a telephone in every drugstore anda mailbox on every corner?     Somehow the words what on earth foreign organization got turnedaround in his mind and became what foreign organization on earth andbefore he could summon his common sense to succor him, he experienceda rather bad moment. By the time the door chimes sounded he was hisnormal self again.     He straightened his tie with nervous fingers, checked to see if hisshirt cuffs protruded the proper length from his coat sleeves, andlooked around the room to see if everything was in place. Everythingwas—the typewriter uncovered and centered on the chrome-trimmed desk,with the sheaf of crinkly first-sheets beside it; the reference booksstacked imposingly nearby;      Harper's     ,      The Atlantic     and      The SaturdayReview     showing conspicuously in the magazine rack; the newly openedbottle of bourbon and the two snifter glasses on the sideboard; thesmall table set cozily for two—  The chimes sounded again. He opened the door.     She walked in with a demure, Hello. He took her wrap. When he sawwhat she was wearing he had to tilt his head back so that his eyeswouldn't fall out of their sockets.     Skin, mostly, in the upper regions. White, glowing skin on which herlong hair lay like forest pools. As for her dress, it was as thoughshe had fallen forward into immaculate snow, half-burying her breastsbefore catching herself on her elbows, then turning into a sittingposition, the snow clinging to her skin in a glistening veneer;arising finally to her feet, resplendently attired.     He went over to the sideboard, picked up the bottle of bourbon. Shefollowed. He set the two snifter glasses side by side and tilted thebottle. Say when. When! I admire your dress—never saw anythingquite like it. Thank you. The material is something new. Feel it.It's—it's almost like foam rubber. Cigarette? Thanks.... Issomething wrong, Mr. Quidley? No, of course not. Why? Your handsare trembling. Oh. I'm—I'm afraid it's the present company, MissSmith. Call me Kay.     They touched glasses: Your liquor is as exquisite as your living room,Herbert. I shall have to come here more often. I hope you will, Kay.Though such conduct, I'm told, is morally reprehensible on the planetEarth. Not in this particular circle. Your hair is lovely. Thankyou.... You haven't mentioned my perfume yet. Perhaps I'm standing toofar away.... There! It's—it's as lovely as your hair, Kay. Um,kiss me again. I—I never figured—I mean, I engaged a caterer toserve us dinner at 9:30. Call him up. Make it 10:30.  The following evening found Quidley on tenter-hooks. The      snoll-doper     mystery had acquired a new tang. He could hardly wait till the nextmessage transfer took place.     He decided to spend the evening plotting the epic novel which heintended to write someday. He set to work immediately. He plottedmentally, of course—notes were for the hacks and the other commercialnon-geniuses who infested the modern literary world. Closing his eyes,he saw the whole vivid panorama of epic action and grand adventureflowing like a mighty and majestic river before his literary vision:the authentic and awe-inspiring background; the hordes of colorfulcharacters; the handsome virile hero, the compelling Helenesqueheroine.... God, it was going to be great! The best thing he'd everdone! See, already there was a crowd of book lovers in front of thebookstore, staring into the window where the new Herbert Quidley wason display, trying to force its way into the jammed interior....      Cutto interior.     FIRST EAGER CUSTOMER: Tell me quickly, are there anymore copies of the new Herbert Quidley left? BOOK CLERK: A few. Youdon't know how lucky you are to get here before the first printing ranout. FIRST EAGER CUSTOMER: Give me a dozen. I want to make sure thatmy children and my children's children have a plentiful supply. BOOKCLERK: Sorry. Only one to a customer. Next? SECOND EAGER CUSTOMER: Tellme quickly, are ... there ... any ... more ... copies ... of—     ZZZZZZZZZZZZZ....     Message no. 4, except for a slight variation in camouflage, ran true toform:       a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj Cai: Habe te snoll dopers ensing?Wotnid ne Fieu Dayol ist ifederereret, hid jestig snoll doper. Ginded, olro—Jilka. a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj       Quidley sighed. What, he asked himself, standing in the library aisleand staring at the indecipherable words, was a normal girl like Kaydoing in such a childish secret society? From the way she and hercorrespondents carried on you'd almost think they were Martian girlscouts on an interplanetary camping trip, trying for their merit badgesin communications!     You could hardly call Kay a girl scout, though.     Nevertheless, she was the key figure in the      snoll-doper     enigma. Thefact annoyed him, especially when he considered that a      snoll doper     ,for all he knew, could be anything from a Chinese fortune cooky to anH-bomb.     He remembered Kay's odd accent. Was that the way a person would speakEnglish if her own language ran something like       ist ifedereret, hidjestig snoll doper adwo     ?     He remembered the way she had looked at him in the coffee bar.     He remembered the material of her dress.     He remembered how she had come to his room.     I didn't know you had a taste for Taine.  Her voice seemed to come from far away, but she was standing rightbeside him, tall and bewitching; Helenesque as ever. Her blue eyesbecame great wells into which he found himself falling. With an effort,he pulled himself back. You're early tonight, he said lamely.     She appropriated the message, read it. Put the book back, she saidpresently. Then, when he complied: Come on.     Where are we going?     I'm going to deliver a      snoll doper     to Jilka. After that I'm going totake you home to meet my folks.     The relieved sigh he heard was his own.     They climbed into her convertible and she nosed it into the moving lineof cars. How long have you been reading my mail? she asked.     Since the night before I met you.     Was that the reason you spilled the sugar?     Part of the reason, he said. What's a      snoll doper     ?     She laughed. I don't think I'd better tell you just yet.     He sighed again. But if Jilka wanted a      snoll doper     , he said after awhile, why in the world didn't she call you up and say so?     Regulations. She pulled over to the curb in front of a brickapartment building. This is where Jilka lives. I'll explain when I getback.     He watched her get out, walk up the walk to the entrance and letherself in. He leaned his head back on the seat, lit a cigarette andexhaled a mixture of smoke and relief. On the way to meet her folks.So it was just an ordinary secret society after all. And here he'dbeen thinking that she was the key figure in a Martian plot to blow upEarth—     Her      folks     !     Abruptly the full implication of the words got through to him, and hesat bolt-up-right on the seat. He was starting to climb out of the carwhen he saw Kay coming down the walk. Anyway, running away wouldn'tsolve his problem. A complete disappearing act was in order, and acomplete disappearing act would take time. Meanwhile he would playalong with her.  A station wagon came up behind them, slowed, and matched its speedwith theirs. Someone's following us, Quidley said.     Probably Jilka.     Five minutes later the station wagon turned down a side street anddisappeared. She's no longer with us, Quidley said.     She's got to pick someone up. She'll meet us later.     At your folks'?     At the ship.     The city was thinning out around them now, and a few stars were visiblein the night sky. Quidley watched them thoughtfully for a while. Then:What ship? he said.     The one we're going to      Fieu Dayol     on.           Fieu Dayol?          Persei 17 to you. I said I was going to take you home to meet myfolks, didn't I?     In other words, you're kidnapping me.     She shook her head vehemently. I most certainly am not! Neitheraccording to interstellar law or your own. When you compromised me, youmade yourself liable in the eyes of both.     But why pick on me? There must be plenty of men on      Fieu Dayol     . Whydon't you marry one of them?     For two reasons: one, you're the particular man who compromisedme. Two, there are      not     plenty of men on      Fieu Dayol     . Our race isidentical to yours in everything except population-balance between thesexes. At periodic intervals the women on      Fieu Dayol     so greatlyoutnumber the men that those of us who are temperamentally andemotionally unfitted to become spinsters have to look for      wotnids     —ormates—on other worlds. It's quite legal and quite respectable. As amatter of fact, we even have schools specializing in alien culturesto expedite our activities. Our biggest problem is the Interstellarstatute forbidding us the use of local communications services andforbidding us to appear in public places. It was devised to facilitatethe prosecution of interstellar black marketeers, but we're subject toit, too, and have to contrive communications systems of our own.     But why were all the messages addressed to you?     They weren't messages. They were requisitions. I'm the ship's stockgirl.  April fields stretched darkly away on either side of the highway.Presently she turned down a rutted road between two of them and theybounced and swayed back to a black blur of trees. Here we are, shesaid.     Gradually he made out the sphere. It blended so flawlessly with itsbackground that he wouldn't have been able to see it at all if hehadn't been informed of its existence. A gangplank sloped down from anopen lock and came to rest just within the fringe of the trees.     Lights danced in the darkness behind them as another car jounced downthe rutted road. Jilka, Kay said. I wonder if she got him.     Apparently she had. At least there was a man with her—a ratherwoebegone, wilted creature who didn't even look up as they passed.Quidley watched them ascend the gangplank, the man in the lead, anddisappear into the ship.     Next, Kay said.     Quidley shook his head. You're not taking      me     to another planet!     She opened her purse and pulled out a small metallic object Alittle while ago you asked me what a      snoll doper     was, she said.Unfortunately interstellar law severely limits us in our choice ofmarriageable males, and we can take only those who refuse to conformto the sexual mores of their own societies. She did something to theobject that caused it to extend itself into a long, tubular affair.      This     is a      snoll doper     .     She prodded his ribs. March, she said.     He marched. Halfway up the plank he glanced back over his shoulder fora better look at the object pressed against his back.     It bore a striking resemblance to a shotgun.  ","The first scene is in the library. Hippolyte Adolphe Taine’s History of English Literature is in the literature section. The books are categorized in alphabetical order. Taine’s book is in the T-section. The secret letters are always hidden in Taine’s book in the T section, where the girls from Fieu Dayol always stop and take the book. A librarian sits at the front desk to handle administrative stuff. There are reading tables. The second scene is in an all-night coffee bar where Herbert Quidley conducts his Spill-the-sugar operation to start the conversation with the girl next to him. There is a sugar dispenser on the counter. The third scene is in Quidley’s apartment. There is a custom-built chrome-trimmed desk, a typewriter inserted with a blank sheet of paper, and the reference books stacked nearby. The magazine rack has Better Magazines, Harper’s, The Atlantic, and The Saturday Review. There is also a small table and a sideboard with a bottle of bourbon and two snifter glasses on top. The fourth scene is on the highway where Quidley is stuck in the car. The rutted road with trees points towards a ship. A ship with its lock open is hiding in the trees. It is dark."
"What is the plot of the story? </s>    CAPTAIN MIDAS     By ALFRED COPPEL, JR.     The captain of the Martian Maid stared avidly at     the torn derelict floating against the velvet void.     Here was treasure beyond his wildest dreams! How     could he know his dreams should have been nightmares?     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Fall 1949.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Gold! A magic word, even today, isn't it? Lust and gold ... they gohand in hand. Like the horsemen of the Apocalypse. And, of course,there's another word needed to make up the trilogy. You don't getany thing for nothing. So add this: Cost. Or you might call it pain,sorrow, agony. Call it what you like. It's what you pay for greattreasure....     These things were true when fabled Jason sailed the Argo beyond Colchisseeking the Fleece. They were true when men sailed the southern oceansin wooden ships. And the conquest of space hasn't changed us a bit.We're still a greedy lot....     I'm a queer one to be saying these things, but then, who has moreright? Look at me. My hair is gray and my face ... my face is a mask.The flesh hangs on my bones like a yellow cloth on a rickety frame. Iam old, old. And I wait here on my hospital cot—wait for the weight ofyears I never lived to drag me under and let me forget the awful thingsmy eyes have seen.     I'm poor, too, or else I wouldn't be here in this place of dying forold spacemen. I haven't a dime except for the pittance the HolcombFoundation calls a spaceman's pension. Yet I had millions in my hands.Treasure beyond your wildest dreams! Cursed treasure....     You smile. You are thinking that I'm just an old man, beachedearthside, spinning tall tales to impress the youngsters. Maybe,thinking about the kind of spacemen my generation produced, you havethe idea that if ever we'd so much as laid a hand on anything of valueout in space we'd not let go until Hell froze over! Well, you'reright about that. We didn't seek the spaceways for the advancement ofcivilization or any of that Foundation bushwah, you can be certain ofthat. We did it for      us     ... for Number One. That's the kind of men wewere, and we were proud of it. We hung onto what we found because therisks were high and we were entitled to keep what we could out there.But there are strange things in the sky. Things that don't respond toall of our neat little Laws and Theories. There are things that are nopart of the world of men, thick with danger—and horror.  If you doubt that—and I can see you do—just look at me. I supposeyou've never heard of the Martian Maid, and so you don't know the storyof what happened to her crew or her skipper. I can give you this muchof an answer.      I     was her skipper. And her crew? They ride high in thesky ... dust by this time. And all because they were men, and men aregreedy and hasty and full of an unreasoning, unthinking love for gold.They ride a golden ship that they paid for with all the years of theirlives. It's all theirs now. Bought and paid for.     It wasn't too long ago that I lifted the Maid off Solis Lacus onthat last flight. Not many of you will remember her class of ship,so many advances have been made in the last few years. The Maid wastwo hundred feet from tip to tail, and as sleek a spacer as ever cameout of the Foundation Yards. Chemical fueled, she was nothing at alllike the spherical hyperdrives we see today. She was armed, too. TheFoundation still thought of space as a possible stamping ground foralien creatures though no evidence of any extra-terrestrial life hadever been found ... then.     My crew was a rough bunch, like all those early crews. I remember themso well. Lean, hungry men with hell in their eyes and a great lust forhigh pay and hard living. Spinelli, Shelley, Cohn, Marvin, Zaleski.There wasn't a man on board who wouldn't have traded his immortal soulfor a few solar dollars, and I don't claim that I was any different.That's the kind of men that opened up the spaceways, too. Don't believeall this talk about the noble pioneering spirit of man. That's tripe.There never has been such a thing as a noble pioneer. Not in space oranywhere else. It is the malcontent and the adventuring mercenary thatpushes the frontier outward.     I didn't know, that night as I stood in the valve of the Maid, watchingthe loading cranes pull away, that I was starting out on my lastflight. I don't think any of the others could have guessed, either.It was the sort of night that you only see on Mars. The sort of nightthat makes a spaceman wonder why in hell he wants to leave the relativesecurity of the Earth-Mars-Venus Triangle to go jetting across the beltinto deep space and the drab desolation of the outer System.     I stood there, watching the lights of Canalopolis in the distance. Forjust a moment I was ... well, touched. It looked beautiful and unrealunder the racing moons. The lights of the gin mills and houses made asparkling filigree pattern on the dark waters of the ancient canal, andthe moons cast their shifting shadows across the silted banks. I wastoo far away to see the space-fevered bums and smell the shanties, andfor a little while I felt the wonder of standing on the soil of a worldthat man had made his own with his rapacity and his sheer guts andgimme.     I thought of our half empty cargo hold and the sweet payload we wouldpick up on Callisto. And I counted the extra cash my packets of snowwould bring from those lonely men up there on the barren moonlets ofthe outer Systems. There were plenty of cargoes carried on the Maidthat the Holcomb Foundation snoopers never heard about, you can be sureof that.     In those days the asteroid belt was      the     primary danger and menace toastrogation. For a long while it held men back from deep space, but asfuels improved a few ships were sent out over the top. A few millionmiles up out of the ecliptic plane brings you to a region of spacethat's pretty thinly strewn with asteroids, and that's the way we usedto make the flight between the outer systems and the EMV Triangle. Ittook a long while for hyperdrives to be developed and of course atomicsnever panned out because of the weight problem.     So that's the orbit the Maid took on that last trip of mine. Highand clear into the supra-solar void. And out there in that primevalblackness is where we found the derelict.  I didn't realize it was a derelict when Spinelli first reportedit from the forward scope position. I assumed it was a Foundationship. The Holcomb Foundation was founded for the purpose ofdeveloping spaceflight, and as the years went by it took on the wholeresponsibility for the building and dispatching of space ships. Neverin history had there been any real evidence of extra-terrestrialintelligent life, and when the EMV Triangle proved barren, we all justassumed that the Universe was man's own particular oyster. That kind ofunreasoning arrogance is as hard to explain as it is to correct.     There were plenty of ships being lost in space, and immediately thatSpinelli's report from up forward got noised about the Maid every oneof us started mentally counting up his share of the salvage money. Allthis before we were within ten thousand miles of the hulk!     All spaceships look pretty much alike, but as I sat at the telescopeI saw that there was something different about this one. At such adistance I couldn't get too much detail in our small three inch glass,but I could see that the hulk was big—bigger than any ship I'd everseen before. I had the radar fixed on her and then I retired with myslide rule to Control. It wasn't long before I discovered that thederelict ship was on a near collision course, but there was somethingabout its orbit that was strange. I called Cohn, the Metering Officer,and showed him my figures.     Mister Cohn, I said, chart in hand, do these figures look right toyou?     Cohn's dark eyes lit up as they always did when he worked with figures.It didn't take him long to check me. The math is quite correct,Captain, he said. I could see that he hadn't missed the inference ofthose figures on the chart.     Assemble the ship's company, Mister Cohn, I ordered.     The assembly horn sounded throughout the Maid and I could feel the tugof the automatics taking over as the crew left their stations. Soonthey were assembled in Control.     You have all heard about Mister Spinelli's find, I said, I havecomputed the orbit and inspected the object through the glass. It seemsto be a spacer ... either abandoned or in distress.... Reaching intothe book rack above my desk I took down a copy of the Foundation's      Space Regulations     and opened it to the section concerning salvage.     Sections XVIII, Paragraph 8 of the Code Regulating InterplanetaryAstrogation and Commerce, I read, Any vessel or part of vessel foundin an abandoned or totally disabled condition in any region of spacenot subject to the sovereignty of any planet of the Earth-Venus-MarsTriangle shall be considered to be the property of the crew of thevessel locating said abandoned or disabled vessel except in such casesas the ownership of said abandoned or disabled vessel may be readilyascertained.... I looked up and closed the book. Simply stated, thatmeans that if that thing ahead of us is a derelict we are entitled toclaim it as salvage.     Unless it already belongs to someone? asked Spinelli.     That's correct Mister Spinelli, but I don't think there is much dangerof that, I replied quietly. My figures show that hulk out there camein from the direction of Coma Berenices....     There was a long silence before Zaleski shifted his two hundred poundsuneasily and gave a form to the muted fear inside me. You think ...you think it came from the      stars     , Captain?     Maybe even from beyond the stars, Cohn said in a low voice.     Looking at that circle of faces I saw the beginnings of greed. Thefirst impact of the Metering Officer's words wore off quickly and soonevery man of my crew was thinking that anything from the stars would beworth money ... lots of money.     Spinelli said, Do we look her over, Captain?     They all looked at me, waiting for my answer. I knew it would be worthplenty, and money hunger was like a fever inside me.     Certainly we look it over, Mister Spinelli, I said sharply.Certainly!  The first thing about the derelict that struck us as we drew near washer size. No ship ever built in the Foundation Yards had ever attainedsuch gargantuan proportions. She must have stretched a full thousandfeet from bow to stern, a sleek torpedo shape of somehow unspeakablealienness. Against the backdrop of the Milky Way, she gleamed fitfullyin the light of the faraway sun, the metal of her flanks grained withsomething like tiny, glittering whorls. It was as though the stuffwere somehow unstable ... seeking balance ... maybe even alive in somestrange and alien way.     It was readily apparent to all of us that she had never been built forinter-planetary flight. She was a starship. Origin unknown. An aura ofmystery surrounded her like a shroud, protecting the world that gaveher birth mutely but effectively. The distance she must have come wasunthinkable. And the time it had taken...? Aeons. Millennia. For shewas drifting, dead in space, slowly spinning end over end as she swungabout Sol in a hyperbolic orbit that would soon take her out and awayagain into the inter-stellar deeps.     Something had wounded her ... perhaps ten million years ago ... perhapsyesterday. She was gashed deeply from stem to stern with a jagged ripthat bared her mangled innards. A wandering asteroid? A meteor? Wewould never know. It gave me an uncomfortable feeling of things beyondthe ken of men as I looked at her through the port. I would never knowwhat killed her, or where she was going, or whence she came. Yet shewas mine. It made me feel like an upstart. And it made me afraid ...but of what?     We should have reported her to the nearest EMV base, but that wouldhave meant that we'd lose her. Scientists would be sent out. Men betterequipped than we to investigate the first extrasolar artifact found bymen. But I didn't report her. She was ours. She was money in the bank.Let the scientists take over after we'd put a prize crew aboard andbrought her into Callisto for salvage.... That's the way I had thingsfigured.     The Maid hove to about a hundred yards from her and hung there, dwarfedby the mighty glistening ship. I called for volunteers and we prepareda boarding party. I was thinking that her drives alone would be worthmillions. Cohn took charge and he and three of the men suited up andcrossed to her.     In an hour they were back, disappointment largely written on theirfaces.     There's nothing left of her, Captain, Cohn reported, Whatever hither tore up the innards so badly we couldn't even find the drives.She's a mess inside. Nothing left but the hull and a few storagecompartments that are still unbroken.     She was never built to carry humanoids he told us, and there wasnothing that could give us a hint of where she had come from. The hullalone was left.     He dropped two chunks of metal on my desk. I brought back some samplesof her pressure hull, he said, The whole thing is made of thisstuff....     We'll still take her in, I said, hiding my disappointment. Thecarcass will be worth money in Callisto. Have Mister Marvin andZaleski assemble a spare pulse-jet. We'll jury-rig her and bring herdown under her own power. You take charge of provisioning her. Checkthose compartments you found and install oxy-generators aboard. Whenit's done report to me in my quarters.     I picked up the two samples of gleaming metal and called for ametallurgical testing kit. I'm going to try and find out if this stuffis worth anything....     The metal was heavy—too heavy, it seemed to me, for spaceshipconstruction. But then, who was to say what conditions existed on thatdistant world where this metal was made?     Under the bright fluorescent over my work-table, the chunks of metaltorn from a random bulkhead of the starship gleamed like pale silver;those strange little whorls that I had noticed on the outer hull werethere too, like tiny magnetic lines of force, making the surface ofthe metal seem to dance. I held the stuff in my bare hand.      It had ayellowish tinge, and it was heavier     ....     Even as I watched, the metal grew yellower, and the hand that heldit grew bone weary, little tongues of fatigue licking up my forearm.Suddenly terrified, I dropped the chunk as though it were white hot. Itstruck the table with a dull thud and lay there, a rich yellow lump ofmetallic lustre.     For a long while I just sat and stared. Then I began testing, tryingall the while to quiet the trembling of my hands. I weighed it on abalance. I tested it with acids. It had changed unquestionably. Itwas no longer the same as when I had carried it into my quarters. Thewhorls of force were gone. It was no longer alive with a questingvibrancy ... it was inert, stable. From somewhere, somehow, it haddrawn the energy necessary for transmutation. The unknown metal—thestuff of which that whole mammoth spaceship from the stars wasbuilt—was now....       Gold!       I scarcely dared believe it, but there it was staring at me from mytable-top.      Gold!       I searched my mind for an explanation. Contra-terrene matter, perhaps,from some distant island universe where matter reacted differently ...drawing energy from somewhere, the energy it needed to find stabilityin its new environment. Stability as a terrene element—wonderfully,miraculously gold!     And outside, in the void beyond the Maid's ports there were tons ofthis metal that could be turned into treasure. My laughter must havebeen a wild sound in those moments of discovery....  A slight sound behind me made me spin around in my chair. Framed in thedoorway was the heavy figure of my Third Officer, Spinelli. His blackeyes were fastened hungrily on the lump of yellow metal on the table.He needed no explanation to tell him what it was, and it seemed to methat his very soul reached out for the stuff, so sharp and clear wasthe meaning of the expression on his heavy face.     Mister Spinelli! I snapped, In the future knock before entering myquarters!     Reluctantly his eyes left the lump of gold and met mine. From thederelict, Captain? There was an imperceptible pause between the lasttwo words.     I ignored his question and made a mental note to keep a close hand onthe rein with him. Spinelli was big and dangerous.     Speak your piece, Mister, I ordered sharply.     Mister Cohn reports the derelict ready to take aboard the prizecrew ... sir, he said slowly. I'd like to volunteer for that detail.     I might have let him go under ordinary circumstances, for he was afirst class spaceman and the handling of a jury-rigged hulk wouldneed good men. But the gold-hunger I had seen in his eyes warned meto beware. I shook my head. You will stay on board the Maid with me,Spinelli. Cohn and Zaleski will handle the starship.     Stark suspicion leaped into his eyes. I could see the wheels turningslowly in his mind. Somehow, he was thinking, I was planning to cheathim of his rightful share of the derelict treasure ship.     We will say nothing to the rest of the crew about the gold, MisterSpinelli, I said deliberately, Or you'll go to Callisto in irons. Isthat clear?     Aye, sir, murmured Spinelli. The black expression had left his faceand there was a faintly scornful smile playing about his mouth as heturned away. I began wondering then what he had in mind. It wasn't likehim to let it go at that.     Suddenly I became conscious of being very tired. My mind wasn'tfunctioning quite clearly. And my arm and hand ached painfully. Irubbed the fingers to get some life back into them, still wonderingabout Spinelli.     Spinelli talked. I saw him murmuring something to big Zaleski, andafter that there was tension in the air. Distrust.     For a few moments I pondered the advisability of making good my threatto clap Spinelli into irons, but I decided against it. In the firstplace I couldn't prove he had told Zaleski about the gold and in thesecond place I needed Spinelli to help run the Maid.     I felt that the Third Officer and Zaleski were planning something, andI was just as sure that Spinelli was watching Zaleski to see to it thatthere was no double-cross.     I figured that I could handle the Third Officer alone so I assigned therest, Marvin and Chelly, to accompany Cohn and Zaleski onto the hulk.That way Zaleski would be outnumbered if he tried to skip with thetreasure ship. But, of course, I couldn't risk telling them that theywere to be handling a vessel practically made of gold.     I was in agony. I didn't want to let anyone get out of my sight withthat starship, and at the same time I couldn't leave the Maid. FinallyI had to let Cohn take command of the prize crew, but not before I hadset the radar finder on the Maid's prow squarely on the derelict.  Together, Spinelli and I watched the Maid's crew vanish into the mawof the alien ship and get her under way. There was a flicker of bluishfire from her jury-rigged tubes astern, and then she was vanishing in agreat arc toward the bright gleam of Jupiter, far below us. The Maidfollowed under a steady one G of acceleration with most of her controlson automatic.     Boats of the Martian Maid's class, you may remember, carried a sixinch supersonic projector abaft the astrogation turret. These werenasty weapons for use against organic life only. They would reduce aman to jelly at fifty thousand yards. Let it be said to my credit thatit wasn't I who thought of hooking the gun into the radar finder andkeeping it aimed dead at the derelict. That was Spinelli's insuranceagainst Zaleski.     When I discovered it I felt the rage mount in me. He was willing toblast every one of his shipmates into pulp should the hulk vary fromthe orbit we'd laid out for her. He wasn't letting anything comebetween him and that mountain of gold.     Then I began thinking about it. Suppose now, just suppose, that Zaleskitold the rest of the crew about the gold. It wouldn't be too hardfor the derelict to break away from the Maid, and there were plentyof places in the EMV Triangle where a renegade crew with a thousandtons of gold would be welcomed with open arms and no questions asked.Suspicion began to eat at me. Could Zaleski and Cohn have dreamed upa little switch to keep the treasure ship for themselves? It hadn'tseemed likely before, but now—     The gun-pointer remained as it was.     As the days passed and we reached turn-over with the hulk still wellwithin visual range, I noticed a definite decrease in the number ofmessages from Cohn. The Aldis Lamps no longer blinked back at the Maideight or ten times a day, and I began to really regret not having takenthe time to equip the starship with UHF radio communicators.     Each night I slept with a hunk of yellow gold under my bunk, andridiculously I fondled the stuff and dreamed of all the things I wouldhave when the starship was cut up and sold.     My weariness grew. It became almost chronic, and I soon wondered ifI hadn't picked up a touch of space-radiation fever. The flesh of myhands seemed paler than it had been. My arms felt heavy. I determinedto report myself to the Foundation medics on Callisto. There's notelling what can happen to a man in space....     Two days past turn-over the messages from the derelict came throughgarbled. Spinelli cursed and said that he couldn't read their signal.Taking the Aldis from him I tried to raise them and failed. Two hourslater I was still failing and Spinelli's black eyes glittered with ananimal suspicion.     They're faking!     Like hell they are! I snapped irritably, Something's gone wrong....     Zaleski's gone wrong, that's what!     I turned to face him, fury snapping inside of me. Then you did disobeymy orders. You told him about the gold!     Sure I did, he sneered. Did you expect me to shut up and let youland the ship yourself and claim Captain's share?      I     found her, andshe's mine!     I fought to control my temper and said: Let's see what's going on inher before deciding who gets what, Mister Spinelli.     Spinelli bit his thick lips and did not reply. His eyes were fixed onthe image of the starship on the viewplate.     A light blinked erratically within the dark cut of its wounded side.     Get this down, Spinelli!     The habit of taking orders was still in him, and he muttered: Aye ...sir.     The light was winking out a message, but feebly, as though the handthat held the lamp were shaking and the mind conceiving the words werefailing.     CONTROL ... LOST ... CAN'T ... NO ... STRENGTH ... LEFT ... SHIP ...WALLS ... ALL ... ALL GOLD ... GOLD ... SOMETHING ... HAPPENING ...CAN'T ... UNDERSTAND ... WHA.... The light stopped flashing, abruptly,in mid-word.     What the hell? demanded Spinelli thickly.     Order them to heave to, Mister, I ordered.     He clicked the Aldis at them. The only response was a wild swerve inthe star-ship's course. She left the orbit we had set for her as thoughthe hands that guided her had fallen away from the control.     Spinelli dropped the Aldis and rushed to the control panel to make thecorrections in the Maid's course that were needed to keep the hulk insight.     Those skunks! Double crossing rats! he breathed furiously. Theywon't shake loose that easy! His hands started down for the firingconsole of the supersonic rifle.     I caught the movement from the corner of my eye.           Spinelli!          My shout hung in the still air of the control room as I knocked himaway from the panel.     Get to your quarters! I cracked.     He didn't say a thing, but his big shoulders hunched angrily andhe moved across the deck toward me, his hands opening and closingspasmodically. His eyes were wild with rage and avarice.     You'll hang for mutiny, Spinelli! I said.  He spat out a foul name and leaped for me. I side-stepped his chargeand brought my joined fists down hard on the back of his neck. Hestumbled against the bulkhead and his eyes were glazed. He chargedagain, roaring. I stepped aside and smashed him in the mouth with myright fist, then crossing with an open-handed left to the throat. Hestaggered, spun and came for me again. I sank a hard left into hisstomach and nailed him on the point of the jaw with a right from myshoe-tops. He straightened up and sprawled heavily to the deck, stilltrying to get at me. I aimed a hard kick at his temple and let it go.My metal shod boot caught him squarely and he rolled over on his faceand lay still.        I nailed him with a right from my shoe-tops.        Breathing heavily, I rolled him back face up. His eyes were open,glassy with an implacable hate. I knelt at his side and listened forhis breathing. There was none. I knew then that I had killed him. Ifelt sick inside, and dizzy.     I wasn't myself as I turned away from Spinelli's body there on thesteel deck. Some of the greed died out of me, and my exertions hadincreased my sense of fatigue to an almost numbing weariness. My armsached terribly and my hands felt as though they had been sucked dry oftheir substance. Like a man in a nightmare, I held them up before myface and looked at them. They were wrinkled and grey, with the veinsstanding out a sickly purple. And I could see that my arms were takingon that same aged look.     I was suddenly fully aware of my fear. Nothing fought against theflood of terror that welled through me. I was terrified of that yellowgold in my cabin, and of that ship of devil's metal out there in spacethat held my shipmates. There was something unnatural about thatcontra-terrene thing ... something obscene.     I located the hulk in the radar finder and swung the Maid after it,piling on acceleration until my vision flickered. We caught her, theMaid and I. But we couldn't stop her short of using the rifle on her,and I couldn't bring myself to add to my depravity by killing the restof my men. It would have been better if I had!     I laid the Maid alongside the thousand foot hull of the derelict andset the controls on automatic. It was dangerous, but I was beyondcaring. Then I was struggling to get myself into a pressure suit withmy wrinkled, failing hands.... Then I was outside, headed for that darkhole.     I sank down into the stillness of her interior, my helmet light castinglong, fey shadows across the littered decks. Decks that had a yellowishcast ... decks that no longer danced with tiny questing force-whorls....     As I approached the airlock of the compartment set aside as livingquarters for the prize crew, the saffron of the walls deepened. Crazylittle thoughts began spinning around in my brain. Words out of thedistant past loomed up with a new and suddenly terrifyingperspective ... alchemy ... transmutation ... energy. I'm a spaceman,not a scientist. But in those moments I think I was discovering whathad happened to my crew and why the walls were turning into yellowmetal.     The lock was closed, but I swung it open and let the pressure in thechamber rise. I couldn't wait for it to reach fourteen pounds ...at eleven, I swung the inner door and stumbled eagerly through. Thebrilliant light, reflected from gleaming walls blinded me for a moment.     And then I saw them! They huddled, almost naked in a corner, skeletalthings with skull-like faces that leered at me with the vacuousobscenity of old age. Even their voices were raw and cracked with therusty decay of years. They babbled stupidly, caressing the walls withclaw-like hands. They were old, old!     I understood then. I knew what my wrinkled aged hands meant. Thatdevil-metal from beyond the stars had drawn the energy it neededfrom ...      us     !     My laughter was a crazy shriek inside my helmet. I looked wildly at thegleaming walls that had sucked the youth and strength from these men.The walls were stable, at rest. They were purest gold ... gold ... gold!     I ran from that place still screaming with the horror of it. My handsburned like fire! Age was in them, creeping like molten lead through myveins, ghastly and sure....     I reached the Maid and threw every scrap of that alien metal into spaceas I streaked madly away from that golden terror in the sky and itsload of ancient evil....  On Callisto I was relieved of my command. The Admiralty Court acquittedme of the charges of negligence, but the Foundation refused me anothership. It was my ... illness. It spread from my hands, as you can see.Slowly, very slowly. So what remains for me? A hospital cot and aspaceman's pension. Those tons of gold in the sky are cursed, like mostgreat treasures. Somewhere, out in the deeps between the stars, thedust of my crew guards that golden derelict. It belongs to them now ...all of it.     But the price we pay for treasure is this. Look at me. I look eighty!I'm thirty two. And the bitterest part of the story is that peoplelaugh at me when I tell what happened. They laugh and call me mynickname. Have you heard it?     It's ... Captain Midas.   ","This story follows the Martian Maid’s journey and features its crew members: a captain nicknamed ‘Captain Midas’, Mister Spinelli the Third Officer, and various other shipmates. It is revealed that many of the crew members have a lust for making money, and an apt opportunity to do so is discovered when Mister Spinelli spots a derelict ship amongst the asteroids that could be claimed by them. After a first exploration, Midas ends up with a mystery metal collected from the starship. In his further investigation, he finds that this mystery metal transforms into a heavier metal with a yellow tinge - gold. At the same time, he finds that holding the metal evokes fatigue in him, particularly in his arms. This initial investigation was interrupted by Spinelli barging into Midas’ quarters and spotting the gold. Fearful of the other shipmates knowing and hence collecting it for themselves, Midas threatens Spinelli’s silence. Midas continues the acquisition of this derelict ship by sending a crew, led by Cohn, to further investigate and take control of the ship. With Midas and Spinelli left behind, they watch their shipmates enter the alien ship. While waiting to hear back from the crew, Midas notices that Spinelli has arranged the Maid’s gun to point at the derelict ship and their crew mates. Initially enraged, Midas soon calms down as he begins to suspect that the rest of the crew knows about the gold and may be hatching an alternate plan. Two days past the check-in time, the pair receives a garbled message from the crew. Midas orders them to disembark and depart, but the starship begins to divert its course. In arguing between something being wrong and Spinelli telling the crew about the gold, Spinelli begins to inch towards the firing panel for the gun and a tussle emerges between the two with Midas killing him. After re-catching the derelict ship, Midas boards the ship to look for the rest of his crew mates. He finds the walls to turn into yellow metal and the decks to have a yellowish cast as well. Inside the ship, he sees skeletal and rusty versions of his crew, and comes to the horrifying realization that the transformation of the metal into gold comes at the expense of him and his crew member’s youth and strength. Running from the ship, Midas reboards the Maid and quickly throws the alien ship back into space. Back on Callisto, the Foundation relieves him of his command as the illness spreads to the rest of his body. "
"Who is Captain Midas and what are some of his characteristics? </s>    CAPTAIN MIDAS     By ALFRED COPPEL, JR.     The captain of the Martian Maid stared avidly at     the torn derelict floating against the velvet void.     Here was treasure beyond his wildest dreams! How     could he know his dreams should have been nightmares?     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Fall 1949.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Gold! A magic word, even today, isn't it? Lust and gold ... they gohand in hand. Like the horsemen of the Apocalypse. And, of course,there's another word needed to make up the trilogy. You don't getany thing for nothing. So add this: Cost. Or you might call it pain,sorrow, agony. Call it what you like. It's what you pay for greattreasure....     These things were true when fabled Jason sailed the Argo beyond Colchisseeking the Fleece. They were true when men sailed the southern oceansin wooden ships. And the conquest of space hasn't changed us a bit.We're still a greedy lot....     I'm a queer one to be saying these things, but then, who has moreright? Look at me. My hair is gray and my face ... my face is a mask.The flesh hangs on my bones like a yellow cloth on a rickety frame. Iam old, old. And I wait here on my hospital cot—wait for the weight ofyears I never lived to drag me under and let me forget the awful thingsmy eyes have seen.     I'm poor, too, or else I wouldn't be here in this place of dying forold spacemen. I haven't a dime except for the pittance the HolcombFoundation calls a spaceman's pension. Yet I had millions in my hands.Treasure beyond your wildest dreams! Cursed treasure....     You smile. You are thinking that I'm just an old man, beachedearthside, spinning tall tales to impress the youngsters. Maybe,thinking about the kind of spacemen my generation produced, you havethe idea that if ever we'd so much as laid a hand on anything of valueout in space we'd not let go until Hell froze over! Well, you'reright about that. We didn't seek the spaceways for the advancement ofcivilization or any of that Foundation bushwah, you can be certain ofthat. We did it for      us     ... for Number One. That's the kind of men wewere, and we were proud of it. We hung onto what we found because therisks were high and we were entitled to keep what we could out there.But there are strange things in the sky. Things that don't respond toall of our neat little Laws and Theories. There are things that are nopart of the world of men, thick with danger—and horror.  If you doubt that—and I can see you do—just look at me. I supposeyou've never heard of the Martian Maid, and so you don't know the storyof what happened to her crew or her skipper. I can give you this muchof an answer.      I     was her skipper. And her crew? They ride high in thesky ... dust by this time. And all because they were men, and men aregreedy and hasty and full of an unreasoning, unthinking love for gold.They ride a golden ship that they paid for with all the years of theirlives. It's all theirs now. Bought and paid for.     It wasn't too long ago that I lifted the Maid off Solis Lacus onthat last flight. Not many of you will remember her class of ship,so many advances have been made in the last few years. The Maid wastwo hundred feet from tip to tail, and as sleek a spacer as ever cameout of the Foundation Yards. Chemical fueled, she was nothing at alllike the spherical hyperdrives we see today. She was armed, too. TheFoundation still thought of space as a possible stamping ground foralien creatures though no evidence of any extra-terrestrial life hadever been found ... then.     My crew was a rough bunch, like all those early crews. I remember themso well. Lean, hungry men with hell in their eyes and a great lust forhigh pay and hard living. Spinelli, Shelley, Cohn, Marvin, Zaleski.There wasn't a man on board who wouldn't have traded his immortal soulfor a few solar dollars, and I don't claim that I was any different.That's the kind of men that opened up the spaceways, too. Don't believeall this talk about the noble pioneering spirit of man. That's tripe.There never has been such a thing as a noble pioneer. Not in space oranywhere else. It is the malcontent and the adventuring mercenary thatpushes the frontier outward.     I didn't know, that night as I stood in the valve of the Maid, watchingthe loading cranes pull away, that I was starting out on my lastflight. I don't think any of the others could have guessed, either.It was the sort of night that you only see on Mars. The sort of nightthat makes a spaceman wonder why in hell he wants to leave the relativesecurity of the Earth-Mars-Venus Triangle to go jetting across the beltinto deep space and the drab desolation of the outer System.     I stood there, watching the lights of Canalopolis in the distance. Forjust a moment I was ... well, touched. It looked beautiful and unrealunder the racing moons. The lights of the gin mills and houses made asparkling filigree pattern on the dark waters of the ancient canal, andthe moons cast their shifting shadows across the silted banks. I wastoo far away to see the space-fevered bums and smell the shanties, andfor a little while I felt the wonder of standing on the soil of a worldthat man had made his own with his rapacity and his sheer guts andgimme.     I thought of our half empty cargo hold and the sweet payload we wouldpick up on Callisto. And I counted the extra cash my packets of snowwould bring from those lonely men up there on the barren moonlets ofthe outer Systems. There were plenty of cargoes carried on the Maidthat the Holcomb Foundation snoopers never heard about, you can be sureof that.     In those days the asteroid belt was      the     primary danger and menace toastrogation. For a long while it held men back from deep space, but asfuels improved a few ships were sent out over the top. A few millionmiles up out of the ecliptic plane brings you to a region of spacethat's pretty thinly strewn with asteroids, and that's the way we usedto make the flight between the outer systems and the EMV Triangle. Ittook a long while for hyperdrives to be developed and of course atomicsnever panned out because of the weight problem.     So that's the orbit the Maid took on that last trip of mine. Highand clear into the supra-solar void. And out there in that primevalblackness is where we found the derelict.  I didn't realize it was a derelict when Spinelli first reportedit from the forward scope position. I assumed it was a Foundationship. The Holcomb Foundation was founded for the purpose ofdeveloping spaceflight, and as the years went by it took on the wholeresponsibility for the building and dispatching of space ships. Neverin history had there been any real evidence of extra-terrestrialintelligent life, and when the EMV Triangle proved barren, we all justassumed that the Universe was man's own particular oyster. That kind ofunreasoning arrogance is as hard to explain as it is to correct.     There were plenty of ships being lost in space, and immediately thatSpinelli's report from up forward got noised about the Maid every oneof us started mentally counting up his share of the salvage money. Allthis before we were within ten thousand miles of the hulk!     All spaceships look pretty much alike, but as I sat at the telescopeI saw that there was something different about this one. At such adistance I couldn't get too much detail in our small three inch glass,but I could see that the hulk was big—bigger than any ship I'd everseen before. I had the radar fixed on her and then I retired with myslide rule to Control. It wasn't long before I discovered that thederelict ship was on a near collision course, but there was somethingabout its orbit that was strange. I called Cohn, the Metering Officer,and showed him my figures.     Mister Cohn, I said, chart in hand, do these figures look right toyou?     Cohn's dark eyes lit up as they always did when he worked with figures.It didn't take him long to check me. The math is quite correct,Captain, he said. I could see that he hadn't missed the inference ofthose figures on the chart.     Assemble the ship's company, Mister Cohn, I ordered.     The assembly horn sounded throughout the Maid and I could feel the tugof the automatics taking over as the crew left their stations. Soonthey were assembled in Control.     You have all heard about Mister Spinelli's find, I said, I havecomputed the orbit and inspected the object through the glass. It seemsto be a spacer ... either abandoned or in distress.... Reaching intothe book rack above my desk I took down a copy of the Foundation's      Space Regulations     and opened it to the section concerning salvage.     Sections XVIII, Paragraph 8 of the Code Regulating InterplanetaryAstrogation and Commerce, I read, Any vessel or part of vessel foundin an abandoned or totally disabled condition in any region of spacenot subject to the sovereignty of any planet of the Earth-Venus-MarsTriangle shall be considered to be the property of the crew of thevessel locating said abandoned or disabled vessel except in such casesas the ownership of said abandoned or disabled vessel may be readilyascertained.... I looked up and closed the book. Simply stated, thatmeans that if that thing ahead of us is a derelict we are entitled toclaim it as salvage.     Unless it already belongs to someone? asked Spinelli.     That's correct Mister Spinelli, but I don't think there is much dangerof that, I replied quietly. My figures show that hulk out there camein from the direction of Coma Berenices....     There was a long silence before Zaleski shifted his two hundred poundsuneasily and gave a form to the muted fear inside me. You think ...you think it came from the      stars     , Captain?     Maybe even from beyond the stars, Cohn said in a low voice.     Looking at that circle of faces I saw the beginnings of greed. Thefirst impact of the Metering Officer's words wore off quickly and soonevery man of my crew was thinking that anything from the stars would beworth money ... lots of money.     Spinelli said, Do we look her over, Captain?     They all looked at me, waiting for my answer. I knew it would be worthplenty, and money hunger was like a fever inside me.     Certainly we look it over, Mister Spinelli, I said sharply.Certainly!  The first thing about the derelict that struck us as we drew near washer size. No ship ever built in the Foundation Yards had ever attainedsuch gargantuan proportions. She must have stretched a full thousandfeet from bow to stern, a sleek torpedo shape of somehow unspeakablealienness. Against the backdrop of the Milky Way, she gleamed fitfullyin the light of the faraway sun, the metal of her flanks grained withsomething like tiny, glittering whorls. It was as though the stuffwere somehow unstable ... seeking balance ... maybe even alive in somestrange and alien way.     It was readily apparent to all of us that she had never been built forinter-planetary flight. She was a starship. Origin unknown. An aura ofmystery surrounded her like a shroud, protecting the world that gaveher birth mutely but effectively. The distance she must have come wasunthinkable. And the time it had taken...? Aeons. Millennia. For shewas drifting, dead in space, slowly spinning end over end as she swungabout Sol in a hyperbolic orbit that would soon take her out and awayagain into the inter-stellar deeps.     Something had wounded her ... perhaps ten million years ago ... perhapsyesterday. She was gashed deeply from stem to stern with a jagged ripthat bared her mangled innards. A wandering asteroid? A meteor? Wewould never know. It gave me an uncomfortable feeling of things beyondthe ken of men as I looked at her through the port. I would never knowwhat killed her, or where she was going, or whence she came. Yet shewas mine. It made me feel like an upstart. And it made me afraid ...but of what?     We should have reported her to the nearest EMV base, but that wouldhave meant that we'd lose her. Scientists would be sent out. Men betterequipped than we to investigate the first extrasolar artifact found bymen. But I didn't report her. She was ours. She was money in the bank.Let the scientists take over after we'd put a prize crew aboard andbrought her into Callisto for salvage.... That's the way I had thingsfigured.     The Maid hove to about a hundred yards from her and hung there, dwarfedby the mighty glistening ship. I called for volunteers and we prepareda boarding party. I was thinking that her drives alone would be worthmillions. Cohn took charge and he and three of the men suited up andcrossed to her.     In an hour they were back, disappointment largely written on theirfaces.     There's nothing left of her, Captain, Cohn reported, Whatever hither tore up the innards so badly we couldn't even find the drives.She's a mess inside. Nothing left but the hull and a few storagecompartments that are still unbroken.     She was never built to carry humanoids he told us, and there wasnothing that could give us a hint of where she had come from. The hullalone was left.     He dropped two chunks of metal on my desk. I brought back some samplesof her pressure hull, he said, The whole thing is made of thisstuff....     We'll still take her in, I said, hiding my disappointment. Thecarcass will be worth money in Callisto. Have Mister Marvin andZaleski assemble a spare pulse-jet. We'll jury-rig her and bring herdown under her own power. You take charge of provisioning her. Checkthose compartments you found and install oxy-generators aboard. Whenit's done report to me in my quarters.     I picked up the two samples of gleaming metal and called for ametallurgical testing kit. I'm going to try and find out if this stuffis worth anything....     The metal was heavy—too heavy, it seemed to me, for spaceshipconstruction. But then, who was to say what conditions existed on thatdistant world where this metal was made?     Under the bright fluorescent over my work-table, the chunks of metaltorn from a random bulkhead of the starship gleamed like pale silver;those strange little whorls that I had noticed on the outer hull werethere too, like tiny magnetic lines of force, making the surface ofthe metal seem to dance. I held the stuff in my bare hand.      It had ayellowish tinge, and it was heavier     ....     Even as I watched, the metal grew yellower, and the hand that heldit grew bone weary, little tongues of fatigue licking up my forearm.Suddenly terrified, I dropped the chunk as though it were white hot. Itstruck the table with a dull thud and lay there, a rich yellow lump ofmetallic lustre.     For a long while I just sat and stared. Then I began testing, tryingall the while to quiet the trembling of my hands. I weighed it on abalance. I tested it with acids. It had changed unquestionably. Itwas no longer the same as when I had carried it into my quarters. Thewhorls of force were gone. It was no longer alive with a questingvibrancy ... it was inert, stable. From somewhere, somehow, it haddrawn the energy necessary for transmutation. The unknown metal—thestuff of which that whole mammoth spaceship from the stars wasbuilt—was now....       Gold!       I scarcely dared believe it, but there it was staring at me from mytable-top.      Gold!       I searched my mind for an explanation. Contra-terrene matter, perhaps,from some distant island universe where matter reacted differently ...drawing energy from somewhere, the energy it needed to find stabilityin its new environment. Stability as a terrene element—wonderfully,miraculously gold!     And outside, in the void beyond the Maid's ports there were tons ofthis metal that could be turned into treasure. My laughter must havebeen a wild sound in those moments of discovery....  A slight sound behind me made me spin around in my chair. Framed in thedoorway was the heavy figure of my Third Officer, Spinelli. His blackeyes were fastened hungrily on the lump of yellow metal on the table.He needed no explanation to tell him what it was, and it seemed to methat his very soul reached out for the stuff, so sharp and clear wasthe meaning of the expression on his heavy face.     Mister Spinelli! I snapped, In the future knock before entering myquarters!     Reluctantly his eyes left the lump of gold and met mine. From thederelict, Captain? There was an imperceptible pause between the lasttwo words.     I ignored his question and made a mental note to keep a close hand onthe rein with him. Spinelli was big and dangerous.     Speak your piece, Mister, I ordered sharply.     Mister Cohn reports the derelict ready to take aboard the prizecrew ... sir, he said slowly. I'd like to volunteer for that detail.     I might have let him go under ordinary circumstances, for he was afirst class spaceman and the handling of a jury-rigged hulk wouldneed good men. But the gold-hunger I had seen in his eyes warned meto beware. I shook my head. You will stay on board the Maid with me,Spinelli. Cohn and Zaleski will handle the starship.     Stark suspicion leaped into his eyes. I could see the wheels turningslowly in his mind. Somehow, he was thinking, I was planning to cheathim of his rightful share of the derelict treasure ship.     We will say nothing to the rest of the crew about the gold, MisterSpinelli, I said deliberately, Or you'll go to Callisto in irons. Isthat clear?     Aye, sir, murmured Spinelli. The black expression had left his faceand there was a faintly scornful smile playing about his mouth as heturned away. I began wondering then what he had in mind. It wasn't likehim to let it go at that.     Suddenly I became conscious of being very tired. My mind wasn'tfunctioning quite clearly. And my arm and hand ached painfully. Irubbed the fingers to get some life back into them, still wonderingabout Spinelli.     Spinelli talked. I saw him murmuring something to big Zaleski, andafter that there was tension in the air. Distrust.     For a few moments I pondered the advisability of making good my threatto clap Spinelli into irons, but I decided against it. In the firstplace I couldn't prove he had told Zaleski about the gold and in thesecond place I needed Spinelli to help run the Maid.     I felt that the Third Officer and Zaleski were planning something, andI was just as sure that Spinelli was watching Zaleski to see to it thatthere was no double-cross.     I figured that I could handle the Third Officer alone so I assigned therest, Marvin and Chelly, to accompany Cohn and Zaleski onto the hulk.That way Zaleski would be outnumbered if he tried to skip with thetreasure ship. But, of course, I couldn't risk telling them that theywere to be handling a vessel practically made of gold.     I was in agony. I didn't want to let anyone get out of my sight withthat starship, and at the same time I couldn't leave the Maid. FinallyI had to let Cohn take command of the prize crew, but not before I hadset the radar finder on the Maid's prow squarely on the derelict.  Together, Spinelli and I watched the Maid's crew vanish into the mawof the alien ship and get her under way. There was a flicker of bluishfire from her jury-rigged tubes astern, and then she was vanishing in agreat arc toward the bright gleam of Jupiter, far below us. The Maidfollowed under a steady one G of acceleration with most of her controlson automatic.     Boats of the Martian Maid's class, you may remember, carried a sixinch supersonic projector abaft the astrogation turret. These werenasty weapons for use against organic life only. They would reduce aman to jelly at fifty thousand yards. Let it be said to my credit thatit wasn't I who thought of hooking the gun into the radar finder andkeeping it aimed dead at the derelict. That was Spinelli's insuranceagainst Zaleski.     When I discovered it I felt the rage mount in me. He was willing toblast every one of his shipmates into pulp should the hulk vary fromthe orbit we'd laid out for her. He wasn't letting anything comebetween him and that mountain of gold.     Then I began thinking about it. Suppose now, just suppose, that Zaleskitold the rest of the crew about the gold. It wouldn't be too hardfor the derelict to break away from the Maid, and there were plentyof places in the EMV Triangle where a renegade crew with a thousandtons of gold would be welcomed with open arms and no questions asked.Suspicion began to eat at me. Could Zaleski and Cohn have dreamed upa little switch to keep the treasure ship for themselves? It hadn'tseemed likely before, but now—     The gun-pointer remained as it was.     As the days passed and we reached turn-over with the hulk still wellwithin visual range, I noticed a definite decrease in the number ofmessages from Cohn. The Aldis Lamps no longer blinked back at the Maideight or ten times a day, and I began to really regret not having takenthe time to equip the starship with UHF radio communicators.     Each night I slept with a hunk of yellow gold under my bunk, andridiculously I fondled the stuff and dreamed of all the things I wouldhave when the starship was cut up and sold.     My weariness grew. It became almost chronic, and I soon wondered ifI hadn't picked up a touch of space-radiation fever. The flesh of myhands seemed paler than it had been. My arms felt heavy. I determinedto report myself to the Foundation medics on Callisto. There's notelling what can happen to a man in space....     Two days past turn-over the messages from the derelict came throughgarbled. Spinelli cursed and said that he couldn't read their signal.Taking the Aldis from him I tried to raise them and failed. Two hourslater I was still failing and Spinelli's black eyes glittered with ananimal suspicion.     They're faking!     Like hell they are! I snapped irritably, Something's gone wrong....     Zaleski's gone wrong, that's what!     I turned to face him, fury snapping inside of me. Then you did disobeymy orders. You told him about the gold!     Sure I did, he sneered. Did you expect me to shut up and let youland the ship yourself and claim Captain's share?      I     found her, andshe's mine!     I fought to control my temper and said: Let's see what's going on inher before deciding who gets what, Mister Spinelli.     Spinelli bit his thick lips and did not reply. His eyes were fixed onthe image of the starship on the viewplate.     A light blinked erratically within the dark cut of its wounded side.     Get this down, Spinelli!     The habit of taking orders was still in him, and he muttered: Aye ...sir.     The light was winking out a message, but feebly, as though the handthat held the lamp were shaking and the mind conceiving the words werefailing.     CONTROL ... LOST ... CAN'T ... NO ... STRENGTH ... LEFT ... SHIP ...WALLS ... ALL ... ALL GOLD ... GOLD ... SOMETHING ... HAPPENING ...CAN'T ... UNDERSTAND ... WHA.... The light stopped flashing, abruptly,in mid-word.     What the hell? demanded Spinelli thickly.     Order them to heave to, Mister, I ordered.     He clicked the Aldis at them. The only response was a wild swerve inthe star-ship's course. She left the orbit we had set for her as thoughthe hands that guided her had fallen away from the control.     Spinelli dropped the Aldis and rushed to the control panel to make thecorrections in the Maid's course that were needed to keep the hulk insight.     Those skunks! Double crossing rats! he breathed furiously. Theywon't shake loose that easy! His hands started down for the firingconsole of the supersonic rifle.     I caught the movement from the corner of my eye.           Spinelli!          My shout hung in the still air of the control room as I knocked himaway from the panel.     Get to your quarters! I cracked.     He didn't say a thing, but his big shoulders hunched angrily andhe moved across the deck toward me, his hands opening and closingspasmodically. His eyes were wild with rage and avarice.     You'll hang for mutiny, Spinelli! I said.  He spat out a foul name and leaped for me. I side-stepped his chargeand brought my joined fists down hard on the back of his neck. Hestumbled against the bulkhead and his eyes were glazed. He chargedagain, roaring. I stepped aside and smashed him in the mouth with myright fist, then crossing with an open-handed left to the throat. Hestaggered, spun and came for me again. I sank a hard left into hisstomach and nailed him on the point of the jaw with a right from myshoe-tops. He straightened up and sprawled heavily to the deck, stilltrying to get at me. I aimed a hard kick at his temple and let it go.My metal shod boot caught him squarely and he rolled over on his faceand lay still.        I nailed him with a right from my shoe-tops.        Breathing heavily, I rolled him back face up. His eyes were open,glassy with an implacable hate. I knelt at his side and listened forhis breathing. There was none. I knew then that I had killed him. Ifelt sick inside, and dizzy.     I wasn't myself as I turned away from Spinelli's body there on thesteel deck. Some of the greed died out of me, and my exertions hadincreased my sense of fatigue to an almost numbing weariness. My armsached terribly and my hands felt as though they had been sucked dry oftheir substance. Like a man in a nightmare, I held them up before myface and looked at them. They were wrinkled and grey, with the veinsstanding out a sickly purple. And I could see that my arms were takingon that same aged look.     I was suddenly fully aware of my fear. Nothing fought against theflood of terror that welled through me. I was terrified of that yellowgold in my cabin, and of that ship of devil's metal out there in spacethat held my shipmates. There was something unnatural about thatcontra-terrene thing ... something obscene.     I located the hulk in the radar finder and swung the Maid after it,piling on acceleration until my vision flickered. We caught her, theMaid and I. But we couldn't stop her short of using the rifle on her,and I couldn't bring myself to add to my depravity by killing the restof my men. It would have been better if I had!     I laid the Maid alongside the thousand foot hull of the derelict andset the controls on automatic. It was dangerous, but I was beyondcaring. Then I was struggling to get myself into a pressure suit withmy wrinkled, failing hands.... Then I was outside, headed for that darkhole.     I sank down into the stillness of her interior, my helmet light castinglong, fey shadows across the littered decks. Decks that had a yellowishcast ... decks that no longer danced with tiny questing force-whorls....     As I approached the airlock of the compartment set aside as livingquarters for the prize crew, the saffron of the walls deepened. Crazylittle thoughts began spinning around in my brain. Words out of thedistant past loomed up with a new and suddenly terrifyingperspective ... alchemy ... transmutation ... energy. I'm a spaceman,not a scientist. But in those moments I think I was discovering whathad happened to my crew and why the walls were turning into yellowmetal.     The lock was closed, but I swung it open and let the pressure in thechamber rise. I couldn't wait for it to reach fourteen pounds ...at eleven, I swung the inner door and stumbled eagerly through. Thebrilliant light, reflected from gleaming walls blinded me for a moment.     And then I saw them! They huddled, almost naked in a corner, skeletalthings with skull-like faces that leered at me with the vacuousobscenity of old age. Even their voices were raw and cracked with therusty decay of years. They babbled stupidly, caressing the walls withclaw-like hands. They were old, old!     I understood then. I knew what my wrinkled aged hands meant. Thatdevil-metal from beyond the stars had drawn the energy it neededfrom ...      us     !     My laughter was a crazy shriek inside my helmet. I looked wildly at thegleaming walls that had sucked the youth and strength from these men.The walls were stable, at rest. They were purest gold ... gold ... gold!     I ran from that place still screaming with the horror of it. My handsburned like fire! Age was in them, creeping like molten lead through myveins, ghastly and sure....     I reached the Maid and threw every scrap of that alien metal into spaceas I streaked madly away from that golden terror in the sky and itsload of ancient evil....  On Callisto I was relieved of my command. The Admiralty Court acquittedme of the charges of negligence, but the Foundation refused me anothership. It was my ... illness. It spread from my hands, as you can see.Slowly, very slowly. So what remains for me? A hospital cot and aspaceman's pension. Those tons of gold in the sky are cursed, like mostgreat treasures. Somewhere, out in the deeps between the stars, thedust of my crew guards that golden derelict. It belongs to them now ...all of it.     But the price we pay for treasure is this. Look at me. I look eighty!I'm thirty two. And the bitterest part of the story is that peoplelaugh at me when I tell what happened. They laugh and call me mynickname. Have you heard it?     It's ... Captain Midas.   ","Captain Midas is the captain of the spaceship Martian Maid, who unknowingly takes the spaceship on its last flight in this story. He is described to be relatively young at 32 years old, but after interacting with the metal and at the end of the story, has the physical appearance of an eighty year old man with wrinkles and veiny hands. He is a greedy man. In the beginning of the story, he honestly admits that he would do quite a few things for a few solar dollars, which we see throughout the story. In addition to his greed, he is a selfish man, as in discovering the gold he threatens Spinelli to secrecy in order to keep the highest gains for himself. It is also this greed that allows Spinelli to get away with initially aiming the gun at the derelict ship and their fellow shipmates on board in case those shipmates try to escape with the gold.  There are brief moments where he is shown to be an honorable man. For one, he fights Spinelli over blasting their fellow shipmates, and ends up killing Spinelli instead by accident. At the end of the story, he becomes terrified of the derelict ship and its devil metal, and yet still chooses to go aboard it to seek out his shipmates. "
"Describe the setting of this story. </s>    CAPTAIN MIDAS     By ALFRED COPPEL, JR.     The captain of the Martian Maid stared avidly at     the torn derelict floating against the velvet void.     Here was treasure beyond his wildest dreams! How     could he know his dreams should have been nightmares?     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Fall 1949.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Gold! A magic word, even today, isn't it? Lust and gold ... they gohand in hand. Like the horsemen of the Apocalypse. And, of course,there's another word needed to make up the trilogy. You don't getany thing for nothing. So add this: Cost. Or you might call it pain,sorrow, agony. Call it what you like. It's what you pay for greattreasure....     These things were true when fabled Jason sailed the Argo beyond Colchisseeking the Fleece. They were true when men sailed the southern oceansin wooden ships. And the conquest of space hasn't changed us a bit.We're still a greedy lot....     I'm a queer one to be saying these things, but then, who has moreright? Look at me. My hair is gray and my face ... my face is a mask.The flesh hangs on my bones like a yellow cloth on a rickety frame. Iam old, old. And I wait here on my hospital cot—wait for the weight ofyears I never lived to drag me under and let me forget the awful thingsmy eyes have seen.     I'm poor, too, or else I wouldn't be here in this place of dying forold spacemen. I haven't a dime except for the pittance the HolcombFoundation calls a spaceman's pension. Yet I had millions in my hands.Treasure beyond your wildest dreams! Cursed treasure....     You smile. You are thinking that I'm just an old man, beachedearthside, spinning tall tales to impress the youngsters. Maybe,thinking about the kind of spacemen my generation produced, you havethe idea that if ever we'd so much as laid a hand on anything of valueout in space we'd not let go until Hell froze over! Well, you'reright about that. We didn't seek the spaceways for the advancement ofcivilization or any of that Foundation bushwah, you can be certain ofthat. We did it for      us     ... for Number One. That's the kind of men wewere, and we were proud of it. We hung onto what we found because therisks were high and we were entitled to keep what we could out there.But there are strange things in the sky. Things that don't respond toall of our neat little Laws and Theories. There are things that are nopart of the world of men, thick with danger—and horror.  If you doubt that—and I can see you do—just look at me. I supposeyou've never heard of the Martian Maid, and so you don't know the storyof what happened to her crew or her skipper. I can give you this muchof an answer.      I     was her skipper. And her crew? They ride high in thesky ... dust by this time. And all because they were men, and men aregreedy and hasty and full of an unreasoning, unthinking love for gold.They ride a golden ship that they paid for with all the years of theirlives. It's all theirs now. Bought and paid for.     It wasn't too long ago that I lifted the Maid off Solis Lacus onthat last flight. Not many of you will remember her class of ship,so many advances have been made in the last few years. The Maid wastwo hundred feet from tip to tail, and as sleek a spacer as ever cameout of the Foundation Yards. Chemical fueled, she was nothing at alllike the spherical hyperdrives we see today. She was armed, too. TheFoundation still thought of space as a possible stamping ground foralien creatures though no evidence of any extra-terrestrial life hadever been found ... then.     My crew was a rough bunch, like all those early crews. I remember themso well. Lean, hungry men with hell in their eyes and a great lust forhigh pay and hard living. Spinelli, Shelley, Cohn, Marvin, Zaleski.There wasn't a man on board who wouldn't have traded his immortal soulfor a few solar dollars, and I don't claim that I was any different.That's the kind of men that opened up the spaceways, too. Don't believeall this talk about the noble pioneering spirit of man. That's tripe.There never has been such a thing as a noble pioneer. Not in space oranywhere else. It is the malcontent and the adventuring mercenary thatpushes the frontier outward.     I didn't know, that night as I stood in the valve of the Maid, watchingthe loading cranes pull away, that I was starting out on my lastflight. I don't think any of the others could have guessed, either.It was the sort of night that you only see on Mars. The sort of nightthat makes a spaceman wonder why in hell he wants to leave the relativesecurity of the Earth-Mars-Venus Triangle to go jetting across the beltinto deep space and the drab desolation of the outer System.     I stood there, watching the lights of Canalopolis in the distance. Forjust a moment I was ... well, touched. It looked beautiful and unrealunder the racing moons. The lights of the gin mills and houses made asparkling filigree pattern on the dark waters of the ancient canal, andthe moons cast their shifting shadows across the silted banks. I wastoo far away to see the space-fevered bums and smell the shanties, andfor a little while I felt the wonder of standing on the soil of a worldthat man had made his own with his rapacity and his sheer guts andgimme.     I thought of our half empty cargo hold and the sweet payload we wouldpick up on Callisto. And I counted the extra cash my packets of snowwould bring from those lonely men up there on the barren moonlets ofthe outer Systems. There were plenty of cargoes carried on the Maidthat the Holcomb Foundation snoopers never heard about, you can be sureof that.     In those days the asteroid belt was      the     primary danger and menace toastrogation. For a long while it held men back from deep space, but asfuels improved a few ships were sent out over the top. A few millionmiles up out of the ecliptic plane brings you to a region of spacethat's pretty thinly strewn with asteroids, and that's the way we usedto make the flight between the outer systems and the EMV Triangle. Ittook a long while for hyperdrives to be developed and of course atomicsnever panned out because of the weight problem.     So that's the orbit the Maid took on that last trip of mine. Highand clear into the supra-solar void. And out there in that primevalblackness is where we found the derelict.  I didn't realize it was a derelict when Spinelli first reportedit from the forward scope position. I assumed it was a Foundationship. The Holcomb Foundation was founded for the purpose ofdeveloping spaceflight, and as the years went by it took on the wholeresponsibility for the building and dispatching of space ships. Neverin history had there been any real evidence of extra-terrestrialintelligent life, and when the EMV Triangle proved barren, we all justassumed that the Universe was man's own particular oyster. That kind ofunreasoning arrogance is as hard to explain as it is to correct.     There were plenty of ships being lost in space, and immediately thatSpinelli's report from up forward got noised about the Maid every oneof us started mentally counting up his share of the salvage money. Allthis before we were within ten thousand miles of the hulk!     All spaceships look pretty much alike, but as I sat at the telescopeI saw that there was something different about this one. At such adistance I couldn't get too much detail in our small three inch glass,but I could see that the hulk was big—bigger than any ship I'd everseen before. I had the radar fixed on her and then I retired with myslide rule to Control. It wasn't long before I discovered that thederelict ship was on a near collision course, but there was somethingabout its orbit that was strange. I called Cohn, the Metering Officer,and showed him my figures.     Mister Cohn, I said, chart in hand, do these figures look right toyou?     Cohn's dark eyes lit up as they always did when he worked with figures.It didn't take him long to check me. The math is quite correct,Captain, he said. I could see that he hadn't missed the inference ofthose figures on the chart.     Assemble the ship's company, Mister Cohn, I ordered.     The assembly horn sounded throughout the Maid and I could feel the tugof the automatics taking over as the crew left their stations. Soonthey were assembled in Control.     You have all heard about Mister Spinelli's find, I said, I havecomputed the orbit and inspected the object through the glass. It seemsto be a spacer ... either abandoned or in distress.... Reaching intothe book rack above my desk I took down a copy of the Foundation's      Space Regulations     and opened it to the section concerning salvage.     Sections XVIII, Paragraph 8 of the Code Regulating InterplanetaryAstrogation and Commerce, I read, Any vessel or part of vessel foundin an abandoned or totally disabled condition in any region of spacenot subject to the sovereignty of any planet of the Earth-Venus-MarsTriangle shall be considered to be the property of the crew of thevessel locating said abandoned or disabled vessel except in such casesas the ownership of said abandoned or disabled vessel may be readilyascertained.... I looked up and closed the book. Simply stated, thatmeans that if that thing ahead of us is a derelict we are entitled toclaim it as salvage.     Unless it already belongs to someone? asked Spinelli.     That's correct Mister Spinelli, but I don't think there is much dangerof that, I replied quietly. My figures show that hulk out there camein from the direction of Coma Berenices....     There was a long silence before Zaleski shifted his two hundred poundsuneasily and gave a form to the muted fear inside me. You think ...you think it came from the      stars     , Captain?     Maybe even from beyond the stars, Cohn said in a low voice.     Looking at that circle of faces I saw the beginnings of greed. Thefirst impact of the Metering Officer's words wore off quickly and soonevery man of my crew was thinking that anything from the stars would beworth money ... lots of money.     Spinelli said, Do we look her over, Captain?     They all looked at me, waiting for my answer. I knew it would be worthplenty, and money hunger was like a fever inside me.     Certainly we look it over, Mister Spinelli, I said sharply.Certainly!  The first thing about the derelict that struck us as we drew near washer size. No ship ever built in the Foundation Yards had ever attainedsuch gargantuan proportions. She must have stretched a full thousandfeet from bow to stern, a sleek torpedo shape of somehow unspeakablealienness. Against the backdrop of the Milky Way, she gleamed fitfullyin the light of the faraway sun, the metal of her flanks grained withsomething like tiny, glittering whorls. It was as though the stuffwere somehow unstable ... seeking balance ... maybe even alive in somestrange and alien way.     It was readily apparent to all of us that she had never been built forinter-planetary flight. She was a starship. Origin unknown. An aura ofmystery surrounded her like a shroud, protecting the world that gaveher birth mutely but effectively. The distance she must have come wasunthinkable. And the time it had taken...? Aeons. Millennia. For shewas drifting, dead in space, slowly spinning end over end as she swungabout Sol in a hyperbolic orbit that would soon take her out and awayagain into the inter-stellar deeps.     Something had wounded her ... perhaps ten million years ago ... perhapsyesterday. She was gashed deeply from stem to stern with a jagged ripthat bared her mangled innards. A wandering asteroid? A meteor? Wewould never know. It gave me an uncomfortable feeling of things beyondthe ken of men as I looked at her through the port. I would never knowwhat killed her, or where she was going, or whence she came. Yet shewas mine. It made me feel like an upstart. And it made me afraid ...but of what?     We should have reported her to the nearest EMV base, but that wouldhave meant that we'd lose her. Scientists would be sent out. Men betterequipped than we to investigate the first extrasolar artifact found bymen. But I didn't report her. She was ours. She was money in the bank.Let the scientists take over after we'd put a prize crew aboard andbrought her into Callisto for salvage.... That's the way I had thingsfigured.     The Maid hove to about a hundred yards from her and hung there, dwarfedby the mighty glistening ship. I called for volunteers and we prepareda boarding party. I was thinking that her drives alone would be worthmillions. Cohn took charge and he and three of the men suited up andcrossed to her.     In an hour they were back, disappointment largely written on theirfaces.     There's nothing left of her, Captain, Cohn reported, Whatever hither tore up the innards so badly we couldn't even find the drives.She's a mess inside. Nothing left but the hull and a few storagecompartments that are still unbroken.     She was never built to carry humanoids he told us, and there wasnothing that could give us a hint of where she had come from. The hullalone was left.     He dropped two chunks of metal on my desk. I brought back some samplesof her pressure hull, he said, The whole thing is made of thisstuff....     We'll still take her in, I said, hiding my disappointment. Thecarcass will be worth money in Callisto. Have Mister Marvin andZaleski assemble a spare pulse-jet. We'll jury-rig her and bring herdown under her own power. You take charge of provisioning her. Checkthose compartments you found and install oxy-generators aboard. Whenit's done report to me in my quarters.     I picked up the two samples of gleaming metal and called for ametallurgical testing kit. I'm going to try and find out if this stuffis worth anything....     The metal was heavy—too heavy, it seemed to me, for spaceshipconstruction. But then, who was to say what conditions existed on thatdistant world where this metal was made?     Under the bright fluorescent over my work-table, the chunks of metaltorn from a random bulkhead of the starship gleamed like pale silver;those strange little whorls that I had noticed on the outer hull werethere too, like tiny magnetic lines of force, making the surface ofthe metal seem to dance. I held the stuff in my bare hand.      It had ayellowish tinge, and it was heavier     ....     Even as I watched, the metal grew yellower, and the hand that heldit grew bone weary, little tongues of fatigue licking up my forearm.Suddenly terrified, I dropped the chunk as though it were white hot. Itstruck the table with a dull thud and lay there, a rich yellow lump ofmetallic lustre.     For a long while I just sat and stared. Then I began testing, tryingall the while to quiet the trembling of my hands. I weighed it on abalance. I tested it with acids. It had changed unquestionably. Itwas no longer the same as when I had carried it into my quarters. Thewhorls of force were gone. It was no longer alive with a questingvibrancy ... it was inert, stable. From somewhere, somehow, it haddrawn the energy necessary for transmutation. The unknown metal—thestuff of which that whole mammoth spaceship from the stars wasbuilt—was now....       Gold!       I scarcely dared believe it, but there it was staring at me from mytable-top.      Gold!       I searched my mind for an explanation. Contra-terrene matter, perhaps,from some distant island universe where matter reacted differently ...drawing energy from somewhere, the energy it needed to find stabilityin its new environment. Stability as a terrene element—wonderfully,miraculously gold!     And outside, in the void beyond the Maid's ports there were tons ofthis metal that could be turned into treasure. My laughter must havebeen a wild sound in those moments of discovery....  A slight sound behind me made me spin around in my chair. Framed in thedoorway was the heavy figure of my Third Officer, Spinelli. His blackeyes were fastened hungrily on the lump of yellow metal on the table.He needed no explanation to tell him what it was, and it seemed to methat his very soul reached out for the stuff, so sharp and clear wasthe meaning of the expression on his heavy face.     Mister Spinelli! I snapped, In the future knock before entering myquarters!     Reluctantly his eyes left the lump of gold and met mine. From thederelict, Captain? There was an imperceptible pause between the lasttwo words.     I ignored his question and made a mental note to keep a close hand onthe rein with him. Spinelli was big and dangerous.     Speak your piece, Mister, I ordered sharply.     Mister Cohn reports the derelict ready to take aboard the prizecrew ... sir, he said slowly. I'd like to volunteer for that detail.     I might have let him go under ordinary circumstances, for he was afirst class spaceman and the handling of a jury-rigged hulk wouldneed good men. But the gold-hunger I had seen in his eyes warned meto beware. I shook my head. You will stay on board the Maid with me,Spinelli. Cohn and Zaleski will handle the starship.     Stark suspicion leaped into his eyes. I could see the wheels turningslowly in his mind. Somehow, he was thinking, I was planning to cheathim of his rightful share of the derelict treasure ship.     We will say nothing to the rest of the crew about the gold, MisterSpinelli, I said deliberately, Or you'll go to Callisto in irons. Isthat clear?     Aye, sir, murmured Spinelli. The black expression had left his faceand there was a faintly scornful smile playing about his mouth as heturned away. I began wondering then what he had in mind. It wasn't likehim to let it go at that.     Suddenly I became conscious of being very tired. My mind wasn'tfunctioning quite clearly. And my arm and hand ached painfully. Irubbed the fingers to get some life back into them, still wonderingabout Spinelli.     Spinelli talked. I saw him murmuring something to big Zaleski, andafter that there was tension in the air. Distrust.     For a few moments I pondered the advisability of making good my threatto clap Spinelli into irons, but I decided against it. In the firstplace I couldn't prove he had told Zaleski about the gold and in thesecond place I needed Spinelli to help run the Maid.     I felt that the Third Officer and Zaleski were planning something, andI was just as sure that Spinelli was watching Zaleski to see to it thatthere was no double-cross.     I figured that I could handle the Third Officer alone so I assigned therest, Marvin and Chelly, to accompany Cohn and Zaleski onto the hulk.That way Zaleski would be outnumbered if he tried to skip with thetreasure ship. But, of course, I couldn't risk telling them that theywere to be handling a vessel practically made of gold.     I was in agony. I didn't want to let anyone get out of my sight withthat starship, and at the same time I couldn't leave the Maid. FinallyI had to let Cohn take command of the prize crew, but not before I hadset the radar finder on the Maid's prow squarely on the derelict.  Together, Spinelli and I watched the Maid's crew vanish into the mawof the alien ship and get her under way. There was a flicker of bluishfire from her jury-rigged tubes astern, and then she was vanishing in agreat arc toward the bright gleam of Jupiter, far below us. The Maidfollowed under a steady one G of acceleration with most of her controlson automatic.     Boats of the Martian Maid's class, you may remember, carried a sixinch supersonic projector abaft the astrogation turret. These werenasty weapons for use against organic life only. They would reduce aman to jelly at fifty thousand yards. Let it be said to my credit thatit wasn't I who thought of hooking the gun into the radar finder andkeeping it aimed dead at the derelict. That was Spinelli's insuranceagainst Zaleski.     When I discovered it I felt the rage mount in me. He was willing toblast every one of his shipmates into pulp should the hulk vary fromthe orbit we'd laid out for her. He wasn't letting anything comebetween him and that mountain of gold.     Then I began thinking about it. Suppose now, just suppose, that Zaleskitold the rest of the crew about the gold. It wouldn't be too hardfor the derelict to break away from the Maid, and there were plentyof places in the EMV Triangle where a renegade crew with a thousandtons of gold would be welcomed with open arms and no questions asked.Suspicion began to eat at me. Could Zaleski and Cohn have dreamed upa little switch to keep the treasure ship for themselves? It hadn'tseemed likely before, but now—     The gun-pointer remained as it was.     As the days passed and we reached turn-over with the hulk still wellwithin visual range, I noticed a definite decrease in the number ofmessages from Cohn. The Aldis Lamps no longer blinked back at the Maideight or ten times a day, and I began to really regret not having takenthe time to equip the starship with UHF radio communicators.     Each night I slept with a hunk of yellow gold under my bunk, andridiculously I fondled the stuff and dreamed of all the things I wouldhave when the starship was cut up and sold.     My weariness grew. It became almost chronic, and I soon wondered ifI hadn't picked up a touch of space-radiation fever. The flesh of myhands seemed paler than it had been. My arms felt heavy. I determinedto report myself to the Foundation medics on Callisto. There's notelling what can happen to a man in space....     Two days past turn-over the messages from the derelict came throughgarbled. Spinelli cursed and said that he couldn't read their signal.Taking the Aldis from him I tried to raise them and failed. Two hourslater I was still failing and Spinelli's black eyes glittered with ananimal suspicion.     They're faking!     Like hell they are! I snapped irritably, Something's gone wrong....     Zaleski's gone wrong, that's what!     I turned to face him, fury snapping inside of me. Then you did disobeymy orders. You told him about the gold!     Sure I did, he sneered. Did you expect me to shut up and let youland the ship yourself and claim Captain's share?      I     found her, andshe's mine!     I fought to control my temper and said: Let's see what's going on inher before deciding who gets what, Mister Spinelli.     Spinelli bit his thick lips and did not reply. His eyes were fixed onthe image of the starship on the viewplate.     A light blinked erratically within the dark cut of its wounded side.     Get this down, Spinelli!     The habit of taking orders was still in him, and he muttered: Aye ...sir.     The light was winking out a message, but feebly, as though the handthat held the lamp were shaking and the mind conceiving the words werefailing.     CONTROL ... LOST ... CAN'T ... NO ... STRENGTH ... LEFT ... SHIP ...WALLS ... ALL ... ALL GOLD ... GOLD ... SOMETHING ... HAPPENING ...CAN'T ... UNDERSTAND ... WHA.... The light stopped flashing, abruptly,in mid-word.     What the hell? demanded Spinelli thickly.     Order them to heave to, Mister, I ordered.     He clicked the Aldis at them. The only response was a wild swerve inthe star-ship's course. She left the orbit we had set for her as thoughthe hands that guided her had fallen away from the control.     Spinelli dropped the Aldis and rushed to the control panel to make thecorrections in the Maid's course that were needed to keep the hulk insight.     Those skunks! Double crossing rats! he breathed furiously. Theywon't shake loose that easy! His hands started down for the firingconsole of the supersonic rifle.     I caught the movement from the corner of my eye.           Spinelli!          My shout hung in the still air of the control room as I knocked himaway from the panel.     Get to your quarters! I cracked.     He didn't say a thing, but his big shoulders hunched angrily andhe moved across the deck toward me, his hands opening and closingspasmodically. His eyes were wild with rage and avarice.     You'll hang for mutiny, Spinelli! I said.  He spat out a foul name and leaped for me. I side-stepped his chargeand brought my joined fists down hard on the back of his neck. Hestumbled against the bulkhead and his eyes were glazed. He chargedagain, roaring. I stepped aside and smashed him in the mouth with myright fist, then crossing with an open-handed left to the throat. Hestaggered, spun and came for me again. I sank a hard left into hisstomach and nailed him on the point of the jaw with a right from myshoe-tops. He straightened up and sprawled heavily to the deck, stilltrying to get at me. I aimed a hard kick at his temple and let it go.My metal shod boot caught him squarely and he rolled over on his faceand lay still.        I nailed him with a right from my shoe-tops.        Breathing heavily, I rolled him back face up. His eyes were open,glassy with an implacable hate. I knelt at his side and listened forhis breathing. There was none. I knew then that I had killed him. Ifelt sick inside, and dizzy.     I wasn't myself as I turned away from Spinelli's body there on thesteel deck. Some of the greed died out of me, and my exertions hadincreased my sense of fatigue to an almost numbing weariness. My armsached terribly and my hands felt as though they had been sucked dry oftheir substance. Like a man in a nightmare, I held them up before myface and looked at them. They were wrinkled and grey, with the veinsstanding out a sickly purple. And I could see that my arms were takingon that same aged look.     I was suddenly fully aware of my fear. Nothing fought against theflood of terror that welled through me. I was terrified of that yellowgold in my cabin, and of that ship of devil's metal out there in spacethat held my shipmates. There was something unnatural about thatcontra-terrene thing ... something obscene.     I located the hulk in the radar finder and swung the Maid after it,piling on acceleration until my vision flickered. We caught her, theMaid and I. But we couldn't stop her short of using the rifle on her,and I couldn't bring myself to add to my depravity by killing the restof my men. It would have been better if I had!     I laid the Maid alongside the thousand foot hull of the derelict andset the controls on automatic. It was dangerous, but I was beyondcaring. Then I was struggling to get myself into a pressure suit withmy wrinkled, failing hands.... Then I was outside, headed for that darkhole.     I sank down into the stillness of her interior, my helmet light castinglong, fey shadows across the littered decks. Decks that had a yellowishcast ... decks that no longer danced with tiny questing force-whorls....     As I approached the airlock of the compartment set aside as livingquarters for the prize crew, the saffron of the walls deepened. Crazylittle thoughts began spinning around in my brain. Words out of thedistant past loomed up with a new and suddenly terrifyingperspective ... alchemy ... transmutation ... energy. I'm a spaceman,not a scientist. But in those moments I think I was discovering whathad happened to my crew and why the walls were turning into yellowmetal.     The lock was closed, but I swung it open and let the pressure in thechamber rise. I couldn't wait for it to reach fourteen pounds ...at eleven, I swung the inner door and stumbled eagerly through. Thebrilliant light, reflected from gleaming walls blinded me for a moment.     And then I saw them! They huddled, almost naked in a corner, skeletalthings with skull-like faces that leered at me with the vacuousobscenity of old age. Even their voices were raw and cracked with therusty decay of years. They babbled stupidly, caressing the walls withclaw-like hands. They were old, old!     I understood then. I knew what my wrinkled aged hands meant. Thatdevil-metal from beyond the stars had drawn the energy it neededfrom ...      us     !     My laughter was a crazy shriek inside my helmet. I looked wildly at thegleaming walls that had sucked the youth and strength from these men.The walls were stable, at rest. They were purest gold ... gold ... gold!     I ran from that place still screaming with the horror of it. My handsburned like fire! Age was in them, creeping like molten lead through myveins, ghastly and sure....     I reached the Maid and threw every scrap of that alien metal into spaceas I streaked madly away from that golden terror in the sky and itsload of ancient evil....  On Callisto I was relieved of my command. The Admiralty Court acquittedme of the charges of negligence, but the Foundation refused me anothership. It was my ... illness. It spread from my hands, as you can see.Slowly, very slowly. So what remains for me? A hospital cot and aspaceman's pension. Those tons of gold in the sky are cursed, like mostgreat treasures. Somewhere, out in the deeps between the stars, thedust of my crew guards that golden derelict. It belongs to them now ...all of it.     But the price we pay for treasure is this. Look at me. I look eighty!I'm thirty two. And the bitterest part of the story is that peoplelaugh at me when I tell what happened. They laugh and call me mynickname. Have you heard it?     It's ... Captain Midas.   ","This story takes place in the Holcomb Foundation aboard Martian Maid. The Martian Maid is a grand ship that took off from Solis Lacus on its last flight; the ship spanned 200 feet in its length and despite its sleek exterior, was an armed ship as well. The Maid was on an orbit in a region strewn with asteroids between the outer systems and the EMV triangle. Aboard the spaceship, interactions between the characters in the story largely took place in the Control room. It also takes place in Captain Midas’ quarters, where he investigates the mystery metal. The setting also changes to include the derelict ship the crewmates had found, which presented itself as a shell of a vessel with torn interiors and yellow-tinged walls. "
"Describe the relationship between Captain Midas and Mister Spinelli. </s>    CAPTAIN MIDAS     By ALFRED COPPEL, JR.     The captain of the Martian Maid stared avidly at     the torn derelict floating against the velvet void.     Here was treasure beyond his wildest dreams! How     could he know his dreams should have been nightmares?     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Fall 1949.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Gold! A magic word, even today, isn't it? Lust and gold ... they gohand in hand. Like the horsemen of the Apocalypse. And, of course,there's another word needed to make up the trilogy. You don't getany thing for nothing. So add this: Cost. Or you might call it pain,sorrow, agony. Call it what you like. It's what you pay for greattreasure....     These things were true when fabled Jason sailed the Argo beyond Colchisseeking the Fleece. They were true when men sailed the southern oceansin wooden ships. And the conquest of space hasn't changed us a bit.We're still a greedy lot....     I'm a queer one to be saying these things, but then, who has moreright? Look at me. My hair is gray and my face ... my face is a mask.The flesh hangs on my bones like a yellow cloth on a rickety frame. Iam old, old. And I wait here on my hospital cot—wait for the weight ofyears I never lived to drag me under and let me forget the awful thingsmy eyes have seen.     I'm poor, too, or else I wouldn't be here in this place of dying forold spacemen. I haven't a dime except for the pittance the HolcombFoundation calls a spaceman's pension. Yet I had millions in my hands.Treasure beyond your wildest dreams! Cursed treasure....     You smile. You are thinking that I'm just an old man, beachedearthside, spinning tall tales to impress the youngsters. Maybe,thinking about the kind of spacemen my generation produced, you havethe idea that if ever we'd so much as laid a hand on anything of valueout in space we'd not let go until Hell froze over! Well, you'reright about that. We didn't seek the spaceways for the advancement ofcivilization or any of that Foundation bushwah, you can be certain ofthat. We did it for      us     ... for Number One. That's the kind of men wewere, and we were proud of it. We hung onto what we found because therisks were high and we were entitled to keep what we could out there.But there are strange things in the sky. Things that don't respond toall of our neat little Laws and Theories. There are things that are nopart of the world of men, thick with danger—and horror.  If you doubt that—and I can see you do—just look at me. I supposeyou've never heard of the Martian Maid, and so you don't know the storyof what happened to her crew or her skipper. I can give you this muchof an answer.      I     was her skipper. And her crew? They ride high in thesky ... dust by this time. And all because they were men, and men aregreedy and hasty and full of an unreasoning, unthinking love for gold.They ride a golden ship that they paid for with all the years of theirlives. It's all theirs now. Bought and paid for.     It wasn't too long ago that I lifted the Maid off Solis Lacus onthat last flight. Not many of you will remember her class of ship,so many advances have been made in the last few years. The Maid wastwo hundred feet from tip to tail, and as sleek a spacer as ever cameout of the Foundation Yards. Chemical fueled, she was nothing at alllike the spherical hyperdrives we see today. She was armed, too. TheFoundation still thought of space as a possible stamping ground foralien creatures though no evidence of any extra-terrestrial life hadever been found ... then.     My crew was a rough bunch, like all those early crews. I remember themso well. Lean, hungry men with hell in their eyes and a great lust forhigh pay and hard living. Spinelli, Shelley, Cohn, Marvin, Zaleski.There wasn't a man on board who wouldn't have traded his immortal soulfor a few solar dollars, and I don't claim that I was any different.That's the kind of men that opened up the spaceways, too. Don't believeall this talk about the noble pioneering spirit of man. That's tripe.There never has been such a thing as a noble pioneer. Not in space oranywhere else. It is the malcontent and the adventuring mercenary thatpushes the frontier outward.     I didn't know, that night as I stood in the valve of the Maid, watchingthe loading cranes pull away, that I was starting out on my lastflight. I don't think any of the others could have guessed, either.It was the sort of night that you only see on Mars. The sort of nightthat makes a spaceman wonder why in hell he wants to leave the relativesecurity of the Earth-Mars-Venus Triangle to go jetting across the beltinto deep space and the drab desolation of the outer System.     I stood there, watching the lights of Canalopolis in the distance. Forjust a moment I was ... well, touched. It looked beautiful and unrealunder the racing moons. The lights of the gin mills and houses made asparkling filigree pattern on the dark waters of the ancient canal, andthe moons cast their shifting shadows across the silted banks. I wastoo far away to see the space-fevered bums and smell the shanties, andfor a little while I felt the wonder of standing on the soil of a worldthat man had made his own with his rapacity and his sheer guts andgimme.     I thought of our half empty cargo hold and the sweet payload we wouldpick up on Callisto. And I counted the extra cash my packets of snowwould bring from those lonely men up there on the barren moonlets ofthe outer Systems. There were plenty of cargoes carried on the Maidthat the Holcomb Foundation snoopers never heard about, you can be sureof that.     In those days the asteroid belt was      the     primary danger and menace toastrogation. For a long while it held men back from deep space, but asfuels improved a few ships were sent out over the top. A few millionmiles up out of the ecliptic plane brings you to a region of spacethat's pretty thinly strewn with asteroids, and that's the way we usedto make the flight between the outer systems and the EMV Triangle. Ittook a long while for hyperdrives to be developed and of course atomicsnever panned out because of the weight problem.     So that's the orbit the Maid took on that last trip of mine. Highand clear into the supra-solar void. And out there in that primevalblackness is where we found the derelict.  I didn't realize it was a derelict when Spinelli first reportedit from the forward scope position. I assumed it was a Foundationship. The Holcomb Foundation was founded for the purpose ofdeveloping spaceflight, and as the years went by it took on the wholeresponsibility for the building and dispatching of space ships. Neverin history had there been any real evidence of extra-terrestrialintelligent life, and when the EMV Triangle proved barren, we all justassumed that the Universe was man's own particular oyster. That kind ofunreasoning arrogance is as hard to explain as it is to correct.     There were plenty of ships being lost in space, and immediately thatSpinelli's report from up forward got noised about the Maid every oneof us started mentally counting up his share of the salvage money. Allthis before we were within ten thousand miles of the hulk!     All spaceships look pretty much alike, but as I sat at the telescopeI saw that there was something different about this one. At such adistance I couldn't get too much detail in our small three inch glass,but I could see that the hulk was big—bigger than any ship I'd everseen before. I had the radar fixed on her and then I retired with myslide rule to Control. It wasn't long before I discovered that thederelict ship was on a near collision course, but there was somethingabout its orbit that was strange. I called Cohn, the Metering Officer,and showed him my figures.     Mister Cohn, I said, chart in hand, do these figures look right toyou?     Cohn's dark eyes lit up as they always did when he worked with figures.It didn't take him long to check me. The math is quite correct,Captain, he said. I could see that he hadn't missed the inference ofthose figures on the chart.     Assemble the ship's company, Mister Cohn, I ordered.     The assembly horn sounded throughout the Maid and I could feel the tugof the automatics taking over as the crew left their stations. Soonthey were assembled in Control.     You have all heard about Mister Spinelli's find, I said, I havecomputed the orbit and inspected the object through the glass. It seemsto be a spacer ... either abandoned or in distress.... Reaching intothe book rack above my desk I took down a copy of the Foundation's      Space Regulations     and opened it to the section concerning salvage.     Sections XVIII, Paragraph 8 of the Code Regulating InterplanetaryAstrogation and Commerce, I read, Any vessel or part of vessel foundin an abandoned or totally disabled condition in any region of spacenot subject to the sovereignty of any planet of the Earth-Venus-MarsTriangle shall be considered to be the property of the crew of thevessel locating said abandoned or disabled vessel except in such casesas the ownership of said abandoned or disabled vessel may be readilyascertained.... I looked up and closed the book. Simply stated, thatmeans that if that thing ahead of us is a derelict we are entitled toclaim it as salvage.     Unless it already belongs to someone? asked Spinelli.     That's correct Mister Spinelli, but I don't think there is much dangerof that, I replied quietly. My figures show that hulk out there camein from the direction of Coma Berenices....     There was a long silence before Zaleski shifted his two hundred poundsuneasily and gave a form to the muted fear inside me. You think ...you think it came from the      stars     , Captain?     Maybe even from beyond the stars, Cohn said in a low voice.     Looking at that circle of faces I saw the beginnings of greed. Thefirst impact of the Metering Officer's words wore off quickly and soonevery man of my crew was thinking that anything from the stars would beworth money ... lots of money.     Spinelli said, Do we look her over, Captain?     They all looked at me, waiting for my answer. I knew it would be worthplenty, and money hunger was like a fever inside me.     Certainly we look it over, Mister Spinelli, I said sharply.Certainly!  The first thing about the derelict that struck us as we drew near washer size. No ship ever built in the Foundation Yards had ever attainedsuch gargantuan proportions. She must have stretched a full thousandfeet from bow to stern, a sleek torpedo shape of somehow unspeakablealienness. Against the backdrop of the Milky Way, she gleamed fitfullyin the light of the faraway sun, the metal of her flanks grained withsomething like tiny, glittering whorls. It was as though the stuffwere somehow unstable ... seeking balance ... maybe even alive in somestrange and alien way.     It was readily apparent to all of us that she had never been built forinter-planetary flight. She was a starship. Origin unknown. An aura ofmystery surrounded her like a shroud, protecting the world that gaveher birth mutely but effectively. The distance she must have come wasunthinkable. And the time it had taken...? Aeons. Millennia. For shewas drifting, dead in space, slowly spinning end over end as she swungabout Sol in a hyperbolic orbit that would soon take her out and awayagain into the inter-stellar deeps.     Something had wounded her ... perhaps ten million years ago ... perhapsyesterday. She was gashed deeply from stem to stern with a jagged ripthat bared her mangled innards. A wandering asteroid? A meteor? Wewould never know. It gave me an uncomfortable feeling of things beyondthe ken of men as I looked at her through the port. I would never knowwhat killed her, or where she was going, or whence she came. Yet shewas mine. It made me feel like an upstart. And it made me afraid ...but of what?     We should have reported her to the nearest EMV base, but that wouldhave meant that we'd lose her. Scientists would be sent out. Men betterequipped than we to investigate the first extrasolar artifact found bymen. But I didn't report her. She was ours. She was money in the bank.Let the scientists take over after we'd put a prize crew aboard andbrought her into Callisto for salvage.... That's the way I had thingsfigured.     The Maid hove to about a hundred yards from her and hung there, dwarfedby the mighty glistening ship. I called for volunteers and we prepareda boarding party. I was thinking that her drives alone would be worthmillions. Cohn took charge and he and three of the men suited up andcrossed to her.     In an hour they were back, disappointment largely written on theirfaces.     There's nothing left of her, Captain, Cohn reported, Whatever hither tore up the innards so badly we couldn't even find the drives.She's a mess inside. Nothing left but the hull and a few storagecompartments that are still unbroken.     She was never built to carry humanoids he told us, and there wasnothing that could give us a hint of where she had come from. The hullalone was left.     He dropped two chunks of metal on my desk. I brought back some samplesof her pressure hull, he said, The whole thing is made of thisstuff....     We'll still take her in, I said, hiding my disappointment. Thecarcass will be worth money in Callisto. Have Mister Marvin andZaleski assemble a spare pulse-jet. We'll jury-rig her and bring herdown under her own power. You take charge of provisioning her. Checkthose compartments you found and install oxy-generators aboard. Whenit's done report to me in my quarters.     I picked up the two samples of gleaming metal and called for ametallurgical testing kit. I'm going to try and find out if this stuffis worth anything....     The metal was heavy—too heavy, it seemed to me, for spaceshipconstruction. But then, who was to say what conditions existed on thatdistant world where this metal was made?     Under the bright fluorescent over my work-table, the chunks of metaltorn from a random bulkhead of the starship gleamed like pale silver;those strange little whorls that I had noticed on the outer hull werethere too, like tiny magnetic lines of force, making the surface ofthe metal seem to dance. I held the stuff in my bare hand.      It had ayellowish tinge, and it was heavier     ....     Even as I watched, the metal grew yellower, and the hand that heldit grew bone weary, little tongues of fatigue licking up my forearm.Suddenly terrified, I dropped the chunk as though it were white hot. Itstruck the table with a dull thud and lay there, a rich yellow lump ofmetallic lustre.     For a long while I just sat and stared. Then I began testing, tryingall the while to quiet the trembling of my hands. I weighed it on abalance. I tested it with acids. It had changed unquestionably. Itwas no longer the same as when I had carried it into my quarters. Thewhorls of force were gone. It was no longer alive with a questingvibrancy ... it was inert, stable. From somewhere, somehow, it haddrawn the energy necessary for transmutation. The unknown metal—thestuff of which that whole mammoth spaceship from the stars wasbuilt—was now....       Gold!       I scarcely dared believe it, but there it was staring at me from mytable-top.      Gold!       I searched my mind for an explanation. Contra-terrene matter, perhaps,from some distant island universe where matter reacted differently ...drawing energy from somewhere, the energy it needed to find stabilityin its new environment. Stability as a terrene element—wonderfully,miraculously gold!     And outside, in the void beyond the Maid's ports there were tons ofthis metal that could be turned into treasure. My laughter must havebeen a wild sound in those moments of discovery....  A slight sound behind me made me spin around in my chair. Framed in thedoorway was the heavy figure of my Third Officer, Spinelli. His blackeyes were fastened hungrily on the lump of yellow metal on the table.He needed no explanation to tell him what it was, and it seemed to methat his very soul reached out for the stuff, so sharp and clear wasthe meaning of the expression on his heavy face.     Mister Spinelli! I snapped, In the future knock before entering myquarters!     Reluctantly his eyes left the lump of gold and met mine. From thederelict, Captain? There was an imperceptible pause between the lasttwo words.     I ignored his question and made a mental note to keep a close hand onthe rein with him. Spinelli was big and dangerous.     Speak your piece, Mister, I ordered sharply.     Mister Cohn reports the derelict ready to take aboard the prizecrew ... sir, he said slowly. I'd like to volunteer for that detail.     I might have let him go under ordinary circumstances, for he was afirst class spaceman and the handling of a jury-rigged hulk wouldneed good men. But the gold-hunger I had seen in his eyes warned meto beware. I shook my head. You will stay on board the Maid with me,Spinelli. Cohn and Zaleski will handle the starship.     Stark suspicion leaped into his eyes. I could see the wheels turningslowly in his mind. Somehow, he was thinking, I was planning to cheathim of his rightful share of the derelict treasure ship.     We will say nothing to the rest of the crew about the gold, MisterSpinelli, I said deliberately, Or you'll go to Callisto in irons. Isthat clear?     Aye, sir, murmured Spinelli. The black expression had left his faceand there was a faintly scornful smile playing about his mouth as heturned away. I began wondering then what he had in mind. It wasn't likehim to let it go at that.     Suddenly I became conscious of being very tired. My mind wasn'tfunctioning quite clearly. And my arm and hand ached painfully. Irubbed the fingers to get some life back into them, still wonderingabout Spinelli.     Spinelli talked. I saw him murmuring something to big Zaleski, andafter that there was tension in the air. Distrust.     For a few moments I pondered the advisability of making good my threatto clap Spinelli into irons, but I decided against it. In the firstplace I couldn't prove he had told Zaleski about the gold and in thesecond place I needed Spinelli to help run the Maid.     I felt that the Third Officer and Zaleski were planning something, andI was just as sure that Spinelli was watching Zaleski to see to it thatthere was no double-cross.     I figured that I could handle the Third Officer alone so I assigned therest, Marvin and Chelly, to accompany Cohn and Zaleski onto the hulk.That way Zaleski would be outnumbered if he tried to skip with thetreasure ship. But, of course, I couldn't risk telling them that theywere to be handling a vessel practically made of gold.     I was in agony. I didn't want to let anyone get out of my sight withthat starship, and at the same time I couldn't leave the Maid. FinallyI had to let Cohn take command of the prize crew, but not before I hadset the radar finder on the Maid's prow squarely on the derelict.  Together, Spinelli and I watched the Maid's crew vanish into the mawof the alien ship and get her under way. There was a flicker of bluishfire from her jury-rigged tubes astern, and then she was vanishing in agreat arc toward the bright gleam of Jupiter, far below us. The Maidfollowed under a steady one G of acceleration with most of her controlson automatic.     Boats of the Martian Maid's class, you may remember, carried a sixinch supersonic projector abaft the astrogation turret. These werenasty weapons for use against organic life only. They would reduce aman to jelly at fifty thousand yards. Let it be said to my credit thatit wasn't I who thought of hooking the gun into the radar finder andkeeping it aimed dead at the derelict. That was Spinelli's insuranceagainst Zaleski.     When I discovered it I felt the rage mount in me. He was willing toblast every one of his shipmates into pulp should the hulk vary fromthe orbit we'd laid out for her. He wasn't letting anything comebetween him and that mountain of gold.     Then I began thinking about it. Suppose now, just suppose, that Zaleskitold the rest of the crew about the gold. It wouldn't be too hardfor the derelict to break away from the Maid, and there were plentyof places in the EMV Triangle where a renegade crew with a thousandtons of gold would be welcomed with open arms and no questions asked.Suspicion began to eat at me. Could Zaleski and Cohn have dreamed upa little switch to keep the treasure ship for themselves? It hadn'tseemed likely before, but now—     The gun-pointer remained as it was.     As the days passed and we reached turn-over with the hulk still wellwithin visual range, I noticed a definite decrease in the number ofmessages from Cohn. The Aldis Lamps no longer blinked back at the Maideight or ten times a day, and I began to really regret not having takenthe time to equip the starship with UHF radio communicators.     Each night I slept with a hunk of yellow gold under my bunk, andridiculously I fondled the stuff and dreamed of all the things I wouldhave when the starship was cut up and sold.     My weariness grew. It became almost chronic, and I soon wondered ifI hadn't picked up a touch of space-radiation fever. The flesh of myhands seemed paler than it had been. My arms felt heavy. I determinedto report myself to the Foundation medics on Callisto. There's notelling what can happen to a man in space....     Two days past turn-over the messages from the derelict came throughgarbled. Spinelli cursed and said that he couldn't read their signal.Taking the Aldis from him I tried to raise them and failed. Two hourslater I was still failing and Spinelli's black eyes glittered with ananimal suspicion.     They're faking!     Like hell they are! I snapped irritably, Something's gone wrong....     Zaleski's gone wrong, that's what!     I turned to face him, fury snapping inside of me. Then you did disobeymy orders. You told him about the gold!     Sure I did, he sneered. Did you expect me to shut up and let youland the ship yourself and claim Captain's share?      I     found her, andshe's mine!     I fought to control my temper and said: Let's see what's going on inher before deciding who gets what, Mister Spinelli.     Spinelli bit his thick lips and did not reply. His eyes were fixed onthe image of the starship on the viewplate.     A light blinked erratically within the dark cut of its wounded side.     Get this down, Spinelli!     The habit of taking orders was still in him, and he muttered: Aye ...sir.     The light was winking out a message, but feebly, as though the handthat held the lamp were shaking and the mind conceiving the words werefailing.     CONTROL ... LOST ... CAN'T ... NO ... STRENGTH ... LEFT ... SHIP ...WALLS ... ALL ... ALL GOLD ... GOLD ... SOMETHING ... HAPPENING ...CAN'T ... UNDERSTAND ... WHA.... The light stopped flashing, abruptly,in mid-word.     What the hell? demanded Spinelli thickly.     Order them to heave to, Mister, I ordered.     He clicked the Aldis at them. The only response was a wild swerve inthe star-ship's course. She left the orbit we had set for her as thoughthe hands that guided her had fallen away from the control.     Spinelli dropped the Aldis and rushed to the control panel to make thecorrections in the Maid's course that were needed to keep the hulk insight.     Those skunks! Double crossing rats! he breathed furiously. Theywon't shake loose that easy! His hands started down for the firingconsole of the supersonic rifle.     I caught the movement from the corner of my eye.           Spinelli!          My shout hung in the still air of the control room as I knocked himaway from the panel.     Get to your quarters! I cracked.     He didn't say a thing, but his big shoulders hunched angrily andhe moved across the deck toward me, his hands opening and closingspasmodically. His eyes were wild with rage and avarice.     You'll hang for mutiny, Spinelli! I said.  He spat out a foul name and leaped for me. I side-stepped his chargeand brought my joined fists down hard on the back of his neck. Hestumbled against the bulkhead and his eyes were glazed. He chargedagain, roaring. I stepped aside and smashed him in the mouth with myright fist, then crossing with an open-handed left to the throat. Hestaggered, spun and came for me again. I sank a hard left into hisstomach and nailed him on the point of the jaw with a right from myshoe-tops. He straightened up and sprawled heavily to the deck, stilltrying to get at me. I aimed a hard kick at his temple and let it go.My metal shod boot caught him squarely and he rolled over on his faceand lay still.        I nailed him with a right from my shoe-tops.        Breathing heavily, I rolled him back face up. His eyes were open,glassy with an implacable hate. I knelt at his side and listened forhis breathing. There was none. I knew then that I had killed him. Ifelt sick inside, and dizzy.     I wasn't myself as I turned away from Spinelli's body there on thesteel deck. Some of the greed died out of me, and my exertions hadincreased my sense of fatigue to an almost numbing weariness. My armsached terribly and my hands felt as though they had been sucked dry oftheir substance. Like a man in a nightmare, I held them up before myface and looked at them. They were wrinkled and grey, with the veinsstanding out a sickly purple. And I could see that my arms were takingon that same aged look.     I was suddenly fully aware of my fear. Nothing fought against theflood of terror that welled through me. I was terrified of that yellowgold in my cabin, and of that ship of devil's metal out there in spacethat held my shipmates. There was something unnatural about thatcontra-terrene thing ... something obscene.     I located the hulk in the radar finder and swung the Maid after it,piling on acceleration until my vision flickered. We caught her, theMaid and I. But we couldn't stop her short of using the rifle on her,and I couldn't bring myself to add to my depravity by killing the restof my men. It would have been better if I had!     I laid the Maid alongside the thousand foot hull of the derelict andset the controls on automatic. It was dangerous, but I was beyondcaring. Then I was struggling to get myself into a pressure suit withmy wrinkled, failing hands.... Then I was outside, headed for that darkhole.     I sank down into the stillness of her interior, my helmet light castinglong, fey shadows across the littered decks. Decks that had a yellowishcast ... decks that no longer danced with tiny questing force-whorls....     As I approached the airlock of the compartment set aside as livingquarters for the prize crew, the saffron of the walls deepened. Crazylittle thoughts began spinning around in my brain. Words out of thedistant past loomed up with a new and suddenly terrifyingperspective ... alchemy ... transmutation ... energy. I'm a spaceman,not a scientist. But in those moments I think I was discovering whathad happened to my crew and why the walls were turning into yellowmetal.     The lock was closed, but I swung it open and let the pressure in thechamber rise. I couldn't wait for it to reach fourteen pounds ...at eleven, I swung the inner door and stumbled eagerly through. Thebrilliant light, reflected from gleaming walls blinded me for a moment.     And then I saw them! They huddled, almost naked in a corner, skeletalthings with skull-like faces that leered at me with the vacuousobscenity of old age. Even their voices were raw and cracked with therusty decay of years. They babbled stupidly, caressing the walls withclaw-like hands. They were old, old!     I understood then. I knew what my wrinkled aged hands meant. Thatdevil-metal from beyond the stars had drawn the energy it neededfrom ...      us     !     My laughter was a crazy shriek inside my helmet. I looked wildly at thegleaming walls that had sucked the youth and strength from these men.The walls were stable, at rest. They were purest gold ... gold ... gold!     I ran from that place still screaming with the horror of it. My handsburned like fire! Age was in them, creeping like molten lead through myveins, ghastly and sure....     I reached the Maid and threw every scrap of that alien metal into spaceas I streaked madly away from that golden terror in the sky and itsload of ancient evil....  On Callisto I was relieved of my command. The Admiralty Court acquittedme of the charges of negligence, but the Foundation refused me anothership. It was my ... illness. It spread from my hands, as you can see.Slowly, very slowly. So what remains for me? A hospital cot and aspaceman's pension. Those tons of gold in the sky are cursed, like mostgreat treasures. Somewhere, out in the deeps between the stars, thedust of my crew guards that golden derelict. It belongs to them now ...all of it.     But the price we pay for treasure is this. Look at me. I look eighty!I'm thirty two. And the bitterest part of the story is that peoplelaugh at me when I tell what happened. They laugh and call me mynickname. Have you heard it?     It's ... Captain Midas.   ","Mister Spinelli is Third Officer under the command of Captain Midas and was the first to report the derelict ship and observe its potential to be claimed by the Maid. Spinelli is the first and only crew member to identify the metal from the abandoned ship as gold when he saw Captain Midas with it. The tension between Midas and Spinelli escalates and their relationship becomes antagonistic as both of them desire to benefit the most from this valuable gold and with Midas constantly pulling his authority over Spinelli. After Midas barrs him from being a part of the investigative crew, suspicion arises between the two as Spinelli suspects Midas wishes to keep the pot of gold for himself and Midas thinks that Spinelli may be telling others. This tension further escalates as Midas sees Spinelli nearly hit the trigger of the gun and in rage, the two end up fighting each other before Midas aimed a kick at his temple and killed him. "
"What is the significance of the mystery metal from the starship? </s>    CAPTAIN MIDAS     By ALFRED COPPEL, JR.     The captain of the Martian Maid stared avidly at     the torn derelict floating against the velvet void.     Here was treasure beyond his wildest dreams! How     could he know his dreams should have been nightmares?     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Fall 1949.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Gold! A magic word, even today, isn't it? Lust and gold ... they gohand in hand. Like the horsemen of the Apocalypse. And, of course,there's another word needed to make up the trilogy. You don't getany thing for nothing. So add this: Cost. Or you might call it pain,sorrow, agony. Call it what you like. It's what you pay for greattreasure....     These things were true when fabled Jason sailed the Argo beyond Colchisseeking the Fleece. They were true when men sailed the southern oceansin wooden ships. And the conquest of space hasn't changed us a bit.We're still a greedy lot....     I'm a queer one to be saying these things, but then, who has moreright? Look at me. My hair is gray and my face ... my face is a mask.The flesh hangs on my bones like a yellow cloth on a rickety frame. Iam old, old. And I wait here on my hospital cot—wait for the weight ofyears I never lived to drag me under and let me forget the awful thingsmy eyes have seen.     I'm poor, too, or else I wouldn't be here in this place of dying forold spacemen. I haven't a dime except for the pittance the HolcombFoundation calls a spaceman's pension. Yet I had millions in my hands.Treasure beyond your wildest dreams! Cursed treasure....     You smile. You are thinking that I'm just an old man, beachedearthside, spinning tall tales to impress the youngsters. Maybe,thinking about the kind of spacemen my generation produced, you havethe idea that if ever we'd so much as laid a hand on anything of valueout in space we'd not let go until Hell froze over! Well, you'reright about that. We didn't seek the spaceways for the advancement ofcivilization or any of that Foundation bushwah, you can be certain ofthat. We did it for      us     ... for Number One. That's the kind of men wewere, and we were proud of it. We hung onto what we found because therisks were high and we were entitled to keep what we could out there.But there are strange things in the sky. Things that don't respond toall of our neat little Laws and Theories. There are things that are nopart of the world of men, thick with danger—and horror.  If you doubt that—and I can see you do—just look at me. I supposeyou've never heard of the Martian Maid, and so you don't know the storyof what happened to her crew or her skipper. I can give you this muchof an answer.      I     was her skipper. And her crew? They ride high in thesky ... dust by this time. And all because they were men, and men aregreedy and hasty and full of an unreasoning, unthinking love for gold.They ride a golden ship that they paid for with all the years of theirlives. It's all theirs now. Bought and paid for.     It wasn't too long ago that I lifted the Maid off Solis Lacus onthat last flight. Not many of you will remember her class of ship,so many advances have been made in the last few years. The Maid wastwo hundred feet from tip to tail, and as sleek a spacer as ever cameout of the Foundation Yards. Chemical fueled, she was nothing at alllike the spherical hyperdrives we see today. She was armed, too. TheFoundation still thought of space as a possible stamping ground foralien creatures though no evidence of any extra-terrestrial life hadever been found ... then.     My crew was a rough bunch, like all those early crews. I remember themso well. Lean, hungry men with hell in their eyes and a great lust forhigh pay and hard living. Spinelli, Shelley, Cohn, Marvin, Zaleski.There wasn't a man on board who wouldn't have traded his immortal soulfor a few solar dollars, and I don't claim that I was any different.That's the kind of men that opened up the spaceways, too. Don't believeall this talk about the noble pioneering spirit of man. That's tripe.There never has been such a thing as a noble pioneer. Not in space oranywhere else. It is the malcontent and the adventuring mercenary thatpushes the frontier outward.     I didn't know, that night as I stood in the valve of the Maid, watchingthe loading cranes pull away, that I was starting out on my lastflight. I don't think any of the others could have guessed, either.It was the sort of night that you only see on Mars. The sort of nightthat makes a spaceman wonder why in hell he wants to leave the relativesecurity of the Earth-Mars-Venus Triangle to go jetting across the beltinto deep space and the drab desolation of the outer System.     I stood there, watching the lights of Canalopolis in the distance. Forjust a moment I was ... well, touched. It looked beautiful and unrealunder the racing moons. The lights of the gin mills and houses made asparkling filigree pattern on the dark waters of the ancient canal, andthe moons cast their shifting shadows across the silted banks. I wastoo far away to see the space-fevered bums and smell the shanties, andfor a little while I felt the wonder of standing on the soil of a worldthat man had made his own with his rapacity and his sheer guts andgimme.     I thought of our half empty cargo hold and the sweet payload we wouldpick up on Callisto. And I counted the extra cash my packets of snowwould bring from those lonely men up there on the barren moonlets ofthe outer Systems. There were plenty of cargoes carried on the Maidthat the Holcomb Foundation snoopers never heard about, you can be sureof that.     In those days the asteroid belt was      the     primary danger and menace toastrogation. For a long while it held men back from deep space, but asfuels improved a few ships were sent out over the top. A few millionmiles up out of the ecliptic plane brings you to a region of spacethat's pretty thinly strewn with asteroids, and that's the way we usedto make the flight between the outer systems and the EMV Triangle. Ittook a long while for hyperdrives to be developed and of course atomicsnever panned out because of the weight problem.     So that's the orbit the Maid took on that last trip of mine. Highand clear into the supra-solar void. And out there in that primevalblackness is where we found the derelict.  I didn't realize it was a derelict when Spinelli first reportedit from the forward scope position. I assumed it was a Foundationship. The Holcomb Foundation was founded for the purpose ofdeveloping spaceflight, and as the years went by it took on the wholeresponsibility for the building and dispatching of space ships. Neverin history had there been any real evidence of extra-terrestrialintelligent life, and when the EMV Triangle proved barren, we all justassumed that the Universe was man's own particular oyster. That kind ofunreasoning arrogance is as hard to explain as it is to correct.     There were plenty of ships being lost in space, and immediately thatSpinelli's report from up forward got noised about the Maid every oneof us started mentally counting up his share of the salvage money. Allthis before we were within ten thousand miles of the hulk!     All spaceships look pretty much alike, but as I sat at the telescopeI saw that there was something different about this one. At such adistance I couldn't get too much detail in our small three inch glass,but I could see that the hulk was big—bigger than any ship I'd everseen before. I had the radar fixed on her and then I retired with myslide rule to Control. It wasn't long before I discovered that thederelict ship was on a near collision course, but there was somethingabout its orbit that was strange. I called Cohn, the Metering Officer,and showed him my figures.     Mister Cohn, I said, chart in hand, do these figures look right toyou?     Cohn's dark eyes lit up as they always did when he worked with figures.It didn't take him long to check me. The math is quite correct,Captain, he said. I could see that he hadn't missed the inference ofthose figures on the chart.     Assemble the ship's company, Mister Cohn, I ordered.     The assembly horn sounded throughout the Maid and I could feel the tugof the automatics taking over as the crew left their stations. Soonthey were assembled in Control.     You have all heard about Mister Spinelli's find, I said, I havecomputed the orbit and inspected the object through the glass. It seemsto be a spacer ... either abandoned or in distress.... Reaching intothe book rack above my desk I took down a copy of the Foundation's      Space Regulations     and opened it to the section concerning salvage.     Sections XVIII, Paragraph 8 of the Code Regulating InterplanetaryAstrogation and Commerce, I read, Any vessel or part of vessel foundin an abandoned or totally disabled condition in any region of spacenot subject to the sovereignty of any planet of the Earth-Venus-MarsTriangle shall be considered to be the property of the crew of thevessel locating said abandoned or disabled vessel except in such casesas the ownership of said abandoned or disabled vessel may be readilyascertained.... I looked up and closed the book. Simply stated, thatmeans that if that thing ahead of us is a derelict we are entitled toclaim it as salvage.     Unless it already belongs to someone? asked Spinelli.     That's correct Mister Spinelli, but I don't think there is much dangerof that, I replied quietly. My figures show that hulk out there camein from the direction of Coma Berenices....     There was a long silence before Zaleski shifted his two hundred poundsuneasily and gave a form to the muted fear inside me. You think ...you think it came from the      stars     , Captain?     Maybe even from beyond the stars, Cohn said in a low voice.     Looking at that circle of faces I saw the beginnings of greed. Thefirst impact of the Metering Officer's words wore off quickly and soonevery man of my crew was thinking that anything from the stars would beworth money ... lots of money.     Spinelli said, Do we look her over, Captain?     They all looked at me, waiting for my answer. I knew it would be worthplenty, and money hunger was like a fever inside me.     Certainly we look it over, Mister Spinelli, I said sharply.Certainly!  The first thing about the derelict that struck us as we drew near washer size. No ship ever built in the Foundation Yards had ever attainedsuch gargantuan proportions. She must have stretched a full thousandfeet from bow to stern, a sleek torpedo shape of somehow unspeakablealienness. Against the backdrop of the Milky Way, she gleamed fitfullyin the light of the faraway sun, the metal of her flanks grained withsomething like tiny, glittering whorls. It was as though the stuffwere somehow unstable ... seeking balance ... maybe even alive in somestrange and alien way.     It was readily apparent to all of us that she had never been built forinter-planetary flight. She was a starship. Origin unknown. An aura ofmystery surrounded her like a shroud, protecting the world that gaveher birth mutely but effectively. The distance she must have come wasunthinkable. And the time it had taken...? Aeons. Millennia. For shewas drifting, dead in space, slowly spinning end over end as she swungabout Sol in a hyperbolic orbit that would soon take her out and awayagain into the inter-stellar deeps.     Something had wounded her ... perhaps ten million years ago ... perhapsyesterday. She was gashed deeply from stem to stern with a jagged ripthat bared her mangled innards. A wandering asteroid? A meteor? Wewould never know. It gave me an uncomfortable feeling of things beyondthe ken of men as I looked at her through the port. I would never knowwhat killed her, or where she was going, or whence she came. Yet shewas mine. It made me feel like an upstart. And it made me afraid ...but of what?     We should have reported her to the nearest EMV base, but that wouldhave meant that we'd lose her. Scientists would be sent out. Men betterequipped than we to investigate the first extrasolar artifact found bymen. But I didn't report her. She was ours. She was money in the bank.Let the scientists take over after we'd put a prize crew aboard andbrought her into Callisto for salvage.... That's the way I had thingsfigured.     The Maid hove to about a hundred yards from her and hung there, dwarfedby the mighty glistening ship. I called for volunteers and we prepareda boarding party. I was thinking that her drives alone would be worthmillions. Cohn took charge and he and three of the men suited up andcrossed to her.     In an hour they were back, disappointment largely written on theirfaces.     There's nothing left of her, Captain, Cohn reported, Whatever hither tore up the innards so badly we couldn't even find the drives.She's a mess inside. Nothing left but the hull and a few storagecompartments that are still unbroken.     She was never built to carry humanoids he told us, and there wasnothing that could give us a hint of where she had come from. The hullalone was left.     He dropped two chunks of metal on my desk. I brought back some samplesof her pressure hull, he said, The whole thing is made of thisstuff....     We'll still take her in, I said, hiding my disappointment. Thecarcass will be worth money in Callisto. Have Mister Marvin andZaleski assemble a spare pulse-jet. We'll jury-rig her and bring herdown under her own power. You take charge of provisioning her. Checkthose compartments you found and install oxy-generators aboard. Whenit's done report to me in my quarters.     I picked up the two samples of gleaming metal and called for ametallurgical testing kit. I'm going to try and find out if this stuffis worth anything....     The metal was heavy—too heavy, it seemed to me, for spaceshipconstruction. But then, who was to say what conditions existed on thatdistant world where this metal was made?     Under the bright fluorescent over my work-table, the chunks of metaltorn from a random bulkhead of the starship gleamed like pale silver;those strange little whorls that I had noticed on the outer hull werethere too, like tiny magnetic lines of force, making the surface ofthe metal seem to dance. I held the stuff in my bare hand.      It had ayellowish tinge, and it was heavier     ....     Even as I watched, the metal grew yellower, and the hand that heldit grew bone weary, little tongues of fatigue licking up my forearm.Suddenly terrified, I dropped the chunk as though it were white hot. Itstruck the table with a dull thud and lay there, a rich yellow lump ofmetallic lustre.     For a long while I just sat and stared. Then I began testing, tryingall the while to quiet the trembling of my hands. I weighed it on abalance. I tested it with acids. It had changed unquestionably. Itwas no longer the same as when I had carried it into my quarters. Thewhorls of force were gone. It was no longer alive with a questingvibrancy ... it was inert, stable. From somewhere, somehow, it haddrawn the energy necessary for transmutation. The unknown metal—thestuff of which that whole mammoth spaceship from the stars wasbuilt—was now....       Gold!       I scarcely dared believe it, but there it was staring at me from mytable-top.      Gold!       I searched my mind for an explanation. Contra-terrene matter, perhaps,from some distant island universe where matter reacted differently ...drawing energy from somewhere, the energy it needed to find stabilityin its new environment. Stability as a terrene element—wonderfully,miraculously gold!     And outside, in the void beyond the Maid's ports there were tons ofthis metal that could be turned into treasure. My laughter must havebeen a wild sound in those moments of discovery....  A slight sound behind me made me spin around in my chair. Framed in thedoorway was the heavy figure of my Third Officer, Spinelli. His blackeyes were fastened hungrily on the lump of yellow metal on the table.He needed no explanation to tell him what it was, and it seemed to methat his very soul reached out for the stuff, so sharp and clear wasthe meaning of the expression on his heavy face.     Mister Spinelli! I snapped, In the future knock before entering myquarters!     Reluctantly his eyes left the lump of gold and met mine. From thederelict, Captain? There was an imperceptible pause between the lasttwo words.     I ignored his question and made a mental note to keep a close hand onthe rein with him. Spinelli was big and dangerous.     Speak your piece, Mister, I ordered sharply.     Mister Cohn reports the derelict ready to take aboard the prizecrew ... sir, he said slowly. I'd like to volunteer for that detail.     I might have let him go under ordinary circumstances, for he was afirst class spaceman and the handling of a jury-rigged hulk wouldneed good men. But the gold-hunger I had seen in his eyes warned meto beware. I shook my head. You will stay on board the Maid with me,Spinelli. Cohn and Zaleski will handle the starship.     Stark suspicion leaped into his eyes. I could see the wheels turningslowly in his mind. Somehow, he was thinking, I was planning to cheathim of his rightful share of the derelict treasure ship.     We will say nothing to the rest of the crew about the gold, MisterSpinelli, I said deliberately, Or you'll go to Callisto in irons. Isthat clear?     Aye, sir, murmured Spinelli. The black expression had left his faceand there was a faintly scornful smile playing about his mouth as heturned away. I began wondering then what he had in mind. It wasn't likehim to let it go at that.     Suddenly I became conscious of being very tired. My mind wasn'tfunctioning quite clearly. And my arm and hand ached painfully. Irubbed the fingers to get some life back into them, still wonderingabout Spinelli.     Spinelli talked. I saw him murmuring something to big Zaleski, andafter that there was tension in the air. Distrust.     For a few moments I pondered the advisability of making good my threatto clap Spinelli into irons, but I decided against it. In the firstplace I couldn't prove he had told Zaleski about the gold and in thesecond place I needed Spinelli to help run the Maid.     I felt that the Third Officer and Zaleski were planning something, andI was just as sure that Spinelli was watching Zaleski to see to it thatthere was no double-cross.     I figured that I could handle the Third Officer alone so I assigned therest, Marvin and Chelly, to accompany Cohn and Zaleski onto the hulk.That way Zaleski would be outnumbered if he tried to skip with thetreasure ship. But, of course, I couldn't risk telling them that theywere to be handling a vessel practically made of gold.     I was in agony. I didn't want to let anyone get out of my sight withthat starship, and at the same time I couldn't leave the Maid. FinallyI had to let Cohn take command of the prize crew, but not before I hadset the radar finder on the Maid's prow squarely on the derelict.  Together, Spinelli and I watched the Maid's crew vanish into the mawof the alien ship and get her under way. There was a flicker of bluishfire from her jury-rigged tubes astern, and then she was vanishing in agreat arc toward the bright gleam of Jupiter, far below us. The Maidfollowed under a steady one G of acceleration with most of her controlson automatic.     Boats of the Martian Maid's class, you may remember, carried a sixinch supersonic projector abaft the astrogation turret. These werenasty weapons for use against organic life only. They would reduce aman to jelly at fifty thousand yards. Let it be said to my credit thatit wasn't I who thought of hooking the gun into the radar finder andkeeping it aimed dead at the derelict. That was Spinelli's insuranceagainst Zaleski.     When I discovered it I felt the rage mount in me. He was willing toblast every one of his shipmates into pulp should the hulk vary fromthe orbit we'd laid out for her. He wasn't letting anything comebetween him and that mountain of gold.     Then I began thinking about it. Suppose now, just suppose, that Zaleskitold the rest of the crew about the gold. It wouldn't be too hardfor the derelict to break away from the Maid, and there were plentyof places in the EMV Triangle where a renegade crew with a thousandtons of gold would be welcomed with open arms and no questions asked.Suspicion began to eat at me. Could Zaleski and Cohn have dreamed upa little switch to keep the treasure ship for themselves? It hadn'tseemed likely before, but now—     The gun-pointer remained as it was.     As the days passed and we reached turn-over with the hulk still wellwithin visual range, I noticed a definite decrease in the number ofmessages from Cohn. The Aldis Lamps no longer blinked back at the Maideight or ten times a day, and I began to really regret not having takenthe time to equip the starship with UHF radio communicators.     Each night I slept with a hunk of yellow gold under my bunk, andridiculously I fondled the stuff and dreamed of all the things I wouldhave when the starship was cut up and sold.     My weariness grew. It became almost chronic, and I soon wondered ifI hadn't picked up a touch of space-radiation fever. The flesh of myhands seemed paler than it had been. My arms felt heavy. I determinedto report myself to the Foundation medics on Callisto. There's notelling what can happen to a man in space....     Two days past turn-over the messages from the derelict came throughgarbled. Spinelli cursed and said that he couldn't read their signal.Taking the Aldis from him I tried to raise them and failed. Two hourslater I was still failing and Spinelli's black eyes glittered with ananimal suspicion.     They're faking!     Like hell they are! I snapped irritably, Something's gone wrong....     Zaleski's gone wrong, that's what!     I turned to face him, fury snapping inside of me. Then you did disobeymy orders. You told him about the gold!     Sure I did, he sneered. Did you expect me to shut up and let youland the ship yourself and claim Captain's share?      I     found her, andshe's mine!     I fought to control my temper and said: Let's see what's going on inher before deciding who gets what, Mister Spinelli.     Spinelli bit his thick lips and did not reply. His eyes were fixed onthe image of the starship on the viewplate.     A light blinked erratically within the dark cut of its wounded side.     Get this down, Spinelli!     The habit of taking orders was still in him, and he muttered: Aye ...sir.     The light was winking out a message, but feebly, as though the handthat held the lamp were shaking and the mind conceiving the words werefailing.     CONTROL ... LOST ... CAN'T ... NO ... STRENGTH ... LEFT ... SHIP ...WALLS ... ALL ... ALL GOLD ... GOLD ... SOMETHING ... HAPPENING ...CAN'T ... UNDERSTAND ... WHA.... The light stopped flashing, abruptly,in mid-word.     What the hell? demanded Spinelli thickly.     Order them to heave to, Mister, I ordered.     He clicked the Aldis at them. The only response was a wild swerve inthe star-ship's course. She left the orbit we had set for her as thoughthe hands that guided her had fallen away from the control.     Spinelli dropped the Aldis and rushed to the control panel to make thecorrections in the Maid's course that were needed to keep the hulk insight.     Those skunks! Double crossing rats! he breathed furiously. Theywon't shake loose that easy! His hands started down for the firingconsole of the supersonic rifle.     I caught the movement from the corner of my eye.           Spinelli!          My shout hung in the still air of the control room as I knocked himaway from the panel.     Get to your quarters! I cracked.     He didn't say a thing, but his big shoulders hunched angrily andhe moved across the deck toward me, his hands opening and closingspasmodically. His eyes were wild with rage and avarice.     You'll hang for mutiny, Spinelli! I said.  He spat out a foul name and leaped for me. I side-stepped his chargeand brought my joined fists down hard on the back of his neck. Hestumbled against the bulkhead and his eyes were glazed. He chargedagain, roaring. I stepped aside and smashed him in the mouth with myright fist, then crossing with an open-handed left to the throat. Hestaggered, spun and came for me again. I sank a hard left into hisstomach and nailed him on the point of the jaw with a right from myshoe-tops. He straightened up and sprawled heavily to the deck, stilltrying to get at me. I aimed a hard kick at his temple and let it go.My metal shod boot caught him squarely and he rolled over on his faceand lay still.        I nailed him with a right from my shoe-tops.        Breathing heavily, I rolled him back face up. His eyes were open,glassy with an implacable hate. I knelt at his side and listened forhis breathing. There was none. I knew then that I had killed him. Ifelt sick inside, and dizzy.     I wasn't myself as I turned away from Spinelli's body there on thesteel deck. Some of the greed died out of me, and my exertions hadincreased my sense of fatigue to an almost numbing weariness. My armsached terribly and my hands felt as though they had been sucked dry oftheir substance. Like a man in a nightmare, I held them up before myface and looked at them. They were wrinkled and grey, with the veinsstanding out a sickly purple. And I could see that my arms were takingon that same aged look.     I was suddenly fully aware of my fear. Nothing fought against theflood of terror that welled through me. I was terrified of that yellowgold in my cabin, and of that ship of devil's metal out there in spacethat held my shipmates. There was something unnatural about thatcontra-terrene thing ... something obscene.     I located the hulk in the radar finder and swung the Maid after it,piling on acceleration until my vision flickered. We caught her, theMaid and I. But we couldn't stop her short of using the rifle on her,and I couldn't bring myself to add to my depravity by killing the restof my men. It would have been better if I had!     I laid the Maid alongside the thousand foot hull of the derelict andset the controls on automatic. It was dangerous, but I was beyondcaring. Then I was struggling to get myself into a pressure suit withmy wrinkled, failing hands.... Then I was outside, headed for that darkhole.     I sank down into the stillness of her interior, my helmet light castinglong, fey shadows across the littered decks. Decks that had a yellowishcast ... decks that no longer danced with tiny questing force-whorls....     As I approached the airlock of the compartment set aside as livingquarters for the prize crew, the saffron of the walls deepened. Crazylittle thoughts began spinning around in my brain. Words out of thedistant past loomed up with a new and suddenly terrifyingperspective ... alchemy ... transmutation ... energy. I'm a spaceman,not a scientist. But in those moments I think I was discovering whathad happened to my crew and why the walls were turning into yellowmetal.     The lock was closed, but I swung it open and let the pressure in thechamber rise. I couldn't wait for it to reach fourteen pounds ...at eleven, I swung the inner door and stumbled eagerly through. Thebrilliant light, reflected from gleaming walls blinded me for a moment.     And then I saw them! They huddled, almost naked in a corner, skeletalthings with skull-like faces that leered at me with the vacuousobscenity of old age. Even their voices were raw and cracked with therusty decay of years. They babbled stupidly, caressing the walls withclaw-like hands. They were old, old!     I understood then. I knew what my wrinkled aged hands meant. Thatdevil-metal from beyond the stars had drawn the energy it neededfrom ...      us     !     My laughter was a crazy shriek inside my helmet. I looked wildly at thegleaming walls that had sucked the youth and strength from these men.The walls were stable, at rest. They were purest gold ... gold ... gold!     I ran from that place still screaming with the horror of it. My handsburned like fire! Age was in them, creeping like molten lead through myveins, ghastly and sure....     I reached the Maid and threw every scrap of that alien metal into spaceas I streaked madly away from that golden terror in the sky and itsload of ancient evil....  On Callisto I was relieved of my command. The Admiralty Court acquittedme of the charges of negligence, but the Foundation refused me anothership. It was my ... illness. It spread from my hands, as you can see.Slowly, very slowly. So what remains for me? A hospital cot and aspaceman's pension. Those tons of gold in the sky are cursed, like mostgreat treasures. Somewhere, out in the deeps between the stars, thedust of my crew guards that golden derelict. It belongs to them now ...all of it.     But the price we pay for treasure is this. Look at me. I look eighty!I'm thirty two. And the bitterest part of the story is that peoplelaugh at me when I tell what happened. They laugh and call me mynickname. Have you heard it?     It's ... Captain Midas.   ","The mystery metal is significant because it initially attracted the crew’s interest due to their greed - they had hoped to tear about the derelict starship and sell its pieces for millions. When the Captain tested out the mysterious metal and saw that it turned out to be gold, his greed increased so much that he became suspicious of his crew members that were sent out to investigate the ship. Although the Captain and his crew thought they could take advantage of this metal and benefit from it, it turns out that the opposite is true. Instead, it is this mystery metal that gains its yellow-tint and subsequent gold composition through drawing its energy from them and draining the crew of their youth and strength. The latter named ‘devil-metal’ demonstrates the hastiness of the greed of man, and how it led them to be so enraptured in greed that it blinded them of the wariness of strange objects in space, and hence led to their ultimate demise. "